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Chapter Text

At the very back of the fortress, exactly where Loki would have hidden the really good and valuable stuff had it been his fortress, there isn’t a treasure chamber. Nor is there a secret room. Or a library of arcane texts, or a vault full of technologically advanced weapons gathered from across the multiverse.

No, at the very back of the fortress, almost like an afterthought and bathed in a little pool of weak, sickly light, there is a cage. An occupied cage. 

Loki approaches this cage with interest, because anything that people are determined to keep from seeing the light of day is always worth exposing.

The figure in the cage has their back to Loki. Unlike the rest of the inhabitants of this planet, who seem to consider sheet metal off-cuts and large feathers a sartorial hit, the prisoner is wearing clothes more comparable to Loki’s own, or those of Midgard. A long coat or tunic, black, dusted over the shoulders with grey or silver. Hair cropped short, rather than left long like Loki’s own. Chained at the wrists and ankles.

And, when they turn their head to glance over their shoulder at him suspiciously, Loki almost laughs - a gag. A big metal gag with a series of glowing sigils on it.

“Well, well, well,” he says, grinning because he can’t help it. “I feel we should be friends.”

The prisoner turns properly in his cage at that, and drapes his hands through the bars, leaning on them in a studied gesture of unconcern. He’s wearing gloves: fingerless and black, and battered-looking, as if he’s been in here a long time and nobody’s bothered to clean him up after he was captured. The rest of his outfit looks similar, now that Loki is closer and can examine him better: formal clothes, obviously good and expansive, but ripped and stained. A pair of goggles hanging around his collar like a necklace. He meets Loki’s eyes, utterly unafraid and obviously quite annoyed, and makes a little flicking gesture with his fingers, indicating the gag.

“Oh,” says Loki, a little frown gathering at the bridge of his nose, “now why would I do that?”

He circles the cage, staring at the prisoner, taking him in. Looks Midgardian, but then that’s a very deceptive and popular shape across the Nine Realms. He’s almost certain this one isn’t what he seems. But then, really, who is he to judge by appearances? He makes a snap decision, suits the action to the thought and pulls the gag away with a snap of his fingers and a curl of green magic.

The man in the cage takes a long unimpeded breath, then, to Loki’s delight, yawns widely in Loki‘s face, making a show of stretching out his liberated jaw and neck, exposing a bright blue runic tattoo just below his ear. A superb (and deliberate) demonstration of just how little he rates Loki as a potential threat.

How completely wonderful. This will be fun.

“Why, thank you,” says the man in the cage. His tone is playful, light, and Loki doesn’t trust it in the slightest. Don’t try to con a con artist. Amateurs. “It’s been so long since I had visitors. Honestly?” He lowers his voice and adds in a stage whisper that Loki finds absolutely hilarious, “I think they might be ashamed of me.”

“And why would that be?”

Keep observing, keep moving. He was only half joking when he said that he and the prisoner could be friends. There’s something of the trickster about this one, with his adorably innocuous human exterior and the obvious darkness inside that the flamboyant façade can’t quite mask.

The prisoner presses his face up to the bars and rolls his eyes.

“I suppose it might be because I destroyed their sister planet. Some people are so touchy.” He pouts. He actually pouts. Like a child. It’s so good that Loki wants to break him out and set him on a nearby planet just to watch what happens, just in case it’s a proper tantrum, with stamping and screaming and everything.

“And I suppose you’d like me to free you,” Loki says, flatly. That’s usually how these things go, after all.  Especially if it seems like a particularly bad idea to release a particular prisoner.

The man in the cage tilts his head to one side, as if honestly confused by the concept. Then he flings out both hands and blue magic spits from them, wrapping the cage in a flickering corona of witch fire, and the lock explodes under the pressure, leaving the prisoner to walk insouciantly out as if he’s taking a happy little stroll through the park. Tiny over-spilling bolts of blue light crackle and spit over the floor and walls, illuminating the dark corners briefly before they vanish into the ground.

It’s beautiful.

Oh, he was right. This is going to be a lot of fun.

The prisoner side-eyes Loki and smirks. His expression is bright and cheerful, as if he’s done nothing more sinister than pet a passing kitten.

“I don’t think freedom is a problem,” he says. “But thank you again for removing the gag. It was putting…such a dampener on things.”

Loki can’t help it: he bursts into delighted laughter.

“I am Loki,” he says. “Late of Asgard.”

“Heckyl,” is the response. “Of nowhere in particular.”

Chapter Text

“Thor!”

The big blond head turns briefly.

“How many brothers do you have?”

Thor looks confused. He slams an attacker direct in the face with one huge fist, then gives Tony a long, hard look.

“But one.”

“Loki, right?”

“Aye. Loki.”

There is a pause in the conversation as both Iron Man and Thor have other priorities, mostly involving not getting punched or shot. The attack on the city is nothing unusual. Honestly, it’s like having all the earth’s mightiest heroes living together in one place has created a honey trap for assholes.

They take a breather on a nearby roof as the Hulk comes bellowing into the fray. Tony flips open his mask.

“Only Loki, you’re sure?”

“I believe I would know if I had more brothers,” says Thor, with only the slightest hint of horrified uncertainty that says he’s absolutely not sure at all and that indeed he has nightmares about even more morally ambiguous siblings suddenly materialising out of nowhere and trying to take over the universe.

“Then who’s that?”

Thor squints in the direction Tony indicates.

“I see nothi -”

“Yeah,” says Tony, scowling. “You do. There’s a guy over there dressed like he just escaped from a steampunk convention - might I add a cheap Vegas steampunk convention - throwing lightning from his hands. Lightning, Thor. You know. That thing that’s very much your thing?”

Thor can see it now. There’s Loki, very much unconscious on top of a small tower block, and this other man very much defending him from the onslaught. The other man is smaller than Loki. Younger, perhaps. Shorter hair. Tinted goggles cover his eyes, and, as Tony quite rightly indicated, magical blue fire is spitting from his hands in great gouts, creating a very effective defensive wall.

Magic. Lightning. Loki.

Thor’s face falls, like a dog who’s just realised that the exciting walk through the park is actually just a shortcut to the vet.

“So you can see how I’d be concerned,” Tony says, trying to sound offhand.

“That is not my brother,” says Thor, in the tones of one who is trying not to get a headache at the very real possibility.

“Really? Exactly which one of them are we talking about now?”

They reach the newcomer just as the fight is ending - fight called off due to Hulk on the pitch - and he is apparently not ready to be friends. Tony ducks as liquid flame strikes out at them both, and Thor flings up an arm to deflect.

“Woah, wait a minute, wait a minute,” Tony snaps. “Hey. Isambard Kingdom Crazy. I think we’re on the same side. Assuming Loki didn’t bring these guys here. You didn’t bring these guys here, right?”

“Right,” says Loki, who is now sitting up and wincing at the wound on his temple. “Heckyl. Heckyl. Stop that. This is my brother and his friend. They’re not going to hurt me.” He gives Tony a long, cool look. “Not today, anyway. At very least not until after lunch.”

The newcomer stands down, lowering his hands in a placatory fashion. Once he’s assured that neither Tony or Thor are moving to punch him, he reaches up and pulls the goggles away so he can look at them. Blue eyes. Blue in the hair.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry in the slightest. A light, hard-to-place accent. Australian? “I’m not from around here. It’s a little hard to tell who the bad guys are.”

“Did you - did you just put air quotes around “bad guys”?” says Tony. “Are you sure you’re not from around here?”

“Loki, who is this,” Thor demands. He seems to have lost patience: or perhaps he’s just hoping that any unexpected family reunions can be got over with briskly so he can move on with his life.

“Whoops,” says Loki, smiling unrepentantly. “My manners. Thor, this is Heckyl. Heckyl, this is my brother Thor. You’ll like him. He does lightning too. Stark, this is Heckyl. You’ll like him. He has no concept of social boundaries either.”

Heckyl and Thor eye each other in the manner of schoolyard antagonists who have just been told by their parents to “play nicely.” Tony merely raises an eyebrow before holding out a gauntleted hand for Heckyl to shake.

“So,” Tony says, once he lets go. “Where did you two crazy kids meet, anyway?”

“In prison,” says Heckyl, helping Loki back up.

“Huh. Color me unsurprised.”

Chapter Text

“Tell me, Thor,” says Tony one morning, as the god of Thunder scowls balefully at the uncooperative waffle maker, “do you have “the boyfriend look” in Asgard?”

Thor picks up a butter knife and tests the edge thoughtfully.

“Fashion,” Tony presses, watching the butterknife/waffle maker combination with a sort of morbid curiosity and wondering whether the sprinkler system in the kitchen has been fixed after last time. “Where there’s someone you’re involved with, you borrow their clothes and it looks sort of hot and dorky and adorable all in one?”

“Fashion in Asgard is more practical,” is all Thor has to say, which Tony thinks is pretty rich coming from a bunch of people who wear capes and shiny gold armour, but he doesn’t follow up that particular tasty lead because he has another ulterior motive for asking this particular question.

“You know I’m happy you and your brother seem to be working things out,” he continues, cheerfully. “Him moving in here where we can all, y’know, bond. I think it’s going a long way toward breaking down those silly old prejudices we may have had from when he tried to take over the world.”

Thor beams over one shoulder and continues to wield the butterknife in a manner perilous to all waffle makers everywhere.

“It is good to have my brother close,” he agrees. “I feel that I can be a part of his life once more. Understand the man he has become rather than focusing on the child he was.”

“Speaking of that,” says Tony, seizing the opportunity, “how do you like Heckyl?”

Thor frowns.

“Not well,” he rumbles, and the butterknife makes an alarming creaking noise as he leans on it. “I know little of his past, but he seems frivolous, shallow and changeable. I do not feel he is the right friend for my brother during this time of his redemption and recuperation.”

“Well,” says Tony, metaphorically getting out his biggest spoon and preparing to give the pot a really good stir, “I don’t think you need to worry about them being just friends.”

Thor looks momentarily cheered; then the possible meaning sinks in, along with Tony’s smirk, and he looks unhappy. “Oh come on,” Tony says. “You’re not seriously telling me that glorious, golden, camp-as-Christmas Asgard is that backward about man-on-man relationships.”

Thor shakes his head, dismissive. This is evidently not the problem. From what Tony’s heard of Asgard so far, he’s not surprised. They seem pretty cool about that kinda thing. No, it’s obviously Heckyl who’s the problem, and having spent some time with the guy, Tony doesn’t really get it.

But then, maybe Tony is a bit “frivolous, shallow and changeable” himself.

Naaaaaah.

“You are wrong,” Thor says, confidently. “Loki does not think of him in that way.”

“Ohhhhkay,” says Tony, and wisely decides not to push it. Thor is, after all, holding a butter knife.

Of course, Loki has no such compunction, and turns up at the morning meeting the very next day wearing a white poet-style collared shirt with a familiar vest, and a pair of tinted goggles slung carelessly around his neck in a manner that suggests what-this-old-thing-I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-this-way. The sleeves of the shirt don’t quite come down to his wrists, suggesting that it was meant for someone smaller. His hair spills out over his shoulders in artfully mussed black waves. Tony out-and-out laughs when he sees this.

“Bed hair,” he accuses, pointing, and Loki, the brute, merely smirks in response and takes a seat. “I called it. Everyone here is a witness. I called it.”

Thor looks deeply unsettled, but Tony is oblivious at this point: he’s just seen Natasha hand Clint a dollar and is preparing to crow unbearably for the rest of the day.

Things only get worse when a bunch of six-armed jerks decide to (once again: is there no end to it?) use New York as their own personal shooting gallery. Some kind of portal opened up downtown and disgorged these intergalactic assholes. Tony’s blaming Dr Strange for this one. Honestly, that guy could hold a pre-teen Disney princess party and all hell would break loose.

So everyone mobilises. Everyone by this stage includes Loki and Heckyl, whom even Cap seems to agree are currently more of a help than they are a hindrance. They’ve had enough time to try out Heckyl’s power against their usual training routine, and the alien is surprisingly strong. Stronger than human, at least. And that blue lightning thing is pretty devastating too.

So Heckyl’s on the team, and Tony is immeasurably glad that he’s within perfect line of sight of Thor when Heckyl finally turns up for the fight, because the look on the god of thunder’s face is well worth preserving. Which Tony does. And immediately posts on Instagram. Hashtag #ohhellno.

Because Heckyl is wearing Loki’s armoured headpiece (of course he is). And he looks like the cat that got the canary. Blue lightning arcs between the curved back horns. Those leather trousers look mighty familiar too, as it happens, even though he’s folded them up over his ankles because they’re a bit too long. He seems to have managed to get his own shirt back, though.

In deference to the somewhat fraught environment, Tony settles for cruising past Thor at minimum speed and giving triumphant finger-guns. He’ll save the gloating for later. He finger-guns Loki as well as he dips down to take out the three invaders sneaking up, because hey. While sharing clothes may indicate you’re definitely something more than friends, he’s pretty sure that if you’re willing to lend the guy your ridiculous chrome goat-hat, it’s love.

Chapter Text

The thing that Loki doesn’t tell anyone - well, all right, one of the many things Loki doesn’t tell anyone - is that he and Heckyl have far more in common than it might appear.

For a start, Heckyl also has nightmares. This isn’t the big thing they have in common, but it’s definitely a symptom of it. A legacy.

They’d been escaping from somewhere (Loki probably should remember where, but to be honest, after the first few times, escaping from sticky situations they’d got themselves into became the norm and all the experiences tended to blur into one) and had managed to get backed into a corner. A bad corner. The worst kind. One where the walls were high and the pursuers were heavily armed, and as it happened, Heckyl had already taken a hit and was limping badly on his right leg.

So there they are, back to back, turning and shifting to try and keep all assailants in view, Loki’s shoulders pressed against Heckyl’s. Loki has been in bad places before, but this is steadily ranking up to be one of the worst. He clenches his teeth and hisses angrily, knives sliding down into his grip from their hidden wrist sheaths. He can feel from where his companion’s shoulders are pressed to his own that Heckyl is shaking hard, muscles locked, exhausted from the effort of staying on his feet. The wound in his leg must be worse than it looks. Oh, Hel.

He’s just about to snarl and charge the nearest opponent when he hears Heckyl makes a strangled choking noise at his back. It’s not an encouraging sound.

“Loki,” Heckyl says, his voice unnaturally high and strained. “I can’t - I - I - oh not now please not now -”

Loki isn’t looking when it happens. He’s back to back and can’t turn to see without putting himself in danger. But he hears the people facing Heckyl give a collective gasp, and when his shoulders once again contact his companion’s, something feels very wrong.

The creature now at Loki’s back is much bigger than Heckyl, and it’s armoured like a thrice-damned tank . A demon, a robot, a cursed knight - it is all of these things, and it is laughing with a maniacal sort of glee as it stretches out its limbs. It reminds Loki of the Destroyer, but far less streamlined: as if someone saw a humanoid body and decided that the best thing to do would be to weld great plates of dark metal to it. And at the forefront of its (helmet? face?) curls a familiar bright blue symbol.

Well. That’s...interesting.

“ Ahhhhh...free at last. ”

The creature pulls a heavy sword with a metallic shriek and shower of electric blue sparks. It takes a single step forward, and the crowd recoils as one. “ Time to die ,” it rumbles, and putting its head down like a bull, it charges.

There is nothing to do in the short term but join the fray. Loki does so. He draws up a flickering army of simulacra to distract and confuse, and goes for the throats of any and all who approach him. The monster at his back fights with little grace or finesse, but it hits like a Jotun. Assailants go flying as it swings the sword in a long arc, the momentum carrying it full circle, almost hitting Loki in the process.

In the end, it feels like mere moments have passed. Loki and the creature stand facing each other in a widened pile of bodies, the dust settling around them, the footfalls of the fleeing still echoing from the high walls. Loki takes a minute to get his breathing under control, and as he’s composing himself the creature says, in a hissing, unnatural voice:

“ He likes you .”

“Always good to know,” says Loki, carefully. The sword is very big and very sharp. The creature snorts derisively.

“ I do not .”

“And who are you, exactly?” Loki asks. The tone of voice is starting to irk him.

“ I am Snide .”

“Yes, you are rather, aren’t you? It suits you,” says Loki, then his manner shifts, turns steely. “Where is Heckyl?”

Snide telegraphs more than he intends with a glance down to the weapon he holds, but his answer is evasive.

“He’s contained. I am the master now .”

“I see,” says Loki, softly. “Perhaps I should have been clearer. I think there’s something you should know before we continue this conversation.”

“ Oh? ” The creature shifts its vast weight. Arrogant, fearless, confident in its gross bulk.

Very stupid.

“ And what is that, Loki of Asgard? ”

Quicker than thought, Loki whips out his hands, wreathed in green energy, and slams them flat onto Snide’s chest. The creature jolts, finding itself momentarily frozen, feet locked to the ground. Loki leans in, eyes narrowed, affronted on Heckyl’s behalf. It is very clear in Loki’s mind that whatever the mechanics behind his companion’s transformation, it certainly isn’t something Heckyl welcomes or enjoys.

“I like him too. But I don’t like you .”

And he concentrates. Hard.

The sticky spell won’t last long. It’s a stronger variation of one he used to use on Thor when they were kids, just enough to immobilise and give Loki time to get away. He’s not aiming to get away this time, though.

He shoves himself into the creature’s mind instead.

It’s horrible in there.

Everything is unnaturally twisted, heavy and clunky and focused on brute force and so ugly Loki wants to burn it all away. But there’s no time. He’s looking for one thing, that fine electric blue thread that leads him to where Heckyl is trapped, raging and pained, deep inside the beast. The sense of how Heckyl is feeling in there ( fury fear pain supplanted overlooked exhaustion indignity powerless exploited ) makes something clench up in Loki’s chest. It’s too familiar. He’s felt the same way too many times.

So he pours all his concentration into the bindings that hold Heckyl prisoner within Snide, snaps them, throws them aside, and when he realises that Heckyl’s too tired, too beaten to break out alone, he shoves power into the other man’s presence too.

Come on, Heckyl. Up. With me.

When Loki comes back to himself in the physical world, Snide’s hulking form is collapsing into blue light, contracting, becoming small. Loki goes down onto his knees alongside Heckyl as the man’s body resolves back into being and he crumples, hands gripping shakily at the leaking wound in his leg, head hanging, breath coming in long, painful gasps.

The first thing he manages to say is: “I would have told you.”

“Why? There’s all sorts of things I haven’t told you ,” says Loki, which isn’t quite a reassurance or an apology, but something of both. He cups a hand under Heckyl’s chin, makes him look up, then allows a flicker of the red-eyed, blue-skinned demon that he holds inside himself to shine through the beautiful illusion. “So you see,” he murmurs, “we all have our secrets.”

Not wanting to see Heckyl’s reaction, not wanting to look in the other’s eyes and see pity, fear, betrayal or indeed anything else, he instead pulls Heckyl up from the ground. Heckyl yelps with pain as his leg straightens, and Loki slings an arm around his shoulders to support him.

“Time to go,” he says, firmly.

There will be time to talk about all of this later - or more likely, to carefully avoid talking about it.

Chapter Text

They’re sitting on opposite sides of the room.

Heckyl has refused further help: his leg is bound up tightly in strips of bandage, and he’s currently working on the hole in his trouser leg with a needle. Sensible, Loki supposes. They don’t carry a great deal with them, travelling as they do, and clothes in particular are often an issue. Fixing up what you have makes sense. But he suspects that Heckyl’s avoiding talking to him since their escape, and the whole make-do-and-mend routine is just a convenient smokescreen.

Loki isn’t in the mood for that. There are times when subterfuge and omission and silence are the perfect weapon: and there are times when they’re just an obstacle to be destroyed. 

“Tell me about Snide,” he says, loudly, and watches Heckyl’s shoulders instantly tense. Oh yes. Definitely a painful subject. “I would like to know,” Loki continues, somewhat more gently, “as it is good for companions to be able to anticipate each others‘ strengths and weaknesses in…fragile situations.”

There’s a snap as Heckyl pulls off the loose end of the thread he’s using and starts sewing in what can only be described as an aggrieved fashion. Angry sewing. That’s a new one, thinks Loki, but doesn’t let it go.

“Frost Giant,” he says, and when Heckyl flashes him an irritated, confused look, he gestures to his face, the dark blue and the whorls of raised markings sliding out from under the pale skin for just a moment. “Not Asgardian. Not by birth. It tends to catch people by surprise, which can be useful in a tight corner.”

Heckyl regards him flatly, his lips thinning into an unhappy line, then turns back to his needle. Evidently unimpressed.

“I could feel how much it hurts you,” Loki says, relentless. Not to be deliberately cruel. Not this time. “It exhausts you. The effort of not becoming him - it’s a constant drain on you.”

“What do you want me to say?” Heckyl says, sticking the needle through a pinch of fabric just above his knee and finally giving Loki his full attention. Loki preens inside. Got you.

“Yes, it hurts. Yes, I hate him. No, I can’t always stop him if he pushes me hard enough.” Heckyl’s voice rises along with his annoyance, before he makes a deliberate effort to pull himself back under control. “It has been this way for a very long time,” he says. “Very long. You can’t imagine how long.”

“I’m over a thousand years old,” Loki says, and is vaguely unsettled when Heckyl just stares him directly in the eyes for three solid seconds, and then breaks into a bout of slightly manic laughter. It takes him longer than is comfortable to stop, get control of himself again. Even Loki, who is self-aware enough to be able to admit that many people would consider him insane, finds this disturbing.

The expression in Heckyl’s eyes is older than some stars.

By the Norns.

“But you haven’t always been like this, have you? If you know that it has only been a very long time? And not forever?”

Heckyl’s eyes tighten. Loki is fascinated. He can almost see the battle going on in the man’s head. This was an element he hadn’t expected.

Heckyl doesn’t know. Or perhaps it’s more that he did know, once, but that memory has been forcibly suppressed. Possibly even shredded, in an attempt to keep Heckyl from recovering it accidentally. Tens of thousands of years and still that enforced amnesia has persisted, has not degraded, is holding strong. That’s evidence of the sheer power of whatever it was did this to him, if nothing else.

Loki experiences the unfamiliar sensation of empathy once again and analyses it with interest as it washes over him. Sympathy. Fellow feeling. Caring. I care.

Intriguing.   

“There is nothing to be done,” Heckyl says, eventually, picking up his needle again and, seemingly moving on autopilot, jabbing the point repetitively into the ball of his thumb. He watches the resulting beads of blood dispassionately, rubs his thumb and forefinger together, smears the blood over his skin. He doesn‘t even seem to fully realise he‘s doing it. Loki frowns. “He is inside. Or he is outside. Either way, he is. And he is an unmitigated moron!”

Jab, jab, jab, to punctuate the words. Loki rises, crosses the room, and firmly takes hold of Heckyl‘s wrist to put a stop to the unhealthy needlework. He takes a seat next to him.

“And if he didn’t have to be?”

Heckyl looks taken aback, but only for a single moment, then his expression shifts. No hope there. Just suspicion, and an unbelievable weariness. He sighs.

“What do you mean.”

Loki smiles at him, and his manner is only a little forced.

“There may,” he murmurs, “be something I can do.” He glances at Heckyl‘s hand. “But only if you promise to put the needle down first. I wouldn‘t want there to be an accident.”

Chapter Text

“I learnt this from Amora,” says Loki.

He’s moved Heckyl to the only comfortable seat in the room - a battered old armchair - and is trying to settle the man as he prepares for the magic. Heckyl is obviously ill at ease. He shifts constantly in the chair, eyes darting everywhere except Loki’s face.

“I’ll say now I am not certain it will work,” Loki continues. He sends a tentative thread of his magic out into Heckyl’s body (Heckyl shudders as if spiders are crawling up his spine) and investigates, trying to keep his touch light.

When he and Amora had used this spell on the Hulk, it had very effectively drawn the man out of the monster. Where there had been two souls in one body, constantly fighting for control of the flesh, there were two bodies, two souls. It was a simple magic in a way: putting back things to the way they should naturally be. Two souls, two bodies.

On the other hand, it was a dangerously complicated business, pulling apart that which dark energy of whatever kind had fused together. With Banner it had been gamma radiation. With Heckyl, Loki has no idea.

He withdraws the little tendrils of power once he’s managed to feel the insubstantial shape of the creature Snide lurking within (and it’s quite the horrible sensation, he can’t imagine how Heckyl feels like this all the time without screaming - so close, swollen under the skin, like an infection) and catches Heckyl’s eye. Heckyl looks remarkably sulky, which Loki suspects is a heavy cover for his fear.

“Ready?” he asks.

“No,” Heckyl says, in a low, sarcastic voice. But he drops his head, seemingly very interested in the backs of his hands where they lie clasped in his lap. And Loki draws up all of his power, focuses it keenly with his mind, and places his left hand firmly on Heckyl’s chest. Green light flares up around them.

It’s different doing this alone. Harder. With his right hand, Loki draws the sigil Amora taught him, pulling the lines of the symbol out of the air around him, inscribing the circle first, then the interior runes.

It’s when he makes the final scribing mark to close the spell that Heckyl says, with an edge of panic in his voice: “This is wrong. This feels wrong -”

Then he convulses, his body arching in a tetanic spasm, and Loki has to shift the balance of his magic to the left just to hold him in place. Heckyl thrashes, teeth clenched, his head whipping back and forth in helpless, agitated motion. Now Loki realises why it had made more sense to do this with two magic users. Because the body will fight. It will resist. Because the shapeshift itself will cause pain, and flesh always resists pain.

It takes him all of his concentration to continue the working of the spell while trying not to let Heckyl dash his own brains out against the wall or the furniture. The sigil begins to spin, flaring like a firework, describing a series of fractal circles in blinding green light. The portal is open and it’s time. Trying to ignore the distraction of Heckyl’s increasingly violent convulsions, Loki lifts both hands and plunges them inside the circle. And grips. And pulls.

Snide comes out of the gap in a spectral rush, incorporeal at first, like smoke, his massive form coiling and insubstantial. Loki keeps an iron grip on him, sweating a little as the huge drain of the magic starts to tell. He continues to pull, feeling the monster start to come away reluctantly. It has had its hooks knitted into the very fabric of Heckyl’s being for so long. So very long. It’s rootbound in his soul, all of the threads that make up Snide growing like fungus, unseen and malignant, fuelled by some dark energy the like of which Loki has never seen before.

It seems to go on forever: an agonisingly long time. Heckyl starts howling, the sound almost lost in the crackling static of the magic, until finally Loki tugs the last of Snide’s energy free and hurls it across the room. As it goes, it draws physical form, and the armoured creature hits the wall with a resounding crunch. Without taking a breath, Loki spins, bundles up all of the energy he’s had powering the portal, and inverts it. Instead of being a portal in, it is now a portal out. He coils it once above his head, like a lasso, then flings it directly at Snide as the monster struggles to rise.

There is a hideous, overwhelming screech of sound like burning linen tearing, an implosion of neon green light: and then nothing. No Snide. No portal. No more magic. Loki slumps to his knees and closes his eyes, the flare of light imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, his vision blurry, his ears humming with feedback. He’s so tired. But there’s the satisfaction of having successfully carried out the spell to sustain him.

He kneels there on the floor for almost a full minute, steadying his breathing and recovering his senses. As his hearing returns, he becomes aware of Heckyl moaning, soft and in pain, in the chair.

Loki approaches carefully, wary of being lashed out at. Heckyl has proved to be unpredictable in whom he’ll attack when under stress.

“Heckyl,” he says. Heckyl is just about conscious, blue eyes open a slit, head lolled to one side. His breath comes in sobbing gasps. “Heckyl,” Loki repeats, and gives him a brief shake. “I believe it was a success. Tell me. Do you feel him? Anything at all, still left inside?”

Heckyl’s hand raises shakily to his neck, fingers probing. Belatedly, Loki realises that the curl of runic tattoo below the man’s ear is gone. That has to be a good sign, confirmation of the spell’s intended effect. “Heckyl,” he prompts again, more gently, because Heckyl looks like he’s been trampled by a bilgesnipe. “You are free. How do you feel?”

Heckyl blinks several times, eyes watering and bloodshot.

His expression, when he meets Loki’s eyes at last, is awful.

“I remember,” he says. “I remember it all.”

Chapter Text

“Loki - “

“No.”

“Hey, you’re back - “

“Later!”

It is Tony who gets the brunt of it, purely by being the last obstacle in Loki’s path between the elevator and the lounge. And, to be fair, by just being Tony at a moment where being Tony was definitely neither required nor welcome.

“Oh wow,” Tony says, stopping dead, right in the doorway. “Wow. Lokes, you really need to rethink your choice of holiday destinations. Prince Albert there looks like death. What have you been doing to him? Scratch that - I don’t want to know. Let’s -”

Loki’s hand - the one that wasn’t currently making sure Heckyl didn’t just collapse to the floor - shoots out and locks around Stark’s throat. Not squeezing. Not yet.

“Let’s not,” he hisses. “In fact, let’s never.”

And he lets go. Tony, for once rendered momentarily speechless, flattens to the doorframe as Loki sweeps past. “Okay,” he says, once Loki is safely inside, “okay. My fault. Something bad happened. I get that.”

Loki guides Heckyl to the couch, and Heckyl, apparently functioning completely on automatic pilot, sits down, drawing his feet up and hugging his knees. Loki starts unlacing his companion’s boots and removing them without a word. Although he won’t admit it aloud, he’s worried. Heckyl hasn’t said anything since declaring his memory is no longer lost. It’s been almost a day. And he looks utterly traumatized.

This is not unsurprising, Loki thinks, glancing around for a blanket, a throw, anything he can bring over. Heckyl’s skin is cold. Shock, he supposes. The alien is thousands - perhaps tens of thousands - of years old. That’s a lot of memory to lose. And equally, a lot to get back all in one lump. In the best-case scenario here, it’s just all too much to process quickly.

A hand appears in front of him, holding a thick red sleeping bag. It’s Stark. Loki had entirely dismissed him from his mind.

“Here,” he says, and his dark eyes are, for once, serious and focused. “I’ll go get Bruce.”

Once he’s gone, Loki checks the place where Heckyl’s leg was wounded during the escape, and finds that it has healed rapidly and well. The same evidently cannot be said of his soul.

“I am not sorry,” Loki says, almost angrily, because he isn’t. Heckyl just curls up more tightly around his knees and doesn’t say anything.

“Hey,” says Banner.

He doesn’t sit down, or approach. He stays at a polite, safe distance, as if Loki is a rabid lioness with a sickly cub to protect. “So I hear there’s a little problem,” Bruce continues, running a hand up over the back of his head in a habitual nervous gesture. “You want to talk about it?” He glances from Heckyl to Loki, back and forth. “Um. Either of you. It’s okay.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” says Loki, with more venom than is perhaps called for, but it’s been a long, exhausting and irritating few days, and he’s more worried than he cares to admit about the ridiculous alien now huddled under a puffy red sleeping bag on the couch. Bruce just looks at him for a moment, nods very slightly as everything is suddenly clear, then says:

“Well. I’m…I’m just going to make some tea.”

He leaves the door to the kitchen open. So naturally, Loki follows him and tells him everything, or at least an edited version of everything. It still takes almost twenty minutes, and Bruce’s tea gets cold.

