Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bright lights over his head spun around and around like twisting spirals. The static noise didn't stop, not before or during or after the pain. It was constant. It was numbing. It went on and on.

Hands with seven fingers peeled the skin from his belly and he screamed—silent, totally silent—for his vocal cords were too swollen to vibrate.

It was a scream all the same. His lips still curled, and his lungs still contracted under the bite of the knife, and his teeth still snarled and bit and searched for foreign flesh to rend.

There was a sound like squelching fruit and he thought of picking berries in the orchard as a boy. The juice always stained his fingers, always left finger trails on his chin, and Mother always knew he’d stolen from the basket. Oh, mother please please help— no. He had no mother. There was no one listening for his call, no one coming to his aid, no one whose esteem he had not irreparably betrayed. He was sacrificed upon this altar for a reason, his punishment well-earned.

Sharp implements clattered distantly on the table like a melody heard through a thick wall. His body thrashed, and he felt divorced from it. A disembodied soul insulated against the tempest.

And so it was not him that surged with power and shattered the chains, nor was it him that seized his captor’s neck and twisted until it snapped. It was not him that dug talon claws into the floating island dirt and stumbled like a fawn to the edge.

There was no piece of him left when that man threw himself into the abyss hoping this time, this time it would kill him. It was not him, for he was floating far away. So very far away.

  Fulton-Killinger Preparatory Academy, 1987

Tony never got the hang of uniforms. Wearing the same thing day after day seemed practical at first blush, but really it just meant he could never tell what was clean and what was dirty. For what it was worth, no one else seemed to be able to tell either. He'd lost count of the times he'd overslept and ended up running to class in the same clothes with no one the wiser.

It was a particularly boring math class, which made the spot of dried food on his blazer interesting by comparison. Was Wednesday’s marinara or Thursday’s salsa? Or.. god, what if it was ketchup from the previous French Fry-day? It was red and kind of chunky, so not ketchup. But wouldn’t salsa be less...paste-y?

Mr. Thornton dusted the chalk off his hands and clasped them behind his back.

“So here we have a four quadrant graph and a given set of constraints. Notice how certain segments of the graph are off limits. Does anyone want to guess at an equation which satisfies the conditions?”

Mary White raised her hand like her desk was on fire and Tony snorted. Of course she wanted to show off, Mary always wanted someone to inflate her ego. Thornton’s attention snapped to him, his coke-bottle glasses enlarging his beady eyes until they looked like big, mold-blue buttons.

“If you think our lesson is so funny, why don’t you come show us your answer, Mr. Stark?”

His classmates' attention shifted along with their pencils. The urge to growl scrunched his lip, but Stark men don’t let the peons get under their skin.

Sprawling even lower in his chair, he shoved down the anger and relaxed his face. This chump wasn’t worth the gum on his shoe.

“Would that satisfy your constraints, Mr. Thornton?” he asked, to the surprised laughter of his classmates.

Sexual comments always made adults uncomfortable. Tony loved watching them squirm. Thornton wouldn’t be the first crony Tony got fired with nothing more than a rumor, the oily mick should be afraid.

John Holland two seats back choked on the water he’d been sipping, so a fit of wet coughing serenaded Tony’s stroll down the aisle.

He snatched the longest stick of chalk from the wood tray and snapped it in thirds just to see the vein on Thornton’s forehead grow. With quick strokes he chicken scratched a long equation, not caring if it was legible.

“Within the constraints of x equals three to negative three,” he said in a bored tone, white dust crumbling from the tip as he wrote, “and y is greater than zero, the equation y = |sin(x)| + 5*exp(-x^100)*cos(x) satisfies the conditions. This is easy to verify by graphing.”

Once he was finished with the formula he moved immediately to the graph and started plotting.

“Due to the interaction of sin and cosine, we find a mild curve at the highest and lowest values of x,” Tony continued, “But as we approach one and negative one, we get a vertical line until y equals three point five–”

When he sketched the two vertical lines horror dawned on Thornton’s face. Tony rushed to complete the graph while his teacher lunged for the eraser.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark, that’s enough–”

“...where we start to get this really interesting bell curve.” Tony continued, fighting a smirk as he finished the final points and the girls in the back row started giggling. With a flourish he drew the last details and stepped back with his arms wide in a ta-da pose as the room devolved into hysterics.

The penis on the chalkboard had a tragically short life, but he felt it was well lived. The day was seized for all thirty seconds of its precious existence. The cackling of his classmates filled him with a rare swell of pride.

“Principal’s office, Stark.” Thornton yelled.

“But, sir, it’s a correct answer.” Tony cooed, and the bastard’s face went livid. His classmates froze at the fury on his face, the cowards, but that didn’t dim his elation. If this NYU hack actually knew mathematics, he’d have caught on before Tony finished the equation. Really, it’s his own fault.

“Just for that, you can all take an extra fifteen problems on your homework.” Thornton said, and the collective groan really killed Tony’s vibe.

“What does homework have to do with you punishing me for a right answer?” he replied. The words popped out faster than he could think them, and once they were loose there was tragically no way to wrangle them back.

“Nothing. It’s something for the class to do while I escort you. Get your things.”

He contemplated asking for a hall pass just to see how far he could push, but if Thornton’s face got any redder the CDC might make up a new disease and name it after him.

As he shrugged his backpack over his shoulders he heard Mary lean over to Claurice. He’s so immature. No wonder he got held back three times.

Trouble is what he is. I heard he trades homework for cigarettes.

I heard he trades blowjobs for cigarettes. As if he could stop talking long enough!

The girls giggled behind their hands.

Tony sighed. He had hoped that a guy dumb enough not to mentally graph an equation before it was done would also be dumb enough to send him out unsupervised. The sweater vest with legs threw open the door and led him down the spiral staircase.

Without further ceremony he was deposited in a tufted leather chair across from Principal Wilson’s desk with a look of fake contrition on his face and a somewhat convincing story of Thornton touching him inappropriately in his mind. Wilson beat him to the punch.

“Three weeks and no sight of you. I was beginning to think we weren't friends anymore.”

“I meant to stop, sir, but you’re such a charmer I couldn't stay away.” Tony grinned sharply.

Wilson's lack of reaction punctured his spirit. It figured, the usual tactics never worked him. The man was so miserable and heavy-shouldered that just being in the same room could make a person want to lay down and sleep forever. Even this far away Tony could smell the silent judgement.

“This is your third demerit this quarter. You know what that means.” The older man took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

Tony huffed, sharp and pitch black.

“Go ahead, coward. Call him. You won’t.”

'Him' being his legal guardian, his late father's right hand man. Obadiah Stane.

Wilson returned his glasses to his face and the swooping parabolic curves seemed to match the wrinkles gravity gifted him under his eyes.

“I do. Every time. And at this rate Mr. Stane will have no choice but to come in person.”

Wilson knew Stane. He knew the threat he was making. Tony gritted his teeth.

“Can I go now? Or do you want five more minutes to gaze into my eyes?”

Wilson slumped into a sigh. The deep existential kind. “If you don’t fix your attitude, someone else is going to do it for you. Mark my words.”

“Thanks. I’ll file that under ‘unwarranted threats against my person.’ Hmm who should I call first, CPS or National Security?”

“Perhaps you could do us both a favor and call your guardian. You may find what he has to say very motivating.”

“Sure thing, chief. Right after I profess my undying love to the chupacabra and kiss a yeti.” Tony grabbed his pack and swung it into the door frame accidentally-on-purpose, hard enough to dent the drywall.

“I can’t protect you forever,” Wilson called.

Tony stopped. Who the hell did this guy think he was? A stiff shirt education board ass-kisser, talking like he actually cared. Ha.

“I know you’ve been through a lot, Tony, and I want to help you. But the rules say you’re out of second chances, and I can only bend them so much.”

That part Tony believed. Hell that was his plan, actually, cooked up two years ago when he was fifteen and making his first attempt at Senior year. Aim to fail. Nobody would put a drug-addled high school dropout in charge of a multi-billion dollar industry. Nobody would put him anywhere but a rehab center or a house in the Hamptons. So long as he was a disgrace, he would be free.

Trouble was, money could bail a person out of an awful lot. Failing in general was hard at this school, where the tests were so fucking easy a blind monkey could pass. Failing hard enough that one of the richest men alive couldn’t swoop in and undo it? Damn near impossible. Hence three senior years without any mention of expulsion.

“It’s not too late to change,” Wilson said earnestly. “But if you don’t–”

The door slammed over the geezer’s final warning, but Tony was pretty sure he heard the words again and expelled . As if. Boarding school was a business like any other. So long as the tuition checks didn’t bounce he wasn’t going anywhere.

The checkered tile of the hallway gave him the prickling starts of a migraine as he stood there deciding what he wanted to do with his afternoon. The line of grey lockers seemed to mock him with how perfectly they stood at attention along the walls like good little soldiers.

Anger sped his heartbeat higher and his hands buzzed with the urge to punch something. He needed a smoke.

Slipping out the back, he fished out the crumpled cigarette carton from his bag and tapped out a stick. The snick snick burn sound of the lighter always made him think of rattlesnakes and bomb fuses. Part of the appeal, if he was honest, in addition to the relaxation.

Pinching the end between his teeth, he watched the tip glow orange and felt the dry paper stick to his lips. White paper turned glowy tangerine and then wilted into dusty grey, a deep breath in becoming a cloud of frustration blown out. The nicotine hit like a raindrop on his forehead, rolling down and spreading until his agitation leveled out. He sighed.

Looking around the courtyard he saw that autumn had settled into the grounds overnight. The school blended into the fall foliage, the red brick buildings and wood benches looking as though they had been put there a million years ago. Stale and unchanging.

The greystone monolith previously known as Founder’s Hall stood out from the rest like a crooked nail. It was old, built in the lee of a foothill beside the sloping shore of the Merrimack River. It's windows were boarded shut, the overgrown lawn surrounded by a chain link fence. It had been abandoned years ago after his parents died and left the school a substantial endowment that funded new buildings with better insulation and PVC plumbing.

For his part he preferred the Colonial relic. It was the only building on campus where he could do whatever he wanted without someone looking over his shoulder. It had labs full of dusty but serviceable equipment and a big walk-in freezer in the cafeteria kitchen where he could keep snacks without the raccoons getting into them.

He took a final drag from his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, stomping it out with his shoe. If Wilson really wanted to make a law abiding citizen of him, all he had to do was leave him the hell alone. This morning he started on a robot that could open Coke cans and he wanted to get back to it.

Looping his hands in the fence, he climbed up and threw his leg over. Balanced on the wobbly frame, he brought his other leg around and between hooking his heels into the links and picking a spot to land, something momentarily blocked out the sun.

Tony blinked, glancing up and stopping as a sound like an old V2 missile reached his ears. High pitched like the whistles Coach blew during practice and getting higher, louder, closer by the second.

A gusty wind ripped over the river and blew his hair back. Stunned into stillness, he watched in fear and wonder as a person-shaped object fell from the sky.

Chapter Text

The ground sunk under his loafers when he jumped from the fence, but he couldn’t care less about getting mud on his pants. There weren’t any airports nearby, nor any hospitals with helicopters. How the hell did a person fall from nowhere?

In the breathless second it took for him to come up blank, the poor bastard struck ground. With the sickening crunch of wood shingles, he crashed through the roof of Founder’s Hall. Dust and debris erupted out of windows like a detonating bomb, breaking some of the boards and spewing musty air through the rest.

The ground shook, pale green light shining through the cracks in the windows, and without thinking he ran for the double doors.

Inside it looked the same, at least in the entry hall and the wide corridors that split from it. The same speckled marble and rat eaten chairs, the same outdated magazines on the front desk and tan sheets thrown over forgotten furniture.

Dust motes hovered in the air as he frantically scanned the three open corridors, trying to guess which one was closest to where the skydiver landed. The usual stale air gave no clues as he breathed heavily and clutched the strap of his backpack. Then, distantly, there came a moan. Horrible and broken like a wounded animal. Fuck, they were alive. How the hell were they alive?

The sound repeated, quieter and cracked and he got goosebumps. It wasn’t human, that noise. Something about it pricked at the primal part of his mind and reminded him of a movie he’d seen last summer with Rhodey, the one with the blonde girl and the guy that became an incubator for alien babies.

In the end curiosity won out, or at least that’s what he told himself as he stepped cautiously down the left hallway and around the corner. It had nothing to do with the wet gurgling gasps that sounded like crying. Nothing at all.

The wood floors creaked as he took one step and then another, the hallway so long abandoned that he left footprints in the dirt. Each step closer made the grotesque whimpering louder until he came to a door in the middle of the hall and peered around the threshold. And immediately pulled back, pressing his back against the wall and trying not to hyperventilate.

Afterimages of what he’d seen burned themselves into his retinas in all their grotesque glory. Whatever the creature was, it wasn’t human. It was blue. And huge. With claws longer than switchblades and probably just as sharp. Blood like molten licorice dripped from its mouth onto it's unclothed body, sticky and thick as tar.

But none of that frightened him, or at least no more than any kind of gore would. What made him lurch back and hide were the eyes. Burning red and predatory. No whites, no blacks, just haunting pools of alarming crimson.

Floorboards creaked and the hair rose on the back of Tony’s neck. The creature had seen him, and it was moving. Coming closer.

Mind whited out by fear, he lunged across the door frame and tripped on an overturned chair, landing hard on his knees. Aggressive wheezes came from behind him, turning his stomach over while he fought to override the pain and get back to his feet. However sheltered his childhood might have been, he knew a feral beast when he saw one.

For his twelfth birthday his dad had gifted him a rifle and a trip into the woods where he became a man. According to Stark tradition that entailed hunting a big buck and shooting it until the entrails became extrails. He'd never forgotten the blood pooling around his shoes or the flies landing on the unblinking marbles of its eyes.

It cried and bucked violently as it went down, feral as it fought death's grip. That's the alien looked too. Hurt, terrified, ready to take Tony down with it. Splinters from the old wood pierced his palms as he threw himself forward.

A foot, an inch, every bit of distance mattered. The beast chased him with stomping footsteps, black ooze pouring from its chest and claws scraping the floorboards. A taloned hand swiped where his head had been only a moment before, and he scrambled around a corner into a wide open atrium.

Loose sheets of paper were scattered across the floor, and cracked, water-rotten furniture sat in the wreckage of a collapsed ceiling. He almost tripped when his foot landed on a sheet and it slid out from under him.

The atrium had two paths; one back to the front desk, and another stretching onward to the cafeteria and music rooms.

A decision made in the space between blinks might not qualify as a real choice, but with sweat dripping down his neck and time slowing down, he foresaw what might happen if he led this thing back to the school. The looks of shock that the teachers would surely wear as a science fiction monster burst through the back door and ransacked the lockers. The boys grabbing their golf clubs, thinking they could be heroes. The girls running too slow in their impractical shoes.

In the space between frantic, searing breaths he saw it all in his mind’s eye. He ran for the cafeteria. For what felt like an eternity he ran, until his lungs were screaming and his heart felt like a drumstick cracking against the inside of his ribs. He couldn’t go on much further. Despite the creature’s injuries it was fast and he wasn’t gaining any ground.

When he reached the end of the hall, the doors were held open by wooden wedges and he kicked them off as he ran through. Throwing his weight on the back of the doors, he rammed the blocks through the u-shaped handles and hoped that would keep them closed long enough for him to catch his breath. Weight crashed against the other side of the doors, and he realized he’d run into a dead end. Metal whined, slacked, and crashed again as the monster tried to get through but the slapshot barricade held.

Panting, he took inventory of the large room, rectangular except for an alcove where students used to line up to be served food from the industrial kitchen. Chairs were scattered and overturned in a chaotic mess, and the corresponding tables leaned in shambling stacks against the walls, slanted like a shelf of books after the biggest one has been removed. More loose paper covered the floor and it was all useless, completely useless.

Nails screeched on the outside of the metal doors and he shuddered, darting into the kitchen.

Stainless steel dishes covered the buffet line where a family of oversized spoons and spatulas hung. Oily outlines marked the wall where appliances and tables previously stood, the only useful mechanism left to rot being the ancient walk-in freezer.

Back when the building was still in use, Freddie Jenkins got himself locked in there trying to steal a case of ice cream sandwiches. It took half an hour and three lunch ladies to get him out, so Tony had never gone inside without something heavy holding the door.

Judging by the persistent bang of fists a few feet away, the alien couldn’t get through metal very quickly. He could trap it here until he figured out how to kill it...or at least long enough to drag an extension cord from the workshop and freeze it.

A hollow crash echoed through the rafters followed by the cracking of termite eaten wood, and Tony figured a rough plan was better than none. He grabbed a spatula and leapt over the buffet line, crouching behind an overturned table and waiting for the alien to make a move. Wet footsteps slapped on the strewn papers and then the monster came into sight, only half hidden by the dark and so tall it had to stoop to clear the doorframe.

Weighing the severely limited options, Tony bolted into the freezer. Like most of the building it didn’t have power, so the shelf lined walls felt only a little cold. Metal crashed as the creature careened through the buffet line and he pressed himself into the wall beside the door, spatula at the ready. He knew he would only have a moment to escape, but he didn’t let himself panic. He squeezed his eyes shut and listened.

One step, two steps, the sound of tapping claws, and then a startling, sudden blast of cold breath broke on his shoulder. Tony ducked under the creatures arm and heaved the freezer door closed.

Through the sliver of metal he saw the creature turn, its face drawn in an expression that Tony was shocked to find familiar. Surprise.

The latch clicked. His legs felt wobbly, so he put his back to the door and slid until he was squatting and staring at the drippy, moss-covered rafters. Sweat dripped down his brow and he scrubbed at his face in shock.

“I just locked a blue alien in a meat freezer,” he whispered to himself, his hand coming to cover his mouth.

Another strong breeze sent the crumpled papers flying off the floor in a miniature tornado and like the aftershock of an Earthquake it hit him again. He just locked a blue alien in a meat freezer.

Nobody would believe this.

Chapter Text

In the freezer behind him, a crash erupted. Tony jumped to his feet.

As with any building or product or weapon, without a checklist to follow he would get nowhere fast. He needed a plan. Inside the freezer he could hear the beast raging, throwing its weight on the door. He needed to hurry. Kill it before it got out.

Snagging his backpack from the floor, he thundered down the stairs to the basement and ducked into one of the labs, the one he called his Workshop. Unlike upstairs, it had modern tile floors in a checkered pattern and long worktops with pneumatic hookups and bunsen burners. None of the gizmos worked without gas, but he kept them out because it made the room look more science-y.

Across the back wall were stolen milk crates filled with scrapped tech: walkmans, weed whackers, camcorders from Lost and Found, and even a few A/C units that shorted out during a thunderstorm. All scavenged from school dumpsters in the dead of night. He often rehearsed excuses in the mirror just in case he was ever caught. A lost calculator, an injured animal stuck in the dumpster, or some other, stranger story made up on the fly.

As he shoved aside a stack of junk crates, he sincerely hoped he wasn’t caught today. None of those lame excuses would cover even half of the rules he’d broken. Uniform infractions, sneaking out after hours, smoking, property theft...property damage on one memorable occasion. Not to mention they’d confiscate all his stuff. The supplies, the inventions, the generators he’d built from scratch way back in sixth grade.

The work tables were covered in tools and half-finished machines, most of them started and then abandoned when he got a newer, shinier idea. In a smaller shop he would have been forced to clean up, but here he had four science rooms to expand into and the whole building to himself.  Whenever his mind wandered he moved his tools to the next bench and left the mess, so finding his stash of illegal contraband proved difficult.

For long minutes he jerked out drawer after drawer and threw open cabinets, the sound of metal rollers and clacking hardware loud in the quiet basement. Then he found it. The Vault.

It was a bottom drawer, double deep and so rusted that it took both hands to open it. Within lay all his treasures: a box of unbreakable gobstoppers, a twelve pack of bottle rockets, two Bud Lights he hadn’t been able to drink after spitting out half of the first, and the .22 caliber pistol his dad slipped into his duffle bag on his first day of boarding school.

They’d been in the Jaguar, alone after his mom went to mingle with the staff while his dad parked.

“There comes a time in a man’s life when he’s got to protect himself,” Howard had said, ashing his cigarette through a barely open window. “God willing you won’t have to, but I want you to be ready.”

Tony remembered the weight of it, so heavy it reminded him of a bowling ball. He recalled the way the sun had caught the barrel and turned it white. How the grease of the mechanism had smelled like gasoline, acrid and mephitic. He’d wanted to be ready too.

"You keep that hidden, you hear? They don’t want you to have that kind of thing, but I’m not about to leave you defenseless with a bunch of strangers.”

The chattering of his future classmates had seemed to take on a menacing undercurrent as his father pulled into a spot.  He’d taken off his sunglasses and looked at Tony with flat eyes.

“Now don’t go waving it around or anything. But if you’re ever in trouble—look at me, are you listening?”

“I’m listening,” Tony had mumbled.

Howard had tsked and stamped the cig in the ashtray that lived in the front seat cup holder.

“If you’re ever scared for your life, you shoot. Understand?”

Years later in a damp basement, Tony gazed down at the dust covered gun in the laboratory drawer and swallowed. It had rusted in the year since he’d hidden it, oxidized around the hammer and the trigger by wet air and neglect. As casually as he could, he picked it up and felt the cold spread from the diamond-patterned grip to his palm.

It still felt heavy.

He didn’t want to do this, but what choice did he have? The adults wouldn’t believe him, and the other students would tell on him. The weapon wasn’t safe to use with the trigger rusted as it was. He’d have to clean it first.

Spreading a grease stained towel on his current work table, he laid the gun on top of it. His father had shown him how, but that was nearly five years ago. He didn’t really remember.

A jumbo size Cool Whip container served as his toolbox, something he’d always meant to upgrade but never had. Digging around, he found an old toothbrush and some steel mesh, which would have to do. The rust was thickest around the trigger so he started there, scrubbing rapidly with the wire mesh and brushing away the red-brown dust.

He worried that he was taking too long. Would he hear the monster coming down here if it escaped? Or would he go back upstairs and find the door busted open and the creature nowhere to be found?

Privately, he wondered if that would be so bad. It would be, obviously, but if it got out maybe someone else could put the thing down. Tony certainly never wanted to kill anything ever again. But he would. For the safety of the school, he would.

By the time the lab was starting to get dark the gun was clean enough to use. It didn’t look like much, with the metal scratched and buffed down to the blueing around the trigger, but it wouldn’t jam. That’s all he really cared about at that moment, that he wouldn’t hold the thing up acting like Indiana Jones and end up blowing his hand off instead.

Once it was ready, though, he found he didn’t want to get up. Even as the room went from the dim gold of sunset to the bluish purple of twilight, he kept finding excuses to keep working. The grip was slippery from oil, so he decided that needed to be buffed out. Wouldn’t want it slipping from his hand, right?

Next he remembered the bullets, which were housed in a magazine in the handle. If the gun was rusty, they might be too. It sounded dangerous enough to convince him to empty out the magazine and check each of the little cylinders for corrosion.

Miraculously, they were all as pristine and shiny as if they’d just come out of the box. With a sigh, he reloaded them into the cartridge and slid it back into the handle with a loud click. Ready to go, he tapped his nails on the counter and slid off the stool.

But then, as he was putting away his tools he noticed how jumbled the toolbucket was and it seemed pretty important to organize it. Weren’t the teachers always telling him he needed to be more organized? He dumped them all out and sorted the wrenches from the screwdrivers from the pencils and paintbrushes. And after that he didn’t have anything else to occupy himself, so he grabbed the newly immaculate gun.

Enough stalling, he was being stupid. It wasn’t some helpless animal. That thing was a monster. He’d seen it up close, had nearly felt the slash of its claws on his neck.

Gritting his teeth, he flicked the safety off with his thumb and jogged up the stairs two at a time. If he was going to pull the trigger, then stalling would only heighten his nerves.

Following the sludgy footprints, he stepped about the flecks of blood and the scratches trenched in the wood floor that looked like a big cat had escaped a zoo. When he reached the cafeteria doors he cocked the gun and checked the safety again.

A million reasons to run flooded his mind. His unfinished projects, the former friends he never made up with, the pack of cigarettes weighing down his blazer pocket. Banishing his cowardice, he stepped through the mangled metal of the doors and over the splintered remains of an old lunch table. The freezer was unopened, the room quiet. Whatever the beast was doing, it wasn’t trying to get out anymore.

The front of the metal box had a small circular window, like a porthole on an old warship. Tony wasn’t tall enough to see through, so he kicked a milkcrate over from the buffet and stood on it, the pistol poised and ready in front of him.

The letters of his last name were etched on the side and it strengthened his resolve. This is what Starks did, what he was born to do. Build, guard, protect, kill. He peered through the cracked and clouded glass, squinting in the deepening dark.

It was a small room, the size of a walk-in closet with shelves along three walls and meat hooks glinting from the ceiling. A cardboard box of junk food was open on the floor where he’d left it after his most recent Seven Eleven run last week. Hair on the back of his neck stood up when he realized the creature was gone, and he couldn't see anything inside.

It was so dark that he had to press his nose against the glass, straining. Something moved.

Two inhuman eyes stared, the centers reflecting iridescent green and burning into his.

Tony’s heart jolted, zero to sixty. Gun shaking in his hand, he jumped back, pointing it at the door.

Nothing happened. The creature didn’t move, didn’t make a sound.

Mind reeling, he stepped back onto the crate and pressed the barrel to the glass. The eyes watched. Time now, time to do his duty. Enough wimping out. He set his finger on the trigger.

And couldn’t pull.

His heart pounded, adrenaline pulsing through his veins, and he couldn't do it.

Frustrated, he smashed the butt of the gun into the window and the weakened glass shattered. The creature shrieked.

Without the dirty glass in the way he could see more clearly. The monster was in a fetal position, its legs kicking as it tried to fit its body in a space far too small. Where he’d once seen fury, he saw only fear. Worse than fear. Terror.

Pain. The thing didn't look like a thing anymore.

It had toes. Ten of them. And heels, and ankles, and knees. It had hair and chapped lips and a long, straight nose. It— he —had, uh, guy parts. Hanging out.

Something shifted in the air, the old building cracking and popping as a strong wind battered the old beams and whistled through the cracked window panes. The man clutched his eviscerated gut and moaned, his breath rattling on every exhale.

Frenzied eyes caught Tony's and this time he didn’t jump. He returned the stare and marveled at the electric zap of eye contact. The spark of intelligent life meeting reciprocal intelligence. Animals didn’t give eye contact, he knew. It was a fabrication of the human mind. A sensation created in the ancient homo-sapien brain to distinguish friend from food.

He dropped the gun.

The creature wheezed, black blood coating his fingers as he held himself and struggled to breath.

“H-h-help...please,” he rattled, almost too jumbled to understand. English. It spoke English.

Horror squeezed his stomach like a too-tight belt. Distantly, the school bell rang.

Tony ran.

Chapter Text

The bell rang again in the campus courtyard and Tony checked his wristwatch. Half past four. Study hall. If he didn’t show up there would be people looking for him in a New York minute. Fellow students walked the paths between buildings and he straightened his blazer.

Dusty hand prints were smeared down the front of his trousers, so he untucked his shirt in an ineffective attempt to cover them. The grey dusted knees were a lost cause, but who the hell looked at people’s knees anyway? Catching his reflection in a diamond-paned window of the West Wing, he loosened his tie to complete the disheveled look. If the monster wasn’t a monster, then a uniform infraction would be better than a search party.

Whatever he was, the blue man clearly needed help and Tony knew what happened to scientific anomalies in America. They got labeled Soviet weapons and buried in a bunker in Area 51.

Keeping his head down, he slipped into the middle of the crowd and made his way up the arched double staircase as unobtrusively as possible. For once he was in luck, the sharp eyes of the hall monitor glazed over his rumpled appearance and didn’t deem it worthy of reprimand.

The West Wing was a big building that felt small. Newly constructed only a few years ago, it was built in a classic style with brick walls inside and out. Bulletin boards and posters for sports tournaments interrupted the grid but didn’t soften the austerity. Crowded with rowdy students and work-weary teachers, the wide hall pressed in from all sides like a packed elevator.

Being submerged in the mass of energetic movement felt surreal. An hour ago this was his life, but now it seemed as alien as the creature in Founders Hall. Everyone was talking and joking and leaning on lockers like it was any other day, unaware of the extraordinary event that had taken place only a few hundred feet away.

Picking through the crowd, he finally reached the exterior doors and crossed the gap into the East Wing. It was much the same as the other building, except that it was residential rather than educational. An atrium divided the building into two sides, boys and girls, and he took the right. Each floor housed one year of students, which put his current domicile at the very top.

The school had four houses, named oh-so-respectfully for the native tribes whose land had been seized and remade to suit the colonists purposes. The irony of a bunch of rich white kids rallying under tribal mascots had always irked Tony, but nobody asked him. So when he reached the top floor he passed three doors labeled in stolen names and turned into his own house’s sixth year suite.

Pennacook House was supposedly known for academic brilliance, but in Tony’s unrequested opinion it ought to be re-christened the underachiever’s house. Every one of them had an IQ over one-forty yet most of them spent their days throwing footballs and etching their names in toilet stalls.

They weren’t allowed to personalize the common area but the portraits of their house’s famous alumni had long been defaced by permanent marker mustaches and white-out nose rings. Their dorm master, a stooped bookworm in his forties known only as Hutch, had given up replacing the panes a good four years ago.

Tony entered to the usual pandemonium. Ryan and David were having their daily afternoon argument over the chess board while John Holland hid in the corner watching TV and turning his homework into a telescope.

“Phone call, Tony.” Hutch said, bent over his secretary desk in the corner. If anyone were to ask, Tony couldn’t say what exactly the Dorm Masters did all day. Ostensibly they were here to act as proxy parents; cleaning, watching, and offering advice when students needed it.

In reality, Hutch’s job seemed to be eighty percent paperwork and twenty percent falling asleep sitting up. According to his housemates this made him more of a zookeeper than a parent, but Tony’s father hadn’t done much at home besides sign checks and pass out in front of the TV, so as far as he could tell ‘parent’ wasn’t that far off.

He threw his backpack on one of the couches and unbuttoned his blazer.

“Put it on my tab,” he said.

Hutch nodded, crumpling the pocket-sized pink calling card and tossing it in the trash.

Which was what Tony liked about his droopy-eyed minder. Behind the thick rimmed spectacles and starched shirt was a brown-skinned ex-Navy officer who’d given all his fucks in Vietnam and never quite got them back. He was hardly what Tony would consider an ally, but he wasn’t an enemy either, and that made him automatically preferable to ninety percent of the school’s inhabitants.

“Better get onto your homework then. I’m guessing you didn’t get much of a start, what with going to see Mr. Wilson again.”

“Someone’s gotta keep the old coot spry,” Tony shrugged. Hutch never did smile, but he had freckles trailing down from his temples like little black beads of sweat, and they seemed to move when he was amused—getting lost in wrinkled crows feet and then winking back out.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he rumbled in his warm voice, nodding his head and marking Tony present on the attendance sheet.

“I’ll be in my bunk.”

Hutch kept nodding, steady as as a rocking chair. “Don’t ya’ll make me look bad now.”

His catchphrase. An inside joke on the not-so-secret nature of the Pennacook boys.

Tony stalked to the bedroom with his name on it. Most students shared three to a room, but he’d had enough disciplinary infractions to warrant his own space, and his graduating class happened to be short a few boys.

When he tried to close the door there was a foot in the way.

“Forgot your backpack.” John Holland said. His wispy blonde hair fell over his enormous forehead like some kind of Brat Pack movie star, his eyes a murky pale that one might call ‘hazel’ simply because the flecks of color were too bland to identify.

They used to be friends, but these days Tony wanted to regurgitate his breakfast on Holland’s sweater vest. He let him inside and closed the door.

“What do you want?” Tony snatched his bag from the other boy’s limp wrist. Holland reached under his waistband and pulled out a pack of smokes from his underwear. God bless pleat front pants.

“The usual.”

Much as he hated their little meetings, and hated the memory of Holland finding him bloody in the boy’s room in middle school even more, Tony knew he was running low.

“Thirty problems per pack.” he offered.

The other scoffed, holding the carton behind his back. “Your stupid prank got us forty-five. The whole assignment or no deal.”

It really ought to have killed the deal, but he could have the whole assignment done faster than a piss break. And he needed his smokes.

“Fine, but I’m leaving some wrong answers or Thornton won’t believe your dumb ass did it.” Tony said. Holland threw the smokes at his chest and he caught them.

“Leave it in my locker.”

“The usual,” Tony agreed as the door clicked shut. Finally alone.

His room was dark, curtains drawn against the dim twilight outside. He paced to his desk and flicked on the bent-armed lamp. The light cast deep shadows over the edge of the desk, but he liked it that way. Dark and moody. The perfect compliment to the Mega Death posters, and the model fighter jets, and the swimsuit models covering all the walls.

A farce. His room wasn't private, so it wasn't really his. It had to match his image.

Pulling down a rectangle of attractive ladies, he inspected the older poster hidden underneath.

The creature from the Black Lagoon wore its usual devious expression, his claws poised to strike under bold yellow letters. He had always liked black and white movies. Not the dumb farces where grown adults ran into each other and broke vases like cartoon characters, but the arty ones. The ones where the monster had a heart and the villains were the townspeople coming to murder it.

He wondered what color the creature in the movie would have been, if they had bothered filming in Technicolor. Turns out blue wasn't so scary, once you got over the blood and the fangs. If he'd known his life would be like one of those films, he'd have taken notes. Remembering the creature’s injuries, he returned the ladies to their places and drafted a shopping list in his head.

Clothes, to start with—he wasn’t eager to get an eyeful of alien dong every time he looked down. Next, a towel for the blood, and a needle to stitch the poor bastard back together. Something to sterilize everything.

This would be hard.

Pulling out the top drawer of his desk, he fished through the pencil shavings and spare change until he found the bent bobby pin he generously called a lockpick.

Time to raid the Lost and Found.

Chapter Text

By Lights Out Tony was feeling guilty. Six hours was a long time to leave someone bleeding out, but there was always someone watching.

Forget walls having ears, around here the goddamn light bulbs did, along with the doorknobs and the windows and the security cameras. As soon as he set foot back in the building there was no escaping supervision, so he let himself be ushered from study hall to dinner to club hours to the showers and, finally, to bed.

Which was how he found himself on the wrong side of the chain link fence in the dead of night. He was decked out in hockey pads stolen from the Lost and Found with a bag of makeshift medical supplies and a baseball bat in his free hand, just in case.

In the hours since the living asteroid landed, the roof had caved in around the site of impact and with every gust of wind a few more shingles fell into the hole. Tony hoped the building was enough of a ruin for the damage to go unnoticed, but with each shingle that clattered to ground it seemed more and more unlikely. The administration was bound to notice eventually.

Inside it was as quiet as a tomb and so dark he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. The bag weighing down his arm contained everything from a first aid kit to a bathrobe and yet he never thought to bring a flashlight. It hadn’t crossed his mind, and so he has to wander blindly through the darkness.

Sweeping the bat in front of him, he used it to find the debris whose pattern he had memorized over the years. A chair there, then the front desk to the right and a squeaky board at the top of the stairs. Every few feet he stopped, goosebumps raised on his arms from the cold, but he never heard a thing.

Finally he stood before the freezer, the milk crate, gun, and broken glass right where he left them. Leaning as close to the porthole as he dared, he peered inside and searched for a shape. His eyes adjusted with frustrating slowness, and bit by bit he could make out gallon jugs and metal runged shelves. The blue guy laid underneath the one furthest from the door, unmoving.

Spurred on by the sight, he kicked the crate away and jerked the door open. It made a crunching sound on the broken glass like a big truck turning and the hair rose up on Tony’s neck.

This close it was hard not to notice the sheer inhumanity of him. Arrows and lines and half circles were etched into his navy skin, woven around his legs and arms and up his neck. The bones of his back protruded from his vertebrae like towers along the span of a great wall, marking the centerline of his symmetrical patterns. They looked unnatural, perhaps even painful. Like scars or brands. His chest waxed and waned with his shallow breathing—still alive.

Relieved, Tony knelt down and put his hand over the guy’s mouth just to make sure. The damp air put frost on his fingertips, as cold as standing in front of an A/C unit soaking wet. Unsure what else to do, he scrubbed his now shivering hand on his pants and tapped a blue cheek, trying to wake him up.

Previously lax fingers spread in an instant, swiping defensively and glancing off the hockey pads. Tony scuttled back, falling from a squat to his butt and brandishing the wooden bat.

“Woah, easy, easy,” he said, shuffling until a cool metal rack pressed into his shoulder blades.

Whatever flinty shard of sentience he had seen earlier was gone now. Spooked, the alien scooted further under the shelf and growled, the same nearly-silent sound he’d made when he chased Tony down the hall. His eyes were narrowed, menacing flares of poisonous red that reminded Tony of emergency lights and police sirens.

The alien snarled, but the hours had drained him. His attempt at a roar sounded more like a whimper. It made something in Tony’s gut shrivel up.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, softer. Retrieving the bag of supplies, he held it up for emphasis. “I brought stuff. For your injuries.”

Against his will his eyes flicked to the poor bastard’s chest only to bounce off, repelled by the nightmarish sight. He reached for one of the gallon jugs, his shoes scraping on the dirty floor.

“I...don’t know what I’m doing.” he confessed, cracking open the seal and pushing the water into no-man’s-land with the tip of the bat. “Thirsty?”

The alien stared, unblinking. Tony nudged it further.

“It’s safe.” he said, making a cup with his hands and miming a drink.

Haltingly the man crept out, inch by inch, and sniffed the milky white plastic. The wound on his chest was still open, too straight and geometric to be accidental. It told a story; that U-shaped incision, the rows of perfectly spaced razor cuts, the burns marking his inner arms.

He’d seen pictures in his dad’s study of what the Nazi’s did, he knew what those injuries meant. A bit late, he realized he was responsible for this person. He’d heard the lecture before every pet he begged to keep. Now Tony, this isn’t a toy. You’re gonna have to feed it and walk it and take it to the vet when it’s sick. Are you sure you want that kind of responsibility?

The alien tipped his head, mouth opening in a silent request, and Tony scooted closer. Water spilled out too fast when he rushed to pour it, dribbling down the poor guy’s chin and splashing on the concrete. He coughed up a storm and Tony felt like a moron.

“Fuck! Sorry, sorry…” he slipped his hand under the guy’s neck and wiped the water from his face. Within seconds it was already freezing into a sheen of ice on his skin, and Tony knew this unlucky bastard would be better off with literally any other person on the planet.

He was no good with living things. Cursed, his mom used to say. Everything that got close died; fish, geckos, gerbils, parents. He preferred machines. Unlike people or animals, a robot could be refurbished.

Skin contact burned like a fresh ice pack, but Tony didn’t let it stop him. This time he was more careful, only tipping the jug for a scant second and watching while his unwitting patient swallowed.

“I think you need stitches,” he said, disconcerted when the alien didn’t react. He tapped his face twice, three times. “Fuck, you’re really dying this time, aren’t you?”

The alien’s head listed to the side, his eyes unfocused and drooping. Which couldn’t be a good sign. Horror replaced doubt at the man’s fading acuity. He had to do something, fast.

Setting him back on the floor, Tony snatched the bag and dug around until he found the sewing kit he got from Home Ec and the first aid kit he swiped from Lost and Found.

This wasn’t going to be pretty, but a suture was just a stitch in skin, right? No reason to overthink it. Sitting in the armor was uncomfortable, it made it hard to do fine motor movements. Without much thought he ditched the pads.

Disinfectant burned his nostrils as he ripped open a square packet and scrubbed the needle with the moist towelette inside. Then he moved to the wound and tried to clean it, but the disposable rag barely cleaned one rib before it was toast. Water and a bath towel worked better.

Whoever did the damage was a psycho, no question. More than simply slicing and dicing, they’d actually trimmed the skin from the muscle like some kind of deranged grill master preparing a fillet.

Despite his earlier efforts to rouse him, Tony was glad the guy passed out. The thought of sewing his stomach shut with him awake and screaming made him nauseous. As it was he still swayed, lightheaded, only just realizing how much pain he’d left this guy to wallow in while he sat at his desk solving for x.

Scrubbing at the edges with a fresh wipe, he tied the knot and got to work. The first few weren’t exactly pretty, but it got easier once he wised up and bent the needle into a curve.

By the time he was done his fingertips hurt and his hands were black up to the wrists. Doctoring had never been an ambition of his, but after the free trial he had no reservations crossing it off the list for good. No more surgery for him, thanks.

Next to the cleaned and sterilized area, the rest of the guy’s body looked appalling. A completely different color under layers of blood and grime. It felt weird, sitting over an unconscious dude and trying to find the line between life saving breaches of privacy and creepy-stalker breaches of privacy. Just touching felt invasive with him passed out and unable to refuse.

Compromise, his father always said, is a deal where neither side gets what they really want. Normally he lived by that creed, but today he made an exception. He decided to only clean up as much as he thought medically necessary, scrubbing the open wounds with disinfectant and leaving the rest for the guy to do himself once he was better. Not really clean, but enough to clear his conscience.

Under the muck the guy was stacked, he couldn't not notice. And it wasn't like anyone was there to call him a creep for looking. Maybe it as wrong to stare, but he’d never seen someone totally naked before, male or female. In the locker room everybody kept their eyes down. With no one watching, he couldn't help himself.

The alien didn’t look that different really, once you got past the claws and the skin and the vaguely fangy incisors. This one had ribs and clavicles and protruding hip bones, just like a human. He had arm hair, and a belly button. Although he probably should have been preoccupied with the biological implications of that, all Tony wondered was if the aliens got lint stuck in there too. Eyes roving over the prone form, he followed them past the navel and—

Tony snapped his eyes back up. Not cool, not cool. The guy was fucking dying and there he was ogling his junk. He shook himself and dug around in the bag for bandages.

