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1. January. Tony. A place to call home.
Loki had not liked Tony Stark when they first met, continued to dislike him during Steve’s bout of ice sickness, and his feelings didn’t change in the subsequent months. To his delight, he wasn’t alone: Natasha didn’t care for Tony’s sarcasm, Pepper grew irritated with his ego, and Steve disapproved of his obvious vanity. Even Thor had not immediately taken to him—after all, Thor was a prince, and found Tony’s my house, my rules attitude to be grating.
But despite his numerous faults, Loki can bequeath Tony a single accolade: Tony Stark is always up to something. The mansion is filled with a constant stream of clanks, clangs, bangs, and rattles. Smells, too, pop up at strange times: the worrisome and startling scent of burning electric wires, not to mention the occasional mansion-wide brown-out, immediately followed by JARVIS’ calm announcement: “Please do not be alarmed. Mr. Stark has the fire under control.” Loki can appreciate Tony's fervid lack of restraint, and it is a shame that his other traits are not so agreeable.
More recently, the clanks, clangs, bangs, and rattles have been coming from a spare wing of the mansion rather than the workshop, though Loki is too preoccupied with an array of SHIELD missions (first there is the abduction of seven United Nations members, followed by an earthquake in Asia, where he assists the team in evacuating a small village) to pay attention. His downtime is spent with either Thor or Steve; Thor, in an effort to rebuild their brotherhood, and Steve, because the subway photograph is still safely hidden in Churchill: A Life, and surely that must mean something.
Within the week, Tony finishes his construction project. Loki is made aware of this when Tony marches into the den, jabs his finger towards Loki, and says, “You, follow me.”
Loki is currently watching a film. He normally finds television (Clint’s preferences in particular) noisy and irritating, but Steve had been in the middle of The Maltese Falcon, and Loki is willing to suspend his dislike for cinema if it means sharing a good memory with him.
“Can’t. Spade just found the falcon,” Steve replies, eyes not moving from the screen.
“It was given to him by the dying captain of a burning ship,” Loki helpfully adds.
Tony’s voice is more of a whine when he prods, “C’mon, haven’t you seen this already? Like, a million times?”
“I saw it once, in ‘42,” Steve corrects. “Just because something is old doesn’t mean I have an encyclopedic knowledge of it.”
“Five minutes, and then you can come back and finish watching Whatshisname.”
Steve, beleaguered, reaches for the remote and hits a button. The characters freeze inside Spade’s perpetually glum office.
“First off, that’s Humphrey Bogart. And secondly, what’s so important that it can’t wait?”
Tony simply motions for them to follow. Loki would typically scoff at such audacity, but he plays along with Steve, mindful that Tony will give them no peace otherwise. They file up the stairs and down a hall, stopping only when Tony pauses before a closed door.
“Okay,” he says, “just remember it still needs, you know, furniture. And maybe some lamps. Regardless, I am proud to present—” He theatrically pushes the door open and strong-arms them inside. A beat of silence passes, with Steve shifting his weight from one foot to the other, uncertain as to what Tony is so excited about.
“This is indeed a very impressive presentation, Mr. Stark,” Loki finally states. “An empty room. I’ve never seen its like.”
Tony is clearly affronted by the lack of enthusiasm.
“It’s not an empty room, dickhead. It’s your room. An incredibly generous suite, actually. You live here, right? So consider it part of the Avenger package.” He’s about to leave, suitably insulted by the insufficient thanks, when he turns to give Loki a pointed look. “And remember, pal, use of Casa de Loki constitutes certain guidelines.” He ticks off his fingers as he goes down the list. “No loud parties, no smoking, and no plotting. Unless it’s plotting against bad guys. Or Clint, I’ll let you plot against Clint.”
He leaves Steve and Loki alone. The floors are polished wood and the receptacles have been recently installed. There are shelves in the closet, which Loki suspects are new as well, but there’s no bed or chairs, or even curtains. That will have to be rectified immediately.
Steve leans against the naked wall and smiles.
“Official mansion territory means you’re part of the family. I’m not sure whether to congratulate you or help you run away.” He glances out the window, the view from which is not displeasing. “I bet you had a nice place in Asgard.”
Steve isn’t wrong. Loki had many rooms, ornate and sprawling with space for whatever he required—and yet, he’s sure this will be his favorite. The palace rooms were an expected luxury, but Tony’s is a gift, freely given, and that is a remarkable difference.
“Yes, they were nice.” He pauses before adding, honestly, “Perhaps a bit tacky.”
Steve laughs, and they eventually finish The Maltese Falcon. Loki tries to imagine Steve in a fedora, smoking cigars, a product of his generation—but he suspects the Humphrey Bogart version of Steve would not take to Loki sitting close enough that he feels Steve tense when a shot goes off, or hears him sigh when Sam Spade refuses to let O'Shaughnessy escape, even though he loves her.
2. February. Natasha. That talk about family.
Over the next few weeks, Loki's suite begins to show signs of habitation. Pepper is surely responsible for the new bed, the desk, the hanging lamp in the middle of the ceiling. Normally he abhors when others come and go uninvited, but Pepper poses little threat, and her taste is not offensive. He’s especially pleased with the large bookshelf (a necessity, considering the numerous times he and Steve have gone gallivanting for books throughout the city).
The more he sees the space take shape, the more he plays with the idea of returning to Asgard for the few valuable items he left behind. It’s true that Loki is banished, but it’s also true that he knows the secret roads: he could walk in, liberate his books and tools, and walk out with scarcely anyone being the wiser. The wrench, of course, is Heimdall, who will sense him within moments of his arrival. The larger question is whether he will understand Loki means no harm, or if he will alert the guards out of obligation to his king.
He composes a mental list of whom he could trust with his plan. Thor would be too concerned for Loki’s welfare to allow him solitary travel, and would undoubtedly harbor the same worries as Loki: Heimdall sensing his return; the guards capturing him; Odin’s reaction. Tony would not be concerned so much as unable to keep his mouth shut long enough for Loki to leave in the first place, and the same applies to Clint—in fact, Loki can hardly decide who would disclose it first. Bruce alone would be ideal, but he has no control over what Hulk might divulge, if it comes to that.
