Wherein a word or phrase can be the start of something fun and wonderful.
Some are simply stand-alone ficlets or drabbles. Some link up with published stories. Some end up previews for things yet to come.
Series: WISH [a segment from the upcoming installment: A Wish Too Far] [Fight Me: a drabble with one character fighting with/ against another.]
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"Sit. Rest."
The first he's spoken in however-the-fuck-long-it's-been and it's the same damn thing he said when he rushed you aboard. A curt command he clearly expects to be obeyed.
Yea. Uh-huh. Right. Shame you're not in the mood to do any such thing.
"No. Tell me where we're going."
Maybe if you inch forward to position yourself better in his eyeline, maybe then he'll be tempted to glance aside and engage with you again. Two words does not a conversation make.
He frowns even as he attempts the request again, still notably not looking in your direction. "It would help. If you would sit. And. Rest."
That's so not an answer. It may be a slight improvement from before, but still not going to fly with you. You do your best to keep from accidentally getting too close to the console, which proves a challenge for the turbulence you're currently enduring. Is this turbulence, or evasive maneuvers to keep from being detected, or just him being an asshole?
Make it look easier on you than it is. Fake it, because it doesn't seem to be bothering him in the slightest. It's just like riding a skateboard, or a very very very tiny version of the helicarrier you used to call home. You flinch at the thought, of the home – and people – you haven't seen in so long. Not that that was by choice. Mostly. Overlooking the fact that it was you that did the uncovering of the disc and you that touched it, sending you off to hell.
But only this man, this asshole, only Loki cared to come looking. Only he cared enough to get you the hell out of hell.
What had SHIELD done?
No... no, that's not a good series of thoughts to venture down at the moment. One thing at a time.
It doesn't appear that he's relying too heavily on his left hand for navigation so you reach out and touch his forearm. Maybe the contact will get his attention. Just a moment, one moment where he will look somewhere other than straight ahead. And maybe that cold mask will slip and allow a familiar face to show beneath? Where had the man gone that had kissed you before promising to take you away, to take you elsewhere? "Loki..."
His eyes dart from the landscape down to your hand resting on his arm. Something about its sharpness makes you jump to sever the point of contact again. Maybe that was too much to hope for. Suddenly you're missing the warmth of the golden light of the medical chamber within the palace, or – even more than that – the warmth of something you had taken for granted until the day you were removed from its influence: the Earth's sun.
You wrap your arms around your torso again, applying pressure to your side to amplify the dulled tenderness where the asshole currently too occupied with flying the ship to talk to you very recently stabbed you. If he wants only sharp edges then, fine. He'll get what he gives. "It hurts more to sit than it does to stand."
