Work Text:
You hear the ruckus coming from the sky lounge long before you enter. Barks of laughter and teasing exclamations mingle with Thor’s booming laughter. You assume that cohabitation has provoked the needy egos of your fellow Avengers, and they are letting off steam with some ridiculous challenge or wager. Last time, it was a race to the ground floor of Stark Tower and back to the roof, on foot.
Today seems to be less organised chaos and more spontaneous frenzy. You actually step back through the doorway a little when you see Natasha hurl herself across one of the sofas, to rousing cheers. She lands in a perfect crouch and hurls something small and shining across the room. You barely catch a glimpse before Clint plucks it from the air, loops it into what appears to be one of Wanda’s hairbands, and fires it with a sniper’s precision into Tony’s outstretched palm. Thunderous applause.
Tony smirks and turns towards the window where, you realise, Loki is standing apart from the rest of the group. The glare of light behind him casts his pale features in shadow, but you can tell from the set of his shoulders and unearthly stillness that something isn’t right. He isn’t playing like the others. Tony’s words confirm it.
“Aw c’mon Reindeer Games, don’t tell me you’re giving up already?”
Laughter and mock-sympathy ripples out from the assembled Avengers, all of whom seem to be catching their breath and waiting for the next move in the game. Loki is silent. He doesn’t even flinch. You notice his fists are clenched by his side in what is likely an immense act of willpower. Why, you wonder, is Loki – the master of the aloof and unaffected attitude - sticking around to be mocked? Particularly by Tony, with whom his relationship is barely more than civil.
Natasha, Clint, Bucky and Thor are all restless with glee, like dogs chasing a car. Even Steve is flushed and bouncing on the balls of his feet; too high on adrenaline to read the emotional temperature of the room. You seem to be the only one who can sense the icy cold radiating from Loki, and the terrible heat at the centre of that cold, manifesting as a queer shimmer in his pale eyes.
Seemingly oblivious, Tony casts a knowing glance at his eager audience, then opens his fingers and holds his prize towards the God of Mischief. “You want it?” He asks, sounding about as sincere as a little boy about to drop water balloons out of his bedroom window. “Come and get it.”
Your stomach clenches. This is all wrong. Keep away is fun if it’s all friends in it together, but this is clearly torment and, if the ugly silence is anything to go by, Loki is reaching the end of his tolerance. His hair, usually tied or smoothed neatly back, is skewed and curling around his face. He isn’t wearing a jacket and his shirt is clinging to his skin in some places. He has tried to retrieve it then. Whatever it is they have taken from him is important enough to run and fight for, hard enough to break a sweat. But one Asgardian against six Avengers is still outnumbered; especially if he is holding himself back.
Loki has always been wary of exerting his true strength outside of missions and end of the world scenarios. You’ve seen him in the gym and during training sessions, reign in his magic, his speed, his reflexes; pull punches and generally avoid any display of power or strength that might remind anyone that he was once capable of holding an entire city in his thrall.
Now, instead of fighting back against this cruel game, he is simply waiting, silently, for his so-called teammates to grow tired of his suffering. Still, his tolerance is unlikely to outlast Tony’s enjoyment of the situation. It’s up to you then.
“Tony!”
Everyone turns to face you when you call out; everyone except Loki whose gaze remains fixed on the golden object in Tony’s hand. Praying he doesn’t look your way, you make eye contact with Tony and raise your hand as if it join the game.
Tony grins wide and curls one finger at a time back around the object in a deliberate tease. “You snooze, you lose, Lucky!” He crows and flings it towards you, as a giddy cheer rises up from the others, who immediately shift into position.
Amongst the renewed excitement you hear, or perhaps feel, a sound like ice breaking. You look immediately to Loki and feel the weight of his gaze now fixed firmly on you. The scuffle of voices grows louder and Thor, Natasha and Clint are all hollering at you to make a pass, so you do the only thing you can think of to defuse the situation; you summon your magic, take a deep breath, and disappear.
*
Loki watches you disappear with the torc in your hand, taking this ugly game to a whole new level of callous. His anger, which till now has been frozen and silent, explodes. Without a thought for the idiots around him, least of all his bastard brother who had started the whole vicious affair, he calls in his power, green light crawling across his skin as he turns on the spot; dematerialising before showing anyone his back.
