Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steve is not having a particularly good day.

Well, most of it was fine, and he came home from school in a cheerful mood because it was still sunny outside and that meant he could sit out on the front steps and draw in his sketchbook while the light was still good. (He only has 10 blank pages left, but as long as he’s careful and he keeps his sketches small, he’s thinks he can make it last the next few months until his birthday, when he’s pretty sure his mom will give him another one.) And for a little while he did just that, painstakingly trying to capture the way the light was glinting off the windows of the top-floor apartments down the street, and in general he was having a nice afternoon.

…for maybe 20 minutes. At that point, Leah from next door, who’s smaller than any other 7-year-old he’s ever seen and who always walks with a limp, came outside to play with her doll on the sidewalk. Frank and Oscar from across the street noticed right away, and apparently they were bored, because they sauntered over and snatched her doll, tossing it back and forth between each other while she tried to jump for it, and laughed at her when she started crying, and Steve couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.

So he marched up and demanded the doll back, and Oscar laughed and asked what a punk like Steve was going to do about it, and Steve made a grab for the doll and Frank shoved him, and that’s why he’s sprawled on the pavement a few minutes later with scraped knees and elbows, struggling to pick himself up for the third time and face them. It’s definitely not how he hoped to spend his evening.

Come to think of it, a lot of Steve’s bad days recently have started with Frank and Oscar, or some of the older boys at school, deciding the best way to deal with being bored was to pick on littler kids. In Frank and Oscar’s case, that includes pretty much every kid on the block, because they’re the biggest and meanest 5th-graders he knows, but going after Leah is a new low. So Steve isn’t sorry for involving himself, because nobody else was around to stick up for her, and she’s back inside now with her doll after Steve managed to get it back during the tussle, but that sure doesn’t mean he’s enjoying himself.

Oscar kicks him, hard, and Steve goes down again, gasping. He manages to get in a decent kick of his own at Frank’s shin, a tiny victory he doesn’t get to enjoy for more than a couple seconds before they both start pummeling him.

And then suddenly they’re not, and Steve lurches back to his feet to find both boys staring at him—no, through him.

“Where’d he go?” Frank says.

“I believe he went that way,” another boy says, one Steve would swear wasn’t here a minute ago. He waves his hand down the street.

“Little bastard thinks he can run, huh?” Oscar says. “Let’s get ‘em.” Apparently too focused on wanting to pound somebody to question where the new boy’s come from, they both take off, leaving Steve with a kid he’s definitely never met before. He’s probably about Steve’s age, a little on the thin side, with black hair and nicer clothes than anything Steve’s ever owned, and he’s looking at Steve with a sly grin.

“You did something,” Steve says stupidly.

“A trick of the light, really,” the boy says, but he looks pleased with himself. “And they won’t bother you again tonight, I should think. I sent them after an illusion that won’t vanish for half an hour or so, and it should lead them on rather a merry chase. Well, not so merry for them, I suppose.”

Steve straightens, alarmed. “Wait, you can’t make them think I ran away!”

The boy raises one eyebrow. “Can I not?”

“No, that’s—they’re never going to stop picking on people if they think they can just chase me off, I don’t want them to think I’m gonna back down—”

“Well, they are gone now, and I rather think I’ve done you a favor,” the boy says dismissively. “You could stand to show a little gratitude.”

Steve crosses his arms, hiding a wince when the gesture pulls on torn skin. “I don’t need any favors.”

“Really,” the boy says. “Yes, it certainly looked like you were taking care of yourself.”

“I don’t even know you,” Steve says, trying to rein in his irritation because okay, yes, he’s not exactly sorry that he’s not still getting beat up right now. “Why haven’t I seen you around here before?”

The boy actually looks offended. “I am not from here, obviously. Wherever here is. I hadn’t actually expected Midgard to be so dirty. Is it all like this?”

“My street’s not that dirty,” Steve says, stung. “And if you don’t like it, what are you doing here?”

The boy shrugs. “I was bored, and my brother wants to do nothing but spar with his friends, of late. Which apparently no longer includes—” He shakes himself, the brief flicker of hurt vanishing as he tilts his head to look down his nose at Steve even though they’re the same height, and his tone turns imperious. “I am Prince Loki Odinson of Asgard, and you are clearly a commoner, so not only should you be grateful, you should probably bow to me.”

Combined with everything else, there’s too much going on in that declaration to parse, so Steve ends up seizing on the first thing that comes to mind: “I’m American. We don’t have to do that.”

The boy—Loki—eyes him suspiciously. “You just made that up.”

“No I didn’t. We talked about it in school last week. Winning the Revolutionary War meant we don’t have to bow to foreign royalty. Everybody knows that.”

“Well, I didn’t, so obviously ‘everybody’ doesn’t, and if you’re wrong about that, how do you know you’re not supposed to bow?”

Steve stares at him for a moment. “Do you want to see my schoolbooks or something?”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Loki says in the tone of someone generously granting a significant favor, and then he settles next to Steve on the pavement. “Tell me about this revolution. Did your father fight in it?”

“I…no,” Steve says blankly. “Of course not. That was almost 200 years ago.”

“Surely you are at least that old yourself,” Loki says.

Steve stares at him. “I’m turning 10 this summer.”

Loki frowns, looking about as confused as Steve feels, and then his expression clears. “Midgardian lifespans, of course. I’d entirely forgotten.” He glances around. “I confess Midgard does not look much like I was expecting, either.”

“Uh,” Steve says. “What were you expecting?”

“Mud huts, I imagine.” Loki shrugs. “Then again, perhaps it has been long enough; I am not quite sure what time I am visiting, either.”

“It’s April,” Steve says, feeling more out of his depth with pretty much every word Loki says. “1928.”

“In your reckoning, yes,” Loki says. “Hmm. How long has it been since the ice war?”

“The what,” Steve says blankly.

“The invasion of the Frost Giants,” Loki says in a tone of exaggerated patience. “Surely your species has not forgotten.”

“The…you mean Russians?” Steve says, grasping after the first thing that comes to mind. “We weren’t fighting them in the war, they were fighting Germany.”

“Only if ‘Russians’ look like this.” Loki makes an odd twisting gesture and suddenly an image is floating above his hand, maybe a foot high, of something roughly human-shaped but blue and horned and scary-looking. “They are quite large,” he adds. “Perhaps twice as tall as the average Aesir male, and vicious.”

Steve stares. “Uh, no, I’m pretty sure Russians look like normal people. How are you doing that?”

“Magic, of course,” Loki says, as if it’s obvious. “I take it your people have forgotten the Jotnar after all.”

“I guess,” Steve says. “Magic, really?”

Loki closes his hand and the image vanishes, and Steve tries to hide his disappointment. “You’ve never seen magic at all?”

“Magic isn’t real. That’s what the adults say, anyway.”

“Is that what they say on Midgard now,” Loki says, and he starts to smile. “Well, your adults are wrong. Perhaps humans have forgotten, but we certainly haven’t.”

This is definitely not how Steve was expecting his day to go (if he’d expected anything specific in the first place, which he hadn’t, although getting roughed up wasn’t a huge surprise at this point), but he’s suddenly starting to think meeting Loki could be the best thing that’s happened to him in weeks. “Can you show me something else?”

A lot of what Loki tells him doesn’t make a huge amount of sense to Steve, but the magic part is clear enough, which makes him more willing to believe Loki’s claim that he’s 503 years old and he comes from a different planet (although the word he uses is “realm”) and probably a different time. He creates more images in the air, of a long glittering bridge and a golden castle and a tree that spans galaxies, a little blurry and indistinct but still fascinating and magical, and in the face of Steve’s obvious wonder, his arrogance drops away like it was a role he was playing until he’s as eager to show what he can do as Steve is to see it. It’s dark outside by the time Loki looks up at the sky and says he should go home, and Steve doesn’t think he’s imagining the disappointed note in the other boy’s voice.

“Back to Asgard, right?” Steve says. “It looks amazing. I wish I could visit.”

“Someday, perhaps,” Loki says, “if I am able to return here,” and then he flushes. “I…do not believe I ever asked your name.”

“I’m Steve.” He sticks out his hand to shake. “Steve Rogers.”

“Well met, Steve Rogers,” Loki says, clasping his forearm instead. “I hope to see you again.” He lets go, steps back, and vanishes into thin air.

“Right,” Steve says after a few seconds of staring at the spot where Loki was just standing. “Magic. Okay.”

A few weeks later, he’s sitting out on the front steps again because he finally convinced his mom it would be okay, but he knows she’s keeping an eye on him and he hates that she feels like she has to. He shifts position and winces, one arm coming up to wrap around his ribs.