This leaves Steve and Natasha, both whom have gained his trust. As a rule, Steve is his first choice—but Steve also suffers from an impulse to keep the team together. Loki has little difficulty imagining the arguments he would present when informed of Loki’s scheme, ranging from what if you’re caught to let me go with you to the silent but very real reluctance to keep such a secret from the others. Loki doesn’t fault him for it, and knows Steve’s unease stems from care rather than doubt of Loki’s abilities or intentions.
Natasha, however, will let him depart with a cautionary be careful and little else.
The right time comes in the early hours of Saturday, during a February that is saturated with snow and red hearts hanging from every shop and restaurant in the city. The others are sleeping, but Natasha is still awake, reading from the “e-reader” Steve had given her, as he did not know how to use it and didn’t care to learn. She is curled up on one end the couch; Loki perches on the opposite side.
She doesn’t bother to look up as she says, “It’s nearly four in the morning. Not even Steve’s awake this early.”
“There’s something I wish to speak with you about, and I’ve found odd hours are the only opportunity for privacy,” Loki concedes, watching Natasha press something on the machine. The screen goes blank and she sets it aside, giving Loki her full attention.
“I am returning to Asgard this morning,” he continues, “to gather some of my things.”
“You mean ‘steal.'”
“One can’t steal what already belongs to them. I plan to return before dawn, but if things go wrong—”
“Let Thor know,” she guesses. “Obviously I can’t stop you, but fair warning: I’m holding you to the dawn curfew. If you’re so much as a minute late, the team is suiting up.”
“What a sight that would be. Five mortals and my moronic brother marching on Asgard to demand my release.”
Loki intends to sound condescending, but there is truth to his words. They would march into Asgard, ungraceful animals that they are, and raise such hell that Odin would gladly return Loki if it ensured Tony and Clint never showed their faces again. And if the diplomatic approach failed, no doubt they would find more direct methods of gaining Loki’s freedom.
Natasha studies him for a moment. Finally, she asks, “Before diving headfirst into this stupid plan of yours, can I share some advice?”
“By all means. I’m sure your human wisdom will offer great insight.”
She scowls. “I deal enough with Clint’s shit. Don’t pile yours on top.”
It is an alarmingly fair request. He acknowledges as much by remaining silent.
“Clint and I,” she begins, “were raised upside down and inside out. Our childhoods weren’t the kind you see on TV. And let’s not start counting all the hugs Fury and Tony never got.” Her lips twitch somewhat bitterly. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that no one joins this outfit with their heads on straight.”
Others would look away from Loki, but Natasha’s gaze meets his squarely.
“Returning to Asgard, even for the morning, will leave a bitter taste. There’s no getting around that. Just remember the entire team has been let down by people we trusted, and we dealt with it by removing those people from our lives. You have to do the same. Don’t let a bad trip down memory lane ruin everything you have here. Don’t come back angry and cut us out.” Her mouth thins into something resembling amusement. “Besides, Steve will be angry enough for the both of you if he ever finds out you went home without him.”
“He won’t know. And even if he did, I would not grovel for his pardon.”
Natasha snorts and picks up her reader. “Sure you wouldn’t. Isn’t that why you came to me instead of him?”
Loki finds her perception borderline unsettling, so he stands, nods, and disappears. Her wish of “good luck” trails him through the realms; when he finally lands, the words are little more than a whisper that dissipate within the dwarfing Feasting Hall, where Thor, not so long ago, had overturned the table on the day of his failed coronation. Everything is as Loki remembers: the immense walls, the golden hues, the intricate tapestries, a richer decor than even Tony Stark could hope for.
He travels the corridors like a ghost to see what, if anything, has changed. His heart twists inside his chest, in turns thrilled with such a risky venture and agitated by what is on the line. No doubt Heimdall has seen him with his great, empty eyes and is presently alerting the guards. Time is of the essence.
Loki hurries down halls he will never forget, a route that has been with him since childhood, until he reaches the door to his quarters, and with a swift glance in both directions, dares to push it open. He locks the bolt behind him and can’t fight the laughter that bubbles up. How foolish this is, how perfectly dangerous, and suddenly he wishes Steve had come with him after all. It would feel nobler, justified, more of an adventure and less of a crapshoot.
Loki swiftly addresses the task at hand. He locates a leather hunting satchel and begins to fill it: first with books, and then tools, and lastly, items of no particular purpose. A compass for Clint, daggers for Natasha, a statuette for Pepper, a flute Heimdall carved when Loki was young, gifts he thinks the others might enjoy as he has no use for them. He briefly rummages through a set of drawers that contain nothing of interest, stopping only when he spies a small wood box. It holds a ring Frigga had given him when he came of a marriageable age. Loki detested the thought of rule-laden courtships and distant spouses, though now the idea of a wedding is not without appeal. After all, life on Earth will give him the luxury to choose his own partner rather than Odin choosing on his behalf.
He tucks the ring among his collection of stowaway treasures and shoulders the bag. Now nothing links him to Asgard, not even sentimental trifles.
“I see you have stolen all you desire,” Frigga says. “It is just as well no one will notice it missing.”
Frigga stands on the balcony that bestows the most impressive view of Asgard. She has been obscured by the heavy drapes and Loki, in his haste, did not check every nook and cranny of the room before striving to complete his task. Why should he have? It is obvious no one has been here since his banishment: nothing has been taken or moved, as evidenced by the layers of dust.
“You cannot steal what already belongs to you,” he carefully replies, an echo of what he told Natasha not twenty minutes before.
Frigga takes measured strides from behind the drapes. Her heels click sharply against the polished floor, and the heavy skirts of her black dress swish against her legs. She circles him once, and then stops to face him, chin high, unafraid, a few feet away.
“I have had cruel dreams much like this,” she finally says, “where I see my dead son has returned to me, well and whole.”
“I am no dream,” Loki warily answers. “Nor am I here to cause grief.”
“Perhaps you are a ghost, then.”
“Do not be foolish, it doesn’t suit you. I was never dead. How could I be, if I am standing before you?”
