Ever had the hour grown late in the lower city of Manhattan. Street lights casting twisted shadows upon the cracked sidewalks. The lone soldier traversed his way back to his cozy apartment nestled within the depths of the city. That eve, fate had lead him down the dimly lit alley, a path the Captain would soon come to regret.
A familiar smell filled Rogers’ nostrils, a tinge of metal—the scent of blood. His pace quickened to find it’s source, frantically searching the alleyway. Until the blond’s greatest fear had been realized, the discovery of a figure propped against a brick wall. Approaching the unknown a small lump had formed within his throat, as he was able to identify the other.
His knee gave way, weakened by the sight of the Asgardian before him. What rash decision had the trickster made to lead him to this? He was a fool, Steve Rogers was an idiot for even letting him go. Another soul had fallen, slipped through his fingers—a life that had been worth saving.
The blond shrugged off his worn leather jacket, carefully draping it over Loki. His body fell against the cool bricks, shoulder connecting with the wall. Digits curling around with those of the deceased, giving the icy hand a tight squeeze. Rogers knee drew close to his chest, perhaps for comfort, as he rested his forehead upon it. Still the Captain continued to hold the lifeless hand within his own.
Please, forgive me—my friend.