Dressing the wounds as best as he could, he dug out the only bit of clothing he owned in giant's size; a hideous bathrobe gifted to him by a distant relative that he’d promptly hidden in the back of his closet and never worn. It had maroon and forest green stripes and his initials monogrammed in white. Unforgivable on the eyes, but one-size-fits-all.

The dude was heavy, way heavier than he’d expected. Heavier than a human by a lot, not that Tony had much to compare to. The guy’s arm flopped on the floor when he sat him up, his head lolling back on Tony’s shoulder as he struggled to maneuver the other arm into a sleeve. It was awkward—and cold as balls—but finally he got the dude dressed. And then...he was out of stuff to do.

In the wake of adrenaline he felt exhausted. Like he'd been tinkering in the shop all night even though it’d only been an hour.

Classes started at eight the next morning, breakfast at seven. He needed to get back.

Instead he wasted thirty minutes tidying up his mess, even though he normally subscribed to the organized chaos school of thought.

Disposing of the blood and the towels and the crinkly paper wrappers gave him a sense of closure. For better or worse it was done now. Nothing to do but wait.

He was leaving, really he was, when his stomach growled and he decided he’d earned a Slim Jim or five. He unpeeled a jerky stick from his stash and paced the freezer like he was waiting for something. Maybe he was. Maybe he cared, for some chuckle fuck reason Albert Einstein himself couldn’t quantify.

Scientific curiosity would be a good reason. Basic human decency, another. Nobody else seemed to give a shit about that, but he did. He’d been on the receiving end of enough indecency to value honor. But if he was being honest with himself, it wasn’t either of those perfectly valid and rational reasons. If he was being honest, it was something a good deal harder to define.

He just...wanted to. Because nobody else would. Because everyone he knew only looked out for themselves, and for the next couple minutes he knew he wasn’t like them.

He paced until he got dizzy, and then he felt silly so he sat down. Tapped his toe on the floor. Felt even worse.

“If you’re really in my hands, I should tell you that you’re screwed,” he said, crossing his arms on his knees. The man didn’t move, but he also didn’t stop moving. He kept on breathing. Snoring softly with his eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids. Tony sniffed, congested from the dust and the stale air.

“Seriously, you’re a goner. I’m no good with people.”

The man groaned in his sleep, his head tipping sideways so his mouth hung open. On impulse, Tony took off his blazer and put it under the guy’s head. He looked uncomfortable, craning his neck like that.

“Sleep well, I guess.” he mumbled, drifting off with his head bent back on a shelf and his eyes drooping shut. The guy probably wouldn’t survive the night, if anything he should be worried about hiding the body.

But as his breathing evened out, he couldn’t deny that he felt good. That he’d done good. And that was...nice.

Time got floaty as sleep shrouded him, and for once he didn’t dream.

Chapter Text

Tony woke to the sound of sniffing. In the foggy fugue of half-sleep he waved the dog away, although of course he hadn’t had a dog since he was five. Oedipus had been a good boy until he ate a diseased squirrel and died of parasites.

“Not now, Rex,” he mumbled, shoving his nose deeper into his elbow and hiding from the encroaching sunrise. “Go lick your butt or something.”

Rex did not go away. He grunted, and poked Tony’s head with something suspiciously dry for a dog nose. Tony grumbled. Rex poked him again.

“Stop, lemme sleep.”

The unpadded floor beneath him was uncomfortable and his neck hurt like hell. Despite his most sincere wishes, sleep was evading him. Another poke was the last straw. Agitated, he rolled to his side and wiped the sleep from his eyes.

“Will you knock it off?” he snapped.

What he saw was not a dog. The alien was sitting over him, ugly bathrobe and matted hair making him look more like a burnout than a fugitive. He startled at Tony's sharp words, crawling back under the shelf as if it could really hide a figure that big.

A few hours of sleep had done him a disproportionate amount of good. The cuts that had been purple and oozing last night were now edged with new skin, his lips were still cracked but no longer chapped and dry. Clarity seemed to have made a comeback, for he was studying Tony with a wariness more restrained than last night's primal stare.

Blinking away the last of his drowsiness, Tony swallowed around a dry throat. Sharp faceted chunks of dirt were stuck to his cheek where he'd laid it on the floor and he would bet money there were red pock marks pressed into his skin when he brushed them off.

"Well you look better," he said. The alien nodded, slight enough that it could have been a twitch, but Tony knew what he saw. It was too odd to mistake, too human.

The man nodded again, although Tony couldn't feel especially reassured with him still cowering against the wall like that. Questions whirled through his head but he knew he didn't have long to linger before he needed to sneak back into the dorms. He was cutting it close already. Judging by the quality of the light it must be past seven and his watch confirmed it. The wake up bell would ring any minute.

"I have to go to class soon, are you gonna be okay on your own?"

The night's rest hadn't helped the man's voice. Like all the times before, the sounds were too faint and strained to understand. He grimaced and growled in frustration. The sound still made Tony's skin crawl, but he tried not to show it. Instead he uncapped the water jug and took care of his dry mouth and his morning breath in one go. Big Blue licked his lip while he watched, and Tony chuckled.

"Gonna have to come out here if you want some," he said, and swished the water around the bottle enticingly. In the dim shadow of the shelf the alien worked his jaw in thought, and eventually let out an harsh exhale through his nose. Tony took that as a 'no.'

"Fine, suit yourself," he said, intent on walking out until a desperate whining stopped him. A blue hand clung to his pant leg, and although his cords couldn't make the words, his lips still mouthed them soundlessly—no, no, stay.

He squeezed out from his hiding place too quickly for a man on the mend. He winced, visibly reeling from the pain, but didn't stop until he was sitting and panting. Belatedly, Tony noticed that the guy's hands were no longer clawed. At some point in the night he'd bitten them to the quick, the nails jagged and peeling in places.

"Lo-" he rasped, in a voice like crushed bricks. His free hand patted his chest in a frantic rhythm, and Tony's eyes just followed the motion.

"Lo?" Tony mimicked.

The alien bared his teeth in frustration.

"Lo...ki," he said, beating his chest like the word was all he had to offer. Two strangled syllables of an indecipherable word. The only chip he had to bargain—bare vulnerability.

"Loki?" Tony repeated. The alien nodded, his hand so tight on Tony's ankle that it was giving him pins and needles in his toes. He pointed to himself.

"You're...Loki? That's your name?"

Yes, he mouthed. Yes, stay.

"I'm gonna be late," he said weakly.

The man—Loki—pointed at him, his brows raised in an imploring look. A request for reciprocity. Tony wanted a cigarette.

"I'm-" he sighed. "Tony. Tony Stark."

Tony, Loki mouthed. Stay.

Tony didn't know how to answer that. How to refuse a begging man with nothing to his name but an ugly second-hand bathrobe.

He put his bag down.

“I have class. People will come looking.”

Loki stood, blinking at him like he was waiting for something. When Tony didn’t react, he picked up his bag and handed it to him. Eyeing the door expectantly.

“Oh,” Tony said. “No, no, no you are not coming with me–”

Loki came with him.

A born multitasker he may have been, but smoking and smuggling a half-naked space fugitive onto private property was a tall order even for Tony. To start with there were cameras on all the doors and locks on the rest. Granted the camera's weren't monitored 24/7, but they were recorded in case of catastrophe.

If he wasn't a delinquent to start with, Tony doubted he would have gotten past the courtyard. Fortunately for his tag-along (and his jangled nerves) he did have some experience sneaking out. Enough to make the trip across the quad and up the East Wing fire escape with both hands—quite literally—full.

The sticking point, now they were too far to go back, was the part where he had to climb over the gabled roof to where his window overlooked the river. Good, in one aspect, since there wasn't likely to be any witnesses out on the lake at this time of day. Bad, because Loki was clearly winded from their short but fast paced sprint across the West Wing courtyard.

His previously improved coloring was creeping back towards grey as he clutched the railing of the fire escape and caught his breath. Tony wasn't sure the guy could make it over the roof without keeling over from exhaustion. Not that he could blame him, the guy had taken a thirty thousand foot fall yesterday and walked it off like it was nothing.

Hell, maybe he was scared of heights. He kept leaning over the bar and looking down like he'd forgotten something at the bottom. It was starting to get annoying. Every second they wasted was one second closer to Hutch walking to Tony's empty room and raising the alarm.

"Hey, Papa Smurf, focus up. I need your A game here," he said, pointing to the sharp pitched roof between them and safety. "See that, we gotta go over that to get to my room. Think you're up for it?"

The bleary look he got in answer was not reassuring. Neither was the nod that made Loki lose his balance and clutch the railing hard enough to bend it out of shape. Which was alarming in its own right, but Tony opted not to fixate on unimportant things at a critical time like this.

Drawing in the last quarter inch of the cig, he savored the hit for as long as he could. Nearly there, they could do this. Anything was possible with enough nicotine and attitude.

Eventually he needed to breath, so he blew out the smoke through his nose and tried to banish his worries along with it. Slow weaving wind took up the dark cloud and carried it squarely into Loki's face. The wrinkled nose look was hilarious. Like a cat falling in a bathtub...but the way he coughed and gagged doused Tony's humor.

It took an elongated minute for him to stop clearing his throat. Maybe Mary know-it-all White had a point.

Driving people away had been the goal of socializing for long enough that trying to be nice felt like clopping around in his dad's shoes as a kid.

Loki sniffed and Tony found himself looking away.

"Well?" he asked, gruffly.

Wetting his cracked lip, the alien eyed the short gap between the fire escape and the roof with a down angled look. The rising sun crested the trees of the forest just then, transforming from pale dawn blue to beaming orange.

It turned the ridged edges of his face markings gold, two half circles embossed on his forehead like a crown, and for some reason Tony thought damn, he has really long eyelashes. Must be the light. Anybody would notice the way they looked just then; flickering with the movement of analytical eyes and glowing like sparks over a campfire.

Loki looked over his shoulder to nod his affirmation and Tony realized he was staring.

"Care," Loki said.

Tony blinked. "Me? You're telling me to be careful?"

Lips spreading in a somber smile, the alien shrugged. He pointed to himself, then back to Tony.

"Need," he said. Tony wasn't sure he'd ever met someone who could say so much with so little. A momentary movement of hands, a tiny quirk of the lips, and between one breath and the next Tony's life had value.

Pointer finger to chest, pointer finger to him. A one syllable word. Don't die. I need you.

"What are you?" Tony blurted. Loki threw his leg over the railing and looked down at Tony with an eyebrow raised. Like it was a stupid question unworthy of their time.

Obviously he'd heard the name Loki before, he wasn't an idiot. But languages were funny sometimes. Like how so many dialects but English called pineapples ananas. If people who fell from the sky could have earlobes and kneecaps and Adam's apples then it made sense for them to have some coincidental word matches.

But the dry look made Tony doubt.

"What, now you're gonna tell me you're a god or something?" Tony snorted.

Loki didn't laugh. Pointedly. For the second time in the space of a minute his amusement wilted.

"You're yanking my chain.”

The eyebrow stayed up, it's sass power growing from continuous use.

"For real?" Tony took a fast, hard hit off his cigarette and all-but spat the fumes in the direction of the metal grate under his feet.

In lieu of a real answer, Loki jumped, landing on the sun-bleached shingles with slightly more grace than Tony expected. It took a minute for him to breath through the pain, but he recovered faster than he really ought to and climbed to the peak of the roof. Perched on the rough hewn flashing of a red brick chimney, he waited for Tony to follow.

"Hey, I'm serious here, do you expect me to believe you're an actual god? A Norse god?"

Loki's lips spread, wider than he'd done in Tony's presence before. Wide enough that his pointed incisors dimpled his lower lip and his red eyes glinted brightly, like the warning colors of poison dart frogs.

Yes and no, he mouthed. Or perhaps said, if Tony had been close enough to hear it.

No single question seemed to take precedence over the ten thousand others spawned by that challenging expression, so Tony didn't give voice to any of them. He just logged that away as something worth deep consideration and tossed it into the back of his mind where all other important revelations went to gather dust.

Instead of panicking or doubting or any number of other rational responses, he just climbed the roof like he'd done a thousand times and helped Loki clamber into the open window with a loud groan.

Tony bristled. Surely someone heard that. Hanging from the eaves, he swung and landed on top of his desk where Loki had left a big black footprint on John Holland's homework. Perfect, one more thing he had to do before classes started in half an hour.

Out in the courtyard the bell chimed half past seven, and Tony wondered how droopy Wilson's face would look when he showed up to chat two days in a row. More empty threats, probably.

Loki stumbled to the bed and sat down, ignoring the piles of dirty clothes and the glossy stares of the model menagerie. He untied the belt of the bathrobe and Tony followed his gaze down to where black splotches were appearing on his gauze-wrapped torso.

Gods bleed, apparently, if he was going to take the guy's word on his supposed divinity. On the one hand, he wouldn't be the first extra-human weirdo to claim divinity. Hell, there were enough self-proclaimed gods in world history to populate a god-king's union, but that didn't make their claims true.

On the other hand, blue. Tall. Fast healing. Supernaturally strong.

Loki's lip curled in a sneer as he pulled away the soiled dressing and got a look at Tony's questionable handiwork. When he looked up his eyes burned with anger, but his lack of words meant the only response he could give was a tight jawed hiss.

Tony's hands shot up, open palmed between them. "What, I had to do something! I told you I didn't know what I was doing."

A piercing reply he could have handled, he was used to those, but Loki's rapid transformation from rage to fear froze him right to his toes.

Gaze withdrawing, The big guy took in his surroundings with renewed urgency, his eyes flickering from the posters on the walls to the shelves full of knick-knacks and old textbooks. A thumping vein beat his pulse in his neck and something in Tony's head warned him to step away a half second too late.

Predatory eyes narrowed, and faster than a blink he rose and shoved Tony aside.

"Easy, easy-" he sputtered, catching himself on the bed post as Loki ripped open the drawers of his desk and overturned his laundry basket.

"Stop, what the hell?" Tony whispered, mindful of his classmates who were rousing just on the other side of the thin walls. Without thinking he threw his arms around the big guy and tried to pull him away, but he just got thrown onto the bed for his trouble. Shit, the guy really was strong.

He couldn't fight him, couldn't stop him if he needed to. Leaving the bat in the freezer was a bad idea. And the gun, for that matter, even if he couldn't make himself use it he still shouldn't have just left it there.

Once the desk was ransacked, he moved onto the shelves and Tony had no choice but to watch his room being pillaged. All that was left was his shoes and backpack, which Loki made quick work of searching.

"What do you want?" Tony dared to ask, although his voice shook more than he'd have liked. "Does it hurt? What's your deal?"

With the gauze removed and the wound reopened by his harsh movements, Loki was seeping again. His chest quaked with rapid breaths and his eyes never settled on anything for longer than a second. Pointed incisors dented his lip when he grimaced and growled, mouth working around words Tony couldn't decipher. Just when he's starting to get properly freaked out, heavy footsteps cross the common room.

The wood floors creaked and cracked. Both of them froze.

A heavy knock echoed in the small room, radiating outward from the narrow door.

"Tony, y'alright in there?" Hutch called, muffled.

"Uh..."

"I heard a crash. Is everything okay?"

"Uh, uh, yes-" Tony stuttered, "Yessir, I just, uh, dropped my science project and some stuff fell down."

"You know the rules, I gotta come in and check. Are you decent?"

Tony grabbed Loki by the arm and pulled him into the attached bathroom. Thankfully he allowed it, his attention now focused on the door instead of the mess he'd made of the room.

"Just a minute, sir. I'm kind of in the middle of something."

Closing the bathroom door behind him, he corralled Loki into the bathtub and jerked the curtain closed.

"I don't know if you know what SHIELD is, but trust me you don't want to go there. And that is exactly where they'll take you if you make a noise and get us caught. Got it?" Tony whispered.

Big Blue pursed his lip, brows furrowed.

"Tony?" Hutch called louder.

"Well?" Tony pressed. "Are you going to play along, or should I just let him walk right in and see you like this?"

"Yes," Loki rasped. "No SHIELD.”

Later, with the benefit of hindsight and a good deal more nicotine, he would remember the look on Loki's face. The stricken union of stubborn indifference and penetrating recognition. The way his eyes hardened like muscles preparing to take a punch. But in the moment he thought only of the supervisor on the other side of the door. Of the effervescent peace he'd felt last night after he'd finished wrapping Loki's wounds.

"Tony?" Hutch said again, "If you don't open up, I'm coming in. Three, two, one-"

"I'm coming!" Tony yelled, and the reverberation of his voice against the tiles made him sound like a chorus instead of a single person. Drilling one last warning glare at the blue man in his tub, he closed the bathroom door and tripped over his feet in his effort to remove his shoes.

The door swung open before he could find a new shirt. Hand poised on the door knob, Hutch raised his eyebrows.

"I can explain," Tony hurried to say.

His dorm master crossed his arms with a skeptical expression and cocked his head to the side. Icy dread pooled in Tony's gut, swirling like a tornado. Everywhere he looked was something off, something out of place that he'd have to somehow explain.

Hutch pointed to Tony's half unbuttoned shirt and his mouth slanted in a concerned frown.

"Tony, what in Sam Hill is on your shirt?"

Heart hammering in his chest, Tony looked down. The dirt he could blame on soccer practice. The tears he could attribute to a fall or an incompetent dry cleaner.

The gigantic, pitch-black hand print smeared from his collar to his breast pocket? That’s a bit more of a stretch.

Chapter Text

Tony took in the mess on the floor, the previous hidden artifacts of his life scattered in chaotic clusters. Faded action figures, Academic Bowl trophies, a rainbow of colored pencils he hadn't used since he was twelve. A newspaper clipping about his parents opening a manufacturing plant in Fukushima.

"I was, uh–"

Self consciously, he wiped his sweaty palms on his pants.

Hutch eyed the black on his shirt, and those telltale freckles winked out like little lights of hope. He stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

The dorm master’s nose must have been seared by tear gas in the war because he didn't so much as twitch at the faint but pungent stench of unwashed alien and disinfectant.

"Is this another one of your 'projects?'" he asked quietly, his eyes checking the window in a look that could be reflexive but could also be him verifying Tony's story.

At this school, the students moved up floors but the dorm masters stayed. Something about 'giving students a diversity of influence' that really boiled down to dorm masters getting attached if their students weren't shuffled regularly. Living with Hutch for three years sort of proved the concept. He'd overlooked a lot of infractions since Tony's first attempt at senior year. Since he figured out what was going on behind closed doors and answered it with his usual don't y'all make me look bad, now.

On most days Tony was grateful for that, for having a dorm master that could identify a secret when he saw one. Today, he just wanted the guy to leave.

So he seized the readily offered excuse with perhaps a suspicious level of enthusiasm.

"Yes! Yes, sir, that is exactly what it is. See, I'm trying to wire up a cerebral networking matrix–" Tony babbled, making up non-sense science words as he went. "–and I couldn't find a coupling circuit with enough capacitors to sustain the necessary idle processing spheres."

Hutch lost interest around the word 'matrix.' Tony could see it in his wandering eyes.

"I take it you didn't find it?" he said with a raised eyebrow as dry as sandpaper. "The cerebral...doohicky?"

Tony shrugged. "It was a Hail Mary. I...got a little too excited."

"I'll say."

A quiet noise came from the bathroom, tinny like metal clanging on metal, and Hutch's eyes darted to the closed door. Irritation bloomed in Tony's chest. Two damn minutes, all he asked was for the Big Guy to be quiet for two goddamn minutes.

"So, yeah, all good here!" Tony forced a laugh for good measure. "Aside from my robo buddy being dumb."

Hutch's attention returned to Tony's increasingly sweaty brow. His stiff grin twitched at the curious furrow of his minder's brows, but then Hutch’s face settled into its usual, ambivalent shape.

"You best be getting around now." The old vet cracked his neck in that way that gave Tony the heebie jeebies. "Anybody sees you covered in oil and you won't have a robo buddy no more."

"Wouldn't be much of a loss,” Tony rolled his eyes. "MIT have more sophisticated bots when I was in diapers."

Patient as he was, Hutch didn't actually understand Tony's hobby. He could always tell when he had exceeded the guy's capacity for weird by the nonplussed look that came over his face and the sudden but inevitable platitudes.

"Everything's been done before, but that don't mean it ain't worth doin' again."

"Right you are, sir," Tony sighed, not even attempting to sound sincere. "I'm gonna go take that shower now."

"Right you are," Hutch echoed. He leaned heavily on his walking stick as he returned to his desk and his paperwork. Tony rubbed his eyes and shut the door with excessive relief. If this day didn't fry his brain, nothing would.

Wrenching the bathroom door open, he found his new roommate crowding the mirror with his mouth open. He tipped his head different directions, like he thought he could see the damage if he just found the correct angle. Although he was pretty far from normal himself, Tony suspected that this guy was a weirdo even for an alien deity.

Did that count as a species? Were there others like him? Tony chose to believe Loki was one of a kind, if only to protect his mind from boggling any more than it already was.

"Ok, let's get one thing straight," Tony set his hands on his hips. "I don't believe in gods or fairies or any of that malarkey. You're a guest and this is my room, so I'm in charge. If I say be quiet, you zip it."

Loki stepped away from the mirror, standing to his full height. Giving orders to someone at least a foot taller was a new and novel experience, but the answering look of subdued amusement wasn't so fresh. It reminded him of Stane and his Board of Directors cronies.

"What's so funny?”

Loki grinned and pointed at him. Asshole.

Tony sighed. At least Loki seemed back in his right mind after...whatever the hell that was.

"How's your stomach?"

The alien wrinkled his nose, mirth dripping off his face in an instant. He grunted, directing Tony's gaze to the shower, where he'd left a long, goopy drip and a series of messy footprints. 

"Seriously?"

Loki pointedly wiped his feet on the bathmat and stepped out, gathering the tangle of gauze that had come off in his rampage. He seemed upset.

"We are going to have to agree on some ground rules," Tony said, just so he knew that this wasn't over. Loki didn't answer, apparently preoccupied with winding the bandage around his waist. When he brought it around his back, the robe flicked to the side and Tony got an eyeful of alien ass.

"Christ sake, will you keep your clothes on? I did not need to see that," he squawked, closing the door and trying not to see himself going red in the mirror. Who the hell just walked into a strangers room and let it all hang out like that? Gods, apparently.

"And don't get blood on my stuff!" he said through the door. An afterthought. He didn't know if Loki's silence was genuine non-response or just his inability to speak louder than a dog whistle. He decided it wasn't worth finding out.

By the time he was done showering Loki was slumped against the post of his bunk bed with a yellowed slip of paper in his hands. The news clipping.

Their eyes met briefly before Loki turned back to the article and peered closer at the big picture in the middle. Tony's mom and dad each with a hand on a giant pair of scissors, poised to cut a ribbon.

“Put that back.”

His ire only seemed to encourage Loki, his curiosity hardening into an impish grin.

“I said put it back,” Tony hissed, stomping over to the alien’s side and trying to take it from him. But Loki didn’t let go. Delicate from age, the corner ripped and stuck to his thumb, still warm and damp from the shower.

“Dammit look what you did.”

Loki pursed his lip, which Tony was starting to associate with him wanting to talk and knowing he couldn't. He pointed at the photo.

Who ?

"My parents," Tony said tightly. "Dead. Five years ago. Business trip. Give it back."

Mirth faded from Loki’s face and turned into something so much worse. The made-of-glass look he despised.

"Keep your pity, I'm over it.”

Loki set the newspaper clipping on the floor, cautiously. Tony picked it up and put it in the desk drawer, now empty. He felt ridiculous. It was just a stupid piece of paper, he shouldn’t have gotten so hung up about it. Now the Big Guy knew, and he’d start looking down on poor Tony Stark like everyone fucking else.

Walking to his dresser, he found his last clean uniform dumped out on the floor. He started to drop his towel, then hesitated. "Don't look."

There was an air of mockery to the hand Loki put over his eyes, but at least he did it. Tony had roommates when he was younger, and obviously there were hasty changes in the locker room after gym class, but this was different. Kind of awkward.

"Whenever people find out they treat me different," he said, tugging on his briefs and pants as quickly as he could. "Being handled like a china doll gets annoying pretty fast."

He pulled an undershirt over his head and then his dress shirt, tucking in the tails carelessly before turning around to find Loki still sitting there with his hand over his face.

"You, uh..." Tony twisted his lip, feeling awkward only after he'd already made the situation weird. "You can put your hand down now."

More pursed lips answered, as the alien lowered his hand. He raised his eyebrows in a question and pointed from Tony to the door.

"Yeah, I've got class in–" He checked his watch. "Shit, fifteen minutes."

He grabbed his backpack and shoved the defaced homework inside, too late to redo. A hand grabbed his pant leg again, and Tony winced.

"I told you, I have to go."

This time around, Loki seemed to understand better. He pointed to himself, to Tony, to the door.

I go with you?

"We talked about this. No."

Loki's sharp exhale was thankfully one of resignation rather than rebellion. Far from happy, but not insisting like before. The tension in the guy's shoulders still bothered him, though. It reminded him of Before. The first few years at the academy when he actually had friends, and leaving them at the end of the day summoned a dark cloud over his head.

Remembering, he turned to the chaos under the shelf where his old toys and gadgets had been displaced. A pair of walkie talkies were among them, slotted grey plastic with bright orange buttons and black, wiggly antennas, one of which was chewed up like a dog bone.

He and John had kept them under their pillows so they could talk late into the night, and Tony never could resist chewing while he was thinking of what to say.

Picking up the mangled one, he slid the power button on. Batteries still good. He handed it to Loki, who gave it his customary sniff, jumping when he pushed the call button and got blasted with a shot of static noise.

Tony snickered, picking up the other receiver and flipping it on.

"Maverick to Iceman, do you read me?"

The box in Loki's hand relayed the message, and his face lit up in an inspired sort of glow. He rolled the device in his hand and cocked his head like it was a charming souvenir in a gift shop.

On all fours he crawled to the foot of the desk where a tape dispenser had landed beside the colored pencils. With surprising deftness he wrapped the tape around the handset so that the talk button was permanently pressed and held it out.

It took a minute for Tony to work out what he wanted. With the talk button down, Loki would hear everything Tony did. And everything he said, of course.

"You want to listen in on me?" Tony snorted, "You're kind of a creep, aren't you?"

Pouting was not a look he expected to see on Loki's face, but once he'd seen it he couldn't remember why. It looked right at home.

"Dream on, dude," he laughed. The tape came off easily, and he tossed the walkie talkie on the bed. Not wasting any more time, he transferred his smokes from his old blazer to his new one and slipped it on, along with his belt and tie.

"If you need me, make a noise. I probably won't come right away, but I'll try," Tony said, hoisting his heavy backpack on his shoulder and running a comb halfheartedly through his still damp hair.

Loki nodded, which was more than he'd expected, honestly.

Satisfied, he opened the door as narrowly as possible and slipped through only to immediately backtrack. Sticking his head through the jam, he hit Loki with one last warning look.

"And, seriously, stay put."

Rushing to leave before someone noticed him talking to a supposedly empty room, Tony didn't bother to check Loki's reaction. He just slammed the door and ran to the cafeteria to inhale some toast and eggs.

Chapter Text

When he arrived at the mess hall, he was already too late. The other students had largely cleared out with the exception of a group of third years on kitchen prep duty. Mrs. Hall the English teacher was overseeing them, her hair in its usual bun and the beaded chain on her reading glasses dangling and swinging as she supervised the clean up. On his arrival, she set her clipboard on a table and crooked two fingers in a ‘come here’ gesture.

“Yes, ma’am?” Tony asked. Politeness wasn't generally his first resort, but with so little time he thought better of arguing. If his deferential tone struck her as unusual she didn’t show it. Then again, she taught first years. He’d been a good kid when he was in her class.

“You’ve got a phone call on hold in the office,” she said.

“But I haven't even eaten yet. Class is about to start...” Tony protested weakly.

“I had the kitchen make up a box for you.”

The cafeteria staff undoubtedly filled his plate with about eighty percent more fruits and yogurt and a third less pastry than he normally ate, but he grabbed the box anyway. Worst case scenario he could hold out until lunch and shove the gross stuff off on Loki. The guy could hardly turn his nose up at free food, right?

When he got to the office Wilson wasn’t there, and neither was Mrs. Deisenroth, the receptionist. Instead it was Arnie Higgins, the security guard, leaning back in Mrs. D’s chair and licking donut sugar off his fingers. He wore a cheap uniform like a rent-a-cop, although Tony knew he was the real deal. Despite his years of service, his tough-skinned face bore the soft creases of laugh lines, and his pot belly made him look more like someone’s grandpa than a guardian of private property.

He greeted Tony with a wave that could almost pass for a mocking salute.

“About time you showed up, prodigy.”

Tony didn’t pay the nickname any mind. All the adults around here liked to point out how he was wasting his talent. After a while it became noise, the same as small talk. Something to be ignored in the hope it would go away.

“How mad is he?” Tony asked. It could only be Obie. Nobody else called him.

Arnie shot him a sympathetic not-smile. “He was huffin’ and puffin’ but I think the wait got to him.”

“Well, I’m sure I can invigorate him.”

“You do have a talent for that.” Arnie gave one of his coughing laughs, wet and rhythmic like a metronome. With one of his big sausage fingers he pushed the blinking red button on the keypad and handed Tony the phone.

The familiar echo of Italian leather shoes crackled through the speaker. Reverberating like they always did on the parquet flooring of Obadiah’s home office. Tony got chills remembering the last time he was there, his suit so new it still smelled like the store and the collar tight like a cord around his neck. The Montblanc pen poised in his hand over two death certificates.

“Tony,” Obadiah said by way of greeting.

“I’m missing class for this,” he began, because he really did intent to piss Obie off as quickly as possible. His guardian tended to hang up when he was too angry to summon intelligent sentences. Sadly he didn’t take the bait.

“From what I understand you’re quite accomplished at missing classes. What’s this about you disrespecting your teachers?”

“My teachers aren’t respectable," Tony muttered.

“Your teachers are being paid good money–”

“To babysit me. I could learn more math from a NASA pamphlet.”

“I’m talking right now,” Obie sighed. “You listen.”

Tony looked at his shoes, then realized how pathetic that must look and forced himself to look at the ceiling. His hand gripped the side of the desk without him meaning to, but he held back what he wanted to say. By now he knew better than to argue.

“Do you know what I was doing when Mr. Wilson called yesterday? Do you want to take a guess?”

“Something important. It wasn’t disrespect–”

“I was in a conference with the Secretary of Defense, son. Three four-star generals, three. Do you know how often three of the five generals are in the same room?”

Tony bit his cheek. He knew from experience that back talk would only prompt an in-person lecture—one he couldn’t run away from.

“Not often,” he answered.

“Never, Tony. Never. And when I finally have them all together to discuss our contracts, our livelihood, I get pulled out of the room for an emergency phone call.”

“I told Wilson not to,” Tony protested, although it wasn’t strictly true. “Besides, Thornton’s a hack. A real teacher would have caught on.”

“Thornton went to NYU, he’s a globally recognized mathematician, kid–”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You could be one of the brightest minds of our generation,” Obie snapped. Glass clinked in the receiver and Tony could just make out the sound of pouring liquid. Lovely, he drove his guardian to drink. “–and if you could shut your trap for one goddamn year, the whole world would know that.”

He didn’t want the world to know that. He didn’t want the world to know shit. All Tony wanted to do was go home and work in a real workshop with actual tools and overhead lighting. That and a Black Sabbath t-shirt.

“I won’t do it again.” Tony’s eyes fell to the floor again, and for a second time he made himself look up. “I’m sorry I screwed up your business.”

Sipping filled his ears, and Obie let out a long exhale. “It’s too late for sorry, kid. This isn’t a slap on the wrist.”

Dread bloomed in Tony’s stomach. He’d never heard that kind of resigned tone in his guardian’s voice before.

Obadiah Stane was a man of pinstripes and straight talk. His desk never amassed clutter, his pens never lost their caps. Thoughtless speech was beneath him, along with Benzedrine and conditional acquisitions. If Obie said something, he meant it. Fullstop.

“This rebellious phase ends today," he said, "If you aren’t back on straight A’s by the end of the semester, I’m sending you to a military academy.”

The blood rushed out of Tony’s face. “You can’t do that! I’ve got–”

My bots, he’d been about to say. My plan, he thought next. Equally unspeakable.

“Friends,” he finished lamely. So forced and delayed that he didn’t believe it himself.

“I don’t want to be the bad guy, kid, but what am I supposed to do? You’re out of order. You’ve ignored every warning, and you know your parents wouldn’t want this.”

Guilt closed his throat, so suddenly. No warning at all before they were talking about that.

“I don’t want to cause trouble, I just want out.”

“Then graduate,” Obie snapped. “Or get ready for a buzz cut. Your choice.”

The line clicked.

Tony set the receiver on the handle like it might explode.

“Well that didn’t go so well,” Arnie chuckled, fishing a mini donut out of a paper sack and holding it out.

“No thanks,” Tony waved it away, and left the office in a haze. The first period bell rang. He ran to class so fast he almost forgot to grab his books from his locker.

First period that day was math, because the universe hated him.

Tony's hair was still wet from the shower when he slipped in five minutes late and skulked to his desk. Thornton was already writing the day's lesson on the board. He couldn’t focus on anything, his head was still spinning.

All along he’d assumed Obie would give up on him, would let him fail and happily walk away with full control of the company. This ultimatum was the sum of years of not-work, but now he’d reached the moment of truth it wasn’t what he wanted. In his head failing out meant going back to his parent’s house and head banging to Van Halen until he was old and boring. Not this.

Military school. Trumpets, morning drills, angry officers yelling at him to move his ass. Would they really cut his hair off?

He’d heard stories at military galas as a kid, crooked-nosed colonels reminiscing about their days in basic training. Getting insulted and woken up in the middle of the night and doused in water in the middle of winter. Crawling through muddy trenches and shitting in a line of exposed toilets with no walls or doors. All that and remedial algebra taught by some jarhead with a GED?

Tony couldn’t think of a worse fate, he really couldn’t.

A rustling came up behind him, but he kept his eyes forward as his classmates shuffled and whispered and passed up a note with Tony's name on the back. Prying open the creased folds, he flattened the scrap of blue lined paper on his desk.

Holland's familiar scrawl greeted him with it's usual brusqueness. No preamble, no hello, just one pock-marked line: where's my homework?

The paper with the black footprint crashed back through his memory like a bad omen. Homework went up first thing every class session, Thornton would call for it as soon as he was done introducing the day’s lesson. Tony didn't have time to redo the assignment, and he hadn’t done one for himself either. Just the one copy, now defaced by alien toes.

Tapping his fingers on the desk, he fished a pencil out of his backpack and then tapped it on the desk for a good while longer. Mulled over his answer. Knowing he was screwed either way, he figured he didn't have much to lose.

Dog ate it, he wrote.

Crumpling the note into a ball, he tossed it over his shoulder and smirked when Allison in the seat behind him squeaked in surprise. Another minute passed as the note made its way to Holland and back.

bullshit show me

Tony huffed. Did he really want to do this right here in class? Obviously Tony couldn't care less about propriety, but Johnny Hollandaise was a pansy. He only let his true colors shine behind closed doors. Looking over his shoulder, he caught his classmate's scathing leer. Damn he was really getting his panties in a twist, wasn't he?

The temptation to wad up the homework assignment and throw it at Holland's barf-inducing face was very much present, but Tony didn't get his sterling reputation by being uncreative. Turning the fucker in and watching Johnny Genius try and explain that to Thornton would be way more satisfying.

Stepping up to the front row of seats, the teacher clicked his tongue and made a waving gesture like a flight attendant identifying the emergency exits.

"Pass up your homework, please," he said in a bored tone. "Make sure you have your name on them. No name, no grade."

Binders clacked on desktops and papers shuffled. A few of the jocks moaned and groaned about not having enough time to finish. Tony twiddled his pencil between his fingers and sent a taunting smirk over his shoulder to Johnny Holiday. His already ruddy face was heated with anger, cheeks puffed up and rose pink like he was having an allergic reaction to oxygen.

Just for shits, Tony held up the footprint and raised his brows.

What do you think, J Man, you still want it? he said with his eyes.

Perplexed was a word for the guy's face, or maybe stupefied. With a spin of his pencil just for show, Tony moved to write on the as-of-yet unsigned upper corner.

The boy’s face threatened castration, but that only added fuel to Tony’s fire. With twice as much fervor he scratched Holland's name on the homework and shoved the pages over the shoulder of the guy in front of him.

The papers reached the front, and by luck or a peculiar strain of serendipity the footprint was lost in the pile, as of yet unseen. Tony made sure to stick his middle finger way out when he swept his hair back from his face.

Which settled the matter, as far as he was concerned, but the fucking pissant didn’t seem to think so. With a shriek like a needle to his eardrum, Tony’s desk moved, along with every other desk in their line. Allison squeaked.

When he looked back he saw Holland with his feet on the desk in front of him, pushing, face murderous.

"Mr. Holland,’ Thornton scolded. “Please refrain from rearranging the furniture.”

John’s face didn’t even twitch. He glared at Tony even as he answered in a tone of affected apology.

“Sorry, sir, my leg slipped."

Tony didn’t dare look behind him after that, not for the rest of the lesson. Normally he would stand his ground against a guy like Holland—skinny, goodie two-shoes, tattle tail. Not worth bruising his knuckles over. But Obadiah’s threat had him shaken. Wilson had said he was on his last leg, and now the consequence of that wasn’t an early retirement. It was sleeping in a bunker with twenty sweaty dudes with biceps the size of Tony’s neck.

The rest of the lesson passed in a haze of cloying boredom, as usual. Aside from the quiet chattering of the other students and Thornton's muted monotone, the only noise was the scratching of pencils and the flipping of textbooks as the students got a head start on tomorrow's problem set.

For once, he did the problems too. And he didn’t get any of them wrong on purpose.

Time passed like a river rapid when he was totally focused. Even a sonic boom or a hand in front of his face wouldn't distract him, which was why it took Mary White shaking his shoulder to draw him back to the real world. Drawing out of his fugue state, he found a lot of eyes on him and a strange, static-crackle sound filling the room.

"Mr. Stark," Thornton said, or rather repeated, judging by his tone.

"What?"

The sound grew louder, taking on a more defined resonance. Twigs snapping. Footsteps in dry brush. A strained, pitchy cadence of breathing punctuated by intermittent beastly whispers. The sort of things normally only heard in movie theaters. The walkie talkie.

Horror dawned on him, all at once.

"Would you care to explain what oh-so-inventive prank you have concocted for us today?"

For once, he really hadn't meant to. His hands were clumsy on the zipper of his book bag, digging inside and turning the dial to zero as fast as humanly possible. It was too late though, the breathing had already morphed audibly into a wheezy Tony? Tony, hear?  just before he slammed the power button off.

"Its, uh-" Tony stuttered, for once too surprised to make a smooth recovery. "For a...project. A social studies project."

"A project." Thornton crossed his arms, his eye brows sweeping low like circling vultures.

"Yes, sir. About, uh, human reactions to strange noises." Tony tried to shove the receiver back in his bag, but the teacher intercepted it.

"And where did you acquire this device?"

John Holland practically giggled from the back wall. Vengeful bastard.

"The audio visual club." Tony blurted, because that was the only answer anyone would believe. They all knew he was a crook. Claiming to own something was just asking for baseless accusations.

"They lent it to me for the project. I must have forgotten to turn it off."

Whispers broke out. Knowing the gossip mill like he did, Tony had no doubt that collective murmuring was the most menacing sound a group of humans could make.

"It won't happen again," he promised. Thornton glared down at him.

The moment stretched. Other students watched and shifted in their seats, scraping their heels on the linoleum and coughing loudly in the quiet. If somebody had stuck coal up his ass, diamonds might have come out. The bell rang, shrill and startling.

Nobody moved; unsure how to respond.

"See that it doesn't.” Thornton stalked back to the desk and sorted his papers into his briefcase.

The jocks stood as one, and the tension broke. Students fled the teacher’s ire, and Tony tried to stay in the middle of the crowd—statistically the safest place from a predator-prey stand point. He hoped that for once he might succeed in blending in. No such luck.

"Stark!" Holland shouted over the din and the shifting streams of bodies.

Tony's shoulders rose to his ears. He ducked down and doubled his speed, elbowing his way through and darting up the back stairs. The boys bathroom caught his eyes down the hall and he ran for it, mercifully empty due to a clogged toilet and the resulting odor.

Ignoring the ‘Out of Order’ sign, he slammed the door to the only stall and scrubbed his face.

Reluctantly, he pulled out the walkie talkie and flipped the switch. In time with the spinning of the dial, the sound rose, a blood chilling rustling and snapping that took him back five years.

The sound of ripping flesh and cracking bones.

Chapter Text

Tony raced through the breezeways, ducking around clusters of first years and giggling girl herds. No signs of Loki, nothing out of place. Would it be better or worse, if there were? He couldn't decide, it didn't matter. Life never gave him a choice anyway, so what use were good, better, best case scenarios?

There was a crispness to the air that foretold the coming of frost and foggy breath, but that morning the sky was clear and sunny. Vision as far as a human eye could perceive. Nothing unusual.

The walkie talkie crackled in his hand and he pressed the orange button knowing it wouldn't transmit if the other end was open, but hoping the silence meant Loki had let up.

"Iceman? You there?" he spat into the receiver as he burst through the doors to the East Wing and startled the band kids loitering outside the first year common rooms. Paltry apologies earned him disgusted looks and a few fearful whispers. Oh my god, it's Stark. Barf me out. What a loser. I heard he broke a kid's nose last year. I heard he's got split personalities. I heard he killed his parents with a hacksaw.

A slap on the arm, a cascade of laughter like corn popping out of a pan. Tony pounded up the stairs.

"Loki? Make a noise if you can hear this," he said anyway, hand cupped over the speaker. "Iceman?"

Nothing. Around the fifth floor his throat started burning but he pushed through it, running past the other suites and into his own room.

Loki sat cross legged on the carpet, the walkie talkie's antenna sticking out of the bathrobe pocket with the body crushed under his leg, transmitting on and off as his weight shifted. Humming an upbeat tune, he bobbed his head as he plucked the feathers from the tail of a limp-bodied pheasant.

