They’re the ones that make it all worthwhile. (1/2) / The Avengers
Title: They’re the ones that make it all worthwhile. (1/2)
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Avengers (movieverse)
Summary: Five things Loki received out of friendship, and one thing he received out of love. A sequel to Tell me the story of how you ended up here. (I'd suggest you read that first.) Title from We Have Band’s Hero Knows.
A/N: Written before the (awesome) movie was released, so it does not follow canon.
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.
Despite his numerous faults, Loki can bequeath Tony a single accolade: Tony Stark is always, always, always up to something. The mansion is filled with a constant stream of clanking, clanging, shattering, banging, and rattling. 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 joyful unrestraint, and it is a shame that his other traits are not so agreeable.
More recently, the clanking, clanging, shattering, banging, and rattling have been coming from a spare guest room 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 guest room 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, I give. 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. 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 of any kind. Unless it’s plotting against bad guys. Or Clint, I’ll let you plot against Clint.”
“That’s exceedingly generous of you,” Loki sweetly replies, ignoring Tony’s one-fingered salute and his grumbled, “You’re welcome, asshole.”
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, huh? That means you’re part of the family, on the button. 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 room 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 throughout the city).
The more he sees the room 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.
Still, there are risks. Heimdall 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. Additionally, if Loki manages to get caught, the Avengers will have little sympathy. They might even say he deserves it for running off without telling anyone, and that will surely weigh on their decision as to whether his rescue is worth the trouble.
He composes a mental list of who 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 inevitably barbaric reaction. Tony would not be concerned so much as unable to keep his gigantic trap 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.
That 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 for a while,” 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, her mouth in its usual frown. 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. Please don’t shovel on yours.”
That 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 in your mouth. 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.” Her mouth thins into something resembling amusement. “Besides, Steve’s going to be angry enough for everyone, 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?”
Her perception is borderline unsettling. Not only can she figure why Loki chose her to divulge his plan, but she also predicts what might-and probably will-happen: being in Asgard will bring back the betrayal that his days on Earth have since assuaged. Ultimately, Loki knows Natasha is right. He is damaged and angry, but so is Bruce, who can’t have normal relationships; so is Tony, who defines the expression lonely at the top; so are Clint and Natasha, who have no one at home to worry about their safety.
So is Steve, who has lost his family to time and war.
Loki 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 thrown over 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 them when he and Thor became 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,” comes a cold voice. “It is just as well no one will notice it missing.”
Loki freezes in his boots, as though trapped within one of the photographs Thor is so fond of taking. He turns, where 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 boney 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, 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, where she is hunched like an ancient witch, timeless and powerful and yet, somehow, ready to die. He 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 by 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 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 (the Colonel is intelligent, decisive, and treats Loki with cordial respect) 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 to 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.”
“What’s the location?” Natasha demands.
“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.”
Rhodes’ tone is admonishing when he snaps, “Don’t even think about it, Tony. 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 of 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 like Neptune himself, the ocean king of ancient Rome’s false pantheon.
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 calling the kettle black. 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 they have ended up here, among ice and howling wind, an echo of where Steve was first unearthed?
The North wishes to keep Steve Rogers for itself.
Loki grips Steve tight and jumps to California, where there is nothing but desert and sun.
Part II
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Avengers (movieverse)
Summary: Five things Loki received out of friendship, and one thing he received out of love. A sequel to Tell me the story of how you ended up here. (I'd suggest you read that first.) Title from We Have Band’s Hero Knows.
A/N: Written before the (awesome) movie was released, so it does not follow canon.
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.
Despite his numerous faults, Loki can bequeath Tony a single accolade: Tony Stark is always, always, always up to something. The mansion is filled with a constant stream of clanking, clanging, shattering, banging, and rattling. 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 joyful unrestraint, and it is a shame that his other traits are not so agreeable.
More recently, the clanking, clanging, shattering, banging, and rattling have been coming from a spare guest room 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 guest room 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, I give. 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. 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 of any kind. Unless it’s plotting against bad guys. Or Clint, I’ll let you plot against Clint.”
“That’s exceedingly generous of you,” Loki sweetly replies, ignoring Tony’s one-fingered salute and his grumbled, “You’re welcome, asshole.”
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, huh? That means you’re part of the family, on the button. 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 room 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 throughout the city).
The more he sees the room 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.
Still, there are risks. Heimdall 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. Additionally, if Loki manages to get caught, the Avengers will have little sympathy. They might even say he deserves it for running off without telling anyone, and that will surely weigh on their decision as to whether his rescue is worth the trouble.
He composes a mental list of who 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 inevitably barbaric reaction. Tony would not be concerned so much as unable to keep his gigantic trap 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.
That 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 for a while,” 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, her mouth in its usual frown. 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. Please don’t shovel on yours.”
That 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 in your mouth. 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.” Her mouth thins into something resembling amusement. “Besides, Steve’s going to be angry enough for everyone, 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?”
Her perception is borderline unsettling. Not only can she figure why Loki chose her to divulge his plan, but she also predicts what might-and probably will-happen: being in Asgard will bring back the betrayal that his days on Earth have since assuaged. Ultimately, Loki knows Natasha is right. He is damaged and angry, but so is Bruce, who can’t have normal relationships; so is Tony, who defines the expression lonely at the top; so are Clint and Natasha, who have no one at home to worry about their safety.
So is Steve, who has lost his family to time and war.
Loki 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 thrown over 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 them when he and Thor became 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,” comes a cold voice. “It is just as well no one will notice it missing.”
Loki freezes in his boots, as though trapped within one of the photographs Thor is so fond of taking. He turns, where 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 boney 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, 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, where she is hunched like an ancient witch, timeless and powerful and yet, somehow, ready to die. He 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 by 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 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 (the Colonel is intelligent, decisive, and treats Loki with cordial respect) 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 to 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.”
“What’s the location?” Natasha demands.
“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.”
Rhodes’ tone is admonishing when he snaps, “Don’t even think about it, Tony. 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 of 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 like Neptune himself, the ocean king of ancient Rome’s false pantheon.
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 calling the kettle black. 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 they have ended up here, among ice and howling wind, an echo of where Steve was first unearthed?
The North wishes to keep Steve Rogers for itself.
Loki grips Steve tight and jumps to California, where there is nothing but desert and sun.
Part II