And by the time they get back Heckyl has already managed to bite his own right wrist open with his teeth and is starting on the left. And he is doing it in eerie silence. 

Loki‘s weariness, concern and annoyance instantly solidifies into pure rage at the sight. Rage at whoever did this to Heckyl in the first place. Rage at Amora for teaching him how to split souls. Rage at himself for not handling it differently.

“Oh, my god,” Bruce says, and then his tone deepens from alarm directly into firm crisis management. “Absolutely not. Stop that.” He lunges in, drags Heckyl off the couch and onto the floor in one motion, effectively interrupting the biting, and as Loki starts forward with a snarl, Bruce flings out his hand in negation. “And you. No. Just…just no. I’m not hurting him. Back off. Once he’s not trying to kill himself, you’re more than welcome to take a swing at me for touching your boyfriend. Now get me something to tie this with.”

“This” is Heckyl’s wrist. There’s a first aid kit in the kitchen. Of course there is. Avengers Headquarters is a hotbed of minor (and major) injuries. Bruce deals with it all very swiftly and professionally but keeps up a steady stream of monologue directed at Heckyl the whole time.

“Okay, first of all, hi. I know we haven’t spoken a lot, and to be honest, that’s not you, it’s me. Never been much of a joiner, especially not since the whole…you know. But I guess you really would know, huh? Yeah. So Loki told me. Don’t be mad at him. He’s worried about you. I’m serious. I mean, he was ready to take me on, and he’s probably told you that he and the other guy kind of have a violent history. That’s something he wouldn’t take on lightly, you know. Hold that there.”

Heckyl, who is regarding Bruce with wide, uncomprehending eyes, holds the loose end of the bandage with a finger as directed as Bruce completes the binding. “Great. That’s great. You know, you missed all the major veins here. Good for you. So what did he look like? Your Other Guy.”

And Loki finds he breathes easier when he hears Heckyl reply (albeit quietly, and as if his throat is sore). Evidence that he’s not irreparably broken.

“Huh,” says Bruce. “Well that sounds…don’t be offended…horrible. These other guys…they’re not often great strategic thinkers, are they. Now I’m going to put a couple of steristrips on this one. We might sew it later, I’m not sure.”

“He heals fast,” says Loki. “He’ll be fine in a few hours.”

Next to Bruce, Heckyl echoes, though less than convincingly, “I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, sure,” says Bruce, and when he glances up at Loki his eyes are steely. “He seems fine. Everything about what we’re doing here is…is absolutely fine. Listen, Heckyl, I get it, I really do. I’ve done worse to myself to try and break free. So I’m not gonna be the one to tell you not to. To tell you that you’re selfish, or weak, or stupid. I know you’re none of those things. But the next time, you talk to me. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and I’m sleeping. I mean obviously I’d rather it wasn’t. But come to me. We can…ah…hang out. Swap monster stories. Okay? I’ll give you a hint, I’m not leaving until I hear an ‘okay’.”

“Okay,” says Heckyl, who looks completely confused by this whole situation. Unsurprising, really. Millions of years of people not giving a shit about you will do that. Bruce gives him an uncertain pat on the shoulder, then stands up, gathering the remains of the first aid kit. “Say, Loki, you want to give me a hand making some more tea? Heckyl looks a little dehydrated.”

Somehow it’s one hundred percent clear that this isn’t a suggestion. And Loki, for once, decides not to make an issue out of it. 

Bruce closes the kitchen door behind them and before Loki can get a word out, he finds a single finger in his chest, pinning him in place.

“I’m a normal kind of guy,” Bruce murmurs, and although his voice is as quiet and level as ever, somehow Loki can feel the full weight of the man’s massive alter ego behind it. Is that a hint of virulent green lurking in the man‘s irises? “And I wouldn’t presume to lecture anyone on how they handle their relationships, god knows I don’t have the high ground on that one. But you need to do better, do you understand? I don’t care if you want to be a complete asshole ninety-nine percent of your life. I genuinely don’t give a crap. But for the one percent you’re using on this man, you need to be the good guy. Because he doesn’t have anyone else and for some bizarre, fucked-up reason he’s chosen you.”

He thrusts the teapot at Loki brusquely. It’s probably one of the only times a teapot has been used as a threat.

“If I have to patch him up again, I’ll lock you in a room and let the Hulk go to work on you. That’s a promise. Now make him some tea, you can use my chai. Jesus. What a fucking day.”

The door slams behind him. And Loki is left in the kitchen, next to The Chart, holding a gorgeous original British Blue Willow pattern ceramic teapot and trying to decide between being furious at the sheer unadulterated nerve of talking to him that way, and being terrified that Bruce actually means it.

“Loki?”

Heckyl’s voice, from the next room.

“I’m here,” Loki answers, immediately. And he is.

Chapter Text

"Before you go getting all self-righteous,” Tony says, holding out both arms so the suit can more easily mould itself to his form, “I want to remind you that you were in charge of handing out assignments.”

“Okay.”

Steve is choosing to ignore as much Tony as he can. This is not an easy task. The elephant in the room has nothing on Tony. Steve hefts his shield and makes sure his cowl is in place.

“You were the one that said, and I quote: ‘They can handle it. They’ll be fine. Tony, you worry too much.’”

“I did not say you worry too much.”

“Well. Okay. But you were thinking it.”

Steve gives up.

“I’m sure they are fine,” he says, reasonably.

“See, this is why you got to be Captain America, not me. You’re so optimistic. Living the dream.”

They head out anyway, because that’s what they do. They’re Avengers. Earth’s Mightiest Heroes and all that.

As Thor could have told them had he not been currently gadding about in Asgard, the absolute best way to find Loki is to follow the path of madness and/or destruction. Or to head for the nearest prison. Or possibly both. Tony chooses to follow the deep furrow which against all sense has been carved out of the concrete of Main Street.

Neither Loki nor Heckyl are at the end of the furrow. There is, however, something definitely extraterrestrial lying there, and it’s dead. It’s big and leathery and bright orange and definitely not supposed to be there. A bunch of teenagers are taking a selfie with it. It’s leaking unspeakable iridescent fluid all over the street from a multitude of stab wounds. As Tony watches, a few ratty pigeons waddle up and dip their beaks into the gleaming puddle, because pigeons are dumb and opportunistic. After a few drinks, most of them fall over and start slowly sprouting tiny, glowing mushrooms from their eye sockets. The one that doesn’t fall over turns into a teakettle.

“Huh,” says Tony. He pokes the teakettle with his foot. It coos. “Okay.”

A few blocks away, Steve is trying not to look horrified as one of a coach load of elderly Texan women sobs loudly into his right shoulder. The street is filled with the sound of lamentation, and there is definitely an overabundance of gingham.

“So, Cap,” Tony’s voice cuts in from over the comlink, “How do you like your pigeon these days? Avec champignons? Or…stewed with a slice of lemon?”

“Maybe you could spare me the French?” Steve says, trying to gently press the old woman towards a seat. She bawls louder. A second woman taps Steve anxiously on the forearm, then turns into a hatstand. Steve blinks. The first woman weeps even more loudly.

“Is that…are you crying? Steve. Look, I had no idea you felt that way about the French -”

“Tony. Please. I’m in a bit of a situation here.”

“Big dead thing leaking shiny goop all over the place? Surrounded by weird stuff that definitely shouldn‘t be happening? Face it, home fries, you‘re not in Kansas anymore.”

Steve looks to the left, where the coach is still gently steaming under the crushing weight of something alien and dead. With tentacles. Oily pools of blood are spattered everywhere, glistening unhealthily.

“I would say how did you guess, but I’ve been around you too long.“

Laughter from the radio.

“Okay. So we’re on the right track. This has got Loki’s name all over it. And his best buddy's. Let’s go get them before they do something less funny and more horrible.”

“You think this is funny?”

“There’s a kettle down here trying to crap on my boot. So far, it’s hilarious.”

There’s another dead orange thing in the park. Plus a whole lot of alien blood and some very confused-looking unfortunate bystanders who have suddenly lost control of their individual skin cells and are trying not to let parts of themselves get away.

And, when Steve and Tony finally meet up again at the Fourth Dead Thing So Far (which has crashlanded inside the display window at Macy’s, propped up incongruously amongst a tennis-themed set-piece and with its spilt bodily fluids busy turning a whole pile of scattered tennis skirts and an unfortunate salesgirl into novelty balloons) they agree that it’s possibly getting a bit much and that Loki and Heckyl need to be stopped before the inevitable escalation of this situation results in widespread death, destruction, chaos and the collapse of society as we know it.

So they follow the sounds of terror and screeching alien rage to a few further blocks away, where a remarkably live and angry orange thing is attempting to eat a taxi. It’s almost succeeding. People are running away screaming in all directions, fire hydrants are exploding in gushes, there are random things burning - it’s the very definition of everything the Avengers try to avoid.

And so naturally, in the middle of it all, happily ignoring all orange things and evidence of chaos abounding, are Heckyl and Loki. They're having a nice chat,of all things, although Tony's too far away to hear what they're saying. Heckyl is leant up against a streetlamp, grinning like a kid in a candy store, one foot hiked over the other like a cartoon prohibition gangster. He's got a striped paper cone full of churros in one hand, and if Tony's any judge, has put enough cinnamon sugar on them to fuel an entire state's worth of third graders for a week. Oh, great. Because Heckyl on a sugar jag is at least fifty percent more worrying than normal. Loki is answering that worrying grin with one of his own, all white predatory teeth and six types of mentally unstable. He's leaning into Heckyl, talking nineteen to the dozen, dark hair flicking up in the breeze, and it's obviously a private joke because Heckyl laughs delightedly, leaning in as well -

And then the orange thing almost falls upon them. Heckyl drops his churros, which apparently drives him into an incalculable fury, because he immediately snaps his hands up and fries the creature in copious and vengeful lightning. To Tony, it feels like overkill: but the thing is shrugging it off and still coming, whereupon Loki produces three knives from apparently nowhere and hurls them. The knives pick up and conduct Heckyl's power in mid-flight as they cross the stream,so that when they hit they are slicing and electrocuting all at once. It's starting to become clear just how all this dangerously transformative alien blood has managed to get splashed over such wide areas. Fucking trickster gods and their wretched trigger-happy friends.

But goddamnit if under this crackling arc of blue lightning and spraying blood and general awful devastation Loki hasn't managed to rescue a couple of churros which he presents to his companion with a flourish: Heckyl's whole face just lights up like he's won a million dollars, and before Tony can even be surprised Heckyl has curled a gloved hand around the back of Loki's head and drawn the taller man's head down (and himself up) enough to kiss him.

Loki seems to freeze for a moment, and Heckyl draws back a little, eyeing him narrowly, evidently suffering growing paranoia: but then Loki smiles. Not that big toothy grin, either. Just a small, secret smile. Warm. Not an expression Tony can ever say he's seen on Loki before. Then Loki bends his head again, pulls Heckyl back in as the orange thing goes into hideous thrashing death throes in the background, and Tony decides to look the other way. Because there's natural human interest and then there's being caught staring goggle-eyed at two of your housemates making out passionately in the middle of a battlefield, and Tony doesn't want to be That Guy.

Well, especially as it seems Steve has currently got being That Guy covered.

Chapter Text

“Is Thor back yet?“ 

Tony is in the kitchen, nuking a very expensive, very cold mug of filter coffee in the microwave because he’s once again managed to forget about it because of Important Science. Bruce’s question seems somewhat of a non-sequitur. 

“Let me see. There are still Pop-Tarts in the cupboard and no puddle of craft beer on my coffee table. I’m going with no, he’s not back yet. Why? Are you missing his stalwart good looks?”

“Well, obviously,” Banner says, unaffected by snark through years of practice. “but that’s not why I asked. Have you seen the headlines today?”

For once, Tony hasn’t. Mostly because while in the lab earlier he dismantled his Starkphone for parts rather than leave to fetch spares. He takes the tablet Bruce holds out to him and scrolls quickly. News feed. Gossip columns. Society columns. All the stuff Pepper keeps an eye on in case Tony does something expensive, stupid or embarrassing. 

The headlines are definitely not about Tony today. Tony smirks. 

“Former Bad Boys In Love? Loki Odinson Exclusive Pictures With New Boyfriend Heckyl”

The pictures may be exclusive, but they’re pretty blurry. Despite that, they’re very obviously of Loki, clutching Heckyl to him in a properly romantic Disney Prince and Princess style clinch. Heckyl has both his hands twined into Loki’s hair. Aww, sweet, especially if you don’t look too closely at the twitching orange alien corpse in the background. 

“Love IS A Battlefield! Avenger Loki Saves The City And Gets His Man" 

And then the one Tony really likes: 

“Gay Avenger Agenda!”

That headline is so awesomely tacky-good Tony just has to click. Same photo of Loki and Heckyl all lovey-dovey over each other, just from a slightly different angle.

“The breaking news that Thor’s brother Loki has found love with latest Avenger recruit Heckyl means that everyone is now asking: is there a secret gay agenda driving the Avengers initiative?“

Tony looks up at Bruce over the tablet. “It’s an important question,” says Bruce, deadpan. "Scroll down a bit further.” Tony does.

“Electric Connection: Is It Actually Heckyl’s Lightning That Gets Loki Going? Shocking Exposé Of Loki’s Secret Attraction To Adopted Brother Thor”

Tony reads that article twice and then once more, just for funsies. "Oh please,” he begs, “please let me be the one to show him. Please.” 

Chapter Text

“You don’t want to go in there.”

Loki folds his arms and gives Steve one of his best Looks.

“Oh, well now I absolutely have to,” he purrs. “Now that the great Captain America has forbidden it. It would be remiss of me not to, in fact.”

“Loki - ”

“Am I not the god of mischief?” Loki pursues, an expression of mock confusion puckering his brow. “The god of very specifically doing things other people have said not to?”

“Loki,” Steve tries again, pushing all of his patience into his voice. 

“I mean, where would I be if I started behaving? Don’t touch me.” This last with rather more genuine anger, as Steve grabs his forearm before he can reach the training room door. 

“Look, your brother and Heckyl are in there,” Steve says, and, as Loki looks quite alarmed and starts to wrench his arm free, he adds, “it’s okay. Really, it’s okay. They’re not fighting. Well, they are fighting, but not seriously. I’m sure neither of them would want you to get caught in the crossfire. ”

“What did he do,” Loki demands, and somehow Steve just knows the blame has landed squarely on Thor. “What did he say? If he hurts him -”

“Nobody is going to get hurt, all right?” Steve finds himself in the odd position of realising that Loki genuinely cares. It’s always been a little in doubt, because to be honest, with Loki, everything is in doubt. But here, in this moment, there’s no doubting Loki’s somewhat frantic look, and because Steve is a good man, he wants to reassure.  "Calm down. They’re just…think of it like friendly arm-wrestling.“ 

Loki throws his head back and eyerolls at the ceiling in utter exasperation. 
"Oh. Oh, this is about that ludicrous story that Stark read to him, isn’t it? The one from the internet. Of course it is. Step aside. I will handle this. Idiots.”

Steve sighs and steps aside as requested, because at heart he doesn’t really want to be involved and is pretty sure Loki can look after himself. Besides, Loki is obviously seething, and for once the rage isn’t directed at him. 

“Morons,” Loki snarls under his breath, and stalks into the room.

He walks into a crackling Faraday cage of electricity. Thor and Heckyl are facing off on opposite sides of the room, surrounded by power. Everything in the room is bathed in harsh blue-white light and the smell of heat and burning ozone is overpowering. Tangled, humming lines of lethal light zigzag across the arena, spitting and snapping dangerously, and thunder rumbles from the high ceiling above Thor’s end of the room.

It’s Heckyl that Loki looks to first, and is both relieved and infuriated that the alien seems to be quite safe, and even revelling in the competition. His sharp blue eyes are alight with the joy of battle, and his teeth are bared in a manic grin of delight. Between his raised hands is a stream of pure lightning, which he is focusing on Thor - or more accurately, on Mjolnir - across the room. The hammer is responding like the solid magical focus that it is, and sending out bolts of Thor’s own power to grapple with Heckyl’s.

It’s a magical wrestling match. If Loki concentrates, eyes narrowed against the glare, he can see the subtle differences in each stream. The whiter, bluer bolts of lightning are Thor. What Heckyl throws back has an almost turquoise edge, and scatters more tiny sparks as it arcs out, almost like snowfall. 
Ridiculous, thinks Loki, crossly, that they want to test their might like children or wolf cubs in the nursery. 

(There’s only a tiny, secret part of him that’s loving every second and badly wants to see Heckyl smack Thor into next week, but that’s just for Loki to know and nobody else to find out). 

He steps out into full view and hisses at both men in tones dripping with scorn: 
“Oh, very mature. Both of you." 

Thor just beams like a cheerful dog, seemingly delighted that Loki has come to spectate: Heckyl, who has slightly more up-to-date insight into the moods of Loki, has the sense to look startled and slightly guilty. He also has his concentration abruptly divided, and that’s all Thor needs to cut through with a well-aimed bolt from Mjolnir. Heckyl is knocked off his feet as the shot hits home, his own power withdrawing into his body, and he’s thrown to the back wall, hitting with a grunt of pain and rebounding.

Loki hears himself make an anguished, animal sound as Heckyl falls. It’s obviously a louder noise than it seems, because Thor gives him a very odd look, but Loki is unconcerned with anything that isn’t Heckyl right now.

"I’m fine,” Heckyl grouches, pushing up on his elbows as Loki skids to a crouch in front of him. There’s a jagged scorch mark right up the front of his shirt, and as he tries to rise he sways, dizzy. Loki regains all of his previous desires to stab Thor in an infuriated rush. Heckyl is seemingly unimpressed, even annoyed by the concern, and slaps irritably at Loki’s hands as Loki tries to check him over. “Oh, really. Get off. I told you I’m…I…”
Then he slumps, eyes falling shut. And Loki sees red. 

“He fights well!” Thor booms. “I approve, brother. He will make a fine defender for you when you get yourself into trouble. It is no slight upon him that he’s no match for the god of thunder - ooof - ”

Loki has punched him hard in the stomach. 

“Think yourself fortunate it wasn’t a dagger,” he spits. “He’s more than a match for you. I distracted him. You didn’t win here. And I don’t need a defender.”

Thor, who seems to be amused at some private joke, looks past Loki to where Heckyl lies unmoving on the floor. “He’s fine,” he murmurs, giving Loki a brotherly thump on the back. “He’s strong. I thought you’d be pleased that we’re finally getting along.”

“Getting along?!?” Loki snarls, but Thor, still smiling, is already leaving the room, Mjolnir hefted over one shoulder in a jaunty manner. 

“That was adorable, but you really didn’t need to.”

Heckyl has rolled onto his front and is lying there, chin propped on one hand, feet up behind him with ankles crossed. His eyes are sparkling, his lips are curved in a wicked smile, and he looks the very picture of health. Loki huffs out a breath. 

“You let him hit you on purpose.”

“He’s your brother. I need him to like me. Or at least,” Heckyl corrects himself, swinging his feet back and forth insouciantly, “I need him to underestimate me. In case he goes after you again.” He wags a finger in the air as if chastising an invisible Thor. “There’s nothing more vulnerable than a hero who just knows he’s stronger than you.”

Loki chuckles. “Well,” he says, sitting down on the floor next to Heckyl, “to paraphrase, that’s adorable, but you really don’t need to.”

“I know. But I want to.” Heckyl tilts his head so he can briefly press his forehead against Loki’s arm. “You want to protect me in your own way. Let me protect you in mine." 

Loki runs his hand through the blue-striped hair, fondly. 

"And I suppose it’s just possible that you’re also fishing for some sympathy.”

Heckyl tries to turn the grin into a soulful pout. He’s only half successful. 

“I suppose,” he flirts. 

Chapter Text

It goes wrong, of course, but not in the way Tony expects.

So he likes a challenge, so sue him. The Ice Bucket Challenge, that was a good one. And charitable! Who doesn’t love a charity, right? Plus, Tony also loves YouTube. It’s where you get to see all the celebrity z-listers who didn’t really understand what they were getting into look like whooping, shuddering dumbasses. Oh, and cute cat videos. Because you can never have enough cute cat videos.

But besides his love for cat videos, Tony is also well-known for  being what the kids these days would call a bit of a troll. So when he’s trawling YouTube at 3 am and goes down the internet rabbit hole known as the Cinnamon Challenge, he immediately loves it.

And immediately thinks of Heckyl.

Yeah, Heckyl, Loki’s current squeeze and the biggest spice junkie anyone has yet encountered in the known universe. Nobody’s really sure what his deal is, but put something flavoured with cinnamon in the same room as Heckyl and boy, you’d better get out the way fast because if he can’t get to it without going through you, he’s gonna go through you. With no regard for personal safety - yours or his. First Thor (Cinnamon Toast Crunch) and then Clint (cinnamon danish) had found this out the hard way, and there was a general sort of awed respect in the tower for the feral rage demon Heckyl becomes if blocked from getting at a cinnamon roll. It’s on The Chart and everything.

So this is how Tony ends up with an industrial catering size can of ground cinnamon, a spoon, and what he considers a fool-proof plan of getting a perfect viral video. He places the can on the breakfast bar, cracks it open (one of the other things about Heckyl is that he can seemingly scent cinnamon from miles away, like a shark that scents blood in the water), and leaves a note.

Absolutely do not eat under any circumstances.

And then the kicker.

It’s not yours.

So when Heckyl turns up, drawn by the open cannister as Tony absolutely knew he would be, the results are inevitable. Tell anyone with a personality like Heckyl’s that he a) cannot have something and b) that it doesn’t belong to him, he is one-hundred-percent going to take it. And if you add in the extra kicker that the thing in question is cinnamon in its purest form, Tony has no doubts whatsoever that as soon as Heckyl sees it he’s going to mainline it like the shameless addict he is. And Tony’s going to get the results on video for the general amusement of both himself and the internet.

He prompts JARVIS to store the recordings from the kitchen and retreats to his own room to observe.

And watches. And grins.

“That’s it…come on, Goggles, come and get it…”

He continues to watch the scene unfold, and the grin very slowly starts to fade from his face, replaced by a growing look of disbelief and, eventually, frustrated annoyance. Eventually he slams both hands into the couch, jumps up, and charges back out to the kitchen.

Heckyl is sat at the breakfast bar on one of the tall chrome stools. He has the cannister in one hand and the spoon in the other, and he looks as happy as a kid with a gallon of chocolate ice cream. There’s red-brown dust all over his shirt-front, his hands and his face, and he’s just shovelling the stuff into his mouth at speed with absolutely no sign of discomfort or choking. In fact, he looks like he’s never been more blissed-out in his life, like it’s his dream come true to gulp down huge amounts of uncomfortably dry powder and go back for more.

He looks up as Tony comes in, and grins unrepentantly, eyes slightly glassy. High as a kite, thinks Tony, maybe that’s it. Maybe wherever Heckyl comes from this stuff is like meth. He gives the man an accusatory stare. I mean, how dare he have the audacity to not have a hilarious coughing fit. But Heckyl is oblivious to Tony’s disappointment. He’s just far too happy.

“Oh,” he purrs when he finally realises Tony is there, “was this yours? I’m very sorry. I just…couldn’t resist!”

And he giggles. The can clatters emptily to the floor, and Heckyl, completely unselfconscious, starts licking spilt cinnamon off his hands.

Goddamn aliens and their alien anatomy. Tony stamps back to his room in disgust. He just knows Loki’s going to be unbearable when he finds out about this.

Chapter Text

"Bruce. BRUCE.”

Banner looks up from his copy of Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance and frowns, weighing his options against the facts.

1. It is Tony.

2. Tony sounds fairly agitated.

3. Tony in a state of agitation rarely means anything good.

3a. Or at least, it rarely means anything simple to handle.

“Bruce. Open up.”

Bruce waits. He puts a bookmark into his book, lays it aside, laces his fingers together calmly.

“Okay, I need your help.”

“So just so I know before agreeing to anything,” says Bruce, opening the door, “is this something you’ve done all by yourself, or has anyone else been dragged into it? Either voluntarily or involuntarily.“

Tony stares at him, a hint of pout pulling at his lips.

“Look, I’m just asking.”

Tony shakes it off.

“Yeah, so, first of all, rude. But can you just come now? I need a medical opinion and JARVIS is not being helpful.”

“Oh my god, what did you do.”

“Nothing!”

They head out along the corridor.

“Well, maybe something. I don’t know. It might not even be connected, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s…that’s much worse.”

They turn the corner into the lounge. Heckyl is crashed out on the floor, completely motionless, limbs splayed like he’s just literally dropped where he was standing. Bruce takes this in for a moment, then looks across at Tony, deadpan.

“Just…Okay, just talk while I take a look at him.”

Heckyl, on the surface of it, seems fine. He’s definitely still alive. He’s breathing. His heart is beating (although much slower than normal, Bruce thinks) and he hasn’t hurt himself in the fall. He’s plainly and simply unconscious, as if he’s taking the heaviest sleep of his life. Bruce gives him a little shake, just to check. Then, failing any response, he slaps him relatively gently on the cheek a couple of times. Nothing. Heckyl’s head rolls to the side with the blows, but he remains completely out of it.

“…ate the whole can. Then I found him like this.”

Bruce tunes back into Tony’s explanation, and suddenly the brownish dust on Heckyl’s clothes and the odd, sweetish spice scent that surrounds him makes sense. Oh, no. Surely not.

“Heckyl,” he says, loudly, right next to the man’s ear. “Can you hear me? Heckyl.”

When this too fails to produce any response (not so much as a twitch) Bruce fixes Tony with a weary stare. “Did it even cross your mind that maybe the reason he’s so weird around cinnamon is that it’s some kind of narcotic where he comes from?”

“No,” says Tony. “Well, maybe a little. Afterwards. Not before.”

“Tony, he’s stoned out of his gourd.”

“So, uh,  is that official medical terminology or -”

“I’m being serious,” Bruce says. “He looks like someone shot him full of sedatives. Look at him.” He picks up Heckyl’s arm by the wrist, and lets it drop back to the carpet with a flop. “He’s out. He’s not waking up any time soon. Is that enough of a medical opinion for you, can I go now?”

“No, no you can’t go. Loki’s going to kick my ass when he gets back. I’m not sure what category ‘drugging his boyfriend’ comes under but I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be on his shit list.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” says Bruce, who by this point has entirely run out of sympathy. “Read to him? Get him a blanket? Because the last thing I’m going to do is try any of our stimulants on him, I’ve got no idea how his body chemistry will react. He’ll have to wake up when he wakes up. I don’t think he’s in any danger, all his vitals are strong, if a little slowed-down. It’s like…like when animals hibernate.”

“He’s hibernating? What is he, a bear?” Tony runs a hand through his hair, shoving it up into unruly spikes, then gives the bridge of his nose a brief rub. “Okay. Fine. You help me get him into bed, then you can go.”

“Oh, if you think Loki’s gonna be mad at you for drugging him,” says Bruce mildly, putting his hands under Heckyl’s limp arms and starting to lift, “then I strongly suggest you don’t ever mention you’re trying to get him into bed.”

Chapter Text

“He’s fine,” Thor is shouting, in his best drill-sergeant voice - you know, the one that carries across realms and can drop a horse at ten paces. “Loki, he is well. Loki. Restrain yourself.”

“This could be going better,” says Tony, his back pressed against the wall of the lounge, his eyes wide, and Bruce just gives him a long-suffering “you think?“ style look. They’d agreed that when Loki got back, they’d leave the news that Heckyl was basically in a cinnamon-induced coma until the last possible moment. Giving the alien a chance to wake up and for this whole sorry thing to go away without conflict.

This (almost sensible) plan had been comprehensively derailed by the arrival of Thor while Tony and Bruce were carrying Heckyl to his room.

Thor is a terrible liar. Oh, he can do it - it’s not that he doesn’t know how - it’s more that he finds it hard to maintain under pressure. All the lying skills in the family obviously went to little brother.

Thor had been very glad to help them stow Heckyl comfortably in bed, but as soon as Loki had turned up, he’d gone straight for the bad news without so much as a thought to Tony’s careful, heartfelt instruction not to mention it.

And Loki…Loki had gone ape-shit. Totally fucking lost it. If anyone had ever doubted that the thing that Heckyl and Loki had together was a real thing, Tony would have defied them to maintain their doubt in the face of Loki’s complete, quivering, anxiety-fuelled fury. If Tony hadn’t been busy trying not to get slaughtered, he might have found it almost endearing.

“Honestly,” Bruce says, backing Thor up once Loki has stopped looking genuinely homicidal and has calmed down to looking merely enraged, “He’s gonna be okay. He’s just…had a little too much. Hey, he may even feel better when he wakes up, he’s always looking kind of tired. Might do him good.”

There’s a tense moment of silence. Then Loki just glares at them all like they embody every single betrayal (real or imagined) from his life, then he stalks into Heckyl’s room and slams the door.

In the end, it takes Heckyl three whole days to come out of it. And in accordance with Bruce’s prediction, he is okay.

In fact, he’s better than okay.

He wakes up as undramatically as if he’s just been having a short power-nap, stretching luxuriously like a cat and completely unaware of all the upset he’s unintentionally caused. He has no idea why Loki is sat on the bed, staring at him with such incandescent fury it’s amazing the sheets haven’t caught fire. He is also gratified but deeply confused when Loki flattens him to the mattress and snarls directly into his face:

“Never. Do that. Again. I hate it. I hate everything about it. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You just enjoy the feeling of hating things. It‘s one of the beautiful characteristics we share.”

“Stop being right. I hate that too.” Loki huffs out an irritated breath, and closes his eyes, tilting down to rest his forehead against Heckyl’s briefly. “But I meant it. Don’t do this again.”

“Well,” says Heckyl, coyly, “if this is the response I get I’m afraid I may just have to do it a lot. Now - ” He reaches up, slips his hand into Loki’s hair, rubs along the back of his neck a couple of times, consolingly. “ - what was it I did again?”

And Loki, curling his head into Heckyl’s hand, explains. He may perhaps be a little harsher to Tony than is fair, but perhaps this is understandable. Heckyl actually finds it completely hilarious, Loki less so, and this all culminates in Heckyl giving Loki an oh-you sort of a playful push -

- which flings Loki clear across the room.

They stare at each other in shocked surprise for a long moment, Heckyl sat up on the bed, his hand still outstretched, and Loki sprawled against the bookcase. Eventually Heckyl licks his lips, thoughtful, and says:

“I think - I’d like to go on vacation. With you. Somewhere not on this planet.” When Loki blinks, very slightly puzzled by the apparent non-sequitor, Heckyl’s tone darkens, forceful. “I mean now. Right now. Get me out of here.”

So they go.

It turns out that Heckyl’s not so much concerned with a romantic getaway for two as he is with testing out a theory. They successfully interrogate Thor for information about which areas in the Nine Realms have recently been kicking up problems that could do with sorting, and head out.

They end up dropping into the middle of a hostile takeover of a tiny, blameless  fishing village in an unfashionable part of Alfheim, and Loki, who is already minorly annoyed by having to set foot back on the World Tree, is supremely unimpressed by the invading forces. For one thing, they look like some of those little goblin buggers from Nidavellir. You know, the ones even the dwarves wouldn’t bargain with. And for another, they’re really pulling out all the stops on being the bad guys today: gutting the women and children first, setting light to trapped baby ponies, that kind of thing. They really only have themselves to blame for what follows.