A very overweight, somewhat famous pheasant. Mr. Waddles.

Loki smiled, his teeth red from the blood stuck in the crevices, red from the prize he presented with a smug raise of his hand.

"Food?" he said. Hospitable, pleased.

The bird stunk even more than Loki. Tony gagged.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he shouts. "What did you—how did you—"

As if to answer the question, the alien's stomach rumbled and he licked his lip.

"No?" he asked, disappointment curving his brows and making him lower the carcass to his lap. Shrugging in a oh well, more for me kind of way, he returned to removing the feathers.

Another mangled corpse lay on the floor beside him, its muscles already stripped and laid out on the floor. Mrs. Waddles .

Disgusted, he covered his nose in his shirt.

"Outside, take it outside! Do you even know what that is?"

"Bird?"

"It's a pet, dude! That's the school's mascot." Tony pointed to the embroidered coat of arms on the chest of his blazer; a quartered shield on a bed of pheasant feathers. "You can't just eat Mr. Waddles."

Loki pinched his brows.

Exasperated, he dropped his book bag off his shoulder and dug out the box of food from breakfast. As he'd expected, it was half crusty scrambled eggs with a side of lukewarm yogurt and sausage links. It did not look appetizing, not anymore.

"This is food! This is what we eat here." Demonstrating with a big bite of egg, he set the takeout container on the floor and dropped the fork in the middle.

Again, Loki held up the lifeless corpse. "Food."

"Food," Tony pointed to the eggs.

A disappointed whine answered his demand, and Tony wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

"If you were hungry you could have just asked, for Christ sake. You didn't have to go and kill something, " Tony ranted. "You know who they'll blame for this? Me, that's who. It's always me."

Paper crinkled under his shoe and he realized that he'd started pacing, crushing his own magazines and kid drawings in an angry line from desk to door. Loki sat very still, expression slack. He worked his jaw and squished his brows together like this was a difficult concept to wrap his head around.

The open window blew the smell back in Tony's direction and it was too much. The adults looking over his shoulder, the inane assignments, insipid classmates tittering behind their hands, John Holland's stupid, ruddy face shouting down the hallway—and for what reason?

Because he tried to do something nice for once. Fat lot of good that did.

Obadiah's threat hung heavy in the air; starched shirts and polished boots, inspections, punishments, push ups .

"Screw it, this isn't worth it."

Spinning on his heel, he stomped out into the common room and behind him he could hear Loki tripping over papers and toys.

"Tony?" he said, louder than he'd yet spoken and rough from misuse.

Hutch's secretary desk had a phone. An olive green rotary older than Tony, but it would do. SHIELD had ears everywhere, all he had to do was say the magic word and they'd show up in a line of unmarked black Buicks like a tweed mafia.

He picked up the phone and stuck his finger in the spinner, dialing numbers at random. He'd get through, it didn't matter if he reached a drug store or Aunt Martha in Queens.

Loki stumbled through the threshold shouting incoherent words.

Tony dialed, frustrated by the slow rewinding of the dial.

Eight. Tick, tick, tick. Three. Tick. Five. Tick, tick.

A heavy body collided with him from behind, and he had to catch himself on the desk. Prying fingers pulled the handset from his grasp.

"No SHIELD," Loki pleaded. Tony squirmed out of his hold.

Two. Tick. Four. Tick, tick.

"Please," the alien repeated, "Tony, please."

"No," he shoved the man's chest as hard as he could, and his hands came away warm. Wet. His stomach turned. "You don't get it, you're gonna get me kicked out. You're gonna get me thrown in some whip-cracking psycho school!"

The phone's dial tone droned in Loki's hand. He looked scared. A little wild, like he’d looked in the freezer.

"Please-"

His voice was shot after the shouting and the begging. Just a whisper and then a mouth shape, the rest said only by his desperation and the sweat beading on his temples.

Please. I'm sorry. I don't understand.

The blood on his hands made him back himself into a corner, the memory so sharp and the smell so similar. The deer had so much blood inside, he hadn't expected it. Howard had hung it from a tree by its neck. That should have been an omen but Tony didn’t understand.

Obadiah's steel toed boot tapped impatiently on the muddy ground, smack, smack, smack , and Howard guided the tip of the Bowie knife to a point below the jutting edge of the animal's rib cage.

If you take a life, you have to use every part. Back in the day this was how men lived, he lectured, blood and tendons. The natural order. Now they call it business. If you wanna eat, something's got to die. Remember that.

Tony had held the blade in a white knuckled grip and known without a doubt that he was not cut out for business. His father's hand was stifling, huge and warm over his. He dropped the knife.

Useless. Howard muttered.

He's just a kid. Obadiah replied, Don't be so hard on him.

His father retrieved the knife. Blood covered Tony’s shoes, and he’d had to smell them the whole ride home. Had to watch the color fade from red to burgundy to pitchy, scabby black.

Tony turned his gaze from his tainted hands and Loki pursed his lip.

"Get away from me," he croaked, shaking, feeling trapped.

Tony , the man mouthed, and he shook his head again.

"Step off! I can't breath."

The phone clattered to the floor, and Loki edged away. With his back to the wall, Tony hid his own hands in his jacket and closed his eyes. The memories were awful, but they never went away until he saw them all, until he let the scene play out and fade away. The knife, the boots, the sound of skin breaking and insides splattering. Like a cup of water, that was the worst part. It sounded just the same. Splat.

Swallowing down the urge to puke, he breathed deep and tried to exhale the tremors.

Cigarettes, cigarettes, where did he put them? His pocket.The lighter too.

Loki stepped aside when he walked toward him, smearing black all over the carton and tapping out two.

An ashtray balanced on the sill of his bedroom window next to a can of air freshener and a depleted tube of Mentos. The alter for his self-soothing ritual.

Paper stuck to his lip, snick snick burn. Deep breath. Relief.

He set his forehead in his elbow and shut his eyes, the morning sun baking his neck. Maybe the peons were right. Maybe he was a psycho. Surely normal people didn't randomly lose their minds over a fucking phone call.

Something cold and wet slapped on the sill beside the Mentos. A wash cloth.

Loki made a circling motion with his hands. The bathrobe was freshly tied, covering the ruined dressings. His eyes said he was sorry.

Tony felt stupid.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

Lip turned in a nervous frown, Loki shuffled to the towel covered corpses. Bending gingerly, he folded the viscera into a ball and walked to the window. Threw it hard enough that it cleared a hundred feet of trees and splashed into the river.

"No SHIELD," he whispered almost inaudibly.

Sincerity pierced him, right in the chest. The last promise he'd believed bit him in the ass.

"This is stupid, this will never work."

Please , Loki mouthed.

Tony hated himself.

Bleeding heart. His dad had warned him. Give a guy a penny and next month he'll want a Porsche.

"No leaving, no noise," Tony said.

And that was that.

Seven nauseating lessons later, he walked into the cafeteria like his pants were on fire.

Holland hadn't managed to catch him alone, but there were hours left in the day. Most likely the floppy-haired weasel wouldn't have the balls to punch him outright like his former classmates, but he preferred not to test it.

Instead he spent his breaks moving as one with the crowd and slinking between clusters of taller boys. By dinner, his luck had run out.

When he entered the hall his eyes locked immediately onto the other boy's hunched silhouette. Holland was stationed at the edge of the room where he could see everything, the other Pennacook boys filling the seats around him in a display of ambivalent, routine solidarity.

Fried Chicken Friday was normally the highlight of Tony's week, but sadly his opinion was shared by every other student in the school. The line wound out the kitchen and around two corners.

The alternative line was a much less inspiring tableau. Beef brisket he knew to be rubbery, and the bland mashed potatoes made from boxes of powder and 'artificial butter flavor.' Both drowned in enough brown, soupy gravy to make the plate look like a muddy pond infested with lumpy white bullfrogs.

He asked for extra helpings anyway, because he was starving and John Holland's bread mold eyes would undoubtedly find him if he took his time mourning.

The styrofoam box squeaked when he popped the tab into the slot and beat his retreat. At least it wasn't raw pheasant.

Which brought him around to his enthralling evening plans—homework and alien-sitting. After their talk that morning he hadn't heard a peep out of Loki, and that was almost more nerve wracking than the alternative. He had no idea what to expect when he came into his room, but it certainly didn't match what he saw.

A feeling like deja vu came over him at the sight of his spotless dorm. Everything put away, but not in the right places.

The desk was so clean it shined, the colored pencils turned upright in a mug that previously held a developing mold culture. In a display of true non-comprehension, the VHS tapes had been arranged on the bookshelf upside-down with the labels touching the backboard. His sheets were folded at the corners tight enough to bounce a penny off them, and the pillow had an actual, honest-to-god Snickers bar on it like an overzealous imitation of a fancy hotel mint.

Behind the closed door to the bathroom, he could hear water running. He set his bag down.

"Loki?"

On the middle of the desk lay a handful of papers with intricate designs drawn on them. Circles with crosses and stars and strange, hashed symbols. Judging by the stumpy tipped colored pencils discarded on the edge of the desk, his guest hadn't worked out the function of the sharpener, which also explained the range of colors. First black, then brown, then leafy, verdant greens and turquoise blues. Oranges and reds the color of sunsets covered the topmost pages, the designs more intricate.

Behind the closed door, a tap turned off.

Loki padded out of the bathroom wiping his hands on a towel. He looked refreshed, his face a clear navy and hair frizzy-clean.

"Welcome home," he said in a quiet but smooth baritone.

"You've been busy," Tony said, giving the room a second scan. Loki's smile had a hint of hesitation.

"An apology," he replied, extending a hand with his palm up. It took an awkward moment for Tony to interpret.

"Oh," he started, shimmying his bag off his shoulders and holding it out, and then his blazer when Loki held out his other hand. "Thanks?"

Nodding, his guest set the bag on the desk and hung the blazer from the back of the swivel chair.

"What—uh—what's up?"

Loki straightened his robe, as if they had an audience and the wrinkles might offend someone. He had one of those odd circles drawn on his neck, nearly hidden by the fall of his hair and the hollow of his throat. Pursing his lips, he touched his hairline with a gesture that would have looked casual if not for the flash of green light under his palm.

"I wish to speak with you," Loki said slowly, his voice cracking on the vowels.

Talking after so much pantomiming and lip reading felt surreal. Too normal.

"You're, uh-" Tony motioned vaguely to his own mouth.

"Temporarily," Loki nodded. "I don't have much energy for spell casting, but I feel you deserve an explanation."

"Sorry, I must have something in my ear. Did you say-"

An open palm gave him pause. "All will be made clear. First, a point of order. What year is it?"

Just when things started making sense, the situation tipped sideways again.

"Year?"

"Yes. In Earth terms, if you must. Although astral metrics would be preferable, I'm familiar with the Roman systems of time."

Feeling the distinct urge to sit, Tony loosened his tie and flopped into his desk chair.

"Right...the Roman systems," he repeated, "because you were there, were you?"

"Briefly," Loki agreed. "Although they didn't much like my accent."

Vikings, Celts, holy wars. Yeah, they wouldn't care for a Norse god in Rome, would they?

Tony laughed. Short, a bit stunned by the understated sincerity. Did this guy realize how long ago Rome fell?

"Dude, it's 1987."

Loki swayed a bit.

"Norns, I may as well have landed in the Stone Age, at least they had mending stones."

"Mending..." Tony repeated, looking to the magic circles and back. "Wait, that's what you were looking for this morning? A fucking rock?"

"Well it's much more than a simple rock, it's used for knitting flesh."

"You tore this place apart looking for a rock?"

"Forgive me for mistaking this backwater world for a civilized planet!" Loki retorted. "It was only after I saw this positively barbarous attempt at medicine that I started to suspect the worst."

"And having your gut sliced open was, what, the second worst?" Tony shot back, shaking his head. "Actually, rewind that. Better question, 'Backwater world?'  As in, there are others?"

This time it was Loki's turn to bark out a laugh. "Hundreds. Did you think I was frightened of your quaint little government agencies? It's a crime in nearly every galaxy to meddle in the affairs of underdeveloped planets. I simply don't want to wind up back in the gallows."

"Back?" Tony crossed his arms. "So you're a criminal?"

"I am a king, you arrogant child."

"Sure, and I'm Captain America."

"Who?" Loki tipped his head.

"My god, you really are an alien." Tony chuckled, sinking into his chair so his head could rest on the back. "And that? The thing on your neck? You're telling me that’s some kind of airy fairy magic circle?"

He wiggled his fingers in a swoopy flourish.

"The fae are not a race to be trifled with." Loki raised one eyebrow, and Tony abruptly wanted to hack off his hair and take him to a Trek convention.

"Ok, let's say I believe you. What then? Are you like...stranded here?"

"There are ways off any planet." Loki scrubbed his eyes. "Although I confess I don't know where I will go."

Swinging his chair back and forth, Tony studied the guy's weary stance.

"Well you can't stay here. After that stunt you pulled this morning I'm shocked we haven't been found out already."

"I only meant to pull my weight, how was I to know that your food is provided to you?" Loki pouted.

Tony covered his smirk with his hand. "It's a school, man, you really think we stalk prey between classes?"

"We certainly did, where I was sired." Loki stuck his nose up a bit at that, and for just a second Tony believed he was royalty. That was exactly the kind of snooty pomp he'd seen his classmates hocking since middle school.

Generally he preferred to take the fake humility angle—his dad used to say the Starks earned their privilege with sweat and lost it with tears—but that didn't make the hallmarks of aristocracy foreign. And those Loki had in spades.

"Yeah, we don't do that here," Tony said, remembering the box of food stashed in his backpack. "Speaking of which—voila!"

He opened the container and wafted the savory smell of meat and potatoes toward Loki.

"A disappointing meal, my treat."

"How grand," Loki drawled.

Trying to look cool, probably, only to undermine his own efforts by licking his chops. Quickly, Tony spun his chair so his arm was as far away as possible.

"Now is that any way to talk to your savior?" he joked, expecting to be rebuffed or at least given a strong side eye. People generally found his sense of humor a shade too caustic for their delicate egos. But Loki grinned, eyes pointed and glimmering like rock candy.

"I am forever in your debt, my benevolent overlord."

Something like curiosity perked up, a flare of genuine interest he hadn't felt directed toward a living thing since he and Holland fell out.

Machines didn't do spontaneity, he'd forgotten that part of talking to people—really talking, not just nodding along. It spawned a potent urge to poke back. To find out what kind of fascinating, unforeseeable thing Loki might do in response.

"Then what's the magic word?" he asked, moving the box toward Loki in an enticing display. To his delight, the big guy cocked his head like it was a riddle worthy of deep consideration.

"Teletai?" he guessed, and held up his hand upon reading Tony's face. "Jadu mantar?"

"Holy ballsack, you're saying actual magic words."

"...yes?" Loki's forehead pinched, and Tony found himself laughing.

"It's please, man. The magic word is please. It's bullshit parents say to make you act nice."

The oh on Loki's face was palpable. He sat straighter, lacing his fingers in another gesture that screamed birthright, speaking in the most prim and proper accent Tony had ever heard.

"Please, my magnanimous host, may I partake of your most grand and nourishing victuals?"

"How long are you staying, again?" Tony asked, heart light in his chest and brain whirling in a torrent of questions. Have you been to Jupiter? Are there people there? Do all aliens have noses? How big is the universe exactly? If I showed you my schematics, would you know what they meant? Would you know ten thousand ways to do it better?

Unaware of his wonder, face still flushed with banked amusement, Loki rubbed his thumb over the lines on his palm and spread his lips in a bland sort of smile.

"Three days should see me returned to salubrity. Although I could perhaps be persuaded to linger."

"Then perhaps I should work on my persuasion," Tony grinned.

Loki snapped his fingers and the takeout box appeared in his hands.

"I bid you best of luck, boy king. I am not easily swayed." Loki popped a big chunk of beef in his mouth and his eyes widened. "Mercy, that is sublime."

Tony eyed the slimy lukewarm sludge in the container and smirked. "You don't get out much do you?"

"Oh I have been out-" his guest slurred, dreamily pulling off another section of beef and chewing it with his big, white teeth. "I have been out far too long."

John Holland was not destined for greatness. Not from lack of confidence or a fatalistic outlook. Not from a deficiency of ambition or underwhelming intelligence. No, he was destined for mediocrity because he wasn't born into money.

That was the brutal lesson of Fulton Prep, at least for scholarship students like him. Some kids had it all laid out. Talent, resources, every conceivable opportunity to transfer, from one generation to the next, the ancestral gift of financial anointment.

Not him. He had to work.

And beg. And borrow. And yes, sometimes he had to knock a rival off his silver spoon.

Once he'd have given the world for Tony Stark, he really would have. He thought the boy genius was different, that he cared . He was wrong. Brain-washed. Not anymore.

When he lost Stark in the clogged artery of the West Wing corridor, he pulled out his key ring.

Keys always felt good sliding into locks. Everything in its place, cut exactly to size. Click.

The door sign spelled out 'Audio Visual Club' in etched letters, and on the other side lay flat darkness speckled with blinking lights. Battery chargers, unreturned telephone messages. Stark wasn't the only one who liked machines. Arrogant prick should have known better than to lie about the club John was in charge of.

The smallest key on the ring unsealed The Cage, a fenced-in section at the back where the teachers kept items of real value. PA equipment, camcorders, switchboards.

He selected a HAM radio and set it on the table under the swinging lightbulb, twisting the dial to thirteen. Sure enough, his rival's voice came out of the speaker in a tangle of whiny static.

"Iceman? You there?"

John rolled his eyes. Idiot, still using the same goddamn frequency. Lucky number thirteen.

The signal broke up, then snapped back. "—oki? Make a noise if you can hear this."

An accomplice? Tripping over his own feet, he darted to The Cage and back. Slapped a cassette into the cradle.

"Iceman?" Stark repeated.

Thumb on the red tipped button, he hit record.

Chapter Text

Ten paces across by eight paces wide, capped by a ceiling he could touch with the flat of his palm. That is Loki's sanctuary.

The boy bends over the desk to dangle his fuming stick out of the sun-hole and his feet wobble around the ankles, heels stuck out like unearthed roots. Lean, but soft around the neck and cheek. Young.

Loki is not certain why he is here. To say that he has been worse off before would be an exaggeration, but it is not his first brush with death either. He could have fled.

Why a complete stranger would risk his safety on Loki's behalf confounds him. Particularly since he's been barred from repaying the favor. Pity, with some spice and roasting the birds would have made a worthy offering.

The wrappings sit wet on his wounds, irritating and half frozen from his monstrous skin. Hopefully by morning he will be well enough to restore his glamour. The sight of giant's skin reflected in the wash room gave him a fright, and now whenever his mind is at rest the image returns like a stray cat given scraps.

He shifts uncomfortably and the boy cranes his neck, ashing his soothing stick on the edge of the sun-hole.

Window, his translation spell supplies. Out the window, he corrects himself, although there is no longer an audience in his head to hear it. A relief, that.

"Something wrong?" Tony asks.

Loki regrets his showmanship teleporting the food box. In his condition even that simple trick was draining, and now he cannot recharge the speaking spell. They will be back to pantomiming, now.

Given the boy's earlier episode, he hesitates to bare his chest again. He's gone to great efforts not to cause his host further stress, but he cannot fathom another way to call attention to his need.

Locking eyes, he hooks his fingers under the overlapped collar of the robe and waits for some manner of permission. Tony's cheeks puff out in a frustrated exhale, eclipsed by noxious, foul smelling smoke.

"Go on, I can handle blood. I'm not a fucking pansy."

Plant, his translation spell supplies, flowering, garden-variety.  He doesn't see any correlation between blood and flowers. Before he can ask, Tony takes an impatient drag and stubs the stick out in the dust-filled tray.

"Just...don't be so pushy. If you weren't half dead I'd have knocked you on your ass."

A transparent evasion. Loki does not contradict.

Gingerly he works the top half of the robe off his shoulders and they both frown at the soaked and soiled wrapping. It is more black than white, and the further proof of his hidden heritage makes him unreasonably angry.

Fight valiantly and leave a pretty corpse, his people would say on the battlefield. ‘Pretty’ would be rather aspirational.

"Ugh, that's disgusting," Tony unknowingly agrees. "You didn't cover it up in the shower?"

Shower, artificial rain to aid in washing. A play on words transmuted into nomenclature. Midgardians are so unambiguous. All things named precisely for their function. He finds that inordinately appealing.

He shrugs in lieu of an actual answer, which would have been: " I did not realize it was permeable, and I have many regrets about this."

The lingering smell of smoke reminds Loki of his skin charring under the brand, and he wishes Tony would do something about it. Instead the boy flops into his chair and walks the wheels around until they're sitting knee to knee.

"Okay, let's see the damage.”

The bandage unwinds like a ribbon from a spool, the skin underneath deep purple and swollen. No less than four locks of the thread have torn, and the wound gapes and oozes putrid grey puss. Medicine on this planet would be more accurately described as well-intended butchery.

Tony swallows. "Man, why couldn't you just kick your feet up? This looks bad."

The impulse to protest becomes mangled by his tarnished throat, rendered only in displeased grunts. The collage of his true form alights a buzzing discomfort in his chest. Markings and fangs, guttural growls. When he was young he did not think himself strange, now he knows that he is.

A part of his consciousness unwinds, and he tries to grasp the threads even as they slip away. He does not want to be a monster, he does not want to frighten children. Mischief is meant to end with laughter, not slaughter.

Unaware of his distress, Tony lays a hand on his knee. Loki snarls.

More threads unravel. The unveiling of skin also reveals, proportionally and unwittingly, the truth of his inner nature. He was always this underneath, whether he knew it or not. His fingers grip the sheets of the bed and Tony retracts his hand like he's been burned.

He is frightened again. As he should be.

The four pillars of the bed frame seem to box him in, and through the gaps in the posts he can see the washroom with its mirror still cloudy from fog. He needs to shut himself away before he slips any further.

To his surprise Tony allows him, stepping his chair back with rhythmic rat-a-tats on the hardwood floors.

Loki retreats, avoiding his reflection in favor of crowding himself into the corner of the door. For a time his mind scatters, a bag of grain spilled. Neither contained nor fully transfigured into its final form. With his eyes closed he can almost forget that he is different, but his own blood is cold on his skin.

When his thoughts start to form coherent strings he wipes the sweat from his brow and sets his forehead to the wall. Odd crackling hurts his newly sensitive ears, and he becomes aware of the weight of the communicator in his pocket.

"You okay in there?"

Through the door he can clearly hear the boy speaking.

"Hello?"  Tony echoes himself, "Right, no talking, right—if you're okay press the call button twice."

The floor cracks and pops under the boy's steps. Pacing again.

It occurs to him that there is a symmetry between his acuity and Tony's stress. He lifts the peculiar device by the pointy end and presses twice. Alarming bleeps startle him just as much as befroe, although he expects it this time. The footsteps pause.

"Good. Thought I'd have to chase you back to Founder's Hall," Tony stutters. "You were bugging out a little there, huh? Is that...normal for you?"

Nothing has been 'normal' by his definition in an interminably long time. He presses the button once, and is pleased when Tony interprets the code without explanation.

"Well, uh, you can stay in there if you want, I guess. Or not. Whatever. Just let me know when you're done being Mr. Hyde."

The Allspeak cannot tell him who this esteemed Hyde is, or what he might have done to earn his infamy. Loki assumes it was something rather ghastly. He presses the button twice.

"I'll just leave the kit here then."

Truthfully, he wouldn't know what to do with it. The very notion of a wound lingering beyond the treatment is frightful.

Something clatters on the floor outside the door and Loki grits his teeth. Needs must. If he's to escape his captors for good, he must heal first. Which means he must trust this human to contain him, should he lose himself.

He opens the washroom door the width of a finger and finds Tony rocking between his feet a step away.

"You okay?"

He opens the door wider and stands just shy of the line in the flooring.

His host appears confused. Loki lifts the medical kit from the floor and lets it hang from his crooked finger.

"Here," he croaks, "safe."

Demonstrating, he bares his fangs and pretends to close the door. Tony nods.

"That works. Assuming you can stay standing up. It's gonna hurt like a bitch."

That, he is not so sure of, but he rocks his head all the same. Unconvinced, Tony drags the chair awkwardly over the bar on the floor and it makes an impossibly noisy rattle. A wise compromise.

"And you can't make a noise," Tony says firmly. "Seriously, that's the kind of noise people come running after."

Details are unimportant. Time is short. The Titan seeks him, and so he sits. The young man shuffles to stand over him and pours sharp smelling liquid on a cloth.

Remaining still while he scrubs is difficult, keeping quiet nearly impossible. Halfway through Tony takes off his belt to give him something to bite. He does not ask how Tony will explain the vampiric punctures later.

The threading of the needle sends his mind places he does not wish to revisit. The bite of the knife on his arms, so sharp that the cuts did not hurt until they bled. The burning pain hotter than any torch that followed each one. The lightheaded haze that would settle once he'd lost a certain amount of blood. The screaming of his muted consciousness inside his head as sharp pins were hammered under his fingernails.

Swinging like a clock's pendulum, the needle shines and Loki is not sure of the time and place. The altar, the throne, or the child’s rest. The boy glances between the thread and the wound.

Although he recognizes a need for encouragement Loki cannot muster the will.

They both shuffle uncomfortably.

"Maybe there's another way–"

Loki frowns his disapproval, but Tony doesn't budge.

"This is crazy, you're supposed to be numb or asleep or something."

The boy overturns the medical kit on the counter and checks each little box and packet. He lays a hand on Tony's elbow and tastes leather and apprehension on his tongue.

"Tony–" he grunts through the obstruction. The boy searches with increasing urgency, pausing on one of the last items in the kit. He holds it up triumphantly.

"Check it."

Loki does not recognize them, but Tony barrels onward without need of confirmation. He peels apart two halves of a wrapping and extracts a strip the shape of a bilgesnipe's femur—wide on two ends with a narrow strip in the middle.

"Hold still," he says.

The strip is sticky, he learns, and then winces when Tony pulls his skin taut and attaches one end to each side of the wound, pinching it closed in much the same way the cord had done.

"I don't think this is what these are made for...but as fast as you heal they ought to do, right?"

Loki is beginning to doubt the wisdom of staying. All the same Tony looks relieved, and the strip is much preferable to the needle. He nods.

"Ok, that's better. Easy peasy..." Tony's shoulders lower and the tension leaves his face. "Just slap a few more of these on and we'll be good as new."

Compared to his giant's skin, the human is unfathomably warm. It seems to sink into Loki's chest like an anchor and pull him down into the soft cushion under his back. His brother's hand on his shoulder at the coronation was the last time a touch did not hurt him, a moment so far removed from the present as to be a dream or a figment of his imagination.

Tony spreads white creme over the now repaired seam and unravels a fresh bandage.

"This one isn't really the right kind, but...well, it's what we've got.” On Loki's blank expression, Tony shrugs. "It's for sprained ankles and stuff."

Loki mirrors the shrug. In point of fact it feels better than the last one, the pressure holding everything in place more firmly so that it doesn't pull and twinge when he moves.

Tony washes his hands, lips quirking up when their eyes meet in the mirror.

"This calls for a reward," he declares, wiping his hands on the side of his trousers although there is a towel hung on the wall for that exact purpose. Rewards evidently come in crisp, transparent packages.

Tony rips it open with a snap and slips out a pastry that looks like a rotten log and smells like paradise.

"This," he says with supreme grandeur, "is a Twinkie. It's creme-filled. It's sticky. It's the bomb, and that's all you need to know."

Loki breathes in the saccharine aroma, and a primal partition of his soul seems to surge.

On Asgard sweets were for coronations and coups and nothing else. They valued clean teeth to a degree that bordered on religious zealotry. Loki has always had a weakness for them, has pined for them as one only does for an illicit love. His mouth waters.

"The only thing you have to decide," Tony smirks at Loki's intense stare, holding up a second package, "is if you want the chocolate or the vanilla."

In the end he eats both, because he does not know what either flavor is, and Tony insists that this is a travesty, an outrage. How do aliens live like this?

When he wakes it is still night, the room lit by the ghostly glow of a solitary white moon. It seems unspeakably dark. A world full of mystery.

Tony snores softly from the upper level of the bed, and on either side Loki can hear other boys doing the same. It is so peaceful that he thinks he has fallen into a particularly appealing hallucination.

Such mental escapes were common under The Other's knife. His mind had methods of protecting itself, at the cost of his lucidity and his understanding of time. It is only the protest of his injuries that reassures him. This is real.

The diamond-cut square of light cast by the moon through the window travels in steady increments across the floor and an oddly shaped machine ticks on the desktop as if tracking the beats in an unheard song. No one is here to hurt him or to heal him in preparation for more hurting. He is simply laying on a soft bed with a full belly and clean hair, listening to unknown insects chirp out of doors. He is safe.

Touching his thumbs and middle fingers together, he breathes deeply and allows his presence to flow out of him on the next exhale. Like a mist, he rises and hovers just for a moment, just to verify that he has not made a terrible misjudgment. Nothing happens.

The astral bodies are more familiar to him than his own family. Unlike their material counterparts, the spirits do not change. Here, he has always been a pure, incandescent green—and he still is.

Walking the wind rejuvenates his energies. Rusting the leaves of the wood, he feels restored. Earth, he discovers, has not yet lost its beating heart.

There are societies who disparage undeveloped planets, his own chief among them, but he now thinks them fools. Loki has never restored his arcane reservoirs with such ease.

From the edges of the meandering river he spots something out of place. Someone.

A boy of Tony's age, bundled against the mid-night chill. He climbs a fence and drops, scurrying through doors that groan like crabby old maids. Loki follows. It is a place that interests him, the old stone building where he first collided with this unique, uncomplicated planet.

In the time-torn hallways the young man steps and stumbles, not nearly so knowledgeable of the terrain as Tony had been. He stops at intersections of halls and puts strange devices in nooks and crannies.

When Loki peers closely, he can see himself in their glassy eyes. He decides he doesn't like them, partially because he does not know what they do and partially because they are obviously being placed with nefarious purpose.

He waits until the boy departs and pelts the peculiar little machines with energy until the red lights blink out. Then he finds a white label on the side of a gadget, inscribed with unfamiliar figures. 'John Holland,’ he thinks, whatever might it mean? He commits the shapes to memory.

Perhaps Tony would be willing to part with another Twinkie in exchange for the information.

Chapter Text

When Loki returns to his body the world is radiant and the room is hot from trapped sunlight.

Tony still snores overhead, and mysterious movements can be heard through the walls. His hearing is not so sensitive as last night, and when he sits up he finds his skin a peachy cream.

His stomach still steals his breath with pain, but the cuts on his arms have faded to dry scabs that slough off when he scratches. Acceptable progress, by his estimation.

Standing pops his joints in pleasant release and a yawn is the sweetest liberty. His body hums with the unique elation of feeling well after a long period of impairment.

A lively conversation begins outside the bedroom door and Tony grumbles into his pillow. It is not unlike waking in the academy’s barracks, back when he was himself an adolescent and training with a squadron of equally high born louses.

The wars were not so glorious as they had been taught, but Loki would return to that time and place without a moment’s hesitation. Soft blankets and visions of a triumphant future are tender things to lose.

A luxurious stretch announces Tony's revival, and when he rolls onto his side his eyes are still soft. There is a delay, a slow blink of incomprehension, and then he smiles. Wide and slow with the ease of carefree youth.

"Mornin' Lokes."

Clearing his throat dislodges a wad of something fowl, but when he tries the words come unhindered.

"Did the spirits treat you well?"

Tony blinks again, sniff. "You look different."

"I am well enough to take on my proper form."

The boy stares. Loki feels his heart pick up pace.

"Is something the matter?"

"No–" Tony rises too quickly and his head collides with the ceiling.

"Is this form displeasing?" Loki fusses with the tie of the robe.

The boy doesn't answer, he is too occupied soothing his head and turning his already wild hair into a puff that reminds Loki of flax on his mother’s spinning wheel.

"Just surprised me," the boy mumbles, climbing to the floor and crossing his arms over his chest. Something like inspiration crosses his face. "You look like Jimmy Page!”

"What manner of being is a jimmy-page?"

"Hello, he's, like, one of the greatest guitarists ever to be born ever."

Tony rushes to the bookshelf and starts rioting through the little plastic boxes. He thrusts one in Loki's face, the small image inside displaying a line of ruffians in various states of undress.

Loki does not know what a guitarist is either. Tony balks.

"Oh my god, you don't know what rock music is."

"How would one make music with stones?"

Rather than answering directly, the boy attaches a big plastic box to the wall and slaps an oddly shaped cartridge into the mechanism.

"I'm about to change your life.”

Big words for a man speaking nonsense.

Donning a victorious expression, Tony sets the little machine to turning. Spindles wind a dark tape behind a see-through window, and a wondrous thing happens.

Stringed instruments play. First a single note and then a chorus of them in a rising tide. Loki leans close, mesmerized by the turning of the wheels.

"These guys are called Led Zeppelin, they're legends. They have, like, a million hit songs.”

Humans have found a way to preserve music?

The boy observes his wonder and leans a hip on the desk, pointing to various places on the machine.

"The music is recorded on a cassette, that's the thing inside. And when you hit this button it plays it back." Tony swaps the cassette for another and hits the button again.

Different sounds play, louder and more discordant. A man's voice yells, unexpectedly loud and Loki startles. Tony grins.

"This is my favorite. The lead guy is like...when he talks people listen, you know? He's incredible."

"Why does it sound as if he’s being strangled?"

"Um...cause he's screaming?"

"I hear no discernible melody–"

"It's not supposed to sound pretty," Tony rolls his eyes. "It's about rockin' out. Letting it all hang loose."

"What," Loki has to elevate his voice to be heard over the increasing volume of the instruments, “does this have to do with rocks?"

"Because you're supposed to rock with the beat, like this."

Tony performs a dance which could only be described as flailing.

"What in the name of Höðr are you doing?"

"It's fun, try it." Tony grabs Loki by the wrist and pulls it sideways, then places his other hand over the knot of his robe. "That's your air guitar." He points to a picture on the wall, a man lit from behind with his hair perpetually floating and an odd shaped object in his hands.

"You strum it, like this."

Mimicking the man in the poster, Tony holds his arms as if he has a similar instrument and throws his head around in time with the crashing drums. Hesitantly Loki follows along, and then the music rises to an ear splitting chorus. The lyrics are barely discernible, but when Tony mimics them he's struck by the intensity. This is not the war marches and widow’s dirges he is used to. It is a defamation.

"Don't tell me how to do my job, " Tony yells with passion. "There's the door, your name's on the knob! "

Someone hammers on the bedroom door. A deep voice overpowered by the volume. Tony only yells louder, shoving himself into Loki's side and rocking them both in time.

His rejection is infectious, his motions ridiculous. Loki is glad for the loudness, because the sound of his laughter would be very hard to excuse to whoever is outside.

"Ok, this part," Tony pants, "this part is called head banging. Don’t think about it, just throw your hair around and, like, go nuts."

He demonstrates, Loki follows. The room turns fuzzy, his own hands and the boys delighted face the only static points in a kaleidoscopic blur. No matter how hard he 'bangs' he cannot seem to make his hair float like the man in the picture, but the feeling is there. The energy, the release, the staunch rebellion against convention.

"Now you're gettin' it," Tony praises, and the yelling outside turns threatening.

"Stark! If you can't turn it down, I'm turning it off."

"Right away, sir!" Tony shouts, but he does not touch the player. He begins bouncing on the balls of his feet and holding his hands to his face as if shouting into a hailing horn.

"Can't stand it for another day, I ain't gonna live my life this way! "

The door handle turns.

Loki bolts for the bathroom.

Just as suddenly as it started the music cuts out and Tony groans.

"It's eight-thirty," the overseer says. "Shirt, shoes, breakfast. Get along now."

“Man, you’re no fun,” Tony retorts.

Loki presses his hand to his mouth to quiet his breathing.

"Field hockey finals today, that ought to be fun.”

"Not going. I wanna work on the bots. Didn't you say I shouldn't give up?"

An easy lie. A pause. The supervisor considers.

"Bad luck you been havin' this year, gettin’ the flu four times and all,” he drawls.

"Oh yeah, I'm puking all over the place," Tony agrees. They share a stilted laugh.

“Don’t ya make me look bad, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

The door closes.

Tony throws the bathroom door open, levity undiminished.

"Since you're all peachy, want to take a look around?"

Although he has already visited every tree and winding path in his spirit form, Loki sees no reason to refuse. He has many questions, and an enthusiastic guide. Full recovery is yet a few days off.

"Do you have a destination in mind?"

Tony's grin brightens with unspoken promises.

-

The boy's clothes are an awkward fit, but Loki is thin for his frame and even thinner from his neglect. A tall pair of boots nicked from a fellow's closet covers the ill-fitting gap between hem and ankle.

His long black hair has been wrestled into a bun in accordance with ‘school regulations,’ but he is otherwise covered in a tight-fitting shirt which leaves his lower arms unusually bare and a rough textured vest Tony insists is called denim— like a jean. Whatever that is.

There are not many people about, mostly stragglers with painted faces walking their way to a crowded arena. An honor duel, he assumes, or perhaps a trial.

"A universal translator?" the boy says. A glowing blush of awe dusts his ears. "A spell can do that?"

Loki wonders if it is wise to be walking out in the open like this, but Tony has not failed him yet.

"Spells can do most anything. Although not everyone can use them all. I myself have no talent for healing, but I’m rather good at conjuration."

"Will you show me?"

A younger version of himself would scoff, but Tony's face is intent and Loki does not want to diminish his spirit.

"Not here..."

"Somewhere private?"

"Not your room either,” he chuckles. “The mystic arts are not easily hidden.”

"I have a lab where I make my robots?" Tony suggests. "I wanted to show you anyway."

Technology, his magic translates. Mechanical, primitive, autonomous.

How quaint.

"What manner of robot?"

He imagines the usual functions. Service, automation, construction, sex. Tony surprises him.

"Uh—well they're just drawings right now but–" his cheeks puff out in a frustrated exhale. "The idea is artificial intelligence. That's what everyone's talking about right now. Its just a theory but...if a 'bot can teach itself new functions and maintain its own parts—and since it won't die — eventually it ought to know everything about everything."

"High ambitions."

"Yeah…” The boy wilts, the second half of a sentence buzzing around his head like an angry hornet.

Loki understands. Sometimes dreams are best left for sleeping.

"Is this 'lab' far from prying ears?"

With remarkable resilience, Tony's face lightens again. "You nearly fell on top of it, actually. It’s in the basement, right under where you landed."

"Oh, a good fortune, then, that I stopped precisely where I did."

"That's a word for it," Tony shakes his head and turns them off the side of the path, leading them down a grassy descending slope.

When they reach the edifice of the grey stone building Loki realizes he has been diverted. He'd intended to tell Tony of last night's encounter immediately upon waking, but the time has come and passed.

The odd markings are still clear in his mind, the slight smell of paper and astringent ink. J-O-H-N-H-O-L-L-A-N-D.

Now that his companion is babbling energetically about his projects, there doesn't seem to be a clear opportunity to interject.

"This way," Tony says, leading him to a door only to backpedal and block his path. "Sorry about the mess, it's—I don't usually have visitors."

Loki expected as much from the state of Tony's room. Certainly he had done his part in making the mess, but it had been a good way off of tidy before.

The space is oddly familiar, reminiscent of the sort of cramped studies where he was taught the mage’s craft. Tony moves to a large machine on one table and readies it, gears and gyros whirring to life at the clap of his hands. It's the size of a one-handed sword, and about as narrow, bent at two joints with what look like two arms.

Sliding open a drawer, he retrieves two bottles with white and blue labels and sets one on the machine's base.

"I call this one P.O.P.S."

Tony claps twice, and the machine lurches into motion. The lower arm clicks several times and the fingers of a hand close around the bottle. In one seamless motion the upper arm snaps the crimped lid off the top and Tony crosses his arms proudly.

There is a quaint sort of charm to it, although it is rather silly to task a machine with something a hand could do. Even so, he nods, because intelligent eyes are boring into him and he doesn't want to disappoint.

"A clever invention," he says, keeping his voice light.

Tony offers the bottle to him, and for the first time his nose recognizes a scent on this planet. Beer, bless the stars. Finally, a sign of civilization.

The taste would best be described as bland oats, but it's fizzy and rich and wonderfully familiar. As utterly unremarkable as any number of mediocre ales he's enjoyed in any number of taverns. Before he knows it, he's drunk half the bottle and Tony is staring at him with his mouth open like a fish.

Brilliant, he's caused a scandal.

Quickly, he takes the other bottle in hand and gathers his energies. There are a number of ways he could go about opening it, but he decides that Tony would most appreciate a dramatic display.

Although in the past he'd have needed a cooling charm, he supposes that bit isn't necessary anymore. He now has a rather effortless source of cold. Peeling back his false appearance, he holds the bottle between his giant's hands and wills the frost to rise up the glass.

Tony's eyes widen before he catches himself and schools his expression into a look of mild interest.

With a twist of his fingers Loki conjures a throwing dagger, no longer than the length of his hand and sharp as a griffin's quill. He quirks his brow at Tony and pauses briefly to enjoy his anticipation.

"Now watch closely–" he teases, holding the bottle at a particular angle and steadying his hand. Concentrating his focus, he slashes and cuts the neck of the bottle cleanly across.

"What the fuck?" Tony crows, leaning close to inspect the faultless edge and the contents very nearly foaming over.

"A parlor trick," Loki says with false humility. His smile creeps in all the same. Disguising pride has always been his downfall.

Banishing the knife, he takes a swig from his own half-finished bottle and his skin cools it to a misty chill. Still bland, but a good deal more refreshing. Nostalgic. He hums in satisfaction as the bottle leaves his lips, and raises his brows.

The boy's normally guarded expression is open, admiring. He is imitating Loki's stance, and when he takes a drink of the sliced bottle he screws up his face in an attempt to hide obvious disgust.

“Mmmm, that’s the stuff…” he winces.