He reappears on the roof. A need for space and air drives him there, though he doubts it’s where you are hiding You hate heights; a fact he loves to mock you for whenever you are on missions together. Instead, he takes a deep breath and releases all the pent-up anger and frustration inside him. The cry he makes is raw, guttural, and decidedly not human which Loki revels in. He is sick of being subject to the whims and sensitivities of foolish mortals, whose span of existence is a mere breath of his own. The fact that his idiot brother is so enamoured with them that he would dishonour his own family for their amusement…
No matter. The air and the release of anger opens a clear space for action inside Loki. He will find you and, away from the rest of those idiots, he will take back what is his. With a grim smile, he turns and disappears again.
*
The relief is short lived. Loki searches for almost an hour, visiting every floor and every room in the Tower that you could conceivably be in, and still cannot find you or the torc. He knows you haven’t returned to the other Avengers; he heard their disappointment echoing through the corridors when they realised you were nowhere to be found. The anger builds itself back up to a scalding simmer; his eyes glow with it and his skin begins to shine like polished marble where his power rides at the very surface of his being. Eventually, his only options are the rooms where he knows the other Avengers are gathered or their private quarters; and there is nothing on this Norn-forsaken planet that will take him there.
Defeated and drained, Loki returns to his own room, only to find you sat on the bed, flicking through a book. As the door closes, you look up and smile.
“You certainly took your time.”
He makes no reply. For the first time since you’ve known him, Loki is, apparently, speechless. Green light shimmers across his palms and lifts the tips of his hair, and you can feel the energy in the room crackle, as he scans you with an almost tangible intent. When he notices the book in your hands, his eyes skitter around the sparse room, finally landing on the golden torc which you have placed carefully on the small bedside table. Relief transforms him. The freezing chill and marble skin mellow into his usual cool demeanour. His hands, clawed and ready for a fight, relax and flex as if itching to hold the precious object, but not quite willing to show how desperately he wants it.
You smile and tactfully look away. The moment is strangely intimate and not at all what you were expecting when he found you. You assumed Loki would be all bluster and rage, shouting and storming around the room, demanding you get out and threatening painful death. Instead, he remains silent and continues to stare at the torc with an air of silent devotion. Not wanting to harass him further, he has had enough torment for one day, you quietly close the book and slide off the bed, making to leave. The movement draws his gaze however and you freeze, bracing yourself for an explosion.
“You...You brought it back.”
His voice is soft, almost questioning. It does not tremble but is full of uncertainty. It does not suit him, and you are determined not to wound him with your pity, so instead you stand, brush yourself down and smile, nonchalant.
“Of course I did. I mean, I don’t think it would really suit me. Not my colour.”
You try to laugh but he doesn’t join in. He isn’t even smiling, just staring at you with a thoughtful gaze. There is no malice there anymore, but there are shadows and life in his eyes now; something that was missing when he was being tortured for the group’s pleasure, has returned. You decide to swap the forced brevity for honest compassion.
“I’m sorry Loki.” You say, quiet but firm. “What they did… Tony, Nat, Clint, Bucky, they all should know better. And Thor, I know he’s your brother but…”
Loki snorts violently and punches a fist into his open palm.
“My brother,” he spits “is the one who started this vicious little prank. He forgets that we aren’t all as beloved and untouchable as he. He has no idea the dishonour he does us both. Not that I’m surprised.”
You sink back onto the bed and watch Loki pace, pounding his frustration into his footsteps and his fist, muttering angrily in an intriguing mix of English and Asgardian. Eventually he stops, drags his fingers through his hair and a deep, deep breath in through his nose. You watch in almost-wonder as his whole body seems to expand and then relax and the anger dissipates as easily as cloud. When he turns to look at you again, he is smiling his broad, showman smile; the one that blinds admirers and hides a multitude of sins. And scars. It doesn’t hide his exhaustion though.
“Don’t even try it Loki.” You sigh and roll your eyes for impact. It is almost funny to see the smile fall from his face, leaving behind a much more genuine expression of confusion.
“Try what?”
“This!” You wave your hands in his general direction. “The ‘I’m a big strong demi-God and nothing bothers me’ routine. It’s not going to work.” He has the decency to look away, and his cheeks flush an unexpected rose colour. You swallow, hard, but continue. “Loki, I’ve been there plenty of times in my life. Teased, bullied, hurt, and told it’s all in the name of a good time. Well screw a good time! If people can’t respect you then they don’t deserve you. And if Tony and the rest are just going to pretend to forgive and forget and treat you like crap then they might as well lock you up. Fake forgiveness is its own prison. You deserve better.”
For the second time that day you manage to stun Loki Silver-tongue into silence. Rather than celebrate, you cling to the momentum you’ve mustered and keep going; determined to say all the things that you’ve been mulling over since you materialised here from the sky room.