Silence spreads its elongated, sickly arms to suffocate them, an agonizing crush of chests splintering into bony pieces. Being caught was a chance Loki knowingly took, but by guards, by Heimdall—not by the woman who loved him without fear, despite the likelihood her precious baby might one day turn against her.
“Your father said you fell from the bridge, into the stars. Thor searched for your body to provide proper death rites. He could find no trace.”
“The fall was one of my greater deceits,” Loki admits.
She balls her hands into fists, so tight that her knuckles are snow-colored. Finally, she motions for him to come closer. He does so, slowly, a hunter approaching a wild animal, an explorer taking their first step onto new land. He stops close enough that he could reach out and touch her shoulder, and she hesitates only a moment before moving, swift as lightning, to strike him across the face.
It does not hurt, but it is startling enough that Loki reels back.
“I mourned you,” she hisses. “I could not eat, could not sleep, when all of Asgard told me to celebrate the defeat of my youngest boy. There were—there were feasts, and I had to sit at the head of the table and raise a toast to your death.”
She trembles, but with sadness or rage, Loki can’t tell. Her eyes are wet and raw.
“And no one ever asked if I missed my child. We drank and danced and said good riddance to the trickster god, the one who was not like us, and I was so angry that you had gone where I could not find you, I was so—”
She collapses into the gold chair by Loki’s desk. Her hands are curled now, the anger draining as swiftly as it had come.
“But of course, here you are. Alive all this time.” A dead laugh. “Wasted heartbreak has made me an old woman, if you cannot see for yourself.”
He kneels before her and brushes his finger against the dark sleeve of her dress.
“I was selfish,” he whispers. “It is clear now. And I am sorry for causing this. I should have returned sooner, so that you would not be unhappy.”
She holds her head in her hands. Her fingers are bare of gems and gold, and they are cold when she moves, finally, to gently touch his face. Frigga traces the faint red mark that has resulted from the blow. Loki never fathomed his death would affect her to such a degree that she would haunt his room, carrying this sorrow so close to her heart.
After a minute that is both too long and not long enough, Frigga stands. Loki follows suit, and she takes a step back to examine him as only a mother can. At last she exhales and endeavors a smile.
“You assured me that you did not come for a fight. I hope that is the case.”
“I merely came for a few trinkets.” He looks around the room. “Everything is still in place. Is it a new tradition to create mausoleums for the dead?”
“That was my doing. I—stay here, sometimes, when I don’t wish to be disturbed. It is all of you I had left, and I wanted nothing changed,” she confesses. “Now, we are walking to the balcony, where you will tell me exactly where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to.”
Loki glances towards the door. The bolt, while heavy, will not prevent a legion of guards from pouring in, and he doubts he has the time to tell Frigga anything.
“Heimdall—”
“Will say nothing,” she assures him.
They stand on Loki’s old balcony overlooking Asgard, a sprawling, shining place that Loki, despite its beauty, does not truly miss—but Frigga is not Asgard, and he does miss her, his mother regardless of the bad blood between Loki and Odin. Frigga is the reason he dares to stand in the sunlight rather than keep to the shadows, as he did when he first arrived, and she is also the reason he troubles himself to tell the twisting account of his life on Earth. The tale unwinds like a ball of twine, a single strand that is easier to relate the more he keeps going. He describes Midgard; the people and food and books, the Avengers Initiative, which he phrases as a warrior’s guild so Frigga might better relate, and finally to the mansion in which he resides, and the people with whom he lives.
“And you chose this for yourself?” she finally asks. The pallor of her face has warmed slightly; she, too, finds Loki’s new purpose a welcome change from rigid palace life. “Thor did not persuade you?”
Steve asked a variation of the same question New Year’s Eve night, when fireworks had exploded in an impossible array of colors. Loki had not told him then, and feels reluctant to tell Frigga now. He looks away.
“Thor was part of the decision,” he acknowledges. “But I made the choice of my own accord.”
Frigga leans against the railing. Her dreary clothes are a stark contrast to the molten tones behind her.
“I promised to return quickly,” Loki says, after a moment of soft silence. Below them, far below, is the sound of commerce, the townsmen oblivious to the return of their dead prince. “It is no exaggeration that this castle will fall under siege if I am away too long. Why, six Avengers against the Asgard army—you’ll not stand a chance.”
Though she is clearly not ready for their conversation to end, Frigga has been trained to mask such things as disappointment. She straightens herself and takes Loki’s hand in hers: their fingers are similarly delicate, their palms thin, and for so long he had wondered why his hands were not big like Thor’s and Odin’s, why he did not physically grow into a true man. Now he is proud to resemble Frigga in some way.
“You will come back to see me?” she quietly asks. “Soon.”
Loki hesitates, but finds he can’t deny her earnestness. Steve has been a poor influence.
“I always took for granted that you knew I loved you,” she goes on. “I should have spoken it out loud every day.”
“Thor tells me often enough,” Loki finally replies, though his tongue is heavy. He takes his bag in one hand and steps back, preparing to leave. “You needn’t worry.”
“Loki.” He looks at her, and she smiles. “Perhaps Thor does tell you, but I prefer to say these things myself. I love you. Be careful.”
Shaken and bereft, Loki jumps to his room, where the satchel lands forgotten at his feet. He listens dumbly to the whoosh of Manhattan traffic outside while processing the morning’s events: his mother missed him. His old quarters were still in pristine condition, as though his family had held out some thin, weak hope that Loki might return one day, never mind that he would be arrested on sight. And most notably, Loki saw neither hilt nor blade of a guard’s drawn sword. Surely Heimdall knew Loki was in Asgard, and yet he issued no warning.
Loki drifts downstairs, where Clint is attempting to argue for his right to cook breakfast. Natasha is fighting against it, pausing only to shoot Loki a brisk glance—glad you’re back, hope it went well—before giving Clint the brunt of her attention. Tony and Bruce are not yet awake, but Steve is at the table drinking coffee and perusing the paper.
Loki sits next to him, close enough that their knees gently knock.
“Good morning,” Steve says, smiling sleepily, mused up and lovely, and Loki realizes it is.
3. May. Thor. Confidence.
Colonel James Rhodes has been stateside for six hours when things go south.
