The Purging of Asgard

Chapter 8

After two weeks, several visits to the doctor for blood work and MRIs, every time being told that there is nothing wrong, that you are overreacting, that your imagination is working overtime, etc., you are back at work and trying to act normal, just in time for a new shipment to arrive. You had already spent the better part of the morning organizing the boxes by publisher. 
"Hey, Y/N, do you have the new Thor in yet?" You turn from where you were unpacking the boxes and find the Flash hand in hand with one part of the All Mother. 
"Or the latest issue of Green Arrow?" She adds throwing a sweet smile his direction. Something about seeing a young couple admiring each other's taste makes you a little giddy.
"Not yet on the Thor, but I was just about to stock some new stuff, and I should be getting the new Green Arrow sometime next week, there was a delay somewhere along the line. I’ll keep you both posted, though." you smile at the young couple and wink at the Flash before going back to your work. 
Opening one of the boxes, you realize it's in the wrong section, but as you pick it up and head across the shop, you knock into a stack of boxes which collide with a new display, sending books sliding all across the floor, including underfoot. You slip on Superman and sprawl on an avalanche of Batman and Robin, 
"...ow." You mutter as the Flash and All Mother come to help, 
Rubbing your elbow and hip, you start piling the Dark Horse comics back into their box before they got mixed into the DC mountain,
"Thanks, but you really don't have to do that," they brush you off, insisting on helping with the mess.
Someone passes you a comic, you turn to see who it is and your face goes pale as you stumble backwards, knocking your head against a shelf.
"Y/N? What's wrong?" 
It was in your head. There was nothing wrong. It was in your head. You're fine. He's harmless.
"Uh... I slipped. No worries." You mutter as you keep your eyes on the person. The man. The man who was here that night. You try to shake the fear boiling up, not knowing what he's going to do. He holds your gaze for awhile as he helps you, Flash, and All Mother clean up and reorganize before he excuses himself, 
"I swear, I mean you no harm." He whispers so softly, you nearly miss it, then he turns and leaves the shop, not looking back. 
"Well, he was handsome." All Mother says with a wink and a slight nudge. You laugh it off, at least you hope you're laughing, and get back to work.
You can't get him out of your mind after that; every thought seems to come back to him. Thankfully you were able to handle the rest of the day on autopilot. Organize the books, help a customer, stock the books, help a customer, ditch the boxes by the dumpsters out back, think too hard, help a few more customers. Finally you get to call it a day. Cashing out the register and locking up, you nearly call the Collector to come walk you home, but there are still folks out and about, it's not too late, surely you'll be fine, so you lock up and head toward your apartment.
A few blocks down the road,
"Where are you goin’ sweet heart?" Your blood turns cold. Don't turn around; your apartment is a block away, just don't turn around.
"Hey, I'm talkin’ to you." The footsteps behind you, easily three people, speed up. "Come on, honey, we just wanna have some fun." 
They're too close.
Run.
You take off down the road, you can see your building. Just a little farther. You push yourself harder than you ever have, but you've never been a runner and the steps keep getting closer, next thing you know, you feel yourself being jerked down an alleyway, the last alley before your building. You scream as loud as you can, just hoping that someone can hear you. But you know no one will come. 
"Why you runnin’?" The one who has your arm spins you around and slams you into the wall, blocking you there, pressing you against the stone. He has one hand around your throat, the other reaching behind him, producing a knife from his belt, "you afraid or somethin’? I was just tryin’ to talk to you." He was flanked by two other men, the three of them crowding around you.
You can't scream, you can barely breathe as the first man tightens his hand around your neck.
"Since you, ran, though, I think I may want more than just a little talk." He runs the knife along your jaw, down the side of your neck, and even lower, catching the front of your shirt and ripping. Down, down, catching your lowest rib on its way. The nick makes you jerk away.
"Gettin’ feisty are you?" He growls into your ear, he smells like sweat, cheap whiskey, and rotting teeth and it takes everything in you not to vomit. You don’t expect the punch, but it lands solidly on the left side of your jaw. You’re not sure if the crackle you heard was bone crunching or a joint popping, you just know the pain is blinding. He runs his grimy hand up your stomach and over your chest. A tear rolls down your cheek, what's happening?
"Step back." A commanding voice reverberates down the alleyway,
"Screw you, finders keepers." The man spits out, he nods to one of his accomplices who turns toward the newcomer. 
"I said..." The newcomer thumps his cane on the ground and a bright flash shines in the alley, accompanied by a jarring rumble, like a concentrated earthquake, knocking the three thugs off their feet, "...step back." 
The man who held you refused to let go, so when he was knocked on his back, you went with him. He jumped up quickly, pulling you closer to him; you saw one of his buddies crumpled against the wall, unconscious, the other disappeared into a dumpster. He held you in front of him, his shield against this odd savior, his knife resting on the side of your neck.
"Get lost, or you get to mop her up from the drain yourself." 
The stranger stalks toward you and the man, but he kept to the shadows. You could feel the thug shaking, what if he got scared enough… what if he was crazy enough... What were you supposed to do? 
"Get lost, creep, come on." The knife presses harder to your neck, a stinging bite tells you he's broken skin. You hiss against the pain. The stranger pauses at your hiss, then seems to seethe as the top of his cane begins to glow, a brilliant white that grows even brighter. The thug shakes more and more before he finally plants his foot in your lower back and kicks you forward into the man, making a break for it down the alley and around a corner. Meanwhile you've collided with the stranger, who drops his cane and holds you fast. You look up, finally close enough to see his features. 
Angular nose and jaw, pale skin, black hair, eyes... Full of concern, and burning with a rage against the thugs. The man from the store. Again.
Loki. 
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know it's true. This is Loki. The Loki from your comics, the god of mischief. And now he was holding you with such familiarity, like a long-time lover. He was protecting you. 
He rescued you.
You don't know what to say, and as you’re scrabbling for words he takes off his coat, draping it across your shoulders, over your shredded shirt, and for some reason the gesture pushes you over the edge. You start crying, bawling, you pull at his shirt, burying your face in his chest, try to curl into him; the reality of what just happened finally hitting you. But he just sat with you, holding you close, wrapped in his coat, stroking your hair until you were able to calm down.
"Everything is alright. You are well. Let me take you home. You will feel better in the morning. I promise you."
.
.
.
You wake the next morning in your own bed, wondering if the whole thing was actually just a nightmare. But on the back of your door you see it hanging; the fly on the wall, the evidence of your unbelievable dilemma.
Loki's coat.