He is just gearing up for a really good knife-based killing spree when the goblin directly in front of him suddenly starts staring at something behind him and yelling in fright.

This is unusual. Loki’s not used to people looking past him when the screaming horrors strike. So he turns, his eyes narrowing against an unexpected brilliance of light as he does so.

Oh.

It’s Heckyl.

Heckyl, so dosed up with power that not only is it spilling from his palms as usual, it’s leaching out from the pores of his skin, threading through every hair. The blue streaks running back from his brow are standing out so brightly they look like they’re on fire. He’s literally glowing, lit up from within like a neon flare, and he’s throwing goblins from his path with gestures of his hands. Telekinesis. Well, that’s new. And judging by the tortured howls of the invaders, the power burns as it grasps.

It would probably upset Steve’s finer sensibilities a great deal, because Heckyl’s dealing out death by the bucket load with a huge smile on his face.

Well. Look at somebody just loving his new role as protector of the innocent.

So Loki does the only sensible thing under the circumstances: he defers his desire to knife people in favour of watching Heckyl work. He actually sits down on a convenient rock so he can properly enjoy it. And it’s really poetry in motion: if poetry were crackling with blue power and occasionally grinning like a mad bastard.  The alien is turning this way and that, fluid as a dancer, grabbing and throwing those who try to run at him, sending white-hot bolts of energy into the chests of those attempting to shoot him full of arrows. When by some miracle any of them get close enough to actually grapple him, he hits back with a pure physical force that seems barely credible given his slender form.

He looks beautiful and out of control and utterly lethal and Loki doesn’t think he’s ever liked watching anything more.

The invaders eventually give it up (or they’re all dead, Loki can’t honestly be certain at this point) and Heckyl comes to a halt slowly, breathing hard, open-mouthed, and shuddering with the aftershocks of adrenaline. He staggers slightly, drops to his knees, eyes wide and expression exhilarated. The last flickering remnants of his power coruscate along the edges of his coat, his goggles, his fingers.

He’s actually smoking slightly. Steam and heat rise up from the fabric of his clothes. When Loki goes to him, he reeks of burnt ozone and magic.  

And he’s giggling.

Hoarsely, and a little hysterically. The newly liberated townspeople are staring at him with a mixture of undying gratitude and complete horror.

“That…” Heckyl gasps, as Loki sensibly takes charge, gets him on his feet and starts him stumbling back towards the pickup point, “felt…amazing…ohhh…I want to do that again…”

“We are never telling anyone about this,” says Loki, firmly, and as Heckyl starts to protest, he concludes, “or Rogers will ban anything with cinnamon in it from the Tower for eternity.”

Chapter Text

“So he’s fine.”

“He’s totally fine. Just got right back up this morning like nothing happened, took Rock of Ages off for some kind of…I don’t know, magical mystery tour up the Bifrost or something.”

“That had better not be a euphemism.”

“Thank you for that beautiful mental image.”

Bruce stirs a spoonful of honey into his mug. “Seriously though, I’m glad he’s okay. I mean, he’s a bit of a liability - they both are - but I wouldn’t wish him harm. And he’s obviously crazy about Loki -”

“Crazy attracts crazy, I guess.”

“This explains a lot about your love life.”

Tony shrugs it off and continues rooting in the cupboard, looking for fruit roll-ups.

“Don’t forget, we have that briefing with Fury at two.”

“Awww,” Tony says, without genuine ire, peeling out a Flavor Wave and popping it in his mouth.

“And no, you can’t miss it this time. He’s got Steve on his side. We all have to be there or Steve will be disappointed, and you know that’s worse than Fury being mad.”

“Recruiting Cap to harness the power of patriotic guilt tripping,“ says Tony, through chewing. “That’s just fighting dirty.”

Bruce just smiles slightly, and drinks the rest of his tea. While Tony retreats to the lab, he remains at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, peacefully catching up on his reading, and thus is the only one to see Loki and Heckyl get back from their off world trip around one o’clock. 

He glances up, hearing Heckyl’s voice. Heckyl is chattering like an excitable teenager, words falling over themselves, the pitch of his voice rising and falling rapidly. For once, Loki isn’t trying to get a word in - when they pass the open door to the kitchen, it’s clear that his only aim is getting Heckyl through the shared areas of the tower as quickly as possible. He’s practically dragging him. The sharp scent of burning drifts into the kitchen in their wake, and Bruce frowns slightly, tuning into Heckyl’s hyperactive monologue in the hope of an explanation.

“ - it wouldn’t take long. They liked us. They liked you. They tried to give you that eel.”

“It wasn’t an eel, it was a water snake,” comes Loki’s response.

“Let’s go back. Please, Loki. It’ll be fun - “

The sound of a brief struggle, with the unmistakable tread of Loki’s boots barely breaking stride.

“Put me - put me down - I will hurt you - “

“Promises, promises.”

A short snap of electric energy, then a door slams. Bruce shakes his head briefly in bewilderment. Evidently three days in a coma without the option of talking someone’s ear off has made Heckyl kind of wired. He puts it from his mind and goes back to his book.

Fury turns up at exactly two minutes to two with an expression that clearly says he’s really hoping somebody (probably Tony) will be a no-show so that he can kick that somebody’s (yeah, definitely Tony this time) shiny metal ass. But the threat of Steve has worked its magic on pretty much everyone: even Tony only turns up five minutes late. 

“Okay, where are the two jokers?” Fury demands. After all, if he can’t pick on Tony, he’s definitely going to find someone to blame. “I said everyone. Dubiously reformed criminals do not get a free pass.”

“I’ll go,” says Bruce, already half out of his seat. He’s pretty sure Tony gives him a disappointed look, but really, it‘s for his own good. Any excuse, however small, and Tony would be out of this room and not coming back.

He ignores Fury’s harrumph of annoyance and heads directly for Heckyl’s room. He’s even got his hand raised to knock and everything, when - 

“Stop complaining,” says Loki’s voice, in that lowered purring tone that he seems to save up for use only on Heckyl or during those times when he’s being an Evil Overlord. “I know you’ve wanted this.”

Heckyl’s groan in response sounds rather strained.

“I didn’t think it’d be like this...”

“Oh, really,” Loki continues. “Is it as hard as all that? Stop struggling and making such a fuss.”

This time Heckyl actually hisses in response, with Loki giving a dangerously sultry chuckle, and Bruce abruptly lowers his hand. Oh. OH.

Oh hell no. He’s not walking in on what that sounds like.

“I - I can’t,” Heckyl’s voice says, and he sounds suspiciously choked.

“Oh, yes you can. Don’t you trust me?”

Bruce wouldn’t trust Loki as far as he could throw him at this point. That voice is now like molten chocolate, but Heckyl‘s evidently having none of it.

“I told you it doesn‘t fit -”

More choking sounds.

Bruce goes furiously red, just as Fury bellows from the lounge: “Banner, quit humouring those assholes and get them in here!”

Wincing in embarrassment, Bruce knocks on the door.

Loki opens it immediately. He’s in full Asgardian combat armour, all leather and shiny horned crest. Behind him, sat on the edge of the bed and fretting irritably, is Heckyl.

He’s also in combat armour. It’s tight and black with light plates across the chest and abdomen, and mimics Heckyl’s own trademark outfit, with a high collar, sweeping tunic, and strapping along the hands and arms that recall his usual fingerless gloves. Turquoise-blue gems rest in the suit’s palms and stud the shaped curves of the armoured plates, obviously there to act as a magnifying focus for Heckyl’s power. His regular goggles have been replaced with much more high-tech looking things, the lenses mirrored and reinforced.

And the collar is obviously much too tight, because Heckyl is scowling and messing with it like a kid forced into his best church suit.

Oh, thank god. Bruce locks eyes with Loki, who of course knows exactly what he was thinking and is smirking like the villain he is, damn him.

“I thought this was an ideal opportunity to show Director Fury just how dedicated Heckyl and I are to our new lives,” Loki says. “What do you think, Doctor Banner?”

His gesture takes in Heckyl, who has a sulky look on his face much like a cat who’s been forced into a veterinary cone collar. Bruce takes pity on him, the poor bastard. After all, at least the Hulk never has to try and squeeze into a superhero costume.

“You look great,” he says, weakly, and Heckyl sighs melodramatically, flopping backwards onto the bed with a pout.

Chapter Text

So it’s just another regular day in the life of being a world-saving hero: and this time it’s the bit where you get recognition for your supreme bravery in the face of certain annihilation.

Or something. Whatever. Anyway, they’re off to Asgard for some kind of award ceremony, which means Tony has to choose between wearing the Iron Man suit and risking it working weird in the rarified magical air of the Golden Realm, or putting on the Armani and looking a bit like an underdressed skeez in a crowd of cloaks and Loreal locks and suchlike.

He ends up going in a Metallica t-shirt and Levis because he’s late. Huh. Too bad. But really, everyone’s always underdressed compared to Asgardians, so who cares, and Tony is Tony and thus doesn’t feel remotely embarrassed when waltzing up the Bifrost with Thor on one side in all his Huge Blond Glory and with Loki and Heckyl behind them, both of them dressed in their usual Leather Goth/ Steampunk Fancy-Ass Gear.

And he has to say he loves Asgard. It’s just so….cool. Everybody is smiling and beautiful and everything is shiny and elegant and so screamingly fit-for-purpose it gives Tony the engineering wibbles. He’s just going around beaming at stuff like an idiot. Walls. Guards. Chairs. Those Viking longboat hovership things.

Yeah, it’s all going absolutely splendidly, overall, until that one tiny awkward moment where it goes to hell.

So they walk up to the big Disney palace that’s sat there like an extra special wedding cake right in the middle of the candy buffet, and in they go. And there’s the beautiful lady Frigga (Thor’s mom) and the wise King Odin (Thor’s dad) sat there on massive gilded pimp chairs behind a vastly overloaded table full of various feasting foods and drinking horns, and it’s all so ren-faire awesome Tony wants to clap his hands like a little kid.

And Frigga’s just so darn pleased to see her baby boys. Even Loki. Actually, especially Loki. She gives Thor a big hug and gasps in mock annoyance when he lifts her clean off her feet in a crushing squeeze, but she goes to Loki like she thought she’d never get to touch him again. There are bright tears in the corners of her eyes as she puts her arms around him. I’m not crying, you’re crying, thinks Tony, and decides that Loki looks a little bit teary too as he steps back.

He introduces Heckyl, who bows low like a proper English gentleman and displays ridiculous decorum for someone Tony knows for a fact was once found demolishing a gallon carton of cookie dough ice cream with his bare hands at 3am in the games room. Frigga surprises him by hugging him too. Evidently Loki has been in contact with Mommy and let her know she’s gained a new adopted son. But he recovers himself perfectly and releases all that stupid charm onto Frigga, whom Tony suspects is completely immune to it but finds it adorable to watch it play out.

No, it all goes wrong when Daddy Odin rises from his seat, gets one look at Goggles standing there flirting with his wife, and raises a demanding, kingly arm in the manner of one issuing a terrible proclamation.

“Hold!”

The entire room goes dead. Tony’s heard of this kind of thing happening but he thought it only really happened in books. Literally the place is silent. He can hear birds chirping half a mile away. It’s ridiculous.

Odin rises from his pimp seat with the air of a man who is about to deliver a righteous smack down, shoving the table aside, and he’s heading directly for Heckyl. Tony risks a glance at Loki, and Loki has the most unlikely mix of horror and confusion on his face that Tony’s ever seen. His usual emo-kid pallor has gone even whiter, and as Tony watches, he bites his lip. Something is definitely Not Good.

Heckyl clocks the oncoming Odin and frowns, at pretty much the same time that Frigga turns around to shoot a wifely what-the-hell-are-you-doing-don’t-you-embarrass-me look at her husband.

“Guards,” Odin snarls, “restrain this man. Take him to the cells and don’t take your eyes off him!”

Tony has no idea where to look. Because the points of twenty shiny golden spears have just dropped to level at Heckyl, who is now looking -

- startled and a little bit guilty. Like he’s just remembered that he lied to his mom about shoplifting when he was ten and he’s only just been found out.

Oh. Oh no. And Loki’s noticed too, and now he looks as if he’s about to be sick. He meets Heckyl’s eyes, almost pleading, and Heckyl, damn him, just says:

“Oh. That Odin.”

Then he (rather sensibly, in Tony’s opinion) puts his hands up, links his fingers behind his head, and sinks to his knees in submission.

Chapter Text

It really is a mercy that Heckyl seems to have decided that surrender is the best policy today: from Tony’s experience of the man in other, similar situations in the past, he’s not always gone quietly. In fact, Tony has previously dubbed him “Scrappy-Doo” because of his rather irrepressible “lemme at ‘em” attitude when it comes to fights. Any fights. Never mind if the enemy outweighs him by, oh, you know, about a ton. Not even kidding. He’s seen Loki literally scruff him to prevent him getting tromped by things twenty times his size. The guy’s a scrapper and he will fight anything, anytime, particularly if it seems to be threatening Loki.

So in some ways Tony’s kinda proud of him today. Evidently the training they put both him and Loki through (“This is a police officer. This is a gun. If you want us to come and bail you out, when you see one pointing the other at you, you put your hands behind your head and get on the ground - Loki, don‘t be a smartass”) has taken root.

However, Tony’s not sure they have the bail money to handle this one. The Family Odin are having what amounts to a knock-down-drag-out row while the goon squad surround Heckyl and get hold of him. Heckyl has stopped looking guilty and is now looking quite irked.  But he still doesn’t fight back. Wow, he must really care about what Loki’s family think about him.

Loki and Frigga are furious: Thor is bewildered: and Odin is annoyingly smug, like he’s finally caught the guy who’s been stealing his Friday bologna sandwich out of the work fridge after sixteen years in the call center.

“ - release him immediately.” Loki isn’t kidding. Loki is up in Daddy’s face in full-on crazy mode.

“He is a planet killer,” is Odin’s response. “It has been centuries and yet he lives. I didn’t think I’d ever have the chance to bring him to justice.”

“Woah, wait up - planet killer?”

Tony can’t help but stick his oar in at that. “Lokes. Seriously. You’re dating the Death Star and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?”

Okay, they’d known it was bad. Loki hadn’t denied it. Heckyl had been a wrong ‘un, they’d known that. But Loki had explained about the monster he’d pulled out of the man, Heckyl had looked suitably chastened, Cap had remembered everything he’s been prepared to do for Bucky (the ultimate in wrong ‘uns from his past) and they’d accepted their reformed Bonnie and Clyde into the family with the understanding that they’d all done bad things. All of them.

But planets. Killing planets. How do you even do that when you’re just under six foot tall and look like you should be guesting on Victorian 90210?

Loki gives Tony a glare worthy of said Death Star and turns back to his parents. Frigga is now looking uncertain. Tony can’t blame her. When your baby boy brings home the love of his life and you then find out that there may be a tiny bit of genocide in his past, you can’t blame a mother for being concerned.

On the other hand, considering Loki is Loki, the two of them are probably perfect for each other. How did that conversation go? The pillow talk must be fascinating.

(“You should know, darling, I’ve allied with an alien despot and tried to destroy the Earth.”

“Sweetheart don’t worry. I destroyed twenty planets last year.”)

“He isn’t that man anymore,” Loki hisses, and Frigga gives him a stern, assessing look, like she’s checking for bullshit. Tony guesses that’s something Loki’s mom must have gotten good at. “There was something leashed to him. It took control of his body and his memory. It wasn’t his fault.”

“He will always be that man,” says Odin, with the air of someone who really isn’t open to having his mind changed. Tony’s getting the feeling that this is pretty usual for Odin. What a lovely childhood the kids must have had.

“He’s right,” says Heckyl, speaking up for the first time. “I’ve changed.” Odin actually says “Tchah!” which is quite an achievement because pronouncing that kind of disgust that accurately is hard.

“Is nobody going to ask why you two know each other?” asks Tony, and when everyone stops their argument to stare at him venomously, he adds, “Okay, so I asked.”

“I didn’t know that I knew him,” says Heckyl, rolling his eyes a little and looking put out. “He had two eyes then and less of a beard. There are lots of people called Odin in the universe. And my memory is a little - ” he waves a hand, indicating so-so.

“That was hundreds of years ago,” Frigga objects, looking baffled. Understandable.

“Whatever happened to that little girl?” Heckyl asks, and there’s a look in his eye that makes it quite clear that he’s now pissed enough to start baiting his future father-in-law. “Such a cute kid. And her puppy dog. Actually, she looked a lot like -”

“Enough,” says Odin, dangerously, his voice lowered so soft that Tony barely hears it. Jesus. Just how old is Loki’s fancy man, anyway? Odin’s a fossil. Heckyl grins like a shark, and Frigga, who obviously knows more than she’s letting on, gets in between them. Tony gets the feeling she’s done this a lot, too.

“My lord,” she says, in the deliberately respectful way that Tony just knows really means she wants to call Odin out for being an asshole, “our own son perpetrated great wrongs while in the thrall of a monster, and we have forgiven him.”

Odin starts to make a grumbling noise.

“We have forgiven him,” Frigga says, louder, and tries her best lovely-but-almost-threatening smile on Heckyl, who looks impressed but not in the least bit intimidated. “Can we not do the same for his consort?”

“Consort?” purrs Heckyl, looking delighted. He glances at Loki, beaming. “I love her.”

Chapter Text

“Ms. Peabody.”

“Yes, Doctor?”

Hugo Strange leans up closer to the mirrored glass that forms the bulk of the Asylum corridor’s wall, and raises a finger, interrogative.

“Who is that.”

Ethel Peabody considers the figure indicated, and makes a short, dismissive sound.

“New inmate. The cops found him on the street. Says he’s a god.”

“Ah,” purrs Strange, in a satisfied sort of way. “A god, Ms Peabody. Now that is something. God himself, the Christian god, why, He is ten to the dime in here. But a god, suggesting one of many…that is interesting.”

“If you say so,” says Peabody. She doesn’t look convinced. Her eye skims over the lanky figure being escorted into the admission unit by the guards as Strange moves on. A tall man with long, greasy-looking black hair and the most ridiculous clothes. As if he sees her looking (although he can’t - the glass will not allow it) he stares directly up at her and grins, exposing a mouthful of dangerous-looking white teeth. She looks away, her skin crawling.

Ms Peabody is very good at her job and has a reputation for being unflappable. Something about this particular lunatic rattles her.

As it turns out, there are two new arrivals into Arkham today. The first is the god, who manages to make his ill-fitting striped overalls look like couture. He sits through induction with a bored look on his face and has nothing whatsoever of interest in his confiscated Halloween clothing. Not even a credit card or a set of keys.

The second is the self-confessed man from another planet, and he has a whole lot of contraband on him that gets catalogued and shoved into storage. Candy. Coins, some of which definitely aren’t American. A bunch of what look like tie-pins which catch the light in interesting ways and set off the security scanner from a few feet away. More candy. Pocket handkerchiefs. A small jar of reddish-brown powder, which the guards think is smack but which turns out on closer inspection to be cinnamon.

He has luminously neon blue highlights in his short brown hair, a bright, nasty look in his eye and he’s possibly even loonier than the god. (He doesn’t look as good in the stripes, though.) Oh, and he talks all the way through his induction. Relentlessly, and with a great deal of extravagant hand gestures. Like he’s a cartoon villain who’s desperate to divulge all his plans before the hammer drops.

It seems the two of them know each other. They quickly become a pet hobby of Strange’s: he finds them diverting, as they’re nothing like the usual common fare of morons and sociopaths that come through his doors. He watches them together. Oh yes. They know each other very well. They mirror each others’ gestures, care about the other’s wellbeing, watch each others’ backs in a careless but practiced way. It amuses Strange to keep them together once he notices this relationship, so he even sees them sleep, curled up around each other like cats on the floor of their cell. They don’t go near the bed, not that he can blame them: the things are never cleaned.

He makes it a policy never to assess newcomers in their first week. It’s only fair to let them settle in, let any illegal intoxicants make their way out of their bodies, so he can get the most unbiased view of their mental (and physical) state possible. So when on the third day the two of them run into Oswald Cobblepot, Strange still doesn’t fully understand what he’s dealing with.

They do, though.

“I’m not leaving him here,” says Loki.

Sat on the floor with his legs folded neatly into the lotus position, Heckyl doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t ask who Loki means. He knows. Oswald. The odd little man with the hair of a startled vulture and the look of a wounded, cornered rat. Cornered rats are very dangerous.

“You want to take him with us?”

“No.”

Loki paces up and down, once. Cells. He doesn’t care for them. The only thing that makes this one tolerable is the knowledge that he could walk out of here at any time - the security is designed for humans. He glances at Heckyl, who is now yawning and stretching, obviously ready to take a nap, and smiles a little. Well. One of the two things that make this cell tolerable.

“He belongs here,” he adds, because it’s true. Oh, not this prison masquerading as a hospital for the insane - but the city. Oswald wears this city - this odd, dark damp travesty of a Midgardian city - like it’s his armour. Even in here. Even with his liberty stripped away. “I’ve never seen anyone who fits their realm more. But I’m not leaving him incarcerated here.”

Heckyl, who is tired and bored and about a million other things, curls up on the floor and waits for Loki to join him. The conversation resumes when he does and the regular evening warning heralds their cell being thrown into darkness.

“You know we can leave whenever you want.” His fingertips spark very briefly. There’s not an electronic lock in the multiverse that Heckyl hasn’t been able to fry.  

“I know.” Loki shifts slightly. “The portal won’t be open for another seventy-six hours.”

“And you’d rather be in this…”

There’s a sharp sound as Heckyl flicks his foot out and kicks a rat. His nocturnal eyesight is somewhat better than human. “…delightful establishment than somewhere else?”

“You have to admit it’s diverting. I always have been fascinated by the way Midgardian minds work after they shatter.”

“It’s filthy.” Heckyl sighs. “And I’m hungry.”

Loki smiles against the back of his neck in the darkness.

“You’re always hungry.”

Heckyl just sniffs, unimpressed, in response. They lie in silence for a while, the continual, unsettling background noises of Arkham at night surrounding them. Neither man is particularly unsettled. They’ve both been in similar places before, with similar sounds.

“His mind isn’t shattered. They’re changing it,” says Loki, after a while. “Moulding him. Bending him. Like he is wax and they are the flame. Except that they are ridiculously unskilled, so he is melting. And he cannot fight against it.”

“You don’t like it.”

It’s not a question. Loki knows brutal brainwashing when he sees it and his own experiences with it have left him sensitive.

“I do not,” says Loki, and his voice is full of bitterness. Heckyl laces their fingers together, silent for a while. He knows from previous experience that Loki neither needs nor wants any pity. Outside in the corridor, the regular tread of the security patrol passes by: once, twice. Like clockwork. Far in the distance, someone bursts into loud and anguished sobbing, only quieted with an ominous slam of something soft against something unyielding.

Arkham is such a generous place. It gives so much. Pain. Scars. Even sanity, apparently. But one must be careful - in Arkham often you leave behind more than you gain.

“Well then, that’s settled,” Heckyl murmurs, drowsily, just as Loki too is on the edge of sleep. “When we go, we free the funny little bird.”

Chapter Text

Oswald has gone beyond furious.

He did that very quickly. Anyone who knows Oswald, or at least has had to be in the same room as him for more than a few minutes, knows that to call his temper a hair trigger is an insult to hair triggers everywhere.

Oswald combusts within moments of being laughed at for the first time in Arkham. Becomes a small, vibrating bastion of incandescent rage.

Nobody cares. 

Very shortly after that, he begins to be scared, which makes him even angrier. He despises being scared, and he despises being seen as being scared even more. So he lashes out with the best weapon he has: his words. He is a violent creature, no question, but Oswald’s real power lies in his ability to talk and think and bargain with what he has, even if what he has is a paltry thing and even if he‘s staring death in the face. It’s a rare talent.

And then he meets Hugo Strange. And they put him in The Chair.

And then Oswald begins to lose all sense of what makes him the man he is.

It’s when he’s partway through becoming the man he should be - the good one, the nice one, the one who understands guilt - that he meets the newcomers in the day room. They’re intimidatingly tall, both of them, they tower over him. Oswald tries to make himself unobtrusive. The tallest one - Loki, his name is, like the mythological trickster - watches him with an unsettled, almost angry look. The other (Harry? Henry? Something like that) hangs further back, wary and suspicious. He reads as hungry to Oswald, in his new, receptive state. Heckyl, that’s the name, and an odd one too - wants things, lots of things. But most of all he wants to get out of here. Badly.

Newly Nice Oswald wants to help him, tell him that there’s only one way out of here. He learnt that in The Chair. To change. To become a new person. But he senses that the man with the blue hair doesn’t want to become a new person. Is vehemently against being someone else, in fact. Almost pathologically so, like he‘s done that already and certainly isn‘t planning on doing it again because it goes badly. To suggest such wisdom, even though it is The Truth, would probably only antagonise him. And New Oswald is quite keen on not antagonising people. It’s one of The Rules.

Loki engages him in conversation, and Oswald honestly doesn’t remember a lot of it. There’s bigger things (painful things, things placed there with surgical horror, with psychological trauma) that are taking up most of his brain. But he’s very keen to please. Anyone, really. This tall man with the eyes of a cat is a good place to start. His partner (they’re a couple, Oswald’s sure of it, the defensive vibes the shorter man is giving off whenever Loki leans in or smiles are a dead giveaway) is not as receptive. Heckyl has wolf eyes. Blue most of the time. Occasionally something darker, nastier.

Loki’s eyes are green, and kindly - or at least a semblance of kindness that New Oswald is pathetically eager to accept. Perhaps he tells Loki more than he intends. He isn’t sure.

It’s only two nights later when all the alarms go off and Oswald huddles, horrified at the disorder, into the corner of his cell, that he remembers the little laughing spark at the back of those green eyes and realises he may have made a grievous error.

Grievous errors are, it seems, quite the fashion in Arkham. It’s when Strange gives Oswald the ice cream test that he realises he may have made one of them. It’s a simple enough test, all in all. Oswald gets a nice scoop of vanilla ice cream on his tray at lunch. He’s sat between the two tall oddballs - the god on one side, the alien on the other - and Helzinger on the opposite side. Helzinger is a predictable but hopeless case. Mind of a damaged child, body of a tank. He’s perfect for this situation, because he can be relied upon to do exactly what he does, which is attempt to mug Cobblepot for his dessert.

And Oswald? Oswald behaves beautifully. In the face of Helzinger’s aggressive tantrum, he retreats rather than attacks. He curls into himself, withdrawing from conflict. It’s perfect. Such a good student.

Unfortunately, Heckyl does not behave perfectly. Strange has noted in his record that the man has an obvious and pathological sugar addiction, and food in Arkham (if we are being generous) tends toward the plain and nutritionally balanced. Putting ice cream within his reach is evidently the final straw, because despite Loki’s warning glare, as soon as Helzinger triumphantly takes his prize from Oswald’s tray Heckyl is on him. No matter that Helzinger is both taller and broader, Heckyl jumps him like a leopard dropping onto the back of a gazelle, wraps his arms around the big man’s thick neck, and starts strangling the life out of him. Helzinger thrashes back and forth, but cannot dislodge his unwelcome burden. The look of intense confusion on the huge inmate’s face only grows as he becomes aware that his assailant is, unaccountably, too strong to be dissuaded. His muscles have never failed him before in these situations, and his brain doesn’t function well enough to cope. He starts to look scared.

Strange watches with a frown gathering on his face, but he does not intervene: indeed, he raises a hand to forestall the guards rushing in. This is interesting. This is an element to the newcomer’s personality he hadn’t expected from his observations. Heckyl has been sassy, voluble, dramatic, impertinent and unrepentant in his attitude, but he’s not physically assaulted anyone until now. It seems Loki wasn’t expecting this either, because he’s now shouting the man’s name repeatedly, with increasing volume, annoyance - and finally agitation. Helzinger is going purple as his oxygen supply decreases, and Heckyl’s teeth are clenched together in an animal snarl. His eyes….

Strange leans forward, attention quite focused. Have those eyes changed colour? Or is it an illusion, a warped reflection in the glass? Is that static electricity jumping back and forth?

Finally, as Helzinger is about to expire and Strange is reluctantly about to signal the guards (because have you seen the paperwork that comes along with patient deaths? Really, it interferes with more scientific breakthroughs than anything else) Loki darts forward and does the one unexpected thing that brings the whole situation to an end. He knocks the contested ice cream to the ground and stamps on it like a maniac, before grabbing Heckyl by the scruff of the neck with a firm hand.

Leaning forward on the glass with almost gloating interest, Strange expects a fight. But much to the professor’s surprise, Heckyl goes limp like a kitten grabbed by its mother, and allows himself to be removed. Helzinger, freed at last, collapses to his knees, blubbering like a baby as his breath returns.

And Oswald just stares and cowers and cringes in horror as Loki, glowering balefully at everyone, marches his partner into a corner and starts talking at him in a voice too quiet to be picked up by the audio. Not to him. At him. 

“Doctor?”

Ms Peabody’s voice is as flat and ambiguous as always.

“Shall I have him put in solitary for observation?”

“No,” says Strange, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think so. Put them both on my roster for tomorrow, Ms Peabody. I feel like a small challenge, and I am certain they will present one.” He beams benevolently down on the lunchroom area and steeples his fingers. “And proceed to Stage Six with dear Oswald. I believe he is ready.”

Chapter Text

They are not, in fact, a small challenge.

They are a disaster.

Oh, to be sure, by themselves, they would each pose a fascinating conundrum to be unravelled. There are whole medical journals that could be dedicated to the psychology of the one called Loki, who has the glittering, intent eyes of a true psychopath and the cutting, polished vocabulary of a jaded academic. And then there’s Heckyl, a priceless, flamboyant con artist with all the dramatic flair of a cheap lounge singer paired with a nastily laissez-faire attitude towards other people‘s lives. Strange can understand what they see in each other. There are a lot of similarities.

For the first time in his long career, he feels that uncommon and uncomfortable sensation: uncertainty.

What to do with them? Are they suitable for taking to the next step, a little further down the line? To the basement?

Loki looks him right in the eyes and says, with bedrock surety: “You don’t want to do this.”

“Do…what?” Strange asks, never letting his usual slight smile falter.

“Go inside my head,” Loki replies, and smiles back, with teeth. His eyes are emotionally dead. He has the expression of a Jurassic carnivore, even down to the raptorish tilt of the head. “Or anywhere else. I can assure you, you won’t like what you find there.”

“And why is that?”

Strange maintains his usual attitude, but he is already dissuaded. He already doesn’t want to go there. He can’t quite put his finger upon why - later he will realise that it is the same mix of curiosity and aversion he feels when dissecting the deep-sea creatures in the basement lab. The dark one, the ones that were never meant to see daylight. The feeling that there is something alien under his hands and that its potential has never been fully explored or understood. He wants to exploit the opportunity - oh yes - but there are lurking, unknown dangers.

Loki just leans back in his chair on the other side of the desk. Completely relaxed. Comfortable with the situation and where he is. He’s very different to the broken people who usually take that chair. His kind of broken is the broken that’s been reinforced with carbon cement and is now sixty times as strong along the fracture lines. His kind of broken is so powerful it hurts.

