𝐋𝐎𝐊𝐈

𝓦atch 𝓜e 𝓦hile 𝓘 𝓑loom ! ; how lucky i feel, to be in my 𝒷ℴ𝒹𝓎 again. how 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵𝔂 i feel, not to have to 𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖉. shocking to feel, a positive charge, innocuous thrill, big 𝔦𝔫𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔢 spark.

she finds herself asking, unable to stop the suspicion from seeping into her naturally gentle tone. intelligent eyes track him as he speaks, brows furrowing as the celestial pokes holes in her little white lies and settles himself down on her antique leather couch as if he'd footed the bill for it. for a split second, she wonders if he's older than the two century aged piece of furniture . . . though her train of thought is 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓵𝔂 𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓭 as a flash of green magic catches her eye   ;   a closed sign appearing on her glass partition. in an ideal world, molly wouldn't have given him the satisfaction of a reaction, however, she's betrayed by a blink   &&   a subtle flinch.

stuck, she realises. trapped. damned? perhaps not. maybe. fuck.

she grants him a seconds pause, surprise marring the soft slope of her nose as it scrunches gently.

'   i don't believe it's in your best interests to be professionally psychoanalysed.   '

she admits, though this time she's telling the truth. if she dug, there was probably tens of things she could cherry pick a very human diagnosis from  ;  an endless expanse of trauma and ego and self inflicted emotional wounds.

'   besides.  '

molly offers him a half shrug, sitting back down behind her desk and resting her elbows on the pristine workspace.

'  i don't even know the biology of your brain, but given . . .   '

she motions to the little CLOSED sign that now hangs from her door.

' all of that  —  i'm sure there's a different genetic code that i can't begin to fathom. it'd be unjust and against oath to even attempt to understand you. '

‘  oh,  my  brain  is  completely  deranged.    i  have  been  tortured  in  hel  about seven  times.  ‘        and  that  is  not  the  only  place  where  his  brain  and  limbs  were  reconstructed  with  sheer  power  and  endless  pain.    he  does  not  think  about  this  easily    ;    he  prefers  to  shove  the  memories  into  the  back  of  his  head  and  pretend  they  never  happened,  despite  them  returning  to  the  surface  at  every  opportunity.    whenever  there’s  free  time,  he  is  reminded  of  the  horrors  of  his  past  with  flashing  images  and  sounds  of  tearing  screams.    taking  a  deep  breath,  he  runs  a  hand  through  dark  hair,  leaving  it  entangled there  for a bit of  comfort.

the  god  cranes  his  neck  slightly,  gesturing  towards  the  seat  on  the  opposite  side  to  him    —    is  she  just  going  to  stand  there  when  he  is  offering  another  great  review  and  a  nice  name  to  write  in  her  long  list  of  patients?    a  man  like  him  can  make  her  famous,  if  anyone  believes  that  he  was  willing  to  offer  his  trauma  on  a  silver  plate.

‘  you  have  my  permission  to  psychoanalyse  me.    is  this  sufficient,  miss  isles,  or  do  you  need  it  handwritten  and  signed?    i  can  do  that.  ‘        a  permission  to  listen  to  his  white  lies,  making  up  excuses  and  fake  scenarios  to  present  as  the  truth.    he  has  always  been  great  at  storytelling,  this  time  won't  be  any  different.        ‘  now  come  sit,  or  do  you  want  to  spend  eternity  crammed  in  that  corner  in  hopes  that  i  will  leave  you  unharmed?    please,  you  wound  me.    it  is  as  i  said    —    i  am  here  with  good  intentions.    we  can  be  friends.  ‘

friends.    what  a  wish    ;    loki  knows  he  is  not  his  chatty,  warm  and  welcoming  brother    —    but  perhaps  he  can  be  just  himself  and  see  if  the  doctor  lets  him  in.    so  desperate,  but  humans  live  a  very  short  life,  this  will  be  over  soon  before  he  gets  attached  enough  for  sure.    right?