Loki Odinson is a complex mess of, well, complexes hidden under a thin veneer of unpredictable rage and stunning displays of stubborn spite.
Buffy Summers is a self-sacrificing martyr who bottles everything up under a sunny smile and a witty joke until someone applies pressure at just the wrong – right – spot and she shatters into a million pieces.
Their damages aren’t even complimentary. Loki is too demanding in his insecurities, too loud and angry and Buffy is too passive in fighting for herself, even if she’ll go to war for others at the drop of a hat.
In short, they shouldn’t work.
But they do.
Long ago, so very long ago, Spike told Buffy that all slayers have a deat hwish. He was half right. Or rather, completely right, but missing one key component. It’s not being a slayer that makes them all crave that little sliver of darkness, that final gasp. It’s being a weapon.
It’s being fifteen years old and having a man in a tweed suit walk up to you and tell you that you were born for one, single purpose: to die.
It’s getting beat down again and again, being told at every turn that you’re not a person but a function, that you serve others, that you are worth only what you accomplish, only what you kill.
Before she left her world, Buffy spent eighty-two years being not only a weapon, but the weapon. The most dangerous creature on earth.
And Loki is the same. Oh, it’s not as blatant as a Council aiming and firing him, but it’s not much less than that either. As a second-born, Loki’s purpose is to protect his brother. As a magic wielder, a mage, a master of tricks and illusion, his function is to do the dirty work for his king.
If someone needs to quietly disappear, to die of a disease, to be suddenly convinced of something, it is Loki’s job to make it so.
Odin may have gone about it more subtly than the Council, but Loki has learned the same lessons Buffy has: That he is replaceable. That he is a weapon to be wielded.
And Spike’s words, tweaked only the slightest bit, are prophecy and epitaph at once: all weapons have a death wish.
So no, Buffy and Loki don’t match, not really, but they both have that same death wish, that same knowledge as to their worth and function. They have the same understanding of how the world works and that goes a long way to uniting them.
Even before Buffy woke with a red ribbon tying her to Loki, she was aware of how similarly they think and work. Even the first time they met, on a battlefield, trying to not get killed by a bunch of power hungry bandits, they were in tune with each other.
Buffy was on her own, fighting superior numbers, and then suddenly there was that big guy in the red cape with a bunch of his friends, hacking and punching away at the mob surrounding her and while they were helping her, they weren’t really fighting with her.
Until a snap and whoosh of displaced air landed a guy in green battle armor right next to her. He held a staff in one hand, a long dagger in the other and he slotted in place at her back like he’d never been anywhere else.
Waking up married to him is, after the initial shockpanicwowsex, kind of the logical conclusion to that first fight and everything they’ve done since then.
It feels right.
It’s the first thing in a long time that does.
Which is why Buffy is understandably upset when the doors to Loki’s quarters bang open shortly after noon and Thor comes bulldozing in without even a hint of a knock, yelling, “Loki, brother! I fear I may have acted harshly last night and married you to –“
He trails of in the doorway just as Loki rolls off of Buffy and grabs the discarded sheets puddled around them. He passes them to her without taking his eyes off his idiot brother and, as soon as he’s sure she’s not butt naked anymore, he stands.
Apparently, it’s okay for Loki to be starkers in front of Thor, but not for her. It’s kind of sexist and possessive, but also hot. Also, naked Loki in a rage is a thing to behold, so she forgives him.
She also tries really hard not to blink and miss anything.
“I am aware,” the god of fire snarls, “that you are somewhat lacking in common manners, but I would think at a thousand years old even you had mastered the art of knocking on doors, brother, especially when you suspect what, exactly, you might be interrupting.”
What he’s interrupting.
Right, consummation of marriage. Buffy’s right hand goes to her left wrist, where a trip of red cloth is tied off in an intricate knot.
She’s married. To Loki.
She grins and stands, keeping a blanket tucked around her frame. Once she reaches her husband – that’s going to take some getting used to – she tucks herself around and in front of him, covering him at least a little from Thor’s flabbergasted looks.
“Thor,” she says, because she’s found the god of thunder reacts best to small words, “We’re busy. Go away.”
Instead of waiting for him to leave, she turns around and climbs Loki like a tree. He helpfully supports her thighs around his waist, walking them back toward the bed without another care. At least that’s what it must look like to his brother.
Buffy is the only one in a position to feel how tightly coiled he is, or to notice his distraction. He’s kissing her like a man possessed, but his eyes are slitted as he monitors the effect of their little show on Thor.
After a moment he grunts in satisfaction, just as the other god slams out of the room with a loud bang.
“You’re a sneaky little shit,” Buffy declares as she digs her heels into the backs of his knees, making him fold onto the mattress.
“You started it,” he defends with a wicked, wicked smirk.
She hums against his neck and lets go of the ends of the sheet, allowing them to pool at her waist once more. “I did, didn’t I?”
They make it out of the bed by sunset and then promptly skip the usual pompous dinner in the great hall for a stolen tray of goodies directly from the kitchen.
And then it’s back to bed.
And then, somehow, it’s morning again and even if Thor didn’t go blabbing to all of Asgard – unlikely - it’s really time to go and fess up to Odin.
Buffy doesn’t like Odin.
