Loki oneshots

Not Who I Thought He Was (Loki & Clint)

this takes place after The Dark World

Loki is cold.

He didn't think he could get cold.

Honestly, he's not even sure he is cold. Maybe he just thinks he's cold. Maybe it's just the constant drizzling rain making him feel cold. He supposes that would make it a problem easily solved by finding a house, but he wouldn't even know where to start with that. It's not as though he could get a job. He tried that months ago, when he first landed in Midgard. He doesn't legally exist — and, more importantly, he's too recognizable as the monster who tore up New York City to warrant a second chance from anybody.

Which is why he's just sitting here.

On a bench.

In the rain.

For hours.

And hours.

And hours.

As long as he doesn't fall asleep, he's fairly certain it's legal. No one's going to yell at him for sitting on a bench. That's what benches are made for. No one's going to know how long he's been here, anyway. It's a quiet town, much different than New York, but no one tends to pay him any mind.

It's nearing Christmas time, it seems. He's not sure what the date is; he'd guess mid-December of 2013, but he hasn't caught sight of a newspaper or a TV in what he's guessing must be at least a few weeks. He suspects he won't know that Christmas has passed until he returns to the grocery store to steal a meal and the music has changed from the repetitive Midgardian holiday tunes to its usual upbeat pop.

He finds himself wondering if Yule has begun. What are they doing up in Asgard without him? Do they even care that he's not there? This will be the second Yule in three years that they think him dead; the year between, he spent the holiday in the dungeon, visited only by his mother. Now that she's dead, does anyone miss him? Does anyone care that he supposedly died to save their beloved Prince Thor?

Loki closes his eyes and lets his head fall backwards. The rain drips down on his face, and he shivers at the feeling. Still, he doesn't move. He has nowhere else to be. He has nothing he'd rather do. Why not just sit here all alone in the rain?

"Holy shit."

Loki opens his eyes and looks around. It only takes a few seconds to find where that voice came from. In front of him, a mere ten feet or so away, stands Clint Barton.

The infamous Hawkeye.

Staring right at him.

If Clint had been waiting for some sort of confirmation that this really is Loki, the look on the god's face must have provided it. His eyes widen, and he fights the urge to just run; to leave this town behind and find a new one to make a miserable home in.

Clint closes the distance between them, stopping right in front of the bench and towering over the god in a way that makes him much too uncomfortable. "What the hell are—"

"Please don't tell Thor," Loki interrupts, rushing through his words.

Clint scoffs. "What?"

"Don't tell Thor that I'm alive," Loki says again. "Please."

"Yeah, no, I won't," Clint says, which almost sounds reassuring until he continues, "I'm going to tell Fury that you're still alive, and he'll tell Thor and everyone else that needs to know."

"You can't do that," Loki says.

"Yeah, no, I think I really can."

"Please," Loki says, almost begging now. "I do not want to hurt you. I've brought enough terror to this world as it is. But my freedom is all I have, and I will kill you to protect it if I must."