remains • b. barnes

13

Loki sat on the edge of my bed in my new room, the one I had barely even moved into. He leaned back on his palms and stretched his legs onto the floor below him, kicking one ankle over the other. He was wearing sleek leather boots, archaic and out of place, and yet he wore neat trousers, too, with the ends tucked over the boots, and a grey, buttoned shirt, like a modern professional. His eyes swept over the sparsely filled space lazily. Or analytically, with a feigned indifference. I was still standing, hovering next to the door.

Finally, his gaze settled on me. He inhaled dramatically and furrowed his brow. "I feel as though we've gotten off on the wrong foot."

He said it as if he was puzzled, as if he hadn't a clue how we'd ended up here. As if he hadn't, just five minutes ago, turned me invisible and dragged me through the Compound, all the way to this room.

Bucky had been calling for me, looking for me when we were back in Dr. Foyle's—Loki's—office. Loki must have heard his footsteps. Bucky had opened the door to Dr. Foyle's office too (although he'd broken it off its hinges instead of breaking the code like I had). The split second that he did, Loki lifted me off of my feet and practically smothered me with his hand to keep me quiet. I knew Loki must have made us both invisible, but I also knew Bucky had noticed something, the way he started calling out for me more urgently, but quieter, like he knew I was close. But he lost me. I thought Loki must have muffled the sound of his own movement—Bucky hadn't even seemed to hear the stairwell door open and shut.

"What do you want?" I asked Loki. He was still watching me with a not-quite-earnest expression. I scanned the room. There was an angular glass lamp on the nightstand. But even if I could possibly reach it, I doubted breaking it over his head would do me any good.

"Nothing, really," Loki said. "I suppose I'm a bit peckish. Later on, I'd love a place to sleep. After that, I'm going to conduct a ritual to bring back the dead. But my most present concern is that I've not yet had lunch."

"Oh my god." I paced the length of the room in front of the bed. "Oh my god."

"Which god?" he said. "Are you a Christian? If so, I have some news which may upset you."

"The red oak—I knew there was something up with Dr. Foyle and the red oak," I said.

"I only made it obvious."

"Oh my god."

Loki cringed when my shoe squeaked against the floor. "Sit down, would you?" he said. "Do people often tell you that you have a nervous temperament?"

I stopped in my tracks. "How long have you been watching me? Ever since the Compound reopened? Or longer?"

"I feel bad for what I said about your temperament. I'm sorry," he said. He patted the bed next to him. "I was just projecting. Can I be vulnerable with you?"

"No," I said.

"I have a nervous temperament too. When you're nervous, it makes me nervous."

"I don't believe you," I said.

"That's wise. I was lying to gain your sympathy. I've never experienced anxiety. I'm remarkably well-adjusted."

Loki terrified me. His ease, his composure, was a ruse, but I couldn't figure out to what end, or even to what extent. He seemed to be enjoying himself on some level, too, reveling in the power he had in this moment. The tension in the room and the stiffness in my movements belonged to him. And yet, I couldn't tell how serious he really was. Would he have really slit my throat earlier? And now he was lounging on my bed, nonchalant? I imagined a cat toying with its prey, prolonging the death for its own amusement.