Floral Design (Meadow and Loki (ABO))

                                    

                                          
The mission had been a disaster. Bed intel all around. They were fleeing before they'd made any progress. Jet shot down by a massive EMP which also took Stark and Barnes out of commission right off the bat. Then as if that wasn't bad enough, a sonic device was used to floor Wanda and Rogers. That left Loki and Barton to take out the entire base and protect their teammates. Loki had warned, he'd told them not to be hasty, not to take the smaller team, he told them better to be safe than sorry but did anyone listen to him. No! Of course, they didn't. And now he's injured and trudging through snow. Fleeing. They'd been forced to flee. To spread out into the wilderness and run. Pathetic. But necessary. Loki looks down at himself and groans, his fingers, clutching to his side, are covered in his own blood. It's pouring out of him. He stumbles a little, leaning against the tree at his side, trying to steady his heartbeat, slow the heart, slower the flow of blood. Pushing himself up he carries on moving. Trying to find shelter. If he can find shelter he can set about treating his wounds. Get safe first. Right now he's glad for his Jotun heritage, he knows the others will be struggling with the cold but him, it's one less thing for him to worry about. He keeps walking. An hour, two. He loses track off time, he's pretty sure he falls in and out of consciousness a few times too as he travels, barely managing to stay on his feet. He trips and no longer has to energy to stop himself from hitting the snow, but he does, somehow, manage to turn onto his back, the snow under him already turning red. His fingers twitch in the snow as he watches the stars above him, he doesn't remember it getting dark but he supposes it must have done. He coughs a little and then sneers at himself. He doesn't know where the others are, if they made it out though he can guess, they're not useless, how far they got, if they're hurt like he is. Probably not. Loki had shielded Barton letting the archer make a break for the trees, Loki had taken the shots, the blows, the knife meant for Clint. He at least knows Barton will have gotten out. At least. He turns his head to look through the trees, part of him wishing one of those Avengers will come running through them. But no one is coming to his rescue. Not yet at least. It will take them a while to get reorganised. And Loki is not going to last that long. He can smell it. Death. Coming for him laying there in the snow, his blood pumping, oozing out of the wounds on his arms, his legs, his chest and back but the most worrying is one deep one to his chest, a sword, of all things, skewed through him under his ribs at the right angle had caused damage, too much damage. He knows this. Can feel this. Of course, this is where he dies. Midgard. In winter. In snow. There is a sick irony in there somewhere. He takes a deep breath but even that hurts.
                          
"Of course" he manages to groan out. Yep. This is his death. And he deserves it. Alone. In some snowy wasteland. Slow. Painful. All the hurt he caused, the pain, the scheming. This is of course the death he gets. His eyes flutter open, when did he close them, earing the crunch of snow underfoot, someone is here, to kill him or help him, he's not sure yet. He's not sure which one he will welcome more. A quick death. Or something helping him. It's getting closer and he cannot bring himself to move, to defend himself. He takes in a sharp breath, that aches, that shoots pain throughout the rest of his body. He lets out a pained gasp, fingers twitching to reach for his chest. And that's when he smells it. The scent that reaches him has the alpha in him practically howling with joy. Freshly cut grass. The smell of earth after a rainstorm. Cracked Lightning. Winter. Magic. He feels himself relaxing, absorbing the scent as it approaches. Yes. This is better. Peaceful. He chases the scent as it swims around him, moving, fingers, there are fingers on him, the heat sinking into his skin but he can't centre of it, he can't focus. The scent is overwhelming, sinking into his pores. He's aware, sort of, that he's being moved, there's a soft lulling, comforting vibration under him, the sound of animals, the scent of dogs on top of 'those' smells. Not dog. He corrects himself. No. it's wolves. There are wolves around him. He should be afraid, in his weakened state he is vulnerable but he doesn't fear them. It's something else, the feeling of fur, living fur against his side, there is one curled up with him, young though from the size. He opens his eyes and finds himself peering into the most beautiful pair of blue eyes hovering above him, blue eyes on a woman, the rest of her face hidden in a hood, the smell of fresh moss invading his nose, he wrinkles it a little.