There’s a faint noise at the edge of his hearing, sort of a rustle, and then Loki steps into view. “Found you!” he says, grinning in triumph, and then his gaze lands on the position of Steve’s arm and his smile drops away. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Steve says shortly.

Loki frowns. “What happened?”

It’s probably not fair to be mad at Loki about this, but Steve’s mad anyway, and even the possibility of seeing more magic doesn’t really help. “Remember I said Frank and Oscar were going to think I ran away and that would be bad? Well, they did, so when I had to rescue Leah’s doll again last week, they figured I was going to run away again, only I didn’t, and they hit harder than usual, and I ended up with some cracked ribs.” He can feel himself glaring and doesn’t try to soften it. “Which wouldn’t be so bad except now my mom doesn’t want to let me out of her sight, so she took some time off from work, which she can’t actually afford, so she’s been staying up late doing other people’s laundry instead and barely sleeping, and she’s worried, and it’s my fault.”

Loki looks stricken. “I…did not realize…”

“No, because you figured a prince didn’t need to listen to a commoner,” Steve says, probably more nastily than he needs to, especially since it’s not making him feel any better.

“I am sorry,” Loki says quietly, looking down. “I could…try to heal your ribs? I have not learned a great deal of healing magic, but I believe I can do that. If you would allow me.”

“…you can do that?”

“I can try,” Loki says. “There are some who could heal you more fully, with or without healing stones. I have not progressed that far in my studies.”

“Well…I guess.”

Loki moves closer, just enough to touch one hand to Steve’s chest, his forehead furrowing in concentration. Unexpected warmth blooms near Steve’s heart, only for a second, and when it fades, his ribs really do hurt less. That done, Loki drops his hand and steps back. “Once again, you have my apologies,” he says, his voice stiff and formal. “I will trouble you no further.” He starts to turn away, but not before Steve gets a glimpse of his face, and he knows exactly what that expression looks like, when you’re miserable but you don’t want to let anyone see.

“Hey, wait,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault. Just…listen to me next time, okay?”

Loki hesitates. “Next time?”

“Yeah, I mean…if you want to come back again, however you’re doing it.”

“I would like that,” Loki says, but cautiously, like he’s expecting Steve to yell at him, or laugh and say he was just kidding.

“And you don’t have to leave now,” Steve says. “If you want to stay a little longer. Asgard’s probably more interesting, but—”

“Not particularly,” Loki says. He hesitates. “Perhaps you would—have you ever played tafl?”

“I don’t know what that is, sorry.”

“A game of tactics and strategy,” Loki says, “with opposing sides represented by colored pieces on a board. It is…Thor says it is dull.”

“Like chess?” Steve says. “I have a chess set—it’s old, but maybe that would work. If you wanted to teach me?”

Loki’s eyes light up. “I’d love to.”

Tafl, as it turns out, is enough like chess that Steve picks up the rules pretty quickly, although he’s not particularly good at either game, with as little chance as he’s had to practice. But Loki’s a mostly patient teacher, even if he doesn’t hold back from wiping the floor with Steve in each game, and he’s quick to compliment Steve on a clever play. It’s nice, having a game to play that doesn’t involve him struggling to keep up with everyone else (it’s nice having someone who’s willing to play with him at all, for that matter). Loki’s polite and charming to Steve’s mom, too, somehow managing to convince her within about five minutes that Steve doesn’t need babysitting and she doesn’t have to worry. Overall, it’s a good afternoon after a not-so-great week.

“We could go to Central Park, if you want,” Steve suggests, the next time Loki shows up a couple weeks later. “You can see our castle.”

Loki looks like he’s trying very hard not to show his skepticism. “You have a castle?”

“Well, it’s not mine, it’s just New York’s, kind of, but everybody can visit. Nobody lives at Belvedere Castle, but it’s still pretty neat.”

“Lead on, then,” Loki says. “I confess I am curious to see what Midgardian fortifications look like.”

He uses some kind of magic (illusions, he says when Steve asks) to get them past the subway turnstiles without paying, which Steve thinks he should probably feel guiltier about than he does, but…well, it’s not like they’re hurting anybody. Loki isn’t overly impressed with the subway system in general, although he acknowledges that it’s “reasonably efficient, for Midgardian transportation,” if nowhere near as good as Asgard’s flying skiffs.

It’s kind of overcast that day and some of the grass hasn’t turned green yet, but Steve still likes getting out into the open when he spends so much of his time in the shadow of one tall building or another. He points up the path to Belvedere Castle where it sits on a slight rise overlooking the park, a solid stone structure like something out of another century. “See? Castle.”

Loki’s eyebrows go up. “That is not a castle.”

“Sure it is,” Steve says. “It’s just not a very big one.”

“That is not a castle,” Loki says. “That is a decoration.”

“And when invaders try to take over Central Park,” Steve says dryly, “I’m sure that will be a problem. Do you want to see it or not?”

“Very well, lead on.”

Steve grins. “Last one there is a rotten egg!” He takes off in a sprint, Loki sputtering “a what?” behind him. His lungs are burning by the time he’s halfway up the hill, and Loki overtakes him easily, laughing over his shoulder and then noticeably slowing when he sees Steve struggling to keep up.

“Don’t you dare let me win,” Steve pants, doing his best attempt at an intimidating glare, which he’s well aware isn’t very intimidating. “When I beat you…it’s gonna be…fair and square.”

Loki actually turns around at that and starts running backward. Before Steve can find the breath to yell at Loki for making fun of him, Loki says earnestly, “As an Asgardian, I already have an unfair advantage. A handicap makes it much more sporting.”

Steve grunts and pushes himself harder. Even running backward, Loki is still faster, although not as much, and he makes the top only a few paces ahead of Steve, grabbing his hand to pull him up the last few steps. Steve staggers to a halt, wheezing a little bit, but it doesn’t feel like it’s going to turn into an asthma attack. And Loki hasn’t let go of his hand yet, which is sort of nice.

“So are you a rotten egg now?” Loki asks, once Steve’s caught his breath. “And why in the Realms does reaching a place last make you a rotten egg?”

“It’s just a thing people say,” Steve says. “I don’t know, I guess I’ve never thought about it.”

Loki leans back against the wall. “Are all Midgardian sayings so peculiar?”

“Okay, well, a rotten egg’s been sitting out too long, so…it came in last, or something? It probably made sense originally.”

“Fine,” Loki allows, “but just in listening to your neighbors talk, I have heard both ‘easy as pie’ and ‘piece of cake’ in reference to simple tasks, and I cannot conceive of any way that either is comprehensible individually, let alone in relation to the other.”

Steve thinks about it for a minute and comes up empty. “I have no idea. I bet I know where we could find out, though.”

So that’s how Steve ends up in the library on a Saturday afternoon, something else he feels like maybe he should mind but doesn’t. He’s always liked books, even if most of the other kids at school think that’s boring. Loki’s whole expression lights up when he sees all the shelves, and he drags Steve all over the library, hauling down books on about ten different topics before setting up at a table with his stack of volumes.

“Here we are,” Loki says, pointing to a 15th-century painting of explorers in one of the history books he grabbed. “I asked Heimdall what Midgard is like during my time, and he said the humans in Europe currently mark the year as Anno Domini 1428.”

Steve stares. “That’s 500 years ago.”

“Is it?” Loki looks pleased. “I was even more successful than I’d hoped, then. I wonder what I am doing now, here in my future.”

Steve shakes his head. He doesn’t even slightly understand how magic works in general, but this seems even more bizarre. “Is that a problem? That you’re kind of in two places at once?”

Loki shrugs. “If I were to visit my older self in this time, perhaps, which I do not intend to do. I think my presence here should not affect my own future. Time is extremely complicated.” He flips several chapters ahead and stops on a diagram of an early airplane. “Oh, that’s clever. Well, primitive, but clever for a society without magic.”

“Thanks, I think,” Steve says.

“As a species, you have all come rather a long way in a very short time. I suppose it helps that you live such short lives—you must always feel as if you are running out of time.”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “Some people just like inventing better ways to do things, I guess.” He pulls the book toward him to find a timeline, and Loki obligingly lets go and turns to a medical history from his pile. “So if you’re about 500 now, then when you were born, that would’ve been…wow, the 10th century? That’s…the Dark Ages. Oh, and Vikings.”

Loki glances over. “Vikings. That sounds vaguely familiar.”

“They’re mostly in Scandinavia,” Steve says, skimming the text. “Norway and Denmark and places like that.”

“Norway,” Loki says. “As in, populated by the Norse? I think that is where Father took me and Thor, the first time we visited Midgard. I wonder if the people there still tell stories about us.”

“I bet we could find out.” Steve heads back to the shelves and Loki follows, and after a little trial and error, they find a book of Norse mythology, which Loki opens right there in the middle of the aisle. “Hold on, is that supposed to be you?”