Loki, who likes Rhodes as much as he can like anyone, feels somewhat sorry for the man: it’s clear he just wants a good supper and a full night’s sleep, though both are postponed when a fleet of HYDRA ships are spotted off the coast of Virginia, and then California, and Florida. Fury calls the team in, grimly pleased that Rhodes is present to approve extra military air support, and within minutes, the Virginian coastal sky is ablaze as they struggle to prevent HYDRA from reaching Washington. Loki single-handedly takes down three enemy ships by jumping aboard and destroying the engines from inside. Thor demolishes two with the help of Mjölnir, and Hulk practically tears one apart with his giant, bare hands. Tony, to his credit, uses the Iron Man suit to scan and locate a structurally sensitive area near the ships’ underbellies; he attaches explosives that debilitate the crafts upon detonation, all the while humming AC/DC’s Shot Down in Flames.
Within the hour, the shore is littered with smoldering wreckage. D.C. remains untouched.
“We got anything else coming our way?” Clint asks Rhodes, who has been monitoring the battle from SHIELD headquarters.
“Eastern Seaboard looks clear, but L.A. is a powder keg.”
Clint loads a new flight path into their plane’s navigation system. Beside him, Natasha taps several controls in preparation for a swift trip to the opposite side of the continent.
“How the hell did our intel miss this,” she mutters, and then: “Where’s Cap, on the ground?”
The cabin falls silent. Loki hasn’t seen Steve since their arrival in Virginia, too focused on destroying ships, on keeping himself alive between the roar of missiles, rotary blades, and screaming, razor-sharp shards of metal. He’d heard Steve over the communicators, but when? At the start of the fight? It’s been an hour since then, if not longer.
“I’m not picking up his hailing signal,” Tony states, pulling off the red and gold helmet. His hair is slightly matted with sweat. “What’s the water say?”
Natasha pulls up another screen displaying their current location. After a moment, Loki realizes she is sweeping the area, both land and ocean, for lifesigns. His fingers curl when none come up.
“One of the bogeys took a hit early in the game and retreated,” Rhodes announces, cracking the apprehensive hush. His tone is tentatively optimistic. “If Rogers isn’t with you, then it’s possible he’s on board that enemy jet. Radar says it’s just now reaching the Greenland Sea. The engines are fine, based on speed of travel, but the weaponry has been destroyed.”
Tony whistles, and for once, Loki is in agreement. He may not have a complete working knowledge of Earth’s geography, but he is well aware that Greenland is a considerable distance.
“I’ll give it to them, those Hydra bastards make good time. How far is Greenland, three thousand-ish miles?” Tony guesses, even as he quickly replaces his helmet. “Ten bucks says I can beat them back to their super-duper top-secret lair.”
“Don’t even think about it, Tony," Rhodes snaps. "We need you in California. You’re the only one who can get those bombs on the undercarriages.”
Thor, who has been silent for the entirety of the conversation, abruptly stands to his feet. He clutches Mjölnir with one hand and gestures towards Loki with the other.
“My brother will retrieve our good Captain,” he declares in his blunt, booming voice. “I know no one more invested in Steve Rogers’ safety.”
Loki thinks he ought to be embarrassed by Thor’s obvious meaning—I know of no one more invested—but instead he meets Thor’s eyes; Thor lifts his chin in response, a sign of trust and confidence. Loki's answering smile is fierce as he extends his magic past America, past Canada and over the Atlantic, reaching out and wildly grasping to find the place where Steve has been taken, either by accident or design. It doesn’t matter which. It only matters that he returns to them, and Loki intends to see that happen.
He jumps.
When he lands, Loki must gather a large amount of information very quickly: he is standing on a sizable bit of ice, and he arrives just in time to see the ship—Steve dangling from the mouth of it, blood smeared across his face, but Loki is satisfied because the HYDRA pilot is visibly worse off—crash into the freezing water.
Loki unhesitatingly plunges in after them.
He spots the dimming glow of the ship’s operational lights as it sinks. He begins swimming towards it, his body primed with adrenaline, moving with the same instinctual, purposeful dynamism that he did in long-ago battles. He swims. He swims or else he’ll think, and if he thinks about Steve, here, drowning—
Loki reaches the underside of the ship at last: the exterior lights are bright enough that he can see Steve struggling, though the bulbs are beginning to short out one by one. They will be in complete darkness soon enough. He grabs Steve’s arm and yanks, trying to dislodge him, but Steve blindly grapples against it. Loki frantically pulls again—look at me, look at me—and Steve does, his face illuminated briefly before the final light fails.
Follow me, he thinks as he relentlessly tugs Steve in a decided direction. Trust me, you know me, trust me.
Loki guides them from beneath the body and left wing of the craft; Steve faithfully follows. The water is inky, but it grows lighter as they kick upwards, and lighter still, until they see blurry sky, rippling clouds, and break through the surface.
Steve is sucking in huge gulps of air while simultaneously coughing up water. His face is white like death, but he manages to glide towards a nearby berg. Loki watches as he shakily attempts to climb up: he kicks once, then twice, hands slipping; Loki hurries over and scales it easily enough, grabbing Steve’s hands and dragging him out with a final burst of energy. Steve sprawls on the ground, still coughing. Loki kneels next to him.
Steve swallows and says, panting, “You’re actually pretty compact, as far as frost giants go."
The words are a shock to his system. Now that every physical and mental process isn’t focused on saving Steve’s life, Loki is struck with disheartening cognizance: he examines his hands, deep blue and patterned, and is further horrified by what his eyes must look like. Exposure to the sub-zero sea has triggered his Jotunn attributes; it is why he survived the shock, just as Steve's serum is the only reason he endured the prolonged lack of oxygen. He wants to leave, and quickly, but doing so would abandon Steve in this cold place, and the team is not likely to pick him up anytime soon.
Loki numbly watches as Steve covers azure hands with his own, the contact allowing Loki’s fingers and palms to reach a peach hue. He slides his chilly hands up Loki’s arms, presses them against his neck, and then, a minute later, the sides of his face. He runs his thumbs over Loki's brow. It is… beyond description, what he suspects joy must feel like, if he had any experience with it.
