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coldsongIt takes a couple weeks before Loki bothers to ask anything about Cricket. He strikes the god as beneath notice, young and vulnerable, more of a follower than a leader. Neither aggressively good and noble, nor tricky and wicked enough to keep pace with him. In short, there is nothing Cricket has or is that interests him, and he treats him much like the furniture: he will do him no harm, he will even spare a moment to consider his maintenance, but he’s not looking for his friendship or affection.
That changes one afternoon when he wanders in to find the boy curled up in a chair, red-eyed and teary. He immediately looks around for Harley, or even Alec. Someone with a bit more of a heart than he should manage this. But no one else is available, and by the time he realizes that, Cricket has noted his presence and is giving him a glare of death.
That kind of challenge cannot go ignored, so he sighs and folds his arms. “Are you injured?”
“Do I fuckin’ look injured?” the kid snaps back, and Loki is surprised by the sharpness.
He tilts his head. “No. No more than usual, at any rate.”
Cricket’s not sure if that’s a reference to his leg braces or something else, but his scowl deepens, before Loki adds: “I feel that if I ignore your distress at this point, it might upset our hostess. If you want nothing to do with me, by all means say so and I’ll leave you alone, but you must promise to tell her I tried. On the other hand, if there is some way I can assist, get to the point at once so I can stop wasting time.”
It’s an abrasive way to offer help, but Cricket sort of halfway approves of the practicality. He grunts, but his expression softens a little. “Ain’t nothin’ but nightmares. I reckon a god don’t understand that kind of thing.”
Loki weighs his options, because he’s been handed an easy out. After a moment, he heads for the kitchen and retrieves two cups of chocolate milk, bringing one to the kid, and sitting across from him. “You would be surprised. I have many nightmares, but few regrets.”
That’s probably a lie.
Cricket considers the cup and takes a sip, uncurling a little. “I don’t need you feelin’ sorry for me.”
“No, I imagine not. Don’t worry, I have very little compassion within me to begin with; I will spare none where it is not wanted. But I’m curious.” That is not a lie. Loki sips his chocolate milk the same way he would champagne at a party.
His candor earns a bitter laugh from Cricket, but also an answer: “You kinda remind me of him, is the thing. The man that killed me. Dark hair slicked back like that, pale eyes, all refined and perfume-y and actin’ like everyone’s beneath you. I don’t like you, and I don’t like that she likes you, but it ain’t my place to say so.”
“Yet you’ve said so,” Loki points out. “To me. Is it my presence that has you worked up?”
“Nah. Just the memory. And thinking about how I can’t go back.”
The god hesitates, sobering, and taps his fingers against his glass. He doesn’t need this boy’s favor. He has nothing to gain by being kind here. Civility is enough. But at last, reluctantly, he says: “Then we have something in common. This man, how did you run afoul of him?”
Gradually, over glasses of chocolate milk, the story unspools. Illegal moonshining, a vendetta with a federal deputy between Cricket and his friends and employers. A big distillery in the woods, and his best friend Jack’s poor judgment, resulting in a bust, and Cricket’s capture, but not Jack’s.
A slow walk through grass and branches, over uneven gravel. One man, smelling of expensive cologne, walking too close behind him. A secluded, overgrown alcove. An arm around his throat, squeezing the air from him. Desperation, blind struggling, a snap, and darkness.
The description of Cricket’s last moments leaves Loki pale, horrified and shaky not because of compassion or kindness, but because of how closely they mirror his own. He collects the empty glasses and flees to the kitchen with them to regain his composure. Cricket follows, tread stiff and uneven, what with the leg braces.
It’s a dangerous moment, with the god standing at the sink, back to the boy. Loki could lash out easily, and maybe the antiviolence field would stop him, or maybe not. In a way, he wants to, that old burning rage and madness tickling his veins. No one would stop him. Not until it was too late.
“Guess we do have something in common,” Cricket says, watching him.
Loki glances back out of the corner of his eye, seeing the small, vulnerable figure standing in the doorway, and the fury melts away. No, he had best save his spite for his own murderer, anyway. He takes a breath and turns. “You have no idea what became of this man, who killed you?”
Cricket shakes his head. “That’s what kills me. Don’t want Jack to do nothing stupid, like go and try gunning him down. He’d do that.”
“Yes,” Loki says, although he’s thinking of Thor, not a stranger. “Yes, he would.”
“Just...the thought of him taking out the Bondurants, too…” Cricket folds his arms around himself. “Keeps me up nights, you know?”
Loki knows, but he says nothing for a moment. Then: “Well. I cannot return to my home, but I can visit yours. What would you have me do?”
The boy’s eyes widen, and he swallows with a click. “Y’ain’t gotta do nothin’ for me.”
He’s tempted, though, and Loki can see it in his face.
“No,” the trickster says. “But it would be my pleasure. I will not expect a favor in return. What was the man’s name?”
“...Rakes. Charlie Rakes.” Cricket worries his lip. “Can you make sure the Bondurants are okay? And Miss Maggie? Especially Jack…”
“I can. And I will.”
Cricket thinks of Jack, and how Rakes beat him half to death just outside Cricket’s own home, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. About the local deputies whispering that he almost pulled a gun on him after he was unconscious, and what was that about, was he gonna shoot the kid in cold blood? He thinks about a man tortured in the woods to make an example of him, and then about himself, killed for the same reason. And he thinks about Forrest Bondurant.
