Of Gods and Memories (LokixFemaleReader) [COMPLETED]

4

I wake to sunlight pouring through the window above my head, casting a thin sliver of gold over my stomach.

 "Shit..." I mutter, raising a hand to look at my watch.

9.38 am.

Quickly I roll over, climbing down to the ground level and rubbing a hand over my face.

First order of business today is breakfast, then I need to sort out a new identity. If SHIELD suspect me as a spy, they'll try to hunt me down. I glance at the gun on the table, it's just a precaution.

As I'm eating a can of beans and drinking instant coffee, my mind wanders to the stash of fake IDs in my cupboard, just waiting for photographs. As a SHIELD agent, I had a lot of technically illegal items, and I kept all of them. They can come in handy.

I'll make a trip into town today and grab some hair dye, and I'll have to cut it as well. That's ok, I'm used to changing my appearance.

I lean over the bathroom sink, carefully washing the bleach from my now short hair. I just decided to go all out, so if I did the bleach right I should have pale yellow hair, about an inch from my head.

Satisfied that I have everything out, I stand up, eyeing my face in the mirror. Serious, (y/e/c) eyes stare back at my from under darker brows, and a halo of margarine coloured fluff surrounds my face. I sigh, it's definitely something new. A spark of inspiration hits me, and I rush into the main area of the house, sorting through a drawer until I come to the little box I'm looking for. Inside I find my septum ring which I never wore as a SHIELD agent, as well as a collection of sleepers. I put them all in, I have three piercings in each of my earlobes and a helix on my right ear, but like the septum I never wore them on the job.

I grin at my reflection, I look very different now.

The rest of the day I spend printing out the photo I took of myself onto my new ID (passport, licence, etc.) and organising myself for the next few months at least.

Night comes, and again I dine on beans from a can. Delicious.

Satisfied that I'm safe for now, I drift off peacefully.

I wake the next morning to an itching in my arm, and carefully pull back the bandage to check my wound. The smell hits me first, it stinks. I wrinkle my nose, continuing with my removal of the dressing. I can already tell it isn't going to be good, but when I pull the pad completely off I still wince. The small cut is puckered up and red, yellow-ish stuff crusted around the stitches. I can tell it's infected, so I gently wash it under cold water, patting it dry before placing a new pad and bandage over it. I pray it doesn't get worse.

Over the next few days, the cut does get worse. I feel hot and shaky and sweaty most of the time, and several times I feel like vomiting. This isn't good.

The third day in, I'm cleaning one of my guns when I hear a knock at the door.

I get up slowly, grabbing a gun off the table in front of me and creeping to the door, looking out through the spy-hole.

On the doorstep stands a guy, about my age with sandy golden hair and tan skin, bright blue eyes darting around as he shifts on the doorstep. I open the door before he can knock again, but leave the chain in place.

"What do you want?" I croak, my voice dry with the fever that's taken me over.

"I need to come in," he says, and I frown.

"Why?"

He glances around again then says, "because I'm on the run and you can help me."

Tightening my grip on the gun, I unlatch the door and let him in, only then realising that I'm wearing the same floppy old tank top and pair of panties I have been for the last two days.

"Ok," I hold the gun up, closing the door behind me, "what do you want?"

"That won't be necessary," he says, and there's a flash of green. I blink, not quite believing what I'm seeing.

The blonde guy is gone, and in his place stands Loki.

"Why the fuck are you here?" I demand, my hand still tightly gripping the gun, although it's shaking now. My mind flashes back to the SHIELD agent's words, and I frown. 

"Midgardian curses, (Y/N)," he wags a finger at me, "tut tut tut."

"I said," I grit my teeth, "why are you here. And," I add as an afterthought, "how do you know my name? I never told you."

"Oh, come on," he rolls his eyes, "you can dye your hair and put as much metal in your face as you want, but I'd recognise you anywhere."

"Yeah?" I ask, gun still trained on him, "And why's that? You only saw me for like five seconds in New York, and like I said, I never told you my name."

"So that was it," he mutters to himself.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember your childhood?" he fires, catching me off guard.

Truth is, I don't remember anything but my name from before the last two years, when I woke up lying on the ground, a tourist book and a large briefcase full of American money in my hand and adopted the very generic last name of "Williams".

"Why do you care?" I spit, suddenly defensive.

"Do you know me?" he isn't answering my questions and it's making me angry.

"I'm not answering another question until you answer mine."

"Ok," he spreads his hands, "we can do it question for question, just put the gun down. It won't help you anyway."

"Maybe," I growl, "but I'm not staying in the same room as you without a weapon. Now, how did you find me?" If Loki can, then maybe I'm not as safe as I thought I was.

"My magic," he says simply. "Now, my turn. Do you remember anything from more than two years ago?"

I hesitate, not sure how much I should tell him.

"Just what I thought," he mutters.

"Ok," I swallow, my throat is dry and scratchy, "why are you here?"

"I'm here for you, of course," he puts his head on the side, like I should have known that.

"What do you mean?" I ask, but he just tut tuts again.

"Impatient as always," he sighs, "you forgot our agreement."

"Whatever," I jerk the gun at him, "ask then."

"Why here, of all places?" he looks around, and I frown.

"I like it," I say shortly, "now you better explain what the hell is going on."

"Oh, I think not," he smiles infuriatingly and I just want to punch him in his stupid pretty face. "I can see you're not well," he continues, looking me up and down, his eyes lingering just for a second on the bandaged arm, "so why don't you just get some rest."

"With a homicidal maniac in my house? No thanks." I let a humourless bark of laughter, but I know he's right. I'm really not well at all.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs, making for the door.

"So you're just leaving?" I say, incredulous.

"Well yes," he turns, one hand on the handle, "isn't that what you want?"

"I... I... yes," I eventually say, "yeah I want you out of my goddamn house."

With a shrug, he walks out, closing my door behind him.