It is a face outside of time, one which instills in Loki a peculiar sensation of past and present intermingling. He had worn it himself not so long ago, trailing after his brother and begging to be taken along on a trip to the tavern. What a profound reversal. It makes him want to be kind even though gentleness is not his tendency.

"A shame there are only two," he says, turning the empty bottle between his hands. Bargaining on a sense of hospitality.

"You can have mine? If you don't—I mean—uh—if you want it?"

"Oh, I couldn't." Loki bats his hand, thrilling when his refusal sparks the desired reaction. Vehement insistence.

"No, no, take it!"

“You don’t have to…”

“I insist.”

The boy presses the bottle into Loki’s hand, unaware of the trick. Eager to be relieved of it.

"I shall have to repay you when we next dine,” Loki says with feigned reluctance, accepting.

"We aren't allowed to drink at school."

"Why ever not?"

"Because it's illegal?" Tony says.

In Asgard one drinks whatever is on the table, as soon as one is tall enough to reach. Despite himself he snorts and Tony puffs up like a kite.

"What's so funny?"

"A man of your age–" Loki sputters.

"I've tried stuff!"

"What manner of stuff? Honey mead? Dessert wine?"

"Lots of stuff!" Tony protests, pointing at the dark-tinted bottles. "Where do you think the rest of those went?"

"You've tried naught but this rubbish? And you think me a heathen for the Twinkies?"

"It all tastes like piss anyway..." Tony huffs. Mock reluctance cracked by fissures of inquisition.

Ah, to be young and transparent. Enamored with the unknown. However brusque he might act, there is energy and wonder in Tony's spirit where Loki feels only disenchantment. A future unlikely versus a future unattainable. He feels a peculiar urge to erect walls around that innocence.

"Oh, dear me," he says, a carrot on a string. “I did not realize you were so green. Forgive me for tempting a tender soul into the ways of sin and drink.”

"Wait a second, I never said no!"

“Silence, I shall not be the savage invader corrupting pure souls,” Loki sing-songs.

“I’m not tender, who even talks like that?”

“Away with you to your toys!” Loki flaps his hands dramatically. “I shall hear no more of this debaucherous talk.”

“Come on, I didn’t mean it,” Tony huffs. A flicker of genuine disappointment hunches his posture. Not the result he was seeking.

“I should like to sample Earth’s spirits as well,” he says.

Resting a hand on Tony’s shoulder, he purses his lips and settles on the sort of talk he resented when he was younger, but which he senses Tony has not experienced often enough to despise.

“No matter what fuss someone makes, besmirching the opportunity to learn is one's own loss.”

“Okay?"

“If you know a place where such drinks could be acquired—without attracting the law, of course—then I would be honored to accompany you.”

“I might know one…” Tony's face tilts into a mischievous look. “But if I don’t like something, then you have to finish it.”

“Very well,” Loki nods. He finds a chair at the edge of the room and makes himself comfortable. Tony returns to babbling.

Fondness creeps in without his notice. Quiet, insidious.

The afternoon passes with unremarkable haste. By the time Loki finishes the second bottle he has profoundly reevaluated his appraisal of Tony.

The boy is a wunderkind. A statement bordering on the hyperbolic, but it is quite simply true. His creations are mundane magic, an unparalleled coaxing of life from refuse.

He uses the boy's talent to excuse himself for dallying. It is easier by halves to prod Tony into another animated lecture on 'electrons' than to explain his sanctuary has been violated.

Moreover, he doesn't know where to begin. He has only the image of the letters in his mind, and the unfounded suspicion that the devices were laid with malicious intent.

Tony stands on a cluttered table, bent over a machine that has steadily doubled in size every few hours, while Loki watches from a rather squeaky chair in the corner. Curiosity builds pressure in his chest.

"Do they not notice your leaves? The others in the school?”

Tony gives him a blank look, his wrist turning a tool which drives a bolt further and further into a wheel.

"They aren't really my friends so...no? They don't pay me any attention." Tony wipes sweat from his brow and leaves a dark smear of grease. "Well, everyone but Holland, but that dude's got more problems than Jeopardy."

With time Loki is beginning to detect which references he does not need to understand.

"A rival?"

Tony rolls his eyes.

"Understatement of the century. Biggest prick in the school, and I don't mean his wiener."

Interesting, a suspect. Loki leans forward in his chair.

"Might I have encountered this person?"

"Not unless you got those pheasants in front of god and everyone, and since the school hasn't freaked out or had an assembly or anything I'm assuming no one saw you."

"No, I was cognizant of your honor. I took care."

Silence returns, the boy focusing on the next addition to his creation and Loki feeling in the dark for an excuse to extract a physical description. The lurker had been around Tony's age...lanky, speckled on the face.

"Would I know this 'Holland' if I saw him? I should like to extend my foot if given the chance.”

Perhaps that was a bit direct. It garners an odd look, followed by a scoff.

"Not likely, he's about as interesting as white bread."

Still no details. Any further nudges will be suspicious. Loki knows he must abandon the subject, but just when he is preparing to do so the boy grants him a gift.

"He's my height, I guess," Tony shrugs. Gestures to his nose and cheeks. "Freckles. Blonde. Wears his hair all flippy like a pansy."

Spots, light hair...the boy from last night. Now what to do about it? The threat has already been dispelled...should he reveal the plot to Tony? It seems unnecessary, disrupting his sense of security for an assault robbed of its power, sent by a rival of no consequence.

And, moreover, pansy. Again, the flower. Uttered with such inexplicable scorn. The scale upon which he weighs Tony's euphemisms tips.

"What does that word mean?"

The boy's head whips abruptly around, and just as quickly back. He seems to have great difficulty aligning his tool with the next bolt.

"Which one? Freckles?"

"Pansy...it means something more."

"Uh-" The turning of the screw becomes jerky. "It's—er—a guy that likes other–"

Tony shakes his head. "Never mind what it means, it's a bad word. Forget I said it."

Clouds part on Loki's horizon. Heavens, the boy is describing him. Not intentionally, certainly not, and yet...

With great effort, he holds his face firmly in a neutral stare. He licks his lip, and wills his limbs to ease. The lights hanging from their hooks sway slightly in the afternoon gusts, and Loki steadies himself with the sight of the drifting lights.

"I would not be opposed to eating soon," Loki says. Bor's balls, he sounds stiff.

Tony seizes the excuse, and lets out an uncomfortable laugh.

"Y-yeah, me too. I'm starving."

Chapter Text

The drinking hall is a windowless space, cluttered with glowing signs and glinting bottles. They are scrutinized and summarily dismissed the moment they enter with the exacting focus of urchins scanning for law enforcement, and Loki has no doubt that if he visited the latrine there would be calling cards for professionally attractive women.

Other patrons slouch on tall stools and stand around a green-topped table holding sticks. Simpering music plays over the speakers, some ballad or other about a man straying from his wife.

It appears to be something of a joint venture, the bar top giving way to a case of chilled and butchered meats. A sign is taped to the glass, thick red letters spelling out 'Cash Only.'

Tony assures him that this is not a problem, and urges him to where the barkeep is polishing a mixer with a towel stuck into the waist of his apron.

He asks what manner of drink they sell, and is given a rather long list of things he only vaguely recognizes.

Fortunately the establishment 'doesn't get many Brits,' and that seems to be an acceptable excuse for Loki to ask a monotony of questions. Eventually he works out what everything is and simply buys one of each. This is a tour, after all, they ought to hit all the stops.

Then he recalls that his companion is a novice, and supposes they ought to eat first.

"What about food? Did you have anything in mind?"

"Uh–" Tony seems to be avoiding the case full of neatly cut morsels, each one vivid red and marbled with fat. They look rather good, until he recalls how Tony had been soiled by his blood earlier and had made great efforts to put it out of sight. How he'd claimed with equal intensity that he did not mind blood and that he'd tried many varieties of liquor.

"Do you have meatless dishes?" he asks the bartender.

"Loki–"

The barman seems unsure who to listen to.

"We've got fries? Mozzarella sticks. Nachos."

"Two hamburgers, no pickles. Side of fries, extra ketchup," Tony says.

"And nachos," Loki adds, because it is a funny sounding word. Tony's chest puffs up like a flutskien.

They pay the bill with a fistful of green paper, and Loki wonders if perhaps they ought to carry the food out. The raps of Tony’s shoes on the floor are harsh, his movements jerky with agitation.

"What the hell was that about?" he demands in a hissed whisper.

Loki has missed something, that much is clear.

He tests the waters with a cautious, "You seemed uncomfortable?"

Tony flops into a chair in the back with the scent of anger heavy around him.

"If I wanted help–"

"I meant no offense."

"Ever since you found the newspaper article you've been all nice and shit. And, like...at first it was cool, but you don't have to baby me. I'm not a dumb kid."

"I never said you were?" Loki says, the words dragging themselves out from his confusion. "If I've treated you poorly–"

"That's what I'm saying! You haven't, you've just gone along with everything and I'm starting to wonder why." Tony indicates Loki's general appearance with a wave of his hand. "You fit in better than me, you clearly don't need my help getting around. Why haven’t you slinked off already?"

Loki considers.

"Do you want me to?"

"No..."

"Then what do you–"

"Excuse me," the bartender interjects.

Tony unlatches his hands from the edge of the table where they've been digging crescent dents into the wood.

Sumptuous scents tickle Loki’s nose along with the prickling bite of liquor. Oily food in white and red checkered baskets slides in front of them and a rather large number of pints fall into a line like a border between warring nations.

Taking a calming breath, he laces his fingers under the table.

"If I am kind to you, it is because I enjoy your company."

Casting his eyes down, Loki watches steam rise from the basket of food and meets the boy's gaze again once he's organized his thoughts.

"If you feel that my behavior is unwarranted, I would answer by saying that it was you who showed me kindness first. I see no reason that spending time with you should be a hardship, in which case I have no reason to mislead you."

The sound of Tony tapping his fingers on the seat of his chair forms a nervous tempo beneath the sickly sweet lilts of electric guitars.

"I asked for alternative options because I sensed that you were not swayed by the meats, it is as simple as that."

Tony slumps in his seat. A reciprocal unwinding trickles down Loki’s back.

"I don't mind it when it's cooked," the boy mumbles. "It's just—forget it, it's stupid."

“It is not.”

The table is small, it is nothing to breach the wall of glasses and set his hand on Tony's arm.

Perhaps the boy is right. His past has been exposed while Loki's remains shrouded. Vulnerability should not be unequally shared.

"I know a great warrior who eats only roots. Others look upon him with doubt, and yet he has bested many strong enemies. Why should it matter what you chose to eat?"

"O-okay...okay, you're right. Sorry I freaked out."

"Do not apologize, I should not have spoken for you. But enough, we ought to eat before everything spoils. Lesson number one, never drink without food in the belly. It eases the way."

"Well, yeah," Tony exhales loudly, pushing up his long sleeves. "That's just basic chemistry."

"One would think, and yet it is a common mistake," Loki bites into his odd shaped sandwich and has to pause a moment to savor.

"Good?" Tony picks up his own helping, looking smug.

"Di—vine," Loki says with his mouth full. Swallows. "Now, let's meet our contenders."

Motioning to the line of eight drinks in various glasses, he recalls the flavor of each one and explains as best he can without the proper words.

"Different spirits gather flavor from how they are made. These two I would consider quite pure, the middle three were aged in barrels, these two are sweetened," Loki points to the tall glass of beer, "and this is a proper dark ale. Start with that, and then give it here. I got that for myself."

"Hang on, I thought you said not to drink on any empty stomach."

"Beer is liquid bread, it is exempt."

"Are you sure you know what you're talking about? Your logic has more holes than swiss cheese." Tony takes a sip and wrinkles his nose, but doesn't hand it over.

"Well?"

"It's alright," Tony shrugs. "Is it supposed to be that sour?"

"Yes, and clearly it is wasted on you. Give it here."

"Woah there, Speedy, gimme a minute! I wanna make sure..."

"Lesson two," Loki smirks and secures the mug such that foam slops over the rim. "Do not stand between a man and his poison."

"Alright, alright! Geez..." Tony whips his hand in the air. "I'm gonna smell like a brewery when we get back."

"A minor set back." Loki drinks deeply, and hums.

"I'm starting to think this was all a ruse to get me to pay for your drinks."

"Guilty as charged. Now tuck in, we've much to try and it is already dark."

Proper food is a revel. Salty, savory, absolutely dripping with tangy, sweet sauces he has never tasted before.

Tony does eat the nachos, an event which Loki is careful not to acknowledge. As the evening ticks over into night, the room becomes rowdier and the crowd around the gaming table grows louder from the lubricating power of liquor.

Tony wipes his mouth on his sleeve and sits up straighter.

"So which one's the strongest?"

Loki frowns."Why ever would that matter?"

"Well I wanna get drunk."

"You can lose yourself in almost anything. I was under the impression this was about taste."

"Okay, then what's the tastiest way to get drunk?" Tony rolls his eyes.

"That shouldn’t be one’s first priority," Loki starts, then huffs. "Oh sod it, this is your first time. Truth be told, it varies from person to person, that’s why we're trying so many. Start with this one."

He selects one of the short glasses filled with a light gold drink that his people would call Fire Starter, but which the bartender christened ‘rum.’

"Generally, a darker color means it has been aged longer. Which can mean higher quality, but not always."

"Woah, nope," Tony casts his gaze down as if surprised. "Why is it spicy?"

"Nothing peppered then," Loki chuckles, selecting a tall conical glass filled with a cloudy clear liquid.

"Shaken, not stirred," Tony says in an odd, smarmy tone that raises Loki's brow.

"It's Bond, man. Remind me to show you Goldfinger when we get back," Tony  rolls his eyes and drinks half the glass in one gulp.

"Not so fast–"

The boy's face scrunches like he's eaten soap. Sputtering, he shakes his head in speechless horror.

"Ok, I'm not manly enough! Fuck, how do people drink this stuff?"

"What does being a man have to do with it?"

Tony drinks deeply from his water glass and coughs into his sleeve.

"I don't know? It's just how it is. You'd never see a gang of those guys," he points to the wastrels looming over the green table, "walk up and order a bunch of girly cocktails with little fruit wedges on them."

Fingers playing at the spindly stem of the martini glass, Loki purses his lips.

"And what makes a drink masculine, by your estimation?"

"I dunno, it just is. Guys drink the hard stuff—scotch, vodka, brandy." Tony points to a bright red drink with a syrupy orange fruit impaled on the rim. "My dad would've lost his shit if somebody handed him a prissy drink like that."

"That," Loki cocks his head in challenge, "is the strongest of the lot."

Feeling petulant, he seizes the slushy red concoction and drinks pointedly, slamming it rather hard when he’s had his fill.

"Am I unworthy now? Will my manhood shrivel because I dared drink a liquor mixed with fruit?"

"I wasn't talking about you-"

"Then who were you talking about? Pansies? Un-manly men?"

This sets the boy on his guard, his brows furrowed. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

"Well...yeah, I guess."

"And what if I am such a man?"

Tony blanches.

"W-what?"

"What if," he repeats, "I am such a man?"

His pulse is in his ears, his heart hammering. It is no secret, and yet he has never said it out loud. There is no taking it back, and even if there were he wouldn’t. Tony is too smart a man to go around spouting rubbish.

"Y-you're not, though! You're super strong and smart and built and....and–"

"And I lay with men," Loki says. When he looks down his napkin is a wad in his closed fist. 

Tony fidgets.

"But...why?"

An unanswerable question. One in each hand, Loki glides two glasses across the table. The berry flavored mixed drink and the stocky glass of amber-gold whiskey.

"Try."

The boy’s mouth slips open and he shushes him with a wave. Tony does, wincing from the burn.

"Which do you prefer?"

"They're both okay, I guess.”

"But which is easier to drink?"

Tony squirms uncomfortably. Loki lowers his voice.

"There is no shame in enjoying all life has to offer. Be that liquor or nachos or bed partners, I see no reason to belittle a man for seeking out that which brings him satisfaction."

Tony chews his cheek, brows knitted. Someone scores a point in the game and the room erupts into back pats and friendly jeers. The boy draws a line with his finger down the side of the glass, wet with condensation.

"Okay, so the girly drink is pretty good."

"And so is the beer," Loki says with relief.

Their eyes meet, and Tony's lip quirks in an unsteady smile.

"Maybe for you, weirdo. That stuff tastes like ass."

"You've no idea what arse tastes like."

"And you do?"

Loki cocks an eyebrow, and Tony's jaw drops.

"Ugh! That's gross, man."

"To each their own," Loki hums.

Working his jaw, Tony nods and cradles the frosted globe of the slushy drink.

"To each their own."

-

By the time they are walking back to the campus Loki is properly sloshed. His precious little compatriot is not much better.

Precious—the word makes Loki giggle. He really is so small, this boy, like a tiny baby animal he could carry in his pocket. And so full of rage. Adorable.

Tony has been ranting all the way home, a tirade the subject of which Loki has trouble following. Something to do with entropy, and the inability of society to root out all the bad eggs. A bad egg, he surmises, is anyone who does not agree with Tony. Which seems to be a rather large number.

"And don't even get me s-s-started on that cocksucker John Holland!" Tony yells, and pierces Loki with a belated look of apology. "No offense."

He means to say 'none taken.' He means to ask what exactly happened between them.

But he is a silly drunk, so instead he giggles like a child and says, "You said cock!"

"I did!" Tony shouts into the low hanging tree limbs and flickering street lights. "I said cock and there's nothing you administrative fucks can do about it!"

A cluster of birds erupt from a nearby tree in a chorus of flapping and falling leaves.

"You're yelling," Loki laughs, "I can hear you, Tony, you don't need to yell."

"I'm not yelling," Tony yells. "Why is my mouth numb?"

"Because–" Loki struggles to finish the sentence without chuckling. And fails. "Because you're yelling so much!"

"God, this is awesome. This is why they don't let us drink. It's too fun! And there's no fun allowed, no sir, not in our school!"

Somewhere between swaying and getting lost in the miasma of Earth's constellations Loki beings to feel exhausted. Perhaps it was the sixth drink.

He wobbles until he finds Tony's shoulder and puts his arm over it. So tiny. And hissy. Like a baby basilisk.

"Tony, Tony, To—ny, I'm tired. Let’s go home."

The boy has not stopped talking all the while Loki was swaying and slurring.

"–and you're right, you know that? You are absolutely right, Lokes," Tony says, spinning around to grab him by the shoulders and stare him down with glazed eyes. "That girly drink—cocktail, cocktail–"

Loki snorts. "You said cock again."

Tony puts his forefinger to Loki's lips.

"Shhhh! I'm trying to tell you something, I'm trying to say—what am I saying—you're gay! I’m saying you’re gay and I like girly drinks, and that's okay! We're fine. We’re just two guys who like what we like!"

Gay, the spell whispers in his ear, lighthearted, carefree.

Loki's eyes widen without his permission, his face splitting in a grin.

"I am," his liquor loosened mouth shouts. "I am soooo gay! I have never been so gay in all my life!"

This time Tony snorts.

"Whatever, weirdo, now you’re yelling."

"Whatever, whatever," Loki babbles. The shouting makes him tired again. He doesn’t want to walk anymore, it's so very difficult when he can’t feel his toes.

Then it occurs to him that he doesn’t have to walk. He is a sorcerer, and sorcerers never, ever have to walk if they don’t want to. Because sorcery is amazing and Thor will simply never understand how sad it is that he doesn’t have Loki’s amazing powers.

"I'm teleporting us back now,” he announces, although judging from Tony’s echoes of amazing, amazing, he has already been talking for some time. “Whatever you do, don’t let go or you might be ir-irre-irretreva— lost, blast it, you might be lost in the vastness of space-time."

"I'll be what?"  Tony yelps, as they both fall through a portal.

They land in a heap on the top level of the bunk bed, arms tangled and hair splayed side-by-side on the pillow.

Loki cackles, and Tony slaps a hand over his mouth. Right, quiet, he is not meant to be here. What an enormous inconvenience.

Their eyes meet, and neither of them can maintain composure. Muffled, wheezing giggles consume the next several minutes.

Abruptly one half of the laughter stops.

"Oh, I don't feel so good..."

"Already?"

"Oh, fuck I'm gonna–"

Thanks to years of practice, Loki can summon portals as easily as breathing. Without hesitation he opens one just in time to catch Tony’s eruption. Recalling the line of drinks, it occurs to him far too late that they've mixed their liquors. Massively.

Although this should be a harbinger of impending doom, it strikes him as unbearably hilarious. He throws his face into the pillow and laughs so hard tears come to his eyes. Heavens, he is going to be miserable tomorrow.

"Oh my god, I'm dying," Tony whines beside him, and selfishly Loki can only think of how warm the back of his shirt is. So nice, the fabric soft from many washes. He recalls the touch of Tony's finger shushing his lips and wishes he had bitten it. It would have been so amusing to hear Tony yell about it.

"This was a marvelous idea," he says, lightheaded from laughing. His companion moans pathetically.

"I hope you didn't have anything you liked in there," Tony mumbles, and spits.

Although he is generally above such juvenile gestures, Loki rolls his eyes. All he keeps in there are useless things. Armor, weapons, arcane relics, gold. The Titan will destroy the world, what use are weapons and money?

"I don't care," he answers in a blissed-out tone. "I don't care about anything at all."

"You'll have to teach me how to do that." Tony flops on his back, and the stench of bile reminds Loki to close the portal.

The cool sheets feel lovely on his flushed face, so he stays where he is, even though that leaves Tony half laying on top of him.

"Oh, it's easy," Loki smiles, unseen by anyone in the dark. "All you have to do is betray everyone who ever loved you and sell your soul to a tyrant."

A part of him hangs on the edge of a precipice, straining to hear every halted vibrato of Tony's response. But he is so, so drunk and thus the only part of him with any measure of control is the body that demands he fall asleep that very instant.

-

The rest of the school is congregated in the field, screaming themselves hoarse over a dumb game of hockey. Face paint, streamers, the whole thing.

Not John. He has more important things to do, rivals to destroy. It really is too easy. Stark makes it easy.

Adjusting the headphones over his ears, he plays the tape back again just to make sure that it transferred clean.

"Good,” Stark says, loud and clear. “Thought I'd have to chase you back to Founder's Hall."

Stop. Fast forward. Stop. Play.

"—et me know when you're done being Mr. Hyde."

The video footage would have been nice. He has to give Stark credit for shorting out the cameras without showing up on any of the tapes. It had to be a pulse bomb or an electromagnet or something clever. He underestimated him. Fair game.

No trouble, he already has enough to at least get him called into the office. From there? Who knows.

Maybe nothing, maybe he'll have to start over again. But maybe not. Stark's arrogant, he'll feel confident after shutting down the cameras. Maybe he'll slip up, maybe he'll say something that will get the teachers suspicious.

It's worth a try.

He ejects the cassette tape and carefully aligns a crisp white label along the center. In rich, new Sharpie he writes.

Justice for Waddles.

At the locked door to the administration offices he finds the mail drop slot and swings it open with a quiet squeak.

Down drops the tape like an anchor into the sea. Plop, crash. The rattle of plastic colliding with hollow, ringing metal. A dinging bell like a referee calling the start of a boxing match.

John may not have a very good jab, but he understands the concept of a mean left hook.

Chapter Text

Mouth dry and hair tangled, Tony woke to a throbbing in his head. Sunlight insinuated itself through the window and under his eyelids like iron daggers, so he burrowed himself under the covers in search of a safe, dark place.

Aside from the headache and the odor of his own toxic breath under the covers it was a welcome solace...until the covers were suddenly and mercilessly ripped away.

The horrible death orb assaulted his eyeballs again and he yelped, grabbing onto the covers and pulling to no avail.

Lurching into awareness, the events of last night came trickling back in blurry, incomplete patches. He sat up, his brain screaming from the movement, but he ignored it because there was a person in his bed and that could only mean one thing.

He had sex. He and Loki did the nasty while he was drunk and his liquor-pickled brain didn't even bother remembering it. Life was no longer worth living.

He was well on his way to writing his last will and testament when Loki rolled onto his side and his eyes snapped to the sliver of exposed skin between his collar and hairline.

Shirt, check. Pants, check. Both he and Loki were still dressed, all the way down to their mud covered shoes.

They just slept. That's all.

False alarm.

Loki hummed, oblivious to Tony’s panic, and made himself more comfortable in the mound of blankets. Relief morphed into irritation.

That rat bastard just stole the whole comforter. And on a day like this!

Squinting against the light, he grabbed a corner with both hands and pulled as hard as he could. Heavy as Loki was, he was able to roll him over and reclaim a scant few inches. The big guy growled, eyes squinting open.

"Gimme," Tony demanded.

Loki flashed his teeth.

As if. Maybe he'd been afraid at first, but the guy turned out to be a big softie. Tony pulled harder.

"Go away.”

"Give it back and I'll go away, blanket thief–"

An excruciating boom shattered his skull, a sharp rap on the door. Wincing, he threw himself into the pillow and heard Loki moan in similar agony.

"Tony, ya in there?"

"Here, sir!" Tony yelled to his own detriment. "Why do I feel like my brain went through a paper shredder?" he hissed.

"We mixed beer with liquor." Loki half-sobbed.

In the split second before the door opened, he tugged the pillow out from under Loki's head and threw it over his face. Sitting up the second time was pure misery.

Hutch looked recently risen himself, leaning heavily on the cane he normally refused and wearing a pair of worn blue slippers. A slightly better dressed guest stood just behind him—Principal Wilson.

Tony was down the ladder and stumbling in a matter of seconds. Neither adult said hello.

"Morning, generals, always good to see you. What can I do you for?" he said with unconvincing passion, plastering on the fakest of smiles and raising two fingers in a mock salute. His eyes felt like they might fall out.

He knew he was in real trouble when Wilson didn't sigh.

Hutch closed the door. Another omen.

Tony swallowed around a dry throat.

"O-kay, surprise conference it is! And here I am in my negligee. Tell you what, I'm just gonna change real quick–"

His dorm master sent a warning look, just in time for Wilson to push up his glasses and say, "Sit down, Stark."

"If you insist," Tony tried to joke, but it came out too relieved. The floor was rocking a bit too much for comfort.

He sat on the bed and thanked the universe for installing bunks with unusually large and thick safety walls. So long as Loki didn't move, they probably wouldn't see him over the horizontal slats.

Wilson helped himself to the desk chair and sat, which Tony thought was a little rude with Hutch standing right there and favoring his good knee.

"Tony," he smacked his lips, like old men can't seem to help, "I've been given some distressing news. And although I'm not entirely convinced this isn’t a prank-"

"Whatever Holland said, I didn't–"

Finally, finally, the principal sighed and some small part of Tony clung to that scrap of normalcy.

The old man slipped a stubby-fingered hand into the pocket of his sport coat and lifted out a cassette. He pierced Tony with an investigative look, and it wasn't hard to send back a blank, oblivious stare. As much to his own shock as everyone else's, he had no idea what this was about.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Mr. Stark?"

Tony couldn't tell if that was an olive branch or a noose.

Clearly, Wilson thought he was playing dumb. He wished he was.

"No, sir. Whatever happened, it had nothing to do with me."

The principal shook his head again and put the tape in the boombox. Tony's ears pricked with the sound of his own modulated voice.

At first he was confused; it was a strange conversation, but there wasn't anything condemning about it. Then the principal removed the tape and showed him the side, a label scrawled in writing Tony would know anywhere because he's forged it ten thousand times. Justice for Waddles.

Holland. That absolute fuckhead.

"I'll ask again, is there anything you'd like to tell to me?"

Was there? A few choice words, sure, but he'd been questioned by police at twelve years old. Any time he wasn’t sure, anytime someone came sniffing for intel, he’d been told what to do. Deny, deflect, discredit. Plead the fifth.

"Nothing, sir," he said with a blank face.

Wilson looked angry, which was a new one.

"The truth always comes out, one way or another. I'll go easy on you if you admit to it now."

"No comment."

Hutch looked worried.

The principal stood, brushing imaginary dust off his knees.

"Very well, then." Wilson held out his hand to Hutch, who passed over a ring of keys.

"Hold on–”

"The pheasants haven't been seen in two days, but they could have simply wandered off. Until we get to the bottom of this, you'll be confined to your room. Meals will be sent up."

"But, sir–" Tony stood, trying not to flinch from the migraine.

"It's for your own good," Hutch said. "It's so nobody can blame you if the birds turn up, don’t ya see?"

"What I see is somebody blatantly taking advantage of my reputation–"

"A well earned reputation," Wilson snapped. "I want to believe that none of our students would harm a helpless animal, but at this time I don't have any evidence either way. We'll be searching every room in the school, and in the meantime you aren't to go anywhere, for any reason."

Every room, Tony thought, the sound of the recording fresh in his ears. Founders Hall.

He said it by name in the recording, there's no way they won't search there.

"This isn't fair!”

"No, it isn't. But it's necessary,” Wilson said. “If you truly have nothing to hide, then you have nothing to worry about, right?"

Wilson sorted through the keys until he found the right one. The lock turned, a piece cut exactly to size. Trapped in a cage and seething, he paced. The bed creaked as Loki sat up and tracked Tony’s movements with otherworldly eyes.

The evidence was weak, that was obvious. A few strange sentences captured on a radio. Almost nothing.

The action it inspired though—the search of the whole campus—that was a problem. A big one.

He had done a lot more wrong in his stay at Fulton Prep than house a fugitive, and the evidence was all there in the rotting basement. The beer, the bots, the gasoline he stole from campus vehicles to power the generators.

"Are you alright?" Loki murmured hesitantly. Like Tony was the one with fangs.

Despite the rage, he smiled. Caustic as butane.

"They have nothing," he said, pivoting to the window and snatching the cigarettes from his pocket. "I could have been talking to anybody. They don't know shit, and they aren't going to. Cause we're gonna cover it up."

"Won't it raise suspicion if you're caught?"

"Sure, that's why I won't be caught."

Tapping out one of his last remaining cigarettes, he fumbled with his lighter. The shaking made it hard to strike correctly, so he had to do it over and over. Snick, snick, snick, snick.

"And what if you are?"

"Technically I'm never gonna leave this room,” Tony said under his breath, and finally the lighter ignited.

Wrenching open the window, he blew the smoke out only for the wind to blow it back in.

"I really wish you wouldn't do that," Loki sighed.

His wrinkled nose was kind of cute, all scrunched up and offended, but he reminded himself that Loki probably had a headache as bad as his.

He took a deep drag and snuffed out the stick, returning it to the box. They didn't have time to stand around anyway.

"All they've got is me talking about Founder's Hall. We both know they aren't gonna find the birds, which means they can't prove they're dead. All we gotta do is get the bots out, throw away the beer bottles, and shazam my name is cleared."

Loki nods, then winces. "That is going to be easier said than done, knackered as we are."

Tony laughs, because the situation is so stupid and irritating that it's the only rational thing to do.

-

Portals, by Tony's most sophisticated description, were totally bitchin'.

It took them hours to clear out the lab and the workshop due to the sheer amount of crap, but the fact that he didn't have to lift any of the absolutely massive machines at least made it possible.

Even better, he could play his favorite albums straight from his bedroom boombox while they worked.

Loki spent most of the time sitting; on tables, on chairs, on the machines themselves as they fell slowly through time and space to land in a forest clearing just off campus.

As he wound up the last of the cables Loki watched, circling his thumbs and clunking his feet against the cabinet doors as he sat on the edge and kicked. He'd been like that since they got into the building. Airy-fairy like his head was somewhere else.

Just when he was about to demand an explanation Loki spoke.

"That boy...the one who doesn’t like you...I believe he may have been here."

The knee-jerk urge to scream 'What?' proved irresistible.

"When Jotun sleep, we occasionally go on spirit walks," Loki quickly explained. "On the first night, I saw him skulking about these halls hiding little devices. I didn't know what they were, but I sensed he was not serving a good cause. I overpowered them."

"And you didn't tell me? You lied to me?"

"Not intentionally. I was not sure who he was, and I couldn't read the writing."

"Writing?"

"On the side...I didn’t know if I should say something or not."

He should have. He really, really should have. Looking around the room, Tony tried to imagine Holland rubbing his grubby fingers all over everything and shivered in revulsion.

"They're still here, the machines. I can show you."

"How many are there?"

"Eight or nine?"

The thought of that grimy bastard crawling around the building touching stuff gave Tony the creeps. It wasn’t until Loki lead him down the hall and up the stairs that it stopped, because that meant the jerkoff hadn’t found anything important.

It wasn’t a recorder like he thought it would be, but rather a camcorder. Red record button pressed but forever unable to perform its mission. Loki turned it around to show him the label, and there it was, undeniable proof. Property of John Holland.

Struck by inspiration, he shot Loki a conspiratorial smile.

The big guy cocked his head.

“This is perfect. They're gonna search this building looking for proof of the 'crime' and what are they gonna find? This idiot's cameras left all over the place. The fucking moron just gave us everything we need to make it look like a giant conspiracy against me."

"Which, I suppose it is."

"I told you! Didn’t I say he was a psycho."

That earned him a cautious look, a turning of gears as Loki arranged his thoughts. He wondered how he did that, how he stayed cool and thought everything through all the time.

"Why is it that you hate him so much? And he you? I understand distaste, but I cannot see why someone would go to such extremes over so little," Loki asked.

The words struck an unwelcome chord. He was  right, of course, not that it made discussing it any easier.

Part of him wanted to shrug it off, to offer an obvious fib and move on. But the other part remembered the chill of cold glass under his fingers and the saccharine aftertaste of strawberry and pineapple in his mouth...the tenseness of Loki's jaw as he told Tony point blank that he was gay and he wasn’t going to take any shit for it.

Despite his efforts to look tough, Tony hadn’t ever felt more like a goddamn coward than last night.

Sure, he talked back. Sure, he rubbed people wrong and laughed off the gossip—but when Obadiah called his bots a waste of time he hadn't said a damn thing. When Wilson threatened to expel him, he ran away to cry into his cigarettes. And when he tried to pull the trigger, he hadn't had the balls to do it.

But what Loki had done at the bar, how he’d revealed that secret and dared Tony to contradict him, that was real courage. So as they crouched over the hidden camera and stared each other down, Tony decided to be like him. To be honest.

"It's a long story,” he said stiffly.

Loki motioned for him to sit and style onto the floor himself.

"The sagas of my people can go on for days, I am not bothered by prattling."

Clasping his hands and setting his elbows on his knees, Tony centered himself.

He wasn't sure where to start.

"So, you know I'm smart, but I'm not sure if I've explained just how smart. When I came here I was put into classes four years ahead. All my classmates where a foot taller than me. They thought I was a spoiled brat, and I guess I probably was."

"But Holland is your age?"

"Yeah," Tony agreed. "We only got to see each other during meals and sports and stuff, but he thought I was cool. He was always telling me how awesome I was, and I guess it was pretty nice to be liked like that. He was really into music. We used to rock out together, just hanging out in his room and like...screaming?" Tony laughs, surprised to find a shred of nostalgia still intact.

"That sounds like a good friendship?"

"Yeah, I guess. But it wasn't real. I mean, it was, but it wasn't."

To his credit, Loki didn't rush him to the point. He waited and listened. It wasn't so bad, talking with someone who actually listened. His voice got steadier as he went along.

"When I was twelve my parents died, and everybody started treating me different. It was like they thought I was gonna fall apart any second, and I'm not like that. I was sad and all, but I wasn't broken. I dealt with it. Holland was the worst. Always asking me how I was feeling and trying to pad my ass. I fucking hated it. That must sound so lame, being mad because people cared–"

"No, I understand," Loki said with feeling, setting a hand to Tony's knee. "Pity can make one feel as if others are looking down."

"Exactly!" Tony nodded. "Yeah, that's what I mean. And he was super clingy too. Like, if I hung out with anyone else he would get so bitchy. 'Who was that? Why were you with them?' He was always on my ass, wanting to spend more time with me and getting really pissy when I had other plans."

Rubbing at his eyes, he took a deep breath.

"But that was just leading up to...what happened. See, every year the school does this big overnight retreat, sort of like a giant field trip. We pack our bags and ride on a bus and go see cool stuff.  We get to sleep in hotel rooms and stay up all night with no dorm masters nagging. It’s really fun. And in our fourth year we went skiing up in the mountains."

He had to pause to explain skiing, which was actually really hard to do without pictures.

"So anyway, we were staying in this hotel, and John and I were sharing a room with four boys from other houses. And...okay so this is kind of a secret, but sometimes in hotels they let you pay to watch certain channels, and in that hotel one of those channels was a porn channel. The guy before us must have bought it, because it was still working when we got in. So we're up late and we're channel surfing, and this...movie comes on. With people like...going at it."

"You have recordings of...?"

Embarrassment flushed Tony's ears, but he was too far to stop now. He really didn't want Loki to think he was a pussy.

"Yeah, they're...kinda weird. The acting's really awful. But the," he coughed, making a gesture with his hands, "is all there. So, we're all kind of surprised, but of course we watch it. I mean, where else are we gonna get to see that?"

"Fair," Loki said with a skeptical look.

Tony tried to get to the point.

"So, anyway, that happens and eventually we all get tired and fall asleep. But in the middle of the night, John wakes me up, and he's-" Tony steels himself with a deep breath. “He’s hard, and he’s...doing his thing. And he turns to me and he says 'hey, do you wanna get each other off like they did in that movie?'"

Loki didn't react. Not even a twitched eyebrow.

"And, okay, I was curious. But like...he's a dude, you know? So at first I'm not really sure but he kind of...talks me into it. 'It's not gay if it's just hands' and all that crap."

The hand on his knee squeezed, and Tony realized he'd been staring at the floor too long.

"Tony, if this boy forced you-"

"He didn't! I wanted to, I just...wasn't sure. So we like," Tony repeated the hand gesture, and Loki rolled his eyes. "and then out of nowhere he just swoops in and lays one on me. Right on the lips. And he says, 'I can't believe this is happening.'"

Loki's eyes narrowed and Tony bit his lip, nodding. "Yeah, exactly. So I'm like, 'Um....what?' and he says, 'I love you, I've been in love with you for years.' A-a-and I panic. I don't know what the hell I said, but inside I'm totally freaking out. I always thought he was kind of weird about me hanging out with other people, but when he said that I just started thinking back, and I realized that he didn't just want to hang out, like ever, he was trying to get in my pants."

"Were his words insincere?"

"No! No, he was being real. It's just...I trusted him, you know? Finding out that he was just sucking up to me so I'd give him a handjob? Gross."

At this, Loki frowned. "Must friendship and attraction be so exclusive? Perhaps his admiration grew out of genuine feelings of camaraderie?"

Through all the years he carried this memory, Tony was ashamed to find that he'd never considered it. He'd been horrified, too repelled by the secret revealed.

"How should I know? What mattered was that he'd lied to me. For a long damn time he'd been beating off to me in the showers and then coming to hang around in my room like we were just buddies. That's totally not cool. And anyway, the story's not over yet," Tony crossed his arms and stooped lower to his legs.

"So he says he loves me and now I'm totally confused, and freaked out, and I'm still sitting on top of him. I'm looking down, and he gives me this funny look, this total fuck you look–"

Tony's voice wobbled. It hadn't been as hard to tell the story as he thought, at least not until this part. But all of the sudden it felt like his throat was closing up.

"And then...he screamed."

Loki's brows raised. "He woke the other boys?"

"He shoved me off and he started yelling. Saying I was a fag and a pervert and telling me to get my hand out of his pants."

A weight settled on his shoulder, and when he looked up Loki was just as calm and composed as before. Still there, still not judging him.

"The whole school knew by lunch. Nobody would talk to me. The guys in my room made me sleep in the hall cause they didn't wanna catch the gay. And it wasn't even true.”

Loki pursed his lips. Whatever he'd wanted to say, he eventually sighed and let his face fall into a somber half-smile.

"Forgive me is this sounds indelicate, but if you find yourself wanting to put your hand on a fellow man's hatchet with some regularity then there's a good chance you aren't exclusively heterosexual."

"Well I definitely don't want to do it again," Tony grumbled.

"Then you need not trouble yourself over it. Experimentation is natural, it does not dictate who you are," Loki murmured. "In any case, allow me to apologize for my words last night. I did not know that you bore this inside."

Tony shrugged, hoping it drew attention away from his burning eyes.

"I'm glad you did. Once I thought about it I felt bad for saying shitty stuff about you."

"Perhaps if you did not say such things, you would have nothing to feel excremental about."

"What did you just say?" Tony covered his mouth to keep from snickering.

"What?"

"Excremental? Seriously, dude?"

"I merely repeated what you said," Loki grimaced.

"It's a curse word. Say it with me...shitty. Sh—it—ee."

"Enough. We are neglecting our work."

"Shitty, Lokes, come on. Just say it once."

"You and this abominable planet are shitty hosts," Loki said in the most proper accent Tony had heard yet.

But he also threw an arm over his shoulder and mussed up his hair with an indulgent grin.

"But I am honored to be entrusted with your burdens,” Loki said in a smooth, low tone that eased the remnants of old hurt. For some reason that made him feel dizzy, like the air got momentarily thinner and he was just floating along.

They walked back down the stairs side by side, and he thought of how nice it was to talk and hear another voice answer back. To have someone actually hear what he was saying and hold it in their heart.

He was glad they saved the bots. He loved them like family, and he’d worked hard to make them—but at the same time he knew something had shifted.

He still loved his bots, but he would choose a friend over a bucket of bolts, no contest.

Chapter Text

Once they are finished, it does not take long for the principal and his men to arrive. Loki watches, incorporeal and yet still driven to hide himself in the rafters.

All together there are four—the man who came to Tony's room that morning, a heavy-stepping man in a leather jacket who Loki recognizes as law enforcement by disposition alone, and two others of unremarkable countenance. He suspects they are teachers, simply because they are adults with no weapons or distinguishing features.

The party is thorough, starting in the basement and working upward in an orderly system that wanders each hall, bird calling. Although he knows the situation has serious ramifications, he can't help giggling a bit at how foolish they all look bent over their own knees and clicking their tongues like idiots.

