I wrote this a year ago, but decided to post it now, in the hope that some feedback may push me towards continuing it.

It's set during Thor (2011), and goed AU from the moment in which Odin tells Loki the truth about his heritage.

Title is from the song "Waving through a Window" from the musical Dear Evan Hansen.

(I tried to use British English because that's what I think the Aesir would use. If I messed up with that or grammar in general please tell me.)

DISCLAIMER: Thor and The Avengers belong to Marvel and Disney.

Enjoy!

"Stop!"

Odin's loud, imperious voice reverberated through the vaults.

Loki stilled. He released his hold onto the Casket and turned around, ready to ask his father what—how—why?

But to what end? What could his father (not his father) say? That it was not as it looked like, that Loki was Aesir and always had been, that Loki was his blood son and no more than that—

His voice failed him. He thought that, perhaps, his vocal chords might have frozen as well — just like his body and heart and mind. Ice was all he knew, all he saw. All he felt. All he was, probably. All he had ever been.

His legs gave out, and he found himself sitting on the floor, his back to the pedestal on which the relic had sat upon for more than a thousand years.

He looked at his hands. The only thing he could see was the bright, disgusting blue that was slowly retreating, leaving pale pink Aesir skin in its wake.

(Fake. A lie. A trick. Truly, never had a title been more adequate than God of Lies was for him.)

"My son," he heard Odin's voice, strangely warm and comforting and calming and—and it was probably the tone one should use to reason with a spooked, mindless beast—like he was—

"Loki."

—Was that even his name? Did monsters even deserve names? He supposed so. Names were, after all, needed to call upon beasts and make use of them. Horses had names. Jotnär had names. He had a name— they should only use it for ordering him around, beast, beast, monster that he was—

"Loki," Odin's voice called again, sharper, this time.

His head raised instinctively, centuries of obedience kicking in, but soon he could not meet the man's knowing eye, staring instead at a vague point behind his head.

The king of Asgard had to have seen something in his eyes (he wondered whether they were still the colour of blood) because he came closer and crouched down.

It was a testament as to how lost Loki truly was that he did not pay mind to the fact that the Allfather was practically on his knees before him.

"This is a story you should have heard long ago, when you were a child. But neither your mother nor I could bear the thought of you feeling different. This is the story of how you came to us, Loki. Would you care to hear it?"

The prince did not respond, or react in any visible way. He might as well have been deaf, as well as monstrous.

The voice resumed, unwavering in its resolve. "Jotunheim had fallen. Many a good warrior had died already, on both sides. I had a wife and a child at home, and I longed to join them again. I'd lost a brother and an eye to the fight. No more blood was to be spilt that day. The war was over, and we could go back victorious."

There was a pause. Odin kept looking at his son, but Loki would not move or speak or do anything other than stare at nothing. The younger god was distantly aware of how worrisome his behaviour could seem, as uncharacteristic of him as it was, but he cared little for appearances now.

"In the aftermath of the battle, I went into the Temple, and I found a baby. Small, for a giant's offspring. Abandoned, suffering, left to die." A beat. "Laufey's son," the king's voice finished, the enemy's name rolling easily on his tongue, his tone softening almost imperceptibly on he last word.

Loki inhaled sharply, at that. Finally, he met his not-father's eye and felt something warm running down his cheek. He must be melting, the ice thawing in Asgard's warm climate. Monsters didn't cry, so he probably couldn't cry— because he was a monster, a monster, a monster—

—the son of a king, thus a royal monster, but a monster nonetheless.

"You were so tiny, and you were so scared," Odin went on, his tone reminiscent, a tiny smile creasing his wizened face. "I lifted you up, and as soon as you looked at me, you calmed down. My eye was missing, a bloody mess in its place, and yet the first thing you did was smile at me," he continued, voice full of wonder and affection.

Loki swallowed down the sob building up in his throat, and kept his gaze vacant. He could feel himself shivering violently, and marvelled at how a being made of ice could still tremble.

"It was the first smile I'd seen since departing from Asgard. I knew, from that moment, that I would do anything in my power to keep that smile on your face."

His shoulders shook violently as more and more water poured from his eyes, and he thought perhaps if he melted some more his eyes would fall right off his face and then he'd die, like he should have long ago (the monster's child saved by the enemy's mercy), like he still should—could, now—

His thoughts stilled completely when he felt himself gathered into an embrace.

"But I fear," a grave voice whispered in his ear. "I fear I did not honour that promise."

Odin. Odin was hugging him. He hadn't done that in, what, a century or two? He couldn't remember, but he knew he had long since stopped hoping he'd ever be held by the man again. That he'd ever receive any sort of affection by him.

His instincts told him to hug his father back, but as soon as his mind made sense of the situation—

—a loud gasp left his lips, so loud in the silence of the vaults that it sounded like a screech, and he startled struggling, panicking. The Allfather startled back, and— oh Norns, what if Loki had hurt him with his monstrous, icy skin, right in that rare moment of vulnerability the older man had shown, betraying him like any monster would but like no son ever should—

—but he was no son of Odin, now, was he?

Of course he wasn't. It all made sense, now. Finally, he had the answers he'd been looking for all his life— why was he so different?

(you're special)

Why did he not look like his father or mother or golden brother?

(you look like your uncle Vili)

Why did he not like battles and wars, like all Aesir did?

(you have a gentle soul)

His mother's words, once so soothing, ran through his head and suddenly they revealed themselves as what they'd always been: lies. Sweet, kind, merciful lies, but lies nonetheless.

Mother. Frigga. Norns, could he even still call her that? Why had she lied? Was she ashamed? Did she truly love him or was it just a ruse? Did she know he was a frost giant? She had to. But why had she let a dangerous monster near her perfect son?

And Thor. He didn't know, of course. He couldn't. Would he behave any differently if he knew? Loki was sure he would. He'd probably bash his head in with Mjolnir as soon as he found out.

(I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all)

And all of Asgard would be with him. They already hated his Aesir self enough, and his newly found origins would only fuel that hatred. This time it would be justified, though. He deserved it. Truly, he did.

His heart felt like it had crumbled into a thousand minuscule pieces. He was beginning to think the ice surrounding it had been shattered by the muscle's rapid, wild beating.

Too blinded by panic to notice that Odin was talking to him, trying to calm him down, he struggled out of the embrace and scrambled away, looking at the Allfather with terror in his wide eyes.

"Loki, calm yourself."

His eyes were still burning, and his chest felt as heavy as Mjolnir, and there was not enough air in the Vaults — he was ice and he was burning alive in Asgard's heat—

He had to get away.

Odin extended his arms towards him, palms open in a non-threatening manner—

"Loki, my boy—"

He managed to get up on unsteady feet, sidestep the older man, and without ever glancing back, he ran.