“You’re not ready,” he says, calmly. “You are a small man. And you have nothing that I want.”

“I have you,” Strange says. “And I have your…I have Heckyl. I’m sure you want him to be well, Loki. I saw you speak strongly to him when he attacked Helzinger. You want him to be free from here, don’t you? Come now. There‘s no shame in caring for the mental health of those we love.”

Loki stares at him, unblinking, until a tiny, wicked curl of smile touches his lips.

“Believe me,” he murmurs, apparently much amused, “if it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t still be here at all.”

Then he won’t say anything else. He and Strange sit in complete silence for twenty minutes, staring at each other, until the guards come to take Loki away.

And then there‘s the other one.

“Of course,” Heckyl says, putting his feet up on the desk (Strange shudders inside) “that was before Sledge decided to put me in solitary. I mean really. Me.”

“You felt slighted,” says Strange. “Naturally.” The whole narrative has been a complete children’s bedtime story. Giant robots. Space invasions. Powerful gems that bond with dinosaurs. It’s like Heckyl’s never properly grown up. Fascinating really, considering that his psychosis is insisting that in order to fit his fabricated life story he must be about 65 million years old. There are so many layers in this one he’s like an onion. 

“No,” Heckyl retorts, rolling his eyes. “I felt bored. Have you any idea how boring it is in solitary? For millions of years?” He leans forward on the desk. He’s cuffed: particularly after that little show with Helzinger, Strange isn’t taking any chances. “Is that tea? I want some.”

Strange pours a cup for him. It’s herbal, bland, and has no sugar in it. No stimulants for the inmates. Not only are they expensive, they’re against policy. Heckyl drinks some and pulls a face like a toddler given straight lemon juice. “Ugh,” he says, ungratefully. “Don’t you have anything in this place that isn’t dull as ditchwater?”

“Well,” says Strange, feeling simultaneously a little daring and a little triumphant - finally, a way to sneak into this wretched egomaniac’s damaged little mind - “there’s you. And your rather interesting…friend.”

Heckyl preens and smiles, but there’s something lurking back there that Strange doesn’t like at all, something dark, and it comes out in the next few words.

“We’re not just friends,” he smirks. Playful, on the surface. Careless, you might think, except for that capering horror just visible behind the silly smile that says quite clearly: back off. I may look like a vaudeville fool, but I’m quite rabid and I’ll not hesitate to bite. Make you dead or make you as mad as I am. 

“Oh,” Strange smiles, keeping his tone casual and not letting his insight seep into his manner. “I never thought so for a moment.” He pauses, watching Heckyl put down the tea and scowl at the cup, and then decides to risk it. Just a little push. Just because he has to know. “Of course, it would be very easy to take him away from you.” He sees the playfulness immediately drain from the man’s every attitude, every flicker of expression, and he dials up the professional concern to a level designed to antagonise. “It’s very important to me that you’re calm, Heckyl. I don’t think being with Loki makes you at all calm. Perhaps it’s for the best if you -”

There’s a sharp crack which Strange, after a confused glance around, finally traces to the handcuffs on Heckyl’s wrists. They’re lying open. There’s a smell in the air, suddenly, like the smell you get before a storm. Electricity. The lights flicker above them. And Heckyl’s eyes are that odd colour again, like they’re lit from within by something inhuman and awful. He’s twitching.

“You don’t get to tell me what’s best,” he snarls.

“Now, Heckyl,” says Strange, maintaining the professional calm despite an unwelcome stab of alarm. Open cuffs. Open cuffs. And he’d throttled huge Helzinger like a chicken in a barn.  “This is absolutely what we need to be discussing. I know you’ve met Oswald. He is very close to being cured. You could be sane too. Don’t you want that?”

“If being sane means I don’t have Loki,” Heckyl growls, “I’d rather be a raving lunatic for the rest of my life.” He rises from the chair, leaning forward. It’s an effort for Strange not to lean back in response. But he holds still. “And I’m going to live a long time.”

“I’m afraid your time is up,” says Strange, as the door opens and the guards come in. There’s a dangerous moment: for an instant he’s almost certain that Heckyl is going to attack them. But it doesn’t happen, and Strange notes the man’s shoulders, which had been up, bristling in rage, have now hunched in a much more anxious attitude. How interesting. 

“Miss Peabody,” he says out loud, because he knows she’s listening - she always is - “take a note. I’m adding Heckyl to the basement transfer list. There’s something about him I think will be useful.”

It’s Heckyl’s somewhat extreme reaction to his interview which decides Loki: they’re leaving tonight. No more playing around. This game isn’t fun anymore. The alien comes back from his experience with Strange and Loki immediately doesn’t like it. Something’s wrong. Something that feels a lot like what had happened in the lunch room yesterday.

And Heckyl is physically distressed, body twitching in the way that in previous, darker times would have heralded a transformation into Snide. Except that’s impossible. By all the gods please let it be impossible. “I can’t,” he’s gasping as they shove him through the door, and Loki grabs his arm, pulls him down onto the floor, sits him close. “I’m sorry. Loki, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happening -”

“It’s this place,” Loki murmurs. “We have both been captives. You the longest. And I suspect they are drugging the food. I’m afraid you’ll have to stop eating until we leave.”

The fact that Heckyl doesn’t immediately rail against the idea of enforced starvation is perhaps the biggest indicator of how badly he’s been affected. Loki swallows his own anger at this. It isn’t useful at present.

“I can feel him,” Heckyl whispers, his head buried against Loki’s shoulder. “He’s gone, I know he’s gone, but it feels - I feel - the way I did for all those years -”

“He’s gone,” Loki reassures. “It’s just memory. They dig through minds here. Pull out the worst parts and make you look.” He strokes a hand over the short-cropped hair at the nape of Heckyl’s neck, comforting. “I should not have kept us here,” he says. “You’re too fragile.”

“Fragile?” Heckyl snorts, sitting more upright and glaring, but relents as he realises that it’s merely Loki’s gambit to bring him back to himself. “Fine. I’m fragile. You can pander to my adorable fragility later. Right now…”

He heaves himself to his feet, tugs down the lapels of his striped coveralls, and flexes his fingers. “Right now I want to fry something. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“On the contrary,” Loki purrs. “I think I’ll join you.”

And this is how Oswald ends up cowering into the corner of his cell while outside the alarms are shrieking and people are screaming. He is terribly afraid, because Bad Things can still happen to Nice People, and he’s a Nice Person now.

Then lightning shoots through the lock on his door, crawls coruscating up the walls in achingly bright blue-white lines, and the cell opens. The two tall figures in the doorway are instantly recognisable, even in silhouette.

“Hello again,” Loki says, smiling pleasantly - as if it’s absolutely normal that his partner is wearing strings of living lightning around his arms like gaudy bracelets. “Time to go.”

Chapter Text

The fact that Oswald doesn’t want to go is barely an impediment.

His protests go unheard in the general bedlam - no pun intended - of the asylum floundering in the grip of one of Heckyl’s best escapes. Heckyl hates locks. He hates cells. They’re ingrained in a deep part of his psyche in an area labelled “insanely dull things” and because a lot of the time Heckyl has the impulse control of a six-year-old child, he handles boredom very poorly. In this case, he handles it by throwing high-voltage lightning at it. Telekinetic lightning, if we’re being specific: under his control it worms its way into circuits and tumblers and mechanisms and either scrambles or fries all the important bits until the doors are all opening and the inmates are all at liberty to do whatever they so wish.

As it turns out, Arkham is absolutely chock-full of people with poor impulse control, and the place is very rapidly turning into a war zone.

“But I’m being released -”

They turn down a corridor where the lights are strobing rapidly, freezing the inmates and guards alike in a flickering series of frames, catching each moment of aggression and violence and horror in a single illumination. Over and over. A series of flashes.

“They’ll give me a certificate, P-professor Stra - I mean H-hugo, he promised me -”

Loki turns fluidly, pulling Oswald with him, so that the flailing limbs of a newly tasered patient don’t knock him into next week. The sound of Heckyl’s laughter rings off the metal doors and the wire mesh divisions: he’s obviously having a lot of fun burning the hell out of the place. It gives Loki some small, warm sense of satisfaction to hear him so happy after the previous trauma of the cell - it gives Oswald the creeping horrors. That laughter is unhinged.

“Look, I swear, if I have offended you or your partner in some way I’m really, really sorry -”

“You’re going to thank me,” Loki says, shoving Oswald in front of him and keeping him moving.

“What?! I -”

“In a few days, perhaps,” Loki continues, effortlessly shoving the flat of his hand into an approaching guard’s face and feeling the satisfying crumbling of the man’s nose. “Not now. But you will thank me. You should not be here. You should not be this thing that they are making you into. It is wrong. Believe me. I know.”

There’s an ugly series of popping sounds as the fluorescent light tubes in the ceiling finally give up under Heckyl’s onslaught and explode, throwing the corridor into very abrupt darkness.

And under the cover of that darkness Strange slides out of a hidden door, syringe in hand. And that needle slips into Heckyl’s neck so easily. So quick. And the heavy sedative moves deceptively fast for something that is designed to make the recipient so slow.

Strange is also, unfortunately, prepared for the possibility that one syringe won’t be enough, and as Heckyl turns on him, eyes wide with shock and burgeoning rage, he slams the second plunger home. Heckyl’s hands lock onto the man‘s throat, tightening, sparking with power, but it’s too late. There’s too much knock-out juice coursing through his veins for even an alien’s body to ignore. Heckyl sways, his muscles going slack, and as he drops Strange lunges to catch him. Too valuable a prize to risk more damage, after all. The emergency lights finally kick in, illuminating the two of them in a dirty red glow as Strange turns, shuffling, struggling to drag Heckyl‘s limp body back through the door. 

“Uh, Mister Loki -”

Oswald is now slung over Loki’s shoulder, Loki having got very tired of trying to chaperone, goad and actively drive him out of the place. The little man’s voice is querulous above the cacophony of noise.

“Mister Loki, your friend -”

Loki‘s jaw locks in alarm. The awareness that they are no longer being followed by the familiar crack-and-hum flaring of Heckyl’s lightning is suddenly all-consuming. As is the realisation that Oswald, hanging over his shoulder, has the (almost literal) benefit of hindsight.

Oswald cowers and gibbers in panic as Loki drags him round, slams him into the wall. “He took him!” Oswald cries, seeing death in the god’s green eyes. “Stra- Hugo, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Hugo took him! Down there!”

Heckyl wakes up strapped to a table and is instantly and comprehensively furious about it.

How dare he. How - drugging him? Really? Oh, of all the humiliating -

It’s not really even a table, he works out, as his vision slowly clears and he begins to get his bearings. It’s more like a dentist’s chair, with the ability to tilt, raise and adjust it to allow access to any convenient position. It smells old and unpleasantly musty, and there are unidentifiable stains on the restraint cuffs and (if he arches his neck to look) on the padding beneath his head. Disgusting. This is worse than the lower decks of Sledge’s ship, and that’s saying something.

Heckyl tests the restraints warily, or at least he tries to. His body doesn’t seem to want to work properly, which is very irritating and - he can admit it to himself - a little worrying. He concentrates all his wandering attention on flexing his fingers and gets only a vestigial twitch in response. Efforts to persuade his power to flare don’t even produce sparks, only a dull, frustrating ache in his palms. It’s as if there’s a layer of cotton wadding between his neurons and his nerves.

“Please don’t be concerned,” says Strange’s voice, in that infuriating monotone smugness, from somewhere to Heckyl’s left. “What you’re feeling is perfectly normal. Don’t tire yourself by trying to fight. We’re going to make things so much better, you and I. Together.”

Heckyl snaps out a witty retort, but only in his mind: his mouth isn’t co-operating. This makes him madder than almost anything else - being able to sass the enemy is one of his main joys in life. Instead, he growls through his teeth, the one noise he seems to be able to manage, and Strange smiles a happy little indulgent smile, like a proud pet owner whose dog has just learnt to beg.

“You are full of surprises, aren’t you. Quite the shocker. Mmm-hmm.”

Strange leans in, checks Heckyl’s pupil responses, his heart rate, seems satisfied. Ohhh, yes, keep coming in close, Heckyl thinks, and inside his shoes he flexes his toes. I’m getting better and I bet I’m doing it faster than your stupid little human brain can imagine. Just keep pushing your luck and it’ll run out very soon. “And you’re strong,” Strange murmurs approvingly. “I had to be sure to get the special restraints. The ones usually used by veterinarians. For when they castrate horses. Very useful in the field of modern mental health.”

He goes about his preparations for the procedure rapidly, but with care: these things must be done right or risk damage (the wrong kind of damage, obviously - one must not be judgemental about the positive effects of the right kind of damage). He carefully taps a couple of sticky electrodes attached to long wires onto Heckyl’s temples, hums thoughtfully to himself, and turns to make sure the wires are plugged securely into the machine on the trolley. Perhaps two sets. Yes. This is obviously a special case. The electrics may not be compatible with the patient’s own…unique electrical field, oh my yes.

Strange fetches another set from the drawer, and decides to place these on Heckyl’s chest, just above his heart. Perhaps the additional stimulation will be useful in effecting control. He undoes the striped coveralls to expose the man’s skin, pulls the fabric aside, rolling his own sleeve back to avoid entanglement -

- which is when Heckyl slams his head forward and buries his teeth in Strange‘s forearm. Strange howls in pain and shock, stumbles back.

“Surprise,” Heckyl slurs, spitting out blood and grinning like the half-crazy creature he is. Then he slumps back, the electrodes hanging loose-wired from him. Still weak. Still dizzy.

Of course, the only real result here is that he gets gagged. With something that tastes like it’s also been used during the castration of horses. But, he thinks hazily as Strange slaps the sticky pads back onto him with uncalled-for force - well, that’s rude -  it was definitely one-hundred-percent worth it to bite the bastard.

Chapter Text

“You have no idea what you’re doing, you know.”

Heckyl’s voice is tired. Still a little slurred, and muffled by the makeshift gag. Strange has hit the sweet spot of sedation: the alien is floppy and un-coordinated, and try as he might he can’t call as much as a glow of power to his hands. But he can talk. Move a little. Think enough to respond to the procedure.

“I assure you I’m extremely qualified,” Strange murmurs, monitoring the readouts on the little machine, and flicking a switch or two to refine the results.

“And I assure you I’m neither interested nor impressed by any little awards you may have won,” Heckyl says, weakly terse. “What I said was that you have no idea what you’re doing. And I stand by that. You’re an idiot. You‘re going to die.”

“Come now,” says Strange, smiling, “I hardly think you’re in a position to threaten me.”

“You think I’m threatening you? Please. You’ll know if I’m threatening you. I’ll be smiling more. And probably eating.” Heckyl lets his head fall to one side. He’s exhausted. The drugs are making him sick and shaky and all kinds of awful, but he’ll be damned if he lets Strange have the satisfaction of seeing how horrible he feels. “I’m just giving you the facts,” he continues. “You’re going to die and you probably won’t even understand why. So, again. You’re an idiot.”

Strange takes hold of his chin, turns his face forwards again and pulls the gag aside. Heckyl doesn’t even try to bite this time. He briefly wonders if maybe if he tries really hard and aims a bit he can throw up on Strange, but as far as aggressive acts go that’s probably all he’s got in him right now. Too dizzy.

Strange gently runs a hand down Heckyl’s jaw, an oddly caring gesture, and says: “You don’t need to worry. It will all be alright. I can take it all away, you know. All the responsibility. All the guilt. All the wrong. You’re going to be a good person, Heckyl. You’re going to be my good person and use your powers only for good. Now doesn’t that sound nice?”

And poor Heckyl has to marshal every brain cell that isn’t swimming in drugs to find a suitable response, because deep down at the heart of him he has to admit it does sound good: taking it all away. Absolution. Just like flipping a switch. Bye-bye years of destroying planets. So long, mass genocide.

No more memories of being Snide.

Snide.

And this is why it wouldn’t be good at all. Because despite Loki’s reassurances, every single day they’ve been here Heckyl has woken and felt that lingering darkness inside, those phantom tendrils of his worst self still wound around his soul. Hearing that grating voice. And here, encouraged by the grimy squalor of Arkham, it’s been growing.

“You really have no idea what you’re going to bring back out,” Heckyl says, as Strange approaches with a set of goggles that are nothing like his own and look more like a virtual reality torture device. “He will come out, and you will try to run, and then he will slaughter everyone in this facility between him and you, making sure that you have as long as possible to see your death coming. Me on the other hand? I’ll just kill you. Wholesale massacre is just too messy.”

Strange merely shushes him, as if he’s a wayward child, and fixes the device. The movements to his head make Heckyl feel like throwing up again, and he manages to mumble: “I warned you -” before the world around him vanishes behind the visor. And the pain begins. And the nightmares come to life.

“We’re all so proud of you, Heckyl!”

Even at a young age, he’s a sharp little thing, and he’s far too observant to be fooled by the bright, brilliant smiles of his family. He sees right through them, to the crawling horrors behind, to the knowledge of what is to come for him.

He may not know the full details of what is coming, but he knows that his parents do, and they are afraid. And it wasn’t anything really, they could have kept quiet, nobody would have had to know! It had just been a few sparks. A bit of a lightshow. Nothing special. He says as much, because he’s never been one for not speaking his mind.

“You’ve got powers, son.” And there it is again, in his father’s voice. Pride, yes, but fear. “That makes you special. We’ll go tomorrow. First thing in the morning. Get you signed up.”

“What if I don’t want to be special?” Heckyl objects. He has his traitorous hands linked behind his back, keeping them out of sight as if by doing so he can stop them from producing that power that has caused all this commotion.

His father leans down, fingers digging into his shoulders, close to painful.

“Tomorrow,” he promises.

And they go. 

Strange watches with satisfaction as Heckyl thrashes in the chair and starts to scream. The reaction never fails. Even drugged to the gills the bodies always react to the psychological stimulus just as if it was physical. Fascinating how powerful the brain is. And how desperate it will be for guidance, for comfort, for anything to show it the way back to the light once it is a clean slate.

And this one…well, he won’t even have to go through the whole risky procedure, because good heavens, there’s natural talent here. Who knows how the ghastly man has come to it, but the raw power is simply phenomenal. Absolutely crying out to be used. Why, even now the man’s hands are starting to glow up - even under sedation - what puissance!

Strange peers closer as Heckyl throws his head to the side, whining miserably. Is that...is that blood? On his neck, just below his ear. And lines of blue light appearing under the blood, growing in a curling almost-spiral…most irregular. An unforeseen side-effect, perhaps further study is -

One wrist restraint snaps with a sound like a gunshot, and Heckyl howls. The sounds coming from his throat are inhuman, guttural - and frightened rather than aggressive. Strange takes a step back, professional detachment and scientific curiosity retreating in favour of the more lizard-brain response to a very real threat. A wise move, as it happens, because the other restraints don’t last much longer than the first, and Heckyl is lurching up from the chair like an unwilling puppet, his body moving reluctantly and oddly. Horrible blue-white light is leaking out from under the visor that covers his eyes.

For the first time Strange treats Heckyl’s previous words with the seriousness they deserved, and he finds contemplation of his impending death overriding all other coherent thought. It’s deeply uncomfortable for him, but it doesn’t last, because Loki abruptly rises from the shadows like an avenging angel, hits him over the head with his machine and the whole terrible situation explodes into merciful unconsciousness. 

Merciful indeed, because Strange’s life is only saved by the fact that Loki has bigger things on his mind right now than breaking necks: things like Heckyl, now freed from the machine and staggering blindly. When Loki pulls the visor off him, there are long tear-tracks streaking his face, and he looks terrified.

“He’s still here!” he cries, gripping Loki’s arms frantically, “He’s still in my head! He’s never going to be gone! He is me! He’s the worst parts of my self -”

Loki immediately pulls him in tightly, says nothing, simply holds him very straight and very close and just takes all the twitching and jumpiness and the sharp electric shocks until Heckyl finally quiets against him.

“You have poisons in you,” Loki murmurs. “You’re exhausted. We’ll talk about it once you’re well.”
“I just want to go,” Heckyl says, groggy and miserable beyond measure, clinging to him. “Please. I want to - I want to not be here, I want to go.”

“I know,” says Loki, shifts his grip to pull Heckyl’s arm over his shoulders, slipping the other arm around his waist, and they go.

They collect Oswald from where Loki stashed him, trembling and cowed, in the supply closet. And then, ignoring any risk of being recaptured, they also stop off at the secure storage where inmate’s personal belongings are kept, and they pick up their things. Because Loki is damned if he’s letting Heckyl stay in these wretched rags for one second longer when his own clothes will bring him much more comfort. 

Chapter Text

“We’re not going anywhere fast, are we.”

“Please continue,” says Loki, who is currently lying half on his side in an attempt to not get wedged tight. “Your statements of the blindingly obvious are beautiful.”

Heckyl sneers at him, but the expression is lost as Loki can’t really see it. The two of them are inside the confines of the master frigidarium hypocaust on Iobreon - a system which works similarly to the caldarium, but with freezing air circulating from the ice caves below rather than heated air - and it’s barely large enough for Loki to get his shoulders through. Moving through it is a tedious and slightly painful process, but move through it they must if they want to get out. They’ve been escaping now for several hours, moving slowly, taking breaks in the occasional larger vent areas just above the main cold chambers where it’s possible for them to uncurl a little, stretch, breathe. It is not a comfortable situation. The rock tunnels are far from smooth.

Plus, it’s extremely cold. This is not an issue for Loki, whose Frost Giant blood is impervious to abrupt drops in temperature and may even help him function better: but Heckyl, while being alien and unfeasibly long-lived, is still a living creature with a self-regulating body core temperature that needs warmth to keep working properly.

Heckyl is slowly freezing to death in the tunnels and there’s not a thing to be done about it except keep him moving and hope for a swift release from the compound.

“Stop.”

Loki, who is in the lead, closes his eyes briefly in dismayed irritation at Heckyl’s request. They can’t stop much more. They’re already moving slower than ideal and he’s all too aware that while his own ancestry protects him, his companion’s health is in danger.

“I said, stop. Are you deaf?”

The wearier and more ill Heckyl becomes, the snappier and ruder he gets. Loki likes him a lot: they have a great deal in common, not least the many darknesses in their pasts, but by the Norns the man is cantankerous. Regardless, Loki will not see his valued companion die under such circumstances, not if he can be hassled and goaded into surviving.

“No and no,” Loki says. “Keep moving. The only thing that needs to stop is your whining.”

Heckyl snarls a stream of elaborate and vicious insults back at him, but they’re still moving and right now that’s all Loki is interested in.

However, the next time they hit a vent chamber and the two of them have just enough room to sit side by side, Loki is forced to reconsider. He looks at Heckyl in the dim light, sees the stressed breathing, the constant shivering, the discoloured evidence of skin beginning to freeze. If he keeps on like this he’ll pass out, get stuck in the tunnel, and Loki will have a terrible time moving his body.

“We’ll rest here.”

Heckyl doesn’t acknowledge this. His eyes are open, staring at the exit shaft on the far wall, as if already assessing his ability to squeeze through it and continue.

“Go to sleep,” Loki orders. “I’ll go ahead, come back for you. We may be closer than we think to the exit, it’ll help to know.”

“I’ll freeze.”

“You’re half frozen already,” counters Loki, not trying to be unkind, but equally feeling that mindless optimism has no place in this current discussion.

“Then I’ll be completely frozen. Is that what you want? A giant, me-shaped icicle? I knew you hated me, I just had no idea how much until now. Well, thank you. Thank you so much .”

Another thing about Heckyl is that as his stress levels rise, his maturity levels often drop. Loki tries not to smile. He really shouldn’t find it that endearing. Truth be told, he’s been nursing a growing attraction to the man since he first met him, and even the most difficult of circumstances (added to the undoubted difficulty of Heckyl’s personality) don’t seem to be breaking him of it. What to do? He has no idea if Heckyl is even interested, although it has to be said that he’s a terribly obvious flirt: will attempt to charm or verbally seduce anything on first meeting if he sees a benefit in it. It’s rather attractive, if Loki’s being honest.

Of course, all of this becomes academic if Heckyl succumbs to the cold right here, which is something Loki finds himself very unwilling to let happen.

“Come here,” he says, deliberately making himself sound as bored as possible with the whole situation. It’s not like come here involves a lot of work. They’re practically shoved up against each other as it is in the tiny space. But Heckyl is pissed off to the point of childish, and is therefore doing his best to be as far away from Loki as is possible, huddling into the rough wall, face turned away, and additionally doing the best sulking using just his shoulders that Loki has ever seen. Loki has to severely discipline himself to not find it hopelessly adorable. The man needs saving. Dote over him like a teenage girl later.

“You’re a fool and I will not see you turn into a - what was it? - Heckyl-shaped icicle. Come here and stop acting like an...an infant .”

“You’re freezing as well,” Heckyl complains, somewhat muffled. “I’m not touching you. I’ll get frostbite.”

“You already have fr - “

“ I know !”

Loki exhales in exasperation, shifts over, and without further discussion just grabs Heckyl around the waist, drags him away from the wall and pulls him in instead against his body. As it happens, Heckyl’s not wrong about one thing: Loki is definitely cold. But there’s living, soft cold and there’s dead, abrasive cold, and of the two, living is better.

Heckyl bitches immediately and loudly at being so crassly handled. This, Loki takes as a good sign, because he who has enough energy to bitch has enough energy to live. And, as he’d half-expected, Heckyl’s resistance lasts about as long as it takes him to realise that Loki (while yes, cold) is actually a good deal warmer than the permafrozen rocks. He stops his antagonistic wriggling, at least. His complaining lasts a lot longer, but eventually that too subsides as he starts to warm up, even if only a little, cradled into Loki’s lap with Loki’s arms wrapped around him.

Loki knows he’s won when after having gone almost a full minute without snarking, Heckyl gives a little sigh and lets his head drop against his shoulder, the topmost blue streaks of his hair just brushing Loki’s jaw.

“Rest,” Loki murmurs, more to himself than to Heckyl, whom he suspects from the laxity of muscle and pattern of breathing is already asleep. “We don’t have long.”

As it turns out, it only takes them a further hour to finally reach the exterior vent, and crawl out into the mercifully temperate planet surface, where Heckyl goes through a further period of grumbling as he defrosts enough to make walking possible. Then they successfully escape, because they’re a wily pair and there’s probably not a locked room anywhere that can hold them for long. Individually they’re smart as angels: together they’re completely diabolical.

And it’s this innate devilishness at their hearts that means they end up on the run time after time, in jungles one week and in deserts the next - from planets where the atmosphere is full of water, to tiny pocket universes without shrimp. Staying out of trouble isn’t something that comes naturally to either of them, and now working together their ability to get into scrapes is at least doubled, if not tripled. This is really nothing to Loki, who thrives on chaos, and of course there’s that one small extra that makes any of the additional mayhem completely worthwhile, in his view.

Because ever since the frigidarium tunnels on Iobreon, Heckyl seems to have decided that anytime they’re going to be sharing close quarters, it’s now his unassailable right to use Loki as a pillow. Or a mattress. Or possibly a blanket. Either way, whenever they feel secure enough to stop and rest, Heckyl immediately turns, climbs into Loki’s lap like a spoilt, entitled cat and proceeds to curl himself up with his head resting trustingly on Loki’s shoulder, falling asleep almost instantly. The sensation of being trusted so completely is rather overwhelming for the lord of lies.

Yes, I’m definitely in trouble, Loki thinks, when Heckyl has colonized him once again as they hide out in a cave behind a waterfall overnight, but this is the best kind of trouble to be in .  

Chapter Text

“It’s not that it’s not cute, Goggles,” says Tony, flicking a friendly hand in Heckyl’s direction. “No, really. It’s beyond adorable. You and him - you’re a teenage girl’s dream couple. But it’s not exactly practical to send you out there together all the time. I mean the hours that must get wasted on making out alone - “

“What Tony’s trying to say,” says Steve, whose expression suggests that he’s one small microgesture away from actually burying his head in his hands, “is that you both need to learn how to work effectively with other partners in the field. Complementary fighting styles can pull triumph out of the jaws of defeat.”

“Is that - do you have people writing this stuff for you? No, no, it’s inspirational. Ten-four,” says Tony, and winks. Steve sighs. “Anyway. Long and somewhat more patriotic than expected story short. You’re with me. Chuckles, you’re with Cap. Let’s go.”

“ Chuckles ?” queries Loki, his face and voice completely serious. Heckyl, who has no such compunction, sniggers loudly.

“Oh come on,” Tony says. “You’re a laugh a minute. Suit up, Heckyl. I wanna see if the collar fits you better now you guys finally let me take over the tailoring.”

“Well, it can hardly fit worse .”

“Yeah. Yeah. Point. Also I may have put...some other stuff in there. Never mind. Let’s go. If we get done quickly and manage not to hurt each other I’ll take you for lunch.”

“Tony,” says Steve, wearily, “you do know that - “

“Ssh. I’m a billionaire. We’re bonding. I can buy him as many chicken nuggets as he wants. Say, have you heard of this thing, they call it the Centurion Challenge, you have to eat one hundred chicken nuggets in one hundred minutes - ”

The door closes on Heckyl going “oooh” appreciatively, and Steve and Loki are left staring at each other in mutual discomfort.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Steve offers, after a moment. Loki fixes him with a sharp, insinuating smile.

“Oh, I have no concerns about mine ,” he says, and Steve’s shoulders tense up a few more notches, which is of course exactly what Loki was aiming for in the first place.

Contrary to Steve’s concerns, Tony and Heckyl are indeed absolutely fine. They have their similarities: they both speak their minds with apparently no filters, neither is keen to abide strictly by the rules, both of them are strongly motivated by junk food, and both of them get bored easily.

It’s entirely unsurprising that their co-operative training exercise rapidly devolves into them just taking pot-shots at each other.

“Come on, hit me with your best shot.”

Lightning flares, builds, strikes.

“That’s not your best shot. You did worse to Clint when he took your fidget spinner without asking. C’mon, dude.”

The air makes a shrieking, splitting sound as pure blue energy rips across the space between them. Tony skids backwards, repulsors in his boots screaming as they try to help him absorb the force, leaving furrows in the ground. “ Nice . Now the other hand.”

Shriek, skid, crunch .

“Oh-h-h, that’s awesome. Did you see that? That’s awesome . I knew it. I knew the crystal configuration would work better if you had it tapped into your palms rather than fingertips.”

“My turn. Hit me, Stark. Or at least try .”

“I’m not getting trash-talked by someone who’s genuinely trashy on an interplanetary scale.”

The distinctive sound of Tony’s weapons discharging fills the air for a long moment. Some collateral damage (a hapless but empty billboard) crumples gently to the ground. Then:

“ What did you just call me?”

“Uh. Trash. Alien trash. But in my defense it’s not like you don’t know that.”

A dangerous, contemplative silence descends.

“Okay, so l know I’m not the only one who’s noticed that you fully embrace your ridiculous weirdness, Hec. You’re so over the top you hit stratosphere, grabbed a couple of awards for drama, then kept right on going. You’re so extra they should make coupons for you at Walmart. And hey, I get that. I don’t even care if it’s all some elaborate clown act to cover up how horrible a person you think you are underneath. You do you, Goggles. You do you.”