Loki frowns at the image, a copy of an ancient carving that is labeled with his name but looks nothing like him (for one thing, it seems to have a mustache). “If these dates are correct, that was created long before I ever visited Midgard.”

“Is this just another weird thing with time, then?”

“That, or the interchange of other realities and stories, I suppose,” Loki says, as if that’s a normal thing that makes sense. He pages forward and then goes still, eyes fixed on a much newer image: a naked man, features contorted in pain, chained up below a giant snake. Loki Bound, Steve reads, imprisoned for eternity with venom dripping in his eyes, fated to escape and bring about the end of all things.

“That’s not you,” Steve says when Loki doesn’t move. “You just said so. It’s—stories, that’s all.”

Loki closes the book and drops it back on the shelf. “Or that could be my future. The Norns bestow the gift of foresight wherever they wish, after all, even to mortals. Maybe I am—destined to be nothing but a liar and a destroyer, hated and feared by all. Destined for that.” He wraps his arms around himself, looking upset, and Steve wants to make him feel better but he doesn’t know how.

“Well…I like you,” he says finally. “I don’t think you’re any of those things. And if somebody ties you up under a big snake, then I’ll just have to break in and rescue you.”

Loki laughs a little at that. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Promise. Cross my heart and everything.”

Loki smiles, an oddly thoughtful expression. “Do you know, I think I believe you.”

Chapter Text

Loki’s visits become a weird, irregular sort of routine, like he’s a pen pal who occasionally stops by to visit in person. Steve never knows when Loki’s going to show up, days or weeks or even a few months apart (the time in between often works out to years for Loki, although he never looks much older). Loki brings treats from Asgard most of the time, usually something richer and more filling than the snacks Steve’s mom can afford, especially after the banks collapse. Steve introduces Loki to his favorite comic books and radio shows, and although Loki handily beats him at card games and tafl most of the time, Steve gets good enough that he wins sometimes too.

There are definitely advantages to having a mage for a friend, even if he’s only around part of the time. He creates images of Asgard to show Steve his home, and sometimes he’s able to magically repair toys and things that Steve can’t replace and hasn’t figured out how to fix. In 1930, when Steve proudly tells him that the new Chrysler Building is the tallest in the world, Loki’s magic lets them sneak inside unseen, all the way up to the top where it’s open to the wind and the whole city is spread out below them, stretching to every horizon. When they get caught on the way back down, Loki’s magic gets them out of that too, helping hide them until the security guards have passed, which is exciting in a pretty different way. At various points, Loki teaches Steve some sleight-of-hand tricks he’s learned, the closest thing a non-mage can come to actual magic. Loki knows a lot about lockpicking, too, which is something else Steve thinks he should feel guiltier about than he does.

It’s nice, just in general, having a friend.

When Steve is 12, he meets Bucky for the first time, because apparently being noticed in back-alley fistfights is the only way he can make friends. Bucky actually backs him up and helps him chase off the bullies, something even Loki didn’t really do, which Steve chooses not to emphasize when he tells Loki about his new friend.

“Should I be jealous?” Loki asks—lightly, but with an undercurrent of something else that makes Steve frown.

“Why would you be?” he says. “You have friends back home too, right?”

“Of course,” Loki says, his expression going slightly stiff, and Steve remembers what he’s said, about Thor and his friends. He’d sort of assumed…but then, Loki’s never mentioned anyone else. Maybe he really doesn’t have other friends.

“I don’t really have any friends here,” he admits. “Just Bucky now, I think. There aren’t a lot of kids in my neighborhood to begin with, and most of them—” He shrugs. “They’re jerks and they like picking on younger kids. I don’t want to be friends with them either.”

“Thor seems to have no trouble making friends,” Loki says, very neutrally.

“I bet I wouldn’t even like him.”

“You would,” Loki says, like it’s a law of the universe. “Thor is…bright, and boisterous, and everyone loves him, even when they are displeased with him. He is impossible to ignore. And I am…not him.”

“Well, I’m your friend,” Steve says. “Not Thor’s. That’s not going to change just because I met Bucky.”

Loki smirks, his expression a little easier. “And you should have a friend who can regularly rescue you from ill-conceived brawls.”

“I was winning that one.”

“I highly doubt that, but I suppose we must all be allowed our delusions.”

It’s a mild Saturday in early May and Steve is holed up in his room, studying for final exams, which is definitely one of the worst parts about high school, when Loki slips into view behind him. Steve turns his chair around, grateful for a distraction, but frowns as he takes in the flatness of Loki’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

Loki raises an eyebrow. “Must something be wrong for me to wish to visit you?”

“No, but you look like something’s wrong. Did Thor and his friends leave you behind again?”

“Ah, no, nothing like that. They’ve done that rather less of late, actually, now that they’ve realized my seidr can be useful to them on occasion. Not that they ever remember to say so afterwards,” Loki adds, bitterness creeping into his voice, “when they are all boasting of their feats and they conveniently forget that I saved their lives or made the victory possible in the first place.”

Steve grimaces. “That’s rough.”

“At least they have mostly stopped grumbling about the presence on their adventures of someone who is not a true warrior—to my face, at any rate.”

“So,” Steve says. “What’s wrong?”

Loki sighs. “Yesterday was my birthday.”

Steve frowns. “I take it you didn’t have a very good one. Did everybody forget or something?”

Loki hesitates. “Not precisely. No. Mother gave me a book on magical theory, Thor’s gift was a new set of throwing knives, and Father gave me an enormous broadsword, which…I cannot use without drastically changing my fighting style. Well, he had it delivered to my chambers, anyway. He was…very busy.”

“Does that happen a lot?” Steve asks.

“He does seem to be rather less busy when Thor or his accomplishments are being celebrated,” Loki says, not quite tartly, and then he shakes his head. “Forgive me. I should not—it is unimportant, truly.”

“I asked,” Steve says. “And it kind of sounds important to you.”

“Jealousy is unbecoming,” Loki says, like it’s automatic, and Steve gets the strong impression it’s something he’s been told more than once.

“That’s not—what? How is it bad to be upset about something unfair?”

Loki shrugs, looking down. After a moment he says, “We Aesir live such long lives that we mark such events differently as we age, or at least that is the common practice. Young children’s birthdays are celebrated every year; later, perhaps the day is marked in small ways but is truly celebrated once each decade, or once per century for adults and those nearing adulthood. I am approaching that age myself, so it is not as though I expect a regular, lavish celebration or anything of that sort. It is only…”

“Thor gets a bigger party?” Steve guesses.

“A feast of some kind, most years,” Loki says, his voice flat. “It is good for our warriors’ morale, you see. When he turned 750, the festivities lasted nearly a fortnight, and he was gifted with Mjolnir, a weapon of great power. So I thought…well.”

“Yesterday was your 750th too,” Steve says (it still feels unreal to him to measure someone’s lifespan with numbers that high, but when he does the math in his head, he’s pretty sure that’s about equivalent to 15, so basically Steve’s age).

Loki looks down again and nods. “In truth, I am not sure anyone remembered this year was anything out of the ordinary.”

Steve and his mom have never had much, but she’s always managed to make Christmas and his birthday special in some small way, taking extra shifts to afford an art book for him or ingredients for a cake. He’s been a little jealous sometimes of the stuff other kids’ parents can afford, but he’s never, ever felt forgotten. In every other way, Loki’s so much richer that Steve can barely comprehend it, but—

“Well,” he says, “I can’t throw you a feast, but I can take you to Coney Island for ice cream or something.”

“Ice cream,” Loki says.

“Yeah, haven’t you—no, of course you haven’t had ice cream, that’s my fault. I don’t really want to spend money on the rides right now, but just walking around is fun, and I can at least do ice cream.”

“I would like that,” Loki admits.

Getting to Coney Island takes a while, but it’s a nice day, not hot enough yet to make the subway ride miserable. At least, Steve isn’t miserable; Loki starts looking wilty almost as soon as they get into the train car, enough that Steve gets a little worried, but after a few moments of concentration, Loki produces an invisible bubble of cool air surrounding both of them. Steve is impressed and more than slightly jealous. Once they leave the train at the Coney Island station and get back out into the open air, there’s a decent breeze coming off the water, and Loki lets the working go.

“How long have you been able to do that?” Steve asks.

Loki considers. “A century or so now, I suppose. Temperature control is not typically among the early skills taught to young mages, to my knowledge, but I was motivated.”

“Asgard summers are pretty hot?”

Loki shrugs. “Sometimes. The heat never seems to bother anyone else overmuch, but I have long been…more sickly than others. Simply another example of a constitution ill-suited for a warrior, I suppose.” His voice is doing that thing again where its deliberate lightness doesn’t quite mask whatever he’s trying to hide, although at least in this case Steve knows exactly what he means.