“It ain’t the violence that sets a man apart,” he tells Loki, quoting. “It’s the distance. How far he’s prepared to go.”
“I am prepared,” says the god, and smiles.
Cricket crosses the room, reaches out, and shakes his hand.
That changes one afternoon when he wanders in to find the boy curled up in a chair, red-eyed and teary. He immediately looks around for Harley, or even Alec. Someone with a bit more of a heart than he should manage this. But no one else is available, and by the time he realizes that, Cricket has noted his presence and is giving him a glare of death.
That kind of challenge cannot go ignored, so he sighs and folds his arms. “Are you injured?”
“Do I fuckin’ look injured?” the kid snaps back, and Loki is surprised by the sharpness.
He tilts his head. “No. No more than usual, at any rate.”
Cricket’s not sure if that’s a reference to his leg braces or something else, but his scowl deepens, before Loki adds: “I feel that if I ignore your distress at this point, it might upset our hostess. If you want nothing to do with me, by all means say so and I’ll leave you alone, but you must promise to tell her I tried. On the other hand, if there is some way I can assist, get to the point at once so I can stop wasting time.”
It’s an abrasive way to offer help, but Cricket sort of halfway approves of the practicality. He grunts, but his expression softens a little. “Ain’t nothin’ but nightmares. I reckon a god don’t understand that kind of thing.”
Loki weighs his options, because he’s been handed an easy out. After a moment, he heads for the kitchen and retrieves two cups of chocolate milk, bringing one to the kid, and sitting across from him. “You would be surprised. I have many nightmares, but few regrets.”
That’s probably a lie.
Cricket considers the cup and takes a sip, uncurling a little. “I don’t need you feelin’ sorry for me.”
“No, I imagine not. Don’t worry, I have very little compassion within me to begin with; I will spare none where it is not wanted. But I’m curious.” That is not a lie. Loki sips his chocolate milk the same way he would champagne at a party.
His candor earns a bitter laugh from Cricket, but also an answer: “You kinda remind me of him, is the thing. The man that killed me. Dark hair slicked back like that, pale eyes, all refined and perfume-y and actin’ like everyone’s beneath you. I don’t like you, and I don’t like that she likes you, but it ain’t my place to say so.”
“Yet you’ve said so,” Loki points out. “To me. Is it my presence that has you worked up?”
“Nah. Just the memory. And thinking about how I can’t go back.”
The god hesitates, sobering, and taps his fingers against his glass. He doesn’t need this boy’s favor. He has nothing to gain by being kind here. Civility is enough. But at last, reluctantly, he says: “Then we have something in common. This man, how did you run afoul of him?”
Gradually, over glasses of chocolate milk, the story unspools. Illegal moonshining, a vendetta with a federal deputy between Cricket and his friends and employers. A big distillery in the woods, and his best friend Jack’s poor judgment, resulting in a bust, and Cricket’s capture, but not Jack’s.
A slow walk through grass and branches, over uneven gravel. One man, smelling of expensive cologne, walking too close behind him. A secluded, overgrown alcove. An arm around his throat, squeezing the air from him. Desperation, blind struggling, a snap, and darkness.
The description of Cricket’s last moments leaves Loki pale, horrified and shaky not because of compassion or kindness, but because of how closely they mirror his own. He collects the empty glasses and flees to the kitchen with them to regain his composure. Cricket follows, tread stiff and uneven, what with the leg braces.
It’s a dangerous moment, with the god standing at the sink, back to the boy. Loki could lash out easily, and maybe the antiviolence field would stop him, or maybe not. In a way, he wants to, that old burning rage and madness tickling his veins. No one would stop him. Not until it was too late.
“Guess we do have something in common,” Cricket says, watching him.
Loki glances back out of the corner of his eye, seeing the small, vulnerable figure standing in the doorway, and the fury melts away. No, he had best save his spite for his own murderer, anyway. He takes a breath and turns. “You have no idea what became of this man, who killed you?”
Cricket shakes his head. “That’s what kills me. Don’t want Jack to do nothing stupid, like go and try gunning him down. He’d do that.”
“Yes,” Loki says, although he’s thinking of Thor, not a stranger. “Yes, he would.”
“Just...the thought of him taking out the Bondurants, too…” Cricket folds his arms around himself. “Keeps me up nights, you know?”
Loki knows, but he says nothing for a moment. Then: “Well. I cannot return to my home, but I can visit yours. What would you have me do?”
The boy’s eyes widen, and he swallows with a click. “Y’ain’t gotta do nothin’ for me.”
He’s tempted, though, and Loki can see it in his face.
“No,” the trickster says. “But it would be my pleasure. I will not expect a favor in return. What was the man’s name?”
“...Rakes. Charlie Rakes.” Cricket worries his lip. “Can you make sure the Bondurants are okay? And Miss Maggie? Especially Jack…”
“I can. And I will.”
Cricket thinks of Jack, and how Rakes beat him half to death just outside Cricket’s own home, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. About the local deputies whispering that he almost pulled a gun on him after he was unconscious, and what was that about, was he gonna shoot the kid in cold blood? He thinks about a man tortured in the woods to make an example of him, and then about himself, killed for the same reason. And he thinks about Forrest Bondurant.
“It ain’t the violence that sets a man apart,” he tells Loki, quoting. “It’s the distance. How far he’s prepared to go.”
“I am prepared,” says the god, and smiles.
Cricket crosses the room, reaches out, and shakes his hand.