Archive of Our Own

They meet each other in the middle of a battlefield.

That is, if one can even call the streets of Manhattan a battlefield. The once bustling streets of people mingling mindlessly, hurrying or avoiding traffic, have by now screamed themselves hoarse and hidden in the buildings. Even then, they don't stop quivering in fear.

The streets are ruined; cracked and broken into craters, with rubble and scattered concrete everywhere. Cars have been toppled and mangled, and now serve as twisted metal cushions for fallen debris. Thunder claps and lightning strikes. The wind is picking up, beginning to howl. Clouds, dark and heavy, tread ominously across the sky.

Yes, perhaps it is a battlefield.

It is no battle between Loki and the mortals who claim themselves Midgard's mightiest heroes, at least not today. Today is a battle between Loki and Thor; born from Thor’s fruitless attempts for reconciliation, Loki's bottomless loathing and how their stubbornness gets in the way of listening to each other.

Of course, these aforementioned mortals would have come to Thor's aid, even had he not requested it. Loki sees them as lowly extensions to Sif and the Warriors Three; nothing more than bags of skin, stuffed with meat, bone and extraordinary skills that have gifted them with inflated egos as well. Who were they to get involved in the matters of gods?

Thor tells them not to interfere and Loki agrees. He does not voice his opinion. Instead, he traps their spider in her own figurative glass bowl; a transparent dome that engulfs her, and makes her invisible. It distracts the Hawk (easy, so easy and perhaps she was right in saying that love was for children, because Hawkeye was certainly acting the part), blinding him as he aims arrows and fists with no result.

It makes it all too easy to defeat him when Hawkeye takes his anger straight to Loki.

"Let her go, fucking nut," the Hawk squawks and forgets his arrows, charging right towards him. That was his mistake.

Loki butts the head of his staff into the other’s stomach. He turns to avoid the retaliating punch and delivers a blow to Hawkeye’s head with the haft. The grunt he hears is pleasing and when Loki kicks him away, he rolls like a ragdoll.

A flick of the wrist and Iron Man's flight is gone. He is turned heavy and he crashes onto Barton, trapping them both. Loki clenches his hand into a ball, attempting to curl Iron Man into one as well. Already he can hear the groan of his metallic suit. Vaguely, he thinks of how sad it is that their beast is not around for him to play with as well.

"Brother! That is enough!" Thor's voice booms; an order that makes Loki halt. He turns away from Thor's little pets and faces him, eyes narrowed and his lips a stern, thin line.

"You would command me, Thor?" Loki asks quietly. Danger oozes in his voice, but it does not cause Thor to quake, not when Thor's blood sang for such a thing once.

"Aye. I would have you release my friends, brother! Now is a time for words, and I mean for us to have them."

“Of course, brother.” Loki emphasizes the endearment, smearing it with sarcasm and warning. “Shall we do it as I take your friends’ tongues? After all, you are going to need all the help you can to form your precious words.” He opts for a smirk instead of the cackle he feels building up inside him.

He raises his staff, but it is knocked from his hand before he can move it. Loki looks up sharply to see Captain America’s shield ricochet off the wall, making a slight ringing sound. The Captain catches his shield with a sure hand, not noticing as Loki teleports right behind him.

“Very good, Captain, waiting until I was distracted,” Loki purrs in his ear. He laughs as Captain America turns and tries to grab him. Loki jumps back, the Captain lunging at him uselessly. Loki sidesteps a few of the strikes, continuing to lure him closer and pretending to be injured by his hits.

“You should patch it up with Thor,” Captain America tells him when he finally gets the opportunity to grab Loki. He is pulled close and the instruction is whispered in his ear, the same way Loki had done earlier. It is said quietly, but the authority is clearly there. Loki tsks (when will they ever learn?) and teleports out of his grasp, leaving the Captain stumbling to keep his feet.

“I am not one of your soldiers, Captain,” Loki says when he reappears.

Behind him, Loki hears his brother yelling at them to stop. He can hear Thor getting closer, as he has never been known for being subtle. Loki turns his head, drawing up a shield against the blow of Mjolnir, and that is all the distraction the Captain needs. Captain America cocks his arm back and hits Loki in the jaw.

Loki is not knocked off his feet, but the Captain is still stronger than most; he finds himself staggering back. Captain America watches cautiously as Loki brings a hand up to gently feel the bruise that is already beginning to form. Loki frowns.

“How juvenile,” he comments and then leaves, disappearing from where he stood.

*

"How juvenile," Loki comments with a sneer. He crosses his arms, wrapping one hand around his elbow. He leans against the brick wall, trying not to get anything on the arm of his coat, apart from the inevitable dirt. He wrinkles his nose at the way the smell of piss clings to everything; he is thankful there is no trash adding to the already unpleasant scent. Part of him wonders why anyone would use this alley to bully someone, when there is nothing to obscure any delinquent activity from view.

The three men look up at the sound of his voice. Two of them have builds that would be considered stocky, even in Midgardian standards. The third party was small and thin, his presence nearly swallowed by the two assailants crowded around him. It is the defiant look that he gives them, despite being in their mercy, which sparks Loki's interest.

"What's it to you, pal?" the taller of the two asks, turning his attention to Loki. He drops the hold he has on the small man and he lands on ass with a soft grunt. He makes use of the distraction and smartly rolls away from them.

"You believe that this one has some value to me? My, that is precious." His sneer seeps into his voice, which the men recognize. Their faces quickly change from astonishment to rage, making them look like the Midgardian apes that he had read about in his books. Loki pushes himself off the wall and pockets his hands in his coat. Carefully, slowly, he starts tracing runes against his thigh.

The two men exchange a look of confusion; their attempted subtlety ruined by the way the shorter of them furrows his brows and shakes his head. The taller man rolls his eyes and strides over to Loki, the other following him closely.

"Listen, pal. This ain't any of your business. If you think you can come 'ere, like some uptown jackass who owns this goddamn alley, you've messed with the wrong guy."

Both men advance on him, fists clenching and knuckles being cracked. There is nothing threatening about them, Loki thinks, remembering the time he had cut Sif's hair. That had been an affair to remember, though he and Thor had shared a laugh, albeit in the privacy of their chambers.

"I would not advise you to come any closer," he says. His finger hovers above his thigh, ready to write the last needed rune to complete the spell.

Of course, it has the opposite effect on these men. Mortals. Thor would fit very well into this realm; he can be just as foolish.

It is the shorter of the two who jerks forward faster, hand curled into a fist. Loki finishes the spell and catches the shorter man’s fist, before it can reach his face. The moment Loki tightens his hold on his opponent, he feels the small charges of lightning course through where he had written down his spell, travelling swiftly and lancing into the man. The man howls and tries to pull back, but Loki relents only after his howl turns into screeching. He lets go and the man crumples, whimpering to himself.

The taller man’s eyes widen. Aha, finally. Loki spots the fear that he has been looking for. Casually, he slides up next to his next opponent, lightly running his fingers against the man’s arm while rewriting the spell, this time, as quickly as he can. The man shoves him; it does little to Loki but it manages to distract him enough for the man to duck and roll away. He braces his weight away a dumpster and pulls himself up. In the moment it takes for Loki to follow, the man grabs a bottle from the dumpster and breaks it. The sound of glass breaking does not feel ominous but Loki pauses in his step when the jagged end of the bottle is wielded at him. The man grins, on the verge of manic, and pushes himself off the dumpster, slowly backing off. The bottle is still held out, like a shield.

Before Loki can make a move, the small (small and insignificant, he had thought; he should never have made the mistake of thinking that in the first place) man throws himself onto the man's back, locking his arms around his neck, legs around his knees. The tall man grunts, but all it takes is a jab with his elbow to throw the slighter one off.

"I have had enough of your unfair game," Loki says. He grabs the tall man by the collar and lifts him off the ground. The man yells and demands to be put down, his hand whacking Loki’s arm. He supposes that it is meant to hurt him. Loki registers that it is meant to be painful, but feels none of it. It takes so much more to make him flinch.

“You are going to leave. Do not look back and do not think of repeating the actions you have done to this young man. Both to him and to others.” Loki rattles him. “Understood?” The man nods, looking worse for wear.

Loki dumps him beside his friend. The men clutch at their bellies and scramble off, stumbling as they try to get away as fast as they can. Loki sneers at the quiver in their steps.

"What the hell was that?"

Loki turns around. The small man is still lying down, although he has pushed himself up on his arms. His eyes are narrowed with suspicion, rather than the thanks Loki had been expecting, if he was honest with himself. Loki finds himself returning the steely glance, annoyed and impressed when it does not scare this mortal, as it did his unfavorable companions.

“An expression of gratitude would be appreciated. I believe I may have just saved you,” Loki says. If his contempt can be heard, then let it be. This child (and yes, he is a child, even if Loki knows he is considered far from such in this realm. Loki and Thor were considered babes when they were around this man’s age) should be promising him something, whatever mortals usually gave for a favor done by the gods.

The man stands and dusts as much dirt as he can off himself. Loki’s eyes soften as he takes in the long overcoat; the way it hangs limply on the man’s shoulder and how it nearly reaches the ground, its tail end flapping uselessly. When the man tries to straighten fully, he starts coughing, though Loki does nothing to help. At least, not until he realizes that the man is not stopping. He jerks and leans forward, hands braced against his knees as he wheezes. The sound echoes uncomfortably throughout the alley. Loki takes one hesitant step forward. Then another.

The man raises his head. He is still coughing but it has subsided. He shakes his head, indicating to Loki not to do anything.

“I didn’t need help,” he says in between deep breaths. Loki scoffs.

“Of course. Next time, I will make sure to keep out of your way.”

“Not going to be a next time, don’t worry.”

“Oh?” Loki crosses his arms. The man has stopped coughing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stands straight, looking Loki in the eye. For that to be possible he has to look up; small is the exact word to define him. “Going to stop getting yourself into fights?” The man laughs and walks past Loki, turning back before he leaves him alone in the alley.

“Brooklyn’s a pretty big place. We’re small fish in this city, you’re never going to run into me again.”

Loki frowns. Had that been a challenge?

*

Loki doesn’t think the words were meant to be a challenge but it doesn’t stop him from treating them as such. It takes him longer than he expects; it shouldn’t be surprising, Midgard breeds like ants, glutting the streets with their filthy bodies and filthier habits. It’s more than a week before he sees the man again, despite Loki’s efforts, and even then the encounter is quite by accident.

Loki had been eating breakfast in a little diner. The brown sludge called coffee is disgusting, dark and bitter. The eggs are watery, and the bread is a burnt mess that crumbles at his touch. Loki picks at it. It’s one of those days he considers giving up this whole charade and returning home to sweet meats, fragrant pastries, and fruits heavy with juice. He lasts longer than mortals without sustenance, but the thought of the feasts in the halls of Asgard makes him groan with want. It would be a simple matter to return, to rest his head in his mother’s lap, nibbling on succulent boar while Thor tumbles around the room, acting out a great tale. But the thought of his father, his face downturned in displeasure at the daily antics of his boys, of Loki, hardens his resolve.

As he eats, Loki ignores the small commotion that breaks out in a corner of the diner. But a body crashes into his table, sending his meal over the floor. He recognizes the mortal sitting in his eggs as the man from the alley that he saved.

The man doesn’t even acknowledge him other than a hurried, “Sorry!” Then the man allows himself to be pushed outside, herded by two thugs who are in turn herded by a screeching waitress.

The waitress apologizes to him, but Loki gives her insincere words no mind. He pays for what he ate – an illusion that will not last the day – and follows.