“I still get sick in the summer, usually,” he says, and huffs out a laugh. “Well, I can get sick any season, it’s the one thing I’m good at, but summer especially when everything’s hot and muggy. Here we go, this vendor doesn’t charge extra for toppings.”

Loki balks again when Steve pulls out his wallet. “You needn’t, truly.”

“I know,” Steve says. “But it’s your birthday, and I want to.” He buys them both double-scoop cones with chocolate sauce and hands one to Loki as they head down the boardwalk. “Careful, it’ll melt and start dripping if you don’t eat it fast enough. Uh, but don’t eat it too fast or you’ll get a headache. You just lick it.”

Loki smiles sidelong at him, looking faintly amused. “I think I can manage.” He licks at the ice cream once, delicately, and then his eyes widen a little and he returns to it with a lot more enthusiasm.

“I guess you like it,” Steve says, grinning.

“This is good. I wonder if the cooks at home could make something similar.” He catches a drip running down the side of the cone. “How is it made?”

“No idea. I bet we could look it up somewhere, though. I think it’s milk, ice, and sugar, mostly.”

“Mm.” Loki’s almost reached the cone already—maybe Asgardians just don’t get ice cream headaches—and is finally slowing down. “Well, if you can find me a recipe, I will see what can be done.” He neatly sidesteps a child running between them and smiles at Steve in a way that makes his heartbeat pick up. “Thank you, my friend.”

Steve ducks his head. “Glad you like it.” His own ice cream is starting to melt, and taking care of that keeps him occupied for a few minutes. Then Loki hops up to sit on the boardwalk railing, facing the beach and the water. Steve scrambles up next to him a lot less gracefully, but he manages, and for a little while they just watch the boats and beachgoers, with the Wonder Wheel standing sentinel overhead.

“When is your birthday?” Loki asks.

“July 4, actually. Just a couple months away now. There’s always…” His lips twitch. “My mom used to say the fireworks were just for me, like the city was wishing me a happy birthday too.”

“I am afraid this is another custom with which I am unfamiliar.”

“Right, yeah, of course. July 4 is America’s independence day, since back in—well, actually, that’s not important. Everybody celebrates with fireworks, they’re like colorful little explosions, and we don’t have a great view but my mom started taking me up to the roof to see better.” Steve laughs a little. “I think she felt bad after a while for telling me the fireworks were for me, but I’d already figured it out, and honestly I didn’t mind. I’m nobody special, I know the city’s not going to celebrate me, but it’s still nice feeling like everyone’s celebrating with me.”

“Well,” Loki says, “to your assertion that you are ‘nobody special,’ I would be inclined to point out that you are almost certainly the only living human to count a prince of Asgard as a friend. Which…focuses on me rather more than I intended.”

Steve snorts. “That was pretty much luck anyway, right? You could’ve stumbled across anybody.”

“True enough. But I met you instead, and I am glad of it. If either of us has cause to be grateful for that luck, I think it would be me.” He darts a glance toward Steve and then away, studying the shoreline, and Steve is suddenly struck by how beautiful Loki is. He’s noticed before, but not quite like this, with the breeze ruffling Loki’s hair and the sun highlighting those fine, sharp features Steve is always itching to draw. He doesn’t just want to draw Loki now, though; mostly he’s wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

It’s a dangerous thought for a whole bunch of reasons, so he stuffs it down and clambers back down off the railing. “Let’s keep going. My butt’s falling asleep.”

Loki laughs but follows him. They spend the afternoon wandering between the beach and the amusements lining the boardwalk, and if Steve finds himself wanting to take Loki’s hand, well, at least he keeps himself from acting on it. By the time they get back to Steve’s apartment, the sun is low, his shoes are full of sand, his trousers are stiff with dried seawater from a failed attempt at outrunning the waves, and his face is sunburned, but he can’t imagine why he would care.

“Thank you,” Loki says again, stopping in the shadow of Steve’s building. “Truly. I am indeed lucky to count you as a friend, Steve Rogers.” He steps back, still smiling, and vanishes.

The next time Steve sees him, it’s slightly more than two months later and he’s sitting on the roof sketching the skyline when Loki pops into existence next to him. He’s doing a terrible job of trying to hide a self-satisfied grin, so whatever his latest prank was, it must have gone well. Before he can ask, Loki says, “Your birthday is soon, yes?”

“Last week, actually.”

“Damn. I’d hoped to find you on the day itself, but—well, nothing for it now. I wanted…” He reaches into a satchel, hesitates, and pulls out a small wooden box. “I brought you a gift. A small thing, but—I hope you like it.”

Steve sets his sketchbook aside and takes the box, intrigued. The top opens on a hinge; inside, cradled in a nest of straw, is a black crystal ball about the size of Steve’s two fists, with a polished wooden base. When he pulls it out, flecks of color glint across its surface wherever the sun hits it. It’s pretty, but he can’t think why Loki would give him a fancy paperweight, and he’s not sure how to ask without sounding ungrateful.

“Put your hand on the sphere,” Loki says, his voice still full of suppressed excitement, “and think of your fireworks.”

Steve does. A tiny spark of light shoots up from the base of the globe and bursts under his fingers, then another and another, red and blue and gold and green, spiraling downward and fading out before exploding again, and his confusion turns to wonder as he stares at it. It’s like a snow globe but it’s full of little fireworks instead, fireworks that look just like the real thing in silent, miniature form. He turns it in his hand and the lights follow the motion, sinking back to and shooting out from what’s now the bottom, in spirals and spiders and starbursts.

“Fireworks in a jar,” Steve says. “This is incredible.”

Loki grins. “It is, isn’t it? I didn’t make the globe, of course, I bought that, but the enchantment is mine, built from scratch.”

Steve turns the globe again, marveling at the tiny little world in his hands. “I thought you didn’t know what fireworks were?”

“As it happens, they are a very old invention—as Midgard marks time, anyway—so I was able to observe some myself at a celebration of some kind in China, and I replicated those. So…now you have fireworks that really are just for you.”

The globe is slightly warm against his palms, and Steve closes his hands over it. “This is—way better than anything I gave you.”

Loki looks at him with a crooked smile. “I suppose that is a matter of perspective.”

“Okay, well, I think it’s great. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” Loki says, which would sound formal and not entirely sincere coming from anyone else. “I also…wanted you to have something from Asgard, something you can keep.”

Steve glances up sharply. Maybe that shouldn’t sound final, but it does anyway. “Why?”

“Must I require an additional motive for a gift?”

“No, but that sounded like you have one anyway.”

Loki shrugs. “Pessimism, most likely. I have no talent for seeing the future, but it has become slightly more difficult for me to find you, and in case that trend continues—well. I may be concerned for nothing. But—selfish as it may be—I would like a reason to be remembered, I suppose.”

Steve straightens, frowning. “I wouldn’t need a reason to remember you. And what do you mean, it’s getting harder to find me?”

“Time travel is…rather more complicated than I realized when I began experimenting as a child. Thus far I have met you at appropriate points along your personal timeline. There may simply be longer gaps between visits.”

That’s probably underselling it, but it doesn’t sound like there’s anything Steve can do about it, so he sets it aside. “I’ve been wondering about that, actually. How come you’re so much older than me but you look like you’re about my age every time we meet?”

“I have wondered that myself,” Loki admits. “We seem almost to be keeping pace with one another, so that every time I seek you out, we are both at proportional stages of development even though far more time has passed for me,” which Steve is pretty sure is exactly what he just said except using more words. “I would like to think I am simply that good—”

“And humble, don’t forget that.”

Loki elbows him lightly. “Do not interrupt. I was saying I would like to think so, but I am not entirely sure even the greatest mages would be capable of such precision. I am not even doing anything particularly special, not after the first few times when I deliberately sought you out, and I rather think it was mostly luck that I succeeded at all.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up. “So is that your way of saying you have no idea, for once?”

Loki shrugs. “I have a theory, no more.”

“Of course you do.”

“I might even be convinced to share it with you, if you believe you can cease interrupting long enough for me to do so.”

“I’d just like to point out that everything you say is about five times more wordy than anything I say, so interrupting you is kinda inevitable if I want to say anything,” Steve says, and then raises his hands when Loki glares at him in mock severity. “No, sorry, go ahead, enlighten me.”

Loki snorts. “I doubt it rises to the level of enlightenment. I simply suspect that there exists some sort of temporal anchor binding our timelines together.”

“…you call that simple?”

“As a theory in relation to our situation, yes. As a theory in general, no, but it is hardly necessary to understand the particulars. You haven’t come into contact with any magical artifacts, have you?”

Steve blinks. “Uh. No? Pretty sure I would’ve noticed, unless you mean this.” He holds up the fireworks again, the globe tingling very slightly against his skin.