Disgraced, Loki looks off into the horizon, where the sky and water meet. There isn’t a soul about for miles. It feels as though the world has abandoned them, or perhaps it is the other way around.
“You have such heart,” he finally says. “Even for monsters.”
“Is that what rescued me just now? A monster?”
Loki’s sour expression answers the affirmative; Steve, in turn, shakes his head and removes his hands. The Captain is too stubborn for his own good, but to say so would be hypocrisy. At this point, stubbornness is practically a team requirement.
“I don’t remember seeing any monsters. Maybe you and I define them differently.” The wind whistles past, paying no mind to the two men seemingly stranded in the middle of nowhere. After a moment Steve climbs onto his feet and shakes off the worst of his near-death.
“Where to next?” he asks, a soldier to the very core. There is no rest until the mission is done, and Loki suspects Virginia was but a mere preview of what HYDRA has in store for them. Their work is far from finished.
“I’m told Los Angeles will be in quite a bind. Are you prepared for another bout?”
“You kidding? I could do this all day.” This time Steve smiles; it is easily the only warm thing for miles. “And maybe this time I can rescue you.”
Loki reaches out and wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrist; outwardly, the touch is necessary to include Steve in the jump to California, but a smaller part wants to feel Steve solid and whole. Steve Rogers is a man trapped in a pattern, doomed to cold fates. How is it that they ended up here, an echo of where Steve was first unearthed?
The ice wishes to keep Steve Rogers for itself.
Loki grips Steve tightly and jumps to California, where there is nothing but desert and sun.
4. August. Hulk. A fast way out of a bad situation.
The summer is heavy and smothering.
Loki is irritated with June’s skyrocketing temperatures and July’s sizzling streets, but August, unimaginably, is worse. The air is muggy, weighty, enough to prompt Loki into sleeplessness. He sits in the chair by Steve’s dark window and presses his forehead against the glass, trying to distract himself with the illuminated patterns of city traffic while the Jotunn inside claws and struggles, screaming this is not home, this place is not for you.
But it is. Loki knows this is home now, and a few months of discomfort are worth all he has gained.
The sun is beginning to peek over the city just as the communicator on Steve’s bedside table clicks with an incoming communication. A moment later, Tony’s grating voice shatters the peace.
“Yo, guys, anyone hearing me? I know it’s late—or early, wow, really early. Turn on your TVs—never mind, hey JARVIS, all televisions to the latest—there you go,” and suddenly every television in the house, including the set in each of their private suites, is blaring light and voices.
Steve is up like a shot, bleary but alert. Loki merely casts his gaze towards the television in the corner of Steve’s room. The live footage is shaky and out of focus; he can’t tell what he’s supposed to make of it.
Clint’s sleepy and irritated voice can be heard over their communicators.
“What the hell, Tony? What time is it? What am I even lookin’ at?”
“Hotel fire here in Manhattan,” Tony answers. “It has our names written all over it.”
“A hotel,” Steve says. He follows Tony’s meaning more easily than Clint. “How long do they have to evacuate?”
“Not long enough. Loki, my man, this could be your crowning moment of awesome. You in?”
“I’ll race you,” Loki answers as confirmation. If he is to be miserable in the heat, then at least he will be productive.
“You kidding? I’m already here.” Tony pauses. “Nats, Clint, you can come if you want—”
“Yeah, yeah. Us mere mortals won’t be much help against fire, we get it. We’ll just let the super-superheroes do the legwork on this one,” Clint cuts in. “I'm going back to bed."
They all know this is a lie. Clint will not go back to bed. Tony is good enough not to say so.
Steve, whose suit is fire-retardant but not altogether resistant, shoots Loki a half-smile. Loki knows Steve will sit this one out; there really is little he can do in cases such as this.
“Fire waits for no god,” Steve says. “Take care of yourself.”
Tony is just flying overhead when Loki appears at the hotel. Behind him is a police perimeter; onlookers watch the fire, horrified, some recording the incident with their phones while others huddle together, scared for the people inside. An officer spots Loki from a few feet away and shouts, “Hey pal—” but is interrupted by a young woman behind the lemon-colored tape, who yells, “He’s an Avenger, numbnuts!”
Loki takes a moment to analyze the situation. 64 floors; the first 18 are at serious risk of collapse, the remaining are at risk if the fire isn't extinguished immediately. Tony has the advantage of flight; no doubt he will attempt evacuation from the top of the building, while Thor is already summoning rain. Loki, for his part, draws as close to the fire as possible, places his hands to the ground, and freezes the entire bottom floor in a swift burst of Jotunn magic.
“Awesome, sir!” Tony declares as he unhesitatingly flies headfirst into the fray.
He freezes the first ten floors, which are thankfully empty of bodies; when he reaches the eleventh, however, he must ignore the arms that reach for him, begging, my mother is hurt, my wife is dead, please, please and then the twelfth, where Loki sways from the exhausting effort of freezing the fire without simultaneously freezing everyone else inside the building.
He takes a toxic breath and continues into the twenties, the thirties. Every floor is engulfed, and every floor taxes him further. He is no longer on his feet when he reaches the 46th floor, but his ice magic works regardless of whether he can stand. He balances on his knees and stays in that position as he ascends and freezes each subsequent floor.
His entire body is trembling by the time he reaches the 49th floor. He exhales when he sees the fire has not reached this level and therefore does not require any further magic.
"The fire is out," he states.
"You got any energy left for evacuations?" Tony asks.
Loki does not. But he is well aware that the stairs are destroyed and the elevators are in no condition to be used, meaning that any survivors capable of leaving on their own steam still have no hope of reaching the ground level. He is still weighing his options when he hears several sharp popping sounds.
“Holy shit, was that gunfire?” Tony demands.
His question is followed by an ominous chorus of groans and cracks.
“Damn it, damn it, that’s not a gun, the building’s getting weak,” Tony says. “We gotta hurry this up. I’m reading eleven more life signs on the 45th floor—shit. Correction. There are fourteen life signs. 11 on 45, three on 49.”
Loki, who did not believe he had any strength left, discovers himself capable of using a nearby hallway table to drag himself to his feet.
"Room number for 49."
"Looks like it could be 491, maybe 493."