The three are behind the diner. Once again, the small man attempts to fight, but he is no warrior. He’s down only a moment after Loki arrives.

“Excuse me,” he says. The thugs, idiots, turn. “You interrupted my meal.”

“Beat it, chump,” the biggest one says.

Loki will not “beat it.” He smirks, and this drives the thugs mad. They rush him, but it’s simple to trick their eye just enough so that they tumble harmlessly past. They turn and charge again, but Loki strikes them both in the stomach. They go down.

The thugs cough and sputter. They struggle to their feet, ready to fight, but Loki is tired of these games. He had run into more than enough of their sort in his search for this man. He glares down at them, dropping his Midgardian disguise for just a second. The worn suit changes to his armor, his golden helm creeps over the blond curls, and his face sharpens. Even his stature grows, and he growls one word with all the threat of a god’s wrath behind it. “Run.”

The thugs pale, and they stumble over each other in their escape.

The man Loki had just saved pulls himself up. “I thought I told you not to intervene.” His voice is full of spite. He dusts himself off. “I had them fine.”

Loki laughs, he can’t help it. “You told me there wouldn’t be a next time to interrupt.” The man suddenly begins coughing, like the last time. Loki waits, but as the coughing doesn’t subside, he strides over to the man and begins rubbing his back. To his surprise, the man lets him for a moment before moving out of his reach. His coughing lessens until at last, he can speak again.

“Thanks, but next time, don’t.”

Loki thinks he’s a stubborn fool. Yes, Thor would fit right in here.“It was my fight,” Loki reminds him.“My breakfast that you knocked to the ground.”

The man looks embarrassed at that, but he quickly hardens his expression. “I’m sorry about that,” he says, “but if you want to fight with me about it, I’m not going to hold back.”

“So that was you holding back?” Loki is beyond amused by this man. Whatever shall he say next? He’s seen strong men boast and weak men lie, but this man has a stubborn streak that rivals even Thor.

“Do you want something from me?”

Loki considers the man. There’s nothing a mortal could provide him but mere amusement. “Pure coincidence.” There is no need for the man to know how Loki has found himself skulking in the back alleys of this place, picking his way through the trash to find him.

“Then you won’t mind if I just go now.”

Certain he will see him again, Loki lets him leave. As the man walks away, Loki watches him reach back to ineffectually wipe away the remains of Loki’s breakfast from his coat.

*

Loki is pleased to find that their third meeting occurs because the man seeks him out this time. He’s sitting at a table outside some tiny cafe, reading a paper (Midgardian troubles, so obsessed with war among their own kind), when he hears the man’s now familiar voice say, “Hi there.”

Loki looks up to see him standing by his side. Loki feels almost giddy, like a beloved pet has come to him for attention. He gestures for the man to take a seat. “Normally, I believe people introduce themselves at this point,” he says.

The man, still standing, reddens, and Loki cannot help but find it endearing. He smiles, encouraging him. His curiosity is piqued.

“Steve. Steve Rogers,” the man says.

“Pleasure to make your official acquaintance,” Loki replies. He holds out his hand as Midgardians do. “William Lawson.” The Midgardian name slips from his tongue easily. He’s used it often enough in the few months he has been here, but not often enough to feel any attachment to it.

Steve pulls out a chair and settles in, waving a waitress down to order a coffee. When he looks at Loki across the table, it’s only then that he notices the bruising around one of Steve’s eyes. It’s fresh, still a deep red, just starting to turn brown. Such a fragile creature, even for a human. Loki does not understand it. When such a man can be so easily broken, why does he fight? He voices the question aloud, without the judgment of his physical capabilities.

Steve frowns. “If I don’t stand up to them, then what can I do?” he at last says with a shrug. He brings one hand up to his eye for a brief second as if he means to touch it, but he lets his hand fall back to the table.

Loki lifts his coffee to his lips. The drink is still toxic, but these mortals cling to it. Loki has barely touched his mug, and it has grown cold, making it even worse. He makes a face and catches Steve staring at him in interest.

With cheeks tinged pink, perhaps for being caught staring, Steve continues, “I’m not going to give them the opportunity to control my life.”

“You still cannot fight,” Loki says. It’s true, and Steve’s fingers whiten as he clenches his fist. His lip is also cut, Loki notices. Considering it has been less than a week since their last encounter, Loki wonders just how often this child finds himself on the wrong side of a stronger opponent.

Loki has yet to see anything in this mortal beyond a child striking out. Loki presses his steepled fingers to his mouth, observing Steve; who shifts underneath his gaze, casting his eyes down.

“Then teach me,” Steve says finally, looking back up at Loki. Loki frowns at him, but Steve holds his eye, and in that instance, Loki sees a spark, a spark of the man he might become, a spark of untold determination and resolve. But just as quickly, it’s gone again.

Steve’s gaze shifts to Loki’s drink, and he is once more a mortal child.“You remember the bullies from last time?” Steve asks. “Whatever you did… It terrified them. A few days after meeting you again, I saw one of them harassing an old man. When I told him to stop…” Steve trails off, his expression wide and open in amazement. “He was scared. He babbled something about you, and… And he backed off. That has never happened to me before.”

“So you want to be feared?”

“No, I-“ And Steve stops as Loki yawns. He is growing tired of this mortal and his petty whims. He assumes he mistook Steve’s expression a moment ago. Midgard fails to impress Loki yet again. Loki does not like to waste his time, but it is too late in this matter.

Again, he considers ending this game, and returning home. Loki is reminded of the reason he stopped coming to Midgard centuries ago; these mortals are dull.

“If I don’t stand up to these bullies, who will?” Steve says then. He chews his lip a moment before continuing. “They think they can get away with everything, so long as they have the strength to knock everyone down. I don’t want to be feared; if I was, I’d be no different from all the lowlifes out there. I want to be able to defend those who can’t defend themselves.”

It makes Loki want to laugh. If there is anyone who cannot defend themselves, it is this slip of a mortal in front of him. He’s already shown how incapable he is. But, Loki admits, the request is unexpected. If nothing else, it might end up being a good joke.

Perhaps this venture can be salvaged. Loki is not one to waste an opportunity for amusement. “If you’re so keen on fighting, then I’ll teach you,” he agrees. Pleased surprise crosses Steve’s face. “But it’s about cunning, not fear. If you are feared, someone scarier will just come to replace you. But if you can outwit them, that lasts. But I will not do this for free.”

“What do you want? I can’t pay you.”

Loki waves his hand in the air dismissively. He has no need for money. “I simply need a favor.”

“What’s the favor?”

Loki smirks. This is where he sees how much Steve wants this. He appreciates that Steve does not immediately agree. He has some wit about him, at least. “I don’t need it yet. But one day, I will ask for it, and you shall fulfill it. In exchange for this future favor, I will teach you how to fight. Those are the terms of our agreement.”

He watches as Steve considers his offer. His brow furrows, and Loki can tell he’s attempting to figure out what sort of favor Loki might ask for. Loki gives him his most enigmatic smile and allows him time to think.

“I can’t just promise you that. You have to want something else.”

Loki sighs, for effect than any real need. He sets his cup down, fingering the handle. “There is one other thing,” he says, and he draws it out, making his next words seem more valuable to him than they are. “I’m not familiar with New York, and I could use a guide. But I do want that favor, too.”

Steve thinks it over. Loki waits. He is patient. “You really won’t drop the favor, huh?”

“I don’t want much. I’m not planning on staying long, so I may not even collect.”

Loki sees the change in posture, a resettling of Steve’s shoulders and his hand relaxed on the table, and he knows Steve will agree.

*

Loki frowns at Steve’s chosen location. The pier is crowded; it cradles the stench of salt, smog and fish too close to itself, like a coddling mother would her children. The screeches of seagulls compete with the low droning honk from the ferries, and with the thrown cusses and orders of men as they work. The buildings, bricked and scorched, crowd close together.

Exactly where Loki agreed to meet him, however, is an empty lot behind the buildings, at the other end of the pier. The cemented ground, marked heavily with amaze of cracks, cuts into the harbor, where the docked ships block the view of the skyline. The open space is remote, far away from the city and far away enough from the men. Overall, it is far from an adequate training hall, even for Midgardian standards, but it will suffice.

He does, however, wish he could do something about the stench.

Steve arrives just as a whistle shrieks, signaling the men to shift stations, moving them further away. He is wearing a cap, pulled low and covering his eyes. Loki steps out from where he is blending in with the shadows stretching from the buildings, as Steve casts glances around the place, looking for him. In afterthought, Loki vanishes his overcoat because there is no reason for him to leave it on the ground, where it will only get dirtied. Luckily, Steve doesn’t notice.

“I don’t suppose a better venue could have been arranged,” he says in greeting. He is pleased that Steve does not jump at the sound of his voice. He does, however, freeze visibly. Loki takes a mental note to fix Steve’s faltering attempt at subtlety. Steve turns to face him.

“It’s ideal. If you can find a more suitable place for a moment of privacy —” He gestures his hand across the skyline. “—be my guest.” Loki smiles, sharp and mocking.

“Your back alleys seem appropriate enough.”

“They have sentimental value. Wouldn’t want to ruin that by replacing those fond memories.” Loki delights how quick Steve is to answer him back, and all without a moment’s hesitation. Yes, there is potential; a spark that only has to be ignited.

“I do believe I should start reevaluating you, Rogers.”

“Call me Steve,” Steve says. “Now, are you gonna teach me how to throw a punch or are we gonna have small talk all day?” This only widens Loki’s smile, although it is now less sardonic.

“I do believe I can understand why you often get into fights.” Steve bristles at this, throwing off his cap and then his coat, revealing that his shirtsleeves have already been folded until his elbows. He casts them both aside and stands in the center of the lot, beckoning him with a cock of his eyebrow.

“C’mon. Don’t go easy on me,” he adds. Loki can’t help it; he laughs.

He does, in fact, ‘go easy’ on Steve, although Loki is quite sure that Steve will not notice. Today, he wants to become familiar with how Steve moves in a fight. From there, Loki can figure out what needs to be improved.

Steve fights with a scattered mind; he does not seem to have a goal apart from hitting Loki as many times as he possibly can. His concentration on his aim crumbles the impact of his punches. Loki is reminded of home, of the large library where he would go to other worlds with a flip of a page. One of its balconies had a view of the training grounds. Sometimes, Loki would take a peek and Thor would shout for him to join them.

But Steve is not Thor, not in strength or even vigor. What he lacks, he makes up for with his determination. Even after Loki had sent him to the ground with a knee to the chest, Steve had stood up, albeit on shaky legs. Loki smiles when he does.

By the end of the hour, Steve is wheezing and clutching his chest. Loki has done his best to avoid his face and any vital organs, but he makes no promises. After all, how would Steve learn otherwise? Both of them are soaked with sweat, their hair pasted on their foreheads. Steve wipes his arm across his face but grimaces when he remembers that his arm was colored with grime.

Loki stands beside the panting boy and pats him on the back. Steve thanks him for the comforting gesture, unaware that Loki was already spreading a spell that will speed up his recovery. It will take days, at the most, but anything faster than that would be too suspicious already.

“Wasn’t that fun,” Steve mutters when he catches his breath. Loki makes a show of wiping something off his shoulders as he completes the spell.

“Oh, I’m not quite sure. I think you can do better.”

*

They meet at the Statue of de Peyster. He judges them with a stern glance from his lofty position. Steve imagines him distrusting Will’s general distaste of the place. Will has yet to voice how unimpressed he is, but it is spoken in the way he narrows his eyes, as he takes in the park and the food stands littered at its entrances, attracting all sorts of people who snap open their wallets or their rolled newspapers to get the attention of the vendor owners.