“Something rather more powerful, I think,” Loki says. “As you say, you would have noticed. It could be something I have already encountered that is yet in your future, powerful enough for its effects to ripple outward across both our lifelines.” He shrugs again. “Or perhaps it is merely luck.”

“I’ve never been very lucky, so I doubt it,” Steve says.

“Yes, well, if you were, I imagine you would’ve encountered Thor instead.” Loki climbs to his feet and offers Steve a hand up. “How do you feel about finding some real fireworks?”

“That sounds like a terrible idea,” Steve says, which of course means yes.

Chapter Text

Steve is 17 and bored out of his mind—and lonely, but he likes thinking about that even less. He caught a winter cold like everyone else in the city, but unlike everybody else, his stupid body couldn’t handle even a dumb little sickness, and his chest cold turned into full-blown pneumonia. He’s over the worst of it now, finally, but he still has a nagging cough and he doesn’t have the energy to do anything more strenuous than sit on the couch and listen to the radio. He hasn’t even seen Bucky for more than a week, because Bucky came down with a bad cold too and didn’t want to risk getting Steve sick again now that he’s finally getting better. Even his mom isn’t around most of the time, because she took as much time off from the hospital as she could while he was really sick and has to double up her shifts now to make up for it. He hasn’t seen Loki for a few months, either.

As if he’s been summoned by the thought, Loki steps out of thin air in the middle of the living room. His eyes fall on Steve immediately, and he frowns. “You’re ill.”

“You noticed,” Steve says dryly. God, his voice sounds awful. “I’m probably not contagious anymore.”

“I doubt Midgardian illnesses would affect me much, in any case,” Loki says, coming to stand by the couch. “What ails you?”

“A cold and then pneumonia,” Steve says, and clarifies, “lung problems. I don’t know if you have those on Asgard.” There’s a tickle growing in the back of his throat, signaling another coughing fit, and Steve swallows hard, trying to drive it away. Everything already hurts and he’s sick (pun intended) of coughing.

“We do,” Loki says. “We have our own common illnesses as well, for that matter.” He hesitates, looking uncertain, and then forces out a laugh. “I confess I am accustomed more to being tended to as a patient than doing the tending, considering how seldom Thor ever falls ill, but—is there anything you would like me to bring you? Perhaps tea? I can at least do that.”

“Sure,” Steve says, or tries to, but what comes out instead is an explosive cough, and then he’s doubled over in the grip of a major coughing fit.

“Are you all right?” Loki asks.

Steve nods, because he’s coughing way too hard to say anything. His chest and abdomen hurt already, but he can’t stop, gasping for breath between coughs. And then he feels the tightening in his throat and lungs that means he’s triggered an asthma attack.

It’s fine. He’s fine. It’ll pass (probably). He just has to stay calm.

The coughing finally eases, but it’s no better, because he’s still gasping, each breath coming harder than the last and he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

“Steve,” Loki says, sounding frightened now. “What is it, what’s—”

“Asthma,” Steve manages. “I can’t breathe, I can’t—” His nebulizer. If he can tell Loki where to get it, he can give himself a dose of epinephrine and he’ll be fine—

Except no, he won’t, because he used up his last ampule of medicine two days ago and didn’t tell his mom because he knew they couldn’t afford to buy more and he doesn’t even have bad asthma attacks very often and he was getting better and he’d thought surely he could get by without more for a while longer. And apparently he was wrong, because this already feels worse than the last one, probably because his lungs are wiped out from being so sick.

He can’t breathe and he’s getting dizzy from lack of air and his fingernails are already going blue and this is bad. This is really bad.

“Steve, look at me,” Loki says, just this side of frantic. “Do you have medicine for this?”

No, because he’s an idiot. Steve shakes his head and the room swims around him, graying out at the edges, and even beyond the panic, he’s aware of a stab of frustration that this is how he’s going to die, not because he was doing anything important but because his stupid body just gave out on him. He’s always kind of expected to die young, but he’s also never really thought it would be like this.

Loki’s hands are gripping his shoulders, probably a little too tight, but his whole body is throbbing and he can barely feel anything else. “Steve,” Loki says sharply. “Will you trust me?”

Of course, Steve wants to say, I already do, but he doesn’t have the breath to do more than nod.

“Then hold on,” Loki says, pulling him close, and the entire world disappears with a lurch. For a single terrifying moment it’s dark and he’s falling, and then reality snaps back into place around him and he’s—somewhere else, high ceiling, heavy dark furniture, gold accents everywhere, but his sight’s tunneling too much to get more than a glimpse. Loki’s still there, guiding him backward until he bumps something solid and tips over onto a bed.

“I will be right back,” Loki promises, and then he’s gone, and Steve can only stare up at the (gilded?) ceiling and focus on trying to breathe. His head is pounding, his eyes watering as he struggles for air. Loki’s clattering around nearby, muttering to himself as drawers slide open and shut, and Steve can barely think through his own panic to wonder what Loki’s doing.

Everything’s starting to fade out when Loki rushes back over, reappearing in Steve’s field of vision. Steve stares up at him, wheezing. Just keeping his eyes open is becoming impossibly draining.

“No,” Loki snaps, “you stay with me,” and he holds up something like a large pipe with a wide bowl and takes a deep drag off it. Then he leans forward, seals his mouth over Steve’s, and exhales hard.

Resuscitation, Steve thinks vaguely, but there’s smoke in his mouth, burning down his throat, unfurling into his lungs. Loki takes another pull from the pipe and breathes smoke into Steve’s mouth again, and this time Steve actually feels his trachea open and his lungs expand properly. He doubles up coughing, and that’s good, coughing means he can breathe again, and then he can’t think about anything except getting more air.

His heart’s still racing and everything aches and he’s still blinking away tears and his mouth tastes like burned mint, but he’s breathing and his vision’s clearing up and he’s probably not going to die today after all. It’s euphoric, being able to breathe again, never mind the rush of oxygen to his brain, and all of that probably explains what happens next. Loki is sitting next to him now and still watching him, pale and worried, and Steve impulsively leans up and kisses him.

Loki goes stiff with surprise, but only for a second, and then he’s kissing Steve back, hand coming up to rest on Steve’s knee. For about five seconds it’s new and strange and amazing, and then Steve’s brain catches up with what his body’s doing and he pulls away.

“Sorry,” he says, cursing himself for an idiot. He can feel the flush crawling up his neck. “I’m…I shouldn’t have assumed…”

Loki’s expression goes completely, horribly blank, and Steve’s stomach drops. Yep, he’s definitely screwed up. “Assumed what?”

“That…that you might be interested in guys. Or, you know…me.” Steve makes himself laugh a little, even though there’s nothing funny about this situation. “I know I’m not exactly everyone’s first choice. Or anyone’s, for that matter.”

Some of the tension leaves Loki’s posture, and he looks aside. “Neither am I.”

Steve blinks. “You’re…but you’re a prince.”

Loki smiles without humor. “I am. But I am not Thor.”

“…oh,” Steve says, thinking of the girls who tolerate his presence only so they can get in good with Bucky. He can’t exactly blame them—given the option, he’d choose Bucky too—but it’s depressing. It never occurred to him that Loki might have the same problem. “I…didn’t realize.”

Loki shrugs. “Well, really, who can blame them,” he says, light and brittle. “He is the firstborn and presumptive heir, and what is more, he is noble and heroic, a mighty warrior, everything that Asgard loves. I am—untrustworthy, unimpressive. I prefer magic and trickery to brute force, and so I am…cowardly. Unnatural.”

“Or you’re smart,” Steve says. “What’s wrong with playing to your strengths? Your magic’s amazing. I wish I could do what you do.”

“You truly mean that,” Loki says after a moment.

“Of course I do,” Steve says, baffled. “Why wouldn’t I? If I could use magic, I wouldn’t even care about being a scrawny little punk. At least then I’d have something going for me.”

“You do,” Loki says, his gaze oddly intense. “You are brave, and kind, and intelligent. Anyone who cannot see your value is a fool.”

Steve flushes harder but doesn’t look away. “Well, I’d say the same thing about you.”

Loki just looks at him for a moment, and smiles—only a little, but it’s open and honest. And then he leans forward and kisses Steve back, gentle and slow. Steve’s insides lurch again, much more pleasantly this time, and he responds in kind.

Steve has to pull away first, still a little short of breath from the asthma attack, but he keeps his forehead pressed to Loki’s for a moment until Loki shifts position so they can both sit a little more naturally, shoulders touching. His fingers are tangled with Steve’s, thumb sweeping back and forth over Steve’s hand.

“On Midgard,” Loki says, hesitates, corrects himself: “In your time, in your part of Midgard…is it accepted, for men to have relations with other men?”