Loki stumbles along the hallway, following the room signs until he locates 491. The door is open but the room is empty; he lists drunkenly back into the hallway and towards 493, which is locked. He attempts to break down the door and is disgusted with himself when he cannot. He tries two more times, each attempt less impactful than the one before. After five punches, the door at last splinters open.
The room seems as empty as the first, and Loki is nearly ready to accuse Tony of shoddy sensors when he spots a sneaker poking out from beneath the bed. He wastes no time shoving the bed aside and gathering up the—two. Two children.
“Where is the last of you? The third?” he demands. They are so young and frightened that they can only cry and shake their heads as the ceiling starts cracking above them.
For a swift, fleeting moment, Loki weighs the consequences of saving only these two. He has saved so many others by eliminating the fire. What would it matter to take only these and leave the third behind? To delay further could condemn them all.
The building snaps and screams like a band of angry crows. The sound prompts one of the children with enough nerve to tug at his coat and point towards the bathroom door. Loki is there in an instant. He rips away the shower curtain, but the tub is empty, as is the small toiletry closet. Perhaps the third child ran away, or was already evacuated.
A hinge squeaks. He looks down. The boy has hidden under the minuscule sink space and now looks upon Loki with wide, tearful eyes.
“Come with me,” he orders, “right this moment,” and he all but yanks him out, leading him to where his sister and brother stand, petrified. The building, as though built with playing cards, bellows one last cry and collapses so fast that Loki doesn’t realize what has happened until he finds himself hunched over the children, trying to shield them from the worst of the debris. Wood and glass move like bullets. He closes his eyes and tries to jump, keeping a tight hold of the kids while Tony screams, “Loki, where the hell—” until his voice is lost amongst the noise.
He hears another great smash and fears the entire thing will crumble over his head, but it’s—Hulk.
“Hulk take,” Hulk says, scooping up the kids as the floor fractures beneath them, too weak to hold the weight. “Loki follow.”
Loki watches Hulk barrel through the exterior wall of the hotel room. It is not the ideal method of exit, but Loki's options are slim: already the opposite end of the building has begun to snap and sag, and his magic, dried up for now, cannot transport him anywhere. Hulk take, Loki follow, Hulk had said, and so Loki bolts towards the giant hole Hulk left.
“Get out,” Tony bellows, “get out—”
Loki leaps. He does not see Hulk below him, but closes his eyes after the swift observation: the ground is rushing up to meet him, though his heart is strangely calm despite it. He has weathered much worse than this. Life in Asgard is not kind to the physical body; Loki is used to broken limbs, and will heal quickly when his magic stops meeting itself coming and going. He will survive the fall.
Something snatches Loki and crushes it to them, trying to protect him from what is about to come, and they land in a jarring thud—but Loki realizes that nothing in his body is broken, not even the smallest bone. He drags himself onto his knees, out of Hulk’s engulfing embrace.
“Did you see that?” Tony asked, landing a few feet away. “The big guy gets a running start and catches some serious air! Hulk, pal, that was awesome. How do you even jump that high, you must weigh, what, eight, nine hundred pounds?”
“Hulk help,” is all Hulk says, while behind them the hotel collapses in a dwarfing ball of gray dust and steel. Loki, dead on his feet, hardly acknowledges the millions of pounds—more, even—of mattresses, chandeliers, sinks and tubs and rugs, all tumbling to the ground. The only important thing is that there were no more life signs according to Tony, and that Loki had done something worthy of Steve’s pride, and Frigga’s, and his own. Next to him, Thor quietly sends the rains away.
“You shall fly home with me,” Thor states. “I will accept no arguments.”
“I am perfectly capable of getting there myself,” Loki snaps.
“Brother, you would not have risked such a fall had your magic been strong enough to take you.” He pauses, somewhat defeated. “Please let me help.”
And isn’t this why Loki came back? To have a brother again, to have Thor at his side like when they were children?
Thor adds, as if to lure him, “I am sure Steve Rogers is eager to see you after such a spectacle.”
Though it is meant to entice him, the words do little to bolster Loki’s spirits. He wonders how much Steve watched on the news, fervently hoping the cameras did not catch him plummeting out of the hotel like a clumsy mortal, only to have Hulk snatch him up before he could hit the ground. Graceless and humiliating are the only terms Loki can use to describe the ordeal. Loki nods his assent; Thor beams and clutches Mjölnir.
They appear in the den, where the others are brimming over with pent-up adrenaline.
Natasha is immediately on her feet.
“Fury has been screaming in my ear all day. I need a report.”
“And I’ll tell you somethin’ else," Clint barks, "there’s no way I’m sitting around next time and watching. I can’t take that kind of stress!”
“Your concern is appreciated, but there is no need for it. We are quite well,” Thor promises him. “Simply tired.”
Tired. Loki moves towards the stairs; his boots, already heavy, make each step that much more difficult to climb, and his body feels strangely numb beneath his black and green armor. He catches his reflection in the corridor window and does not like the ashy, pallid face staring back at him. Though he first desired to see Steve, he is now glad they’ve yet to cross paths. It is one thing to be sweaty and bruised after a mission, but it’s something else to be nearly unrecognizable, so completely tapped out that you are more dead than alive.
In his room, Loki dons a set of unremarkable, plain night clothes, a vague copy of what he’s seen the others wear when they “hit the sack”. He slips between inviting sheets and spares Steve one last moment of consideration, but even that thought disappears into the blackness of sleep, where the heat of August, so pertinent before, is suddenly of little consequence.
The morning is substantially less peaceful, echoing yesterday in that his television (which will be removed, if Tony doesn’t stop engaging it remotely) bursts to life, skipping through several channels until it lands on the local morning news. The anchors are much too spirited for Loki’s tastes, making bland, safe conversation with one another before introducing the program with “emerging details about the hotel fire in Manhattan”. Loki is mortified to see himself plunging from the ninth floor, ungainly as a ragdoll, while the female anchor narrates a brief summary of the day’s events.
A knock brings Loki back to the present. His door opens; Steve peers in a second later. He’s holding a tray of what looks to be breakfast.
