Loki, with all his broken metaphors and half-empty threats, cannot fathom Luna Lovegood. She is a maze of contradictions and complexity that shift with every breath, and Loki finds it is best not to predict anything from her. Perhaps that is the only expectation he can still hold.

"It's Sunday," Luna says, and he hums in reply. When he looks up a few minutes later, Luna is staring outside the window, almost waiting.

"What about Sundays?" Loki asks softly, and recalls the past Sundays. They are not anymore special than the other days, just time to kill. Luna tilts her head to the side.

"My mother died on a Sunday," she murmurs, and her face is suddenly sharp as a blade, and he watches as the innocence becomes a shade darker (she was never innocent when you met her, no, no, the light was different that day). The moment disappears as abruptly as it came, and she glances to him, something like concern marring her brow.

"Forgive me," she says, gray eyes dimming, "Sometimes the air messes with my head."

Loki offers a smirk, leaning back into the chair he was lounging on.

"If it's any consolation," he says, tapping his fingers on the armrest, "my parents died the moment I was born."

Luna contemplates the information, before shaking her head. "Sometimes, Mr. Sun, I fear your words confuse me more than what they should be doing."

Loki raises an eyebrow and replies, "And what's that?"

"Explaining," Luna shrugs, like she's not talking to a fallen god, "Conveying meaning. Your meanings are cluttered by your words, until they don't mean anything at all."

Luna looks back to the window, pursing her lips before continuing. "I admire your ability to control words, I do. But, what is the use of words if you do not use them for what they were created for?"

And in that moment, he swears Luna is made of truth, of everything he is not (or should not be), because the truth hurts, and her words make him so angry. Loki has always used his words carefully, with care and self-destruction, because oh, everyone knows he's lying, lied, will lie, what is the point? They will not believe him anyways. But words were his friend before magic, his master before before before, and what does this little mortal woman know? Absolutely nothing.

But that is the point. He is offered a clean slate with Luna, to be judged and unjudged because she knows nothing of his past crimes, of his past life. And she still condemns him (or maybe he is just being overdramatic), and it hurts more than his pride will admit.

"I'm sorry," Luna is saying now, and Loki does not realize he has been gripping his armrest with more force than necessary. He straightens immediately. "I've upset you."

"Well, yes," Loki says after a pregnant pause, "anyone would be." He narrows his eyes at her briefly, considering his next words. "I am very old, Luna (the word sounds better echoed in his mind), don't let appearances fool you." He cannot help if it sounds, vaguely, like a threat.

"My words are centuries ahead of yours. Make no mistake of that. I can't say I'm not insulted, but do not fool yourself into thinking your words are worth much to me."

If Luna is hurt, she certainly doesn't show it. Instead, her eyes are lit with wonder, like a curtain has lifted in her foggy mind.

"Old?" She queries, and she scrutinizes him. "Well, yes, I suppose there is something there in the eyes."

He laughs. She lets him, waiting patiently. When he finally quiets, she speaks up. "What was that about your parents?"

Loki smirks, and he supposes it will not hurt to tell this mortal of real stories, not like ones that end with happy pigs and the empty threats of a long lost friend. He beckons her closer, and she obliges, pulling over a stool to sit beside him. He tells her stories of two brothers (or once-was-brothers), of an all-seeing king, and a beautiful mother, and the monster that hid within them all. He tells her about the theory of two births. The first breath you take, and your last (to be born again, because the world will call upon you again and again, and you will stand up with a bullet in your chest, to say your lines and do your part). Loki's was not a happy role in this legend, not at all.

His is a lie. And he stopped breathing Loki Odinson the moment the truth presented itself in a stolen object from another realm. A stolen relic. His parents died (in his eyes) the moment he was born again, as Loki the son of No One, because Laufey will not accept him, and Allfather will not let him go as anything but what he made Loki for. Or so he tells himself.

Luna listens with child-like attentiveness, sometimes staring at him with such intensity he almost falters, or is distracted by the mere rattling of something outside the house. When he finishes the tale, her eyes snap back to him.

"But that's not how it ends," she protests.

"So you were listening," he mutters drily.

"I'm a good listener," Luna says, "and that's not how it ends. You still need to fall from the sky."

"Hm," Loki waves her away, "I've grown bored." Luna frowns, but doesn't say anything as he moves away to the kitchen.

There is a storm outside the window. Loki can feel it in his bones, the anger and the injustice and all the emotions that usually accompany a storm. He tries to banish the thought, it would not do good to imagine things that were not there, or hope someone would and would not be there. He moves from his lounging position in bed, stretches, and moves into the living room to find Luna with one ear pressed against the door.

He stills, watching her for a few moments, and when she doesn't acknowledge him, speaks. "What, exactly, are you doing?"

"Listening," she answers.

"Obviously," he drawls. "What for?"

"Something. Someone. I don't know, Loki (and ah, there it is, he was wondering if she'd use it)-" She pauses, and glances towards him. When he doesn't show any reaction to his name she continues.

"I've been listening for awhile. I can feel something coming. Not unlike when you came."

"When I came?" he echoes, barely a whisper.

"Yes," she murmurs, distractedly, and stands up, hand reaching for the doorknob. He stops her, yanks her back. She stares at him, bemused.

"Apologies," he says, and doesn't mean it, lets her go. She rubs her wrist with a curious expression. Her eyes soften.

"Fear is what keeps us alive, for all the sames reasons it kills us," she says, and reaches for him. He lets her. "It depends on which one you choose, Mr. Sun."

He twitches at his other name, and doesn't call her out on her assumption. He is not afraid. He's not. (He's such a horrible liar, how did they believe him. Oh right. They didn't).

The doorbell rings. And rings. And rings. Almost like someone was pounding on the doorbell, not that he was aware Luna had one. From Luna's face, it seemed like she forgot about it as well. She hesitates, before rushing forward and opening the door. Rain rushes in and the crack of thunder is louder.

Outside, a man in a suit of armor is tapping his foot. When the door opens, the face plate retracts, and bright eyes meet his own.

"I thought I saw something," Stark says, teeth white in his wide smile.

For a fleeting moment, he wonders if it would have been better to die a (false) good man, but a good man none the less because that's how all heroes think. The other reality turns to figures before his eyes, a world without destruction, without mutilation, without poison snaking across his skin. Oh, it would not be so hard, would it? If he had but avoided that one Frost Giant, just the one, and got himself a blade stuck in his chest, he wouldn't have to know. But Loki cannot lie to himself, and the truth was sewn into his heart since birth.

The world fades, like all cherished dreams do. (Besides, Luna isn't in that one, is she?)

A/N: Progress! (maybe?) Reviews will be adored! If I forgot to reply or replied twice to a review, I'm sorry! Just tell me, or something if you want, cause I get confused. :)

EDIT: Chapter might be a little more confusing. Please leave questions if you need clarification for something. :)