“Well, uh.” Steve sighs. “Not really. No. People do it, but it’s not…nobody really talks about it. Or…sometimes people get hurt.” He shrugs a little, his arm twitching against Loki’s. “I haven’t…I mean, I like girls, and…I like you. I don’t know what that makes me.” He pauses. “What about Asgard?”

“Similar, I suppose,” Loki says. “It is…tolerated, as recreation, but little more than that. Well. Expected, at times, of men who are proficient in magic or interested in the healing arts, as if our abilities predispose us toward a woman’s role in bed as well. Although I sincerely doubt Sif, for instance, would allow anyone to treat her as a meaningless plaything, as some seem to have assumed I will.”

“That’s stupid,” Steve says without thinking.

Loki’s mouth flickers in the ghost of a smile. “Perhaps. In my case I suppose it is not entirely incorrect, although…I have always been interested in women as well, which I suspect is yet more proof of my, ah, inconstant nature.”

“It’s still stupid,” Steve says. “So when I—you figured I just wanted to…fool around, and assumed you’d be okay with that? That’s not—I wouldn’t.”

Loki shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “As I said, you would not be the first to assume.”

“I do like you, though,” Steve says. His face must be bright pink by now, but he says it firmly, without breaking his gaze.

Loki ducks his head. Speaking in the general direction of their joined hands, he says awkwardly, “I find…I return your sentiments.” He sighs. “But after all that…in truth, I would not…it would be unfair to you, at best, if we were to pursue any more of a relationship. I still suspect it is mostly luck that I have continued to find you so many times as we have both grown older, and I am loath to trust too strongly in luck.”

“And you’re a prince,” Steve says. He hasn’t forgotten, of course, but saying it now, in this lavish bedroom that must belong to Loki, it actually feels real. The thought feels like a weight in his stomach.

Loki smiles sourly. “The second prince. My dalliances are of no concern to anyone, as long as I am reasonably discreet and I make a politically advantageous match if required. And I would not want to do that to you, either.”

“Do I get a say in this?” Steve asks, but it’s mostly for show; even without any political experience himself, what Loki’s saying makes depressing sense.

“Does it really matter?” Loki says, and if the words have the potential to be sharp, his tone is quietly regretful. “Even the greatest mages in all the realms have not managed to control or even fully understand the flow of time. When next I try to find you again, if I make a mistake or my improbable luck at last runs out, I could emerge decades in your future. I would be nearly unchanged, and you might be very old, and there is nothing I could do to change that. And I would not have you…wait for me. You deserve far better than that.”

“That’s probably the most complicated ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ I’ve ever heard,” Steve says, with an attempt at a smile that feels pretty damn weak even to him. He lets it go and says around the sudden lump in his throat, “So basically we enjoy this while it lasts, in other words.”

Loki grimaces. “Just so. I do not believe I possess my mother’s gift of foresight, but I have felt, of late, that we should not expect many more meetings like this.”

Steve swallows hard, but his voice comes out steady, and he’s vaguely proud of that. “Well, if I don’t see you again, I’m really gonna miss you.”

“And I, you,” Loki says quietly. He sighs again. “I should take you back; I do not quite know how the passage of time on Midgard compares, just now, but I would hate to return you days or weeks late.”

That hadn’t even occurred to him. “Yeah, that...would be bad. My mom would panic.”

“Well, you needn’t leave empty-handed,” Loki says. He gets up and hurries to his work table, and after a moment Steve follows, watching with interest as Loki sweeps together a few dried plants and crumbles them into a stone bowl. “This is what I used to clear your airways,” he explains. “I do not have much left of the ingredients, but I can at least send the remainder with you.” He grinds up the plants into dust with a pestle, hesitates, and then picks up a small knife and nicks his finger over the mortar.

Steve flinches. “You’re putting your blood in that?”

“You’ll not be ingesting it, if that is your concern,” Loki says, the stiff note back in his voice.

“No, it’s just…maybe this is normal for you, but I don’t know anything about magic, and it’s…I mean, you just…hurt yourself. For me.”

“Ah,” Loki says, relaxing again, and his expression softens. “Blood is powerful; the charm will set more strongly and last much longer this way. And you can be easy about any injury I might sustain.” He shows Steve his finger, and under the remaining smear of blood, the cut has already healed.

“Wow,” Steve says. “I wish I could do that.”

Loki’s smile is a little sad. “I wish you could as well.” He holds his right hand over the bowl, palm down, and closes his eyes. Steve isn’t sure what to expect, maybe some wand-waving and incantations. What actually happens is much less dramatic: Loki takes a slow breath in and out, and on his next exhale, his fingers pulse with a soft green glow. He pulls his hand back and opens his eyes, and that seems to be that.

“Now,” he says, retrieving a small cloth bag from a drawer and beginning to fill it with the bowl’s contents, “because you were having an acute attack, I burned the mixture and forced you to inhale the smoke, but that will not always be necessary. For anything less severe, opening the bag and taking a sniff may be enough to ease your breathing. If not, remove a small amount, set fire to it, and breathe the smoke. You might also consider keeping the charm bag near your pillow at night, especially if the air is poor or you are troubled by a cough.” He ties off the little bag with a piece of twine and holds it out.

“I…wow.” Steve takes it, feeling the slightest prickle of magic against his palm, somehow distinct from the sensation of his fireworks even as he can’t pin down exactly how. “Thank you. That’s…a really inadequate thing to say. But thank you.”

Loki smiles at him, swift and crooked and genuine. “It is hardly pure altruism on my part. I would prefer to keep you breathing as long as possible. You are a good friend, Steve Rogers, and you have shown me a great deal more kindness and patience than I suspect I deserve.” 

Steve is 18, aching with grief, with no idea how he is supposed to bury his mother and keep going. Loki doesn’t show up for the funeral, and although Steve isn’t actually surprised, he can’t help a pang of disappointment. There’s no reason for Loki to know, but he realizes that’s what he was hoping anyway, that somehow across the distance of time and space Loki would just…know, and come back, and then Steve could have one more person who cares.

It’s late by the time he starts getting ready for bed, because the emptiness is already pressing in around him and he can’t think how much worse it’s going to be when he’s trying to sleep. Part of him wants to go back to Bucky’s and at least stay there tonight, even if he’s still not sure whether he wants to accept Bucky’s offer to room together (whether he will is another question entirely, but it would probably help to have a better idea of what he wants to begin with), but… God, he can’t make Bucky do everything for him. He needs to know he can make it on his own. He just…really doesn’t want to, tonight.

He’s reaching for one of the lamps when there’s a telltale rustle of air behind him, and he turns to smile wanly at Loki, both relieved and frustrated with himself that he’s relieved. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry, it’s kind of late, I was already on my way to bed, but—can I get you anything?”

Loki glances around the room, then back to Steve, a frown etched between his eyebrows. “Something is wrong. What is it?”

Steve sighs, shoulders slumping, and gives up on the attempt at a smile. “It’s my mom. She…working in the TB ward finally caught up to her.” He swallows hard around the lump in his throat, which seems to be growing sharp points with every word. “The funeral was today.”

Loki goes still, eyes widening. “Steve. I am…so sorry. I—are you all right?”

Steve shrugs and sits down on the bed, exhaustion pressing down like a heavy blanket. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he says, and when Loki gives him a look that somehow combines concern with profound skepticism, he adds, “I will be, anyway. It’s just, everything’s been busy since…since she died, planning the funeral and everything, so this is the first time I’ve had a chance to stop and—” His eyes are stinging suddenly, and he looks away, blinking rapidly. “And I didn’t know it would be like this, it’s too quiet and she’s gone and I can’t make myself stop thinking about it.”

Loki takes a step toward him and stops, looking uncertain. “Where is Bucky? Was he unwilling to stay with you?”

Steve huffs. “He wants me to come live with him. I said I could do this alone and got him to go home, because I can’t…I have to be able to stand on my own. I have to. It’s not fair to either of us if I’m always using him as—as some kind of crutch.”

Loki hesitates. “Do you wish to be alone?”

Yes, Steve wants to say, because he needs to do this and he needs to prove to himself that he can do this, and clinging to Loki is no better than clinging to Bucky, and…he shouldn’t. He shakes his head anyway.

“Then I will stay with you tonight,” Loki says immediately. “Vigils are traditional on Asgard. It is little enough, but I can do that, at least.”

Steve nods, eyes burning, but he feels compelled to say, “You don’t have to. You…probably have more important things to do.”

“In fact, I have not,” Loki says. He glances around the little room again. “Do you mind if I bring in a chair—?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Steve says. He winces. “Sorry, I should’ve…”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Loki says quickly. He ducks out and returns with one of the kitchen chairs, which he wedges in next to the nightstand.

“Sorry,” Steve says again. “I know it’s not very comfortable.”