“JARVIS, tell Tony that if he doesn’t cut it out with the TVs, I’m going to throw away every television in this house,” Steve declares, setting the tray on a small corner table before moving towards the noisy news program. He stops momentarily to watch a small, fatigued Loki plunge from a Hulk-sized hole in a crumbling hotel, and then punches the power button with force. The screen goes dark; the resulting silence is somehow more deafening than the anchor’s shrill, unpleasant voice.
“I brought you breakfast,” Steve finally says. He drags the small table over to Loki’s bedside. “Figured you’d be hungry.”
“You did not have to bring it to me.”
“Clint’s currently fighting for his right to cook. I wanted to save you the headache.” Steve tugs at his upper lip with his teeth. “Could I stay a second? If you aren’t too tired.”
Loki shifts his legs to offer space for Steve to sit on the mattress. He imagines Steve will stay only until the food is gone, so Loki takes the plate and wonders how long he could prolong the act of eating without rousing suspicion. Loki picks up his fork and pushes the eggs around. They smell delectable.
“I didn’t see you last night,” Loki idly observes. “I thought you would surely be interested to know of our success.”
Steve rubs his palms against the jeans Pepper purchased on his behalf. “I saw most of what happened. The stations went back to it every few minutes. You were, what, fifty stories up? I thought you were—that fall could have killed you.”
Loki dismisses the concern with a wave of his hand, secretly pleased Steve would be concerned in the first place.
“It would have done no such thing. I have endured far worse.”
“Why didn’t you use your magic? What held you back?”
“Impoverished. Temporarily. Nothing a bit of rest hasn’t restored.”
Steve rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, a nervous tick of motion, but finally nods his understanding. Thor once explained that magic is much like a muscle: used every day, it grows stronger; used less, and it weakens. Asgard required Loki’s magic daily, but on Earth, he has grown lax and tires more easily as a result. Training sessions of his own might be in order.
“You can be assured that it will take far more than a hotel to be the end of me,” Loki promises.
Steve does not comment at first, and Loki thinks perhaps his words were not heard. But finally Steve smiles, absently touches Loki’s knee through the blanket, and quietly moves to the window to raise the blinds, where sharp, white light pours in, casting angular shadows across the floor.
5. November. Coulson. An ID badge (or, something of little use but significant meaning).
Perhaps one of the least enjoyable tasks of being an Avenger are the lengthy, inefficient, mandated status meetings.
It’s at the end of such a meeting (Tony and Clint adjourn by childishly racing to the door; Tony wins by a margin) that Coulson, still situated at the end of the table, says, “Loki.”
Coulson does not wait for acknowledgement. Rather, he extends his left hand in Loki’s direction. He’s holding a small plastic card.
“ID badge,” Coulson continues, not bothering to look up from his computer tablet. “Required for admission into headquarters and all SHIELD offices.”
For a moment, Loki is literally lost for words. To suggest he requires a worthless scrap of plastic to enter and roam headquarters is so out of character for Coulson that Loki considers the possibility he is trying to be funny. He is surely the first to understand that Loki can go wherever he pleases, whenever he pleases. Clint gives a disbelieving snort from a few feet away.
“You realize I have traveled these halls without use of your ‘badges’,” Loki points out.
“All personnel are made to carry authorized identification,” Coulson states, still not looking up. It sounds like he’s reciting the rule from memory. “I’ve been meaning to issue yours for months. Unfortunately, these things are put on the back burner when you’re constantly running around the country acting as good Samaritans.”
When Loki neglects to take it, Coulson heaves an impossibly burdened sigh and tears his eyes from the tablet.
“I don’t expect you to actually use it. Eat the damn thing, if you want. But IDs are protocol, and protocol is what I do.” His gaze darts towards Steve. “I would even allow someone to accept this on your behalf.”
“Sounds like my cue,” Steve mutters, swiping the card from Coulson’s furious grip and then wrapping his fingers around Loki’s elbow, pulling him out of the room. Clint calmly follows.
“Agent Coulson is one cup of coffee away from cardiac arrest,” Steve says as they make their way past guards and agents, all of whom are too involved in their work to acknowledge three measly Avengers. “Maybe you should cut him some slack.”
“And perhaps he ought to waste someone else’s time rather than mine. I’ve never seen Thor use these ridiculous badges, and Coulson has never commented on it,” Loki remarks, put out by this blatant double-standard. Most everyone at SHIELD adores Thor’s genial personality and good humor, and never once have they asked to see proof that he is allowed to be here. As a matter of fact, no one on the team is carded, and Loki suspects he has escaped such humiliating questions only because he is with Steve most of the time.
Clint shrugs. “That’s because Thor was a good guy from the beginning. No offense.”
“You know what? I think I see Natasha in the break room. Go pester her," Steve says. "Maybe she’ll do us all a favor and knock you unconscious with a Styrofoam cup.”
“What? I’m just saying—”
“Clint. Seriously, give me two minutes,” Steve snaps. Clint raises his hands in surrender, takes a step back, and after a moment, seems to conclude the break room truly is the most entertaining area within headquarters.
“He did not offend me,” Loki finally says, when they are left in relative solitude. “In fact, it’s safe to say I treat most of Clint’s input as background noise.”
Steve shakes his head. Something like amusement forces his mouth into a half-smile.
“I know, but take this, okay?” He hands Loki the godforsaken card. “It’s just a gesture.”
“A gesture.”
“Sure. What Clint meant was that Fury had his reservations about you, and now he doesn’t. You're officially part of SHIELD, hence the ID.”
“Oh, that’s a weight off my shoulders. I am officially no longer a security risk.” Loki glances up to meet Steve’s eyes. “You have not had reservations about me for a long time.”
Steve’s ears turn pink as he licks his lips and concedes, soberly, “When you gave me the antidote, that second time. I asked you to stay because I didn’t want to say goodbye to them by myself. You didn’t go, and you could have. That’s when I knew you were really with us.”
“That was such a small thing. It’s hardly worth mentioning,” Loki argues. Of all the missions Loki has joined, all the hostages he has kept safe, all the natural disasters he has tried to control, that one night is Steve’s proof of Loki’s good intentions?
Steve shrugs. “Small things count most to me.”