They inspect what was formerly Tony's laboratory with nothing more than a brisk walkthrough, and pass the second room nearly as quickly. He and Tony’s efforts were not in vain.

Unfortunately, they are equally as ignorant of the cameras. In a matter of steps they overlook no less than four without so much as a stubbed toe, and Loki begins to worry. If they find nothing, he does not know what they will do.

Two more cameras go unfound, each person tiptoeing around the debris and shining the beams of their hand-lights back and forth. Knowing there are only three more to find, he decides he must act. It would not due for their bias to condemn Tony on the grounds of Loki's own mistake.

And so he whips ahead, quick as a flitting bird, to the large atrium at the center of the building. The one covered in papers and pamphlets, a space made spectral by the stale air and floating dust, visible only in the slivers of light stretching between the boarded windows.

He finds the last camera under a cloth-covered chair, the very one which he had shown Tony. The fabric covers the blocky body of the machine, lifted only over the circle of the glass so that it could see and observe.

It will be simple enough to reveal. A gust of wind, a rising of particles in the columns of light. They will find it, he will make certain.

Arrhythmic steps announce their arrival, for he cannot see out from under the sheet. Compact in this form, merely a flickering sphere of spirit, he is the unknown and the inexplicable.

He waits until the footfalls are near enough to shake the shiny glass eye of the camera. Then he becomes the wind, becomes an environmental force pulling at the atmosphere like a waterless undertow.

The searchers pause, and so does he. One of the men trips, another pulls him back to rights.

Did you see that?

Just the wind.

No, under the sheet. There was something under the sheet.

You've seen too many movies.

No, I saw something. I’m sure of it.

The curtain rises. Eight eyes stare down the ambivalent monocle of the once-hidden device.

A hand like a looming cloud reaches down and pulls the interloper into the cold half-light of truth.

"Holland?" the principal reads.

"Who?" the officer replies.

A shifting of weight, a shifting of scales.

"Well, I think we know who our anonymous informant is."

"He’s a good kid...never acts up in class," one unremarkable man says to his female counterpart.

"Straight A student," she replies with a baffled sigh.

"Such a shame...”

"Makes no sense..."

Although he has no face or form, the sensation of a smile washes through his spirit. Tony's station is secure.

He floats to the ceiling with a complacent lightness. Then, from far away, a voice. The lumbering officer with the steel-toed boots.

"Hey, you all might want to come look at this."

The group moves as one through two sets of doors.

A cold cord of dread winds itself around Loki's heart.

He follows them to the place where Tony outwitted him, trapped him, and then came back to save him. The room with the smaller room inside it.

A dark stain covers the floor in an ominous black pool, a baseball bat and a set of discarded shoulder pads nearby.

The officer stands in the center of the group, his hair wispy and thinning on top. A gun in his hand.

His flight to Tony's room is taken at a speed generally reserved for cataclysms and women in labor. Perhaps the situation is not so dire, but it feels that way with the words of the officer ringing in his ear. Stark Industries twenty-two caliber...safety switch is off. What the hell is this doing here?

When he returns to his body everything is a blur. His stomach screams, inside and out. Something feels different than yesterday, his nose pricking with an unpleasant smell like rot, but he pays it no attention. Whatever the situation he shall not die of it yet, and he has news to deliver.

Sitting up, he finds the boy on the floor surrounded by tapes, hugging his own knees and listening...listening. The cast of his eyes is low, somber. Something left the room while he was away, something more vital than company.

Over the course of their short acquaintance he has not seen the boy so morose, as if he has been drained of hope. Loki checks his tongue at the thought, allows a moment for the slow strumming of the guitar on the cassette to wash over him and whisper clues as to what has happened in his absence.

The song does not explain itself, it's lyrics unintelligible. And yet the slow, mournful melody seems to render the room smaller, hotter. It is an all together uncomfortable place to be. He cracks his knuckles nervously, hands limp at his side.

Tony glances up, offering a passionless smile.

"How'd it go?"

He does not want to say it. Instead he creates a space for himself among the plastic cases with the toe of his boot.

“Lokes?” Tony’s eyes widen. “Something’s wrong.”

"They found the cameras," Loki says. "Your suspicion is shared."

Tony nods, but doesn't seem overly relieved. "And?”

"And..." Loki sits. He arranges a mass of tapes into a stack.

"Tell me.”

The boy’s tale returns to his awareness, the hurt and the tightness with which he had said the word betrayed. Loki knows he cannot lie, not if he wishes to keep his esteem.

"We made an error."

Tony's face falls.

"What, what did we forget?"

"The gun," Loki says.

"No," Tony's hands grip his knees.

“But they now suspect Holland, we can use that. We can make it seem as if the gun belongs to him–"

"There's no point, my godfather's coming. Even if we convince them it wasn't me, he's gonna be pissed. He’ll pull me out of school just for making him come all the way out here. Probably missed dinner with the president or some shit."

"Now that is simply defeatist. Surely your guardian won't discard your protests out of hand?"

"You don't know him," Tony sighed.

His friend had been in good spirits earlier, perhaps even a bit over-confident. Now he looks two steps from surrender.

"What's brought this on?"

Tony hung his head, an unmarked cassette in his hand.

"Just something Obie said—about how my parents wouldn't want me to be a loser."

"You’re not a loser," Loki huffed. "And your godfather’s statement is rubbish. The living know the thoughts of the dead no more than a fly knows the currents of the atmosphere."

"Well, that's what Obie thinks, and until I'm eighteen he's the boss."

"Eighteen? That seems rather arbitrary," Loki scoffs. "It is clear to me that you are able to make your own decisions. And what of the bots? If he takes you away, what happens to them?"

Tony shrugs. "I guess they'll sit and rust. Who cares, they're just dumb machines anyway."

He can see the leaps of Tony's logic, can sense him desperately clinging to detachment and sarcasm, but it is a futile struggle. His own words undo him, his face crumbling and a hand coming up to cover his watery eyes.

Loki's heart pulls at his chest, his own memories of himself at this age demanding that he do something, that he say what he so needed to hear when it was he who was crying and alone and staring into a bleak and hopeless future. At a loss, he lays his hand on Tony's back and circles, and with no warning at all he is rewarded with a lap full of distraught teenager.

No one has ever entrusted Loki with their tears. He feels drawn and quartered, responsible in a way he is not at all comfortable with. All the same, he wraps both arms around the crying young man and removes himself from his own shock. Now is no time to freeze.

"It is not stupid to put one's heart into their work," he says in vague reassurance, unsure what exactly he is even trying to convey. "I've never made anything useful in my life, and although I have seen you do it, I still cannot fathom how. You are remarkable, truly."

Tony persists in his silent tears, clutching Loki like a supportive pillar and shaking, whimpering, struggling to breathe. His hand makes rounds from shoulder to neck to shoulder and back, and he finds himself absorbed in the pictures on the wall:

The dazzling man with his hair all afloat, the guitar gripped in his hands and the pink and purple lights shining behind his head like twin beacons of revolution and restitution.

The great wall of lusty women with their revealing tops and suggestive poses.

The scant snippets of other pictures peeking out through the crevices as if demanding to be acknowledged, as if standing in defiance of the overwhelming facade.

It is more telling than Loki has any right to know. A boy at war with the entire world. A boy pretending to be invincible while standing unarmored in a hail of arrows.

He stares, reaching for words of comfort and finding only the rock anthems, the women, the unknowable depths underneath. In his arms the engine of the young man's grief sputters, grinding to a halt in a flurry of sniffing and wiped eyes. Shame scents the air like a festering wound.

"I can't tell him the truth, all he cares about is money. He doesn't get why I make the bots. He says it's pointless."

"The only pointless thing is a good idea left unfinished," Loki says. He slips down Tony's arms and takes his hands in his. "If you do not speak your mind, then you will never know what may have been. You will have only yourself to blame.

Years and years I lived in a shadow. Always angry, always hating my brother and my parents. I never spoke ill. Not once until the day came when I could not sit in silence any longer. I said things I ought not have said, I threw away trust which I shall never reclaim.”

Squeezing, he meets the boys eyes.

“Do not hold this inside, Tony. You are a good man, and a brilliant inventor. These qualities deserve respect. You deserve respect, and you have every right to demand it."

Tony rubs his face on his shirt tails, his eyes red.

He looks at Loki as though he has personally hung all the stars. As if he is the Great Creator, walking the cosmos and setting the planets into motion. As though stardust falls from his fingers and the words of his mouth are a sacred gospel. He looks at him as Loki has done to others many times, as others have once or twice done to him in return.

He is beaming as only an impressionable soul looks upon the bearer of their heart.

Behind the unmoving mask of his face, Loki’s body seizes. His mind reels.

There is no mistaking the light on the boy's face—the glint in his eyes, the flush of his neck, the way he is leaning ever so slightly forward as if reaching for something he does not know he wants.

He has become attached, has opened his heart and let the creeping vines take hold, and Loki has not stopped him, has in fact encouraged him at every turn.

The boy has developed a crush....and Loki?

Loki has made a mistake.

Chapter Text

After the lab, the pace of the world seemed to slow. An evening passed like a bated breath. After he lost his shit, Loki seemed put off. Didn't meet Tony's eye.

Homework was a good distraction, even if it made his brain feel like a vacant attic. Dinner passed with Loki still distant, constantly humming and scowling and staring out the window. He wished he was too stupid to know what was up.

Three days. That's what Loki had promised on Friday, and that evening's sunset marked the close of Sunday. Three days.

His friend was preparing to leave, just when he was getting used to him being around. It had to be an alien, didn't it? He couldn't have gotten along with someone that actually lived on Earth.

After his textbooks were put away and the sun started flirting with the horizon he made Loki talk, just because he was starting to feel alone with a person two feet away.

They discussed his home planet. A place with no sun or moon, flat like a disc and covered in golden statues. It sounded fake, but what could he say? As far as he knew relativity was a fucking joke some space wizard cooked up to watch the hairy ape men scratch their heads. If Loki said his planet was run by hamsters riding mountain bikes, he kind of had to believe him.

So it was with images of golden nights and flat worlds spinning around the sun like vinyl records that he laid his head down and tried to get some rest. All night long he kept remembering the weight of another body denting the mattress, and it made the bed he'd slept just fine in two days ago feel lonely.

By the time the sun rose he’d slept three hours, and he felt like he hadn't slept at all. Before he even got a chance to mope the class bell called his housemates to lessons and left him shuffling foot to foot in the common room.

Holland’s parents showed up fifteen minutes early and Tony hated them on principle.

His mother was short and bumpy with thick ringlet curls that he wasn't convinced were real. Daddy Holland wasn't much better. Squat and thin enough that he looked like a blob of taffy squished into human proportions and encased in pleat-front pants. Both of them hugged John like this was a funeral rather than a conference and he wanted to drag that flippy haired bastard into the river just to give them a real reason to look so damn sympathetic.

Instead he contented himself with tapping his toes and shivering next to Principal Wilson on the frosted lawn. Winter's first freeze came suddenly the night before, and so they were all under-dressed and ignoring each other's discomfort.

Obadiah was late. With every tick of the minute hand on Tony's watch, he felt his dread deepen like water steeping into tea.

When the long-bodied Lincoln town car rolled up he checked his shirttails on rote and made sure his shoes were tied.

Obadiah climbed out like a bald yeti—oversized in every sense of the word. A man you had no choice but to look up to. His suit was plain navy, his pocket square pearly white.

Tony knew the plain looking sunglasses cost five hundred dollars, and the unremarkable Oxford flats with their unscuffed toe caps twice that. It was all for the press, practically a disguise.

"Mr. Stane," Wilson greeted. "I believe you know Deborah and David Holland?"

"Wimbledon. '78 wasn't it?"

"Borg vs. Conners," Mr. Holland nodded. "Hell of a match."

Hands shook with echoed pleasantries.

Apologies for missing your fundraiser, I was in Kuwait. Not at all, not at all. We know you're a busy man. How's the niece? Still in rehab. A shame, a shame.

It washed over Tony's head, the adult’s lips moving like news reporters on a muted TV. Snug in his mother's coat, Holland nodded along and shot complacent looks behind the backs of his parents. Tony bit his tongue and waited, distinctly aware of the concealed tension. Politeness was never a reliable indicator of Obadiah’s mood.

Eventually they reached the end of the socially mandated small talk, and in a clamor of designer heels Tony was paraded across the crisp walkways of the courtyard with Obadiah’s hand gripping his shoulder. It was a heavy yoke, made all the more uncomfortable by his godfather’s mild expression.

In an odd mirror of yesterday, he remembered Loki's arm resting in the same position and wished with blistering intensity that he was here instead. Things would be better. As it was, he wanted nothing more than to throw his clothes in a suitcase and stowaway on whatever vessel Loki was planning to ride away in.

Up the stairs they all clambered, past the wall of lockers and through the door to the main office where Mrs. Deisenroth smacked her gum and balanced the office phone between her shoulder and chin. Mmhmm, mmhmm, yes we can certainly do that for you, ma'am. Mmhmm, mmhmm, no transcripts can't be faxed.

The Hollands stepped into the yawning double door of a burgundy conference room and Obadiah stopped just outside, his hand halting Tony with him in a move that felt like a bad dog being made to heel. He gritted his teeth and waited while his guardian waved the others inside.

Mrs. D leaned back in her chair, still smacking, no longer talking. Tipping her free ear not-very-subtly.

Always someone watching.

"You're nervous," Obadiah said with a yielding pinch of his brows.

"I'm fine, just cabin crazy. Are they allowed to trap me in my room? Is that legal?"

"Tony..."

"I'm serious, can I press charges?"

Obie laughed, and Tony could breathe again. His guardian squeezed his shoulder.

"What have I always told you? We're a team, the two of us. There isn't anything–"

"Anything we can't do, yeah," Tony finished, "So we can press charges?"

"Let's see what we're dealing with first," Obie shook his head and smacked Tony lightly on the back. Noticing the eavesdropper, he stepped so his back was to Mrs. D and leaned down, whispering. "I need to know, did you do it?"

"What do you mean, did I do it, of course I didn't–"

"Don't," his godfather hissed, eyes hard. "We promised, way back when you were little, we promised to be honest with each other."

Guilt swam in his gut, but he didn't dare look away.

"Check the clip, it's full. I didn't shoot anybody."

Stane raised one eyebrow.

"–thing. Anything."

A long moment punctuated the half-truth, the look persisting into a stare that didn't tell him anything. Obie was unreadable, it's what made him good at business.

"Just let me do the talking," he sighed.

"I'm not in trouble," Tony checked.

"Not yet," Obie drawled.

Cold comfort.

He held open the door and motioned for Tony to go through.

Inside it was boiling. All the efforts of a maxed out heater trapped in one small room. A long table dominated the space, dotted by oppressive lines of leather studded office chairs. The Hollands had made their defensive line along one side.

Obie pulled out a chair for Tony across, and seated himself in the next one over. Shuffled along like a prop or a sidekick. He slouched and crossed his arms, staring down at the grain of the wood table. If he wasn't allowed to talk, then there didn't seem to be much value in pretending.

Disarmed and partially disassembled, the gun had been laid out on the center of the table. Blurry still-frames from security cameras showed two living pheasants grazing on the lawn, timestamped with last Friday's date.

"So as you all know, we're here to discuss the disappearance of our school mascots, as well as the discovery of a suspicious scene in the old school building." The old administrator pushed up his glasses and laced his fingers in a grim slouch.

"I assure you, there must be a misunderstanding. John would never–"

"Please, let's all do our best not to make any assumptions. We still haven't found any proof the birds are deceased, this is meant to be a fact finding endeavor. Given that no students have been harmed, I only want to know how this," Wilson indicated the gun, "came to be on our campus, so that I can ensure it doesn't happen again."

Mr. Holland gave Tony a dirty look before he said, "Since the gun was made by Stark Industries I would hope–"

"We can't account for every single unit's sale," Obie curtailed. "Our weapons are available in any one of a dozen retail stores all over the country. Where this one came from, I can't say without the serial number. If you don't mind?"

The principal shrugged and blinked his droopy eyes as Obie picked up the gutted pistol and squinted at the roughly sanded barrel. Realizing what was happening, Tony bit his lip. It was a special edition gun. Not for commercial sale.

As his mentor read the numbers and came to the same conclusion, he shot Tony a look and he was as good as convicted on that alone. Despite his godfather's unmoving expression, he knew he had less than a second to contain the situation before everything fell apart.

"I can't help what my last name is, but that doesn't mean it's automatically mine!" he sat up angrily. "Why's he here anyway? If you're just going to pin the blame on me sight unseen."

"Tony–"

"Because we have reason to believe that both of you know more than you have admitted," Wilson replied, summoning up a small measure of vitality in the name of reclaiming control of the conversation. Spinning in his chair, he retrieved a dusty camcorder from under the table. "This was found near the gun, and as you can see, it has John's name on it."

"We don't own firearms," Mr. Holland said indignantly.

"As I said, no one is being accused," Wilson stood. "Mr. Stane, you recognize this weapon?"

Obie smoothed his beard. "I recognize the manufacturing run. The weapon? No, I can't say that I do. And I certainly can't claim not to own firearms," he chuckled.

"All I know," John Holland slapped the table and glared, "is that Stark was up to something last Thursday during first period, which was just after the birds went missing. He stole a walkie from my club, and claimed I gave it to him. I thought I smelled a rat, and look, I was right! He's a danger to everyone in this building."

"What the fuck?" Tony shot to his feet.

"Mr. Stark–"

"Tony..."

"You're just gonna let him say that?" he demanded, fury pounding through his veins like fire.

"Holland, settle down," Wilson snapped. "Tony, count to ten. We are getting to the bottom of this."

"It made noise in class, sir. The walkie. Mr. Thornton asked why he had it, and he said he got it from me, which was a complete lie. Yeah, I went into Founder's Hall, but only because I heard him talking about it on the walkie. I knew he was up to something. "

Wilson palmed his forehead and Tony sort of felt for him. Holland had that effect on people.

"What I think," the old man raised his voice. "Is that both of you were involved in a prank that got out of hand."

"Sir–"

"If Stark had a walkie, then who was he talking to?" Wilson demanded.

John looked cowed. "I-I-I don't know, sir, but–"

"I think it was you, and I think you've both gone to elaborate lengths to erase yourselves from the narrative and put the blame on each other."

"Wilson," Obadiah began in a comrade's murmur. "I know Tony doesn't have the cleanest record, but I don't see how any of this implicates him."

"Well, there is this, which I now assume was left by you, John?" Wilson put the tape from his pocket onto the table.

On the receiving end of five stares, John wilted and crossed his arms.

"Yeah, that was me."

Wilson played the tape. Now the stares were on Tony. He chewed his lip.

Pleading the fifth only worked for so long, eventually the evidence would always stack up and a person had to choose between jail or a plea deal. As far as he could see there weren't any deals on the table.

"I was just messin' around with a friend off campus. I knew he wasn't allowed in the dorms, so I told him to meet me there. We just hung out, that's all."

"He's lying! Can't you see, he's lying. He lied to Thornton, and now he's lying to you. Ask him, ask Thornton! He'll tell you!"

"Holland, lower your voice," Wilson warned.

"That gun did not come from our house," Mrs. Wilson said in a guarded breath.

"It had to come from somewhere," the principal bit back.

"I think some fresh air might be in order." Obadiah stood, his chair rolling back and colliding with the wall. "Wilson, for the sake of fairness, perhaps you should invite Mr. Thornton to come give us his side of the story."

Tony tried to make a cutting gesture with his hand without alerting the other members of the group, but no dice. The words came out, and with them his hope died. Thornton would be happy to get him expelled any day of the week, he was screwed.

To his horror Wilson nodded, mirroring Obie's stance and tucking his glasses into his lapel pocket. He checked the yellowed face of an ancient Timex on the wall.

"First period ends in five minutes. I will hear what he has to say and we can continue this discussion afterward."

"That's not fair, you know he hates my guts," Tony protested.

"Kid-" Obadiah said.

The word inflated his anger, and before he knew it he was on his feet too, hands balled into fists.

"He would do anything to get me outta here, you know that! You can't take his word for it–"

"Tony, a word." His guardian wrapped a heavy hand around his elbow, and to his complete humiliation he was dragged out of the office in front of god and everyone.

"When are you gonna stop treating me like a fucking toddler?"

The interested gaze of Mrs. Deisenroth followed them out, and Tony ripped his arm away. Obadiah stalked out the nearest door and crowded them both into the alcove of the double doors. The blast of cold air stole Tony's breath and made his heart hammer.

"I'll start thinking of you as a grown up when you start acting like one. Why the ass-chapping hell would you bring a goddamn gun to school? You think that'll make you popular? You think the other kids will think you're cool cause you're waiving a fucking pistol around?"

"I told you, I didn't use it. Nobody knew about it. It was just around," Tony growled, stepping up and glaring into the taller man’s face.

"Why did you have it?" Obadiah gritted.

It was a stare down not unlike the wrestlers on TV. Tense, faces close. The only difference was the genuine fury passing between them where the pro fighters merely acted.

"Dad gave it to me," Tony said.

Obadiah’s face fell.

"Second year, he was on a paranoia kick. Swore up and down the world was going to shit and someone was trying to kill us all."

For Obie's benefit, he left his own feelings on the matter out. His dad had been a crazy bastard careening head first towards insanity when the car crash got him. Sometimes he thought it was for the best.

"Why is it stripped? Why wasn't it hidden? Why does it still have the fucking serial number on it?"

Tony floundered for a plausible story. Anything at all besides ‘I was going to murder a motherfucking alien.’

His godfather had one blind spot, a reliable port in any storm. Feeling queasy, he went for it, blazing brilliantly into places he never wanted to go.

"I was...working on a missile design and I couldn't remember what our company alloy was. So I scraped some off and broke it down, because I didn't want to look like an idiot in front of R&D."

"You were working for SI?"

Caught too deep in the lie, he could only dig deeper. "Y-yeah, I felt bad for messing up your deal with the generals. I wanted to make it up to you, and I remembered that R&D were having trouble with the Jericho so..."

Obadiah's eyes turned sharp and intrigued.

"And did you figure it out?"

His skin crawled. He looked to the side and shrugged.

"How could I with this ignoramus crawling up my ass? I mean, I'm good, but I'm not a fucking god."

Obadiah’s arm hung over his shoulders like a broken tree limb and he wanted to throw it off, didn't want anyone but Loki to ever touch him like that again.

"So Howard gave you the gun. Did anyone see him do it?"

"No. We were in the car."

Eye contact made Tony feel three inches tall. Obadiah frowned so deep his wrinkles had wrinkles.

"Back inside. We'll see what Thornton has to say."

Obie squeezed his shoulder with a giant hand. He hoped his soul was enough to buy his guardian’s loyalty.

"And this time, no talking. I mean it.”

"Yes, sir," he mumbled. "Does this mean...I'm not being transferred?"

Sweat trickled down his neck, his whole chest hurting with what he'd just promised to do. Obadiah patted his back.

"What did I just tell you? We're a team. You and me. If we stick together..."

"There isn't anything we can't do, yeah."

-

"So you see, it's entirely my mistake," Obadiah confessed. "When I heard about the gun, I gave Howard a talking-to and he swore he would get it back. After he passed everything was a mess. It slipped my mind and I assumed that he had kept to his word."

The Holland's faces were pale across the table and Wilson looked ready to riot.

"You knew about this?" the principal said.

"An oversight that I sincerely apologize for. And one I would be happy to compensate. David, Deborah, I would very much appreciate it if we could all come to an arrangement and keep this between ourselves."

"Arrangement?" Mr. Holland parroted.

"But John is in the clear?" Mrs. Holland asked.

Wilson shook his head like the room had been abruptly turned upside down.

Obadiah whipped out his checkbook and pulled a pen from a holder on the far side of the table.

"Here," he said with the confidence of a man accustomed to paying his problems away, “for your troubles.”

For a moment Tony thought John might rip the check to pieces, but then his father pinched it between two fingers and his eyes widened.

"No, you can't–" John said through a clenched jaw.

"That's... very generous," Mr. Holland murmured.

A similar exchange happened between Obadiah and Wilson. A sliver of conscience had Tony wondering if anyone ever turned Obie down. If there was someone, anyone out there that couldn't be bought.

It was a useless thought and he knew it. If such a person existed, he wasn't likely to meet them. People like that didn't make it very long in business.

"That's it? He had a weapon on campus and you're just going to let him go?" Holland shouted. His parents looked tortured.

Wilson swallowed, standing. "Well, I think we're done here. Both of you will be on probation until the end of quarter, and kitchen clean up for the rest of the year. Stark, you are not permitted to leave campus for any reason, and Holland please leave your key to the A/V cage here. It’s clear that you can’t be trusted with school property."

"I can't believe this. This is corruption, this is favoritism–" Holland's father stepped in front of him to shake Obadiah's hand.

"So sorry we had to meet under these circumstances."

"My people will send you non-disclosures."

"Of course," Mrs. Holland whispered, still shaken. "Of course, we'll send them right back."

Trooping out in awkward silence, Tony was relieved when the Hollands took the first available escape. He and Obadiah watched them turn down the long hall and stop at the water fountain for taffy dad to replenish his fluids. John was livid, having a hissed argument with his mother.

"I'm sorry," Tony sighed, the horror of what he'd just done only then fully washing over him. "I know you're busy."

"This doesn't mean our first deal is off. Like we agreed, straight A's and no more demerits."

As if. Perhaps a bit late, he identified the emotion pooling in his gut as disgust. Nothing had changed at all. So long as the checks didn't bounce, he wasn't going anywhere. So long as Obie thought he had control, he wouldn't actually do shit.

Everything the same, all over again. The only difference was now he had promised weapons, the one thing he said he would never do.

Down the hall, John's outrage reached a peak. He stormed away in their direction. Obie observed his approach as if from a high tower.

"You–" Holland spat, pointing. "Don't think this is over. You're going down for this, Stark, I swear to god."

"Get real, dick-licker. You couldn't find dirt if it came out your own asshole."

"Watch your mouth, faggot."

"What did you just say?"

”What, don’t want your guard dog to know the truth about you?” Holland jeered.

Quicker than any forethought, Tony reeled back his fist. Obadiah grabbed it. Tony struggled but the man’s size was a steep advantage.

Holland seemed to notice that factoid too, his aggression melting into wariness at Obie’s display of strength.

"How about you move along, son?" Obie said in an unimpressed tone. "Before I tell mommy and daddy that you said a naughty word."

Holland's nostrils flared, his cheeks red with righteous fury. And then he ran, his shoes slapping the marble and echoing in the empty corridor. Fucking coward.

"There's something wrong with that child," Obie shook his head, fixing his cuffs in a thoughtless gesture. "Although it would be better if you didn't give your enemies ammunition."

"Can't help it," Tony panted, feeling stalled from the abrupt kick of adrenaline with no outlet. “He’s asking for it.”

His godfather cracked his neck and took a restorative inhale.

"Well, since I'm already here, why don't we do brunch? You can tell me your ideas for the Jericho, and I'll see what kind of funding I can rustle up."

Tony looked at his shoes and he forcefully propelled them back to meet Obie’s gaze. He felt hollow.

"Let me change first," he indicated his school uniform with a dead stare.

"Be quick about it. I've got to be in New York by six.”

Nodding, trying to keep his face steady while his pulse rocketed out of control, Tony beat his feet up the stairs.

"Ten minutes," he promised, and hoped it was long enough.

Long enough for Loki to get him off this bureaucratic hellhole of a planet.

Chapter Text

Tony stomped into his room with a torrent of pressing questions—where will they go, what will he need, can they get a spacesuit in his size—only to find himself alone.

The pile of cassettes laid untouched on the floor, the sheets a mess but thrown back and clearly unoccupied.

He froze, toe to ear tip.

"Loki?"

The rhythm of his raising heartbeat pulsed in the pads of his fingers where they pressed into the doorknob. Everything was stagnant, airless.

Surely he hadn't left already, not without saying goodbye?

Holding his breath, he stepped inside.

"Loki!" he said, loud as he dared.

A thunk came from the bathroom. Hope welled up. It wasn't too late.

When he padded out, Loki looked different. Regal. He wore a high necked coat that swayed around gold plated boots, the sleeves tight around his shoulders and capped by gilded vambraces with goats heads carved into them. It hung open at his chest, and beneath Tony could see a system of hardened leather armor sculpted to fit his every plane and curve. He looked, in a word, exactly like the kind of awesome and untouchable god he had claimed to be.

"You're leaving," he said.

"Yes," Loki tutted.

Even his walk was different. Straight backed and imperious, hands stiff at his sides like he was expending great concentration on holding them there.

Tony climbed on top of the built-in dresser and tugged on the handle of his stashed away duffel bag until it came loose and fell, along with his sleeping bag and a mess of camping supplies he hadn't used in years.

"Right, well, that's what I wanted to talk about anyway," he said in a hurry, sensing that he wouldn't have long to convince him. Loki's steps came to a stop at the base of the dresser, his chin tipped up so he could favor him with a look of low-browed concern.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting my things." Tony hopped down and immediately began throwing clothes into the bag. "No telling when we'll come back around here, you know? I don't want to forget anything important."

His movements became a blur as he darted around the room grabbing whatever caught his eye. Toothbrush, comb, razor, AC/DC's Greatest Hits. Amid the flurry, Loki stood completely still.

Tony couldn't make himself listen to the aborted protests coming from his mouth, he didn't want to hear them. Didn't want to accept what he knew was coming.

The boombox wouldn't fit and that was a problem. Clutching it in his hands he tried to work out how he could possibly make it smaller, if maybe he could disconnect the speakers and hope that somewhere down the line he could find compatible alien tech, when Loki's hand came down over his own.

Snapping to attention, his eyes caught Loki's and he wished they hadn't. They contained an inescapable answer, a great, big world of 'no.'

"Have you been blamed?"

"Not exactly," Tony couldn't keep looking, had to lower his eyes while he scowled. "Obie got me out of it, but..." Shaking his head, he shoved the boombox away and returned to stuffing his possessions into the bag. He could convince Loki, he had to.

The older man's hand moved as if to interrupt again, but he stopped midway. Something in Tony rebelled at that, roared up in anger at the sudden distance.

It was his stupid breakdown earlier, he couldn't think of any other reason. He'd acted like a wuss and now Loki didn't want anything to do with him. Stealing a glance at Loki's fine clothes, he could understand why. Loki was amazing—an actual god with magic and a throne and gleaming golden armor. Next to all that, who the hell was he? A boring human in a wrinkled uniform.

"Well, let's just say you're looking at the designer of the next generation of Stark weaponry," Tony sighed, then made himself focus, ripping the zipper of the bag closed with some difficulty. "But that's actually a good thing. Makes things simpler."

"Tony-"

"No, no, listen. I've made up my mind. I don't care what I'm leaving behind, I want to help you stop whoever it is that beat you up so bad. Wherever you're going, I want to come. I wanna go with you."

Open mouthed, Loki stared. An expression that turned Tony's guts to acid. Flat refusal.

"Please," Tony leaned closer. He could see his last hope passing through his fingers, and all that did was make him dig his heels in deeper.

As if stung, Loki stumbled and backed away. Something cracked in Tony's chest, something awful and sharp.

"I can learn whatever you want me to, I won't be dead weight! You'll see, I promise, I'll do whatever you ask! Just don't leave me here."

With a thump Loki's heel hit the foot of the desk and his face turned from shock to cold, hollow unease.

"What you ask is impossible. You are being foolish. You hardly know me, you have a bright future ahead–"

"No, no don't you get it? I don't want that, I want to see Asgard! I want to go out with you and party and have fun."

"And what of your blood-soaked legacy? You would allow your family's name to continue making weapons when it is within your power to stop it?"

"But it's not! You don't get it, there's stockholders and corporate initiatives and–"

"And you think any of these things could defy your will if you actually applied it?"

The sharpness of the rebuke was like a slap to the face. An accusatory lilt that spoke as much to Tony's past as to his future and brought yesterday's burning back to his eyes.

He fought it this time, lesson learned. Ever since his stupid emotional outburst Loki had been distancing himself more and more. He blinked harshly at the rising pressure in his eyes.

"I am not headed for an auspicious victory or a grand adventure. Life is not as fables make it sound," Loki said. "You belong on your world, and I must return to mine before my mistakes create a ripple too large for any force to stop."

Tony swallowed, overwhelmed and falling fast into despair. Loki wasn't listening, was telling him what he thought he should want. Just a kid, just a kid. He thought he was different, he thought he'd finally found someone who would treat him like an adult.

"Well if that's how you feel, fine, get out!"

He turned to the bathroom, kicking the duffel in his anger and stomping to the only other place he could hide. A grip on his shoulder stopped him.

"Would you not regret it, years from now? Would you not wake at night and wonder what horrors your name had wrought while you sought your own satisfaction? I do not speak in malice, I speak with the voice of experience."

"I can't tell him no, Loki, that's just not an option."

"Perhaps not now...but not forever, not even for much longer,” Loki said. “And when the time comes, I know you will have it in you to succeed.”

Feeling cornered, he bent to retrieve his duffel and peeled it back open. If Loki wouldn’t take him, then he had no other options and Obie didn't like waiting.

Picking an outfit at random he unbuttoned the top two fastenings and pulled his Oxford over his head. The t-shirt was one of his favorites, a concert tee he'd been lucky enough to find at a thrift shop in town. It seemed stupid now, just a shirt.

Weight shifted behind him, and a flat palm came to rest at his back. A big hand, soft and cool as an autumn wind. Tony shivered, his skin reaching out for more in a way he couldn't explain, couldn't justify. A prickling spread over his shoulders, up his neck, and Loki murmured gently.

"I owe you a life debt. Such things are not easily forgotten."

"You'll come back?"

Despite his persistent anger, his mortification, the winding muscles of his back went slack.

This might not be his last chance. The touch became more confident, the tingling of his nerves stronger and warmer and all-together soothing.

"It will perhaps be a long while. Time does not pass at the same rate in all places, but you have saved me and thus I am yours. It will be repaid, I swear it."

"So you'll come back."

"I will be compelled to, by my magic," Loki swore.

Something flipped in his stomach, something suspiciously like relief. He turned, but Loki did not touch him again, did not offer any more words. He wanted him to so badly it burned. But Loki only gave a sad half smile and a somber tilt of his chin.

"Just go, I'll be fine," Tony grunted, uncomfortable. Suddenly feeling very self conscious about his uncovered skin and the emotion that must have shone as obviously as a flood light on his face.

Loki retraced his steps to the window, the sole of his boot leaving a scuff mark on the wood. Seconds before the god could make it out, Tony crashed into his back, hugging him from behind.

"Don't do anything dumb," he mumbled. "And don't you dare forget about me."

"I could never," Loki murmured. Tony wasn't brave enough to ask which question he was answering.

Under his clinging arms, Loki's breathing grew uneven. A soft grunt escaped and he realized he was squeezing too tightly over his wounds. He let go.

The big guy pulled his other leg up so he was crouching on the window and turned, his own face now pinched in subdued regret.

"You are better than you think, my friend. Do not allow others to diminish your brilliance. It pains me to see it."

"I don't know what you mean,” Tony shook his head.

Loki pursed his lips, and gave one last joyless smile.

The breath left Tony then, horror filling his gut as Loki threw himself out the window.

Fear cut him, his mind freezing as the time seemed to fragment and move in halting starts and stops. His shin collided with the edge of the desk in his mad tumble to climb up and reach out—but Loki was already gone. Falling.

Helpless, he half-hung himself from the window and watched. Loki smiled. Thin and laced with mischief.

Wiggling his fingers in a childish sort of wave, he summoned a cloud of black energy beneath him and fell into it. Swallowed up with a wispy whoosh like an ethereal, cosmic burp.

Ta-da, his eyes seemed to say, made you look, and despite his upset, Tony found himself smiling.

Crazy bastard Loki.

He sat there for long minutes, as if looking at the spot where his friend disappeared might somehow bring him back. The grit of the bricks dug into the heel of his palm and poked uncomfortably at the joints of his fingers.

A sense of loss came over him. He'd only known him three days. Barely even a full weekend, but still he felt numb.

Breath filled his lungs and a flock of birds flapped noisily over the river, and he simply could not absorb the hollow feeling in his chest or the burning in his throat.

Stumbling away from the too-bright visage of an ordinary day, he landed on the pile of clothes and his hands pawed around until he found the opening of the suitcase, poised and ready for a journey he had been forbidden to take.

He thought Loki understood, he thought Loki was different. But no.

Dragging his knees up to his chest, he braced for the impending fury but it never came. Crouched on the floor in his too-empty room, he never felt angry because he was too heartbroken to feel anything else.

The class bell rang, and he found his clothes. Underwear, pants, shirt, socks, shoes. Obadiah was waiting.

He didn’t look in the mirror or bother putting on a coat. If it was cold, he was too numb to notice. Stalking down the stairs to find Obie at the gates, he slid into the passenger's seat like a ghost.

His bristle-faced guardian groaned at a sound clip on the radio, some politician talking about unjust war and armistice talks, and put the stick into gear.

"I tell ya, kid, sometimes I don't know what this world is coming to. If I had a penny for every bad egg out there, I could afford to nuke ‘em all myself."

All through dinner Tony sat in a fog, Obie's words passing over him like low hanging smog. He nodded along, heart heavy with the weight of his promises.

The burger leaked grease and ketchup on the plate in front of him as he bit down and chewed. Obie chuckled, a fresh billow leaking out the charred butt of his cigar and leaving a cherry scented haze over the table. Already he wanted a smoke himself, but he'd burnt through his last two in a fugue as he got dressed for dinner.

"Howard was just the same, you know," Obie said wistfully, flicking ash onto his napkin. "Never could sit still. I don't blame you for it, Tony, I just wish you could've got your head on straight sooner. You know there's a war on, right? Our boys are getting blasted in the Gulf right now, and here we are tappin' our toes."

"Yeah," Tony mumbled, swallowing, wiping his mouth. It was the same table as the other night, and he kept looking for signs of their presence. A scratch or a stain or a remnant of a napkin that somehow hadn't been wiped up.

It had been a relief to air out his secrets the other day, but now he'd been saddled with a newer, even bigger secret. Pretending it hadn't happened made the whole thing feel like a daydream, the snippets of memory elusive and unreal. Loki's red eyes in the dark of the freezer, the denim vest hanging off him like it was made to frame his big square shoulders, the bubble of laughter trapped under Tony's finger as he pressed it to Loki’s lip.

He'd never missed someone before, never felt their absence like a physical pain. Obadiah picked a fry from Tony's untouched pile and swiped it through the puddle of ketchup and grease.

"Food alright? You look a little green."

"Y-yeah," Tony wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Um–"

His godfather frowned, leaning on his elbow.

"Don't um at me, what's the matter?"

Tony shook his head and took another mechanical bite.

He wanted to do as Loki said, to stand on his own feet and tell Obie no, but he couldn't do it. There was too much on the line, he'd promised too many things. And Loki hadn't said he would come back willingly. He just had a debt.

Would he still carry that cold distance around him when he returned? Would it make a difference if Tony proved he could be brave? The prospect of waiting an unknown amount of time for Loki to return ate away at what little resolve he felt to be strong. The most he could muster was a halfhearted protest.

"Can I, if I do what the company needs, will you at least let me build robots on the side? I think there's something big there, the technology just isn't ready yet but it could be–"

"Eventually," Obadiah interrupted. "And what do we say about eventually?"

"You never get to "eventually" if your business fails today," he finished, setting his burger back on the plate and slouching deeper in the creaky wooden chair.

"Exactly."

"But if I did all the profitable stuff and I still had time on the weekends..."

Chagrined, Obie puffed on his cigar and blew sideways with a pitying look.

"Sure, if that's what you want to do. Sounds like a good hobby."

Tony's stomach sank, and he shoved his plate to the center, appetite gone. He didn't want it to be a hobby. Nor did he want his future job to be a job, but things weren’t as simple as Loki made them sound.

The morality of the Stark business swung around his head until he didn't know what was good or bad anymore.

Obie wasn't wrong, their weapons did protect people....certain people. They kept America safe, at least as far as he'd ever been told. And if wars were going to happen regardless, if some people had to die while others had to live, he didn't want the dead ones to be his people.

Obadiah raised his tumbler, the amber liquor sloshing and making the big chunks of ice clink against the glass.

"But in the meantime, here's to you kid," his godfather said. "To the next generation of Stark tech."

Too conflicted to argue, Tony raised his soda and chugged it all the way down.

Obie's town car glided away with the roar of six cylinders and Tony walked himself back to Pennacook house. In the common room sat John Holland, still in his uniform and deeply engaged in decimating a box of Cracker Jacks.

It should have been awkward but Tony couldn't find it in himself to care. Who gave a shit about fault and blame, the damage was done.

Wordlessly, he dragged his heels across the Persian rug. Holland sneered, crunching the caramelized popcorn so loudly that they could probably hear it all the way down in the first floor lobby.

"Ought to file a police report," John muttered.

Taking two long steps, he tried to ignore him and just get to his room. In the privacy of his bed he could crumble, but not yet. Holland's chair blocked his way, he had to go around, but the harder he tried not to engage the more fevered John became.

"Freakin' psycho, I don't know how you keep getting away with this. It's Wilson, isn't it? You got him in your pocket."

Tony had to lock his lips shut at that. Because it wasn't him. He hadn't ever asked to be given special treatment, that was just how the world worked. Some kids had it all laid out for them, and he couldn’t help that he was one of them. He just had to get to his room.

Holland tossed another handful of junk into his mouth and talked with it half full, his pimply face jeering to the grating percussion of smack, crack, smack.

"How'd you do it, Stark? Money, cars, women? Oh, oh, I get it—you sucked him off, didn't you? No wonder you always look so smug when they send you to the office, you know he'll let you off easy once you butter him up-"

Something broke. Some last line of defense Tony hadn't known could fail.

He was so close to the sanctuary of his room, just one foot away, but he didn't reach for the handle. He wished he could shrug off the words like Loki, or laugh them off like Obie, or, hell, tear them to shreds with one caustic insult like his dad.