"What exactly are we doing here?" Will asks.

Steve laughs at the look Bucky gives Will (Will actually glares at him then, as though he can sense that Steve remains stubborn and has taken to calling him that, in his mind, even if Will tells him not to). His eyes are wide with disbelief, looking undignified (well, more so than usual) with his mouth hanging open to show off a half-chewed hotdog yet to be swallowed.

"Any time you'd like to explain yourself, Rogers," Will says dryly.

Steve coughs and apologizes, holding up a hand as a signal to give him a moment. Before he can explain himself, Bucky is swallowing his food and begins demanding from Will how he has no idea about Frank's stand.

"Frank?" Bucky groans at Will’s questioning glance and points to the hotdog stand west of them. It is uniform with the other hotdog stands surrounding the area: a wooden stall with a small compartment filled with pre-cooked hotdogs and side dishes dripping with excess oil and fat, and a slightly bigger chiller to accommodate limited drinks. A wide blue and yellow umbrella pokes out and spreads to cover the stand. ‘Red Hot Frankfurters and Cold Drinks’ announces a stamped poster on the umbrella.

Will eyes the hotdog stand sitting along Broadway, giving it an appraising look. It is pretty worn, Steve will admit. The paint is peeling. The plastic umbrella is unwashed and has seen better days, but it’s still upright. Frank is a good guy, always willing to let him off by a couple of dimes on days when he can only afford one meal, or letting him huddle with him under his umbrella on rainy days.

"…but none of that matters because he makes the best goddamn hotdog chili sandwich in all of New York," Bucky is telling Will, waving his sandwich, which he has almost finished. "How can you not know?" he adds and shakes his head. Steve has to stop himself from laughing again; he has never seen Bucky so scandalized or Will mildly skeptical.

"I knew you couldn’t trust him," Bucky tells Steve. The look he gives Steve goes deeper than his quip over Will’s lack of taste in hotdogs. Steve frowns but Will gets to him first.

"Rogers, if this is the kind of company you keep, I'm afraid it's not just your offensive skills which we'll have to refine." This time, the look Bucky gives Will is venomous.

"All right, stop it or I'm leaving you both alone." Steve stands in between them, lightly resting a hand on Bucky's arm.

"Frank's is the best," Steve affirms, staring up at Will. "Don't be such a snob. Here, try it." He holds up his sandwich. It doesn’t have any side orders, but he had loaded it with ketchup and mustard. Today is just one of those days where it was either he have a soup of condiments or starve.

Will sighs. He leans forward, and takes a generous bite from Steve’s sandwich. He hides his wince because it’s not as if Will knows that this was supposed to be his meal for the entire day. Will leans back, head tilted to the side, considering the food as he chewed on it.

“It’s… passable,” he says after swallowing.  Behind Steve, Bucky snorts.

“Passable he says, god what a waste of one perfect bite,” Bucky complains. “What do you normally have? Food for the gods? Jeez, there’s no pleasing this man.” He takes his aggression out on the last bites of his food. Will gives Bucky a sardonic smile. Steve wonders what secret joke it is that he is sharing with himself. Obviously, something Bucky has said must have struck him as hilarious.

“Anyway. We’re not here for Frank’s stand, although, yeah, he’s definitely a national treasure.” Steve gestures to the park to the subway station and to Broadway.“You wanted to see places, right? We’re starting here, in Bowling Green Park. Not your typical scenic place, I know, but it’s beautiful all the same.”

The park is nearly empty of people. This year, they’re growing shrubberies; the trees that shoot out in the middle seem like an extension of the shrubs, with thin, gnarled fingers reaching for the sky. The statue of de Peyster is clean of bird shit. A part of Steve misses the fountain, but he likes how he can see the other side much better without it in the way.

From here, they can see the vague outline of the Chrysler Building. Steve mourns that a fog covers it up, but realizes that he wouldn’t have had time to sketch it anyway; at least, not today. A couple of blocks off, they can clearly see people filing their way out of NYSE, their suits tailored to fit them very well. Steve can't help but think that Will would fit in there. His hands itch to sketch him standing on those steps. Bucky chokes on the last of his sandwich and curses as he takes note of the human traffic starting to litter along Broadway.

"Shit, is it that time already? Steve, I've gotta go. I promised Lisa--"

"Yeah, go ahead. Just don't take her to Chinatown again." He smiles at Bucky who makes a face and tugs his jacket closer to him. Steve rolls his eyes and points to his mouth. Bucky curses again and wipes his own lips, before turning to Will.

"You better be careful, pal," Bucky warns Will. "Just because you're helping out Steve, doesn't mean I'm not gonna pound you. One good reason, that's all I need.” Will merely gives Bucky another one of his smiles. Steve shivers; there was something mischievous about his smile, as always, but something cold as well.

(Not just his smile though. Something about Will reminds Steve of the cold. It may have been a week since their first scrap, but Steve still feels the way Will had hit him. His knuckles— if Steve had to act like he was agile and dangerous, Will certainly did not have to. His knuckles felt sharpened; always ready for battle, as though he had knives hidden between his fingers. Steve’s ribs hadn’t just been bruised, they felt burnt, reminding him of when he was young and stupid and thought he could keep cubes on his bare hands.)

“I have no reason to harm him. You can rely on my word for that. However, I make no promises of making sure that Rogers keeps himself out of trouble. He seems to poses a natural charm for attracting it.”

Bucky looks as if Will has just given him a reason to pounce on him. Steve shakes his head and tells him to go before either of them could start something that Steve is sure he would take the blame for. He waves goodbye to Bucky, who shouts that they wish him good luck. He doesn’t wait for an answer though; just runs off and rounds the corner.

“Sorry about that—” Steve begins but Will cuts him off with a wave of his hand. Steve’s closes his mouth but frowns at how easily he had understood what Will wanted him to do. He shakes his head and forgets it, probably his imagination acting up.

“I fail to see what makes it enticing,” Will admits. He is frowning, turning around to see the sights that Steve has pointed out. How is it enticing? Now it's Steve's turn to gape, not sure how to begin.

He drags Will along Broadway, explains the musicals, the showgirls, the history that has gone to these buildings. He describes the fountain that had stood a year or so back, where de Peyster now. He explains about how he met Frank.

But mostly, he talks about coming here and sketching the buildings. They spend an embarrassing ten minutes just lingering outside Bowling Green station as Steve talks about how long he spent trying to perfect it with charcoal and paper. As they stroll along Broadway, Steve points to the buildings, as well the people milling in and out of the back, where the entrance is reserved for the actors and production staff. He shares the spot where he sits and sketches the people in their costumes and out of it; the people lining up to see the show, or those demonstrating on the street, or those passing by without a glance.

Steve had even brought Will as far as Wall Street, showing off NYSE and how he loved the architecture and how ominous it felt, particularly in this time. How he had pages and pages in his sketchbook filled with NYSE from different times of the day.

In the middle of his rambling, he’s pretty sure he sees Will’s smile slip into something more genuine. But he makes the mistake of making eye contact with him then. A scowl replaces the smile but Steve still smiles back anyway.

*

Loki admits that Steve is a quick learner. He almost strikes Loki that day as they fight. Loki realizes he’s picking up on Loki’s own tactics and adjusting his own to counter. Impressive.

Sweaty and panting, Steve asks if he wants to get something to eat. Loki agrees, although it ends up being nothing more than another hot dog.

Steve looks down at the money in his hand. “Do you have enough to cover your own?” he asks.

Loki snorts and pays for them both, despite Steve’s protest. “You purchased them last time,” he informs Steve. “It is merely a debt repaid.”

 He cannot understand why Midgardians, especially Steve, are so fond of the things. As he eats, however, satisfying some of his hunger, he decides that maybe his initial judgment was too harsh. They serve their purpose.

They eat while watching the sun set, a brilliant fiery red splashing color over the sea. Steve sighs. “I wouldn’t mind drawing a view like this,” he says.

Loki wipes a smudge of some condiment from his mouth. “You mentioned before about sketching the Stock Exchange. You’re an artist?”

Steve flushes, but he gives Loki a grin. “I like following the lines in objects, in space, and how they interact and flow into one another,” he says, and he holds out a hand, tracing something in the distance with a finger. “I also want to capture how I see something, the way I feel when I see it.” His hand twists and turns, and for a moment, Loki is intrigued by his movements.

Suddenly, Steve drops his hand. “Sorry,” he says with an embarrassed shrug. “I’m always going on about myself.”

Loki shakes his head. “My tales would hold little interest for you,” he says. “Familial expectations and disappointments, the weight of kings, one might say.” He closes his eyes for a moment, words about responsibility and kingship that his father has told him so many times. He forces them away and looks to Steve. “I do not mind your tales.” And as he says it, he knows it’s true. As inane as some of the particulars might be, Steve lights up when he talks about scrapes he’s gotten into with Bucky or how he almost threw up just from an amusement park ride. Again, Loki appreciates that spark Steve has.

*

Loki waits for Steve to arrive. He’s at their usual spot in the lot. He can hear the usual noise drifting in from the pier, along with the familiar, yet still distasteful, scents that accompany them.

Steve has proven an eager and quick study. He has a natural ability that Loki wishes he would attempt to exploit. When he stops acting rashly, he is much cleverer than he initially seems. He has potential. He will always be weak, but he has potential. He’s progressed much in the last month, for such a feeble Midgardian. Loki might admit he is a little impressed.

Steve’s determination never wavers. And with Loki’s help, he tires less easily, his breathing is less impaired, and he’s quicker.

If only he would use his mind. He insists on a frontal assault that requires a strength he does not have.

And Steve is enthusiastic in every one of his endeavors, not only in his training with Loki. His insistence that Loki grow equally enamored with New York as he is almost charming. Perhaps Midgard isn’t completely devoid of cultural and intellectual intrigue, although it holds little if any.

The day wears on until the sun disappears, but Loki is still left standing alone. He clenches his fists in his pockets. He isn’t cold, nor is he hungry or tired. But he should never have trusted Steve to be any different than the other Midgardians.

Loki will not toyed with, and Steve must know that.

*

It’s only when Will shows up at his door that Steve remembers they had plans yesterday. He wonders how Will had even found his apartment; it’s a tiny little place in a crumbling Brooklyn apartment complex.

He doesn’t invite Will in. Steve can hear his mother coughing in the bedroom. Will hears her, too. He cocks his head a little, eyes looking above Steve’s head.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Steve says to draw Will’s attention away. He knows Will is upset with him. His mouth is downturned, his brow furrowed, and he seems taller than normal, probably because Steve feels especially small. He notices Will’s coat is wet, and his curls are sticking to his forehead, and that only serves to make him feel worse.

“You didn’t show up yesterday,” Will says, and Steve cringes at the undercurrent of disappointment below the accusation in his voice. “We had an agreement.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “I had… other things to take care of.” He almost tells Will about his mom. But when they hear she’s a TB ward nurse, people tend to disappear. He hasn’t told anyone but Bucky that she’s contracted it herself.

“I expect people to respect their agreements with me,” Will says. He takes a step forward, but Steve cuts him off by leaning against the doorframe.

Steve doesn’t want to lie to Will, and he is sorry for missing their appointment.

In an effort to appease Will, Steve says, “Look, how about we go to Coney Island this weekend?” He had wanted it to be a surprise, but he decides it is best to make plans, to assure Will that everything is fine.

Will doesn’t seem to be reassured. He looks behind Steve into the apartment. Steve pulls the door towards him so that Will’s view is obscured.

