These pathetic insects have made Thor soft. Soft enough, even, for that sniveling coward from Titan to have a chance at wounding the almighty thunder god.
Newly freed from his imprisonment in Asgard at the behest of the oh-so-merciful Odin, Loki crouches over his fallen not-brother, staring in awe at the crimson stain rapidly soaking the thin mortal shirt Thor wears. He flicks his gaze to the blood trickling from Thor’s lips as the thunderer coughs and struggles to clear his lungs of the lifeblood slowly filling them.
He cradles Thor’s neck in his right hand, smiling faintly as Thor reaches for him with a trembling hand, whispering “I .. brother…”
His not-brother’s precious Avengers are scattered around them, some preparing to fight off the incoming mass of Thanos’ soldiers, a few others staring at the pair of them. None of them are worth Loki’s attention. He is not here for Earth. He is not here for the mortals. He is not here because Odin demanded it of him (much as the Allfather would like to think otherwise). He is here because no one is allowed to have this, save him. No one.
Tendrils of magic begin twining between his fingers, blindingly bright as he places his hand over Thor’s wound. Whispered words and threads of magic begin knitting the flesh together, repairing the damaged organs and tissues. He is no healer, but Loki prides himself on knowing the many uses of Seiðr.
He is the most powerful sorcerer in the Nine, save Odin. Loki will never again allow anyone the chance to underestimate him.
As he stares upward at the old tear in Midgard’s atmosphere through which the Chitauri invaded four Earth years ago, his jaw tightens. His old torturer and a new hoard of soldiers are pouring through the rift, preparing to obliterate the city and then the planet.
Oh Thanos, Loki muses, a cold smile spreading across his lips. For what you have done to my brother, you will meet Death at my hands.