More silence, but the tense edge to the atmosphere dissipates. The sun comes out, yellow light gleaming from Iron Man’s armour and catching in the mirrored lenses over Heckyl’s eyes.

“I’m hungry. Buy me tacos, you raging speciesist.”

“Excellent choice. You got it, E.T.”

It’s evening now. The Tower is quiet. Clint, Natasha and Thor are away in Gdansk, carrying out something terribly secret and internationally important for Fury: Bruce is catching up on some sleep in his lab.

So nobody’s there to see Steve and Loki exit the elevator. Steve is walking in stiff, dejected silence, while Loki pads behind him, looking unusually chastened.

“The shield is fine,” Steve says, for about the fifteenth time. It’s really not clear if he’s trying to absolve Loki or to comfort himself. “It’s fine. We just - we know not to try that again. And that’s good. That’s what this exercise was all about.”

Loki looks as if he’s about to say something, then shuts his mouth, which in itself speaks volumes about the events of the afternoon. Steve sits down on the couch, removing his cowl and running a grimy, weary hand through his hair. He makes a hapless gesture in Loki’s general direction.

“Sorry about your -”

“It’s fine. It’ll grow back.”

A pause.

“Probably.”

Loki sits down next to him on the couch, and they both stare at the wall in more-or-less companionable silence for a while, then Steve says:

“That thing you did with the tree branches could really come in handy for crowd control. Good job.”

Loki glances across at him, and doesn’t reply, but his eyes gleam and the usually sardonic lines of his mouth twitch a little, move to something resembling genuine pride. Just for a moment.

The elevator dings as the doors open once again, and this time it’s Tony and Heckyl coming home. Tony has a cardboard Burger King crown tilted rakishly over one eye, and Heckyl is weighed down with a completely impossible amount of extremely high-end label shopping bags. They’re also having an animated argument about wasabi, of all things.

Loki and Steve eye this spectacle with an almost identical shared mix of indulgent amusement and mild worry. Steve frowns very slightly.

“Tony, is everything - “

Loki forestalls him with a quick tap on his hand.

“They’re bonding ,” he drawls. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Heckyl catches sight of Loki, and he beams, unceremoniously dumping all of his bags onto the lounge floor so he can bound onto the couch and nestle into Loki’s side. His hair smells like candied strawberries and alcohol. Loki pets him automatically, giving Tony a questioning but not at all accusatory look. Tony looks purely and simply happy.

“He bought me a Kiton three-piece suit ,” Heckyl declares loudly, in tones that make it quite clear that Tony is his new and quite likely hero-worshipped BFF, and ignoring Steve’s sharp, thrift-induced intake of breath. “In cyan .”

“They sell their ties for $200 each - Tony - ”

“And you look great in it, Goggles,” Tony adds, ignoring Steve completely and addressing the other occupant of the couch. “You can thank me later, Lokes, because I laid out to get your sweetie designer everything, and I do mean everything .” He grins. “Turns out we make a great team. How about that.”

“I didn’t mean for you to take him shopping,” Steve objects. The labels on the bags are beginning to bother him. Rolex. Prada. And, incongruously, Taco Bell.

“Oh, we did the fight bit first. Then we went for food. Then we took some selfies with a coachload of Japanese schoolkids.” A phone is shoved under Steve’s nose with all the glossy Instagrammed evidence. Steve has to admit the children look completely and adorably overwhelmed with happiness at getting surprise photos with two superheros. “Then more food. And cocktails. We did the whole team-building thing, no stone left unturned. Oo-rah.”

“It was great,” Heckyl agrees, and gives Steve a thumbs-up gesture. Steve tries to take it at benevolent face value, but it’s hard, because, well, Heckyl . And Loki’s laughing like there’s some big hidden joke somewhere, and Heckyl’s grinning like the devil, showing all his teeth. “Go team!”

Chapter Text

There are few people who can actually say they genuinely like three o’clock in the morning. It’s an awkward time approached from either direction: if you haven’t been to sleep yet, you’re probably reaching the end of your energy, enthusiasm and sense, and if you’re just waking up it is unlikely to be for anything good. It’s a time for dark things, introspective things, time for things you’d rather forget to come back and bite you. If your brain is awake and working at that time, chances are it isn’t being kind to you.

It’s just hitting ten past three in the morning and the sky is bright with stars, although the glare of light pollution hides the majority of them from view. Out on the little balcony Loki is sitting barefoot, looking down on the city. It’s cold, because it’s mid-February, and the air feels damp.

“Why are you awake right now?”

Heckyl is standing in the darkness of the room behind. He’s obviously just woken up: his bi-coloured hair is sticking up at all manner of interesting angles, and he has a couple of bed sheets clutched around his shoulders. He squints out onto the balcony, rubs his eyes with the back of the hand that isn’t currently holding a sheet in place.

“Why are you? Go back to bed,” Loki murmurs, not unkindly.

“No. You let the cold air in. And you‘ve conditioned me so now I can‘t sleep without the sound of your endless giant-level snoring,” says Heckyl, snippily, because when he hasn’t had enough sleep and his feet are cold he can honestly be a bit of a bitch. He sits down on the carpet just inside the window and wraps the sheets around himself to make a sort of cocoon.

“Please don’t tell me you’re out here moping.”

Heckyl is apparently incapable of shutting up for more than about thirty seconds without suffering withdrawal symptoms.

“I mean -” he tilts his head back, yawning, “it’s such a cliché. I thought we were better than that. I’ve got a list. No introspection at midnight, no long heart-to-hearts with previous foes during battles, no bemoaning our tragic pasts aloud while staring into the middle distance. Sitting alone on a freezing balcony at three in the morning getting covered in dew with no shoes on should be on that list. I’m putting it on that list.”

“If your feet are that cold, you should have put socks on.”

“Are you even listen- and my feet aren’t cold.”

“I bought you socks.”

“Oh, why do I bother.”

“Good socks,” Loki says, thoughtfully. “The warmest socks. I even asked Stark for recommendations. They have something called microfleece inside.”

Heckyl makes a disgusted noise and raises his eyes to the ceiling.

“Do you not like them because they’re green? They had none in blue. I - ”

“Look,” says Heckyl, and his tone has changed now, edged with worry and preparation for rage, “what’s wrong? If something’s happened - if someone’s hurt you -”

But Loki turns his head to smile at him, and his expression is calm, almost happy.

“Nothing is wrong. For once. Just for a moment, just tonight. I suspect it will not last, but I wanted to enjoy it while it does. It seemed a shame to waste it all in sleep. So I came out here. To look at it being…being right. So I could remember it.”

Heckyl is quiet for a moment, then with a hugely put-upon sigh he gets up, steps out of the window into the chilly, damp air. He sits down heavily next to Loki, leaning up against his shoulder and jabbing relentlessly with a merciless elbow until Loki shifts his arm, allows him to settle in against his side.  

“And why didn’t you want to bring me out here to enjoy it and remember it too?”

“Your memory is appalling,” says Loki, automatically tucking a fold of the sheet in so that Heckyl’s toes aren’t exposed. “You know that.”

“You wound me,” says Heckyl, sounding entirely unwounded. “That’s a cheap shot.”

Silence falls, until it’s at least twenty past three. The moon slides out from behind the scattered clouds, turns the world into perfect silver. Just for a moment.  

“I still think this counts as moping.”

“And you’re still wrong.”

Maybe three o’clock in the morning isn’t always so bad, after all.

Chapter Text

 “I’m sorry,” says Bruce, baffled, as he tracks the somewhat frenzied back-and-forth motion of Tony across the lab, “I may possibly have misheard. Kidnapped by what?”

“No, you heard.” The faceplate of the Mark VII closes, and Tony’s voice takes on the altogether more intimidating timbre of Iron Man. “I’m gonna help Thor get him back. Are you coming?”

“Uh. To be honest, I feel this kind of thing is exactly the sort of issue that would trigger my ‘green stress‘. It‘s supposed to be our day off.” Another thought strikes him. “Where’s Loki in all this? Surely “my boyfriend was just kidnapped” is something he’d feel worth his time.”

“Yeah, so he’s already gone. He was right there when it took him. Went after it like a bat out of hell, and not the chubby hair metal kind.” Tony waves a gauntlet at Thor, who has just popped into view in the doorway, fully armoured with Mjolnir in hand. “Okay, I’m coming, Point Break. Let’s tango.”

By the time Tony and Thor turn up, it’s already over, and not in the way anyone could have predicted. Loki hates portals. He’s decided. Portals to other hellish worlds are a dime a dozen around here, apparently. And he hates them all. Even the ones he isn’t personally responsible for.

However, right at this moment he’s particularly loathing the ones that open up inside McDonalds and disgorge giant robot dinosaurs. Giant robot dinosaurs which proceed to grab Heckyl in their huge metal jaws and abscond with him, if we’re being specific. The expression that had been on Heckyl’s face when he’d seen what was emerging from the portal is haunting Loki as he stalks along the road of the invading world. It had been a look of shocked, embarrassed defeat, like he’d been waiting for something like this to happen all along. And dreading it.

This world looks a lot like Midgard, again. Alternate Midgards are also a dime a dozen, thinks Loki, bitterly. It’s sunny and all the colours look unnaturally oversaturated. Everywhere is very clean, no litter or graffiti anywhere, and every building looks smartly painted in pretty pastel shades. It’s not like Manhattan at all in this respect. There was a classic movie that Tony had made them all watch last month called Edward Scissorhands. It had been a good movie, all in all, and this neighbourhood reminds Loki of the suburban parts of that movie very much - hopelessly neat and clean and wholesome as anything.

Except for the bit where the huge red lizard robot is stamping down the street. Loki can just see Heckyl’s boots kicking out helplessly from its mouth as it turns.

Right. That does it.

Loki draws up his magic, pulls his knives, and makes his move.  

“Beast!” he snarls. “Release him!” Green fire crackles around his hands. The tyrannosaurus rex halts, the massive tail whipping to balance.

“You need to get out of here,” says a new voice, and Loki turns.

There are - well, what he can only describe as a bunch of rainbow clowns in full-face helmets standing fanned out in a dramatic line across the street behind him. They look similar to a sports team, Loki thinks, having been subjected to all kinds of cable TV sport since moving into the Tower. White gauntlets and yellow sashes over solid, skin-tight full-body suits. It’s the red one who’s spoken to him, the same bright red shade as the metal dinosaur. The helmet even has a pattern suggestive of teeth on it. Hmmm.

“We’re putting Heckyl back in prison where he belongs,” continues the green one, and the others nod, add a few supportive interjections like “Yeah!” and “He deserves it!” and “You can‘t stop us!”. Loki’s eyes narrow. Perhaps it is a circus. Or a joke.

If it’s a joke, it’s an incredibly unfunny one.

“You know,” he says, slipping easily into a fighting stance and facing down the advancing row of clowns, knives glinting in the unfeasibly bright sunshine, “I just wanted an easy day with my boyfriend. Is that too much to ask?”

There’s a short, surprised pause. Even the giant dinosaur seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. The clowns exchange confused glances, although how they’re seeing anything out of those helmets is a mystery to Loki.

“Wait - boyfriend?” queries the pink one, eventually.

Loki just flicks a single finger in the direction of the robot’s jaws, following it with a pointed look.

“Heckyl’s your boyfriend?” pursues the red one, in tones of stunned disbelief.

“Yes I am,” comes the somewhat muffled retort from the dinosaur’s grasp. “You absolute idiots. Why couldn’t you just have left me alone? I wasn’t coming back here! I hate it here! I always lose when I’m here! Couldn’t you just have left me where I was winning at something for once? Where I had something good? Ughhhh, I hate you. I hate all of you. This whole place is utterly moronic.”

Loki fixes the red one with an amused but uncompromising look.

“Are you sure you want to keep him?” he says, ignoring Heckyl’s fresh outrage. “Trust me. He’ll get worse than this.”

“Oh,” says the green one, with feeling, “we know.”

Chapter Text

So, here’s the thing: Tony likes robot dinosaurs. Honestly, even without the kidnapping of a team member, he’d probably have gone through the portal because robot dinosaur.

He was expecting a fight on the other side. Probably a really cool one, with Loki kicking seven shades of shit out of a big metal rex and the opportunity for Thor to see if several tons of saurian bot could be effectively electrocuted.

What he wasn’t expecting was to end up in a really tacky little café, sat in a booth with a bunch of teenagers who up until a few moments ago had been dressed in Crayola-bright spandex jumpsuits. Staring at a particularly lack-lustre burger on a plastic plate.

It’s a dinosaur-themed café. Somehow even this can’t save it from being completely awful.  

Anyway, on one side of the booth there’s these teenagers, and they’re all cute and perky and adorably politically correct in the diversity stakes, and then on the other side there’s him, Thor, Loki (who looks as if he can’t quite decide whether to commit mass murder or to have a fit of uncontrollable hysterical laughter) and Heckyl (who is so on edge he’s actually gnawing his own knuckles and has the general overall demeanour of a man who has seen hell).

Thor is cheerfully chowing down on his burger with every indication of enjoyment. This isn’t unusual. Thor could end up on a planet populated by magic singing ants and he’d quickly make himself fully at home inside his very own musical anthill composing rousing ballads about the ultimate glory of syrup. And after all,  this here is just an Alternate Earth with alternate humans on it: Tony thinks he and Thor could do an Alternate Earth every weekend just for shits and giggles. Even if they’re weirdly, cartoonishly wholesome and contain robot dinosaurs.

Evidently not everyone thinks this other universe is okay, though. Turns out this is Heckyl’s home, or at least as close as he can get to claiming one, and evidently being back here is all kinds of hideous childhood trauma. Loki reaches out, lays his own hand over Heckyl’s in a gently unobtrusive effort to stop the biting. In Tony’s opinion it’s a very clear red flag of just how badly Heckyl is coping that he’s entirely ignored the burger and the shake placed in front of him in favour of chewing the crap out of his own hands. Heckyl isn’t a stress eater. He’s the complete opposite. When he’s feeling happy or superior or in control, he’s probably also going to be shoving copious amounts of sugar and grease down his face. But when he gets stressed or hurt or frightened, he shuts down entirely on little things like eating and sleeping and, you know, remembering not to auto-cannibalise.

One day Tony’s going to buy some expensive therapy packages for everyone at Avengers Tower and he suspects there’s going to be something (possibly several things) in the several million years of Heckyl’s past that has spawned this incapability to express negative emotions healthily, but for right now he just slips Loki a stick of gum to pass along in the hope that distraction (and minty freshness) will help. Honestly, it’s perfectly normal to be embarrassed about where you came from. And Tony can kind of understand the discomfort in some ways: he’d feel odd even swearing while he’s here. Like there’s some kind of G rating restriction slapped on your soul as soon as you turn up.

In a minute, he’s going to say “fuck” just to see if he can. Then maybe try and score some drugs. And feed them to the robot dinosaur.

“ - no longer your concern,” Loki is saying, in those tones of silken politeness that Tony just knows are a forerunner to Loki having to slap a bitch. “He is mine.”

Somehow it’s really abundantly clear that this has the double meaning of “my concern” and just plain “mine.”

“And mine,” puts in Thor, who has finished his food and is now beaming sunnily at the collection of Disney Channel wannabes in that way that’s both very very friendly and mildly threatening. Huge grins from anyone with huge muscles can always go either way. Don’t think Tony hasn’t noticed the swift and grateful look that Loki throws Thor at this point. Way to stick up for the potential brother-in-law, Blondie. Good job.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Tony adds, feeling that something’s expected of him, “I’m not taking responsibility for anything Goggles there has done to you in the past. He was a bad guy. I get that. But just walking into my city with your - admittedly very cool - Gojira toy and kidnapping him? That’s a big no-no. You‘re all grounded, kids.”

They’re all just…looking at him. Like nobody’s ever spoken to them like that before. Are they even real? They’d been wearing indecently tight body-stockings when Tony had arrived, like they were planning to star in a crazy modernist version of Rent. Do they even know that they’ve matched their regular clothing colours to their costumes? That’s, like, superhero secret identity 101. Make sure your Clark Kent doesn’t match your Superman.

But it’s really obvious that the kids don’t know how to handle this new and improved version of this season’s Big Bad (not to mention the fact that he apparently has friends and a rather protective partner) any better than Heckyl’s handling being back here in Animal Crossing.

It’s just…creepy. That’s the only word for it. And Heckyl’s just grinding that gum in his mouth like he’s trying to break his teeth on it.

“Okay, you know what? Fuck this,” says Tony, and really enjoys the looks on all of those wholesome young faces. “We’re leaving. And if I see any of you in my universe again, I’m going to sell you to Nickelodeon.” He points a stern finger, calling the Mark VII back around himself with a gesture. The faceplate closes with a very final click. “Promise.”

It’s easy to get home. The portal remains open, a ragged tear in reality big enough to shove a dinosaur through that Loki wastes no time in starting to close behind them as soon as they’re all safely on the New York side.

“Seriously, those guys were your nemeses?” Tony says, as they walk out through the empty, wrecked remains of McDonalds. Heckyl shudders, just once. “Dude. I’m amazed you’re even partially sane.”

Chapter Text

Of course, this isn’t the end of it. It would have been foolish to imagine that it was. That’s the thing with interdimensional portals: they’re like the McRib. Once one person finds out that they’re available, you get a mad rush within hours.

The portal that opened up inside the now wrecked McDonald’s is closed. It’s very closed.  Loki doesn’t screw around with that kind of stuff, especially when his boyfriend is still looking vaguely shell-shocked by the whole experience. Personally Tony thinks “Power Rangers” sound like something you found inside knock-off Cap’n Crunch cereal boxes during the late 1980s, but then one of his best friends is called War Machine so really, who is he to judge. It also explains a lot about Heckyl’s personality and general attitude to life, which seems to be “over-dramatise first, ask questions later”.

Poor guy, though: as if being kidnapped by a robot dinosaur wasn’t enough, he has to live with the knowledge that his home universe is now known by all his work colleagues to be something apparently dreamt up by a bunch of moping crackheads who really wanted to work on Gundam Wing and were fired by Disney for not putting enough cute animals in their pitches.

Heckyl seems to be rallying, however. He’s moved on from mortified embarrassment and come out fighting. This past week he’s been particularly on form. The snark is strong with this one, Tony thinks, and smiles to himself. If there’s one thing he knows with one-hundred-percent certainty it’s that healthy cynicism and a sense of humour are gold in this line of work.

So when he walks out of the Starbucks a couple of blocks down from the Tower and finds a huge dude who looks like an evil drag version of Lady Liberty shooting up the street with lasers, his immediate and instinctive reaction is to crack wise.

“Hey,” he shouts, putting down his triple-shot mocha frap carefully behind a hydrant. He’s rich, not wasteful. Plus he needs caffeine. “Hey! Judge Janus! What happened, did they run out of mom-and-pop litigations for you this month?”

The figure turns to face Tony. Face - oh, actually, make that four faces. Not two. Double Janus. Emphasis on anu-

A bolt of laser fire hits the street where Tony was standing. Tony is no longer there. His reflexes work fine even without the coffee, apparently.

“Where is the Dark Energem?”

“The what?” Tony emerges from behind an abandoned taxi. He’s already hit the distress call that will summon any available team members to the area, and he knows that JARVIS will have been monitoring his vitals, noted the elevated heart rate, the change in motion. He’s not going to be facing this douchebag alone for long. “Even I know that if you’re trying to demand money with menaces, it helps if the person you’re menacing has even a small idea what you’re talking about. Otherwise it just doesn’t work, Cristina’s Court. It’s a no go.”

The shoulder armour on this thing is just plain ridiculous. It arches up on one side like the claw of a deformed lobster, painted in flame-bright colours. Top-heavy and lop-sided, it’s a miracle it doesn’t just fall over.

“I am Lord Arcanon,” says the dude, like it’s supposed to be impressive or mean something or some shit. Tony is not impressed. “I know he is here. I know he has taken it. Give it to me and your world may live.”

“See, now that’s the kind of threat I can do something with,” says Tony. The Mark VII is on its way, he can hear it now, repulsors screaming. In the meantime - stall. “Why don’t you start by telling me who “he” is and we’ll go from there.”

“Heckyl,” the figure rumbles, and Tony rolls his eyes. Well of course it had to be Heckyl. The man’s more of a handful than sixty oiled cats. “Give him to me or I will take him by force.”

Tony stands very still, then:

“Okay. I’m going with the “or” option.”

The Mark VII slams into place between Tony and his adversary in a perfect superhero landing. It’s swiftly followed by two arrows that pin themselves into the shoulders of the ridiculous headpiece. Arrows that are flashing blue, about to deploy their payload. Arcanon twists his head to look at them, seemingly confused.

“Just want to say, the taking by force thing? Maaaay not work out so well for you.”

The suit swallows Tony up, enveloping him in plate. And Clint’s Shock And Awe Arrows (Stark patent pending) activate, sending thousands of volts of electricity ripping through the invader’s body.

“Nice to see you guys,” says Tony, taking advantage of Arcanon’s momentary distraction to check out the blips on the HUD. That grey one’s Clint, twenty feet up and to the right. The red one’s Steve, inbound from the left, moving at speed. And there: an acid green blip and, yes, of course, its constant companion these days, a turquoise blip. Loki and Heckyl, further out, but moving ever closer. Damn. It’s gonna be like they’re serving Heckyl up on a plate if he comes in blind with Tall, Dark and Stalky there on the rampage.

“Loki,” Tony says, opening the commlink. “Loki, you might wanna keep lover-boy out of this one.”

“He can hear you,” is Loki’s response. “Spit it out, Stark.”

“Okay. Does the name Arcanon mean anything to you?”

Silence from the link for a moment.

“I’m coming,” Heckyl’s voice cuts in, and shit if that isn’t the coldest and most dangerous that Tony’s ever heard him. “I’m on my way. He’s mine, nobody else gets him, he’s mine. ”

“All right, Goggles,” says Tony, softly, because he thinks he recognises that tone. He’s used it himself in the past. “All right.” And he closes the connection.

Arcanon is a bit of a powerhouse, it seems. Crap. Just what they need. Clint’s arrows have distracted him, but nothing more useful. Tony gets busy dodging more lasers. On the single occasion that the suit’s repulsors manage to lock with the opposing beams, Tony finds himself skidding backwards, slowly, driven by overwhelming force. Double crap. This is not good.

But hooray, here’s Steve, leaping into the breach with absolutely no sign of surprise at the cartoon monster in their midst, and using the Shield Of Patriotism liberally as a bashing tool, like he’s a wronged 50’s housewife laying about herself with a skillet.

“Get him down but not out,” Steve’s voice comes over the comms, “I want answers. I want to know why he’s here, what he wants, and if he has friends following him.”

“Uh, so, about that - he wants Heckyl, or something he thinks Heckyl has called the Dark Energem, and I’m guessing he has never had friends.” Tony darts to one side, shoots off a couple of blasts to slow Arcanon’s advance on Captain America. “Bonus fact, I just spoke to Heckyl, and if he doesn’t have the biggest raging hate-on for this guy I’ve ever seen, then I’m Frida Kahlo.”

“I’ve always liked your unibrow, personally,” says Clint, and Tony snorts.

“Focus,” admonishes Steve, and they concentrate on keeping their assailant contained. All around them, Tony’s aware, the city is working to save its people. The cops have arrived and he’s aware, flickering in the periphery, that they’re emptying the blocks in a methodical, rapid manner. Say one thing for Loki and his invasion, it certainly did prompt the civic services to sharpen up their emergency protocols. Still, it makes Tony vaguely sad that this is their life now: the only good plan they have is to reduce the damage and loss of life as much as possible. Surely there has to be a better way. You know, one that involves the city not being attacked by alien despots in the first place.

“Why do you persist?” Arcanon wonders, as Steve whangs him a good one across the jaw and gets thrown into a parked car as retaliation. “The Energem is mine. It always has been. Give it up. Give Heckyl to me. He is a pathetic creature and can be of no use to you.”

“Oh, but I disagree.”

And Arcanon staggers, and Tony feels like giving a suitable cheer as Loki stalks up behind him, hands still raised from throwing his knives. Loki looks pissed . Evidently he’s about had it with Heckyl’s old party buddies showing up and trying to drag his sweetie back into a life of crime and humiliation. Arcanon turns to meet this new threat, and evidently is slighted by the fact that Loki’s got a cooler helmet than him or something, because he seems to lose interest in the rest of them entirely in favour of trying to mash Loki into a smear on the pavement.

“Tony,” says Heckyl’s voice, very quietly, across the commlink. “Steve. Clint.”

“Yeah, buddy, we’re listening,” says Tony, hearing the murmurs of acknowledgement from the other two. First name terms. Jesus. This must be serious. He can’t see the alien, but the turquoise dot on the HUD indicates that Heckyl is very close by. It’s entirely possible that Loki has cloaked him as a protective measure.

“Arcanon is very strong. I couldn’t take him alone.” Heckyl sighs: the comms crackle as fallout from Loki’s fight with Arcanon hits the frequency. “He imprisoned me. Tortured me. He, ah. He destroyed my planet, he destroyed it. Because of me.” Tony can hear the distress in his voice, although he’s keeping very tight rein on it. “That Energem he’s talking about? If you think of it as being like the Tesseract, that’s close enough. Huge power, cosmic-scale power. Transformational power. And it’s never been used for anything good.”

“Do you have it?”

Steve. Always practical.

“No!” Heckyl snaps, and all the hurt in his tone turns instantly into venom. “I was its guardian once. For all the good that did me or my home.”

“Fine,” Tony interrupts. They can unpack Heckyl’s trauma later. Right now, Loki’s getting creamed and they still don’t have a plan. “We don’t have his Shining Pokemon card, he’s not taking you, discussion over. Everybody help me kick his ass.”

Chapter Text

To be fair to Loki, he’s already kicking ass like it’s going out of fashion: keeping Arcanon busy. Three simulacra Lokis, all acting independently? No problem. Some illusory flame to startle and turn his opponent? Barely a challenge. And that’s even before they get to the melee weapons - Tony has to wonder where the hell it is Loki keeps all those daggers. It just doesn’t seem plausible that there are that many pockets in the leather bodysuit.

But it’s not a one-sided fight, because Arcanon is a bastard of a hitter, and a glancing laser beam catches the real Loki across the face, making him gasp, breaking his concentration. The illusions all vanish, and a follow-up with a massive hand effectively slings Loki upwards and backwards until he crashes unceremoniously through the plate-glass window of the office block behind him.

At this unwelcome development, Heckyl abruptly appears out of nowhere (ha, magical cloaking, Tony totally called it) about a foot to Steve’s left and jumps at Arcanon like a rabid leopard. Straight for the throat. White-hot energy leaps from his hands, channeling straight down into the monster’s neck, lighting him up just as Clint’s arrows did minutes before. Tony can smell the burning, the heat of it. In combination with the oddly spiced-firework smell of Loki’s magic still hanging in the air, it’s overpowering.

“Heckyl,” says Arcanon, seemingly greatly pleased, despite the furious onslaught of power that’s making him stagger. “ There you are.” And he brings his big clawed hands up, starts to wrestle, trying to wrench his attacker loose. Heckyl just up and roars right into that mask-like face and doesn’t let go, though he’s being thrown around like a ragdoll. Tony winces. Yeah, that’s the sound of personal right there. This is a grudge match. Heckyl may have the general demeanour of an effete Victorian geek, but he’s evidently just as capable of going primal-crazy as Bruce when someone pushes his buttons. And by the looks of it, he’s just about mad enough right now to forget that he’s horribly outmatched.

Only a matter of time, and he’s gonna get flattened. Oh hell no . And with Loki still out of the game after being thrown into the third floor of the office across the street, there’s no time like the present for the cavalry. Tony takes careful aim, gives Arcanon everything he’s got right in the flank. Steve goes for the legs in a beautiful baseball slide, kicking out at the red swathe of skirt to impact the shins. From above, another four arrows slip perfectly home, finding the shoulder and elbow and beeping cheerfully as they gear up to explode. Every fresh detonation drives Arcanon’s limbs back, pushing him off-balance, until between this and the continual pounding of Steve’s size thirteens on his legs, the monster is driven to his knees with Heckyl dragged along with him, still pouring all the lightning he’s got into Arcanon’s body.

And yet still, still, still it doesn’t seem to be enough: Heckyl’s strength is ebbing. He’s burning through his power too hard and too fast, and it’s not sustainable. The energy flow is starting to stutter and spit despite his obvious and overriding desire to kill his target: he’s plainly and simply running out of juice. The scream of pure, helpless rage he makes when Arcanon manages to get a grip on his throat and yank him away makes Tony grit his teeth. Arcanon is laughing now: he holds Heckyl struggling at arm’s length, with Heckyl writhing and striking at him the whole while like a trapped snake, and shakes him.

“You are weak,” Arcanon says, but Tony notices that although he’s making an obvious show of manhandling Heckyl, Arcanon’s not getting up off the floor. Huh. Maybe they’re not the only weak ones here. He catches Steve’s eye and nods at what he sees there. Yes. About now would be a good time. “You always were weak. Snide was the best part of you.”

This is evidently a very sore point, because Heckyl goes completely wild in Arcanon’s grip, thrashing and kicking and biting like a lunatic, while Arcanon continues to laugh at him.

“In my experience it’s always the bullies who turn out the weakest,” says Steve, in his best proclaiming voice (the one he pulls out specially for elementary school drug talks and when he’s on TV), Arcanon turns his immobile face in Steve’s direction, and then it’s on. Clint goes for a twofer in the monster’s back - he seems to be out of special arrows but hey, the regular kind are still really going to hurt - and Steve seems to have decided that he really hasn’t done enough punching today. Those big all-American fists of vengeance are definitely hitting home. Tony settles for taking to the air and coming down with both feet (did he mention that the repulsors are still fully firing? Ouch) onto Arcanon’s shoulders.

All of this unexpected backup for Heckyl seems to be enough to convince Arcanon to let go, and Heckyl drops to the ground. The alien rolls, snarling out what just have to be curse words in a language that definitely isn’t from this planet, then gets up with Loki’s fallen knives in each hand. Uh-oh. The underdog just got game, thinks Tony, pushing off from Arcanon’s attack and cruising upwards to avoid being lasered. He remembers with clarity the tone of Heckyl’s voice at the mention of Arcanon’s name, and he sees the look in the man’s eyes now: cold and glittering and alight with the growing promise of final satisfaction.

Tony has seen Heckyl look clownish, sarcastic, playful and vindictive before, but this is different to all of the rest. This feels dangerous. Flip the coin, because it’s all games and flirting and silly rainbows on one side - all storms and blood and death on the other.

It’s...well, damn, it’s actually scary.

Arcanon is on the street, struggling to rise, full of arrows.

“Okay,” Tony murmurs to himself, in the privacy of the suit. “Okay. I promised. You get your wish.” He darts down, past Steve, seeing on the readout display the green blip of Loki getting back in the fight. Good. Knew it would take more than blowing backward through a few layers of breezeblocks and glass to keep Ol’ Snake-eyes down, especially with his precious cuddlebunny being in jeopardy and all.  “Time out! Everybody back off, stand down. Except you, Goggles, you got this. Take him out.”