He isn’t ashamed of the way he lives, of the money he lacks. But there isn’t much more than the kitchen and bedroom, and the kitchen is a mess. With the rain today, the clothes had to be hung inside to dry. It has been a struggle to make his mom go back to bed and let him finish the laundry.

*

His blood boils. His skin prickles with lightning; small sparks that are invisible to these mortals' eyes but crawl along his arms and the tension between his shoulder blades. The crowd cheers even as they form around him and his opponent, not much more than wandering ants now that they have been evicted from their homes or forced into such an impoverished state. Loki has learned to forgo his comfortable coats and sharp ties; his coat, no matter how closely it matched the shade of the soot-stained brick walls, would always stand out. His ties will only call attention to their lack of such luxuries and bring out their bitterness. 

Loki takes his stance. Today, he has forgone those and had simply shown up in his slacks and an undershirt. Already, it is soaking up his sweat. His opponent is some cocky insignificant. It does not matter whether they are young or old (that is, for a Midgardian); it is always someone cocky who enters a fight against him, with his lean built and unmarked face.

It is not often that Loki goes off to satisfy his desire for bloodshed. In fact, it is not often that Loki has a desire for bloodshed. But he has been feeling restless; restrained energy that no doubt will be directed at the city if he doesn't find a way to take it out. What better form than a battle?

Today marks the third month that he has not seen Steve. Steve-- when had some ordinary Midgardian been worthy enough to be remembered by Loki?

The man this time has muscles fighting to jump out of his sleeves and is nearly as tall as Loki. Loki would have been impressed; except he had long known other warriors to look like him and fail to even disarm him. He takes the first swing, an uppercut that Loki would have applauded if he weren’t busy being thrown onto the ground. The crowd laughs and jeers but Loki takes them all by surprise when he jumps and tackles his opponent, straddling him and aiming for his nose.

The first time Steve had made him wait, Loki had stood for an hour before deciding to leave, irritation seeping into his bones. He scrunched his nose at the time spent leaning against the wall and doing nothing but accumulate the smell of fish, which had clung onto him for days after.

The first time it had happened, Loki had sought him out. He dropped the issue, in the pretense of forgiveness, if only because Steve had given him such a pleading look that he hadn’t yet seen on him.

He has blonde hair, under all that grime. It's not the exact shade or perhaps it has been showered with so much dirt, which had become a permanent fixture to his hair. Loki pulls at it, his other hand aiming punches to his face. It makes his opponent thrash; he moves his head, sluggishly now, to avoid his fist and raising his arms to ward off the blows. When that doesn't work, he makes an attempt to pound his knees against Loki's back. Loki grunts, rolls off and away. The crowd's roar is nearly deafening.

When the succeeding meetings with Steve prove to be just as fruitless, Loki chooses not to continue, letting Steve learn his own goddamn lessons. He tries to return to his schedule before he had even met Steve, engrossing himself in a few bookstores of rare novels, the park, the sights, expensive food and a movie.

None of them work.

Restaurants have Loki imagining Steve with him, guessing the lives of the people, eating and talking about how the items were a rip off from a food stand that he knows on nearly every corner they turn. He can only hear Steve talking about the sites as he walks by them. Everywhere he goes, he thinks back on Steve’s silent plea and curses himself for allowing him to let go without finding out the explanation.

What has Steve done to get him to see him everywhere?

His opponent knows how to punch but does not know how to be discreet. Loki anticipates his moves with every cock of his head, every line of his gaze. Loki tries to remember that his opponent is mortal, is fragile, is pathetically weak compared to him. He does his best to remember but he fails to keep himself from directing a hit that breaks more than just ribs or another hit that immediately blossoms into bright red bruises.

Throughout the last few meetings leading up to this month, Loki's anger has swelled. Steve hasn't just disappeared from the dock, he seemed to have disappeared from his back alleys and street fights; his hidden spots where likes to observe and immortalize people with his pencil strokes.

Loki is angry, not just for Steve but also for himself. He tells himself to stop looking for him.

However, it does not stop him from appearing at the dock every now and then.

It does not stop him from using his magic to seek for traces of Steve there. When it shows him nothing, he cuts the spell with an angry snap of his fingers and vanishes with a sharp crackle that has the men looking at each other and at the sky uneasily.

Finally, Loki walks away; leaving part of the crowd to circle the unconscious man, while the rest part a path for him, too shocked to do anything else. There are shouts for the hospital and shouts for him but by that time, Loki has shifted into another form, another face, and leaves unrecognized, apart from the drying blood on his shirt.

*

Bucky takes one look at Steve and asks him if he's sure he doesn't want him to go instead.

"I'll be fine," Steve said in a hushed tone. The idea of sleep flirts with him, gently probing his eyelids shut. His mom coughs and it breaks his thoughts. He opens them again, a grimace twisting his mouth and lines wrinkling his forehead as he frowns in worry. He is glad for the shadow that casts on the wall he is leaning against, not quite sure if he wants Bucky to see him like that or not.

They both look towards his mom's room where she has slipped into silence. His throat feels as though there is something stuck in there and he is finding it hard to breathe. Steve had taken to leaving the door half-opened for days, in order to hear his mom call for him or when her coughing fits sounded like they pained her too much. It is both convenient and horrible; Steve can feel his heart start racing like a hare, trying to escape through his throat when she coughs particularly loud, or when it doesn't stop for what feels like hours. He can't even remember the last time he'd had a decent amount of sleep. He is always afraid that his last moment with his mom might be of her going through something painful.

"I insist. Jesus, when was the last time you looked in a mirror?" Bucky wraps his hand around Steve's wrist but Steve pulls away, already making his way to his mom's room, opening the door so that he can come inside.

"Steve?" His mom is lying down, a sunken version of herself. Her skin is pale and layered with a thin coat of sweat. Her hair is limp and pale and it makes Steve cry because his mom has told him stories of his pops and how much he had loved mom's hair, always finding ways to twist his finger around her curls or messing up Steve's hair because it was just a yellow as his mom's.

"Was that Bucky I heard?" she asks as he pours her a drink from the pitcher on the drawer.

"Mrs. Rogers. Looking as peachy as ever," Bucky greets her with a salute and a sincere smile. His mom chuckles weakly, as she props herself into a sitting position. Bucky holds her as Steve fusses with the pillows, piling them so she can lean against them comfortably.

"Is that how you get all those ladies?" she asks with a small smile.

"Don't encourage him," Steve says, ignoring the grin Bucky throws at him. He leans forward and presses a kiss on his mom's forehead, lingering for a few seconds, breathing her scent in. The smell of perfume and of downtown's crowd has been replaced by soap and sweat. It unnerves him that the only thing that still clings to her is the smell of the hospital.

"I've gotta go and pick up some pills. Bucky'll be here ‘til I get back." His mom's smile falters and she gives Bucky a look. Bucky does nothing but shrug and smile at her reassuringly. Steve feels a margin of his worries ebb away.

"It'll only take a couple of hours, tops," he promises. She stares into his eyes; despite being bedridden and weak, her gaze still makes Steve want to squirm, a vague feeling that his mom knows he's not telling her the whole story.

This time, he relents and holds her look until she smiles. It's small and still suspicious but she lets it go. She reaches out and cups Steve's cheek.

"Be careful, Steve," she says softly. He nods.

"Love you, mom." He never used to say this often, preferring to express his love through actions. But lately, he's taken to telling her whenever he has to step outside. It-- it's reassuring, like a talisman that hangs over his mom, protecting her and keeping her alive until he comes back.

"Love you too, kiddo."

*

Steve takes a right, walking past the grocery and the diners and the dubious alleys that have been turned into small communities of camping families.

Normally, he would turn left and take a half hour bus ride to a small residential area, where Mrs. Mortis will ask him to scrub the screen of their window and doors, then gutter the roof. Where Mr. Jackson will ask for him to clean the house, sort the things in the attic and then keep him company for a while, reading from the newspapers about the market crash. Mrs. Wells, whose kids need looking after while she runs her errands. An assorted group of people, who're willing to pay him as much as they can to compensate for his help. It's hardly enough but, put together, he can save enough to buy his mom her medicine.

The crash has changed all that and now half of them have either been evicted or have moved before they could be totally affected by it. It took time, but he managed to get himself a one-time job. It required... muscles. Muscles that Steve lacked but that hadn't stopped him from managing to beat up the guy who happened to work for Sully Wilson. Sully Wilson had been gaining a reputation around the neighborhood; people had started coming to him for favors. It was Wilson himself who walked in on them, when he had gone out for a joint. Impressed, he talked to Steve and offered him money in exchange for doing him a favor.

"Too many people know who work for me, see?" He had explained as he passed a slab of meat for Steve. He accepted it gratefully and pressed it against his cheek. "I need new people, for this one gig. And, well, no one's gonna suspect you, kid."

Steve had said yes when Wilson told him the amount he's willing to pay him. Jesus, with that amount, he wouldn't have to look for money for at least couple or so months.

"Good. Now, let me warn you now that I don't want to be doing this, not when you've been nothing but kind. But I can't let you out of here with barely a scratch, if I don't want people to associate you with me." Wilson had smirked and gestured for the guy Steve had gotten in a scuffle with. He came, with two other guys. The three of them all looked menacing; the one on his left cracked his knuckles. Steve guessed them to be brothers, based on their resemblance. "Besides, Frankie's been waiting for payback. Make it look good, fellas."

Steve came home with more bruises than before he'd met Will and with one fourth of the payment in his coat pocket. He had just been thankful his mom had been asleep when he arrived.

*

"You're late." It is Fred-- Frankie's cousin, not brother-- who meets him. They're both inside a shop of knick-knacks across the restaurant where Wilson is currently dining, with a couple of business partners. The glass window allows them to see Wilson leave while the store's shelves hide them well enough.

"He's still inside, isn't he? Don't see how I'm late."

"Shut it. Everyone knows what they gotta do apart from you, so listen--"

But Fred stops when they spot Wilson step out. He curses and tells Steve to follow him.

Steve waits until Fred has gone ten steps before he slips out of the shop to follow. He tucks his hands in his jacket and scans the area quickly before following.

Unfortunately, things are shot to hell this early on.

"Steve?" Steve freezes momentarily at the voice calling out to him. He is tempted to turn around because he hasn't seen Will in a long time. He has been burdened by guilt but there hadn’t been time to seek him out to explain. He almost turns but remembers that doing that might involve Will.

But Will decides for them both and grabs his wrist, forcing him to turn.

"I thought I had seen you." Will frowns and his grip on Steve tightens. "What are you doing in a place like this?" From the corner of his eye, he spies Fred coming back. Shit. Steve wrenches his hand back and looks at Will in the eye.

"There's no time to explain. I'm busy and you could get hurt. Get out." Will merely raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Steve's demeanor crumples and he pulls him close by his shirt.

"Look, I'm involved in something that could get ugly. Please spare me the guilt by leaving and remaining uninvolved."

"Hey, hey, buddy. There you are, thought I'd lost you." Fred arrives, false smiles and clumsy pats on his back. The hand stays on his back, curled on his jacket. "You a friend of Stevie here?" he asks Will.

Will is still frowning, curious and wondering. He reaches a conclusion and his face melts into something neutral. Fuck. Steve knows that expression; he's trying to contain something to himself.

"Steve, I thought your poor taste in friends ended with your best friend but perhaps I was wrong. This one is clearly insipid." As Fred splutters and tries to work out whether or not that had been an insult, Will adds, "He's coming with me." He grabs Steve by his arm and directs him away, in the direction that Fred had come from.

"No, I'm not," Steve says firmly, digging his heels on the ground.