“And Thor is no kind of brother if he’s using your suffering to make friends. It sucks that he’s the only one here who can understand where you come from, who you really are, but… maybe you’re better off with the kindness of strangers, yes, even mortal strangers, than that kind of backwards brotherly love.”
The exhaustion is painted on his face now, the flawless marble cracked and lined with fatigue and what you think might be emotion; though you’ll never say so in case you scare it away. Loath to follow up his daily trauma with any more of an overbearing lecture, you take a deep breath of your own and step towards him. You reach out, take his wrists and pull him towards the bed, manoeuvring him to sit. He complies without a word, which should concern you, but you sense no building anger or resentment hidden in his silence. Instead, it feels thoughtful, almost curious. Encouraged, you call in a small rush of energy and pass your hands lightly over his head, shoulders and upper body; smoothing his hair and clothes, cooling his skin, and hopefully bringing a little comfort to the end of a shitty day.
Loki’s sharp intake of breath startles you. Perhaps he has never seen a spell like this before or, more likely, it has been too long since anyone touched him, even magically, with care or tenderness. Thor is the only one he touches (or more accurately, who touches him) and it is usually the classic back/shoulder/arm slap which, when performed by the God of Thunder, is not exactly a comfort. You flush, embarrassed by your own boldness but also a little proud, then turn away to hide your face from his piercing gaze.
You find yourself staring at the golden torc, glowing softly in the lamplight now that night has drawn in outside the window. You reach out carefully to pick it up and immediately sense Loki’s body tense in preparation for a fight. Your heart sinks a little to see the fragility of his trust, but you turn round anyway with a small, coaxing smile and hand it to him.
Loki wraps his fingers round the torc with a softness you never knew he possessed. Of course, you have noticed the grace and dexterity of his hands before. As a magician his hands are his weapon, and as a dramatic son of a bitch, they are also an integral part of any communication. Even holding a blade, Loki’s hands maintain an almost regal quality. They are smooth but muscular, defined as sharply as the rest of him. You would be lying if you said you had never imagined, in passing fancy, how those hands might feel against your skin. Watching Loki handle the torc, cradling it carefully in both hands, then running his fingers over the engraved pattern and bevels at either end, you start to get a sense of just how exquisite that experience might be.
You step back, to give Loki his privacy and avoid embarrassing yourself by blushing. Before you can turn to the door however, his hand strikes out and wraps around your wrist, stopping you. You look at the place where his pale fingers circle your wrist, and you do blush then. His grip is as firm and cool as you imagined it would be, but what you don’t expect is for him to tug slightly, pulling you back to sit on the bed beside him.
“It was my mother’s.” He says finally. “She gave it to me when I was very small.” He is still holding your wrist and slides his fingers over yours, so you are effectively holding hands with one another. His gaze is fixed on the torc, and he caresses it with his eyes and explains quietly, “When she began teaching me magic, my own power hadn’t fully manifested, so she would imbue this with some of her own power and I would wear it for our lessons. By the time my power arrived in full, and I no longer needed this, I could conjure and cast spells far beyond expectations. Because of her.”
You hear the pride in his voice, edged with a softness you know to be sorrow. It feels natural to turn your hand, palm up, and link your fingers with his own.
“She never asked for it back.” He continues. “Then she…” A long pause. “Of course, Thor and his cronies saw me with it and decided it would be the perfect bait. He does not realise it is hers, I think. If he did, I doubt he would have allowed things to go as far as they did.”
You did not ever expect to hear such a charitable observation from Loki, let alone at the end of this particular day. You realise that the impressions of honour, loyalty, and trust that you feel in him are not a projection or misplaced attraction. Loki understands what it is to be part of a family, to belong; he simply has exacting standards of who or what warrant being part of his.
The quiet stretches around you both, pushing the stress of the day aside, allowing thoughts of rest to take its place. You are reluctant to break this peace that holds you both so tenderly. Instead of leaving, you squeeze his fingers and whisper “It is very beautiful.”
Loki looks at you. His eyes meet yours and for a moment he seems to be testing the sincerity of your words. You do not look away. Instead, you let all you are feeling in that moment lay bare for him to read. A moment passes. Finally, he seems satisfied and his face splits into the most beautiful smile, as he nods his agreement.
“Yes.” He whispers. “It truly is.”
When he leans in to kiss you, it feels like a thank you. You wonder perhaps, in the days ahead, if it might become more.