92Disclaimer: "Well, I guess that's worth a look." –Loki, Thor
A/N: This story is set in an alternate universe, in which everyone is human.
Quite a bit of the premise comes from Gordan Korman's book Son of the Mob, which is very good, extremely funny, and a read I definitely recommend.
Also, one last thing: This story and Loki's "issues" are not intended by any means to be a serious representation of actual mental illness. I normally don't trigger warn, mostly because I don't usually write stuff that requires it (in my opinion), but I will warn right here: there are some instances of Loki displaying characteristics of mental illness in this story, and those characteristics being described by Loki in a snarky/comedic fashion. I am not mentally ill, and I do not have personal experience with any of the symptoms described in this fic.
I'd like to thank The BlueFoxtrot A Samba, for helping with this story, for being a good friend, and just being all around amazing.
Chapter 1: Prologue
Alternately titled: In which Loki is neurotic.
So, my therapist suggested that I write it all down. Said it would help or something like that. "Writing frees the mind, Loki," he told me.
Personally, I think he just wants me to write it down so he can hack into my computer files later and read all the parts I didn't tell him in our actual sessions. And he could too. Could and would. The man is a genius, and he's forgotten more about computers than I'll ever know. He also has a rather shaky grasp of ethics, and has no compunctions about invading my personal life, despite repeatedly promising that he would never do such a thing.
Whoever gave Tony Stark a license to practice psychology obviously wasn't right in the head.
Technically, this should make said license invalid. Unfortunately, I can't prove anything, and if I stop going to therapy, my brother will hunt me down and haunt my apartment looking worried until I feel guilty enough to go back. (Honestly, you have one breakdown and it's like everyone expects you to fall to pieces any second.)
Anyway, I'm writing it down. I'm supposed to start at the beginning, but since The Beginning would technically be my birth, I'm going to go with the other beginning, the one that three months ago led me into the weirdest events of my life. And considering my life, that's saying something. It's been two months since everything was resolved, and I'm still not entirely sure of all the facts.
Tony –since I know you're reading this– if you hold to no other code, please, hold to your promise of doctor/patient confidentiality.
There's some sensitive material in here.
000
Three months ago
I woke up, on a Monday morning, at exactly 6:45 AM. Instead of jumping out of bed to greet the day with a sunshiny smile, eager to spread my joy and good cheer with the world, I did something much more gratifying. (And loads more in character.)
I cussed out my alarm clock, hit the snooze button, rolled over and went back to sleep.
Fifteen minutes later, I was slightly more ready to face the dreadful experience that was Monday Morning. I dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen to make coffee.
While I waited for the coffee to percolate and spread its life-and-energy-giving aroma to my cells, my eyes wandered around the kitchen and I mentally made a shopping list. The apartment was almost bare in the food department. I eyed one particular empty cupboard. Coffee is going at the top of that list. When I get around to actually making it.
When the coffee was finally finished brewing, I poured a cup and took it with me to the bathroom while I showered and got dressed. By then, I was sufficiently awake to notice the time. I was going to be late. Cursing again, I grabbed my satchel and coat and hustled for the door.
000
I despise public transportation. If I had any choice at all, I'd never set foot on a bus or in a taxi ever again. Unfortunately, the lack of a car and the even bigger lack of proper funds to purchase one mean that I do not, in fact, have a choice, and as such, I spent twenty minutes of my morning on a bus, with other people. It was awful. I hate people pressing in on me and around me and just generally being in my space. It's unnerving. The more people around, the easier it is to strike and then slip into the crowd. (Does this make me sound crazy? Why, yes, thank you for noticing, Tony. Why do you think I'm in therapy, jerk?) By the time I reached Rogers University, I was nearly hyperventilating and had to take a few precious minutes to gulp in oxygen and try to get my heart rate back to something resembling normal. (My time consciousness was kind of unnecessary, as it turned out. I made it to my class with about two and a half minutes to spare.)
My first class of the day was A New Perspective on American History, with Professor Logan Howlett. It was the most boring class I've ever had to sit through, but Professor Howlett was, in my opinion, the least likely of my teachers to drive me into a psychotic break before I reached the legal drinking age, so I went every day and listened to him talk about World War II like he was actually there and I was darn grateful for it.