"Yeah, you don' get to just whisk away Steve here." Fred places his hand on his hip, pushing the jacket and inconspicuously showing off a handgun. Will sighs.

"You think I had not noticed that the moment you came? I am not like you, Mr. Robinson."

"Wha-- you a fucking creep?"

"Come, Steve." Will tugs harder, causing Steve to stumble. He pushes Steve ahead of him, and they walk off, leaving Fred spluttering and shouting after them. The sound of a gun being fired follows and Steve freezes once more. He shivers when he hears Fred's yell come after. He tries to look back but Will simply nudges him, so that he is forced to look forward to avoid tripping.

They pass by Wilson when they turn the corner. Steve stops to warn Will, or perhaps keep him behind him, in case Wilson decides to try something himself. But he takes one look at Steve and Will, shakes his head once and takes off by himself.

*

"What were you thinking?!"

Steve shoves Will away, not even feeling any form of regret when Will loses his balance and falls to his knees. He had allowed Will to steer him away from the crowd because Steve does not want to cause an even bigger commotion than they already have. Will scrunches his nose at the dirt that has no doubt stained his coat and pants, but Steve can't bring himself to be concerned.

"What if they go after my mom?!You-- shit-- what if they go after my mom?!" Without realizing it, Steve grabs Will and pulls him close until their foreheads nearly touch. He is shouting and, god, a part of him is vaguely thankful that the street is empty; the echo of his words sounds ugly to his ears.

He forcefully lets go of Will, smug that he had managed to damage his eternally pristine suit. It is petty, but he'll take whatever small victories he can right now. Steve takes to pacing along the pavement, still fuming. When Will stands in his way, Steve scowls and steps to the side, only to have Will mirror his movement.

"Out of the way, Will."

"Not until you tell me why."

"Because if not, I'm going to punch you in the face." This brings prompts a smile from Will, a quick quirk of his lips. But he quickly disregards it when Steve does not acknowledge it as something humorous.

"I am not leaving until you explain yourself to me." Will steps forward, forcing Steve to move back until his back meets a wall. Will crowds into his personal space, boxing his ways out with a hand on either side of the wall. "What were you doing there?" he repeats. There is something in the way Will demands the information from him that makes him not want to say why, just out of spite. But his own voice betrays him.

Steve tells him. Despite how painful it is to admit to someone, he admits it: he is poor; he is in need of money. This job was supposed to help. He thought Will would sympathize, if not empathize. He expected Will to feel bad that he intervened.

Instead, Will had laughed.

"You need not fear Wilson. He lacks the impudence to go after you."

"That's good news. The only thing I have to worry about is how I'm going to prevent myself from starving to death," Steve snaps.

Then it’s Will's turn to get angry. He narrows his eyes and Steve is pretty sure that, for a second, he could have sworn that his eyes glowed an eerie green hue. Will lashes out, telling Steve his time isn't worth spending on any of those apes.

"Yeah, because I have all these things to choose from," Steve throws back. Will yanks him closer by the arm.

"Yes. You. Do." Will shakes him. He takes a hold of Steve’s wrist and brings it up to the light, inspecting the knuckles; he does not seem to be surprised at finding them bloody. “You could have done a thousand other things but this. Is this really what I agreed to when you asked me to teach you how to fight?” Steve reels back, or at least tried to. How dare him bring that up?

"I was desperate!" Steve has taken to shouting.

"Desperation is not a reason."

"It is when your mom is on the brink of death!" The entire street seems to grow quiet at his sudden realization. Steve storms off, not bothering to wait for Will's reply.

*

Steve is no longer Loki’s concern.

He tells himself this every day for two weeks as he wanders the streets of New York. He no longer brawls – the desire for bloodshed has vanished. Instead he walks, the days and nights passing with little notice. He rests only when he finds himself wearied and eats only when the hunger creeps in. He passes through good neighborhoods and bad neighborhoods; he passes the breadlines and the high-end meat markets. He doesn’t stop to admire the way the Empire State Building looms over the city nor the view of the city skyline from the Hudson Bridge as Steve might have.

But Steve is no longer Loki’s concern.

Midgard is wearing on him. It rots from its own avarice, as the prosperous few cling to their riches, and the rest scramble for scraps. If he lingers any longer, the stench of this realm shall never leave him.

Yet he stays and continues to walk.

His wandering eventually leads him back to where he met Steve. The alley is empty and looks little different than when Loki first saw it. In his mind, he can see Steve, a tiny weak mortal, facing off against men bigger and stronger than him, a determination keeping him from succumbing to their blows.

It is Steve, Loki realizes with frustration, that is the reason Loki has not yet left. For some reason, Loki has grown attached. He does not know why; yes, he invested time in the mortal, but what was a handful of months to a god? He attempts to quash the sentiment. If he leaves right this moment, it will no longer be an issue.

But he does not leave. He does not want to leave. For perhaps the first time in his life, Loki wishes to bid goodbye to someone, and, perhaps, to seek a reconciliation.

It is not something Loki has ever done before. For all the times he has fought with Thor, they have never had to apologize to the other or seek understanding. Thor is his brother, and it is unstated between the two that Thor would forgive him anything. Steve and Loki have no such bond.

His feet take him to Steve’s home without much thought. The building is shabby and rundown, and Loki has little desire to enter it again. But this is the only place he knows Steve will eventually return to. As he climbs the creaking stairs, he considers what to say.

He knocks on the door, but there is no response. He knocks again, but again, no answer. He debates between waiting or leaving; perhaps this was a foolish venture. But as he considers, he hears a noise from within.

A flash of Steve’s panic goes through Loki’s mind. Unfounded as it was, as unbidden as it is now, the thought of Steve’s fear propels Loki forward, throwing open the door, heedless of the lock.

Steve is at the table, staring at the wall. At Loki’s entrance, he spares him half a glance, and then he ignores Loki, as if he had not just broken through a locked door.

“Steve?” Loki says, approaching cautiously. He listens carefully, but hears nothing coming from the other room.

Steve finally turns his eyes to him, truly looking at Loki, and he is overwhelmed by the grief in Steve’s eyes. He’s seen the look before in many mortals, but Steve’s grief is a different matter. Loki cares.

“She died,” Steve says, and his voice is hollow. “A few days ago now. Nothing anyone could do.” Steve looks down to his hands, clasped in front of him on the table.

Looking down at Steve, Loki is reminded of how fragile humans are. They break with almost no effort and succumb to illnesses, and, should they survive those ills, they are not meant to last, and their lives will eventually be over in an instant. Once Loki leaves, the next time he should think of Midgard, Steve’s life will likely have been extinguished.

Loki pulls up the second chair beside Steve and joins him at the table. For once, he is at a loss for words. His hand hovers over Steve’s shoulder for a moment before he brings it back to his lap. Loki has never experienced the death of a loved one. He’s fought duels, he’s slain his share of beasts and challengers from other realms. But he knew none of their names, did not have cherished memories of them.

He did have a songbird that died once. He woke to find its body cold to the touch. He had just been a child, and he’d been overcome. Thor had wrapped his arms around Loki and rocked him as he cried. He’d stroked his hair and murmured that it was the natural way things progressed; if one did not die in battle, then one could only wish for a peaceful death at an old age.

Thor had waited until Loki stopped crying, and then he had kissed him, on his forehead, on his cheeks, and on his lips, wiping away the tear stains as he did so. Then Thor had gotten him a new songbird.

Loki cannot get Steve a new mother.

“She had been ill?” Loki says, and Steve’s only response is a nod.

There is little to say. Their last fight is meaningless now, dwarfed by the death of Steve’s mother. So Loki chooses not to speak. He wraps his arms around Steve, and, although Steve stiffens at first, he relaxes into Loki’s touch.

“It is not a weak thing to cry,” Loki murmurs. He waits, tense, for Steve’s reaction, but then he hears the first sniffles and the first drops land on his sleeve.

Their position is awkward, Loki leaning over from his chair, and Steve remaining in his, but Loki holds it as Steve cries. He strokes Steve’s hair and waits.

Steve cries a long time. Loki’s sleeve becomes soaked. But he pays it no mind.

At last, Steve’s sobs fade. He brings his own sleeve up to wipe at his face, but Loki turns Steve toward him. He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at Steve’s face. He wipes away the tears and snot that glisten on his red skin. And then Loki pulls Steve in, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. He kisses him as his brother did, and how he imagines Steve’s mother might have. He tries to alleviate Steve’s suffering, although he cannot understand it.

But Steve freezes under his touch. When Loki pulls away, Steve stares at him in shock. “Steve?” Loki prompts. He rests his hand lightly on Steve’s arm.

Abruptly, Steve pulls away and stands up. “I think you should leave,” he says. He won’t meet Loki’s eye. A spark of anger courses through Loki.

He stands, too, with a snort. “You are the most mercurial individual I have ever met,” he says. “Can you not hold onto anything for more than a day?”

Steve looks at him, and his grief has turned to rage. “What do you mean by that?”

Loki shakes his head. It was a mistake to come here. “What do I mean?” He glares down at Steve, drawing himself up to his full height. “You abandon your convictions the moment it pleases you! You speak of fighting one minute, then the beauty of things the next! You are neither a warrior nor a great artist!” He stalks towards Steve, and he is pleased when it forces him to take a step back. “You,” Loki says, his eyes narrowed, “are a desperate little man.”

Loki does not understand Steve. Thor was always easy; their friends, even more so. But Steve’s reactions never make any sense to Loki. He walks towards Steve until he pushes him against the wall.

Steve glares up at him, though. He straightens his back, shoulders drawn back. “You have it easy, Will,” Steve says, and it comes out with a snarl. ‘You pretend to know what it’s like, but I’ve watched you. You have money, you have strength. You’ve probably never wanted a thing in your life.” Steve pushes himself off the wall, but Loki doesn’t move. This makes Steve almost press against him as he speaks. “You don’t understand what the world is really like!”

Loki laughs, and he knows it’s cruel. But it is Steve who doesn’t understand. Loki has seen all he needs to, the careful outside observer. He knows what mortals are willing to do just to survive, and Steve is no different.

“I’m afraid you are mistaken,” Loki says. He backs away, arms spread. “But if that’s what you think, then change the world.” He sneers. “You once said you wanted to make a difference. So do it. Prove yourself worthier than the people you walk among.”

Steve rushes him, punching him in the stomach. It almost hurts, but Loki was not expecting it. He shoves Steve, who stumbles back into the wall.

He raises a finger at Steve. “You are the little man, Steve. You always will be.”

He leaves, and the moment he is out the door, he cloaks himself. He strides through the streets of New York, one last time, before calling to Heimdall.

This game of his is no longer fun; it stopped being fun months ago. He does not care what his father might or might not say anymore. Loki has had enough of Midgard, and as he calls out for the Bifrost, he sheds himself of it.

*

The instant Will walked out the door, Steve wanted to go after him. But he held himself back.

It’s been days, and Steve cannot find him. He takes to fighting again. At first, it’s pointless battles he picks, ones he knows he cannot win. His wounds hurt, and it helps with his grief and with his frustration. He swings blindly, ignoring anything and everything Will had taught him.

More than once, Bucky has to help him limp home.

But the release doesn’t last. He stops fighting because he likes the pain. He doesn’t want to admit it; he feels ashamed. He tried to do what he could to help his mother, and he doesn’t regret that. But he regrets losing his sense of direction. Will was right about some things.

Steve raises a hand to his lips. He has a cut, and it’s bleeding. He winces at the pain. But as he ghosts his fingers over them, he remembers Will’s lips on his own. It was unexpected, and even now that he has time to reflect on it, Steve can’t say what the kiss meant. He knows, though, that he wants to see Will again.