Loki shrugs. “It is fine for now, and when I need to sleep, I have a bedroll I can summon.”

Steve shifts uneasily. “You don’t have to…is that a good idea, staying that long? What if—I don’t know how it works, but what if you end up being gone a lot longer on Asgard, days even?”

“I highly doubt anyone will notice,” Loki says, in the same light, brittle tone Steve’s heard before. “Now you should really cease arguing and go to sleep. You need your rest.”

“Okay,” Steve says, unable to think of a reason to keep resisting any of it, when he’s so tired already and he doesn’t want to be alone.

True to his word, Loki really does stay all night. He sits up and listens for as long as Steve is able to talk about his mom, which isn’t very long before he’s too exhausted and drained to keep going, and when Steve finally crawls into bed, Loki makes an odd gesture and unrolls a sleeping bag that appears out of thin air in front of him. (For once, Steve watches this little bit of magic and feels no curiosity at all. He should be worried about that, he thinks, but he’s just so tired.) Loki is there much later to wake Steve from a nightmare, shaking, tears fresh on his cheeks, and he does cling to Loki then, too miserable to make himself stop. Loki sits with him on the bed and tentatively rubs his back, and eventually he seems to come to a decision, because he tells Steve to move over and gets under the blankets with him. The bed isn’t very wide and it’s a little crowded and awkward, and Steve doesn’t care about that either, eyes suddenly prickling again with the overwhelming relief of someone warm and breathing, close enough to touch, and the visceral knowledge that he isn’t alone. Loki is still there in the morning, making sure Steve eats something (he doesn’t know how to use much of anything in the kitchen, so aside from making tea, this mostly takes the form of hovering and making pointed comments until Steve fixes his own breakfast, but Steve appreciates the thought anyway). He’s there when Bucky shows up not long after, because apparently nobody believes Steve can take care of himself, although he can’t muster up more than a flicker of irritation about it. Especially because the truth is, he still doesn’t want to be alone.

“I shall leave you in Barnes’ capable hands,” Loki says (brittle, again, but less so this time).

Steve catches his hand as he turns to go. “Will you come back?”

Loki smiles at him, too brightly. “You won’t be rid of me that easily.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Steve says. “Don’t. Not now.”

Loki’s smile turns melancholy, and he turns his hand to grip Steve’s. “What I told you on Asgard is still true. It was much harder for me to find you, this time, and to be sure I had not badly misjudged. I will try to see you again, but I can make no promises this time.”

“I guess you wouldn’t really want to get stuck here,” Steve says, smiling weakly.

“You might be surprised,” Loki says. He presses his lips together as if he wants to say something else but doesn’t think he should, and then he steps close and kisses Steve’s forehead. “Safe journeys, my friend.”

Chapter Text

Gradually, his grief over losing his mom becomes more bearable, and he reaches a point where he’s actually able to mean it when he tells Bucky, no, he’s going to do this on his own, which is when Bucky finally stops asking. They join an art school, with Steve on a scholarship, and Steve keeps himself busy. The longer he goes without seeing Loki again, the less he expects it, and the more resigned he becomes to the idea that Loki might be out of his life for good.

Then war breaks out in Europe, and it becomes hard to focus on anything else with his mounting frustration about the US government’s refusal to do much of anything to help the people suffering under the Nazis. Japan attacks Pearl Harbor and America is finally dragged into the war, and Steve’s determined to do his part, so he convinces Bucky to train him for a couple weeks at Goldie’s Boxing Gym. They both go to enlist; Bucky is accepted, of course, and Steve is turned away. He changes some of his information, goes to another recruiting center, and tries again; he’s declared 4F, again.

Most people would probably take that as a sign to give up on enlisting and start figuring out another way to help with the war effort—drawing propaganda posters, maybe. Steve isn’t most people, for better or worse.

He’s sitting at the little desk in his living room, reading, when there’s a noise he really thought he’d never hear again: the edge-of-his-hearing rustle of Loki stepping back into Steve’s world.

“What is this?”

“Hi,” Steve says, turning with a smile that falters as soon as he sees what Loki’s holding: the papers from his two failed attempts to enlist and the one he’s going to use next time, two of which include information even Loki will recognize as false. “Uh. What does it look like?”

Loki flips through the papers. “It looks as though you are trying to join your military for active service, despite at least two doctors doing their duty in protecting you from your own recklessness by declaring you medically unfit.”

Steve frowns, stung and a little annoyed at Loki’s sharp tone. “The whole world is at war, and lots of American soldiers are in Europe fighting and dying to stop a damn dictator. Even Bucky’s going. I just want to do my part to help.”

“Help,” Loki repeats, very nearly sneering. “How do you propose to do that? By falling ill the moment you arrive and forcing your comrades to take care of you? Or perhaps you intend to use your body as a brief, ineffective shield for someone who actually belongs on the front lines.”

Steve stares at him, completely taken aback, but his sudden hurt and bewilderment quickly give way to anger. “Okay, one, I haven’t seen you in years, and now you pop in out of nowhere just to yell at me? And two, I’m an adult and it’s not actually your business what I decide to do with my life, especially when you haven’t bothered to visit in years, in case I somehow forgot to mention that. You got no right to tell me what to do.”

Loki tosses the papers back down on the table, the gesture eloquent with disgust. “Clearly someone needs to, because Norns forbid you do something sensible for once in your life—but no, of course you know best, of course you should rush off in heedless pursuit of glory like everyone else and damn the consequences—”

“When the hell did I say anything about glory? I don’t give a shit about glory, and thank you very much for suddenly deciding I’m an idiot.”

“Is that the word you wish to use?” Loki asks, still caustic. “I cannot imagine why that description might apply to someone who seems determined to throw away a life that is already far too brief.”

That brings Steve up short, and he finally takes a good look at Loki—breathing hard, fists clenched, eyes a little wide—and suddenly he sees what he missed, the fear and agitation under the unexpected nastiness. “You know, if you’re worried about me, you could just say so.”

Loki scoffs. “Worried? Why would I be worried? It is plain that you are doing a marvelous job of taking care of yourself.”

“Loki,” Steve says firmly, “stop it. If you have something to say, say it, but you don’t get to just—have a go at me. I think I deserve a little better than that.”

Loki opens his mouth again to retort, but then he looks away, shoulders slumping. “You are right, of course,” he says after a moment. “I am…I spoke out of turn. I should not have presumed to know your motives.” He shakes his head. “I suppose I should not be surprised that your aversion to bullies would eventually lead to this.”

“I guess that’s one way to put it,” Steve says. “You get why I have to do this, right?”

“I still think it is foolish,” Loki says, “and that you have far more to offer your world in some role other than that of a common soldier. But you would not be Steve Rogers if you did not care enough to try.”

“Pretty much,” Steve says, and adds as gently as he can, “And if I want to use my life this way, that’s my choice, not anybody else’s.”

“Believe me, I know,” Loki mutters. He pushes away from the table, one hand worrying at the other. “I have not stayed away by choice. This was the first time in decades that I could locate you with any certainty.”

Steve is used to doing the math by now to translate Loki’s Asgardian time to Earth time, and he frowns. “Only decades? It’s been 6 years for me. I’m 24 now.”

Loki seems to do the math in his head as well. “I am 967—not quite 70 years since last I saw you. You are right, that is different than before. Proportionally, I believe you are now a little older than I am. That is…odd. Something to do with the anchor, I suppose. It might explain why reaching you has grown so much more difficult.”

“Well, I sure don’t know if you don’t.”

“No, you would not,” Loki says absently, still thinking. Steve decides not to take offense. After a second he shakes his head and refocuses on Steve. “No matter. Whatever you do, you will be careful, yes?”

Have you met me? Steve wants to ask. Instead he says, “I’ll try. That’s all I can promise.”

Loki sighs. “Well, that is more than I can ever expect from Thor, at least.”

Oh. “Something’s going on at home,” Steve guesses, “and you took it out on me.”

Loki glances away again, looking embarrassed. “I…perhaps. That would be…quite churlish of me, wouldn’t it?”

“I’d probably go with ‘unfair,’ but yeah,” Steve says mildly. “Want to talk about it?”

Loki hesitates, long enough Steve thinks he isn’t going to answer, and then he releases an explosive sigh. “Thor is going to be crowned. No date has been set, it may not be for a handful of years still, but he is officially heir now rather than merely heir-presumptive, and his coronation has moved into the realm of certainty.”

“And you’re upset you didn’t get picked,” Steve says. The idea of being king is so far outside his experience as to be nearly incomprehensible, but he sure knows how rotten it feels to be passed over, again and again, for somebody else.

“No,” Loki says, and grimaces. “Well—yes. It is not that I truly want the throne, only that I would like to be…chosen. For once. Or to be seen as...good enough. Worthy.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He definitely knows what that feels like.