The only real downside to the class was that Darcy Lewis was in there with me. I know, guidance counselors everywhere will tell you that it's ridiculous to dislike something because of one person, but I bet none of those guidance counselors ever had to share a class with Darcy Lewis. She was, to put it mildly, creepier than the Pumpkin King on Halloween. She alternated between periods of intense silence and manic outbursts. (Shut up, Tony, I know what you're thinking. Pot and Kettle, but it's different.) The intense silence was punctuated by her staring. Usually at me, which was incredibly disturbing. I have enough issues without someone watching my every move. Darcy's best friend Jane Foster shared a physics lab with me, and I'd wondered on more than one occasion how that particular friendship ever came about in the first place. Jane seemed so normal.
I probably dozed off a couple of times mid-lecture, but Professor Howlett was nice enough not to call me on it. It's possible that he just didn't notice, but I wouldn't put money on it. The man could give my father's chauffer a run for his money in observational skills, and it's been a long-running joke in my family that Heimdall sees everything. He noticed all right, but he didn't say anything, so I resolved to put extra effort into the next thirty-page, mind-numbingly boring paper he made us write. Least I could do.
000
On my way home after classes that afternoon, I stopped at a small convenience store and bought milk. As an afterthought, I went back and bought a carton of ice cream.
What? Just 'cause I'm a guy doesn't mean I can't enjoy ice cream after a hard day. (Please don't psychoanalyze that, Tony, it doesn't mean anything, I swear.)
I made it back to my apartment building in record time. The doorman apparently had the night off, because he wasn't there when I reached for the handle. I was pulling the door open when I paused.
It was really quiet.
Instantly, I abandoned the door and slipped into the shadows under the awning. Reaching into the inside pocket of my long coat, I pulled out my Glock handgun and carefully kept my finger along the barrel. Glocks don't have a safety, so I had to make sure I didn't touch the trigger until it was necessary. I set down my bag of groceries as quietly as possible and tried not to breathe loudly.
Someone had been following me for days. I never saw them, but that didn't mean I couldn't tell they were there. I could feel them, as stupid as it sounds. The hair on the back of my neck would prickle, my eyes would catch a glimpse of something not quite right, and then they'd be gone, disappearing into whichever crowd I was stuck in at the moment.
Did I mention that I hate people?
I tried to calm myself down. Okay, Loki, I told myself sternly. Suck it up and stop being a baby. You're armed. You're sneaky. You're the son of one of the most dangerous men in the city. Quit your whining and start acting like it.
I took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.
"Who's there?" I called out, cursing silently when my voice wavered a bit.
Did I get an answer? Of course not. That would be too easy. However, I did get the distinct impression that whoever was watching me had left, so I guess I got what I'd really wanted. Technically. Beggars can't be choosers and all that, and at the moment, I was definitely falling into the begging category. If it meant I could go inside and up to my apartment, I didn't much care.
I wasn't stupid though. No way was I going in through the doors. Whatever had caused the doorman to leave his post probably wouldn't be anything I wanted to encounter in the halls.
I put the Glock away and hit the fire escape. It was only after I was safely inside my apartment –having opened the window from outside (and wouldn't that be pleasant to explain to the landlord?)– that I realized I'd left my milk and ice cream by the front door. Snapdragons.
Thoroughly ticked off, I slammed my satchel down on the kitchen table and flung my coat onto a chair. Ignoring the envelope full of cash sitting in the middle of the table, I stalked to the refrigerator and opened it, hoping for something to magically appear that I could eat. Nothing did. I'd have to go shopping soon. And change the locks. Again. And install a deadbolt. If my brother wanted to keep breaking in to leave money on my kitchen table, then he was going to have to put some effort into it. I certainly wasn't going to make it easy on him. I didn't want his help.
Turning up my nose at the money, my brother, and the world in general (none of which would have cared, I'm sure, if they knew), I gathered my things and marched down the short hallway to my bedroom. And then I came out a moment later and slumped down at the table.
I know, it seems like I'm being unnecessarily snobby about the money thing, but honestly, it wasn't about being too good for charity, or trying to make it on my own without help from my family's influence. Heck, it wasn't even about my big brother breaking into my apartment to try to force the help on me. I didn't want the money, not because of where it came from, but because of who it came from. I didn't want anything they had touched.
Okay, so maybe I should explain that last bit.
A/N: I began this forever ago, in South Carolina, on vacation. Took me forever to finish.
Please note that I have no practical knowledge of firearms, and no expert to instruct me. Everything I know, I get from fiction, and everyone knows how often that is mistaken. Forgive me if I fail at anything weapons-related. EDIT: Thanks so much to ninepen, who informed me that Glocks don't have a safety and helped describe an alternative to making sure Loki didn't fire accidentally.
And so it begins, once again. Updates are Mondays and Thursdays.
Next chapter: Euphemisms –it's the language of the mobs.