So Steve picks his battles more carefully. He doesn’t take on just anyone looking for a fight. Once again, he picks the bullies and the thugs. Every time he fights, he half expects Will to show up, to offer pointers or to help out. But Will never appears.

He asks around, but no one’s seen him. Steve doesn’t know how to find him, where he could have gone, so he keeps fighting. Next time he sees Will, he’ll show him what he’s done to change the world.

*

The Avengers have changed the world, but not for Loki’s advantage. Once, he would have had no trouble getting these ants surrendering control to him. When the Avengers came, these same ants seem to have risen up, fed by some inane lie that they have hope against him, he who is the hope this world needs.

Loki is nothing but impatient now, having been denied what is rightfully his over and over. Once, he would have waited until his enemies bared their own weakness. Now, Loki is going to find it himself.

*

Loki slows his pace, picking no specific destination now that he has found what he has come to look for. He has time to indulge in dissecting the information; now he strides through, giving it all a sweeping glance, as though skimming through one of his books back in Asgard, before settling down to go through it more carefully.

Humans are laughable, despite their complex minds. For all that their beloved director is known for weaving blindspots with blindspots, smokescreens and mirrors, in order to keep his secrets to himself, Fury has never thought that Loki could easily slip into their information system quite literally.

(Computers, his mind supplies. It wasn't quite so hard, slipping inside. To rearrange his structure into bits of 0's and 1's that make up the elements inside. Not even Stark can keep him out of his computers, not while he hasn’t gotten a sample of his magic. All it took was a Midguardian concept of bouncing himself from different computers, until he found access to SHIELD’s network, altering his form every time as to avoid raising the alarms.)

The information swims around him, vulnerable and open to him. The files glow with a certain buzz, as codes and syntax arrange themselves accordingly, as they are being edited. Loki spares them with merely a glance, until he finds what he is looking for: information on the Avengers. Condensed all together, at least, when it is not being accessed by anyone outside. He takes a deep breath, and steps in.

*

He spares a moment to mourn the gaping wounds of the once pristine columns and arches that make up the architecture in Budapest, but is just as quickly distracted by the explosions that color the clear skies. Faceless parties throw bullets and gunpowder at each other, all of which sail through Loki.

Around the corner, he finds his Hawk. Loki does not see him, since he had hidden himself inside the building quite well, but he sees his arrow fly out and land precisely on a cornerstone that crumbles upon the arrow's small explosion, sending ten men tumbling down. Loki does not spy the wretched Spider, but the information he has pulled up scrolls past him in blue glowing text, telling him that she is in a separate building.

He can always come back to find her; he turns around another corner and Budapest melts away, the rumble of explosions fading.

Only to be replaced by the angry roar of a beast.

Every movement made is short and clipped, stopping, pausing in mid-cry, mid-throw, mid-fire, before moving with a quick jerk.

There is smoke and confused shouting everywhere, both from civilians and military fractions. A missile is launched and Loki can only watch as is whizzes through him, image distorting and discoloring, until it hits the beast. Smoke, grey and thick, becomes ominous as silence blankets the area as well.

The beast jumps out with a sudden roar, twisting the tank's turret before leaping away. Guns are raised and bullets are sent flying after him.

Disgusted, Loki walks out of the clip.

He steps into a room next, his vision limited to the machines surrounding him and what seems to be a metallic chamber. Everything beyond the machines is swallowed by shadows; keeping Loki from making out anything more than shapes, unless they move within the range he is in. Unlike the two previous clips, this particular one has no color, apart from the drab of blacks and whites and mixes of greys.

Loki has stepped in the middle of an experiment, he realizes, as he catches snippets of conversations between unseen medical and military staff. They flit in and out of range, changing from blurred figures to prominent outlines but their voices never waver.

"Stark, ready?"

Loki turns to leave, but hearing the name makes him pause, and give the room another look. Nobody stands out, except for an old man who holds an expression of contained excitement. He strides across the room, coming from one shadowed side to another.

"Ready! Call it, doc!"

"Now, Mr. Stark," the doctor calls out as the room hushes into complete silence.

Loki turns and catches a glimpse of a man. There is something about the way he holds himself that he concedes as familiar, except that it is decades too early. Before he can make a better assessment, a signal is given and a blinding white light from the chamber drowns the entire room. Loki should have been unaffected, but he flinches instinctively anyway and throws his hand against his face.

It is the strangled yell that brings a reaction out of him. He hears gasps around the room, a chorus of their own yells. The doctor-- Loki cannot spy him but he hears him ask the person inside if he is all right. However, he finds that he cares not for those things.

He knows that voice coming out of that chamber. Loki finds himself holding his breath; there is a lump sitting heavily on his throat, although he does not understand why.

No.

And yet, when the man yells out to keep going, Loki is assured. He feels his heart starting to beat wildly against his ribs. Suddenly, the chamber seems so gigantic now. Not to him (never to him) but to the person inside. Except, it's not just a person, it's more than a person.

It's Steve.

Momentarily, he is brought back to younger years, of running away but calling it an adventure, of wanting to ignore Thor and his father in the guise of pursuing first-hand experience with Midgardians. He is returned to afternoons of trading punches, then to afternoons with exploring New York; Loki can still sometimes smell the scent of street food and sweat. He can still hear the sound of Steve’s back as it collides with the wall Loki pushes him into, his eyes widened by a brief show of surprise the last thing he sees of him.

No.

Loki shakes his head, clearing his mind and clearing his eyes despite the fact that he did not have spots dancing before it, as the light fades. He finds himself frozen where he is standing, torn between taking a step back and daring a step forward, as the chamber opens.

It reveals a man. In this black and white setting, Loki cannot tell anything about him apart from his hair sticking to his forehead. He is heaving but remains calm and collected. A woman steps up to greet him and Loki finally takes that step forward as well.

He is—big. Muscles perfectly carved, and his build nearly as tall as Loki’s. How is it possible? And yet--

Steve breaks eye contact with the woman and looks at something or someone behind her, resulting in him meeting Loki's eyes.

It's the same eyes. Colored or not, Loki recognizes that piercing determination. Briefly, he wishes he could reach out and touch Steve, much like the woman had done. Instead, Loki swallows; he unclenches the fist he hadn’t realized he had been holding until it had started trembling.

Loki looks away from Steve at the sound of a gunshot, and can only watch him leap out of his view and into a world of disjointed shapes.

*
The rain falls as a light drizzle, tapping against Loki's coat as though on tiptoes, bleeding into each other as they settle. There is something oddly familiar with the situation, a distant memory he can’t quite put his finger on.

The building is old, although a paint job had tried to pass it off as new. Loki remains seated on the bench, hands in the silk pockets of his coat as he watches Captain America from across the street, balancing a paper bag on one hand as he fishes inside for his keys with his other hand. Captain America, sans his helmet and shield, yet continuing to stand out with his broad shoulders and the way he dresses, the way he holds himself.

He seems... misplaced is perhaps the right word to use. Loki had watched enough clips of him outside his costume. A wide berth is always allocated around him, whether or not it is intentional. The Captain cannot find the youth relatable, but the elders do not seem to know what to do with him, a man out of time indeed.

Even now, Loki sees Steve in the cut he forms between his eyebrows as he frowns. He sees him in the way Captain America will always hang back during every press conference, keeping something from the audience. He can see it in his left hook, how they had both worked hard on perfecting that punch, because it would do no good to damage his drawing hand.

He closes his eyes. Loki needs reassurance, confirmation that this is the same man that he had left behind years and identities back. Loki feels himself slipping into one of his masks. When he opens his eyes again, he is inside the Captain's studio. It seems old, though not from the studio itself, but how it is decorated. How the colors were muted, drained by sepia browns and yellows. Loki turns around, frowning. There was no one here, had he--?

Ah, no. There was the Captain's jacket, hanging from the back of the front door. There was the sound of footsteps against the wooden floor. The sound of a soft gasp from behind him.

Loki turns around and looks directly into the Captain, whose eyes are widening, recognition slotting into place.

"Will--?" but Loki vanishes before he can let Steve finish.

Definitely. That was definitely Steve.

*

Loki returns, but at a later hour. The drizzle has subsided and the moon hides between thin clouds. A door stands ajar, just enough for Loki to slip through. He had hoped to catch Steve unaware but it seems that sleep escapes him as well.

As Loki enters the room, Steve's attention immediately turns to him. He is seated on his bed, under his covers, looking at what seems to be confidential files.

*

A flicker of movement causes Steve to look up. He blinks but the image doesn't fade. The man before him has the same mop of curls, the same line of tension. When Steve had stepped from the kitchen earlier, he brushed it aside as a flicker of his imagination. But now...

"Will?" Steve asks softly. Will makes no reply, no verbal or non-verbal affirmation. He continues to stand where he is, hands curled around his coat, as though frozen in the act of tugging imagined wrinkles.

"I'm dreaming again, aren't I?" Steve laughs, but it comes out weary and ends with him frowning. How often will his mind conjure people from the past? Will frowns in return, as though trying to figure out the answer, and walks over to him. He raises his fingers, reaching out to touch Steve but hesitates at the last second.

"Go ahead," Steve says. Will rests his fingers against Steve, tracing the downward slope of his eyebrows. He runs his hands all over Steve's face, his touch light as drizzle. Steve closes his eyes and lets him. Why has Will come out tonight? Everyone else has made multiple appearances, but this is Will’s first.

"How are you alive?" he whispers. Steve shrugs and offers him a grim smile.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"You've changed so much."

"The army does wonders to you." Will tenses at his reply. His hands, which have travelled down to his shoulders, tighten; gripping him, digging harshly and dragging them down, as though in an attempt to rip off his skin.

“Why did you let them do this to you?” Will is angry; it’s obvious in how he just barely restrains himself from shouting. Steve shrugs off Will’s hands and glares at him.

“You’re kidding me right? You were there when I was a scrawny thing.”

“This isn’t you.” Will waves his hand over Steve’s body. Steve feels a flicker of anger building up inside him. After running away, never showing up, what right does Will have to tell him this? (Not Will, not Will, his mind whispers to him. He is a dream; you are talking to yourself, Steve.)

“How else was I going to serve in the army?! I kept getting rejected on sight alone. You told me to change the world and I did!” Will doesn’t reply and, for a moment, Steve believes that Will would disappear, leave him the way everyone else in his memory has. But no. Will reaches out once more, runs his hand through his hair once and leaves it there.

"I looked for you, you know," Steve admits. It does him no good to confess to his imagination, but he can pretend that it makes him feel better. "I was going to apologize, but it was like you never existed." Will stills but immediately relaxes, a small slump of his shoulders giving him away. Steve meets his gaze, his apology written all over it.

"Better late than never, I suppose," Will says, filling the silence. Steve chuckles. Will flinches, a small twitch, and withdraws his fingers but Steve grasps his wrist before he can get away.

"I'm sorry."

"For what? I’m the one who left, as you have kindly reminded me."

"Just." Steve pauses and draws in a shaky breath. "I lost too many people. My dad. Bucky, Peggy. Mom," he adds after slight hesitation. He tightens his grip on Will, needing something to keep him in the present. "The Commandos. You. And I never got to say good-bye. To anyone."

"Are you telling me this is farewell?" Will asks.

"If that's what you want." It is here, in this moment, that Steve is willing to admit that he misses Will. However things had ended between them, he still misses Will.

"It's not what I want," Will replies. Just like that, Steve lets go of the breath he didn't notice he'd been holding.

"Wish you were really here," Steve admits, the same wish he makes with everyone, when he is feeling low and bitter about having to move on.

