A/N: Enjoy. I'm really starting to like Frey and Heimdall (not necessarily as a couple).

Disclaimer: I don't own Matantei Loki Ragnarok, and I'm not making any money off this

Ratings: PG

Genre: Angst

Warnings: Nothing really. . . Spoilers for episode 21 and 23!

Main Characters: Frey

Additional Notes: I'm really not sure where the inspiration for this fic came from. . . Oh well.


Frey couldn't sleep. It had been nearly a week since Heimdall had returned from his "death," though the small god assured him there had been nothing fake about it. Still, Frey hadn't needed to be told more than once—all the gods had felt clearly the moment of Heimdall's death, though Frey suspected it had been worse for those who had been nearest. Of course, this did not help his insomnia. He turned to his side, facing the door to the hall of the small apartment he shared with the god of dawn and tactics. The apartment was dark and Frey could hardly see past the doorway, let alone down the hall to the room Heimdall had claimed as his own—which had only been after a furious battle with the fertility god and Gullinburtsi, as the room had the apartment's only window, saving the kitchen.

The room had gathered dust, when the dawn-god had disappeared, died. Frey had refused to set a foot into the space, stubbornly telling himself that Heimdall would return. He had not wanted to touch anything, disturb anything, lest the god decide the room was no longer to his satisfaction and never return. His reasoning, he knew, was foolish, but he had been so afraid, so utterly terrified that he would be alone, that he would lose yet another of precious people, that he hadn't questioned the slight delirium. He had done everything he could to convince Heimdall to return, denying the god's death and buying him only his favorite foods, talking to him—everything. The fear had consumed him.

Now, as he lay there, the feeling returned, the feeling of restless insanity, of nervous shaking, writhing, crept into his veins again and he bolted upright. The only sound in the room was the huff of his light panting; he shuddered. Frey knew he would get no more rest that night—not that he had gotten any to begin with—and he sighed, throwing back the covers and getting to his feet. The floorboards were cold beneath his bare feet but he ignored it as he made his way to the kitchen (though he could not suppress a flinch as his feet touched the much colder kitchen tile). He stared at the fridge. He would have made tea, but he knew that the whistle would wake Heimdall, and Frey had learned his lesson early on that waking the god of dawn before dawn was not a good idea, nor a safe one. So tea was out—so was coffee. That left only milk and Oreos; Frey shrugged.

He retrieved the pack from its hidden place in the back of the highest cabinet and the milk from the fridge and set them both down on the old table. He studied them for a moment and suddenly found that he was not hungry in the slightest. In fact, the way his stomach was writhing, he wasn't sure that he could keep anything down. He sighed again and tiredly put the items away. He sat at the table dejectedly, fingering the worn red and white checkered tablecloth. It was so quiet, so utterly still. Just like when Heimdall. . . Frey sucked in a breath, a sudden fear circling his heart.

What if he's gone again? What if . . .? What if . . .!

His knuckles had turned white as he gripped the table in the small panic attack—they had been occurring frequently since Heimdall's return, and left the god shaking and pale, gasping for breath. Frey was well aware, on some level, that the thoughts he had during his attacks were ridiculous, the fear completely irrational, but that didn't stop it from feeling quite real and sane. Nor from hiding the fact from Heimdall. The god of tactics knew nothing of Frey's panicked thoughts and shallow breaths, nor the insomnia or restlessness—for as much as Frey played the idiot, he was well used to hiding things. However, this time, Frey couldn't calm down, couldn't relax.

I have to see him—he's asleep; he'll never know. Every creak of the floorboards drew a flinch from the god, and Frey was nearly a shivering wreck by the time he reached Heimdall's door. He swallowed, staring at the brass handle. His thoughts were jumbled and he was sure it wouldn't be too much longer before his tears made an appearance; he bit his lip and turned the knob.

The room was dark but Frey could just see the outline of a small, child-like body under the covers of the bed. Of course, to his irrationality and fear this was not enough proof. Thankfully, the dawn-god's room was carpeted and his footfalls were muffled (though Frey had no doubt that the watchman could hear him). At last, after an eternity of creeping, Frey could see Heimdall's face, his cheek resting against the downy pillow, one ungloved hand curled and pressing against his lips in the most child-like fashion; Frey swallowed, an uneasy relief flooding him. Thank Odin. . . No, Hel. . . Yes, thank Hel. Frey could not stop himself as he began to reach out, fingers stretching, lightly brushing a lock of violet hair that had fallen in the dawn-god's only eye.

That final proof slowly banished the fear, but Frey knew it was only temporary. But, at least for tonight, he was assured. Quietly, he returned to his own room and never noticed the small, sad smile on the dawn-god's lips.


A/N: All done! I think this is longer than my last Matantei Loki Ragnarok fic, and I hope it was better—or at least good. I hope you enjoyed it. For those of you who are observant (or watch Naruto) yes, I did use Naruto's phrase of "precious people," what he calls the people he cares for; I don't really know why—maybe I've just been reading too much Naruto lately. . . Please, let me know what you think—review!