Lower Tadfield Safehouse

"Hello, Loki," Gabriel greeted the American-Norse god. He noted the drink, and wondered how to bring up the topic. Hello, Loki, do you have leukaemia? Your other self stole your medicine and we looked it up.

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Loki accepted the drink the bartender gave him, and downed it without even checking what it was. It burned down his throat, and he held out his glass for a refill.

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The bartender knew Gabriel's tastes by now, and handed him a glass of red wine. Gabriel thanked him, sipping it and keeping an eye on the two Lokis. He could tell that the cheerfulness in American Loki's tone was fake.

"Is everything alright, Loki? American Loki, I mean." It was the first time he'd been with both of them at once, and it was a little odd.

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Loki suppressed a wince. So much for fooling anybody.

"Why, of course it is," he lied. "I'm just a little bored."

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"Right," Loki said, finishing off his second glass slower, though still in one go. He gestured for a refill.

"Wasn't there anything you wanted to warn me about?"

He stared down at his sitting counterpart. Granted, the other one looked differently, and he didn't even know if "genetic dispositions" applied for gods at all. Still... If he was in for an unpleasant surprise sometime soon, he would have preferred to be forewarned. It would mess up his intended schedule for Ragnarök completely.

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"Warn you?" Loki asked honestly confused. "I told you about the Judeo-Christians. They're annoying, but not that dangerous."

He shot a glance at Gabriel. "Well, this one's said to be pretty good with a sword, but he hasn't shown any inclination to kill anyone around here, yet. It'd cost him his room and job."

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"Why don't you have a glass of mead?" Loki asked spitefully, gesturing to the bartender. "I'm paying."

He wasn't quite sure what to make of it. The other Loki didn't seem to know what he was talking about, but that could be show, too. If he only know how alike they really were...

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"I already told you it wouldn't be wise for me to drink alcohol at the moment," Loki reminded himself. "Especially not around you."

What was going on?

"Warn you about what? Did you discover a possible threat to us?"

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"Discover?" Loki blurted out, somewhat louder than he had intended.

"I discovered something alright," he added, is a lower voice. He took the glass that had been brought for the other Loki, and took a gulp from it.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle to slam it onto the counter before his other self. "Care to explain?" He kept his hand firmly on top of it.

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"Hey, that's mine!" Loki reached out as if to take the bottle, but realised that he couldn't hope to be faster than his other self who was already holding it. "Give it back. You had no right to take it, it's not a toy. I ... Someone needs it."

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"Who?" Loki asked sharply. "Who needs it? I'll return it to that person, don't worry."

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Gabriel sighed. "Generally, people with leukaemia keep their medicine with them instead of getting their acquaintances to keep it for them. And I rather doubt that the acquaintance would think of it as theirs."

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"You don't know him," Loki lied. "And I'm supposed to bring him the medicine, not keep it for him. I admit referring to it as mine was in accurate, so let me restate: Hey, that's supposed to be in my keeping and you had no business taking it. Give it back!"

He held out his hand to himself.

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"The name!" Loki growled.

He made no move to surrender the bottle. Instead, he grabbed his other self with his free hand and forced him to face him.

Staring down at him, he said: "Say it. Look me in the eye and tell me - tell me it's not you. Tell me you don't have this thing and I'm in no danger of catching it either. Damn you - since when does Loki tell untruths?"

He was breathing heavily now. He wished, hoped that the other one would deny it, and that he'd not see a lie in his eyes then. He wanted it to be that way. Otherwise... things would become difficult.

Genetic disposition, the librarian had said. You couldn't get closer, genetially, than being the same person, could you?

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"Is private!" Loki returned in the same tone.

"No," Loki said, forcing himself to stay relaxed and not assume a defensive stance. "It's not me."

Had his other self never been called Loki Lie-Smith? Maybe they were more different than he'd thought after all. Perhaps they had nothing in common anymore except their name.

He looked himself in the eyes forcing himself not to blink, to believe his own words completely, trust that he wouldn't harm himself, not over something as silly as this.

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Without letting go of his other self, Loki put the bottle into the pocket of his jacket and closed the button over it with one hand.

His voice was low and icy as he spoke. "Liar." Contempt seeping from every syllable, he went on: "Miserable, wretched little liar! Is this what you've become? Or have you always been like that? Have you never stood in Ægir's hall and tossed their lies back into their faces?"

Staring down at the redhead, he watched for the other's reaction. "You're a shame for the name you bear. You disgust me."

With that, he released him and turned pointedly away, gesturing to the bartender for another refill.

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The tension in the air was almost tangible, and Gabriel shifted uncomfortably on his bar stool. He was a little confused, too; wasn't Loki also known as Loki Lie-Smith? Of all the people he could think of who would scorn liars, Loki - whichever country he came from - would not have been on that list.

And why was Loki lying about his illness, anyway? It was hardly something one could help.

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Several possible replies flashed through Loki's mind, but he suppressed them. Now was not the time to chide himself for uncreative honesty. It would be admitting to the lie and in consequence admitting to being sick and weak.

"If you choose not to trust yourself," he said instead while calmly straightening his shirt. "That is your problem, but I do need that bottle back. It's prescription medicine, you see, and not so easy to replace."

"You, on the other hand, have no use for it. So how about you give it back and I'll give you something useful instead?" He wasn't sure what he had to offer, but maybe it'd come to him or maybe the other him would make a request.

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Loki turned, livid. His hand shot out and, with a loud snap, left a reddening print on the other one's cheek. "Trying to bribe me now, are you?" He asked. "How about the truth in exchange for the bottle?" His lips curled into a cruel grin. "Besides - I may not have any use for it now, but I might tomorrow. Or the day after. If you got it, I'm likely to get it, right, Librarian?"

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Gabriel set his glass down and sighed. Whatever chances he had had of simply being an objective observer in the background waved jauntily at him before jumping out of the window.

"Genetic predisposition does affect your chances of developing leukaemia, and as you're two different versions of the same god, your genes are probably highly similar if not the same. But I'm hardly an expert."

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Gabriel's explanation came too late, however. Without stopping to think about what either of the other beings was saying Loki launched himself at himself, his right hand aiming at the other him's throat while the left secretly grabbed for the pocket that held his medicine.

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...which was exactly why Loki had taken the trouble to button it.

He whipped up his left arm to block the other's attack and grabbed for the wrist belonging to the hand that had reached for his pocket with his right hand.

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Seeing that he had no chance of reaching the pocket at the moment Loki pulled back that hand to avoid capture and threw all his weight into the other attack. The other Loki's arm prevented him from reaching his throat, but maybe he could unbalance him.

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Thrown somewhat off-balance, Loki staggered back and into Gabriel. What had the librarian been drinking? Red wine? Oh, it wouldn look just lovely on his white robes.

Without apologising, Loki went into a fighting stance, feet planted at shoulder width, hands lifted before him, the left lower than the right, fingers slightly curled but not closed. ready to intercept an attack or attack himself. Unarmed combat had never been his favorite pastime, but he was certainly not above a barroom brawl.

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