He thinks of Steve’s books, Thor’s photographs, an ID card, tiny gifts given to Loki that bind him to this meager life more powerfully than magic, or Odin’s booming voice commanding him to stay in line.
+1. December. Steve. Love.
The new year brings fireworks, music, and thousands of people crowding Times Square to watch a silver ball drop at midnight. Loki isn’t among them. He’s with Steve, who’s planted himself on the mansion roof, balancing a clean, white sketchbook on his lap and rolling a piece of charcoal between confident fingers. Every movement of his hand results in a stark line that Steve smudges and whittles until the line disappears and only shades remain. This constant battle of black against white, this compromise of endless grays, is a magic all Steve’s own. Loki admires it.
He sits close enough that he can hear the scratch of charcoal, but not so close as to inhibit Steve’s movement. A small radio—one of the few technologies Steve has grown comfortable with—is situated several feet away, though the volume is low. Loki doesn’t mind. If he wanted noise and music, he would be midtown with Tony, Natasha, and Clint right now, amongst indisposed revelers and individuals who must shout to be heard. He prefers it here, in the cold and near-silence, watching a small array of fireworks that will grow larger as midnight draws near.
“You made a resolution last year,” Loki remembers (though, in truth, how could he forget the way Steve woke from the antidote, saddened by the loss of his comrades; the way he touched Loki’s neck and the way Loki wanted him, but it would have been wrong, then, a trespass of trust Loki worked hard to build). “You are nearly out of time to see it through.”
Steve glances towards him. It’s difficult to believe they have come this far in such a short time. Twelve months ago, everything had been uncertain: Loki’s role on Earth, his shaky inclusion on the team, Steve’s health—but now Tony trusts Loki enough to leave him here without hesitation, without considering that Loki was once their enemy.
“Figuring out why you decided to become an Avenger seems less important these days,” Steve answers, ever honest. “You’ve earned your right to be here without anyone, including me, questioning your motivations.”
The man on the radio (a “DJ”, Loki recalls) excitedly announces that it is three minutes until midnight, following this declaration with a cheesy suggestion of sidling up to one’s sweetheart. Loki is glad Asgard did not have such sugary traditions.
“And besides,” Steve continues, quieter, his hands growing still, “once I pieced the stories together—Thor’s, and what you’ve told me—your reasoning became pretty clear.”
“Did it?” Loki’s tone is cooler than he intends, but he has never been comfortable with those who can see through him, as Steve has apparently done. “Enlighten me.”
Steve makes a line on the paper but doesn’t smudge it away. It is a definite mark.
“Thor said you never really... belonged anywhere in Asgard. When you learned about your true heritage, you decided to destroy Odin’s greatest enemy to prove that you were loyal to Asgard and worthy of the throne.” Steve pauses before deciding to shoulder on. “But it backfired. Then you lost your family and home, all at once. You figured the only way to redeem yourself—at least in Thor’s eyes—was to do something good. And what better way to do that than become an Avenger.”
This theory is not even a theory: it is the truth, exactly as it happened. Loki’s natural inclination is to deny the entire account and paint an altogether different picture, but what point is there in lying? Steve is by no means stupid, and he’s learned to read between Loki’s lines.
After a long moment, Loki says, “After I fell from the bridge, Thor searched every realm for my body. Including Jotunheim. He contracted ice sickness during his time there and brought it back to Earth. You contracted it. I used your infection to my advantage.”
“Right. A cure for me in exchange for a spot on the team. Fury didn’t have a choice.”
Loki doesn’t look at Steve. He keeps his gaze fixed on the sky and swirling colors.
“I would have let you die had Fury not honored my wish to join the team. You do not find that objectionable?”
Steve has forgotten his drawing. He is merely rolling the charcoal between his fingers again, studying the horizon. Finally, he shakes his head.
“No,” he confesses. “Because I don't think you would have let me die. If earning Thor’s trust was your mission, you would have saved me because that's what he wanted. You're a good guy, whether you like it or not. A solid six out of ten, if I had to rate you.”
Loki stares at him. They’ve run out of minutes. Outside, New York is counting down the seconds until midnight, and the tiny, tinny radio-man is counting along with them.
10, 9, 8, he says. Loki removes the drawing and charcoal from Steve’s hands.
7, 6, 5, he says. Loki moves closer, and Steve lets him.
4, 3, 2, he says. Loki leans in, his mouth hovering just over Steve’s, holding his breath—
1, and then: Happy New Year!
Loki kisses him.
He’s witnessed numerous variations of a kiss: angry, violent, polite, begrudging, but he has never experienced one like this, a warm, deep, slow gesture that knots Loki’s stomach into a ball of blistering desire. He wraps his fingers around Steve’s collar, pulling him as close as they can manage in their awkward sprawl. Steve is not adverse to the plan, as he rests one hand on the back of Loki’s neck and places the other on his hip. Steve’s tongue is hot and slick, and after a long minute, Steve breaks away with a winded huff of laughter, flushed from the cold and the joy of this.
“Tell me one resolution you’re going to make,” he whispers as he dives in for another kiss. Their lips make a sound when they separate. “Something good, just for yourself.”
“I have every intention of eating right and exercising,” Loki punchily replies, a play on Steve’s own playful resolution from last year. He watches in awe as Steve, who seems charmed and delighted by Loki’s attempt at humor, laughs at the remark.
“You hardly eat and you’re stronger than anyone. Choose something else.”
“I’m going to quit my day job and join the circus.”
He is magnetized, kissing Steve repeatedly, unintentionally cutting off every other word.
“The team is a circus. Try again,” Steve repeats, grinning.
Loki meets Steve’s gaze.
“I am going to make you fall in love with me.”
“Hate to break it to you, but that happened ages ago,” Steve quietly states, slipping their fingers together. Loki allows the gesture; he doesn’t have the mind to say otherwise, struck by the ease with which Steve has admitted to loving him when so many others have done so out of obligation or pity. “You’re not very good at this. Maybe you should just ask what my resolution will be.”
Loki nods for him to go on. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything more.
Steve squeezes Loki’s left hand before bringing it up to his mouth.
“I don’t have any,” he answers, kissing Loki’s cold, pale fingers. “I am perfectly content.”
FIN.