For a while, neither of them move or speak. It is Will who breaks the silence.

"I'm still alive," he says. Steve snorts.

"Yeah, in my heart, my memories of you. Get in line Will, that line's been overused." Will shakes his head and breaks away from Steve's grip. He walks around the room, melting into the shadows. Steve follows him with his eyes.

"What if I were to tell you I mean that literally?" Steve laughs at Will's suggestion.

But when Will steps back into the light, Steve's eyes widen, but in rage now rather than wonder.

"You," Steve growls and reaches for his shield. Before him stood Loki, clad in his armor.

Steve jumps at him and Loki dodges him easily. He throws his shield and Loki deflects it, causing it to ricochet around the room. Steve ducks to avoid getting hit. His blood boils. How dare Loki do this, take the form of someone he holds important?

"Fight me dammit!" Steve yells and directs another punch. Loki slides easily to the side, avoiding his hit.

"I don't want to fight you," Loki says. Steve jumps and manages to land on Loki. They roll on the floor, a struggle of limbs that ends with Steve pinning Loki down. Loki smirks, as though he finds Steve's action amusing. He flips them, and pins Steve down, a hand pressing down his throat.

"I have not lied to you, not about this," Loki says, just a trace of anger in his voice. "When I say I have no wish to harm you--" he presses down just a bit harder and Steve chokes. He slams his palms against Loki, not that it affects him. "--I mean it."

Steve takes a deep gulp of air as Loki lets go and gets up. Steve struggles to his knees and elbows, limbs heavy and useless.

"Fuck." His voice comes out rasp.

There is no one to hear him.

*

Loki acts the fool. He recognizes this. He accepts this. But Steve, his tiny, little, supposedly insignificant mortal Steve, is Captain America. He watches him. He follows him.

The day is cool; autumn in New York City has at last arrived. Some humans wrap themselves in scarves and coats that Loki doesn’t need. He leans against a wall, watching Steve.

He doesn’t spend all his time observing Steve; he is not desperate. But occasionally, he decides to watch, to find some semblance of that small Steve that Loki once knew. The signs are subtle. Steve will tilt his head in a certain way, or he’ll eat a hotdog without letting any of the toppings drop, every bite precious. He’ll sit and sketch the face of a building or people walking by.

This is Steve.

Today, Steve is spending time with the other Avengers. He’s speaking with the woman, the spider. They laugh at something. Steve glances up, but his eyes pass over Loki. Loki is wearing another disguise; he never uses the same illusion twice. Today, he is dressed in a baggy hooded sweatshirt, a baseball cap pulled down over half his face, and his too large pants sagging down. He blends in, just one of the faceless mortals.

Steve places a hand on the Black Widow’s shoulder. He smiles down at her, simple and carefree. He shakes his head at whatever she says, his grin widening. Loki knows this is absurd, stalking Steve. But he is drawn to stay and watch. She moves away, wraps an arm around the Hawk to pull him down and whisper in his ear. Whatever she says makes him laugh, and Steve pushes at the Hawk’s shoulder, his face screwed up in playful annoyance.

Loki grows uncomfortable. This has become truly pathetic. He has been reduced to a voyeur, skulking in the streets, following one man. Frustrated, Loki shoves himself off the wall he was leaning against. Perhaps he shall find some other asinine Midgardian entertainment to distract his thoughts. He walks quickly, eager to change into something more refined than these baggy rags when he can find a secluded area.

But he only reaches the end of the next block when the explosion occurs, and the shouting begins.

He twists around as bodies rush by him, trying to escape. He pulls off the cap for a better look, letting it fall to the ground and disappear into nothingness. He can see the smoke rising into the air; it’s coming from where he had just been moments before.

Instinct drives him. He runs down the street, in the direction opposite of the Midgardians. He growls as they block his path, pushing past him, slowing him down. When he manages to get free of the fleeing crowd, he sees the lower face of a building has caved in, debris scattered everywhere. There are wounded, other humans scrambling to help them away.

Something is rising from the destroyed building, punching through the ground, causing the area to quake. Great steel arms, many of them, reach out, and a large, round body pulls itself out. It stands taller than a frost giant and looks like a perverted version of the Avengers’ Iron Man, but with too many tentacle-like arms, too fat a body, and far too large.

A disc-shaped object flies through the air, hitting the creature squarely in the blank metal area that might be called its face. But Captain America’s shield does no damage, easily bouncing off, and returning to its owner. Loki follows its movements, sees the Captain, dressed in his uniform, catch the shield. He must have been wearing it under his clothes.

Hawkeye and the Widow are helping to clear the wounded from the vicinity. Hawkeye takes a moment to aim an arrow. It explodes against the metal creature, but does as much damage as the shield.

Loki cloaks himself and watches from a safe enough distance. Once the civilians are out of harm’s way, the other two Avengers join the Captain in trying to make any kind of dent in the creature’s defense. They merely annoy it.

The creature lashes out with its many arms. It is quick, and the three Avengers are quickly put on the defensive.

Loki cannot deny the thrill that briefly passes through him at seeing the Avengers struggle.

Mere minutes have passed when Loki hears the roar of the Iron Man. He lands with his usual pomp and flair, firing half his arsenal, which proves little more than a fireworks show. Thor arrives barely a moment later, the monster with him. They dive thoughtlessly into the fray.

The Avengers’ coordination is terrible; how have they ever succeeded in a fight? But then something happens, something pulls them together, Loki cannot say what. They change position, fall back, and flank. They have at last made some impact on the creature, but they are mere scrapes, cosmetic damage at best.

The creature’s arms are flailing wildly, striking out at each of the Avengers. Loki watches with interest as they move as one. Clearly, they have a plan now. The Hulk attacks, smashing any part of the creature he can reach. Thor rises, and Loki can feel the tingle in the air.

Captain America goes in too, charging for the left while Stark attacks the right. Loki follows his movements. Steve, he reminds himself, this is Steve.

He’s quick, tossing the shield, searching for weak points. Now, Loki notices the similarities, notices the familiar movements Steve had while fighting Loki. He’s grown, improving since Loki last saw him, his Steve. But when he pays attention, Loki sees the tactics there, the base he gave him.

But something isn’t right. Steve’s movements begin to slow. One arm passes by Steve, too close. The spark of magic that runs through Loki surprises him. He’s bristling with it, a slow build-up he did not notice.

At that moment, Steve drops to his knees, clutching his side. Loki takes note of the other Avengers’ positions. He doesn’t see the Widow; the rest are occupied.

He sees the arm of the metal creature rise. Loki acts without thought. He lets the magic loose, hurling himself forward, letting the magic fly ahead of him. It rips through the descending arm, tearing it into two. Loki hurls himself over Steve, and the sparking end of the arm lands on his back. He grits his teeth; the pain isn’t strong, but it stings unexpectedly.

He hears Steve gasp beneath him. “Loki…”

His illusions have dissipated, leaving his face unmasked. He meets Steve’s eyes briefly. He sees the light blue of his eyes surrounded by the darker cowl, and he sees the shock, confusion, and anger in them.

Something in Loki clenches, a sharp pain in him. Time stands still. He forgets the fight, he forgets Captain America, and there is Steve, looking up at him, scrawny, awkward, and unable to breath. Or maybe it’s Loki who is unable to breath.

The blast knocks him to the side. He tumbles across the street, landing roughly on debris, among shattered stone and glass. He grunts, looking up to see Iron Man’s repulsors aimed at him.

“Tony!” Steve yells, and then Iron Man dives away, out of reach of the creature. Loki takes the opportunity, cloaking himself and disappearing into the background.

He makes his escape up to the top of a nearby building. From there, he watches the Avengers bring down the monster. Lightning summoned by Thor, a well-placed arrow, and the Widow using the distractions to drive some device of Iron Man’s into the creature’s head, and force it to the ground. It jerks, sparks flying around it, until it comes to a rest, broken and useless.

Captain America climbs on top of the thing that is no more than scrap metal. He pulls down his cowl, revealing messy hair, and he turns slowly, looking for something. Loki stands at the edge of the roof. When Steve turns to him, he lets himself disappear once again.

Loki stays hidden, watching the aftermath, the mortals come and clear up the debris and treat the wounded. Steve stays behind, helping.

Loki has a choice to make. He can no longer hide like a thief. He leaves, plans beginning to take rough form in his mind.

*

It happens by chance.

There are rarely such things as chance when Loki is involved; merely plans set in motion and pawns playing their parts. However, this is an exception, as rare as they come.

Loki finds himself imbalanced for a moment, staring up at Thor's shadowed face, as he stands with his back facing the glare of the sun, his hand a warm, heavy presence clasping Loki's shoulder. He is dressed in simple Midguardian clothing; a flannel shirt and jeans. Loki himself is dressed in his usual suit and scarf ensemble, although he has taken care to mask his face behind that of Will.

Loki is caught off guard; his instincts tell him to either throw Thor against the wall on the other side of the street or, surprisingly, to embrace him and return the smile.

He rolls his shoulder, shrugging off the weight of both actions, as well as Thor's hand, and does neither. Instead, he inclines his head in acknowledgement.

"Brother," Thor is immediate to greet him.

"Thor," Loki responds. To call Thor brother still leaves a faint taste of blood and rage in his mouth. It strikes Loki how much Thor has matured when he waits to be invited to sit, remaining a distance away until Loki has gestured to the table. Thor does not push, he does not impose himself. He lets Loki finish reading his paper while he orders a cup of coffee (with cream and sugar and an added topping of whipped cream. Loki hides his sigh between the pages of his paper; some things never do change). The last few minutes pass peacefully. Thor's attempts to humor the couple seated at the table next to them blend in with the background.

"How have you been?" Thor asks the moment Loki has folded the newspaper closed, tossing it carelessly on the table. Thor has a foamy moustache across his upper lip. Loki fights against smirking at the sight.

"I am well, as you can see." Loki takes a pause to ask for a refill of his coffee. The waitress gives Thor a double take, as though recognizing him, but settles for pointing out the moustache. This time, Loki allows himself a grin, sharp and mischievous, as Thor wipes it off with the back of his hand, scowling at him.

"You could have told me," he says petulantly.

"I would have had to eventually. Perhaps when the sight of it stopped being entertaining." Thor's frown deepens, but he immediately lets it go and barks out laughter.

"Ah, I have missed you, Loki. I am quite glad to have been able to run into you."

The waitress returns with his cup of coffee and asks Thor if there is anything he needs. Thor shakes his head, gifting her with one of his smiles.

"Careful brother, too much of that and she will swoon," Loki comments as he doctors his coffee. When he looks up, it is to find Thor beaming, eyes suspiciously watery.

"What?" it causes him to snap out.

"I haven't heard you call me brother without malice in a long time."

Loki feels his cheeks redden and inwardly curses that he cannot hide behind his papers.

"It was unintentional," he murmurs but Thor's smile does not lessen.

Loki contemplates Thor as he takes a sip of his drink. Truth be told, it was fortunate for Thor to have run into him. Loki’s thoughts had been troubled since a week and a half ago, when he had last encountered the Avengers and had saved their Cap-- Steve. Since he had saved Steve.

"Thor, I find that I must admit something to you." Thor is all ears, of course. Loki believes that, at this point, Thor will accept anything Loki has to give him; a weakness that Loki refrains from admonishing. Loki opens his mouth but no words come out. This is harder than he had expected. He swallows and tries again.

"I do not want to quarrel with the Avengers anymore."

The words seem to echo across the vicinity. Thor looks stunned, as though those were the last words he had expected from Loki and perhaps that was true.