Tony would have given a limb, in that moment, to be anyone else. But he was just himself, and without anyone else around he didn't know who the fuck that even was.

His heart ached for some kind of comfort, for the sort of easy acceptance he'd been offered and then just as abruptly denied. The hopelessness got the better of him, and then it leaked out of his mouth a sticky, viscous truth.

"You know what, you're right."

Holland's rant stalled. The air conditioner hummed, and somewhere on the grounds a gardener started up a lawnmower.

"I am a slime ball, and a cheat, and a...." His voice cracked. Looking away, he furrowed his brow and swallowed the forbidden word. It was...too much. Too soon. "B-but what you did in fourth year, the bullshit you said about me? I don't know why you're so determined to ruin my life because you already damn well did. And the fact that you still haven't fucking gotten over it?"

Tony shook his head in disbelief, his whole being repulsed. His voice rose as he spoke, all the words he'd never said beating against his lips so urgently after being held in so long.

"You need help, man, you're fucking sick! Whatever the hell I said that night, it should have stayed between us! It shouldn't have even happened!"

Holland stared.

"You don't remember?"

"I didn't know, okay? I didn't know...how those feelings mess with your head."

"Wait, wait! You really don't remember?"

"No, are you joking right now?" Tony gaped. "Are you seriously going to blame this on me?"

Holland stood, his already disgusting face made even uglier by his fury-scrunched nose. He pointed, practically spitting.

"You said, Jesus, Jay, don't be such a girl. "

Tony blinked. Holland stepped up and pushed him into the door frame.

Catching the protruding handle, he steadied himself and stared.

"I did not–"

"Yeah, you did,” John spat, “But you know what, I'm glad you did. Crushes and all that shit, it just makes you crazy. I'm glad you didn't like me back, ‘cause if you had I'd still be brainwashed into thinking you were worth my time."

Holland stomped toward his room, and Tony's legs felt like stilts, like the rug had been pulled out from under him.

"Hey, wait–"

"Find a new dealer for your smokes, we're done."

John's door slammed hard enough that his name tag fell off and the mustached alumni rattled in their frames. Their unmoving smiles seemed to take in his shock and reflect it, his own mind just as immobilized.

Nobody could claim John wasn't a fucking Looney Toon, but in light of that revelation Tony couldn't call himself a saint either. Cold dread dripped into his stomach and he rubbed his eyes with feeling.

Loki had been right. Again.

Inside his own room, he breathed. His own posters mocked him. The pile of cassettes might as well have a life model decoy of Loki sitting in it because Tony can see him like a specter haunting the plastic.

Spurred by the useless tension pinballing around inside his ribs, he smacked his open hand on the nearest poster and pulled, ripping the corners clean off and leaving the thumb tacks buried in the wall like rainbow colored gravestones. It wasn't enough, it only fed his anger and moved the trapped frustration from his chest to his tingling hands.

A second one came down, and then a third, and before he knew it he was out of control, tearing apart everything he could reach and balling it up, throwing it into the trashcan until it was overflowing. By the end he was sweaty, his hands sticky from trade print ink.

Under the remnants of the destroyed display were images he knew but could barely remember hanging. Drag racers, space shuttles, a creased visage of the creature from the Black Lagoon. Actually, there were a lot of monsters. He'd gone through a phase.

Under the Anthrax poster he found the Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Pink Floyd. His dad gave him those, had played all their songs in the car when Tony was ten and told him about the early days of rock and roll. Deciding they were better than blank boring walls, he let the old farts stay. And the monsters.

The Led Zeppelin poster was relocated to fill the void left by the departed models, and if he laid down in bed just to check that Jimmy Page was visible from his pillow then nobody else needed to know.

Exhausted from the effort he nevertheless felt compelled to continue. Time worked differently in outer space. Maybe it would be a long time to wait, but maybe Loki got it backwards and twenty years for him would be a handful of minutes here. He couldn't risk it. Whenever Loki came back he needed to see that Tony had grown, that he could be trusted to come along.

The clothes cluttered up the drawers again and the duffel bag went back to the high shelf. Among the stuff he'd intended to bring he found the walkie talkie, it's spinning dial still set to channel thirteen. He couldn’t find the other one, or his ugly striped bathrobe.

Pathetically he raised it to his ear and strained for anything but static, any sign of life. Not a sound, no transmissions.

Feeling stupid, he fished out his soldering iron and stripped the power supply out of his boombox, because the battery pack was only good for so long. Performing a sloppy modification, he fused the cable to the capacitors while the sun crossed the halfway point in the sky.

It looked silly perched on the windowsill with it's tooth-marked antenna and wires spilling out of its permanently exposed innards, but he left it on display so that he didn't forget.

Loki was going to come back, and when he did Tony was going to be ready. He wasn’t going to waste any time.

Just as he thought he could finally rest, a knock came to the door and it opened without him inviting anyone in.

Holland stood there, his tie loose and shirt collar unbuttoned. He looked constipated.

A box of cigarettes flew through the air, hitting Tony in the chest. His brows rose, and the taller boy scratched the side seam of his pants.

"Already bought 'em, might as well."

"You're totally off your rocker if you think I'm still doing your homework for you."

John winced, crossed his arms. His eyes traveled the span of the walls.

"Geez, what the hell happened in here?"

"Do you have a reason for barging in or are you just looking to get your nose broke?"

"Just getting rid of some trash, don't read into it."

The older boy slumped through the doorway again, and despite his sour mood Tony could tell he'd fucked up. Obie was right. If an enemy called for an armistice, then he shouldn't show up to the peace talks with napalm.

"I didn't know," he made himself say.

John didn't stop, so he had to follow him back out into the common room.

"I didn't know how it felt. To be rejected, or whatever. You just dropped that out of nowhere, what did you expect?"

"Shut up!" Holland hissed.

"And I really don't think I owe you shit, but for what it's worth I'm sorry. I am sorry that I made you feel..." Tony floundered, no more sure of his position than the other boy, who stood hovering amid the couches and coffee tables. "I dunno, bad."

Holland crossed his arms again, and sighed.

"Let's just agree to avoid each other. After graduation we’ll never see each other again anyway."

"Deal," Tony said. Holland nodded, picking up his name plate and returning it to the nail on his door.

The school bell rang, a muffled commotion sounding below their feet as the rest of the student body went about their day unaware.

The walkie beeped with an unusual cadence and Tony went running, suddenly alive.

Waiting on his toes, stomach churning with hope and terror and scorching, burning want, he felt a rush in his brain like a key turning in a lock. 

"Dispatch for Bravo Delta, we've got a home invasion on north Park, do you read?"

"Bravo Delta, go ahead dispatch–"

A realization that struck him cold. The lightness, the way his skin itched and seemed to reach for Loki's touch, the unnatural speed with which his presence became not only normal but necessary.

Slumping into his desk chair, he put his head in his hands.

The cops carried on with their jargon and he spun the volume down, unable to bear it any longer.

How had he not noticed? He wasn't stupid. He'd seen it in movies and heard it in songs on the radio. Suddenly all the pieces came together in a horrid revelation and all he could do was sit there hyperventilating.

He was in love, holy fuck, holy fuck. He'd fallen in love with a space alien and he hadn't fucking noticed.

This was bad, this was bad, this was bad.

Chapter Text

"Things change, time is how we keep track." -James Gleick

Tony graduated. Finally.

In the end it wasn't such a big deal. He just left the correct answers on his math homework instead of doing all the steps right and then intentionally scribbling something random next to the equals sign.

In the deepest of ironies, it was Thornton who had to hand him his diploma at the ceremony.

Next came college, because that's what people like him had to do. This time he fought, passionately.

Loki's urging had eaten away at him ever since the day he left and he intended to take over the company as soon as it was legally possible. Obadiah disagreed.

Unfortunately, the last will and testament of his dead parents disagreed too. It was right there in fine red ink. The beneficiary will have full rights of ownership upon completion of his college education and upon reaching the age of majority.

Even so he'd torn into Obie out of sheer frustration, and they'd gone around and around. In the liminal space between telling his godfather to go fuck himself and dodging the Tiffany desk lamp that Obadiah threw in rebuttal he decided on MIT. Within the year he'd tested and bribed his way out of no less than ninety-six credit hours, which meant that by his second year he was a senior all over again.

It was his curse, clearly. A word he couldn't seem to shake.

The walkie never talked. At least, not the way he wanted it to. Since it could only do one function at a time, he had to buy another one for listening and he was never away from them for long. Between the constant chatter of local police and the increasingly popular trend of HAM frequency party lines, he wasn't an easy guy to live with.

The fact that he never wanted to be in bed alone didn't help either.

An unremarkable spring semester convinced him he was wasting his time. There were whole universes out there with real, live aliens in them, what the hell did his grade in advanced particle diffusion matter?

He got restless, he got low, he decided it was time to do one of those soul-searching backpack trips Michelle's cute friend with the uncute braces was always talking about. He wasn't one for nature, or religion, or dusty museums, so instead of Buenos Aires or Asakasa or Rome the ticket read 'Las Vegas.'

It was a hell of a town, and he couldn't deny that he was feeling older every day. Everywhere he looked there were people telling him he was too young to do anything, and then telling him that actually for that amount of money they would be very happy to do that for him.

Maybe normal people would have preferred the company of friends, but he really loved hanging out with the aging hookers. They had wisdom. And high heels. And unlike Marsha there wasn't a damn thing they wouldn't talk about, from shaving their armpits to bleeding in their underwear. In the space of a few weeks he came to the profound realization that women were just as gross and human as anybody else.

Not that it was all one way, of course. He was there on a mission, and if he was going to be a grad student by the time he was twenty then he figured he didn't have much time to shuck off whatever scraps of childhood had driven Loki away.

He got to work on it—sex, drugs, rock n' roll—and once he realized how fun the "work" could be he became really, very dedicated to it.

The girls were a godsend. They saved him a lot of trouble with their easy smiles and frank explanations. Once he got them to take him seriously they were happy to show him whatever he wanted to see whenever he wanted to see it, and they all seemed to think his dimples were adorable.

At first it was annoying, being treated like a kid brother who could be convinced to fund a car payment in exchange for blowjob tips, but then he realized kid brother status came with home-cooked meals and no-strings-attached couch surfing, so he got over it.

The Jericho missile went into ballistics testing on the second week of June, and Tony didn't hear from Obadiah for the next three months. All in all, a satisfactory arrangement.

He could have lived that way forever, sleeping late in other people's beds and passing the hours between lunch and happy hour with aimless gambling, but time had a really awful way of running out just when a person had gotten settled in the present.

MIT's acceptance letter came to the Stark Mansion and got forwarded about six times until finally it caught up with him at the high stakes blackjack tables in Caesar's Palace. Unmarked town cars started appearing outside of his favorite hangouts, and when he stopped going to those the same cars showed up at his second favorite hangouts.

The future called, and so to Cambridge he went. Dorms, meal plans, the whole thing.

After a good sixteen months of feeling sorry for himself and generally being a disgrace to his parents, his country, and the American way of life, he met Cadet Second Lieutenant James Rhodes and silently thanked the stars that at long last he could think about someone other than Loki.

Chapter Text

November, 1991

Stark Industries Headquarters, Washington D.C.

"This, gentlemen, is Siren. A silent, portable, one hundred percent effective auditory device for immobilizing and disarming conflict zones with nothing but a sound."

The laboratory was cold this deep into winter, the oversized fans on the high ceiling circulating frigid air around the expansive white-washed room. A cherry wood podium had been erected between a centrifuge and a fume hood, with a crisp white projector screen behind it. 

Tony made a show of putting his earplugs in and holding up the speaker. He pressed the button.

Eighteen researchers and engineers hit the floor, Obadiah among them. He smiled nice and big.

"As you can see, it's completely painless and works instantly. Paralytic effects are temporary, though a little unnerving for the control freaks among us." He made sure to meet Obie's eyes as he stepped over his literally captive audience.

Reaching the edge of the lab, he slid behind the podium and clicked the button again. A chorus of groans sounded. He took out his ear plugs and held them up for the crowd.

"But this wouldn't be very useful if the bad guys could just plug their ears. Which is why I invented a new type of radio frequency just for the Siren which passes through walls, doors, and conventional ear protection.  These proprietary ear plugs were designed not just to dampen the specific frequency used by Siren, but to eliminate all sound in a field around each ear, making them multi-purpose safety devices to protect our troop's ears from all kinds of noise."

His godfather stumbled to the podium with a red face and livid eyes.

"I will now open the floor up for questions," Tony said quickly as Obie's arm fell over his shoulders and turned their backs to the employees.

"I asked you," his godfather sputtered, "for tank treads. You promised me you were working on tank treads."

"Yeah, to get our boys into the field. This will get them in. No mess, no casualties, just drop a couple of these babies on the border-"

"Well thank you, Mr. Stark, for that impressive demonstration of next quarter's flagship product," Obadiah said to the room, clapping him on the back. Tony didn't play along. "MacNeally, how about you tell us the Radio Team's plans for the SI 761's communication systems?"

A squirrely looking man in a window-box button up scurried to the front as Obie dragged Tony to the corner.

He tried to get away, but Obadiah wasn't budging. He loosened his tie in petty rebellion, fluffing up his flat hair. Usually Tony did it big like Billy Idol, but his godfather would have stuck his head under a sink.

"It's a good idea," he grumbled.

"Washington wants tanks," Obadiah gritted his teeth, taking the speaker and ear plugs from Tony's hand. "Our contracts are for tanks. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking," Tony glared at the floor, not even remotely listening to the next presentation. "Of a war without casualties."

Up at the podium MacNeally motioned at a diagram, and Tony worried he might leave the room with less intelligence than he entered with.

"Casualties are what makes it a war," Obie said.

"The goal of governing should be peace," Tony hissed. Practically a mantra, he'd said it so many times to so many deaf ears. "If we never let the wars end, then what are we fighting for?"

"For profit, Tony, Christ," Obadiah hissed. "We're a weapons manufacturer, not the fucking Peace Corps."

Tony grabbed his coat from the back of a chair and threw it on. He didn't have to be here, the war machine would churn on just fine without him.

"War paid for your education, you know," Obadiah pulled out a pack of cigarettes and rummaged in his jacket pocket for a lighter. "It paid for your cars and your hookers and your fuckin' pansy hair spray."

"Goodbye, Obie."

Perching the cig between his bristled lips, Obadiah muttered, his words slurred by the paper and syncopated by the clicking of the lighter.

"Never should have sent you to that prep school—damn liberals filled your head with fuckin' Care Bear rhetoric-"

"Goodbye, Obie," he growled.

The heads of the researchers followed him out, like he was a fascinating specimen on a nature show. And here we have the Moral Human in his natural habitat, gorgeous! Notice how he navigates the dangers of the corporate jungle. Please, no pictures, we don't want to disturb this rare sub-species of sapien.

The door slapped closed at his back. He let his shoulders sag.

That could have gone better.

Streetlights cascaded over the corners of worn brick bungalows as he wheeled his car into the driveway of his girlfriend's dead grandmother's townhouse.

It was late, the brutal wind from the nearby river whipping right through his layers and making him want to scream. He nearly broke his neck scaling the ice-covered steps, and then his face when he slipped on the frozen doormat and kissed the brass knocker.

Inside it was only a little warmer. The old house didn't keep the heat or the cold or really anything well, but he'd known that when he moved in so he didn't feel all that entitled to complain. Salt from the road fell from his shoes when he kicked them off, and he threw his briefcase down right in the middle of it. He'd only gotten it to compliment his totally-mature-and-ready-to-lead-the-business suit, and his attempt to appear respectable hadn't made a lick of difference anyway.

Padding over the tan carpet of the desaturated living room, he stuck his head in the kitchen to find the light on but nobody home.

That's what he liked about Marsha. She was a no-nonsense medical student with full lips, curly hair, and a schedule more jam-packed than Madonna. He liked that she only seemed to be around in the middle of the night, and she liked any guy that could read her thesis without falling asleep.

They got on fine, or as fine as any two people who are in love with other people can. Today he kind of wished she was there. She always had something to complain about, and he really didn't want to sulk on his own.

His stomach rumbled but he'd never gotten the hang of cooking for himself, so he ended up wandering to his bedroom with a packet of Ritz crackers and a sour disposition.

He called it a bedroom, but it really wasn't. The only person that slept there was Rhodey, and only when Tony got him too drunk to drive. Otherwise it belonged to the bots.

Flipping the power switch by the door, he slumped into his well-worn desk chair and watched JARVIS boot up.

It took a while.

The radio whined and scratched in the corner, blaring it's usual background noise of local kids chattering and firefighters coordinating rescues. He tuned it out. JARVIS would record whatever happened and he'd listen to it later. For now he was busy moping.

All that work on Siren, and Obie hadn't even asked how it worked. Hadn't looked at Tony's very detailed manufacturing plan, or the long list of veteran disabilities that the devices could prevent. He hadn't even let him finish.

And meanwhile Jerichos were rolling off the assembly line, ready and waiting to paint his name all over whatever war Washington decided they needed to fight next. Loki really hadn't done him any favors leaving him behind.

The BIOS initialized and Tony rubbed his chapped nose.

"Good evening, sir. I am Jarvis. How may I be of assistance to you?" the robotic voice asked. It didn't sound like he wanted it to, but at least it was understandable. It had a British lilt that he found calming and sophisticated, but he tried not to think about why.

"Play yesterday's recordings," Tony enunciated. The listening system wasn't very reliable just yet.

"Right away, sir."

Green letters flickered rapidly across the screen as the program initialized. Across the room the radio volume dialed down, and the tape recorder attached to the system clicked. The wheels spun. From the speakers on either side of the monitors, the sound played.

Gruff voices invaded the space, two cops Tony knew in an instant. Local boys that came on his system nearly every day.

Officer Peterson wondered if Officer Mays wanted to meet up for lunch. Mays suggested Patty's Diner but Peterson wanted burgers.

"Skip."

The tape spun forward.

Two women discussed the lack of parking in Kendall Square.

"Skip."

A raucous cluster of young-sounding boys argued over football drafts.

"Skip."

A lusty phone sex operator described what she wanted some mouth-breathing customer to do to her in his imagination.

He was too tired for this shit.

"Jarvis, end program."

"Understood, sir. One moment please."

After years of trial and error he'd managed to get pretty far. The AI could talk, listen, operate his radio, and play cassette tapes. If he hooked it up to the school's power grid he could turn lights on and off and even open doors if they had electronic locks. What he couldn't do was think. Which was the whole point of the project. For all the effort he'd put in, he'd created more of an artificial un-intelligence.

At long last the monitor went dark and reset to the main screen. The bot repeated its standard greeting.

"Good evening, sir. I am Jarvis. How may I be of assistance to you?"

Staring at the ceiling with frozen toes and a stuffy, uncomfortable sport coat wrinkling under his ass he shoved a Ritz cracker in his mouth and mumbled pathetically.

"Be a real person."

The monitor blinked, and the computer's coolant system kicked on with a whir of fast-moving fans.

"I'm sorry, I do not recognize that protocol. Is there anything else I can assist you with, sir?"

"Be a real person," he repeated.

"I'm sorry, I do not recognize that protocol. Is there anything else I can assist you with, sir?"

Tony turned the monitor off and threw himself on the spare bed.

Jimmy Page looked back from the wall.

He blew a raspberry at the fucking bastard for daring to look so cool and carefree.

The poster didn't know what he wanted either.

A few hours later Marsha came home with a lasagna. Apparently it was someone's birthday at the hospital and nobody wanted it.

By that point Tony didn't much want it either.

He was laying in the bed with Nirvana playing in his headphones when she stuck her head in the door.

"I thought you were staying in D.C."

"Well you know what they say about politicians." Tony slid his headphones off.

"Drawn to money like flies on shit," Marsha smirked.

She set one of two plates on his desk and bent over for a kiss. He met her halfway, because it was a crappy day and she was a good kisser.

"How's your mister?" he asked.

Her pretty face was a lot prettier with a smile, even if her hair was a bit tangled from the wind. She flopped on the bed next to him and helped herself to the only pillow.

"Well," Marsha started.

Tony grinned and made himself comfortable. She had a way of telling stories that made even the most boring events sound like Days of Our Lives.

"I'm on my trauma rotation this week, alright? Fifteen hours in—I'm only supposed to be there twelve hours but Cindy took off for Puerto Rico and Mica thinks she's pregnant again, so I end up on a double—anyway, fifteen hours in Doctor Gator tells me that Doctor Gossman told him that Doctor Cute Butt—"

They'd agreed by mutual consensus when Tony started meeting Marsha's work friends that he shouldn't know her secret paramour's real name. He didn't want to give her away by looking too interested whenever the guy came up in conversation, so they'd just stuck to calling him by nicknames.

She paused for effect.

"Mmhmm?" Tony gave her the double eye brow raise.

Marsha threw her head into the pillow and shrieked.

"What? What is it?"

"He's getting a divorce."

"Woah."

"I know, I know. I couldn't believe it. I ran right to the break room and punched his number in. He's leaving her, Tony, he's leaving her for me."

"Wow, that's-" Tony wound his fingers in his lap and rocked on his heels. "Congratulations, that's great! I mean, it's still a divorce but-"

"But it's happening," Marsha beamed, like she couldn't believe it. She grabbed Tony's hand and he felt like a bastard.

Because she was clearly ecstatic, and anxious, and having her dream come true, but all he felt was dread.

Living with Marsha was great. They had their chores all figured out, and most nights he didn't have to sleep by himself. When either of them got low there was always somebody to sop them up, and when they got horny, well they had each other for that too. Given that neither of them had any chance of being with the person they really wanted, it seemed like a perfect arrangement.

Until now.

He tried to look happy.

"So, uh, when's the big day?" he laughed stiffly, motioning at his rumpled clothes. "I already got a suit."

"Oh, I haven't even thought about that, are you kidding?" Marsha blushed like she'd actually thought about it a whole lot. "And besides divorces take years, he hasn't even filed the paperwork."

Weakly, he took her hands in his and squeezed.

"You love each other, and now you won't have to hide it. That's fantastic, I'm really, really happy for you."

He must have flubbed the delivery, because her smile faded. Her painted toes curled into the mattress and her lips pursed.

"...I made you think about him, didn't I?"

That wasn't really an achievement. He was always thinking about Loki.

"Well, looks like I'll need to look for a new place," Tony said to his socks. "Know anybody that needs a roommate? Oh, hey, I know how to use a dishwasher now. That ought to make it easier than the last time I-"

"We'll still be friends," she said. Her arm came to his and he felt a tremulous urge to throw it off.

The word "friend" stabbed him in the heart, which was ridiculous. It's not like they were ever lovers. Sniffing, he turned his head away and rubbed his nose before he embarrassed himself.

Marsha looked down at her forgotten dinner.

He didn't say anything. She shoved a bit of tomato around her plate.

"You could ask Rhodey?"

"He's on the base..." Tony shrugged.

Reluctantly he grabbed the plate she brought for him and started picking out the beef.

"I'll ask him, I guess. You never know. I've been told I have very powerful puppy eyes."

"You do," Marsha agreed with forced levity. "And as much as he's around, I ought to be charging him rent already. Do you know he left his shampoo here last time? And a toothbrush. A toothbrush! Next time I'm out, I should get him a bathrobe and congratulate him on your platonic dude marriage."

"If there was any chance in hell, you bet your ass I'd have nabbed him already," Tony said, playing along simply to avoid the awkward silence. "You know once I got my whole hand down his pants and he still didn't realize I was-"

A multi-tone alarm rung from the radio, so loud they both jumped.

Tony's brows knitted. He'd only heard that tone a handful of times, and it normally took a lot of work to find it.

Slowly he stood from the bed, pulling his Walkman with him and letting the headphones trail on the floor.

Garbled words followed the mechanical whine, like the signal was corrupted or played intentionally out of order.

The tone repeated, and Tony ran the rest of the way to the recording station and shoved his headphone jack into the port. Hammering the button to turn Jarvis' monitor back on, he adjusted the dials on the sound mixer until the signal came over loud and clear.

"Jarvis, run program 'decipher.exe,'" Tony ordered, unwrapping a blank cassette tape as fast as he could and slamming it into the recorder.

"Tony?"

Fumbling to get his headphones on his ears, he heard the call sign play again, the sound rearranged by his robot's algorithm. It was a distress call. Official and clipped.

"Attention SHIELD operatives, this is a Code Green order issued by Director Nicholas J Fury. All operatives are to report to the nearest base and prepare for combat engagement. Repeat, all operatives-"

Tony hands gripped the desk, eyes tracking the grain of the wood as he listened.

"What the hell was that?" Marsha asked.

A SHIELD alert, an unidentified threat. Loki's hand weaving a promise into the middle of Tony's back.

His heart hammered as he tore out a notebook and began transcribing the alert with all the speed he could muster.

"That," he whispered, "is a what I've been waiting for."

Chapter Text

Tony met Rhodey at the club fair in the fall of 1989 less than a week after his victorious return from his second trip to Vegas.

Even before the semester started he knew he was going to be drunk for most of it. The lessons were no more engaging than they had been in his first year of college, and the other students' chatter about grades and professors and boyfriends made him want to blow up the robotics lab just to give them something else to talk about.

Which was precisely what was so great about Cadet Second Lieutenant James Rhodes. By the second week of his Freshman year Rhodes had already completed basic training and somehow earned the rank of officer. He had his hair shaved right up to the follicles and shoes so shiny Tony could check his teeth in them. He was focused, driven, organized, and humorless. By the time they had exchanged names and star signs Tony was madly in love with him.

It wasn't that he was handsome, although he was. It was that Jimmy Jams looked like he'd never had a good time in his life, and Tony had been nursing the suspicion since high school that he'd never had a good time either.

He'd come on a little strong, and all his Vegas honed one-liners failed spectacularly, but by the end of the evening he'd still gotten Rhodey wasted and driven him all over town while they sung The Beatles out the window of Tony's beaten up I'm-not-a-rich-heir-I-promise Buick.

He learned how to make Rhodey laugh, and Rhodey learned how to make him do his taxes. They had become friends, and eventually Tony accepted that they'd never be anything more. 

And then a year later—after Obie shot down the Siren and Marsha put an end to their perfectly satisfactory friends-with-benefits situation—Tony called Rhodey. Because somebody had to be on his side that day, and he was the only person still eligible for the nomination.

An hour after that he was sitting in the passenger seat of Rhodey's Chevy with his face pressed to the window.

"I don't know what you expect to find here, man," Rhodey said, taking a sip from his gas station soda. "It's an Army base, not Area 51."

Jeeps and cargo vans stopped at a security checkpoint in orderly lines, each flashing their badges and paperwork before being waved through. The lamps dotting the barbed wire fence made circles of golden brightness in the dark where figures in uniform paced and stood watch.

What Rhodey saw in his chosen career path Tony never understood. Even from the outside, the military life gave him the heebie jeebies. Shoving that many roided up gorilla men in one building and putting them under constant stress and surveillance was bound to produce some bad eggs. Measuring in at five-eight and just shy of a hundred and fifty pounds, he had no illusions about where he would fall on that food chain.

"Look, if you have a better way to find a secret military base then I'd love to hear it," Tony muttered.

"I'm just saying, I feel like a criminal sitting here watching the gate in the middle of the night."

"Would you stop worrying for five minutes? Jesus, you make it sound like I dragged you to a mob hideout or something." Tony rolled down the window and put the binoculars up to his eyes.

"Dude, I'm an officer! This looks suspicious as hell. I have every reason to be concerned about–"

"Shhh, check this out!" he shoved the binoculars into Rhodey's chest. "Two o'clock, coming out of the gate."

It was an armored truck. Gunmetal grey instead of Army green, and devoid of the white stenciled letters that usually identified military vehicles. It wheeled through the checkpoint without so much as a glance from the guards, its headlights bright and cascading over the winter-wet road.

However much he'd protested earlier, Rhodey looked giddy then. He pressed the binoculars to his face and leaned over the steering wheel.

"It's going somewhere fast. No license plate, no insignia."

"See, I told you something weird was going on. Follow it, let's go!" Tony shook his friend's shoulder until he put his foot on the brake and turned the key in the ignition.

"There's nothing weird about unmarked vehicles. We get them all the time on base. Supplies, food delivery, couriers–"

"Or," Tony said, knowing he sounded like one of those tinfoil hat conspiracy theorists but deciding he didn't care, "it could be something else. What kind of pizza place delivers a meat lover's supreme in a fucking tank?"

"You've lost your marbles, man. I mean it." Rhodey shook his head, pulling out onto the highway and merging a few cars behind the mark.

"And you have absolutely no faith me." Tony craned his neck to scan for any details he might have missed.

Up close it was even more suspicious. Built like the vans banks used to transport cash and gold, but with no visible handles or means of opening doors from the outside. The windows were tinted so dark they were almost black and the wheels had spikes on the rims as if they genuinely expected to be rammed at full speed.

"That thing's combat ready, good grief," Tony whistled.

"It's an armed transport, what do you expect?”

A car cut them off, and Rhodey had to slam suddenly on the breaks. He cursed, pushing the economy car to its limits as he sped up and swung the wheel.

"They're exiting. Hurry up, we're losing them," Tony shouted.

"This is the most crack-pot insane Looney Toons bullshit you've ever–"

“Shut up and drive, platypus, they’re getting away.”

Rhodey swerved, making the exit just in time to see the armored car take a swift left.

It was a cracked old road full of potholes, well outside the city limits and travelling toward a towering cluster of industrial facilities.

"What kind of factory gets deliveries at two in the morning?" he asked.

Rhodey rolled his eyes, which Tony took as a victory. The vehicle slowed at a gate, its brakes screeching and the exhaust clouding the air with condensation.

"If I stop they'll notice us," Rhodey muttered, slowing their approach but not daring to stop.

There weren't any other cars around. Chances were they had already been noticed.

"Follow them, come on."

"I am not driving us into a random factory in the middle of nowhere."

"Fine, then, at least slow down," Tony hissed.

"I already slowed down!"

The entry point was approaching, he was running out of time. Focusing with everything he had, he took in every little detail and tried to commit it to memory.

It was a building of massive proportions. Four stories with a parking garage, a hangar, and a mile-long warehouse marked by four identical smoke stacks. Lines of unmarked vehicles were parked at the loading dock, and not a single freight tanker or shipping pallet could be found in the mix.

The sign out front proclaimed it the headquarters of Hertzberg Meat and Slaughter, but the helicopter pad and aeronautics runway begged to differ. What looked like a radio tower actually had a booth at the top with search lights and armed guards.

"This is not a goddamn sausage factory.”

"No, it definitely isn't," Rhodey agreed.

"Turn around, I want another look."

Rhodey kept going straight. His foot tapped loudly on the driver's side floor.

"Dude, come on."

"Are you nuts? That place had more guards than Fort Knox."

"But the truck–"

"Is gone. And we already got too close. Way too close."

The tone of his friend's voice was brittle, his expression stoic in a way that belayed deep unrest.

"What the hell was that, Tony? Don't act like you don't know."

"SHIELD," he spat, chewing his bottom lip and thinking furiously. "They're a covert branch of the CIA. Dad used to work with them."

Gravity pulled him back and forth as Rhodey put them on the highway. Tony slumped in his seat.

He'd gotten what he wanted. The source of the distress call was clear, but that only opened up more questions. Had they found the "threat" yet? What did they intend to do about it? And, more importantly, could it be Loki or was he making a huge scene over something that had nothing to do with him?

"Well I've never heard of them, and I got all the enlistment pamphlets."

"That's what they want," Tony sighed. "If the public knew then they couldn't do their work."

"Counter terrorism?"

Tony grimaced. "You could call it that, yeah. Global threats. Espionage. That sort of thing."

"And you're mixed up in that? Shit," Rhodey gripped the steering wheel, the streetlights passing rapidly over head and turning his dark skin a yellow tan. Tony worked his jaw. He'd never told him about Loki. 

Telling Marsha was hard enough, and he'd only done it because he knew she couldn't judge him for being hung up on someone unattainable. With Rhodey it was different. He was traditional, a military man. The sort that went to church and ironed his pants and stuff.

Theoretical discussions over girly drinks were one thing, but admitting to Rhodey that he very un-theoretically wanted to suck a blue alien's dick? That was a whole other can of worms.

He kept quiet the rest of the way home.

Once they got to Marsha's place, Rhodey crashed.

Tony couldn't blame him, apparently he had drills and six classes that day before Tony dragged him all over town looking for secret spy bases. He'd feel bad, but he was too busy drafting a message to Loki.

The stupidity of the exercise wasn't lost on him. He knew there was about a zero percent chance that the intended recipient was even on Earth, let alone Massachusetts, but he had to do something.

The center of his back seemed to burn as he locked himself in his workroom closet with a tape recorder and a notebook. His chicken scratch defaced the blue lines of the paper, and his hands felt sweaty enough to smear the graphite.

He hit the record button and took a deep breath. All his carefully chosen words evaporated.

"Hi... uh, Loki? This is... well you know who it is. If you're hearing this then welcome back. I, uh, really missed you–"

Cursing, he rewound the tape. He sounded like the chick in Sixteen Candles.

Wiping his tired eyes, he hit record again and followed the script this time.

"Iceman, this is Maverick. Congrats on a successful mission. Rendezvous at 42 degrees north by 71 degrees west at your earliest convenience. Confirm when you have received this message. Over."

He played it back.

It was stupid. A childish wish.

The SHIELD beacon probably had nothing to do with anything.

He played it back again.

At least he didn't sound desperate, and to unintended ears it would sound like some kind of prank or game. Of course it also didn't say what he really wanted Loki to know—that he'd missed him, that life on Earth was awful and he hadn't changed his mind like Loki seemed to think he would, that the bubble of genuine happiness he'd felt in Loki’s presence hadn't ever been matched by anyone else.

He took the tape out of the recorder and crawled out from the coats and shoes. Placing it in the slot of the broadcasting board on his desk, he shut the lid with a click and typed commands to Jarvis on the keyboard so as not to wake Rhodey. He set it to play on loop for as long as the tape would last.

"Jarvis, shut down secondary functions and clear memory banks," he whispered.

"Yes, sir." Jarvis answered.

The broadcaster started sending his coded message out into the airwaves, and Tony turned off the light.

Shucking his wrinkled suit, he pulled on pajamas and yawned. It was already past four.

Although he wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around Marsha's form and soak up the warmth she'd built up in the blankets, he knew that wouldn't be appropriate now. Things had changed. She had someone that wanted her back, and it wasn't her fault that Tony didn't.

Laying on his side he fidgeted—trying to get comfortable, trying not to slide into the dip in the middle of the mattress, and failing on both counts. With his back pressed to Marsha's smaller one, he guiltily relaxed into the stolen contact and wished he hadn't been drunk the night he'd slept under Loki's arm.

He still remembered the heat, the solidity of the man's body slotted against his, and the curiously appealing sensation of being small compared to his bulk. He remembered being horrifically sick, and the way the room had swayed until he shoved his head in the hollow between Loki's arm and chest. He remembered the smell of him, or moreover the smell of the bar that clung to his clothes.

What kept him up at night were the things he didn't remember.

However clearly he could recall the touches and laughter he could never recall what they talked about. He could never remember how much of the contact Loki had knowingly reciprocated and how much he gave simply because he was drunk and silly. Worst of all he couldn’t remember how he managed to sleep alone before that night and he thinks he never will. 

Although he had never believed in heaven or angels, he knew some gods were real and so he prayed in the quiet of his mind. He pleaded with his very soul that tomorrow would bring him a second chance with Loki, a chance to hold him close and actually remember it. 

And then, when he was on the edge of passing out, the bedroom door flew open. Marsha yelled.

The bedside lamp clicked on and Tony buried his face under his pillow. Rhodey pulled it off.

“Tony–”

"Christ, Rhodey, what the hell?"

Something plastic was shoved into his hands. Something loud.

“Someone’s calling for you. Like… over and over.”

A deep, rough voice came from the battered speaker of the walkie talkie, the sound and the cadence making his every thought careen to a stop. It sounded pained. 

The wail of broken machinery nearly drowned it out until Rhodey turned the volume all the way up. Goosebumps rose on Tony’s arm.

“Iceman for Maverick,” Loki's voice cracked. “I believe I am in need of backup. Please confirm. Iceman for Maverick...”

Chapter Text

"Iceman I read you," Tony shouted with the walkie right up against his mouth.

Feet tangled in the blankets, he stumbled to the dresser and dug through the drawers with as much finesse as an arcade claw machine. Nobody answered.

He stopped. "Iceman? Loki? LOKI?"

"Maverick? Really, Tony?" Rhodey smirked.

"Shut up.” He gripped the walkie so hard the plastic squeaked, willing it to speak.

It didn't.

He threw his clothes on at the speed of light and the next thing he knew he was sliding on the iced-over porch with his untied shoelaces trailing behind him and his coat hanging on one arm.

It was the dead of night, buses no longer running and the windows of the houses dark. Wet wind ripped through his clothes and brought dots of fresh, biting sleet with it.

Marsha grabbed his bare wrist, and his head swung uncomprehending to her. She looked dazed.

"Was that him? Your-"

Rhodey came into the mud room and she bit the last word off.

"He's hurt. He sounded-" He stuttered, feeling wrong footed and unmoored. The porch rocked, but maybe that was him not breathing enough. "I've got to find him."

"You're not seriously going out in this are you?" Rhodey pinched his brows. "Dude, it's practically a blizzard."

"He's right, let's go inside," Marsha said gently. "Let's figure out where he is first. Maybe he just had to step away from the radio?"

Her thumb rubbed his wrist and he tore his hand away. Like hell was he waiting around for divine intervention. Bad weather or not, Loki was there. Close, reachable, and in need of help.

Clinging to the banister he slid down the steps in a near freefall and caught himself on the sloped lawn, kicking up fresh powder as he darted for his Buick. The cold metal burned his palm and he realized he didn't have keys. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he needed to stop panicking. He hadn't even left and he'd already made a mistake. Before he could fathom a way to get back in the house without suffering an unwanted lecture about impulsiveness, the sound of jingling keys rang next to his ear.

"You take shotgun," Rhodey said, shoving him aside and unlocking the driver's side door.

"Thought you were gonna stop me."

"I know that look, man. The four horsemen of the apocalypse couldn't stop you. At least this way I know a good driver is at the wheel."

Rhodey hit the unlock button in the door and Tony couldn't have expressed his gratitude with anything less than a kiss on the lips. Given his buddy's unshakable straightness and his own infatuation with a space alien, he settled for darting around to the passenger side and throwing himself into the seat.

The ignition turned over and the radio blasted Nine Inch Nails. Rhodey dialed it down with a flinch, and his hand rested on the back of Tony's seat as he looked out the back window and guided the car down the drive.

"Where to?"

Tony didn't have an answer.

Blistering winter air passed through the vents even though the meter was set to the red side. Tony wrestled his coat the rest of the way on.

"You have no clue, do you?" Rhodey sighed.

"Did I ask for a peanut gallery?" Tony crossed his arms. "Start at the sausage factory. Whatever happened, I know they're involved."

Shifting gears with a steady hand, Rhodey turned them toward the highway. Sometimes Tony hated how composed he was. With no one else on the roads the snow had begun to stick and form white trenches along the gutters. Rhodey's skeptic glances made him feel like a moron.

"What?" he spat, sinking lower in the seat. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're pissed at me or something."

"I'm not!"

"Okay, then what is it? I didn't ask you to come." Tony scowled.

Rhodey spun the wheel hard right as they turned onto the motorway. "Dude, you're freaking me out. I mean come on, you're acting like somebody came back from the dead and I don't even know who this guy is."

"He's-" Tony's hand gripped the fabric of his coat. Why couldn't it have been Marsha? He doesn't want to talk about this yet. Not to Rhodey. Not ever. But Rhodey was bound to find out soon, and he was his best friend, and—

And something odd started rumbling from the car radio. Something distinctly un-musical.

He turned up the dial. A clipped female voice informed him that police and firefighters were called to an apparent plane crash in Winchester. Roads were being closed, citizens asked to vacate. 

Tony’s hand was clammy on the grip of the walkie and he raised it to his mouth again.

"Iceman? Loki, are you there?" 

He called over and over, and never got a response. 

Dread crept up his back as buildings and street signs flew by. Despite his earlier misgivings, Rhodey put his foot heavier on the gas. He made a sharp merge onto a different highway without a word, the green sign overhead reading ‘Winchester’ as the destination.

"So this 'friend' of yours... he’s on the run from SHIELD?"

"What of it?"

"Nothing," Rhodey said. "Just trying to keep up. And wondering how the hell you got tied up in a manhunt."

"It's not like that. He didn’t do anything wrong."

Not entirely true. Loki hadn't been evil or anything, but he had admitted to being on the wrong side of the law. He’d said he’d alienated all his friends, and ended up working with a psycho. Straight-laced Rhodey didn't need to know that, though.

"If you say so," Rhodey said.

Tony regretted accepting his help. He could smell the silent judgement, trapped and suffocating like a bad fart in a small room.

"Look, sometimes people just get caught up in things. Sometimes you're at the wrong place at the wrong time and it's not your fault for seeing something."

“Are you talking about him or you?” Rhodey swerved around a smear of bloody roadkill, and Tony gripped the handle on the passenger door.

“Will you focus on the road, dude? Christ, and you say I’m a bad driver.”

“Fine, don’t tell me." Rhodey huffed.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel for an elongated ten seconds. Tony almost broke.

Then his friend sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Whoever this guy is, he must be decent for you to care this much.”

Amid the fear and tension he felt a stab of almost painful gratitude. Decent wasn't the word he would use, but it wasn't wrong either.

"He's..."

It was a battle to keep any emotion from his voice. To sound like he only cared the normal amount.

"He has principles. Maybe not the kind normal people would agree with, but he stands by them and he isn't afraid to speak up if he thinks something's not right. He's brave."

"In that case I can see how he rubbed a shady government organization the wrong way."

It wasn't anything like Rhodey was getting at, but he could imagine that scenario. A version of Loki that wasn't an alien, just an unapologetic activist who got on the wrong person's shit list.