He disapproves of her and Loki, although she gets the impression that he’s not entirely sure why. He told Loki off for messing around with someone ‘beneath him’ at the very beginning of her stay in Asgard and then, a few weeks later, tried to warn Buffy off of his own son because he’s ‘dangerous’ .
Seriously, the old man has issues.
Which you will never ever hear Buffy saying out loud because the ravens creep her out. Also, the eye. Creepy.
But he’s still the king and Loki is a prince, so they wash and dress and make their way to the balcony where the family usually has breakfast together, when weather and duties permit.
Buffy feels like an interloper because family, but technically she guesses she’s a princess now, so, wow. The twelve-year-old in her is squealing and burbling in hysterical euphoria.
They step out onto the balcony together, hand in hand. Loki’s pinkie is actually hooked into Buffy’s new bracelet, which is strangely endearing. Thor isn’t there yet, but Frigga and Odin stop their quiet conversation to look at them.
Frigga’s eyes drop to their joined hands first.
Odin looks displeased.
“Thor told you,” Loki observes, shrewd as always.
“That you got married without my blessing? Yes.”
Loki’s smirk turns five degrees cooler. “Did he happen to mention that we were both inebriated and he was the one who thought it would be a good idea to marry us on a lark?”
“Your brother did not force you to… complete the union.”
“No,” Loki answers, perfectly even. He’s squeezing her hand hard enough to make her finger joints ache. “He didn’t.”
“Husband,” Frigga cautions as Odin opens his mouth, undoubtedly to put his foot in. From the way he deals with his youngest, Buffy sometimes wonders if he’s ever even met Loki. The old man continuously does and says they exact wrong thing when it comes to Loki.
The queen stands and holds out both hands. Loki, reading some signal Buffy doesn’t see, smiles at her, brief and warm. Frigga and Buffy are the only ones who ever get to see that expression.
They’re the only ones who get to see him without his masks.
Frigga beams back and Loki bows to her before laying their joined hands in the queen’s waiting ones. He withdraws his own hand with a whispered caress along the red ribbon. “My Queen,” he announces, formally. “I present you my wife, Lady Summers, Slayer of Monsters.”
Buffy can’t help it. She grins like an idiot. Loki and Frigga both grin back.
“This is not how things are done in this realm, son. We are not…”
“Take it up with Thor, Father,” Loki admonishes. “And when you are done, perhaps you could feel some measure of joy at your son’s happiness.”
The request is so blandly polite that it sounds like a throwaway suggestion and not the blatant accusation it is. Why is nothing I do ever good enough for you?
Buffy squeezes the queen’s hands briefly and then takes her own back, tucking it where it belongs, inside Loki’s. She’s pretty sure that’s not what protocol dictates, but Frigga won’t mind.
“You make my son smile,” she once told Buffy. “For that, I would call you a blessing.”
“Husband,” Frigga demands, “come meet you daughter in law.”
Odin grinds his teeth, sets his jaw and makes his way over. He gives Loki a long, hard glare and then sighs, apparently resigned, before bending to press a brief, bristly kiss to Buffy’s forehead. “Welcome,” he announces, “daughter.”
Then he turns around and stalks back to his breakfast.
Loki opens his mouth as if to argue, but Buffy gives his hand a squeeze. It’s enough.
They’re together, they’re married, they’re alright.
When Fandral flat out asks Buffy if Loki used magic to trick her and if she needs his help to free herself of his spell, she punches him in the face.
When Sif subtly tries to hint that, if she wants to, Buffy could, if necessary, cry rape and get out of the marriage, the Buffy punches the other woman, too.
Thor steps in then, keeping Sif from retaliating, but all the slayer notices is how he didn’t feel the need to say anything when his friends were accusing his brother of mind control and rape.
Sure, it was all couched in a joke, all just fun, but the edge underneath isn’t something he can have missed.
Buffy mutters something about having hurt her hand and stalks out of the room, head held high.
“I am sorry,” the offers once they are safely away from the Asshole Troupe, where no-one can hear him apologize.
“What for? Existing?”
“I did trick you.”
“Only a little,” she corrects, holding up thumb and forefinger to show how little. “And for the record, if you’d asked, I would have said yes. Sif and Fandral were both out of line and they’ll either come around, or get their asses kicked a lot in the future.”
And then the world goes a little wonky because one moment they’re walking down the middle of the corridor and the next Buffy is pressed flat against the wall with her back, a god pushing tightly against her and, huh.
He’s close enough to kiss, almost, maddeningly, but his hands are buried in her hair, holding her very, very still.
“You,” he says, low and quiet and intense.
“You are the only one…. You are the most perfect creature I have ever met.”
He’s all heat and fire and driving need and she loves him like this, she does, but she also sees right through him. Her hands rise unbidden to his face, softly, gentling him. “You’ve gotta stop being surprised by these things. I’m on your side. I was before and I definitely am now. They’re being assholes and I won’t let that stand.” She smiles at him and remembers the feeling of standing alone on her front porch, abandoned and kicked out of her own home, vilified and absolutely alone.
“I’m on your side.”
He shakes his head a little although she doesn’t know what at, and then buries his face in her neck, inhaling her.
They stay like that for a long time.