"Are you... quite sure?" Thor asks slowly. Loki bristles; who was Thor to speak to him as if he were a child? Thor must have seen the anger flash across Loki's face as he hastily corrected himself.

"I say this because you are not exactly known for your honesty, brother." Thor speaks as though he is trying to find the least offensive way to approach the subject. Loki sighs, willing to admit that, and steeples his fingers with his elbows resting on the table. He wants...

He isn’t quite sure what he wants to get out of this. But Loki knows that that he couldn’t go on fighting against Steve, and he finds himself willing to sacrifice a morsel of his dignity if that is what it takes.

Not that he is going to admit this to anyone, least of all Thor.

"The way I see it," Loki replies. "There is no concrete justification for my decision, is there? You have my word of course, but it is for me to know and for you to find out the depth of my sincerity." He flashes Thor another sharp grin and Thor replies with another bark of laughter.

*

Of course, Thor had overestimated his teammates' capabilities to forgive and forget. Thor had brought Loki to Stark's tower, the elevator making a dinging sound thrice to announce them.

The moment the doors open, the Hawk, perched on the topmost railing of the staircase, has an arrow aimed at him. Even with the distance, Loki can tell that it was aimed for the narrow spot of flesh between his eyes. On floor level, he spots Widow subtly slip a knife out her sleeve. Iron Man enters, unarmored saved for his arm, which is aimed at him as well. Behind him stands Steve. He had brought his shield but, unlike the others, does not arm himself. Further into the room, their beast is but a man, seated on the arm rest of a couch, peering at him over his glasses, book gripped tightly.

"Gentlemen. Ms. Romanov," Loki greets.

"You have thirty seconds to explain," Iron Man says, and Loki huffs out a laugh.

"You think you can threaten me when I can crush your weapons with the curl of my fingers?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot you're a grade A douchebag. Tell you what: ten seconds," comes a chirped reply.

“Whatever this “douchebag” might mean, you had better watch your tone, Man of Iron,” Thor says from behind Loki.

Loki laughs again.“Oh, it’s quite all right. After all, I believe this is a case of it takes one to know one,” Iron Man snorts and fires from his armor. Loki waves his hand, deflecting the direction of the beam. It explodes with a loud crash against the wall, sending the suspended television crashing to the ground, screen shattered.

“Dammit, you promised me first shot, Stark,” the Hawk grumbles, although it is mostly unheard over Iron Man shouting at him for being a sonovabitch, arm raised to fire another beam at him.

"You shall not harm him, Tony Stark." Thor steps out of the elevator and firmly pushes his arm down. He crushes the armor, not enough to break bones, but Iron Man yelps at the metal compressing into his flesh.

"What did you do to him, Loki?" Steve asks warily, although he does not change his position.

"Nothing," the Hawk replies with a snort. "Big guy's just drowning in brotherly love." The way he scrunches up his nose is enough to let them know what he thinks of that. Thor turns his glare to the Hawk.

"I assure you, my judgement has not been clouded, Clint," Thor argues. "I brought him here as we both will it, and I give my word that Loki means no harm."

"We trust your word, Thor," the Widow interjected. "Doesn't make us trust him."

"My friends, my brother has willingly surrendered--"

"I wouldn't call it that," Loki murmurs the same time Banner snorts and says, "Yeah and last time we let him surrender, the Other Guy got out and we both got flung like a freaking dodge ball a hundred feet from the air."

"Bruce." There is power in Steve's tone. He doesn’t have to raise his voice or his hand. The doctor shuts up. Iron Man backs off and even the Hawk lowers his weapon. Where did this Steve come from? Loki wonders. How had he let himself miss this?

Loki held himself as Steve circles him, coming to stop in front of him. Despite having to tilt his head up slightly, Steve manages to make himself as tall as Loki. Thor, already guarded after his team’s reactions, takes a step forward. Loki lifts a hand.

"That won't be necessary, Thor. I don't believe the Captain can find it in him to hurt me." Loki gives Steve a sardonic smile. Steve raises an eyebrow.

And then throws a punch at him.

Loki curses, thrown back and brought to his knees from the impact of the punch. He could hear Thor yelling, Iron Man, Widow and Banner reasoning with him.

"I'm fine," Loki says, if only to shut up Thor. Steve walks up to him, holding out his hand. Loki eyes it warily but accepts, letting Steve pull him up.

"Don't presume to know what I will or will not do to anyone," Steve says. Ah, there was his stubborn fool, needing to prove himself. Loki rolls his eyes. What would have been a huff and a retort changed into a wince as he tries stretching his chest.

“And don’t presume that I don’t know when I’m being tested. The first time you hit me was on that exact spot. ” Something changes in the way Steve looks at him. His eyes, though narrowed, seem less mistrustful.

"I didn't hurt you that badly, did I? I could barely get a bruise outta you back then." And there was that smart mouth, always looking for trouble. Despite the sarcasm, there is still that lingering trace of concern and Loki is grateful for that, even as he looks away.

"So what is this? A truce? An alliance? What are you after?" Steve crosses his arms, in the same defiant stance he took decades ago. Loki finds himself smiling at the familiarity of it. He knows this Steve; there is something satisfying in seeing traces of the man he knew still around.

"Seriously, Cap? We're actually going to listen to this asshole's bull?" the Hawk argues. Banner makes a sound in agreement.

“Steve.” Loki clasps his hands behind his back, ignoring Steve’s team. “Remember when you asked for something in exchange of those lessons?” Loki keeps his voice low; this was their ears only, a bond that he shares with Steve that none else could know of. Steve tilts his head, wondering where Loki was going with this, before nodding. “I never did ask for payment. Now I’m here to collect. I want your trust.”

“My trust?”

“Yes. Trust me when I say that I am being true to my word.”

Steve frowns and turns away. Loki holds his breath. He does not expect Steve to agree. After all, Steve is not like Thor. Thor loves him, in depths that Loki would never understand; he was willing to forgive Loki again and again, should only he ask for it.

Steve Rogers believed in what is right and Loki has never given any inclination of being a morally righteous man. However, Steve also believes in second chances, and Loki is banking on Steve granting him that; if only since Loki reminded him of who he had been when they first met.

When he looks back, Steve gives him an apologetic look.

“You can’t ask me that,” he says. When he doesn’t say anything more, Loki exhales, hiding his disappointment.

“But,” Steve continues. “We’ll figure something out.”

*

His fist comes flying in from the left. Steve anticipates it, though. He dodges, dropping back, moving just as swiftly into a kick that catches Loki in the stomach. Loki is thrown against the wall, and his head cracks against it. In seconds, he has already composed himself. The impact has affected him little. But that is the last time Steve will catch him off guard.

Steve stands across the gym. Sweat is beading at his forehead, and he wipes it away with the back of his forearm.

Loki throws himself forward. Suddenly, he is full of rage, and he swings blindly, fast, heavy. Steve blocks each one. Loki fights like Thor, or worse, Stark, and he hates himself for it.

Steve notices. He ducks behind Loki, skips out of his reach. “This isn’t like you,” he says, and he’s only panting slightly.

“You have to be prepared for anything,” Loki merely says, and he attacks Steve again. This time, he lets an illusion of himself fly forward, while he approaches from the side. But, somehow, Steve has gotten good at recognizing Loki’s illusions. He can see them coming and responds accordingly. Steve meets the illusion head-on, so he is nowhere near Loki. The illusion dissipates as Steve moves through it without stopping. He hasn’t told Loki how he knows they are merely illusions, and this frustrates Loki further.

Every inch of his body feels like insects are scurrying over him. He can’t stay still. If he stops moving, even for just a moment, something wells up inside of him, and he needs to lash out.

He can’t even stand to look at Steve anymore.

Loki wonders when he started feeling like this. It has been half a year since the Avengers reluctantly agreed to his truce. The others are still wary. Loki has perhaps seen the Hawk – Clint – a handful of times at most. Other than Thor, Steve is the one Loki sees most.

It hasn’t been simple. The first few months, he is barely allowed to be alone. At every fight, every mistake, he is suspect, and Loki has to fight the urge to give in, to be the cause of the trouble. It would have been easy. He could have put these mortals in their place. But Steve gives Loki his trust freely, and he will not dishonor that.

He has sparred with Steve many times, and he has come to accept the changes Steve has gone through. Loki is the master of change. He knows when to submit to it.

But in the last few months, he has grown restless, as if he were a child indoors. Loki has managed to keep control of it, but today, he can find no relief.

“Maybe we should stop for today,” Steve says. He can match Loki easily now. They can fight for hours, neither willing to give, until they are both worn and tired. But Loki doesn’t want to stop. Not now.

He growls and launches himself at Steve again. This time, he crashes into him, pushing him back into the wall. He’s pushing harder than he strictly needs to, but he has Steve pinned against the wall, and it’s the first real victory Loki has had this fight.

He’s too distracted. He needs to clear his head.

Loki realizes with a start that he’s still pressing Steve against the wall, but Steve isn’t struggling. He’s watching Loki with those perceptive eyes that shouldn’t exist, not here, not now. Sweat drips down Steve’s face and down his neck, soaking into his collar. Loki can feel his own sweat pooling.

That same, awful urge rises in him again. It’s familiar yet foreign to him, and then it comes to him. He’s inches from Steve, can just take what he wants, and so he does.

Steve’s lips aren’t sweet or tender. He’s hot, hard, and salty. He kisses Loki back just as fiercely, his hands coming up behind Loki’s shoulders. Loki balls his fists in Steve’s shirt, tugging him away from the wall and closer to him.

He doesn’t want to let go. This, this is what he wants. That urge is on the surface, and he’s letting it out as he kisses Steve.

After a long moment, Loki breaks away.

He lets the tension go from his body. His breathing is heavy, and he concentrates to slow it down. His forehead rests against Steve. He is still pressing Steve close to him, he realizes. He lets go of him quickly, but doesn’t step back.

“That was my favor,” he says. “You are no longer bound to our agreement.”

Steve’s breathing is also heavy, and Loki has little idea how he will react. The last time this had happened, it had been for bereavement. He expects Steve to pull away as he did then.

But Steve shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Doesn’t count.” He tangles his fingers in Loki’s shirt, pulling him closer again. “Damn it, you have to stop asking for things I can’t give you.” He kisses Loki this time, and Loki can feel the cooling sweat above Steve’s lip.

Loki pulls back. “If that is still not payment, then what is?”

Steve sighs, clearly frustrated. “Don’t tell me how to feel. Those don’t count. Things I would do anyway don’t count.” And here, his hand runs down Loki’s arm until he can entwine his fingers with Loki’s. “Keep it. You’ll find something for it, I’m sure.”

“But nothing you would do anyway,” Loki says to confirm.

Steve nods. “Nor telling me how to feel.” He kisses Loki again, but this time it is a barely-there meeting of the lips.

Loki isn’t sure if he wants to punch Steve or take him here, now, against the wall of the gym, probably as punishment for Loki’s recent distress.

He does neither. Instead, he wraps his arms around Steve, half-wishing Steve was still small so that he could envelop him. But this will do. He can smell Steve’s sweat combined with a sweeter scent, a lingering of aftershave.

Somehow, he feels trapped, but he gives into the feeling. If it’s trapped with Steve, in this realm and in this time, then so be it.

Steve embraces Loki in turn. He murmurs a name against Loki’s cheek, and it might be Will or it might be Loki, but Loki doesn’t care to know which it might be. They are one and the same, just as this Steve and the Steve that he taught how to fight, that he comforted, that he grew to care for, are the same.

He kisses Steve once more, relishing in the sensations and the feeling of ease that wash over him.