He hears Clint’s agreement almost immediately: Steve looks quickly to Heckyl and evidently sees the same evidence of incoming slaughter that Tony did. Steve is a good person. When Steve kills it’s because there really isn’t any other option, and the other guy will have already doomed himself through his own choices. Steve is uncomfortable with backing off at this point, because it feels too much like endorsing murder. But he doesn’t do anything.

And Heckyl, moving almost like a sleepwalker, bends to Arcanon’s side and plunges both the daggers into his neck. One each side, into the gap just below the two lowest masks. A last flare of reserved power lights the blades up bright blue, conducting through and dealing the final blow right up and into the monster’s brain. Arcanon convulses like a beheaded fish on the griddle, those static mask-faces seeming almost to move, contort into expressions of agony as the flickering play of light across them makes the shadows dance.

It takes an uncomfortably long time for the thrashing to stop. But it eventually does, and once they’re all as sure as they can be that the invader is properly dead, Tony, Clint and Steve move in, up to where Loki is standing at a respectful distance from the little tableau of slayer and slain. Even Loki hadn’t tried to get a shot in, Tony thinks. This was Heckyl’s job to do. And he’s done it in spades.

The man in question looks up when Loki murmurs his name, gently, with love. His expression is quite unreadable: an odd, uncertain mixture of joy and confusion and loss all in one.

“I - I was expecting him to just...disappear,” he manages, eventually, and Loki reaches out, pulls him to his feet, pulling him away from the very-obviously-not-vanished corpse.

“Nah, not around here, buddy,” says Tony, thinking back to that unnervingly perfect suburbia that Heckyl had once lived in. “It’s not nice and neat here. Not ever. No poof of fairy dust and a shower of sparks and then gone. Just a whole load of mess.” He shakes his head. “Always so goddamn messy.”

He clocks the protective set of Loki’s shoulders - hell, why can’t someone look out for him like that? - and feels the aches in his own body starting to tell. Jeez, but he’s getting too old for this. “Come on. Fury’s cleaning ladies will be along any minute and I’d rather not have to answer any awkward questions until I’ve had a shower, a shave and a...shawarma.”

“I’ll do it,” says Steve, unhesitating. “I’ll stay.” He smiles briefly, dazzlingly, in that incredibly reassuring and handsome way that always makes Tony want to puke a little. “Pick up the paperwork.” He turns the full force of the Approving Alpha Male Role Model Look on Heckyl. “Good job out there,” he says, and Tony fancies he sees Heckyl relax, just slightly.

Chapter Text

The patient, as it happens, is somewhat less than a textbook case.

This shouldn’t perhaps have come as a surprise to you: the therapy session is taking place in Avengers Headquarters, after all. It’s perhaps a mercy that he looks and acts almost completely human. And that he speaks English, albeit with a slightly unfamiliar accent. You’d expected aliens to be...well...more alien. Perhaps hiding tentacles or six eyes or needing a translator or something. This is just a young man, looks perhaps half your age, with trendy dyed blue tips in his hair and all the exaggerated bravado of any confident man in his twenties.

Except that he really isn’t any of that. You don’t find out just how much he isn’t until later.

You’re not even sure how you got this job. Yes, you’re good. You know that. All the diplomas on the walls of your office tell you that. And you’re expensive, and therefore in demand, because nobody in New York wants to say they’re going to a cheap shrink. Your high prices are your guarantee of your business.

Ms Potts had met with your personally. You like her. She’s obviously got her life in order, although you get the impression it’s not quite the order she had originally expected.

“Take your regular confidentiality policy,” Ms Potts had said, her eyes serious on you, “and double it. Triple it. You’re going to meet some very peculiar and deeply troubled people. Not all of them are from this Earth.” She’d waited for you to say something - do anything - that would disqualify you from this position. But you don’t. Not reacting is a rookie skill all mental health professionals learn. Satisfied, she’d continued: “Some of them have done terrible things. You need to remember that they’re on the right side now. Just - don’t ever mistake that for them being good people.” As if realising that she is making this sound intimidating, she cracks a small, slightly sad smile. “What I’m saying is, they won’t hurt you. But they may talk like they will.”

You’re confident that this won’t be a problem, and you tell her so.

It turns out you’re wrong.

His name is Heckyl. He doesn’t seem to have a last name, like he’s a pop star. This isn’t weird. This city’s full of artists, dyed hair and odd dress sense included. You counselled a performance poet once who dressed entirely in trash bags and never wore shoes. Heckyl’s somewhat louche take on steampunk dandy is at least nicely co-ordinated.

Almost everything about him that you get on first meeting is entirely superficial. He enters the room like he owns it, makes and maintains confident eye contact (blue eyes, very blue), shakes your hand (his skin is warm, feels human). Smiles convincingly, but that smile is empty.

He’s very charming. Presents himself very well. His mannerisms and body language are carefully orchestrated to give the impression that he’s carefree, perhaps even a little silly or immature. Oh, he’s good at this . Someone less experienced than you might have been fooled by it, at least for a good few sessions. They might even have written him off as a pure sociopath, because that complete charm married to that complete emotional disconnect would be a classic diagnosis. But you’re not that easily hoodwinked.

This man is hurting and absolutely everything he does is dedicated to making sure nobody ever gets to see that.

You don’t watch a lot of news, just enough to keep your eye on the ball nationally. You certainly don’t follow the superhero gossip slavishly like your sister does. So you don’t know a great deal about Heckyl personally before you meet him. Here’s the sum of your initial knowledge, which you’d gained from both a quick scan of the internet and the brief discussion with Ms Potts before taking the job:

1. He’s an alien with some kind of superhuman abilities, including but maybe not limited to throwing electricity from his hands.
2. He’s a lot older than he looks.
3. He’s gay.
4. He’s been through an extensive amount of emotional trauma in the past few months, which is why you’re here.

Heckyl sits down in the chair opposite you and seems to be waiting for something: when that something apparently doesn’t materialise, he says, in a curiously excitable tone, “Do you ask the questions or do I?”

“We both get to ask questions, Heckyl.”

The name feels odd to say. Not a normal name, not a human name. It’s actually helpful in making you remember that no matter what he looks like, he’s not like you . Not even genetically similar in any small way.

“Oh!” and he seems very pleased by this. “Okay. Do we get lunch? I’m hungry.”

It’s half nine in the morning.

“If it’ll make you more comfortable, I’m sure we can get snacks while we talk.”

He beams, sunnily. His biggest smile is winning, cheerful and so fake it hurts you to look at it for too long. You’ve seen too much false happiness in clients before.

Snacks arrive. It’s more like a caterer’s buffet platter, but the staff here are obviously very used to Heckyl’s proclivities. It seems he eats a lot. The plate looks big enough to share amongst six people, but he just balances it on his knees like it’s his own personal portion and does not offer you any. You get the impression he’s not big on sharing. Anything. Ever. You make a note, and feel his eyes on you as you do. He might act stupid, but that’s all it is - an act.

“It must be different here on Earth, compared to your home.”

You’d given a fair amount of thought to opening gambits. This one seemed the least obvious, the least leading, but offering the most opportunity to look at either past or current stressors.

“Oh yes,” Heckyl says, glancing up almost slyly over the piece of cinnamon danish he has in his hand. “It’s very different. For a start, it still exists.” He’s trying to get a reaction. You don’t give him one, and he clasps a palm flat to his chest in mock-contrition. His eyes, you notice, are cold, despite the joking, almost flirtatious tone. “I’m sorry . Did you mean the home I was born onto - which was destroyed - or the one I crashed onto and tried to destroy?”

“Which one feels more like home to you?”

He doesn’t like that question. His entire face shuts down and he looks almost like a different person, just for a split-second. “Neither,” he says, after a moment. “Here. Here’s home. Nowhere else.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Heckyl pops the rest of the danish into his mouth.

“People care,” he says, his tone suggesting he doesn’t believe this at all. “ Apparently .”

“They care about you?”

His snort and the face he pulls in response confirms that this is an unfamiliar and (in his opinion) unlikely concept.

Chapter Text

When it comes down to it, it’s basically the difference between cats and dogs.

Chapter Text

Bruce wasn’t sleeping - not that it would have mattered had he been. A little past midnight, and the place is pretty much silent, or at least as quiet as it ever gets. If he listens really hard, he can just about hear (or maybe more like feel through the walls) the distant thump of Tony’s music in the lab. He’s got his book - today it’s not an academic treatise, but the somewhat more esoteric The God Delusion - and he’s lying on his bed, and sure, the lights are just low enough to allow him to see the words without squinting, but he’s not sleeping. He’s resting his eyes occasionally, that’s all.

He wakes up with an indrawn breath of surprise, and his room is dark. JARVIS tends to do this automatically. The gently glowing numbers on the wall clock indicate that it’s now 12.48am.

And there’s somebody in his room.

Adrenaline floods his system, and Bruce is suddenly more awake than he’s ever been.

“JARVIS, lights,” he says, embarrassingly aware that his voice sounds hoarse and querulous. Damnit. That’s hardly going to intimidate an attacker. In these rare moments he almost envies the Hulk his growling bass. 

The lights do not flare brightly, but rather glow up gradually to illuminate the deeper shadows. Regardless, the figure by the end of Bruce’s bed winces, brings up a hand to shade his eyes.

Bruce exhales. “God, Heckyl. You scared the hell out of me.”

Heckyl rubs his raised hand over his face and even that small movement seems to off-balance him a little, because he sways on his feet. Bruce takes a somewhat sharper look at him then, sitting up against his pillows, and then the overpowering reek of bourbon hits him like a punch in the nose. “Ohh, okay,” Bruce says, suddenly understanding. “Okay. All right. You want to come sit down before you fall down?” When he doesn’t get an answer, he pats the mattress encouragingly. “Over here. It’s okay.”

“I wanna talk about monsters,” Heckyl says, and yes, that’s a definite slur in his tone. Jesus. How much has he had? “You said. You made me promise.”

Oh, yeah. So he had. Admittedly that had been during Heckyl’s particular post-separation suicidal crisis when Loki had dragged him back from that offworld jaunt, but Bruce does not regret it. He could never regret trying to help someone who’s been through so many of the same physically schizophrenic troubles as he has. The invitation stands.

“I did,” Bruce agrees, and tries a short smile. “Come on. Sit down. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

“Sorry,” Heckyl manages, and that’s when Bruce knows for sure that the alien is completely wasted. Heckyl doesn’t really do apologies. For anything. Especially if an apology is completely deserved. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Bruce says. He beckons again, and this time Heckyl comes forward, sits himself down on the edge of the bed. “That’s better. Look, I’m not judging or anything, but I kind of have to ask - how much did you drink?”

Heckyl shrugs expansively, rolling his eyes as if this is a hugely unimportant detail. “There were bottles. Tony said I could try anything. So I tried anything. All of it. All the anything.”

Mentally damning Stark as an irrepressible enabler of unhealthy coping mechanisms, Bruce takes a more assessing look at his visitor. Heckyl can still talk (just about coherently) and walk (without completely falling down) so that’s good. He’s also capable of responding to direct questions, although the answers are probably going to be a little less than useful given that he looks like he’s about half a tequila shot away from unconsciousness.

“Okay,” says Bruce, settling his legs into a half-lotus, getting comfortable. “So what is it about tonight that required drinking all of that anything? You wanna talk about it?” A thought strikes him, harking back in his mind to the promise he’d pulled out of Heckyl on that day, and he adds: “You - if you feel like you want to hurt yourself - do you feel you want to do that?”

Heckyl sits in silence for a long moment as if giving this very serious consideration, and then he shakes his head deliberately. Good. One off the list. But still -

“You realise that drinking this much kinda still counts as hurting yourself, right?” Bruce says, keeping his voice kind and level. “Trust me, I’ve done it myself. You’re gonna feel like shit in a few hours. Assuming your - “ he gestures vaguely - “your liver works the same way ours does. You do have a liver, right?”

Heckyl frowns at him with the intent glassiness of the almost terminally hammered.

“…not sure,” he says, eventually. “Is it important?”

Bruce actually doesn’t know how to answer that one.  “Uh,” he says, “I guess….? Look, maybe we’ll leave that for now. Are you okay? Can I get you a glass of water or something? To have while we talk?”

Heckyl dismisses any offers of water with an irritated gesture and, much to Bruce’s horror, pulls out a half bottle of what looks like Jack Daniels from god-knows-where and starts slugging it back. Oh, my god, he’s going to give himself alcohol poisoning. That has to stop. For one thing, the idea of having Heckyl throwing up in his bathroom for the next few hours has very little appeal. However, knowing Heckyl as he does, Bruce highly doubts that just making a grab for the stuff is going to go down well. Slightly more subtlety is required.

“Hey,” Bruce says, affecting gentle mock affront. “You’re not going to offer me any?”

Heckyl looks drunkenly mortified at his own bad manners, and hands the bottle over. Bruce pretends to take a swig and then manages to slip it down the side of the bed out of sight.  

“So,” he says. “You want to talk monsters? Tell me about your monster.”

At Heckyl’s hesitant look, he adds, “At least part of me’s a really big guy, remember, I can take it.”

Heckyl regards him suspiciously from half-lidded eyes (Bruce gives him about five more minutes before he crashes) and says, finally:

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, anything.”

There’s a flicker of vulnerability in Heckyl’s expression.

“Would you ever feel lonely?” he asks, in a small voice. “If he wasn’t there anymore?”

For a confused moment Bruce thinks that he’s just dealing with the fallout of a lovers‘ spat, and then he gets it. Oh. Oh, shit.

Snide.

“Yeah,” he says, feeling possibly the most useless he’s ever felt. “You know, I hate him - my guy - and it feels like the worst thing on earth when he’s in control and I’ve got nothing to call my own anymore. But he’s still me. And he’s always in there. It…it would be weird without him. I don’t know if it would be good weird, or bad weird, I guess I never really thought about it. But yeah. I suppose it would be lonely.”

He looks up at his guest, and huffs a soft, weary laugh.

“And you passed out about a minute ago and missed all of that, didn’t you.”

Heckyl is unconscious sitting up, eyes closed, his head resting on his own shoulder. Bruce shakes his head.

“Can’t even pass out like a normal person. That figures.”

Chapter Text

So just when Tony thinks he’s got it all figured out, this happens.

JARVIS immediately alerts him to the portal on the roof - damn but this city’s turning into a Swiss cheese for interdimensional incursion - and also adds, in his reassuringly supercilious British tones, that the energy signature is a perfect match for that terrifyingly cute robot dinosaur universe that Heckyl comes from.

Terrific. Why is it nobody ever listens to him? If those candy-cane Hairspray nicest-kids-in-town have come looking for their long-lost villain again…speaking of…

“JARVIS, get Goggles up here, pronto.”

“Paging Mister Heckyl now, sir.”

“If I’m going to have to do this,” Tony adds, aloud, to nobody in particular, “he’s gonna get his lazy pinstriped ass away from Netflix and help me.”

He heads for the elevator, not bothering yet to suit up, and when he gets up there he finds that somehow a familiar tail coated figure has beaten him to it. Heckyl’s standing with his back to the swirling vortex that is the portal, hands poised on his hips in that familiar sassy stance, apparently just waiting impatiently for a certain Stark to appear. 

“Oh hey,” Tony calls out. “Goggles. That was quick. Guess I must have caught you in between episodes of America’s Next Top Model. Great. Glad you could spare the time from your busy schedule of shoving six tons of caramel buttered popcorn down your annoyingly slender face.”

Heckyl turns to look at him, and he’s frowning. Not the usual frown, either. Heckyl has a wide repertoire of facial expressions and Tony’s started to learn them all over the past months. This is neither You Humans Baffle Me nor Quit Your Bullshit, You Hater. This is another kind of frown entirely. This is -

Heckyl abruptly turns that frown upside down. He grins, savagely, flings out a hand full of lightning, and makes a very spirited attempt to fry Tony like a slice of bacon.  No holding back. Full throttle death juice. Woah. Tony dives for cover.

Oh yeah. Yeah. Should have guessed, really. So this is the Hi, I’m an Insane Alien, You Die Now frown. Well, crap. What’s crawled up his ass and died? 

“Heckyl!” he shouts, once he’s safely behind the cover of an air vent. “Hey! Come on, dude, I thought we were - well, maybe not friends, but I kinda thought you hated me least!”

Lightning scorches past his feet and he hastily skitters back towards the elevator. “JARVIS, where’s that Mark VII?”

“Inbound. Also, Mister Heckyl has acknowledged your call, sir, and he is on his way. As is Doctor Banner.”

“Wait, what?”

Tony risks a peek. Heckyl is striding rapidly towards his hiding place, his mouth twisted into a gleeful sneer.

“Uh, JARVIS, can you run that by me again, Heckyl is where?”

“Mister Heckyl is passing the penthouse floor now. He is in the elevator.”

“No he’s not -”

Tony turns and runs as Heckyl, laughing loudly, throws another coil of energy right at his chest. “Fuck! He’s right here and he’s trying to kill me!”

There’s a telling silence on Tony’s comm.

“Jarv,” says Tony, scrambling back against the side of the elevator exit. “Come on, buddy. Tell me what’s going on.”

“It is - confusing, sir. The scans do seem to indicate that Mister Heckyl is in two places at once.”

The Mark VII mercifully chooses that moment to slam down and rescue Tony from certain electrocution, and Tony goes into its embrace gladly. Ahhh, the HUD, how he’s missed it. Not to mention the armour plating that will (he knows, with the certainty of a man who’s been sparring with Heckyl for months now) withstand a good few of those energy shots without damage.

“All right, Blue,” he murmurs to himself inside the suit, and steps out into plain view. “Whatever screw finally came loose inside your head, let’s sort it out. Let’s get you calmed down. We can do it with the Hulk, we can do it with you. Come on, now.”

Heckyl doesn’t seem to want to be in the least bit calm. The HUD registers the steady climbing temperature of the outer shell as Heckyl’s power envelopes Iron Man and just keeps on blasting with no signs of letting up.

“Maybe I should get Loki up here.”

 The suit’s sensors briefly white out as Heckyl redoubles his efforts.

“Ow! That really - well it would have hurt if I was out there - look, c’mon, just talk to me, did something come out of that portal that messed with you -”

And then the barrage abruptly stops. Heckyl is staring at something over Tony’s shoulder, and his expression drops into disbelief, then deepens that disbelief into boiling rage.

“Please don’t expect me to fall for that old trick,” says Tony, mainly because he can already see the blip on the display behind him. He switches to the rear-facing camera.

Heckyl is standing there, wearing the big charcoal grey “I HEART NY” jersey shirt that Tony bought him as a joke shortly after he moved in, and sweatpants. Those stupid big green fleece slipper socks because he apparently has no kind of normally functioning circulation and his feet are always cold. Typical Heckyl Sunday afternoon junk TV viewing gear. And he really couldn’t look more different to the other Heckyl, the sharp-suited, mad-eyed homicidal maniac standing in front of him.

They all stand there in an awkward face-off for a count of about six heartbeats, then: 

“Oh, shit,” says the Heckyl who’s wearing the t-shirt, and for one glorious, glorious moment that’s all Tony can focus on.

“You swore!” he accuses, delighted, swinging around to point a gauntlet at Heckyl. “This is historical. I’m telling Steve. Honestly, he’s gonna wash your mouth out with -” 

And of course, that’s when the other Heckyl shoots him in the back.

Chapter Text

The newcomer has a tattoo.

Tony has no idea why this fact in particular stands out as he picks himself up off the ground from where Evil Twin Heckyl’s attack has thrown him. A blue curl of tattoo, just below his ear, which seems to glow, and if that isn’t evidence of some kind of Star Trek Mirror Universe shit going on here, Tony doesn’t know what is. Jesus, that had hurt. Taken by surprise and now bruising from the impact, despite the suit. He needs to work on the cushioning inside this thing, especially around the hips. Ouch. He picks himself up and takes stock.

His Heckyl (and damn if Tony thought he’d ever use that kind of possessive terminology on the man, but there you go, it’s not every day you have to differentiate between two versions of the same idiot) is looking dumbstruck and increasingly (oh shit) frightened. Terrific. Tony had hoped that his huge alien ego and vanity would be so piqued by the sight of someone wearing his face that he’d go all-out crazyperson on the intruder. Instead, he seems to have a Heckyl with a nasty case of the ‘Nam flashbacks on his hands, and that’s nowhere near as useful or fun. Also, it makes Heckyl vulnerable, and vulnerable team members need to be protected at all costs. Because although Steve has the official Captain title, Tony has the unofficial Dad title. Nobody picks on the kids.

“Okay,” he says, facing the advancing Tattooed Bad Guy with a renewed sense of annoyed purpose. “Okay. You wanna play, Mister Hyde? Let’s play. Don’t think having that face is gonna make me go easy on you. I’ve wanted to slap Goggles over there many times for being a smug little dick, you’re just offering me a golden opportunity to act out my revenge fantasies that won’t get me beaten up by his godly boyfriend.”

For some reason this little speech makes the invading Heckyl blink, and pause, and that gives Tony the in to blast him with the repulsors. Score. Knocks him off his feet, but holy crap if he isn’t back up and still coming within seconds. What the fuck do they make these bastards out of, vibranium?

The elevator doors ping again, and Bruce frowns his way out into the sunshine. It takes him a moment to drink the scene in: Tony and Heckyl locked in deadly mortal combat, streams of energy clashing and shrieking as they attempt to overpower each other. Oh boy. The Clash of the Titan Egos. This probably wasn’t wholly unexpected. Bruce wonders vaguely who started trying to kill whom first - and then slightly off to the side, he notices another Heckyl, this one’s expression being what Bruce can only describe as frozen, horrified embarrassment. He looks back at the fight. Yup. Definitely one Heckyl here, one Heckyl there. And just over there - another damn interdimensional portal.  

Oh. Oh, okay. Right. So, this is...this is fine. Just another typical day, really. Bruce resists the urge to simply turn around and go back downstairs: instead he heaves a sigh, and approaches the shell-shocked-looking Heckyl carefully. He’s pretty sure this is the one he knows: the one who got blackout drunk on his bed that one time, the one who punched Clint for a danish.  For one thing, he’s pretty sure evil dimension-hopping invaders don’t come dressed in their own “I Heart NY” shirts.

“Hey,” he says. “Heckyl.“ When this doesn’t immediately elicit a response, he moves to more drastic measures. “Bro. You okay? What’s going on?”

Heckyl comes out of it enough to give him an awed, haunted look.

“That’s me,” he says, in a whisper. “I can see him, all of him, what’s coiled up inside. He’s intact.”

Something about his choice of the word intact gets through to Bruce. If their Heckyl counts as partly neutered, domesticated in terms of his attitude, adjusted moral compass and core power, then a fully intact Heckyl is probably something they should really be wary of. It also serves as an uncomfortable reminder that, for better or for worse, their Heckyl counts himself as broken. In more ways than one. 

“Okay, so that’s you.” Heckyl nods in response, miserably. “A you from the past, or an alternate universe you kind of deal?” Heckyl shrugs, as if this is really not the thing he’s focusing on right now. “Right,” says Bruce, slowly. “I’m guessing Old You isn’t as nice as New You, huh.”

Heckyl meets his eyes and holds his gaze, and the sheer depth of his unamusement is horrible. “Oh,” he says, bleakly. “I’m a complete bundle of joy compared to him.” He looks away briefly, before continuing: “We talked before. About monsters.”

Yes, they had. And there’s the evidence of that broken bit. Taking that monster out of this Heckyl had pushed him over the edge, left him with some...interesting...psychological quirks which Bruce tries not to think about too hard. The whole work-in-progress that is Heckyl on his somewhat haphazard redemption arc is still hitting far too close to home for him - and the Other Guy.

“That monster’s still in him,” Heckyl says. “He doesn’t remember anything. He doesn’t remember how to feel anything that isn’t rage, envy or desire to possess. He doesn’t know what I know about what happened to our planet.”

“You feel sorry for him,” says Bruce, because there’s an edge to the tone and Heckyl’s expression, and it’s obvious, really. Of course he feels sorry for him.

“I remember what being him was like,” is all Heckyl says. “I remember how good it felt to be him, but how empty. So much pleasure. So much purpose.” He tilts his head, ruefully, and his eyes are blank, and his tone comes out almost sing-song through an odd, creepy little smile. It makes the hairs on the back of Bruce’s neck stand up. “How...very...emp…ty.”

Bruce regards him dubiously for a moment, then:

“W-would you mind?” he asks. “If I, uh - “

And he makes a vague, punching gesture at the air.

“Not at all,” says Heckyl, coldly, although Bruce is pretty sure he won’t watch.

Tony absolutely isn’t getting the worst of it. Not at all. In any way. It’s not even remotely a relief to see the massive green mobile wall that is the Hulk come bellowing into the breach. Honest.

But like Evil Loki before him, Evil Heckyl doesn’t seem to fully appreciate what he’s up against, and goes full-on psycho killer at the big new target, chortling like a maniac because really, what’s more fun than a good afternoon’s massacre when you’re an insane alien bent on taking over the world. The Hulk doesn’t seem to like being hit by the lightning, but only in the way that most people don’t like wasps: they’re irritating, persistent and can sting a bit, but you can easily smack them aside. However, after putting up with several minutes of being fried with blue energy, the Hulk seems to have had enough.

And Evil Heckyl gets smacked. Boy, does he ever. The Hulk lunges in with a proper fish-wife’s backhand, full force, and Tony swears he can hear the impact of green hand on torso as loudly as if someone’s dropped a ten-ton weight. He follows up with a quick blast from the repulsor, for good measure. 

Evil Heckyl goes down like a sack of potatoes, skidding backwards across the roof, and Tony bites back on his instinctive cheer, because he can see that their own Heckyl is looking the other way. Even to Tony, it strikes as bad form (outside of approved therapy) to throw a party for the defeat of your former self. And this time, Evil Heckyl stays down, evidently dazed all to fuck. A few smacks from the Hulk could take out Loki, after all - Heckyl’s tough, but he’s not Asgardian tough.

Hulk regards the fallen body at his feet with a triumphant curl of lip, then he glances over to where the other Heckyl is standing and doing everything he can (short of actually sticking his fingers in his ears) not to know what’s happening. A big green finger taps him gently on the shoulder to make him turn.

“Got your back,” the Hulk rumbles. “Stupid Spice Boy.”

Heckyl looks up - and up - at the big green man, and smiles: a broader version of that creepy-as-fuck little smile he’d been wearing earlier. He cranes his neck so that he can take a good long look at his other self lying smashed into the ground. He bends down, slowly and deliberately, and takes off first one green sock, then the other, folding them carefully and setting them to one side. Then, without a single ounce of warning, he charges straight at his fallen other self (who is groaning, starting to come around) and starts kicking the crap out of him, barefoot, while screaming a stream of abuse, some of which doesn’t seem to be in any language common to Earth.

Tony flips up the faceplate, looks at the Hulk: the Hulk looks at Tony. The Hulk shrugs, and ambles off towards the elevator. 

“Well, you’re no help,” Tony says. “JARVIS? Get Loki on the line. Feel like we‘re gonna need him. And make the usual order from Cinnabon. But double it.“

And he strolls over in unhurried fashion to drag his Heckyl off the other one by the scruff of the neck. Gotta be a responsible dad, after all, and break the kids up when they’re trying to murder each other.

Chapter Text

Honestly, Loki doesn’t know why he puts up with it.

“I was out of this building for less than an hour,” he says, loudly. He’s still got the paper carton in his hands from the coffeehouse down the street. And he’s supposed to be the lord of chaos. Really, it seems that these Avengers are far better at causing chaos than he is, and in a much shorter period of time. Maybe they should trade. He can become Earth’s Mightiest Hero, and they can bumble around creating disaster and destruction by the bucket load -

But enough philosophy. From what Loki has managed to gather from Bruce Banner’s somewhat garbled explanation, they’ve had another portal open up - really, he has to reiterate, he’s been out for about forty minutes, are they keeping track of his schedule in order to have emergencies at the least convenient time possible? - and there’s another version of Heckyl here. One that’s, in Bruce’s words “intact, still with the monster inside, okay?!?”

Oh, superb. A whole slew of possibilities, all equally horrible, flash through Loki’s mind in less than a second. But he is not one to take the word of a somewhat dishevelled mortal wearing a bathrobe as gospel. There are more important things at stake.

“Where is Heckyl?” he demands. Bruce throws up his hands helplessly.

“Which one?”

But by this stage Loki has dumped the carton of lemon poppy seed muffins on the floor and is striding off, an aimed weapon, to find his partner. Burdened with glorious purpose has nothing on his attitude right now. He can only imagine what being confronted by an original version of himself has done to his Heckyl. His. The possessive is extremely important. Because Loki doesn’t like people touching (and damaging) his things.

Heckyl is not in his room. The TV in there is on, and there’s the usual mess that Loki expects: there are many things about the man that he likes, but Heckyl is by no means tidy. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s a habitual hoarder and there are things everywhere: clothes, books, pizza boxes, games. Loki flicks the TV off, and out of habit, checks the closet, the bathroom, and finally, under the bed. Nothing. He closes his eyes and listens, extending his senses, checking for heartbeat and breath. Heckyl is good at hiding.  It’s something that came in very handy when they were on the run together across the Nine Realms.

Then he remembers where they live now: rolls his eyes, berates himself briefly, and -

“JARVIS,” he says, quietly.

“Yes, Mr Odinson?”

“Where is Heckyl?”

“I believe the one you are looking for is in your rooms. The other is still on the roof with Mr Stark. Sir, I would advise - ”

But Loki is already moving, heading to his own quarters. He hears Heckyl long before he gets there, and mentally takes a deep breath before he goes in.

Heckyl is in a fury. This would probably have been more impressive had he been wearing his traditional outfit, or even his futuristic Stark-designed battle gear: but as it is, barefoot in a tourist t-shirt and slacks, he gives the general impression of a teenager who’s had his wifi disconnected.  He’s trashing the place. His eyes burn blue, his teeth are bared, his hands sparking with power that’s licking scorch marks up the walls, and as Loki enters he has to sidestep a flung chair.

Now Loki has both seen and thrown some impressive tantrums in his time, but this is quite a scene, none the less. He watches for a moment, then puts his back against the wall, foot braced up casually, folds his arms, and says:

“You couldn’t destroy your own things?”

Heckyl immediately swings around and attacks him. Loki, who was expecting this, hits back. They trade blows back and forth, Heckyl panting and snarling, Loki silent, focused on defence.

“Stop this.”

Grappled, electrocuted, kicked. Loki wrestles, grabs, restrains. 

When he takes an elbow to the jaw that makes him bite his own lip, the pain coupled with the taste of blood overrides his care and caution. He punches Heckyl direct in the chest, full force, and Heckyl staggers back, falls, ends up on the floor. Loki snaps a boot down onto his chest and leans his weight on it.

“I said stop it,” he commands, putting all of his you-were-made-to-be-ruled-now-kneel into his voice. Then, as Heckyl remains pinned and doesn‘t immediately attempt to get up, he adds, just as vehemently: “He is not you. Do you hear me? He is not you.” Those bare feet are battered and bleeding. Loki’s concern ratchets up a notch.

“I hate him,” Heckyl hisses. “I hate you. Get off me. Let me go.”