He admired that part of Loki. He tried to harness that confidence when he faced Obadiah's demands. He hoped he'd done well enough, even if his guardian hadn’t been moved. 

Compared to Loki's eloquence and snappy rationality his own protests sounded petty, even juvenile. His efforts hadn’t stopped a single missile sale, and in the end he had caved and helped design a number of them. He hoped Loki wouldn’t be disappointed, that he wouldn’t leave him on Earth again because he hadn’t done enough.

The car slowed suddenly, and Tony pressed his face to the foggy glass.

A long line of cars spanned the road ahead, and emergency lights turned the leaves of the trees alternating shades of angry red and caustic blue. Men in high visibility vests were setting up road blocks and waving people away.

"Found the crash," Rhodey leaned forward in his seat.

"I don't see anything, they're just blocking the road."

"Over there," Rhodey pointed. Tony followed with his eyes until he saw faint smoke rising from the forest.

"Holy shit.” His gut was telling him this was right, though he had no reason to doubt the radio report. It was probably a normal crash, but the spot on his back where Loki touched him tingling like this place meant something. Like this was a time when he needed to act.

He tried the walkie again, and didn't get an answer.

Tony threw open the door.

"Woah, woah, woah, don't you dare-" Rhodey shouted.

Tony didn't wait to hear the rest. Faster than he could think, he slammed the car door shut and ran for the median. His friend was rolling down the window and calling after him, and only his appreciation for Rhodey's friendship made him stop.

"I've got this. Just go. Meet me at Marsha's."

"It's below freezing, you could die out here."

"Loki will get me home, don't worry. I just have to find him-"

The wind made it hard to breathe, the cold so sharp that it seized his muscles tight. 

He didn't care, he'd been waiting for this; every day, every hour of the last two years he’d been waiting, and he wasn't going to miss it.

Rhodey practically hung out the window as Tony turned his back and leapt into the drainage trench, his hightops instantly soaked in muddy water and snow rising up to his knees. Loki wouldn't mind, he was made for this terrain. If he were here he'd tease Tony for his poor choice in clothes. The thought bolstered his resolve, and he ran the rest of the way to the treeline.

The wind became less brutal once he passed under the limbs of the aspen trees. In the brush it was dark, like a frame from a scary movie. His jeans and cotton sweater were soaking up the dampness like a sponge and if he stood still too long they would probably freeze right to his skin.

Maybe Rhodey hadn't been exaggerating about the weather.

After ten minutes of running through snow and thickets of weeds, Tony admitted, if only to himself, that this was a pretty crappy idea. His jeans were frozen, the fabric crunching with every step, and his throat burned from gulping down cold air as he ran.

By sheer bad luck it was a new moon that night, and so everything was pitch black except for the blinding white floodlights that the agents used to search. The beams passed over the area in slow sweeps, illuminating the fog in the air like flickering ghosts.

It was a jerking game of Red Light Green Light, the light allowing him to chart a path toward the smoking wreckage, but forcing him into hiding whenever they drew close. 

After minutes of exhausting starts and stops he got there, a heaping, hissing wreck of steel still actively on fire. He'd never seen anything like it. Small and black, with small stubby wings and a pair of engines with no brand markers.

Agents were all around with their guns drawn, but Tony didn't see any bodies. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the walkie and wondered if it was worth the risk.

Seven drinks on a table, a heavy arm over his shoulders that didn't feel too heavy, that felt just like home, Loki's serious eyes telling him 'do not apologize, do not ever apologize for being who you are—

Gripping it in both hands, he pressed the switch and whispered, breathless, "Ice Man—Come in, Ice Man."

Faintly, a few hundred feet away, he heard himself. A tinny, crackling relay.

He ran, uncaring of who saw. It was him, it was him, it was him.

Powder kicked up all around, his legs carrying him in a desperate, uncaring stumble through knee-high drifts. 

A dark spot appeared under a tree, person shaped. Loki.

He was there, right there, bleeding in the snow.

Tony collapsed into the hollow, clutching the leather of Loki's armor and drinking in the sight of him.

He was unconscious, puffs of wispy air wreathing his lips. Blood dripped down the side of his mouth, but he wasn't blue. His face was unblemished, his cheeks rosy and eyelashes dusted with white. 

Tony knew he wasn’t that hurt, he'd seen him so much worse, but his heart hammered anyway.

"Loki," he whispered, shaking him by his armor. "Loki, damn you, what did you do? Wake up, wake up-"

Voices drew nearer, guns clicking as soldiers took their safeties off. Someone, a leader, directed a high beam immediately to Tony's right. 

They needed to get out of here, but he couldn't lift Loki. He was too heavy with his armor and his body nearly submerged in snow.

Panic rose in his chest, a cresting hopelessness entirely different from the fear that had driven him this far. He'd come all this way, had searched for so long, and all he'd done was get himself caught. Would they lock him up too, because he’d seen too much? Would they blackmail him?

Frantically, he hooked his elbows under Loki's shoulders and lifted with all his strength. He pulled, straining past his limit, and his feet slipped out from under him. He crashed to the ground with Loki’s body crushing his right foot. 

The bite of icy slush on his heated face broke something in him. He punched the ground, too cold and sweaty and angry to care.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it-" he said, shaking Loki harder. "Get up, get up, you son of a bitch-"

"Woah, is that the guy?" a voice said behind him.

Tony jumped, spinning and putting himself between Loki and the intruder. His arms spread, a fierce look on his face until he recognized Rhodey's regulation ROTC fleece.

"At ease, dude. You really thought I'd let you run into the woods alone?"

Tony's arms fell to his sides. His mouth worried open and closed, at a loss for any way to express what it meant to have his best friend there, backing him up.

Rhodey didn't wait for platitudes, though. He bent over and grabbed Loki's knees.

"On three," he said, counting them down, and Tony renewed his hold on Loki's shoulders.

Together they got him up. Tony's legs quaked under him, but for Loki he could push through. For Loki he could do anything.

"Heavy motherfucker, isn't he?" Rhodey joked, and Tony could have cried.

Back in the car, Tony fidgeted in the backseat trying not to look like a fruit. It wasn't easy to do with Loki in his lap.

The guy's hair was a greasy mess and his clothes were covered in soot, but he was himself—real, whole, present—and that made him beautiful.

Eyes flicking between the head pillowed on his lap and Rhodey's reflection in the rearview mirror, Tony dared a feather-light touch to Loki's cheek.

Too many emotions boiled in his gut; longing, relief, desperation, anger. So much anger. Too much for a moment he'd dreamed of for so long. Because Loki was wrong to leave him. Tony could say that now, he was an adult. He'd known what he wanted and time hadn't changed it.

His whole life felt fake. Like living in a sitcom after someone came into the television and told him there was a real world just beyond the screen. All this time he'd never blamed Loki, but the anger had been there anyway. Now he felt it, like vomiting up a bitter pill once the orderlies stopped watching.

His thumb traced the line of an aristocratic eyebrow and he didn't know whether he wanted to punch him or kiss him or throw him out of the car. He settled for feeling the scratch of stubble on his palm, and soaked up the knowledge that he at least had a choice now. He could do any of those, or all of them, or none of them, because Loki was present to be the object of his verb.

The god's closed eyes pinched, the corners of his mouth turning down, and Tony snatched his hand away.

Oval eyes slitted open, the long lashes batting rapidly, and Tony realized Loki's eyes were blue. He'd forgotten, or maybe he'd never noticed.

He recalled the way they could pierce right through a person, and the way they could say yes, no, and Twinkie, please, without any need for words. He didn't remember the blue as pale as an overcast sky, or any of the other colors they turned when the orange streetlights flew by.

"It's me," he said, feeling stupid, his lips trembling around the words.

The anger washed away like rain, and he felt small for even feeling it.

He blinked quickly, trying to suck in his shame without making a sound. Rhodey was there, right there, and Loki was looking at him from a distance that made any kind of deception impossible.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't fucking cry. You're an adult, goddamn it, don't cry.

Loki's thin lips got thinner, the corners spreading and his eyes shining with unapologetic fondness that turned Tony's heart to gooey mush.

"Hello, boy king," he murmured.

Two insuppressible tears slipped out and a stifled sob seized his chest. He slapped Loki as hard as he could on the breastplate and covered his stupid tears in rage.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again. Crashing in a fucking blizzard?! Are you nuts? You're lucky I even had that walkie talkie still. You could have died!"

"That was just a bit of fun." Loki laughed. The low, indulgent rumble of Tony's wet dreams, and he scowled, stung by Loki's levity almost as much as his hand stung from slapping metal armor.

"It's not funny! SHIELD doesn't chase after random people, you know. If they found you first I'd never see you again. What the hell made you think that was okay? What if didn't hear?"

Loki raised his brows, halfway between mocking and amused. He shrugged, unconcerned.

"I had faith. I navigated your realm well enough for the past few months until your soldiers caught up, and in my hour of need here you are. What reason do I have to doubt?" he gestured to Tony with a flat hand as if it were that simple. As if Tony succeeding was valid evidence against the very real chance that he could have failed.

"Wait, you were-" his hands fisted in Loki's coat. "You've been on Earth for months?"

"Earth?" Rhodey said, craning to look in the backseat.

A car horn and a near accident snapped his eyes back to the road.

"Drive, Platypus!"

"Tony-" Loki murmured.

"No, don't you Tony me, I'm fucking pissed. What kind of asshole doesn't even send word once he's back in the atmosphere?"

"Atmosphere?!" Rhodey yelled.

"Tony," Loki repeated. He sat up, wincing at some unknown injury, and coughing up small spats of blood. Swallowing his outrage, Tony put a hand to his shoulder to stabilize him.

Loki covered it with his own, and Tony found he was too weak to pull away even as his blood boiled. His old friend stared him down, his face tense with pain and the effort of holding himself upright.

"I did not wish to hide from you."

Tony's gaze broke away, rubbing his wet eyes with his snow-damp sleeve. Loki touched his hand again, and he felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Once we were reunited, I knew I could not tear myself from your side. I sought to finish my battles before I selfishly dragged you into them."

"I never cared about that. I'd have gone with you. Anywhere."

"That's what I was afraid of," Loki said, a line between his eyebrows.

Tony swallowed, hating the butterflies in his stomach.

He checked to make sure Rhodey hadn't noticed. Intelligent blue eyes followed the look, then focused back on him.

Before he could decide whether to brush Loki off or turn his hand over and squeeze, the car lurched and the weight disappeared on its own.

Loki frowned in confusion, or perhaps suspicion. A question poured silently from his expression, but he was merciful enough not to voice it.

Tony shrunk all the way to the door and slumped until his head barely cleared the window.

They didn't talk the rest of the way home, and he was ashamed to feel relieved.

The truth always came out, but he'd just gotten one friend back and he couldn't lose another so soon. He couldn't risk what Rhodey might think. So he kept his mouth shut and tried not to project disappointment onto Loki's face when his open, playful smiles shuttered into stoic bemusement.

Chapter Text

When Tony dropped Loki into one of Marsha's dead grandmother's white wicker dining chairs it creaked like a dying cat. The bleeding, sallow-faced demigod didn't seem to care.

He sunk into the pokey chair until his head rested on the back and his knees spread wide, and Tony had to mind his breathing to keep from lecturing him.

The kitchen would have been all the rage in 1973, a questionable marriage of piss yellow cabinets and chestnut countertops with chains of red roses hand painted on the backsplash tiles.

Dishes were piled in the sink, and the remnants of yesterday's dinner crusted a forgotten pan on the stove. Despite his anger he still felt the urge to hide the mess like a porno mag. It didn't really help his 'all grown up and ready to go to space' case.

He was in the middle of drafting a weak excuse when green light bathed the walls.

Spinning on his heel, he found a charred knapsack resting on Loki's lap. The god lifted the flap and stared inside with a grim expression. He tried to hand the strap on the back of the chair but it slipped off and a weird looking box tumbled out.

Gold bars bracketed the rectangular edge, holding two slabs of black rock together. Between the two pulsed an ominous red substance. Intrigued, Tony bent to pick it up.

Loki's hand circled his wrist faster than blinking. He shook his head minutely, and put the box back in the back himself, kicking it under the chair.

Rhodey chose that moment to swing open the door, his head still dusted in snow from parking the car.

"So you two know each other? Let me guess, Vegas."

"Yes," Loki said, just as Tony said, "Fulton."

Rhodey's unreadable eyes flicked between them. "Okay. I'm making coffee."

"I'll have a cup." Tony perked up, grateful for his best friend being so composed, for not beating his space friend to a pulp, hell just for being himself.

"And him?"

Loki opened his mouth—probably to ask what coffee was—and Tony stepped between them with a forced smile.

"Cream, two sugars. Heavy on the cream, Frosty here's got a sweet tooth you have to see to believe."

Two mugs clinked as Rhodey took them out, his brows raised in suspicion. "That so? And does, uh, Loki mind Sweet n' Low? I don't think Marsha's been shopping in a while."

Loki's nostrils flared, but he rolled his eyes in a go on look that almost melted Tony's anger.

"After the hell he put us through, he'll take what we give him and like it."

Rhodey's stare was like an interrogation scene in a cop drama, condensed into ten seconds and conveyed solely with a slanted lip and a head tilt. He looked ready to play out that scene when the front door burst open in a gust of wind and jangling keys.

"Shit." Tony rubbed his eyes. "Can you... ?"

There was a pause, interrupted by Marsha calling for him.

Rhodey grunted, and stomped into the living room. His jumbled explanation of the evening's events drifted through the doorway and Tony eyed the gnarled shrapnel peppering the alien's right leg.

Swallowing his feelings, he pulled the first aid kit out from under the kitchen sink and lifted Loki's leg onto his knee.

The big guy allowed it, and even vanished his muddy boot with a wiggle of his fingers. Tony tracked his gaze to a framed picture beside the answering machine.

He and Marsha at Disney Land last autumn, hugging in front of the fake castle in dumb mouse ear hats.

"When you were not at the school I thought I had lost you," Loki murmured.

The guilt that rose caught him off guard. It made no sense, wasn't fair at all. If Loki wanted to stay near him, maybe he shouldn't have left in the first place.

Clenching his jaw around the swell of emotion, Tony plucked a pair of scissors from the kit and cut the leather pants to the knee, exposing the bloody, metal-pocked flesh underneath.

He was so busy chewing on his answer that he didn't notice Loki drawing near until a thumb dragged through the stubble on his cheek.

He pulled away, stung. He traded the scissors for tweezers.

"I live here now. I guess you'd call it my girlfriend's pad, but we're not really like that. It's just, you know, casual. A place to be. She's got a thing with a married doctor downtown."

"I don't care about her. Look at me."

Nerves made his skin crawl, but he let his eyes be captured by Loki's crinkled blue ones. The sad smile cut him to pieces, lancing his anger like a blister until only a shriveled, hopeless yearning remained.

The hand cupped his chin, thin fingers rasping over his five o'clock shadow.

"You are upset."

"Astute observation," Tony spat.

"And you've grown," Loki's hand fell, his lips worrying over his teeth like he wasn't sure he should continue.

"No shit. You left me alone for two damn years. I had to, or you'd never take me back."

Loki's brows knit. "I left a life debt upon you, what made you think I would not return?"

Tony balked. "Because I haven't done any of the things you wanted me to? The bots, my family's legacy... The whole reason you wouldn't take me with you, I had to do it. To prove you could trust me."

"There were many reasons, trust was never among them." Loki frowned, but he didn't get any further before Marsha escaped Rhodey's stalling and pushed through the swinging door.

She looked mussed, her hair tangled in the fur collar of her coat and her scrubs wet around the ankles from taking the bus home. It took her all of two seconds to take in the scene—Tony's stress, Loki's injury, the abandoned mugs on the counter.

Sliding her coat off her shoulders, she threw it over the last dining chair and fixed the bigger man with a polite smile.

"You must be Loki."

Loki's face opened up in surprised interest, and Tony turned his attention to the shrapnel. Yes, he thought. I told her about you. Don't go making a scene about it.

He pulled one of the biggest chunks out of Loki's leg, and god made an undignified noise.

"Madam, you may call me whatever you wish if you can curb this sadist's torment."

Snorting, she made a beeline for the counter and finished what Rhodey started, loading coffee grounds into the brewer and filling the tank with water from the sink.

"I can take over if you'd like. He passed our health science classes, but I'm actually serious about medicine."

Heat licked at Tony's ears, and he pulled a second chunk out. Black blood welled up from the wounds and he felt a little dizzy. Marsha's hands come to squeeze at his shoulders.

"Why don't you go get Loki some clean clothes? He's gonna need them."

Tony didn't need to be told twice. He scurried out like a coward, and only stopped when Rhodey blocked the door to Marsha's bedroom.

"Et tu, brute?" he sighed.

"Oh, don't be like that." Rhodey set his hands on his hips. "What the hell is going on, man? Cause I know you're not about to tell me this guy's from Mars."

"Asgard, actually." Tony shrugged, too tired and wet and cold to care.

"Asgard," Rhodey repeated.

Tony looked at the ceiling and groaned. "The Norse version of Olympus. Realm of the gods."

His friend gave him a flat look.

"What, it's the truth. Why would I joke about this?" Tony spread his arms in frustration.

"You've got a really sick sense of humor sometimes."

Tony cursed and shoved his way into the room.

Rhodey followed, and shut the door behind him in a rare display of mercy. Tony threw himself face first on the bed, feeling Rhodey's stare like a death laser on his back.

"...Are you okay, Tones?"

His self-pitying groan came out muffled by the sheets. He threw his head to the side so he could be understood.

"We met when I was in high school, and yeah, he's a literal god. He does magic and lives forever and everything. I wanted to go with him when he left, but he wouldn't take me. He said I'd have regrets about leaving, along with a bunch of other bullshit."

"Okay." Rhodey walked into Tony's view, arms crossed. "I'm guessing there's more to that, based on your flopping."

"It's a manly nose-dive, thank you, but yeah."

The confession was on the tip of his tongue. It would almost be a relief to tell him, just to get that weight off his chest. But then Rhodey sat down and it changed the chemistry. Something shifted in the air, and then Tony was rolling to his side to look up at him.

Rhodey's brows came together, and he got that little vertical crease between them that made him look twice his age. "I'm listening."

Butterflies flapped in his stomach, and Tony let the impulse to tell him the truth fade away. He couldn't give up that patience, that long-suffering half grin that made the bleakest days feel survivable.

"It's nothing really. I just misunderstood something he said a long time ago. And now I feel like an idiot."

A peculiar tint came over Rhodey's black eyes then, a look Tony didn't like at all. Like an answer had occurred to him, to a question he hadn't asked out loud.

Tony hurried to speak before that spark could fan into a flame.

"For how I reacted in the car, I mean. It was a big misunderstanding, and he probably thinks I'm a moron now," he lied. "Obviously I don't care what people think, they're all idiots. Fuck 'em. But he's like, a deity, you know? If he's real then maybe I need to clean up my act and go to church or something."

Rhodey had been trying to drag him to confession for years. He had a blind spot about that kind of thing, and it pulled his attention away just like Tony had hoped. The thoughtful stare turned into rumbling laughter. Tony grinned back.

"Now  you want to live straight and narrow, buddy? Because some alien claiming to be a Norse god is judging you?"

"Shut up!" Tony shoved him, relieved and ashamed in equal measure. That was the perfect opportunity, practically a lay up, and he'd watched it go by like a missed subway train. Worse, it felt good. It earned him the easy laughs he needed to face Loki with his head up.

Rhodey shoved him back. "You shut up."

A high-pitched shout came through the thin townhouse walls. Loki's. He sat up.

"Sounds like your Messiah is having a rough time." Rhodey said.

The next thing he knew, Tony was dashing into the kitchen.

"You horrible witch, why in the name of Hel would you do that?" Loki shouted, clutching his shoulder.

"I told you, it was dislocated. It had to be put back in the socket," Marsha said.

Loki's leg had been treated, the wounds clean and already closing up. Tony hadn't even realized there was anything wrong with his shoulder.

"You said it wouldn't hurt! But it did, you banshee, it hurt very much indeed!" Loki said.

"Oh honey, never trust a doctor that says it won't hurt," Marsha chuckled.

"Tony, your companion is murdering me under the guise of medical care. I find that deception abhorrent."

Marsha gathered the bandage wrappers and soiled gauze efficiently.

"Well lucky for you we're all done now," she said. "You can go bathe if you want, but keep your weight off that ankle."

"I shall do no such thing." Loki wrinkled his nose, but stumbled when he tried to stand. Tony barely caught him.

His stupid face heated again at the press of that body, at the closeness of his face. The smell of blood and leather invaded his nose, and he directed them toward his bedroom. He never had gotten the clothes Marsha asked for.

To his credit, Loki didn't comment on the unmade bed or the additional photos of Tony and Marsha. He let himself be dropped on the edge of the bed like a sack of potatoes.

"Bathroom is over there." Tony broke the silence.

"I don't think I would make it past the dresser."

Good thing, in Tony's opinion. Otherwise Loki might disappear again.

Victoriously, he pulled out a pair of oversized sleep pants and an old Fulton fundraising t-shirt. He shook them out and turned to toss them to Loki, but stopped at the sight of the god's bare chest.

The C-shaped wound was still fresh, mottled grey with black inky scabs around the edge.

Loki glanced at it like it didn't trouble him much, and offered Tony a weak shrug.

"It seems time does not move constantly between realms. To my perception I have only been gone a week."

The train of Tony's thoughts crashed and burned like the Hindenburg.

"A week?"

"Perhaps two. It did not take long to reach Knowhere once I acquired a decent vessel, and from there I was well enough to walk the branches back."

"When you said you searched the school for me... " Tony trailed off.

"I thought my absence had been short, yes." Loki rested his elbows on his knees. "Hence my poor behavior in the car. I am sorry for that. I did not realize how long I kept you waiting. Your reaction seemed melodramatic for such a short parting. Now all is clear."

Tony stared at the balled up clothes in his hands. He felt his heartbeat in his fingertips, beating too fast.

Two years he'd been pining after Loki, and yet for him no time had passed. He was the same, probably felt the same. Just a friend.

Throwing the clothes onto the bed, he slid under Loki's good arm and lifted.

"Come on. Let's get you to the bath."

Together they stumbled into the tiny room, their differences startling in the mirror. Loki was tall, handsome, imposing in his gold and black armor, while Tony was little more than a crutch. Of course he didn't feel that way about him, why would he? Tony was just a mortal, and a kid.

Avoiding eye contact, he plugged the drain and filled the tub. When Loki winced while bending over, he helped him get his other boot off.

As unabashed as ever, the god threw off the rest of his clothes. Tony returned to his side and helped him into the tub, determined not to make it weird.

Loki's face lit with surprise as he sank into the water, approval and delight palpable in his voice.

"It's cold."

"You're an ice man. How could I forget?"

"That is...thoughtful. Thank you."

Tony shifted foot to foot, those feelings rushing back up. Clearing his throat, he stepped backward through the door.

"No sweat. There's soap there, and towels on the rack. Shout if you need anything."

Loki sunk into the water until his knees jutted out like tall islands. His skin took on that midnight blue color and his eyes bled into jewel-like red. Tony wanted to trace the white lines with his fingers, over his forehead and chin and down his chest. He wanted to feel those smiling lips...

He snapped the door shut.

Squeezing his eyes closed, he leaned his forehead on the dark wood. He would kill for a cigarette right now. Damn the health warnings, he really needed it.

Would the Five & Dime be open during a blizzard? Probably. Marsha came in before the idea could gain traction. Tony sighed as her small hand circled his elbow.

She pulled him into the living room, and then onto the sofa. He let himself lean on her, just for a minute.

"Looks like you got your doctor after all," she whispered, her hand circling, circling. "What's got you so blue?"

That color just made him think of Loki. He covered his eyes and groaned.

"It's not how I imagined. It's so awkward."

"Well you did say you didn't know him for long."

"Yeah..." Tony sighed. "Did Rhodey go home?"

"He's napping in your room. I told him not to drive in the storm."

"So Loki gets the couch."

"And you'll be on the queen bed with me," she said firmly.

He'd never felt less worthy of someone. Marsha was too good. Why couldn't he love someone normal like her?

"You're making me really jealous of that doctor," he smirked. 

She smiled, and kissed his cheek. "Give it time. I'm sure everything will work itself out."

"'True love waits,' that's your strategy?"

"It worked for me."

Tony pulled away from her embrace, grimacing.

"Well true love better hurry up with whatever errands it's running, because I'm sick and tired of waiting."

Chapter Text

Steeling himself for whatever he might find on the other side, Tony pushed through the bathroom door.

Normally he wasn't the type to rush a guy through his private time, but it had been an hour and Loki hadn't answered his tentative knocking. Once he was inside he could understand why.

The alien's lanky body was slumped all the way down with his knees splayed out and his arms crossed over his chest. The water rippled around his chin from his quiet snoring and made the submerged tips of his hair dance.

The icy water must have turned lukewarm because his skin was human again, his face unmarked and his dark lashes dotted with droplets.

Tony sat on the toilet, and reluctantly tapped the guy's knee with the back of his hand.

"Hey," he said, nudging him again, "Wake up. You're gonna get pruney."

Bathwater sloshed loudly from Loki's startle.

Tony laughed. "You fell asleep."

"So I see," Loki rasped, sitting up and dripping everywhere. "Apologies."

"No worries. You crashed a spaceship today, I'd say that warrants a cat nap. Come on, you'll sleep better when you don't have to worry about drowning."

Working his arm under Loki's, he pulled up and got his clothes soaked on one side.

"Why is it that we only seem to meet when I'm an invalid?" Loki huffed.

It was hard to answer coherently with Loki's face that close, with his elegant lips lifted in a smirk and his muscles dripping trails of water like the tears of baby angels.

Tony made himself look away. "Because I'm an excellent nursemaid and you secretly can't get enough of my tender love and care."

"I would beg to differ, but the evidence seems to be against me," Loki ducked his head. "Perhaps I should have come to you sooner after all."

"Damn right you should have," Tony said, sitting Loki on the toilet and unfurling a towel from the rack. "What the hell were you doing to get SHIELD on your ass anyway?"

Loki snatched the towel and flipped his long hair forward to dry it.

"It is a long story, but I suppose you are owed. The simplest explanation is that I am being chased by a warlord from a distant planet. He wishes to rule the galaxy, and is gathering objects of great power to enable him. I encountered him in a vulnerable state, and he saw a use for me in his grand scheme. I did not want to participate, so he... persuaded me."

Tony eyed the wound on Loki's chest, remembering the horror it had been when he'd found Loki unconscious and bleeding. Skin stripped from muscle for no other purpose than to cause pain. He crossed his arms and looked away when Loki bent to dry his legs.

"I get it, so you're trying to get these 'powerful objects' first and use them to stop him. Like the red thing in your bag."

"Clever boy. Yes, that is one of them. In total there are six, but each one is powerful enough to bring whole worlds to heel. I believe I could stop the Titan with two. As it happens one of the six was hidden here many decades ago, a cube containing the essence of Space itself. It is called the Tesseract."

"Wait, that's what you're looking for? The Tesseract?!"

"You know of it?"

Tony felt rooted to the floor, his mind reeling from a rush of shock and bad memories.

"Of course I do, my dad spent half his life looking for it. He was looney about it, like Gollum and the One Ring. I always thought it was part of his weird Captain America obsession, but you're telling me it's actually worth something?"

"More than something," Loki stared at him. "It is worth everything and then some. Should the Tesseract fall into the wrong hands half of all life in the universe would perish."

"Woah." Vertigo made Tony dizzy, and he braced himself on the rim of the sink. "And you think it's still here on Earth? My dad wasn't crazy?"

"I know it is. I remember when it was lost some six hundred years ago, though I was only a boy at the time. My people were locked in a war with the Frost Giants, and somewhere in the carnage the cube fell into the sea. Odin was furious. He nearly exterminated the Jotnar looking for it, only to find that it wasn't on Jotunheim at all."

"Damn, and I thought my old man was scary," Tony puffed out his cheeks in a slow exhale. "So, what, he just left it here?"

Loki wrapped the towel around his waist and leaned on his knees. "Asgard has many strong relics, he cared not whether the Tesseract was usable, only that it was safe. In his estimation, lost was as good as gone."

"Well it definitely wasn't lost. During the second world war a bunch of cultists called Hydra found it and nearly burnt Europe to the ground. It's gone now, though. One of our guys snatched it from them and crashed his plane in Antarctica, and my old man spent truckloads of money trying to find it again. Never did find it."

"Gone or not, I need it. It is essential to my plan to take down the Mad Titan," Loki said.

Tony shook his head, his eyes wandering up the tiled wall.

"That's a wild goose chase, dude. If my dad couldn't find it with all the resources of Stark Industries and twenty years of searching, there's no way we're finding it with my Buick and a pair of walkie talkies."

"Such a lack of vision, boy king," Loki clicked his tongue. "We have far more than that at our disposal."

"Oh yeah, like what? Your wits and my dashing good looks?"

"There is that," Loki nodded, and turned his wrist like he was twisting an invisible door knob. A floppy disk appeared in his hand. "But more importantly there are all these confidential files I stole from SHIELD. Wouldn't it be such fun for you to decode them for me?"

A shocked laugh escaped Tony's chest, and took the floppy disk between his thumb and forefinger.

"You're pranking me," he said, disbelieving.

Loki smiled at him primly. "Would you care to make a wager on that? I'd be happy to take your money."

"Christ, Loki, next time lead with the rule breaking," Tony rolled his eyes. "Here I am sounding like a naysayer and a pearl-clutcher, and you've got top secret documents hidden up your sleeves? Come on man, you know me. I'm always down to fuck with SHIELD."

It took  JARVIS the rest of the night to break SHIELD's code, which was just as well because Tony was bushed. He woke up feeling groggy, like a hangover without the light sensitivity.

Marsha's side of the bed was cold. She must have had early classes.

Tony rifled through his drawers looking for something clean. He'd never gotten the hang of dressing himself after so many years in uniforms. With his super hot, cool, powerful, sexy alien crush asleep on the couch he really wished he'd acquired that skill at some point.

Sure he was a mortal and a kid to Loki, but maybe if he dressed cool enough and delivered him the Tesseract he'd have a shot. It couldn't hurt to try.

Throwing on a clean shirt and a sweater, he trudged out into the living room to find Loki and Rhodey talking on the sofa.

Fantastic.

"Morning, chums, how'd everybody sleep?" he grunted, squinting at the sun coming through the blinds that he usually kept closed.

"Alright. Did you know there's a spring loose in that bed? Cause there is. Aren't you a millionaire or something?" Rhodey said.

"I never noticed it," Tony lied. "What's all this?"

He motioned at the spread of plates and mugs on the coffee table.

"Breakfast. I don't want to be a burden, and I thought you'd prefer it to pheasants," Loki said.

"You thought right," he snorted.

Rhodey's eyes went wide as Loki levitated a full plate from the kitchen, followed shortly by a coffee mug and a glass of orange juice like a parody of a mother duck with chicks.

It really was hard to stay mad at Loki.

"Did JARVIS find anything?"

"Yes and no." Rhodey held up a hand drawn scribble that looked suspiciously like a map. "The files did mention a mission to transport the Tesser-thingy, but the details were redacted. This image showed up in the report, so I copied it down. Is it just me, or does this look familiar?"

Sitting beside Loki on the couch, Tony took the paper and traced the lines. The plate and cups landed neatly in front of him.

"Is that Cambridge?" Tony sputtered.

Rhodey shrugged, speaking around a mouthful of toast. "There's more, check out the top corner. See that area they blacked out?"

Following the intersecting lines standing in for highways and roads, he froze as realization hit.

"The sausage factory."

"Yep." Rhodey washed down his toast with a long sip of coffee and a lip smack.

"Not a real one," Tony told Loki quickly. "It's just a front for some kind of secret base. Rhodey and I followed some suspicious vehicles there the other day, after we intercepted a message from SHIELD."

Loki smiled sheepishly. "Then you were closer to finding me than you knew. I broke into such a base seeking information. I confess, I did not expect their forces to be so well equipped. This drive was all I saw before I was forced to steal a plane and make my escape."

"Wait, you were in there? That emergency alert was about you."

"Most likely." Loki crossed his ankles and twiddled his thumbs. "But there were vast areas underground I did not manage to search. It very well could be in there."

"And if it's not, there's at least more files like these," Tony folded the map into quarters and looked to Rhodey.

"Oh no, I know what you're thinking, and the answer's no. I'm not-"

'Please? Pretty please, Rhodey-bear?"

"No, no, no, no, I'm not helping you break into a super secret military base with a magic space alien. No way-"

Tony sat in the passenger seat of the Buick straightening the front of his borrowed ROTC uniform, and grinning at Rhodey manically.

"I can't believe I'm helping you break into a super secret military base with a magic space alien."

"Pipe down, it's gonna be fine. If I get noticed I'll just say I'm on a recruitment tour from MIT and I lost my group. They'll escort me out and I'll go home. Easy."

"Tony, these are spies we're talking about, they aren't just going to let you walk away once you've seen top secret intelligence."

"And I still don't understand why you won't allow me to accompany you," Loki grumbled from the backseat.

"Because you can barely walk, genius, that's why," Tony snapped. "And anyway, it's less suspicious if it's just me. Who the hell gets lost in a group?"

"Tourists," Rhodey said.

"Animals." Loki rolled his eyes.

"Imported goods."

"Children."

"Well I'm not any of those things, so unless anybody has any more stupid objections I'm going in." Tony slammed the door and ran for the tree line, only stopping to look behind him once he was safely under the cover of the evergreens.

Loki scowled at him through the glass and put the walkie talkie up to his mouth.

"Iceman for Maverick, do you read me?" he asked in an unamused growl.

Tony pinched the wire of the earpiece attached to his walkie and grinned.

"Loud and clear, Iceman. I'll radio once I'm inside and you can direct me to the basement."

"Verily," Loki said flatly, and held the button long enough to hear Rhodey bitching in the background. "Call immediately if you encounter any danger. Immediately."

"Heard you the first time, mother," Tony muttered. "Now shut up for a minute. I'll be made right away if I'm running down the halls talking to myself."

Pulling a set of garden clippers from the big pockets of the uniform jacket, he cut an opening in the chain link fence and squeezed through.

The courtyard PA dinged twice for the midmorning shift change at ten thirty sharp, just as Rhodey had predicted. Along the freight dock and up on the catwalk silos guards with guns changed places with their replacements.

Tony didn't look the gift horse in the mouth, he ran like mad for the steps of the loading dock.

The damn borrowed pants were too big for him, slipping down with each step and gathering around his ankles and he jerked them up with an annoyed huff. He couldn't afford distractions, damn it, there was too much at stake.

The dock door was covered by waving flaps of clear plastic, and when he pushed through he found a dusty warehouse on the other side.

Utility racks extended from the floor all the way to the forty foot ceiling, overburdened with pallets and crates and lit intermittently by skylights and humming halogen cans.

Tony darted behind the nearest one for cover, a bay full of scuffed steel cases stamped with Stark Industries logos. Figured Obie would be dealing with SHIELD, they’d always had a connection ever since his father helped found the organization.

He peeked through the gaps in search of a way deeper into the facility.

Loki's voice crackled in his ear. "You weren't spotted, well done. There's a door in that bay, it has a glowing red light over it. Do you see it?"

Standing on his toes, he peered through the rack in the other direction. There it was.

"You mean an 'exit' sign? Good job, your highness, you just described every door in any factory in the continental US."

A pause quieted the radio, and Tony would bet money Loki was defending himself against a barrage of Rhodey's teasing.

"I would very much like to see you navigate a foreign world with nothing but your wits," Loki said as Tony leapt between the stacks, his regal voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I'd be a natural and you know it."

"Perhaps. Nevertheless, the big room connects to a hallway. Somewhere down that span is a staircase to the lower level. Find it."

"Roger," Tony whispered, and pushed through the heavy door into an oppressively quiet corridor.

It made a loud clack as it shut, and Tony’s hands fisted at his sides.

Drab linoleum tile reflected the flickering fluorescent bar lights, and Tony scanned the endless line of anonymous doorways and forgettable name plates.

"Any idea where this staircase might be?"

The line cut in as if Loki meant to respond, but a scuffle followed and Rhodey answered instead.

"Go towards the middle of the building. If it’s not there, it’ll be in the back corner. We just covered that in Advanced Industrial Planning."

"Gotcha," Tony whispered.

He set off down the hall with long strides, trying to channel Obie’s energy when he ran inspections of Stark factories. If a guy looked important enough in a place like this, most people wouldn’t risk getting in his way.

Two men in suits came out of an office ahead, and Tony didn’t acknowledge them. Back straight and eyes forward, he did his best to walk like he had a stick of his ass.

They passed without a glance, and so he figured that was the right call. He did the same to the next guy he passed, and finally stopped when he noticed a door with a keypad and small window overlooking a concrete staircase.

"Shit," he said into the earpiece. "There’s a keypad."

"It yeilded to a charge of electricity," Loki said.

"Oh great, I’ll just snap my fingers and fry it then, thanks."

"Well, that’s what I did. I can’t help that you’re not me."

"Gee, thanks Lokes, real helpful." Cursing under his breath, Tony pressed himself into the alcove of the door and hovered his fingers over the keys.

Taking a wild guess, he keyed in 1-9-4-5. The box buzzed and the light blinked red.

Stupid, of course it wouldn’t be something so obvious as the agency’s founding year. God, it could be anything.

He stood there for a long minute, wracking his brain for a way to short circuit the device, so focused that he barely noticed when a big guy in fatigues came up behind him.

He froze, cold sweat beading on his neck, but the guy didn’t deck him or ask him for an ID. Incredibly, he brought his hand down on Tony’s shoulder and hit him with a tentative smile.

"Hey, uh, sorry if I’m mistaken but aren't you Tony Stark?"

"Uh... yeah?" Tony sputtered.

"I saw your article in Popular Mechanics. The robotics issue." The agent said.

Tony blinked at the guy, confused.

He had a mousy kind of face, small nosed with studious, bushy eyebrows. A gleam of fanatic interest lit his eyes, and all at once it hit Tony what was happening.

He’d been caught. Not by a guard, no. Something much worse. A fan.

"Pardon me holding you up, but I just had to introduce myself. Stipson, sir," the agent tipped his chin in a rushed salute. "I can’t tell you what it meant to me, to read your quotes about widespread automation and the multiplicity of AI applications."

"I see," Tony forced a business smile, eyeing the guy’s crazy eyes with hesitant approval. "That’s, uh, cool. Yeah. Super neat."

"Rhodes is asking if you can get the cover off of the device," Loki said in his ear. "He seems to think you can override it."

"I’ve been telling people AI is the future for years, but nobody believed me until they saw it plastered on a magazine cover. The Quinjets, the Jericho, and now artificial intelligence! You’re a real visionary, sir. You’ve blown the lid off the defense industry."

"Tony? Can you hear me?"

"Wow, that’s uh, nice to hear." Tony scratched the back of his neck. "But I’m actually here for a meeting, and I’m kind of super late. Could you help a brother out?"

He tipped his head to the keypad.

Stipson’s smile faded slightly. "A meeting... in the server bay?"

"They found a bug in one of our recent shipments," he said quickly. "That's why they sent me and not Ob—Mr. Stane. I'm here to take a look under the hood and, uh, work my magic."

He wiggled his fingers with a hopeful smile, and hoped he sounded even a little bit convincing.

Loki's voice took on a frantic edge, and Tony slipped a hand into his pocket to turn down the volume just so he could hear himself think.

"Trouble is, the code they gave me isn't working. Must have been some kind of miscommunication."

He shrugged and made an 'what am I to do' hand gesture at the keypad.

"Oh, that makes sense," the suit nodded, chewing the moment like he was some gangster in a black and white movie. "Sure, but don't mention it to anybody. Codes are serious business around here."

"As they should be," Tony nodded officiously. He took a step back to allow the man access to the keypad, and made sure to memorize the numbers as he dialed them.

Tony relaxed his muscles forcefully as each number earned a green blink from the machine, only the seize again when Stipson stopped halfway. Goddamn it.

"One more thing, sir-"

"Yes?" Tony sighed.

The agent stared at him, and then dropped whatever he'd meant to say.

"Ah-" The door clicked open. Stipson held it open, averting his eyes. "Nevermind. Server bay is downstairs to the right."

"Good man," Tony shook his hand briefly, forcing another smile at the sweaty nerd.

Trotting down the stairs, he wiped his hand on the side of his pants and grimaced. If he never had to shake another clammy hand he'd die happy. Submitting that damn article was the worst decision he'd ever made.

Reaching the lower level at a brisk pace, he shoved through the industrial door with both hands on the bar. A library of machinery emanated heat like a giant furnace, except the logs were copper cables and the flickering flames were blinking LEDs.

A desk with a monitor was set up in the middle of it, and Tony slid into the stiff-backed rolling chair. By some miracle of human negligence the operator had left it logged when he left for his lunch break.

Tony typed in rapid finger taps, navigating the agency's intraweb with practiced ease. It was elementary compared to the coding he'd done on JARVIS, and refreshingly well organized for a hack job.

The master list of files had files ranging from Peggy Carter to Yuri Gagarin.

The name Obadiah Stane snagged his attention as he scrolled down the list.

He shouldn't. He wasn't here to snoop on Obie, and besides it wasn't like there was anything going on at SI that Tony couldn't ask Obie about. Even so...

Curiosity won out in the end. He hit enter.

A long, long dossier appeared. Past dealings, character analyses, known associates—

His brain stuttered to a halt on that part, his hands balling into fists over the keyboard.

There were the usual suspects for Stark Industries; the U.S. Army, the Secret Service, the Marines.

Then there were the rest. Names that made Tony's ears ring.

The Ten Rings, the Red Room, Hydra.

No way.

Whoever used this desk normally kept a scratch pad and a pencil on hand. Tony scribbled down the case numbers in frenzied chicken scratch and went digging into the evidence database. It wasn't easy but he knew what he was doing, and suddenly it seemed vitally important for him to find and read everything with his own eyes.