“Not until you start using your brain instead of your nerves.” Loki leans more weight down and pretends not to notice the stab of blue power that snaps up his leg in response. “And I’m going to ignore that. You’re upset.”

“Oh, genius insight, really?” Heckyl mocks him, lividly. “Get off me.”

“Make me.”

“You think I won’t fight you?” Heckyl’s expression is sickly determined. “I will kill you. I don’t even care. It’s what I do. I have sixty million years experience, you…you thick-headed child.” His energy rises with his tone, haloing Loki in stinging turquoise light.

Loki’s expression flattens into unreadable blankness.

“Are you hearing yourself?” he says. “And you are calling me child?”

“I won’t do it,” Heckyl growls. “I won’t let him near you. I’ll kill you first. I can’t kill him, but I can kill you. I won’t let him have you.”

And that brings Loki up short, because for once it isn’t what he was expecting.

“Do you think so little of me?” he murmurs, crouching down, still keeping his boot firmly in the centre of Heckyl‘s chest. “Do you really?” He reaches out a hand, runs his fingers along Heckyl’s jawline. Heckyl flinches, snaps his head to the side as if making to bite, but Loki just continues to stroke, gently, and does not feel teeth meet in his flesh. The hum and crackle of Heckyl’s power across his skin subsides, very gradually.

There is quiet in the room: only Heckyl’s breathing, ragged and stressed, then Heckyl finally says:

“He destroyed everything. He always ruins everything. I won’t let him destroy this too. I can’t.”

Loki runs the full flat of his palm down Heckyl’s cheek, holds it there, and Heckyl turns his face into the hand, closes his eyes. “I can’t.”

“Are you still intent on killing me?”

“No.”

Loki removes his foot, and Heckyl sits up, looking hesitant.

“I have attempted to murder my brother on many occasions, and yet still, he insists on hugging me,” says Loki, thoughtfully. “And you have only threatened to kill me a few times, and yet - “

He doesn’t get to finish because Heckyl has lunged at him, clinging to him, burying his head into the crook of his neck. Loki smiles against his hair, shifts his grip to hold Heckyl closer. The alien is trembling.

“As I said,” Loki murmurs, “you are no longer that man. Now.”

He gently moves Heckyl out to arm’s length, eyes him seriously.

“Come with me.  Those idiots will undoubtedly need our help. They have no idea what they‘ve got their hands on and I am quite certain they are already doing something irreparably stupid.”

Chapter Text

“He definitely said it was big, okay? Use the big restraints. You know. The ones you use for…for me. For the Other Guy.“

“Are you sure about this? This feels like overkill. And this is me saying that.” Tony fixes Bruce with a frown. “You ever see this monster? I mean really see it? How sure are we that this isn’t just another one of Goggles’ adorable little psychotic breaks? I‘m not judging, I‘m just - ”

“Oh, it may be in his mind, Stark, but it’s all through his body as well.”

Loki has returned from checking on their own Heckyl: he’s leaning in the doorway, and he does not look pleased. “Like a cancer.”

Tony exhales in exasperation, and waves a hand. “Okay, Rock of Ages. Go. Spill it.”

“It calls itself Snide,” Loki says, examining his fingernails. “And as it seems important to you, yes, I have seen it. With my own eyes. I have seen the transformation occur. It is a large, dull creature - not dissimilar in form to one of your more primitive suits,” he adds, with a smirk, and Tony scowls. “Dark metal. It wields a sword. It hits extremely hard, but it does not share the intellect of its host. Heckyl holds it in extreme contempt, and he attempts to stave off its demands to take control, but he cannot hold it forever.”

“Big dumb mean jock versus small smart mean nerd,” Tony nods. “Okay. I’ll buy it. JARVIS, bring out the Iron Maidens, I’m going in.”

“You - you do know that there was a real thing called an Iron Maiden - “

“I like naming things.”

“And that it was a torture device - Tony - are you kidding me? You named the Hulk restraints after medieval torture devices?”

“Hey, don’t be offended, big guy, I do it out of love.”

Tony steps into the airlock of the cell, and the door closes behind him. Inside, the invading Heckyl is still out cold on the floor, or doing a very good job of pretending.

After dragging his own (seriously enraged and snarling abuse) Heckyl away from the other one and forcing him into the elevator, Tony had gone back for the evil twin. He’d done the right thing and picked him up, rather than what he was tempted to do, which was drag the alien by his feet and make sure he hit every bump on the roof on the way.

By the time he’d got back downstairs with the prisoner, Goggles had vanished in what he assumed was a epic temper tantrum at being prevented from mashing his other self into a jelly (or something more ominous, but Tony hadn’t wanted to think about that), and Bruce had been waiting for him, back to normal regular-Bruce-shape, wearing a robe and looking vaguely guilty.

“He’s not dead, then.”

“Nope. Like our buddy, he seems to be made out of vulcanised rubber. They take the hits but don’t they just bounce back like gangbusters.” Tony hefted the weight of the lanky body in his grip. “Gonna throw him in the cell to cool down. Then we can maybe talk to him. Or just, you know, hit him some more. Your choice, Strongest Avenger.”

Bruce shuddered slightly. “I’d rather talk to him. If he’ll listen. Hey, did you order Cinnabon? There’s like twelve boxes in the kitchen.”

Tony has one of those boxes in his hands now as he enters the cell: it’s not really a peace offering or a bribe. It’s just something to use as a talking point, should the prisoner wake up.  And besides, he’s pretty sure that the Geneva Convention requires you feed captives, right? Okay, so it may not have specified cinnamon rolls, but Tony knows his Heckyl, and this is probably the best option.

“Iron Maidens ready, sir.”

The restraints are built into housings in the wall, and JARVIS has extruded them to an appropriate length. Tony picks up the shackles and locks them into place onto Evil Heckyl’s arms and ankles, and only hesitates a moment before also wresting the big collar into place around that ridiculous cravat. He was right. It did look like overkill. The Iron Maidens look as if they’ve been designed to pin down an elephant, and yet here they are on the body of a slender, boy-band-style dandy.  It’s oddly weirder than seeing these things on Bruce. Tony shakes his head. “Okay, Jarv. String him up.”

The Maidens retract smoothly, and they take the prisoner with them, until he’s pinned tight up against the wall, supported comfortably at all key pressure points. One bonus of having Bruce’s input on the design: the restraints are at least designed to be kind to the body held in them. Heckyl hangs in them, eyes closed, bruises beginning to make themselves visible on his face. And hey, knowing the Hulk, probably a whole lot of other places, but Tony can’t bring himself to either have sympathy or check.

“Iron Maidens secure. All scans indicate the captive remains unconscious.”

“All right,” Tony addresses the duplicate Heckyl, sternly. “Now you? You stay put. Tasty warm cinnamon snacks are for good, well-behaved prisoners. Not temperamental little shits. They’ll be here when you wake up.”

Unfortunately, as it turns out, the thing that wakes up isn’t in the slightest bit interested in snacks. It all happens while Bruce is watching, which gives the doctor an unexpected crash course in what Heckyl’s been talking about. And a sudden endorsement of Loki’s accurate description. One moment unconscious humanoid, the next minute -  Bruce drops his burrito, unable to tear his eyes away as Heckyl’s limp body convulses, is consumed in blue-white light. Then re-forms, into -

“Tony. JARVIS, get Tony down here. It’s happened. He’s awake and - “

There’s an audible, gutteral roar from inside the cell. “Woah! Oh, that is - that is not good - oh, hell, he wasn’t wrong. Oh, man.”

“Release me,” comes the snarl. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“Try me,” murmurs Bruce, staring into the thing’s face with horrified fascination. He doesn’t get to see his own monster from the outside, not like this. And this is…this is something else. There is nothing of Heckyl about this thing. Even in the Hulk, there is the suggestion of Bruce lingering in the face. They are the same person, one an enhanced, brutish parody of the other. But Snide is a tank, utterly inhuman, only the pseudo-humanoid shape bearing any similarity to the Heckyl they know.

“Release me!” the thing roars, and strains against the Iron Maidens. They hold. So they should. They’re designed for Hulk. Bruce still takes a step back from the cell viewing window, body acting on the entirely sensible instinct to get as far away from that goddamn thing as possible.

Tony and Loki arrive rapidly, and rather to Bruce’s surprise, Heckyl is with them.

Heckyl looks as if he’s been either fighting or crying - or possibly both - but he also has that nasty air of stubborn determination about him that often precedes some kind of massacre. And he’s changed out of his loungewear into something more resembling what his evil self had turned up in. Big floppy Lord Byron shirt. Vest. Loki, Bruce notices, is neatly dividing his attention between glaring at the potential threat and glancing protectively at his boyfriend to make sure Heckyl is okay. Cute, really.

“RELEASE ME!!”

Heckyl breathes out sharply through his teeth as he gets a good look at the thing in the cell, but he doesn’t hesitate. He turns immediately to the door and starts to punch in the opening sequence.

“Hey, woah, hang on, Cinnamon Crunch,” says Tony, and Bruce and Loki are similarly moving to intercept him. “Wait up. You’re not letting that thing out.”

“No,” says Heckyl, sharply. “I’m letting myself in.”

Chapter Text

For once, it isn’t Tony who starts it.

The Tower is a rumour mill of truly epic proportions. It’s worse than school. If Thor spills egg on his shirt in the basement TV den at noon, Clint will be making shockingly bad Instagram memes about eggs from his rooftop haunt by 12.05. If Natasha happens to return from lord-knows-where in a yellow hoodie rather than a grey one, everyone is calling her Little Miss Sunshine within an hour (except perhaps for Bruce, who doesn’t feel it’s worth the risk).

It’s probably their lifestyle that artificially inflates this. When you spend your working hours fighting evil and saving the world, it can come as a huge relief if all you’re obsessing about for once is why Steve didn’t say “hi” to you that evening on his way out of the gym.

Clint is having breakfast. It’s almost eleven in the morning, but this hardly matters. Breakfast is breakfast. Not “brunch” or “early lunch” or even “elevenses” if you’re being all British about it. If it’s the first thing you’re eating after you wake up, it’s breakfast. He’s perched on the breakfast bar in the kitchen with his feet up on the chrome back of a barstool chair, digging into a bowl of granola. It’s not even his granola. It’s some of Steve’s patented I run sixteen miles before I even get out of bed trail mix protein bomb stuff.

So he has a perfect vantage point to watch Heckyl when Heckyl comes in, and Heckyl looks like being out of bed is an effort today. His blue-and-brown hair is fussed up into all manner of unruly spikes, and he’s rocking a student-hobo-bedtime chic look of somewhat ratty navy-and-red towelling robe over turquoise singlet and black shorts. Bare feet. Robe tie undone and dragging on the floor.

Clint does not say good morning. He and Heckyl are not friends. They tolerate each other in the same manner as one tolerates the disreputable best friends of one’s siblings - in other words, at arm’s length and with cool disapproval.  

However, he still watches as Heckyl starts raiding the cupboards and the fridge. Watching Heckyl eat is always a spectacle worth paying attention to. Clint’s never seen anyone - alien or not - who can eat like Heckyl and still look like he weighs 140 pounds soaking wet. Heckyl could eat the whole carton of Steve’s special granola and then go for three rounds of fruit toast with a side of bacon. And probably an omelette.

Heckyl ferrets in the cupboards with apparently growing dissatisfaction. He pulls out cereals. Energy bars. A loaf of sourdough, and a bunch of jars of peanut butter, jelly, honey, chocolate spread. Then, apparently frustrated, he turns on the fridge, scooping out eggs, bacon, pickles, mushrooms, milk, yoghurt, and - Clint is sure this is going to mark the end of the search - a tube of readybake cinnamon roll dough. Cinnamon rolls are like Heckyl’s Kryptonite. He is physically incapable of passing a Cinnabon without going in, and he won’t be budged until he’s eaten at least three.

Heckyl examines the tube with a squint of concentration, and gives a short sigh. Then he sets it down on the counter and shuffles back out of the kitchen, the robe tie trailing behind him on the floor like a sad cat’s tail. The door bangs.

Clint, wide-eyed, drops his spoon into his bowl with a clink.

“...for space babies.”

Bruce gives up. Whatever stupidity this is that Tony’s been rambling about for the past five minutes has finally reached fission: a level of bizarre so acute that it cannot be allowed to pass. There’s nothing else for it. He’s going to have to engage with it or it may never end.

“Okay,” he says. “Run that by me again.”

Tony gives him a bland, big-eyed look.

“It hurts me,” he says. “No, no, it really does. Is a little attention too much to ask? Especially at this difficult time.”

“What -” Bruce resists the urge to massage his temples. “What difficult time.”

“So Heckyl is pregnant and we’re going to have to make some changes around here. Come on. Work with me.”

Bruce genuinely has no idea what to say about this. There is nothing sensible that can be said. He mentally goes through a few options, rejects them methodically one by one.

“Heckyl.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Clint knows everything. So about the -”

“Pregnant.”

“I’m starting to worry about your hearing, Big Green.”

“Has it escaped your attention,” says Bruce, very calmly and slowly, as if he’s placating an agitated lunatic (what a concept), “that Heckyl is male.”

“What? No. Of course not. Obviously -”

“And gay. Very, very gay. To the extent of sleeping regularly with another male.”

“Genius. I can now see,” says Tony, flatly, “what it is you spent all your time studying during  your, what is it, seven million doctorates. Alien biology. Not human. Alien. And need I remind you that Loki, Heckyl’s equally alien cuddlebunny, has previous form for not only being pregnant and switching genders, but successfully bearing children. It’s all in the original Norse version of People magazine, you should look it up sometime.”

Bruce gives this due consideration.

“Then isn’t it more likely that if either of them were pregnant - and this is not me saying that they are - that it would be Loki who was carrying the child?”

“Ah,” says Tony, wagging a finger, “but it isn’t Loki who was in the kitchen this morning scrabbling around for weird food-craving combinations like onions and cereal and then turning down a cinnamon roll. A cinnamon roll. He didn’t eat breakfast, Bruce.”

Bruce blinks.

“Oh,” he says, in a very different tone to previous. “Okay. Wow. That’s - ”

Tony nods solemnly, then breaks into a huge grin. “So now can we talk about cribs for space babies? I have this set of plans I was gonna use on a better mousetrap but I’m pretty sure I can tweak it to be - “

Loki knows something’s up with the rest of the Avengers today but he doesn’t know what it is, and that irritates him almost beyond measure.

For example: Clint has been following Heckyl around since this morning. Heckyl has noticed this and isn’t pleased. But since Clint isn’t actually doing anything other than surveillance, it’s hard to know what to yell at him about. And Loki likes to tailor his verbal attacks. So he settles for chaperoning Heckyl into his bedroom and placing a particularly nasty magic trap in the ceiling vents.

For example: Bruce Banner has been very pushy about inviting Heckyl down to the lower ground floor lab to play with the medical scanner. Heckyl, while not being stupid by any stretch of the imagination, finds nearly everything Bruce does in the lab insanely dull. He has never shown any interest in a tour. There is no reason for him to go now. He doesn’t want to go.

For example: Stark has been texting him constantly with increasingly strange and asinine queries. What is Loki’s favourite colour. Whether or not Heckyl approves of plastics. Approves? Loki is baffled. How can plastic know whether or not it is approved of? The average weight of baby Frost Giants, and baby Asgardians. When it gets down to a request for popular traditional lullabies of Jotunheim, Loki turns his phone off.

And then - then everything seems to fit together, very suddenly. And Loki allows himself the smallest of smiles.

He goes back to his room, wherein Heckyl has returned to bed and isn’t showing any signs of wanting to move. He’s curled up in the blankets, propped up against a bunch of pillows, flicking aimlessly with the TV remote until he settles on Kitchen Nightmares. Loki sits down next to him and watches Gordon Ramsay for a bit in companionable silence, then:

“You’d better get up,” he says. “Those idiots think you’re with child.”

Heckyl seems to give this thought, then unearths a hand from his blanket nest long enough to make a bored flicking gesture that encompasses his whole body.  

“That’s not how any of this works.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be fine once the energy flow unblocks. It happens sometimes.”

“I know.”

Heckyl makes a rude noise.

“Morons.” He cranes his neck to regard Loki, somewhat sullenly. “Why does any of this mean I have to get up?”

“Well, I suppose that depends. Do you wish to spend the next nine months being prodded, poked and intensively probed by a gleeful Stark about the gory details of procreation in your species? Or do you want to get up right now to evidence your inevitably disappointing lack of gravidity?”

Heckyl wrinkles his nose, thoughtful.

“Or,” he says, wriggling his shoulders back into the pillows comfortably, “we could think up an elaborate pregnancy tradition that involves us being given a lot of very expensive gifts. For a year.” He smiles. “I could be appallingly hormonal and demanding.”

Loki smirks and leans in to brush a brief kiss to his brow.

“Why, darling,” he purrs, already tensing to dodge the inevitable follow-up, “who’d notice the difference?”

Chapter Text

“We were having dinner.”

“Yes. You said that ten minutes ago.”

“And it’s still true.”

Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff hurry along the sidewalk, doing (for those who don’t know them) a very believable impression of a perfectly normal couple trying to get home or into a taxi and out of the rain as quickly as possible. It is February, and the chill has been hanging over New York for weeks: the sort of cold that gets into the bones and leaves a person miserable.

Clint is doing a good job of being miserable, cold or not, and perhaps this time with good reason.

“This is exactly why I don’t bring my phone with me when I’m trying to relax. I take a couple of hours off, get dressed up, go out -”

“Is there something you know about Director Fury that suggests he is in any way bothered about your personal life?”

Clint gives this due consideration.

“I don’t want him to even think about my personal life,” he says, swerving to avoid a deluge of drips from an oversaturated restaurant awning, and peering down the next intersection. “Is it this one? 57^th and Third?”

Natasha consults her own phone, and the co-ordinates sent to her. She nods. They pick up the pace.

It’s a little after eleven in the nightclub district, and while the restaurants may be starting to wind down, the dance clubs and the bars are just starting to get into full swing. As the Black Widow and Hawkeye head down the side street indicated by Fury’s note, they have to sidestep increasing numbers of people spilling out from any number of bright doorways: the thump of heavy bass can be not only heard, but felt underfoot. Clint pauses, rests his hand briefly on the wall underneath a virulent neon sign, and stares up, his face harshly lit in the green glare. Natasha reads it aloud: The High Voltage Room.

They’ve arrived.

There is a huge line of clubbers waiting to get in, much longer than at any of the other clubs. Word seems to be getting around, because more and more excited people seem to be flocking over as Clint and Natasha turn down the back access alley and start their assault from the rear.

“I’m not getting him,” Clint says, as Natasha gives him a quick boost up onto the back wall that seals the club’s kitchen and dumpsters off from the public alley. “You’re getting him. I‘ll provide backup. Or possibly just laugh from the sidelines.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

Clint disappears over and Natasha follows, landing silently. They find the door to the kitchens unlocked. Lucky.

“I don’t have to like him. It’s not in my contract.”

“You got a contract? Huh.”

Inside, the bass is not so much a sound now as it is a physical thing. It vibrates through the walls, the floor, every cell in the human body. Natasha frowns slightly as she navigates through the staff sections, dodging fry cooks and haggard-looking bar staff heading out for a smoke break. Be covert, Fury’s message had insisted. Don’t cause any more trouble than he already has. They are, of course, not seen, and being heard in this cacophony would be practically impossible. Then Natasha pushes a swing door, the noise intensifies to almost unbearable levels, rig lights swing to glare and flash into their faces, and they’re out into the main club.

According to the excited chatter of the cheerful clubbers that press in on all sides, it’s Classic Dance Night. As if Clint couldn’t have guessed. Not that classic club dance hits are his thing. Not at all. And he’ll tell you so quite emphatically if you ask. The place is packed to what seems like almost illegal capacity: it’s barely possible to move in the crush of bodies. Hot skin, sticky floor, sweat and overexcitement. And yet people are still coming in. There’s a general thrill of overwhelming anticipation across the crowd, and Clint rolls his eyes in exasperation that this is somehow his life. He’s picked up on the telltale overarching scent of ozone and heavy cinnamon smoke that’s lacing the whole room. And Natasha wonders why he doesn’t like him.

It’s Clint that spots him in the end - and he taps Natasha’s arm, pointing deliberately, before leaning in to her ear and shouting:

“Get him before he does it again. Then we can -”

His last two words fall, suddenly too loud, into an abrupt lull in the music.

“ - go home!”

There’s a brief, blessed moment of silence. Then the crowd roars, releasing their pent-up anticipation, as the intro to the next song begins.

I still hear your voice when you sleep next to me

I still feel your touch in my dreams

There’s a very small, almost perfectly circular clearing opening up in the very centre of the dance floor. Probably no more than a metre or so across. And in the very centre of that circle, there indeed is Heckyl, the Cause Of Nick Fury’s Ire, the Unwitting Ruination Of Dinner Dates, and apparently New York Clubland’s Most Wanted On A Rainy Friday Night.

He’s wearing a shriekingly neon blue singlet that is startlingly tight, and what Clint suspects are Loki’s leather trousers, plus - are those Nike Air Mags? Clint smells Tony all over this. Nobody sane can afford those. Plus, annoyingly, Heckyl is somehow making the whole ridiculous ensemble look good. He has his eyes closed, body hitching to the intro, sweat sheening his exposed skin, his expression beatific. God, Clint hopes he isn’t high. The idea of Heckyl on MDMA is just too horrific to contemplate. He gives Natasha an unsubtle shove in the back, and she glares at him, gesturing in front of her. The crush of the crowd has reached almost immovable levels. She can’t get through without stabbing someone, and judging by the look on her face she’s seriously considering it.

Forgive me my weakness but I don’t know why

Without you it’s hard to survive

Heckyl flings out an arm, and the crowd bellows again in renewed excitement. He flings out the other, and Clint groans inwardly as blue light begins to curl and pool in the alien’s palms. He knows this track and he’s pretty sure this is Heckyl’s regular performance piece, because, yeah, as soon as the main song refrain powers on in, here it comes -

‘Cause every time we touch I get this feeling

And every time we kiss I swear I could fly

Heckyl’s eyes snap open, glowing blue-white from within. His whole body wreathes in lightning, snapping and flickering over every inch of him, gathering and intensifying in his out-thrown palms until it seems to get too much for him to control: it overloads and arcs out in long, crackling lines across the crowd, who are screaming and dancing and crushing in even more. Clint’s hair stands on end as the spreading tendrils of Heckyl’s power burns over him, his entire body tingling with mild electric shock, then it’s gone, conducting out into more people and the floor and the ceiling.

The lighting rig is shocked into overdrive, the lights suddenly much brighter, flashing faster. Bulbs pop in twenty places. The giant disco ball, rotating in illuminated glory high above, takes the brunt of it all and explodes into gleaming, electrified dust, showering the crowd in mercifully harmless glimmering sequined plastic pieces. The crowd, if it’s possible, goes even more crazy, dancing harder and faster and pressing in closer against Heckyl until he’s almost lost to sight in the swarm.

Natasha elbows Clint and leans in.

“I’m not getting him,” she shouts. “You get him.”

Clint, watching the undulating, joyful crowd in a kind of awe, shakes his head solemnly.

“Man’s got his Cascada on,” he says. “You don’t interrupt a man mid-Cascada.”

Chapter Text

“For the last time,” says Steve, wearily, “I can’t go.”

“Well, somebody has to,” says Bruce, who is for once apparently quite calm in the face of the impending crisis. “The alternative is that they go out there alone. Unaccompanied. Unchaperoned. Possibly carrying far nastier things than eggs or toilet paper. Do you want that on your conscience? Nobody wants that.”

It is perhaps fortunate that it’s only Bruce who is there to witness Captain America, Saviour Of The Nation, sitting down with a look of deep pain on his strong face.

“I suppose,” he says, “there’s no chance of convincing them not to.”

“It’s Halloween, Steve. The sheer amount of free candy out there alone means that your chances of keeping Heckyl indoors are precisely zero.”

Steve makes a helpless gesture, one-handed.

“This is Tony’s house. The cupboards are full of candy. And if they weren’t, a quick phone call would mean they could be.”

“But eating your own candy isn’t nearly as much fun as getting other people to give it to you,” murmurs Bruce, with perhaps far more insight into Heckyl’s psychological makeup than is healthy for anyone. “Potentially with menaces - where are you going?”

Steve has risen, a grim set to his jaw. “To talk with them.”

It’s not as successful a talk as Steve had vainly hoped. It is the nature of Steve to hope, even when all hope is lost, but in the face of the fact that Heckyl is plainly and simply an enormous spoilt child when it comes to getting his way about junk food (plus the added addition of the fact that Loki is a terribly indulgent boyfriend and will brook no interference in the potential happiness of his partner) he has to admit defeat.

Loki and Heckyl are going out trick-or-treating and there is no power on Earth that will stop them. The only available plan is to attempt to minimize the inevitable damage, and help on this front comes from a surprising quarter - Thor. Who not only agrees to chaperone, but seems in fact terribly enthusiastic about the idea, to the point that even Steve finds his motivations vaguely suspect.

Nonetheless, it solves the immediate issue: Thor will go, and keep his problematic brother in line, and with any luck if Loki is behaving he will act as some kind of calming influence on Heckyl. With any luck. Nothing is a given with those two - chaotic evil is perhaps too strong for them these days, but they’re hardly an endorsement of chaotic neutral either.

Bruce personally suspects that Thor just likes dressing up and is almost as easy to bribe with sweets as Heckyl. This is a theory that proves to hold weight, as when late afternoon rolls around Thor appears in the lounge dressed in one of Steve’s suits and holding a cardboard shield. Bruce tries not to react. His lips twitch. Even in a Captain America suit, Thor seems to be busting out muscles all over. The cardboard shield looks as if the paint is still wet. It’s not a completely even circle, either.

“You know Steve would probably have lent you the real one if you’d wanted.” Bruce says, gently. He catches a small flare of hurt flicker across Thor’s big face. “It’s a really good one, though. Make it yourself?”

Thor beams. It seems the act of making the costume shield is one of the highlights of his year so far. Nice to be able to find joy in simple things, Bruce thinks. He decides to pursue the conversation, because Thor just looks so happy it’s hard not to indulge him. “So, do you have any idea what your brother is going to -”

“Kneel, mortals!”

Bruce closes his eyes briefly. The tone is unmistakable, but the delivery isn’t quite right, and the accent is definitely wrong. Loki has always verged on the British, whereas this has a far more antipodean twang. Funny how that seems to work - even aliens from galaxies away still manage to have accents that humans can recognise as their own. “Hey, Heckyl,” he says, smiling despite himself because just like Thor, Heckyl looks so whole-heartedly, simply pleased about this game it’s hard to grudge him. “Guess that wasn’t a hard costume to get together. Nice wig.” He frowns. “That - that’s not the real scepter, though, right?”

“No,” says Loki’s voice, from the doorway. “A reasonable fabrication. The glow in it is all his own, though.”

Bruce is pretty sure he’s looking at illusion, because it finds it very unlikely Loki will have stooped to cutting his locks for a costume, but damn is it a good one. Loki’s black hair is now brown, short-cropped, with a flash of bright blue cutting through the side. Little sparks of blue-white lightning are in continual play over his fingers, a permanent light-show that the real Heckyl doesn’t have but Bruce has to admit looks rather cool. “Cute,” he says, choosing the word deliberately to see if Loki is in a mood to be baited. It seems safe. “Matching couple costumes.” He cranes his neck backward, grinning at Thor. “Something you want to tell me about you and Steve?”

“This surely isn’t big enough,” Heckyl complains, cutting off any response Thor might have made. He’s referring to the loot bucket Loki has just handed him. It is shaped like a jolly jack o’lantern, and there is no real reason this should be as funny as it is, but somehow the goofy orange plastic grin of the bucket coupled with Heckyl’s utterly serious look of outrage nearly drives Bruce to giggling hysterics. Loki manages the situation beautifully, agreeing about the shortcomings of the thing first to soothe Heckyl’s ruffled feathers, then further mollifying with promises of enchanting said ridiculous bucket to become what Bruce in his younger D&D  days would have called a Bag Of Holding. It’s never been plainer that despite all logical sense, Loki is a good and even calming influence on the man, and (perhaps more understandably, considering it’s Loki) knows precisely how best to manipulate him. Maybe it’s just as simple as bad knows bad, thinks Bruce, somewhat less than charitably, then is forced to push that thought away as he sees Loki press a kiss to Heckyl’s forehead and Heckyl practically purr in comfortable response, leaning into it, his bad mood completely forgotten. Bad or not, they’ve got something that works, which is more than Bruce can say for his own love life.

“Are we going?” Thor asks, almost pathetically eager, cardboard shield gripped tightly in one hand, a loot bucket of his own in the other. With Loki’s answering grin and a goodbye flick of the hand from Heckyl, the three of them are off out the door and Bruce is left to his peaceful evening.

It’s when they find the carnival in the park that the night really gets good.

It’s now around seven-thirty, and the neighbourhood has fallen into almost darkness. Kids roam in packs, effortlessly singling out the houses with the best decorations which will give up the most loot, while their parents linger back at the gates looking sheepish in their dollar-store Dracula outfits - or in extreme cases kerb-crawling along behind their children in their cars, pausing only to pick up a chattering, overexcited mummy or cheerleader before driving on to the next district.

Nobody seems even remotely put out by the three grown men knocking on their doors and asking for candy, especially when Thor knocks first. It isn’t clear whether they’re won over by the fact that it’s Thor, or the fact that he’s wearing the real Captain America’s suit, or by the obviously home-made shield. Regardless, they get a lot more treats when sending Thor in as a sweetener, a fact which Heckyl doesn’t resent in the slightest and in fact exploits mercilessly as soon as he spots the pattern. Instagram is going to be completely riddled with selfies featuring a delighted Captain Thor within hours.

And Thor’s main reason for being there (as chaperone) is in fact barely required, as Loki is surprisingly well behaved. Once or twice he conjures up harmless illusions - little glowing spirits chasing through crowds of children, black cats twining and purring around everyone’s ankles to trip and amuse - but nothing nasty. Nothing truly dangerous. And Heckyl is having an absolutely marvellous time, but for once in a manner not involving widespread destruction. As Bruce had observed back at the Tower, he seems simply, childishly happy about the whole concept of Halloween: to be out there, to see all the decorations, be given all the attention the three of them get when it becomes clear who they are, and particularly to be showered with so much candy by starstruck humans that he struggles to carry it all (enchanted bucket notwithstanding).

They take a cut through from one very fancy residential district to another (fancy houses have the more expensive treats) which leads them into a small park. Not one of the big city parks, just a little green space full of birch trees and laurel hedges, and criss-crossing paths that all manage to meet in the centre.

There are strings of colourful lights lining the foliage, and everything smells like caramel, which is honestly one of the main reasons Heckyl insisted on the diversion. There’s also music coming from somewhere ahead, something that sounds like a folksy composite of medieval lute and glam rock. A flare of orange light and a gathering smokiness in the air around them confirms real fire close by. Laughter. The flickering shadows of people moving.