The reports were detailed, times and dates and locations. Distressingly, the most recent ones lined up perfectly with Obadiah's frequent trips overseas. Tony always thought the guy took a few too many vacations for a CEO.

No wonder Obie never wanted to talk about Aruba or Monaco or the French Riviera. He'd never been, the trips had just been a cover for his under the table business.

Stark Industries had been supplying weapons to spies and criminals.

Obie hadn't hated Tony's designs because they were different from the briefing, he'd hated them because he couldn't sell them to both sides of the field.

A guerilla group could show up in Afghanistan with high efficiency tank treads and a thousand M-16s and nobody would bat an eye, but a cutting edge device that caused temporary paralysis? The Pentagon would be banging on SI's door in a matter of hours.

"I can't believe it," Tony whispered, staring blankly at the screen. "Obie, you greedy son of a bitch. It wasn't enough to profit off a proxy war, was it? You had to go and play for both teams."

An alarm blared over his head, the lights of the basement turning red as some kind of security protocol was initiated over the PA system. Tony barely noticed, he was too shaken by what he'd learned.

Numbly he made himself back out of the files and scan the evidence directory for information on the Tesseract.

Thumping footsteps sounded from the ceiling. SHIELD's field agents were mobilizing.

For him? Possibly. Maybe Stitson realized what a halfwit he'd been. Maybe in the absence of communications Loki had gone and made a scene.

Ultimately it didn't matter, he couldn't leave without the intelligence he'd come for. He searched the files manually, as quickly as his eyes could read.

Someone crashed through the staircase door just as he found the file.

Hissed whispering pricked his ears as he watched the progress bar load.

Checking over his shoulder, his gut filled with relief at the sight of Loki and Rhodey stumbling toward him.

"Jesus, what did you guys do? I got down here just fine, and now the whole place sounds like it's on lockdown."

"You didn't answer," Loki snapped. "We had to assume the worst."

"So you make a massive scene and get us all caught?" Tony threw his arms out, indicating the noise and the flashing lights. "Good plan. Five stars."

"The plan was for him to teleport us quietly and secretly inside, but Houdini here popped us right in the middle of everything." Rhodey grunted, leaning them both on the nearest computer tower.

Loki panted, wiping sweat from his brow. "I got turned around, I told you."

"Oh shut up."

"You shut up."

"I see you guys are getting along," Tony rolled his eyes.

"If you had any idea the amount of energy involved in deconstructing two living bodies and rebuilding them perfectly at another point in space-"

"Alright I get it, enough," Rhodey groaned, dabbing at his bleeding temple. "I think we managed to block the door, but that won't hold them for long and the perimeter is swarming with agents. Unless this guy can teleport all three of us-"

"Which I cannot." Loki pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache.

"Then we're stuck up shit creek here, and no paddles in sight."

"Great, just great," Tony muttered, hunching over the dark computer screen and struggling to read in the dim light. "According to this, you weren't far off, Lokes. The Tesseract was here, but after you breached their security they moved it."

"Moved it where?" Rhodey asked. "Not that it matters, since we're all headed straight to Guantanamo as soon as they find us."

"Don't be dramatic," Tony sighed. "It's a base in Florida. Some kind of research facility."

He wrote down the coordinates and tore the top sheet off the pad.

"So we're risking our necks searching this place for a magic Lego that isn't even here." Rhodey said.

"That appears to be the sum total of it." Loki pushed himself back to his feet and swayed with exhaustion. He looked like a drunk zombie.

Tony slipped under his arm and shoved the paper in his pocket.

"Buck up, men, this ain't over 'til it's over. We're getting out of here, and we're not going through the front door."

"Then how?" Rhodey asked.

"How else? There's a hanger in the back and this place is full up of my company's tech. We're gonna find a Quinjet, we're gonna steal it, and then we're gonna break the sound barrier on our way to Palm Beach."

It was a testament to just how crazy the week had been that Rhodey didn't even pretend to make a fuss. He just slotted himself under Loki's other arm and asked, "Where's the hanger?"

Loki pointed down the aisle of servers. "It's on the far end of the facility, but there's another stairway. We can pass safely through this basement and come up on the other side. From there it's just a jaunt.

"And a hot wire," Tony said. "Fuck it, let's go for it. The whole world's at stake, what's a few felonies next to that?"

Rhodey let out a bone-deep sigh. "I can't believe I'm helping you steal government property with a space alien."

"I'm a king, you pissant," Loki said.

Tony almost dropped him laughing.

Chapter Text

Blue sky and a snow blanketed horizon spanned the narrow viewports of the Stark Industries Q1-N fighter jet, the ground falling away rapidly beneath them as they broke the cloud line.

Sweat coated Tony's hands but he held the joystick steady through a bout of turbulence.

"I can't believe it," Rhodey said. "We got away. We actually got away."

Tony stared at him, a wicked smile creeping out from his crashing adrenaline.

"Admit it, that was fun. You had fun."

"I had an aneurysm, thank you. And by the time the Pentagon catches us I'm gonna have ulcers."

"You really think SHIELD wants the Pentagon to know that they let a couple of teenagers steal a five hundred thousand dollar state-of-the-art aircraft?"

Rhodey twisted his lip, and then let it go with a sigh. "Okay, fair. But they will come after us. And then what?"

"And by then we'll have the Tesseract and Loki will use it to fix everything. Somehow. Hopefully."

"Christ almighty, that's not a plan, Tony. That's barely a wish." Rhodey slumped in his chair and covered his eyes with one hand.

"I didn't ask you to follow me," Tony huffed.

The plane pierced the clouds and came out the other side. Harsh orange sunlight contoured the tops of the fluffy canopy, and he quickly calibrated the autopilot to take them south.

"God, I'm ruined. Goodbye college degree, goodbye officer's commission," Rhodey moaned.

Dropping the controls once it was safe, Tony bit his lip.

"Somebody definitely recognized me, but not you. Unless you're secretly famous and you've been holding out on me."

"And how many black MIT students is Tony Stark known to hang around?"

Tony crossed his arms and sunk in his chair too.

Rhodey stared at the knobs and switches littering the ceiling.

"Well-"

"Don't. Just don't. Five minutes asking around campus and they'll have my name."

"I won't let them get to you."

The look on Rhodey's face said loud and clear that he didn't believe him.

Silence reigned. The jet flew smoothly over rolling hills of white.

Then Rhodey cleared his throat.

"So you really like this guy, huh."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tony tensed.

"It's just a lot of trouble to bring on yourself, for a friend." Rhodey tapped his foot against the console, his fingers picking at the armrest cushion.

"He helped me out in the past, I owe him."

"Enough to get yourself convicted of a felony?"

Rhodey raised his brows, waiting. Tony's gut tied up in knots. He knew. No matter how he tried to convince himself otherwise, Tony felt it in his bones. Some base instinct told him the jig was up.

"How long have you known?"

Rhodey chuckled. "Dude you've drunk kissed me like a hundred times. You played bongo drums on my ass."

"B-But you never said anything, I thought you missed my cues!"

"I missed you sticking your hands down my pants? Come on, dude. I didn't want to embarrass you. I figured if I ignored it you'd stop. And you did... eventually."

"Oh my god." Tony put his head between his knees. "You knew the whole time? And you just let me go—oh my god."

"There, there." Rhodey patted his back. "I thought it was funny to be honest. Until it got sad. But then I started doing my crunches in the living room and it got funny again."

"Oh my god." Tony flushed red up to his ears.

"I mostly figured it out in the car, but it was your face in the kitchen that sealed it. You were mooning like an idiot, I'd have to be blind."

"Please—stop. I'm dying. All my blood is in my face."

Rhodey laughed, urging Tony to sit up. "I won't pretend I understand it, cause I don't. But if it makes you happy then I guess I'll have to be okay with it. Cause you're my brother, and I love you."

Tony had to bite his cheek to keep his mouth shut. Never in a million years had he expected to hear that. Not from anyone. His lip quivered and he scrubbed at his nose preemptively.

Words failed him, so hugging was the only thing to do. He threw himself bodily over the console and buried Rhodey in a bear hug. His friend returned it, warm and supportive.

With one last squeeze, Rhodey let him go and hit him with a stern look.

"Just do me one favor? Use a rubber. I don't know if alien gods can get AIDS but-"

"Dude!" Tony scrunched up his face.

"What?!"

"I love you, but some stuff I gotta keep to myself."

"Rock Hudson. Freddie Mercury. I don't wanna see your face in black and white on Time magazine."

"Relax, man, it's never gonna happen anyway. I'm just some kid that pulled him out of a trash heap."

"Wow, humility. That's new."

Tony punched his arm. "I'm serious. He's not interested. I tried to kiss him once, back then. He looked ready to bolt."

The cockpit chair squeaked when Rhodey shifted his weight, his face thoughtful.

"Are you sure? Cause the way he looked at you last night... and this morning... and in the car... and-"

"Ugh, you need your eyes checked. He's not-"

"He so is." Rhodey shook his head. "I'll bet you my Dwight Gooden card he is."

"No shit?" Tony blinked.

That baseball card was Rhodey's pride and joy. It was signed and everything. Probably worth something in a few years once the guy retired.

"No shit."

"Fine, I guess I will," Tony spat, standing up fast enough that he got a head rush.

"Good, do it."

"I am."

"Then why aren't you moving?"

"I'm going to. I'm just—gathering my energies."

"A-huh." Rhodey crossed his arms. "Sure."

"Shut up!"

Tony swung the cockpit door open and stomped out, a feeling like vertigo overtaking him once he crossed into the dim cargo bay. Military bedrolls and unfolded parachutes were piled in the center to make a pallet or Loki to rest on. When the door slapped shut it startled the lanky god, and he craned his neck to see him.

Eyes flicking all over the place, he mumbled and stuttered his way through the most awkward hello in history.

Loki sat up on his elbows, his brows pinched.

"You seem troubled."

The rumble of his sleep crusted voice only made it worse. Tony rocked on his heels, the shrill whine of the engines ringing his ears.

"It's been that kinda day."

The weight of Loki's attention rooted him, those eyes raking over his tense face and baggy uniform.

"My godfather's selling weapons to our enemies," he blurted.

Loki's face didn't change.

"I found a file at the base. Tanks, turrets, hundreds of deals. I knew we were ironmongers, knew my legacy was bloody but—but Hydra? The Red Room? " He ducked his head in shame. "And I gave in to him. I gave Obie fresh meat to hock to those vultures because I was too weak to stand up to him."

"Does he not control your dynasty?" Loki tipped his head.

Tony huffed, suddenly needing to move. He paced back and forth as his frustration spilled out.

"Yeah, but he shouldn't. I'm an adult, dammit, but my parents set up this stupid trust and I can't—it's not fair, that's the point. It's not fair and I can't do anything about it and I just-"

Yelling, he kicked a nearby crate hard enough to send him hopping backwards in pain, clutching his toe.

The traitor on the floor laughed, and Tony snapped an annoyed look at him.

"Don't laugh, it's not funny. I'm talking about real people dying. People I could have saved if I wasn't such a fuckup."

"What are you saying, you are brilliant," Loki said firmly. "This man's deeds are not your doing. I confess I never thought highly of him, but this is treason."

"That's just it though, I should be in control by now. I got into high school three years early. If I hadn't failed on purpose I could have done something. I could have taken over early and saved people, but instead I sat around whining like a baby and wasting time."

He knew what Loki was going to say. You couldn't have known that then. It wasn't your fault. You mustn't blame yourself. The typical platitudes. He grit his teeth and braced for the empty reassurances he'd never believe.

But then Loki grunted, and sat up the rest of the way. He looked at Tony without a hint of pity, and worked his jaw a moment before he spoke.

"Regret is... an unfriendly emotion. By the time one feels its weight, it is usually too late to undo. I'm afraid we share this feeling. Guilt over actions taken when we were not so wise as we are now."

Tony stared down at his hands, his toe still pulsing painfully in his boot.

"What do you have to regret? You were tortured, that's not your fault."

"And how do you think I came to be in my enemy's stronghold?" Loki asked in a cool monotone.

A haunted shade came over his eyes, and Tony's chest hurt to see it. A beat of silence froze the air around them, and Loki answered his own question with clipped syllables.

"Hubris. I thought myself clever enough to manipulate him, to use his forces for my own gain. But I was never in control, not from the moment I arrived. He took advantage of my arrogance, entrapping me as easily as a moth in a net."

Now it was Tony who felt compelled to issue platitudes. He shoved his hands in his pockets and searched for anything else, something with substance. Something that could actually help. He found nothing.

"I am sorry you've taken such a blow, and when I've already put you under stress. It is difficult to accept that we were raised by liars and evil doers."

"You could have crashed right into Marsha's house and burned it to ash and I wouldn't have cared. Not if I got you back. That's all I've wanted. Since the day you left that's all I wanted."

Loki's brows furrowed in an imploring look. The tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"You sound like a jilted lover," he said, the question tucked inside barely obscured. A stick stuck through the zoo bars to poke a tiger.

Tony's heart beat double time, and he knew his face must look as grim as a funeral. He took a deep breath.

"Yeah, what of it?" he said, sharper than he meant to. Tinged with fear and yearning.

Loki swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing and his lips parting like he couldn't get enough air through his nose alone.

He shifted sideways on the pallet, and peeled back the thin blanket that was draped over his legs.

"I see. In that case... would you lie with me? I'm afraid I don't sleep well alone anymore."

The plane could have been shot down and Tony wouldn't have noticed. He tripped over the too-long pants in his hurry to cross the cargo bay.

His knees hit the thin bundle of blankets too hard and he didn't give a rat's ass. He threw off the stuffy uniform coat and smoothed the plain white tee underneath.

Loki's eyes strayed, and it occurred to him that he was being checked out. That Loki had been doing that all along and he'd mistook it for judgement. Thin lips turned up, and Loki stayed the fingers Tony was twisting around the hem.

Stupidly he felt like a kid again, his piecemeal experiences paling in comparison to this man simply sitting in arm's reach. The touch of his fingers sent sparks up Tony's arm and his eyes felt drawn to Loki's lips like a magnet.

"M-me neither," he said. "Not since that night."

"I see I made quite the impression," Loki murmured.

His lips formed the words in slow motion, like a lure. Tony leaned closer, closer, checking Loki's eyes with an anxious flick and finding a tranquil kind of acceptance.

The cool fingers slid down his hand, following his fingers to wrinkled cotton and then blazing a trail up his chest. Heat pooled where Loki touched him, and he didn't wait a second longer. He closed the distance with as much confidence as he could muster, his lips meeting Loki's after what felt like a lifetime of waiting.

Soft lips opened to him and then he was falling, tumbling onto the pallet with Loki underneath him. Greedy hands pressed down his back as his weight settled over Loki's hips and it felt illicit, like one of those hot for teacher videos they kept hidden in the back of the video store.

Time felt liquid in that kiss, like taffy stretching. He couldn't say if it was five seconds or five minutes. They parted with a hum that could have come from either of them, Tony's eyes opening slowly to crisp, clearwater blue.

"I am sorry I left you," Loki breathed. "I did not intend."

"I know. I hate it, but—now that I'm older I understand. A little."

"You were lonely. Perhaps I did not give you enough credit, but I worried you had attached for lack of other options."

Tony huffed, gripping some strap or other on Loki's ridiculous coat.

"I wouldn't have. I knew what I wanted, and I still want it now. But... I guess I get it. I have experience now. I know there are other fish in the sea. Just not the one—"

Turbulence shook the plane, and Loki glanced skeptically at the cockpit door.

"Are you quite certain this craft is skyworthy?"

The dry humor of it stabbed Tony in the chest, and a smile spread across his face. His eyes roamed Loki's face, committing the sight to memory. The long nose, the sloping cheeks, the subdued, kiss-smeared lips.

"In Rhodey's hands? Probably not."

Loki mirrored his appraisal, eyes intense as he brought his right hand to scrape through the scruff on Tony's face. It felt intimate, moreso even than the kiss. Normally Obie pressured him into a clean shaven look, so the sensation was unique to Loki.

"You like? I tried growing a moustache but Obie said I looked like 'one of those fruitcakes on MTV.'"

"You would be handsome in any style," Loki said, rising up to kiss him again. "I assume fruitcake is another of your godfather's unsavory insults."

"Yeah, you got it." Tony grimaced, and rolled to lay on his side with his head on Loki's shoulder.

"If I see him again, I think I shall have a lot to say in your defense."

Tony couldn't decide if he wanted to witness that confrontation or not. Before he could the god pulled him flush to his side and his nose filled with the rich scents of cologne and leather. In a flash of green the blanket appeared on top of them instead of tangled between.

"You shouldn't waste your magic like that. We'll need it when we get there."

Loki wiggled until he was comfortable, unconcerned.

"It is not a waste. And I will renew much faster with my bonded at my side."

He opened his mouth to question, but Loki kissed him first. The first of many offered for the questionable purpose of shutting him up.

It worked, of course. Because he was a sap, apparently.

"Life debts are powerful, enduring spells. They have many benefits that I couldn't be arsed to explain right now. Suffice it to say, I am stronger when I am near you. My magic regards you as an extension of myself. I could not leave you without repaying the debt by saving your life in return, not even if I wanted to. Until such a thing comes to pass, I am forever yours."

Tony laid still, absorbing that promise. Warmth gathered under the blanket, and Loki's breathing evened as he slipped into a doze.

He hadn't been tired when he came to the cargo bay, but drowsiness could be dangerously contagious. He let his eyes drift low as the hum of the engines overwhelmed the stress of the day.

Chapter Text

The Quinjet engines shrieked as Tony guided the craft downward.

The rotating engines made it temperamental, but capable of maneuvers no other craft could match. At that moment he was very glad he'd been involved with the design and testing, or else he wouldn't know how to guide it into a vertical descent.

The jet's radar showed vehicles all around, and if he leaned far enough over the dashboard he could see them too—tanks, jeeps, personnel. Lines of uniformed agents armed to the teeth.

If they landed on the tarmac they'd be dead or arrested inside of a minute, which was why he put the plane into a fast drop directly over the PEGASUS complex.

Loki gripped the back of his seat, looking a little green.

"In case it's escaped your attention there is a building beneath us."

"I see that, princess."

"Then why are we falling?" Rhodey yelled.

"Because we're gonna land on the roof. Or go through it, we'll see. I've never done this before. You might want to strap into something."

Loki shoved himself into the gunner's chair with a sour growl.

"This is madness, you'll kill us all."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Flipping two switches to raise the drag flaps, he held his downward course. The ground approached rapidly. Five seconds, three, two—

Turning the stick upside down, he reversed the pull of the twin engines and prayed it would be enough to stop them before they crashed into the ground.

"Brace yourselves!"

The final second felt like five, everything seeming to slow down as he waited for the ship to impact. Gravity pushed him into the seat as they went from sixty to zero instantly, and with a jolt the landing gear touched down on the roof.

Amazed but determined not to show it, he cut the engines and whooped.

"Ye of little faith!”

Loki groaned pathetically behind him.

"Yeah, yeah, you're a genius. We know." Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Now what?"

"I have no idea," Tony declared confidently.

It wasn't until he was straddling the console to climb out of the cockpit that he heard the crunching.

He paused, holding up a hand to stop Rhodey unclipping his own webbing.

The ominous sound continued, followed by a snap.

Faster than he could say oh crap the weight of the plane buckled the facility roof and they tumbled in a short drop. The floor angled to one side and Tony scrambled to get a hold of the console before he rolled right into Rhodey's lap.

Loki stood from the gunner's chair, clinging to the walls and ceiling.

"You were saying?" He smirked.

Tony shot him a dirty look. "I landed perfectly. The crumby roof is not my fault."

Another lurch had them falling several more feet, the plane now fully on its side and all three of them hanging on for dear life.

"Well men, it's been nice knowing you," Rhodey said.

"Adieu," Tony agreed. "Once we fall through we'll have to scram. The place is huge, Tesseract could be anywhere."

"I can spread out my magic and search for the cube's energy. If it is here then I will be able to guide us to its vicinity."

"And when the agents show up?" Rhodey stared out the cockpit windows, one half submerged in steel and the other bleached by afternoon sunlight.

"Then we run," Tony said.

Loki worked his jaw and nodded.

The roof chose that moment to give out.

Two weightless seconds, a rattling, metallic crash, and then they were squeezing through the jammed door of the Quinjet and out into a ruined atrium.

The jet's right wing was crunched up like a soda can, but the splintered reception desk under it was in worse shape.

Their feet echoed on the concrete floors when they jumped down, the air cool and open in the cylindrical chamber. Hallways split out in four directions and Tony looked to Loki for guidance.

The god raised a hand and shut his eyes in concentration.

"Anything?"

"Faintly." Loki pointed. "There. Above ground."

Men's voices could be heard down several hallways, along with the sounds of armored bodies and the cocking of weapons. Cold fear pushed Tony into a run.

"Let's go."

Blue beams and beige pipes covered the ceiling of the utility hall, the walls marked by fire detectors and fuse boxes. An anonymous voice repeated red alerts and warnings over and over. The whole place was on lockdown. A group of suited agents followed just out of sight.

Tony didn't let himself think about it. He had one goal in mind and that was to find the Tesseract. With the space cube all things would be possible, and without it they were sunk.

The end of the hall opened to a cafeteria, a long room with low ceilings and lifeless tables. A stainless steel buffet line cordoned off one side, flanked by oversized trash cans and a line of garish vending machines.

Loki skidded to a stop in the center, his hands held out on either side as if reaching for something beyond his grasp. Still more hallways split off from the room, leading to parts unknown.

"Which way?" Rhodey asked. Tony shushed him, eyes trained on Loki's furrowed brows and tense mouth.

"It is shrouded," Loki said quietly, spinning on his heel like a compass needle.

They didn't have time to unshroud it. Dozens of men in suits and riot gear flooded the room, closing off all three exits. Rhodey put his hands up, and Tony quickly followed suit.

"We're unarmed, don't shoot," he yelled.

More suits ran in like a sea of white, grey, and black. One stood head and shoulders over the others, a face that hit him like a slap.

"Obie?"

His godfather shoved his way through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, his hands spread magnanimously.

"I thought you were in Libya. Or was it Thailand? Wait, of course, Desert Storm. God, it must save you a fortune on shipping, both your clients fighting each other in the same place."

Obadiah wrung his hands in front of him, looking around at the agents like his pet dog had licked its butt at the family picnic.

"Oh Tony, you cannot afford to be this naïve. Is that why you're running around making a fool of yourself, stealing planes? Because you believe every cock 'n bull story you read in a magazine?"

"It's not a belief," Tony spat. "It's a fact. And it's wrong."

Obie laughed, a full bellied one that stretched his cheeks in a soulless smile.

"My godson," he chuckled, glancing at a nearby agent as if in solidarity. "Always so full of ideas."

Making a corkscrew gesture at his temple, Obie drilled into Tony's eyes with a cruel slant to his mouth.

"Namby-pamby 'give peace a chance' ideas, unfortunately."

"Ideals." Tony's jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth hurt.

Obadiah blinked. "What's the difference?"

"Everything."

Rage sent his blood pulsing hot and fast through his veins. He could do it, he could put Obie in his place. Maybe he'd failed before, but that didn't mean he couldn't do it now. Loki's hand pressed to his back, a lending of strength.

Tony walked toward his godfather one protracted step at a time, his hands held high so as not to spook the gunmen.

"Why are you here, Obie?" he asked.

"Protecting you, just like I've done for your spoiled, ungrateful ass for the last eight years."

"Bullshit! The only thing you care about is money, that’s all it’s ever been."

"It's true. And before you get any ideas about squealing to the authorities, you should know these aren't real SHIELD agents. They're not loyal to Fury."

Lifting his arm to the air, Obadiah straightened his back into a salute.

"Hail Hydra."

"Hail Hydra," the agents echoed.

Tony's legs wobbled under him, disgust overwhelming the torrent of other emotions in his chest.

As a kid he'd admired Obie. Sometimes he’d even daydreamed that Obie was his real dad.

Howard Stark lost his mind when Tony was just a baby. His mother drowned herself in drink. Next to that the suffocating pressure of Obie seemed better. At least he knew he cared.

Or not.

"You don't have the right to guilt trip me,” Tony growled. “Not when you've betrayed everything our company stands for."

"Oh Tony... " Obadiah grimaced. He slid his hands into his pockets and frowned in a facsimile of regret. "Why couldn't you stay out of the way?"

Blue LEDs lit in his ears and a whistle-pitch frequency came out of nowhere.

Tony's muscles locked up one by one, up his legs and arms and all the way to his neck. His face froze in surprised fear as he and everyone else in the room fell to the floor.

Obadiah took two long strides closer, gazing down at him with a contemplative sadness.

"I wanted to let you live, I really did. But you just kept pushing and pushing, making a nuisance of yourself."

The SIREN stuck out from his hand, Tony's own invention stolen and used to subdue him.

"It's a brilliant design, kid, I've got to admit. There are so many applications for short term paralysis." His godfather clicked his tongue and dropped the emitter back in his pocket. Reaching behind his back, he pulled a pistol from his belt.

Not just any pistol, a special edition with the alloy coating stripped on one side.

"Sadly you’ve gone and made yourself a liability to this business, so I need to silence you more permanently."

In the midst of the paralysis he couldn't look away, couldn't even scream. Obadiah flicked the safety off and laid his finger on the trigger.

He put all of his strength into turning his head just an inch, seeking, straining for one last look at Loki. A look of longing, or maybe apology. He hadn't planned for something like this, hadn't really had a plan at all.

All he got for his efforts was a sliver of Loki's boot. Black, dirt-caked, the figure of a twisted serpent hammered into the heel.

With an incisive bang the pistol discharged. Fast, harsh. 

A guttural shout came from somewhere. His vision blurred.

The shot hit him square in the chest, impossible to miss at that range.

Dull pain bloomed from the force of the impact, and then the bullet bounced off.

Obadiah gaped, shocked as anyone. He reached to check the clip, but before he could manage it Loki appeared tall and imposing at his back.

"Surprise," he whispered with a feral grin, and plucked the noise-cancelling buds from Obie's ears.

The big brute crashed like a bag of bricks, choking and twitching at the god's feet. He tucked the gun into his own belt for safe keeping.

"But how, I hear you asking," Loki taunted, eyes hard and showing all his teeth. "Simple really, this device is designed for humans. And I'm not. Better luck next time."

His friend knelt beside him. Gentle hands cupped his cheek and slipped the buds into his ears. It would take several minutes to wear off completely, but just knowing he was safe made it easier to breathe.

"H-how-" he rasped, indicating the now misshapen bullet with his eyes.

Loki's expression sobered, love shining so bright he couldn't mistake it.

"My debt. The bond," he said. "A life for a life."

The world tipped and tilted. Loki lifted him in his arms.

"I have met many tyrants in my day, Mister Stane. Raiders, warlords, sadists of the highest order. None have left me so utterly repulsed as you."

And then he spit on him. A big, juicy loogie right on Obaiaih’s blue-veined face.

"To profit off of suffering, to use false affection as a means of control. I do not believe there is anything so repugnant that a being can do."

Stepping over Obadiah, Loki shifted Tony into one arm and reached to pull Rhodey along in the other. Over his shoulder Tony watched his godfather's ruddy, furious face.

Maybe it said something about him that he didn't return the feeling. Maybe he was a wuss or a pansy or whatever else Obie wanted to call him. 

With all his family’s skeletons dragged out of the closet he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. 

He was just glad to be free.

Loki carries the helpless mortals to a tucked away chamber, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. The rest aboard the stolen plane had been enough, but only just. His energetic core spasms painfully when he reaches for the stone's signature.

On any other day he would rest, but without the stone they have no escape. A solution must be found.

Steeling his will, he sits on the floor and focuses on the barely audible whisper. Pulling power from his glamour, he redirects it to his reaching fingertips.

Jotun skin makes the cool room feel sweltering, but the infusion of energy amplifies the astral noises. He traces them to the origin, not far off but higher in the building's architecture.

Tony and Rhodes stir. The device's spell must finally be breaking.

"I can feel it. It is near," he says without preamble.

Rhodes shakes out his hands and stumbles to his feet. "Do I have brain damage, or is he suddenly blue?"

"Loki's Loki," Tony says fiercely.

"O-kay. Sure." Rhodes puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Blues fine. I like blue."

"Good."

He grips Loki's hand, and there aren't words for how it feels for one of his tricks to be appreciated. Others are so eager to see malice in Loki's actions, but not Tony, never Tony.

Loki squeezes Tony's hand back, his throat tight with affection.

"We should hurry."

Following Rhodes' lead, Loki dusts off his coat and lifts Tony to his feet. When he peeks through the sliver of the door the corridor is clear.

"This way."

Thank the Norns it isn't far. A flight of stairs and a short walk see them to a plain office with dull blue walls.

Black bookcases and a table with tea service dominate the space. A dark skinned mortal with an eyepatch sits at a nearby desk, a wicked wound healing under the strap, not at all concerned by the warnings issuing from the ceiling.

He flips through a stack of papers casually, not even pretending to read them. An orange cat lounges on his lap, the indolent beast benefiting from thoughtless strokes of the mortal's free hand.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," the agent says.

Tony draws the gun from Loki's belt like quicksilver and levels it on the agent.

"Hand over the Tesseract, or else."

The agent flips the file closed, sitting back in his chair.

"I mean it, Fury."

Fury. The name licks at Loki’s memory. Tony said it once before, at the school when he’d nearby called the authorities on Loki in the dormitory.

So this would be Director Fury, the leader of the force.

"Son, we both know you aren't the type. Sit. Let's talk."

"It's three versus one, you better take us seriously," Rhodes threatens.

Loki tenses as one sharp eye inspects him, from his azure complexion to his gilded dress.

"Oh I am. I take all alien threats seriously. That's why I want to talk."

He tips his head at two chairs on the other side of the desk.

Tony checks his reaction doubtfully, but Loki only nods his agreement. For a man clad entirely in leather, Fury seems a reasonable sort.

Loki stands behind the chairs, positioning himself between Tony and the door. The young men sat stiffly.

"So, what do you want with the cube?"

"Nothing," Loki lies smoothly. "Only to take it back where it belongs—the vaults of my homeland, Asgard. It was never meant to reside on Earth. Now that it has been found it represents a liability. We wish to store it where it will truly be safe from those who would seek to use it destructively."

"Call me gullible, but I believe you," Fury says. "Ever since this cube fell into my hands it's been a non-stop parade of freaks and weirdos with big attitudes and bigger guns."

"It's more than a glowing cube, sir." Tony leans forward, his voice almost pleading.

"I know. That's why it has me concerned. That cube is like a giant neon sign advertising to the cosmos that this little blue planet is ready for a higher form of war. But we aren't, not even close."

"Are you suggesting-" Loki starts.

"That I let you take it off my hands? Maybe."

The agent sits straighter, mindful of the creature purring in his lap.

"Ever since I became aware of the larger threat, I've worked at getting us ready for when the big bads come to blow our house down. But there's a lot to be done, and a lotta people who don't believe the threat is real.

I need time to grease the wheels. Moving the cube might just give me the time. The trouble is finding the right person, someone I can trust to show up when the big bads do eventually come."

"It has always been Asgard's purpose to protect the Nine Realms."

"He means Earth," Tony interjects. "Among other places. But mostly Earth."

"I gathered," Fury lifts a brow.

"So you will allow us to take it?" Loki says.

The agent smiles in an almost foreboding way. "About that."

"Oh god, what now?" Tony covers his face.

"It got a little lost in transit."

The agent places the cat upon the desktop.

For a moment Loki does not grasp his meaning. Then he drags Tony's chair several feet back.

"A flerken?!"

"A flerken," Fury agrees gravely.

"What's a flerken?" Rhodey frowns.

Tony laughs a bit unkindly at him. "What's wrong Lokes, sacred of a harmless little kitty cat?"

"That creature is anything but harmless," Loki spits.

"Awwww don't listen to him," Tony coos, taking the flerken into his arms and doting on it like a fool. "You wouldn't hurt anybody would you, little guy? Your tummy must be so upset from eating that big bad Tesseract. Poor thing."

"Well, he seems to like you. That's good." Fury taps the desktop with a look of forced calm. "I've been waiting for the cube to see the light at the end of the tunnel, if you get my meaning, but so far it hasn't happened. Answers to Goose. The mouth is the biggest concern, but mind the claws too."

Fury pointed to his healing eye. "She seems to play nice so long as you don't shake her."

Loki itches to take the abomination from his lover's hands, but he can't risk spooking it. Extracting a living being from a flerken's pocket dimension would be messy, and who knew what other monsters might be trapped within its gullet?

He distracts himself with other concerns, things he knows Tony cannot leave unresolved.

"And what of this knave, Obadiah? Your agency claims to defend humanity, and yet you allow this villain to walk freely, even in your stronghold."

"Oh, you know about that." Fury swipes uselessly at the orange fur defacing his clothing.

"Damn right we do. How could you, Fury? My dad was your mentor, you knew him. How could you let Obie ruin his company?"

"This might sound indelicate, but Obadiah is a small fish in our pond. We knew we could put him away at any time with the dirt we have on him, but he has a real talent for drawing the other rats out from their holes. We let him walk so that we could catch the bigger fish. Once he's no longer useful, you can bet your ass we'll be after him."

"At times it is necessary to tolerate an unsavory situation in service of achieving a greater good," Loki agrees.

Tony huffs, and Loki cannot blame him. It is an unsatisfactory answer, but a difficult one to argue with. He gazes up at him, brilliant and impassioned.

"Well I'm not going to be on Earth much longer, so promise me he'll go down. And that you'll make sure he takes the company with him. I want it gone. No more weapons, no more war profiteering."

Fury rests his chin on one palm, surprised in a dour sort of way.

"You know that won't stop people making bombs. The industry is bigger than just you, and like it or not the world will always need weapons. Even if they aren't used, we need them to maintain peace. To use as deterrents."

"At this point I don't care what you do. Just don't do it with my name. I want nothing to do with it," Tony snapped.

"Just how powerful do you think I am, Stark?" Fury barks out a laugh.

"Don't be cute. We both know you can do it. Not officially, not legally. But my old man founded this place, he put you behind that desk. He gave the Director of SHIELD the authority to do whatever he deems necessary to protect the people of this country."

Loki expects the Director to dig his heels in. Powerful men rarely appreciate being told off. But instead Fury's expression opens, his almond eyes lowering in consideration as he tips his head to the side.

"Howard was a complicated man. In some ways ahead of his time, in others way, way behind it. But he wasn't crazy. Not for a minute. He just knew things nobody else did, and I only started to appreciate that recently."

"Still a bastard though." Tony crossed his arms.

"Yeah, he was that," Fury agrees.

Reaching over the desk, he gives the flerken a farewell pat between the ears.

"If that's really what you want, then I suppose I can do that for you. I'll consider it a favor to Howard's memory. I do owe him, and by extension you, a little bit of gratitude."

"Does this mean we're not in trouble, sir?" Rhodey asks.

Fury regards the young man with arched brows.

"For breaking into the Cambridge base, I mean. And stealing government property? Are we—you won't lock us up will you? Cause we're kind of doing you a favor by taking the cube away."

"I wouldn't go that far," Fury hedges. "What you did was a federal crime, son. I can't sweep it all under the rug."

"But that was all me," Tony stands, his back stock straight with affront. "If Rhodey's guilty of anything, sir, it's loyalty. He jumped in to help without a thought for himself. Please, please don't report him. He's an A student, and top of his class at ROTC. He's got an officer's commission waiting for him when he graduates."

Fury rubs his chin and holds them both in suspense.

"I see a lot of recruits come and go in this agency. Lotta good men with strong resumes. Usually they don't cut it, because the work we do ain't good. It ain't bad, but it ain't good either. Sometimes you gotta break a rule for the sake of the mission, you gotta be able to make that call and stand by it."

Rhodes' mouth hangs open, his eyes wide. "Sir?"

"Rhodey could be a SHIELD agent?" Tony grins..

"A trainee to start with," Fury gives them both a quelling leer. "But in time, maybe. Aliens are real, son, and they're coming here whether we're ready or not. I'm gonna need all the young blood I can get."

"Thank you, sir." Rhodes seizes Fury's hand and shakes it with perhaps too much enthusiasm.

Fury pulls away as the first opportunity. "Now let's get you all on a flight I actually authorized before the Joint Chiefs catch wind and start sniffing around."

The agent leads their party into the hallway, Loki following quite eagerly with the mortals behind him in a daze. Labyrinthine halls give way to raised metal walkways and a cavernous domed ceiling over lines of matte black, somber looking planes.

Two agents take custody of them there and guide them down clanking steps while Fury remains resolute on the catwalk.

"Is he pranking us?" Tony checks over his shoulder once, petting the flerken numbly. "That was way too easy."

Loki syncs into step beside him.

"The energy flows from the creature," he says. "I do not believe we have been tricked."

"So this is it? We won?"

"Not yet," Loki levels a sideways smirk. "Thanos awaits. But yes, the time has come for us to depart."

"Into space? Both of us?" Tony’s eyes shine like stars.

A matching lightness rises in Loki's chest. Perhaps it is a mistake to tie himself to a mortal. Too blindly optimistic, the definition of rash.

It does not feel like a misstep, it feels like a wind at his back and lightning at his heels.

"Yes, my friend. Both of us."

"Ugh, get a room," Rhodey groans.

"You're just jealous," Tony pushes him playfully.

The agent named Coulson coughs into his hand. "If you'll come this way?"

Uncomfortable seats line the edges of the transport, and Loki chooses one at random.

The orange hellspawn jumps to the floor once Tony sits, rubbing itself along his ankles. Loki worries this is a hunting behavior of some kind, but his young lover is far too smitten to heed his warning.

Tony runs his fingers down the imposters' ringed back, watching as it walks in tight circles. Its small feet make an odd kicking motion, its back arching into a strange crouch.

By the time Loki understands what the flerken is doing it is too late.

A seemingly endless pile of digested matter forms on the floor between Tony's shoes. The flerken twitched and strains.

"Oh good, I worried I'd have to slay the creature to extract our prize," Loki says mildly.

Tony leaps to the other side of the craft, covering his nose and mouth and heaving in disgust.

"What's the matter? I thought you were fond of your new pet?" He teases, although the stench really is quite profound.

"Oh my god it smells like death and Fruit Loops."

A sound like clinking glass bites his ears, and there it is. A dung-smeared relic of Asgard at last retrieved after six hundred years, innocently resting on the airplane floor and bathing the area in blue light.

Coulson raises a radio to his stubbornly unsmiling lips.

"Can we get a clean up on hanger bay six, please?"

Chapter Text

The apartment he and Loki rent on the lower hemisphere of Knowhere is a little short on luxuries.

It has a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen. The living room long since became Tony's workshop when the scrap and tools flowed over from the attached garage.

Their section of the back alley has a pen that was probably intended for livestock, but neither of them would know what to do with animals so Loki cleaned it on the second day of their tenancy. Now they use it as a sparring ring for the hand-to-hand training Loki insists Tony needs.

Privately he thinks it's an excuse for the god to wear himself out before he tries to sleep, but he won’t call him on it. The nightmares aren't going anywhere, not so soon. It's easy to forget that Loki's torture had happened just shy of a month ago for him. To Tony it feels like a different life.

He likes the new one a lot better.

The tiny orange sink is crammed in their tinier bathroom under the tiniest mirror in the galaxy, but Tony is happy to make do. At least he found a real Earth razor and a can of Barbasol on his last trip through the bazaar. Reminders of home mean a lot to him now, which is good because they cost a fortune.

His beard grew over the weeks they hunted Thanos. A slow, plodding search that ended in a kind of shocking anti-climax. Apparently they weren't as powerful as Loki remembered them. Some kind of time fuckery that Tony hadn't totally understood.

In the end he didn't need to. The Tesseract dropped Loki silently behind the grape king, and the reality stone erased him lickety-split. Gone, like he never existed. Easy as pie.

Tony drags the razor down his cheek, mindful of the design he's carefully outlined in the cream. Styles among the Knowhere criminati were eccentric to say the least, and he's been itching to revamp his look.

With one final swipe he removes the last of the unwanted hair and leans back for a better view.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

It's mostly a standard goatee but nearly disconnected on the sides with jagged points accentuating his jaw. In his opinion it looks pretty damn good. Intimidating but sophisticated. The perfect start to a new life.

Quiet shuffling comes from down the hall and Tony hurries to rinse and towel off his face.

Loki leans on the peeling door frame, arms crossed.

"There you are."

"Here I am," Tony echoes. Spreading his arms triumphantly, he turns so Loki can see. "What do you think?"

His lover's eyes roam over him greedily, which makes his chest puff out with pride. One long step from Loki and they're chest to chest, his fingers petting Tony's newly smooth jaw.

"Very handsome.”

His lover bends to pull in him into a kiss that deepens and lingers until his thoughts turn to white noise. They pull away to breathe, and Tony's skin tingles at the brush of Loki's nose on his cheek.

"I meant to invite you to spar, but now I can only think of other things."

"What kind of things?" Tony bites his lip, sauntering flush to Loki’s hips and lowering his voice the way he knows the guy can’t resist.

"You are a menace," his partner huffs, pushing him out of the bathroom. "Flirting will not get you out of training. I should double your exercises just for trying."

"Deny it if you must, Highness. It won't change anything, I'll just be even more breathless and horny and squirming under you."

"Norns." Loki wipes his face in a visible effort not to respond. "If you are so confident then perhaps I should stop withholding my true strength. That should humble you."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a weak puny mortal. Wait 'til I get JARVIS loaded in that armor I’m making, then we'll see who's boss."

Tony rolls his shoulders and hops the fence into the ring. On a nearby shipping crate he spots Goose basking, tail flicking merrily. Loki pulls his shirt off with a totally unnecessary amount of flexing and throws it onto a splintered post.

"I look forward to it, mortal mine."

"Really."

"Of course!" Loki's lips spread in a charming trickster grin. "Mark my words, dearest, the day you concede defeat in an even fight shall live fondly forever in my memory."

Tony threw off his own shirt, laughing freely.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see. But enough chit-chat. Put 'em up, Ice Man."

"As you wish, boy king."

He felt winded already.