It turns out to be a little local carnival, nothing fancy, everything homespun and very community. Home bakes. A group of local hipster dads with guitars. Aging hippies tying bundles of twigs to trees with red thread. The fire, it transpires, is being managed by a guy with a can of lamp oil who shifts between firebreathing and adding more oil to a bucket of makeshift tapers. Another group have carpeted a clearing in the trees with rugs and blankets and are telling ghost stories to some teenagers who are pretending to be far too cool for all this but are secretly enthralled.

Thor likes it. It reminds him of communal storytelling sessions back in Asgard, when he was small and all the other warriors seemed both so huge and intimidating but also so completely out of touch with the world of the young. He catches the eye of the nearest hipster dad, smiles broadly, and within moments has been given an artisan homebrew ale in a recyclable cardboard cup and is engaging in a cheerful debate over the relative popularity of beards in modern fashion. The decision to stay at the carnival is made by default.

Loki takes a little longer to give the carnival a chance. He doesn’t like it initially, because there are quite a lot of humans, it’s quite dark, and everything seems too wholesomely cheerful to be properly believable. But he does like the fire, and the feeling that he gets here that the humans are coming back to their oldest roots, returning to the old magic that was common on Midgard when Odin was young and in power over the realms. This is something primal. Something sacred. All the parts of him that are attuned to the metaphysical are singing at what this carnival represents, behind the rubber masks and the plastic spiders and all the modern trappings. There’s ancient power here, and Loki does like power.

Thinking of ancient power, and he suddenly realises that Heckyl is no longer with him, in fact is nowhere in sight. Loki’s eyes narrow as he scans the crowd. Thor, laughing so loudly he’s probably audible from space. Happy humans everywhere. No alien wearing that distinctive golden horned helmet and carrying that sceptre, and you’d think that would be hard to lose sight of.

Loki’s not worried. Of course not. Heckyl could fight off the entire crowd if he needed to, probably with one hand tied behind his back. They’re in no danger here. Still, it would be nice to know where he’d got to, just in case - and he shoots another glance at Thor, Thor’s big fists, reminded that Thor has a role to play in keeping their noses clean for the night - just in case anything unexpected happens. Like Heckyl’s temper.

Then a stronger waft of caramel scent hits him, and he rolls his eyes in exasperation at himself. If one is looking for Heckyl -

He follows the smell of the food.

There’s a barbeque pit set up on a little concrete plinth just a few hundred yards away, tended by the firebreather and surrounded by a cluster of people either eating or distributing food. There’s also a little candy-striped cart that seems to be turning out doughnuts and spun sugar and apples dipped in sweet stuff, which is where the caramel scent is coming from, but there’s still no Heckyl.

He finally tracks him down after about another two minutes, which feels like a very long time. Heckyl has joined at the back of the circle of teenagers, clustered around the older storyteller. He’s removed the helmet and has it looped casually over his arm by one horn. The story has obviously reached a key point, as even the teenagers have given up on pretending to be too cool for it and are leant forward in the firelight, intent. As Loki approaches, the listeners (including Heckyl) all startle as the storyteller provides the payoff jumpscare, complete with scowling facial expression and clawed-hand gesture - then as a group they dissolve into delighted laughter. Loki watches Heckyl laughing along with them and he smiles, because while Heckyl is often full of smiles, he rarely seems to be just genuinely happy. Malicious, yes, capricious, flirtatious, gleeful or sometimes cruel - but plain happiness seems to escape him. There is a deep-seated sadness about Heckyl that is easy to miss if you don’t know him well, but Loki knows him very well indeed and that greyness, that permanent taint on the spirit is hard to overlook.

Heckyl bounces up with the rest of the group as they start to disperse, and he is (of course) laden down with things from the barbeque and the candy cart. He doesn’t spot Loki, hanging back from the path in the shadows of the trees, and heads back towards the main carnival centre alone, eating a caramel-apple and singing softly to himself. It’s an odd little tune, somewhere between a lullaby and a battle-ballad, and to Loki it has the half-sweet, half-bitter taste of nostalgia about it. So much, in fact, that it almost hurts by virtue of the thoughts of Frigga and Thor and long-ago days it brings with it. He follows Heckyl silently, not wanting to interrupt this rare happiness in case it does not return.

So he isn’t standing directly next to Heckyl when the first fireworks go off, and this is probably for the best as he would have ended up showered in pulled pork and popcorn as Heckyl jumps, eyes wide, staring up at the cascading silver sparkles.

For a moment Loki thinks Heckyl is frightened, the noise, the suddenness, the light (it’s an odd thing to think of a man who can throw lightning from his hands, but Heckyl’s startle reflex has been ridiculously sensitive ever since Snide was detached) and is preparing to go in and help, but then he sees the look on Heckyl’s upturned face, lit by the glare, and he stops.

Heckyl looks utterly overjoyed that there are fireworks. It isn’t just the look of expectant awe that any adult attending a really good fireworks display gets. It’s more the sort of pure, innocent delight that a very young child would have on discovering that there are such things as fireworks for the very first time.

As the next rocket goes up, Loki goes to him, touches his shoulder gently, and is startled in his turn when Heckyl immediately rounds on him, beaming so wide his face could split, and rattling off a string of liquid syllables at such a rate that they’re completely incomprehensible.

It takes a further moment before Loki realizes it’s not just the speed of delivery - Heckyl’s not using English. Or Allspeak. Or Asgardian, or any other of the many languages Loki considers himself master of. It’s something quite different. Almost musical, like birdsong, but evidently far more complex. Loki, with his linguist’s ear, picks up the basic pattern of noun, verb, tense, but everything else is baffling.

He’d be more worried, but Heckyl’s smile is infectious. So he settles instead for cupping the man’s face with one hand, tracing the curve of that smile with his thumb, and smiling back.

“Slow down, love,” he says. “I don’t understand you.”

Heckyl seems to sober abruptly at the words, confused. He trills a further, more interrogative-sounding phrase in that unfamiliar tongue, then draws in a sharp breath, actually claps his hand to his mouth in a cartoonish doubletake.

“Sorry!” he gasps, sounding unexpectedly embarrassed. “I - that doesn’t happen, I mean it - I -”

“It sounded glorious,” purrs Loki, still stroking with his thumb. “What was that, exactly?”

Heckyl seems to be withdrawing, his jaw tensing under Loki’s touch.  

“It was just - “ he says, eyes flicking back upwards as the night sky fills with gold and green, “this place. The way it smells, the lights, it’s so much like. You know.” He looks down, his voice hardening. “Doesn’t matter.”

Loki remembers that little tune, half a lullaby. A child’s song.

“Home,” he murmurs. “It reminded you of home.”

“Yes. I think so. When home was good. If home was ever really that good. I don’t - I don’t remember anymore. Not really.”

“Well, something in you certainly remembers. Even if your waking mind does not. Was that your language? From Sentai 6?” When Heckyl doesn’t answer, he adds: “Can I hear it again?”

Grudgingly, haltingly now, Heckyl mutters a few of those musical sounds under his breath. Loki nods, encouraging, and is rewarded by a returning ghost of that purely happy smile and a further, much more confident and (if Loki isn’t mistaken) sassy selection of alien words.

“I don’t understand a single thing you’re saying,” he says, and Heckyl grins wickedly at him, “but as you know I’ll only be taking that as a challenge.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

A final particularly large and florid rocket explodes into a shower of brilliant blue sparks overhead, and the crowd at the carnival whoops and hollers their approval, scattered applause breaking out and echoing from the buildings of the surrounding city. Heckyl just laughs, head tipped back, gazing into the sky where the stars are starting to shine through in the aftermath of the fireworks. Loki just watches, appreciating, in silence.

“I don’t think I like you with long hair,” he says, at last, and Heckyl blinks at him, raising his eyebrows, before reaching up and unhitching the black wig.

“I don’t think I like you without it,” he counters, throwing the wig at Loki’s chest. Loki smirks and dispels his illusion with a thought.

“Come,” he says. “I am certain I hear my dear brother becoming noisily intoxicated and unless we want to become part of tomorrow’s most popular embarrassing viral video, we should remove ourselves. Let’s go home.”

Heckyl eyes him shrewdly for a moment, then says a single word in that strange language, giving it the definitive upturned, questioning lilt on the final inflection.

“Yes. Home,” says Loki, firmly, and basks in the answering smile.

Chapter Text

“----’s down!”

The comm is crackling, breaking up. Clint must be moving. “Repeat, Hawkeye.”

“I said Tony’s down. As in out.”

Steve is running, so he doesn’t sigh: his body is pushing all its energy and instinct into making him move smoothly and efficiently like the powerhouse he is, and has nothing to spare for inefficient breaths. But he wants to.

“Details,” he demands. He can’t get there any faster and he’s still at least two minutes out. Two minutes is a long time in a battle, especially one against a completely unknown antagonist.

The attack had come at dawn, and had been devastating within a very short period of time. People had just started to drop in the street - night shifters on their way home, early commuters, the deli workers heading out to prep for the breakfast rush. The first few casualties had not raised the alarm at the hospitals - unconscious but otherwise stable people who just weren’t waking up. Could be the leftovers from a wild night out.

But by seven in the morning, the numbers were moving into the hundreds, and the emergency services started to raise their voices in concern, and within the depths of the hugely complex and intelligent machine known as JARVIS a series of little red flags were raised.

And Iron Man was on the street before the clock hit seven-fifteen.

“I was watching,” Clint’s voice says. “I don’t know what went wrong. It looked like he had it on the ropes, he was advancing, it was backing up, then he just - stopped. Looked like he was in pain, hands to his head. Then he went down.”

“He never took the helmet off?”

“Never. All suit, all the way.”

Not a good sign. Steve is reminded, as he often is, that Clint is highly trained and lethal, but he‘s still only regular human. Not enhanced, not magical, not heavily armoured. “Stay out of range, Hawkeye. That’s an order.”

Clint is hesitant. And says so. Clint is not someone to keep a perfectly good opinion to himself.

“You’ve got no backup.”

Which is partly why Steve had wanted to sigh, because that was true. Banner was away at some kind of science junket in Europe, Natasha had gone dark somewhere in Syria the past two weeks, and Thor and Loki were doing politics in Asgard, which left him, Clint, Tony and -

“Get Heckyl out here. Now. Tell him no time to suit up, just get here.”

He can almost hear Clint clenching his teeth. Clint and Heckyl are not friends. If Steve’s being honest, Heckyl’s probably not his favourite person either, but he’s a hard hitter and you can generally trust him enough to fight on your side. And besides, they’re out of options and people are in danger. Steve weaves between traffic, horns blaring at him as he goes, and vaults a parked cab.

“ETA thirty seconds. Call him now.”

And then he’s in range, and he can see it, and there is no more time.

The monster is huge, at least fifteen feet tall: or at least as close as can be reckoned, because its form is not set and solid. It roils and bubbles like cloud or ink, ugly amorphous shapes shifting in and out of solidity along its breadth. Sometimes it appears to have arms, which reach and grab, and at others dark maws seem to open up, champing and snapping towards anything that moves.

It is easy to see how in the half-light before dawn this creature could have stayed hidden, taken victims without warning.

Wrapped in the coils of smoky body at the base lies the flash of red and yellow that is Tony, and Steve’s focus contracts onto the one sprawled visible length of armoured leg.

How do you fight smoke?

He circles for a moment. The creature has no visible eyes, but nonetheless Steve feels unaccountably observed, and indeed observed in a forensic fashion. He feels stripped back, as if the thing in front of him can see inside his veins (Bucky) and is gnawing on his thoughts (Peggy) and -

The guilt washes through him like bile, in a rush, all at once, and Steve buckles as if he’s taken a tank direct to the gut. It’s like poison -

(Tony)

- the most virulent kind of poison, and the creature is dragging it out of him through every vein, every pore -

(couldn’t save him/her/them)

(not any of them)

(frozen)

(dead)

(all dead)

(all your fault)

It’s like an evil, backward form of dialysis: the creature siphons the guilt through Steve, takes it in, circulates it gluttonously to power its own form, then pours the dregs back into Steve complete with all the alien awfulness that its rotting self can give.

Human beings are very good at guilt. It’s a distinguishing feature of their species. And you cannot punch guilt. You cannot take it by the throat and shake it. It is so much harder to fight when the enemy is inside you, in your past, in the faces of everyone you ever lost or loved. By the time Steve has the ability to muster a thought (and that thought is “Under attack”) he is already on his knees, his body unable to cope with the sickening alien bio-feedback, his mind a tormented whirl of distilled and corrupted emotion. He feels the hard, chill smack of the sidewalk against the side of his face before he is even aware he is falling. He rolls, inelegantly, his face up so all he can see is the sky, and the coiling smoky tendrils of the beast, ever-expanding, glutted on his guilt. It is full: he has never felt so empty in his life, and everything hurts, from his heart to his stomach. Consciousness fades in and out and it is likely only the serum that keeps him from drifting permanently into the black. 

It starts to rain. And someone leaps over Steve’s sprawled body, boot-heels slamming hard on the street, and gets in between him and the beast.

It’s Heckyl, of course, because even though he’s definitely got his problems he does fight on the right side these days. Clint has called him as promised, and here he is. Steve blinks away raindrops, his blurring vision taking in the flap of Heckyl’s coat-tails in the breeze, noting with hazy gratitude the arched, aggressive stance the man is taking in front of him. Heckyl’s body language looks mad as all hell, and possibly this is only because he’s been dragged away from whatever fun thing he’d been up to so he can pull their backsides out of the fire, but Steve is grateful for it nonetheless. An angry Heckyl is a good thing to have at your back in a pinch.

But if whatever that thing is can fell both Steve and Tony like cut flowers, then there’s a real danger Heckyl’s about to get the same treatment if he gets too close, and then they’ll be in no better place than before. He can hear Clint on the radio, and Heckyl’s terse responses. They’re ready to fight.

He tries to speak. He needs to warn his team-mates. They have to know what this thing can do. He tries, he really does - but his lips feel frost-bitten, old, useless, his tongue a heavy strip of leather in his mouth.

“ -!” he manages, and that useless sound makes Heckyl glance down at him, frowning, but nothing more. Failed. Once again. Failed -

(Heckyl)

(can’t save him)

Steve drifts towards unconsciousness, fighting all the way.

It almost claims him.

The rain on his face is cold. He opens his eyes again, and to his huge surprise Heckyl is still on his feet. And not only that, he’s advancing. He looks like a mime doing the whole walking-against-the-wind thing, as if he’s pushing against some terrible pressure, but he‘s taking the fight to the thing and (even more unbelievably) it‘s backing away. Steve is vaguely aware of Clint screaming abuse down the comm, but mercifully it’s abuse of the “Get the fuck out of there you colossal idiot, you’re gonna die -!” variety. Friendly, team-spirited abuse. Oh good.

The vast, smoky bulk of the creature is definitely growing. Swelling, billowing, as if it will envelop the world. Heckyl’s lips pull back in a snarl, his teeth clenched viciously, but he keeps moving. As Steve watches, blinking as much as he can will his leaden eyelids to, Heckyl drags his fists up to almost boxing-style pose - he looks as if even that small change in position is like wading through treacle - and starts to call on his power.

The beast before him balloons. Bulges appear, amorphous limbs trying to resolve and strike out at the man in front it, but becoming instead shapeless swollen lumps which bubble uncomfortably before sagging back into the mass. It strains. Steve has the impression that if it could, it would be howling. But instead there’s just an eerie silence, as the thing continues to inflate and grow to unbearably stretched proportions. Heckyl, his face set and pale, two trails of blood now running from the corners of his eyes, takes one final step until he’s almost pressed into the distended form of the creature.

And it explodes.

There’s almost no sound, only something like an inhalation of air rushing into a vacuum left by the creature’s abrupt departure, but fragments of oily black ash start to float down through the air, falling into Steve’s face. It smells abominable, stale and anciently corrupt, like the inside of a sarcophagus. 

A scrape of boots. Heckyl is crouching down next to him, swiping an arm across his face to wipe away the tracks of blood, and looking extremely weary. But he’s alive. Alive and awake.

“Can you walk?” Heckyl is asking him, his tone bitter and irritable. “Because I’m not carrying you.”

For I’m not Steve correctly reads I can’t, the sarcastic manner aside. Heckyl looks dead on his feet. It’s amazing he’s able to carry his own weight, let alone someone like Steve who outweighs him by almost half.

“Yes,” Steve replies, somewhat astonished by the fact that he isn’t lying. As soon as the creature exploded, he’d started feeling better. Like he’s had the world’s worst dose of the flu, but better. He starts trying to sit up, and between him and Heckyl’s supporting arm, they manage it. They sit there for a while, as the rain and ash continue to fall and the air starts to clear of the stink.

“Cap, Heckyl.”

“We’re here,” Steve says, and even hears (to his great relief) an affirmative grunt from Tony, who is evidently annoyed at being counted out of the game despite having spent most of the action lying comatose on the street.

“Je-sus.” Clint’s voice is half-admiring. “What was that thing.”

“I’m more interested,” Steve says, locking eyes with Heckyl, “as to how you knew how to kill it.”

Heckyl just shrugs - a testament to how tired he must be, usually he’s far more elaborate - and looks away.

“What an assumption,” he says. “I didn’t kill it. One might say it killed itself. Obviously none too bright. About as sentient as the average caterpillar, I‘d say. A brainless eating machine.”

“And it ate itself to death,” Steve says, the horrible truth of it all dawning on him. “It found an almost limitless supply of food and it just couldn’t stop itself.”

“Boom,” agrees Heckyl, soberly miming an explosion with both hands spread. He is steadfastly ignoring the way Steve is looking at him.

Tony’s forty-odd years and countless acts of regret had barely served as a snack. His own near-century of horror and loss had only satiated the creature for a moment. But Heckyl -

- Heckyl was millions of years old.

And had, as Loki had once put it, darkly, done things. On a planetary genocidal scale of awfulness, for countless centuries.

No wonder the creature had exploded. And Steve, because he is a good man and values his own sanity, makes a careful and conscious decision to put this from his mind. Besides, it’s almost palpable how uncomfortable Heckyl is about this whole thing, and the man’s been through enough.

“Come on,” he says, as the rain begins to falter and the sun attempt to filter through the grey clouds. “Let’s try that walk now.”

Chapter Text

“First of all,” Tony says, as they walk very briskly down the corridor (they’re not running, no, because running would suggest life-or-death urgency, and this wasn’t that, not at all) “don’t freak out. Okay? He’s fine. He’s absolutely fine. He’s awake, he’s hungry, he’s watching TV. He’s fine.”

“Apart from the small issue that he doesn’t have the first idea who any of us are.”

“Aside from that. Hey, I’m sure there’s hundreds of people in the world who don’t know who I am, and they’re all doing great. There’s that one tribe on an island that - ”

Loki’s expression could have cracked mesozoic granite. Tony’s face fell.

“You’re freaking out, aren’t you. I specifically said not to do that. And look, we’re here, you don’t wanna scare him by being all wrath-of-god, right? Chill. Okay? Chill. Happy faces. Here we go.”

He pushes open the door. Heckyl is sitting in the expansive comfort of the medbay’s surgical couch, covered in blankets and with the bedhead propped up at a comfortable angle to allow him to watch the big screen on the opposite wall. As Tony had confirmed, he’s halfway down a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and seems as alert and cheerful as a kitten. The only glaring sign that anything is wrong is the strapping that binds his left shoulder and the neatly taped square of surgical gauze that’s covering his left temple. He looks up as they enter, and Loki’s stomach clenches.

His gaze isn’t...empty. Not at all. There’s all the usual intelligence and shrewdness in that look, but now it only seems to highlight what isn’t there: because there’s a way that Heckyl should look when he looks at Loki and he’s not doing it now. He looks only enquiring, interested….and confused.

“He knows who he is,” Tony had reassured, earlier. “He knows his name, favourite colour, shoe size, that kind of thing. He knows he’s on Earth, and that Snide is gone, and that he’s safe with people who aren’t going to hurt him, he’s just...a little fuzzy on the details.”

“Am I a detail?”

“Ok that came out wrong. He’s having trouble remembering people. And some past events.”

Like me, Loki thinks, looking at Heckyl and trying not to let his own anger and anxiety show through in his expression. Like us.

“Hi, Tony,” Heckyl says, and seems gratified when Tony finger-guns him, indicating that he’s got the right name for the right face. “Ugh. Not more tests? It’s only been an hour.”

“No no. Your veins and involuntary motor functions are safe from me. I brought you another visitor though, stave the boredom off.”

Loki steps forward, brushing past Tony and not caring if it’s rude. Tony sighs, and withdraws, the door swinging behind him.

“Hi,” says Heckyl, and he smiles, but he looks guarded and cautious.

“Hello,” says Loki, and sits down on the edge of the bed. “My name is Loki.” Is there a hope within him that the name alone will be enough, that Heckyl will smile at him properly and say he remembers? Of course there is. But of course Heckyl does not. Indeed he flinches slightly, as if he’s uncertain about strangers getting that close. Loki tries not to let it bother him, although he aches to reach out in that familiar fashion he’s become accustomed to, pet Heckyl’s hair, let him know that he’s wanted.

“Loki,” Heckyl repeats, as if trying the word out, and something must have slipped in Loki’s expression because then he frowns. “Oh. I know you, don’t I. And you’re upset that I don’t remember you. The doctor - “ and he blinks once, an effort - “Bruce said this would happen.”

“I’m not upset,” Loki lies. “I just want you to be well. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve got a headache,” Heckyl pouts. “My arm is sore. And I’m not allowed out of bed. I’m bored.”

The whining, demanding edge to his tone is so familiar and normal that Loki almost laughs.

“Well then,” he says. “I shall have to entertain you.”

And he does. He spends the next hour speaking of nothing important. Stories, but not of their past adventures - children’s stories from Asgard, some of which Heckyl says he remembers, but when gently pressed, cannot say when or where he first heard them. And Loki does a couple of small, pointless magics. Creating a swarm of glowing butterflies to fill the clinically sterile room with bobbing green lights (Heckyl is delighted) and then his old favourite, duplicates of himself all about the room doing all kinds of things from fighting moves to juggling (Heckyl is seriously impressed).

It’s during the duplicate invasion that the real Loki, moving unmarked amongst ten ephemeral dopplegangers, sneaks up and brushes the very tip of his forefinger to the centre of Heckyl’s forehead. He does not follow it up with magic. It’s just contact, simple and gentle, driven by a pure need to touch his mate, feel the reassuring living warmth of his skin. To know that even if forgetful (and Heckyl’s memory has never been the best, not since the dark energem) he is here. Loki is here and will not leave him. Because he knows how much the ancient orphan hates to be alone.

Heckyl draws in a sharp hitch of breath, and the sound is enough for Loki to be distracted. The illusions all vanish, and there’s just one Loki sat there on the edge of the bed, hand hanging where he has lifted it away from Heckyl’s brow.

“Oh,” Heckyl says, and he suddenly looks terribly tired. “Oh. Oh, no. Not again.”

Loki, suspecting what’s happened and knowing what he must be thinking, moves in on instinct and pulls him into a hug. He knows he’s right when Heckyl immediately relaxes into it, clings to him, hugs back. The relief is immense on both sides.

“It’s only been a few hours,” he says. “You were knocked out. Nothing more sinister.”

Heckyl is silent, his head buried into Loki’s neck, under the long black hair. He is quiet for a long time: and when he speaks his voice sounds slightly choked.

“You bastard. You never got me that pizza you promised me. And don’t you dare tell me that you did and I forgot. I may forget people, but I never forget food.”

Loki laughs.

“Liar,” he chides, happily.

Chapter Text

When Bruce opens his door in the morning, he finds his doorway almost entirely filled with stuffed bear. It says something about Bruce Banner and his lifestyle that he reacts very little: his eyes widen, and he rubs at them once or twice, but this is due more to the early hour than any real surprise.

Clint Barton’s face appears, framed by pink plush, at the gap where the bear’s head joins its shoulder.

“You got a bear,” he says, perhaps redundantly. “I didn’t get a bear.”

“What did you get?”

“Bamboo. Six foot bamboo canes in a pot. But tied with a red ribbon.” Clint pushes the bear’s arm down so he can look at Bruce more easily, completely straightfaced. “What do you think of your bear?”

Bruce gives this important question due consideration.

“I’m glad it isn’t green?”

Clint nods solemnly, then withdraws. The bear immediately springs back to fill the available space like a giant pink marshmallow. The faint strains of Donny Osmond singing “Puppy Love” filter down from the direction of the main lounge area, and there’s a subtle but definite scent of roses suffusing the corridor.

Bruce takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It’s going to be a long day, he can just tell.

Tony is very excited, which to Bruce is the first biggest indication that the whole bear thing is a Starkism as opposed to a Lokism. It’s always a close-run contest, when things are afoot at Avengers Tower - does the fault lie with the god, or the engineer?

The walls and couches in the lounge weren’t pink. Again, everything pointed to Tony. Loki would have gone the whole extra mile. There probably would have been actual rosebushes taking root in the floor. Not to say that there won’t be at some point.

“Brucie-bear! No, seriously, did you like the bear? It was Hulk-sized. I mean actually to scale. I sent the precise measurements to the company, they were thrilled to get it, I think they -”

Engineer confirmed.

“It’s awesome, Tony,” says Bruce, getting his tea tin out of the cupboard. Somehow he isn’t surprised that the sugar in the sugarbowl is tinted vaguely pink. “So, Valentine’s Day, huh? Didn’t know it was a favourite of yours.”

Tony doesn’t respond immediately, and shuffles a little, which gives Bruce pause.

“Is this anything to do with you not giving Pepper a -”

“No,” Tony shoots back, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I just wanted to do something normal. For everyone.”

Bruce wonders in which world ordering Hulk-sized teddybears and ramming them into your room-mate’s doorway is considered normal, but he doesn’t say anything. Because he knows what Tony means. Virtually nothing they do is normal by regular people standards. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend that they’re just Tony and Bruce, regular guys in a house-share doing regular stupid people things on regular stupid people holidays. Even if that means giant bears and pink sugar and Donny Osmond. He stirs his tea and feels oddly content.

“I guess that means we’re watching The Notebook tonight.”

Tony makes a face.

“When Harry Met Sally?”

“Better. Not good. But better. Only You. And I got Ben and Jerrys to make an ice cream. With pie.”

Bruce looks up as his attention is caught by a hitherto unnoticed spray of paper hearts fluttering gently in the air-con. It turns out the ceiling is covered in them, a net of glittering red that sparkles and glimmers at every slight movement of air.

“You know,” he says, “you’ve done a great job. Thanks.”

He knows he’s said the right thing when Tony beams. Because Tony - and Howard must take a huge part of the responsibility for this - is very susceptible to approval and validation from others. Seeing Tony happy is important. To forestall any unwanted introspection, however, he changes the subject again.

“I kind of don’t want to ask, but should we expect any grand, dangerously magical gestures from the godly half of our only real full-time couple? I mean, is the kitchen suddenly going to be full of unicorns or anything?”

Tony shrugs. “Well, they’re both enormous divas. I’m pretty sure if Heckyl doesn’t get at least a pound box of special import Godiva to work his way through, he’s gonna raise hell. And you know Loki can’t resist a grand gesture. I’m not ruling anything out.”

“Very wise.” Bruce sips his tea, then the phrasing of a previous statement turns round and slugs him in the brain. “Wait a minute. You got them to make an ice cream? You mean a brand new one, don’t you…wasn’t Stark Raving Hazelnuts enough?”

“Nope,” says Tony, happily. “Not now I can have I, Tony, Have Pies For You.”

As it happens, Tony and Bruce are both destined to be disappointed: there are to be no unicorns in the kitchen. Loki and Heckyl are in Loki’s room, and in fact having a difference of opinion - although it is at least Valentine’s Day related.

“Today?”

“Yes, today.”

Loki doesn’t mention the “Mister and Mister” matched ceramic cat ornaments he found outside the door on his way back from the kitchen earlier. Like Bruce, he suspects he knows very well who is to blame for this and will take suitable vengeance at an appropriate point. He’s good at vengeance: where deserved, of course, because he’s theoretically a good person now. And it’s certainly deserved in Stark’s case - those cats are hideous. Not to mention the fact that the kitchen ceiling is shedding glitter like a hyperactive toddler at craft club and Loki now has sparkly hair.

Heckyl, who is sat on the floor with a StarkPad in his hands, flipping through trash on the internet, looks up at him.

“They only have the one day here where they love each other? Ugh. Weird.”

“Not exactly. They have the one day where each party is manipulated into doing things or buying things for the other by the strategic application of guilt and emotional pressure.”

Heckyl gives him a look.

“Well, that sounds more normal,” he says, and Loki laughs. “So? Did you buy me anything or do I need to start on the manipulation right away?”

“I didn’t buy you anything.”

“Heartless.”

“I don’t have to buy you anything.”

“Rude.”

 Loki gets down on the floor and settles himself comfortably next to Heckyl. Without asking, he reaches out and takes the tablet from his hands (Heckyl complains loudly, but does not resist all that much) and sets it aside. When Heckyl playfully makes a grab for it, Loki catches his wrists instead, pulls him in against his chest, then very deliberately presses the flat of his palm against the man’s forehead. And the world goes away.

I got you this instead, says Loki.

Suddenly it’s years ago, inside their heads. A time only a few weeks after Loki had met Heckyl and released him from that cage. They’d been sat together in some dive bar on a planet even Loki didn’t recall the name of, and nothing at all of any importance or annoyance had been happening. Which made a change, frankly, considering that their lives since they’d met had been a riot of activity, chaos and (quite often) getting shouted at by ruling authorities.

This was the first time we stopped to draw breath.

They’d been left pretty much to themselves: even in a dive bar it had been very clear that they were the most lethal thing in the area. It had been quiet, the only other patrons huddled in their own dark corners, hiding from their own crimes or demons. Heckyl had a small bruise just over his eye, the result of a narrow escape from a stoning. And Loki had got up, heading to the counter to get food and as he went past -

It didn’t mean anything, says Heckyl, defensive to the last. 

It meant everything, counters Loki. This was it. This was when I should have known.

- just reached out instinctively and brushed a fingertip over that bruise. Nothing suggestive, nothing sexual, a single touch.

There’d been gripped hands before, taking the other‘s weight when climbing. Helping hands, to get the other back on their feet. Defensive hands, raised in violence to protect the other. There had been all this prior instinctive motion, without conscious thought driving it: this is my companion, my ally. We help each other.

But there had not been this.

Heckyl turns, his eyes wide, to watch Loki as he walks away. His expression is caught perfectly between shock, confusion and hunger: there’s an intense and obvious vulnerability to him in that moment. It’s clear he doesn’t understand what just happened at all, but equally clear that he wants more of whatever the hell that just was with every fibre of his being. He almost quivers.  Loki does not look back at him, all the dark angularity of his long leather clad spine turned towards him.

This is when I think you knew.

Loki pulls back his hand, and they’re both back in his room, still sat on the floor. Heckyl breathes out, shuddering.

“How did you - how did you do that?” he asks. “How? You didn’t even know. You couldn’t have seen.”

“I didn’t have to see it in you to know,” Loki says. “I saw it in me.”

He pauses, noting that for once the notoriously voluble Heckyl has nothing to say, then adds: “Oh. And you also get these cats.”

He summons the pair of ceramic monstrosities between them with a flick of his fingers, and chuckles with satisfaction at the sound of shattering as Heckyl jumps him.