“And I have…concerns about Asgard’s future,” Loki says, and adds quickly, “I do not speak out of jealousy. At least—not primarily.”

“Concerns,” Steve says. “Like what?”

“Thor as king will be a disaster,” Loki bursts out, apparently unable to hold back when Steve isn’t immediately judging him. “I love my brother, but I have begun to believe that I alone can see his recklessness and arrogance, his inability to temper his impulses. As king, he will be far worse, and no one will be able to stop him. I do not doubt that he means well, but he will lead Asgard to ruin.”

“But you’ll be there too, right?” Steve says. “I don’t mean it’s your job to make him look good, but could he be a decent king with you as an advisor?”

Loki smiles without humor. “My brother has not listened to my counsel in…decades, certainly. Perhaps centuries. Not unless I am saying what he already wants to hear. As king, he will have even less cause to heed my words—if, in fact, he even bothers to remember that I exist. And no one else will listen either. I have tried to tell Father that Thor is not ready, but he is blind to Thor’s faults and too eager to shed the burden of kingship, and so he dismisses anything I say as a younger brother’s petty jealousy, I suppose because he cannot fathom that I might have anything of worth to say.” He glowers at the wall. “I do not know what to do.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, a little helplessly. “I wish I had some ideas for you.”

“It is hardly your fault that all Asgard sees me as an afterthought.”

“Well, no, but I’m still sorry you have to deal with this.” Steve leans forward to catch Loki’s gaze. “And Loki? Whatever you end up doing, you be careful too. Okay? Neither of us is exactly a great example for being sensible, but—be careful.”

“I will try,” Loki says after a long moment. “Like you, I can promise no more than that.”

Chapter Text

Time passes, and Steve keeps trying to enlist. He doesn’t see Loki anymore and tries to be okay with the idea that he’ll probably never see his weird childhood friend again. He goes on a couple of double dates with Bucky. The war in Europe intensifies, and Bucky leaves for basic training, and Steve tries not to think that everyone is leaving him, moving forward while he’s stuck contributing nothing and getting his ass handed to him every time he tries to stand up to somebody bigger.

And then Bucky ships out to England, and Steve meets Dr. Erskine, and everything changes. There’s Project Rebirth, and Peggy Carter (who sees him, like nobody ever does, and who is probably the fiercest, most amazing woman he’s ever met), and Howard Stark, and HYDRA, and a brand new body with most of the old frustrations because he still can’t do much to help. Then there’s Bucky again, and Schmidt, and the real horrors of war for the first time, and he barely has time to think about anything else.

Or he wouldn’t, except that the night he comes back with Bucky and the other HYDRA captives, he’s exhausted but too wired to sleep, and for a long time he just lies awake staring at the ceiling of the tent he’s temporarily sharing with Bucky and listens to his friend breathing, alive. When he does sleep finally it’s restless, fractured, his head filling up with color and noise—

He jerks awake, gasping for breath, to see Bucky leaning over him and looking concerned (which is wrong, Bucky was just rescued, he shouldn’t have to start trying to take care of Steve again, not already and maybe not ever).

“Breathe, Stevie,” he says.

“I’m fine,” Steve says. “Just a nightmare.” He’s not fine. He’s shaking, actually, and his heart’s pounding, and he doesn’t even know why but this doesn’t feel even a little bit like just a nightmare.

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says, which means he’s noticed the shakes but is choosing not to comment. “You wanna talk about it?”

“I…don’t know.” He’s not even sure what he dreamed, just a tangle of sight and sound and raw emotion, anger and pain and fear so strong he goes almost dizzy just remembering. He tries to sort through it anyway, because it feels important, and fragments begin to take clearer shape in his head. Ice, a whole world of ice, full of monsters. A red cape. A vortex of light. Desert. An enormous golden hall—

“Asgard,” Steve says, abruptly certain. “Loki was there.”

Bucky frowns. “Is this the first time you’ve dreamed about him?”

Steve nods, his gut twisting uneasily as more threads of the nightmare come into focus, connect, begin to compose a larger picture. The golden prince in the red cape, blinding and bright, with a shadow no one ever notices. Cheers and thunderous applause (but not for the shadow, never for the shadow). His hand turning blue and ridged in the monster’s grip, and horror freezing the breath in his lungs more effectively than the glacial cold. A glowing blue box radiates cold and his hands turn blue as he touches it monster monster monster and revulsion is so thick in his throat he thinks he’ll choke on it. Rage and terror, rage and terror, no more than another stolen relic, claimed to love me, tell me tell me tell me, never wanted never loved never real and fear again. A corona of golden light. A spear and a throne and plans plans plans he will do it he will show them he is right, is worthy (is nothing but the monster parents tell their children about at night)—

Desert. Blood on the sand. A bridge. Battle, galaxies hanging suspended overhead. An explosion that sends him flying, his grip on the spear the only thing holding him above the abyss, but he has no reason to hold on and so he lets go and falls falls falls—

“—look at me,” Bucky is saying sharply, hands tight on Steve’s shoulders, and Steve blinks at him, disoriented. “Are you back with me yet?”

“’Course,” Steve says. His voice sounds strange in his own ears. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, pull the other one,” Bucky says. He lets go with one hand but keeps the other on Steve’s shoulder, steadying. “Jesus, where’d you go? You were looking right through me for a good 30 seconds, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve never had seizures before but that sure as hell looked like—”

“I think Loki’s dead,” Steve blurts out, and as he says it, he knows he’s right—that’s exactly what the dream means.

Bucky goes still. “That’s what you dreamed?”

“No. Sort of. I didn’t—I don’t know.” Steve rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “It’s…not what I saw so much as it just gave me this—feeling.”

“Magic,” Bucky says, a little dubiously.

“Maybe. Probably.”

“Dreams are weird,” Bucky says. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Steve says, but he knows that this one does.

Bucky falls and Steve can’t catch him. Schmidt takes off with the Tesseract and Steve can’t stop him. Instead he sits at the Valkyrie’s controls and makes a date with Peggy that they both know he won’t make and tries not to think that even as Captain America, all he can do is fail the people he cares about, over and over again. Tries, fruitlessly, not to spend his last moments wishing he had more time with any of them, and then he sends the Valkyrie into the water.

He wakes up in a world that looks nothing like the one he remembers. His mom and Bucky are still dead. Howard and Jim Morita and James Falsworth are dead. Peggy is old, her mind and body giving out, and he doesn’t know which is more selfish, to go see her or to stay away. He hasn’t come any closer to a decision when Fury comes to him looking even more grim than usual, telling him that the Tesseract was recovered years ago and SHIELD’s been experimenting on it recently, until just now when an armed hostile came through the portal, stole the Tesseract, caused the destruction of an entire SHIELD base, and fled.

“We don’t have a lot of information on him just yet,” Fury says as Steve automatically opens the folder Fury hands him. “Calls himself—”

“Loki,” Steve says, staring at the photo. It’s not a good photo, pulled from security-camera footage at the SHIELD base, but Steve would know that face anywhere.

Fury doesn’t move, but the sudden laser focus of his attention is like a physical weight. “Friend of yours?”

Steve has to laugh a little at the sheer absurdity of the situation. “We sort of grew up together. He was messing around with time travel so I first met him when we were both kids, and then he kept coming back. I haven’t seen him since I was 18 and he was about 900, except for one meeting after the war started, and I was kind of starting to think I’d just hung onto an imaginary friend a lot longer than most kids.”

“Huh,” Fury says after a moment. “How do you feel about having a chat with your imaginary friend?”

“I’m happy to try.” He takes a closer look at the photo, and his stomach twists. Since he last saw Loki, the serum’s turned Steve from a 90-pound asthmatic to somebody with the physique of a bodybuilder, enough that anyone who knew him pre-serum would probably do a double take instead of recognizing him immediately. Loki, on the other hand, looks like he’s been through a transformation in the opposite direction. He’s not thinner, maybe—with the armor he’s wearing, it’s almost impossible to tell—but he’s sickly pale with bruise-like smudges under his eyes, and he looks older and a hell of a lot harder, his face drawn and his expression almost feral.

Steve glances at the brief below the picture and frowns. “Wait, Thor crashed in New Mexico a year ago? Why wasn’t I informed?”

Fury’s eyebrow goes up. “You’ve been out of the ice for about five minutes, Rogers, and nobody knew you had some kind of connection with this psychopath. There was no reason to think it was relevant.”

Steve transfers his frown to Fury. “He’s not a psychopath. I don’t know what’s happened, but he was my friend. And anything involving the Tesseract is kinda relevant to me by definition.”

“Which is why we’re bringing you in now,” Fury says, as if SHIELD hasn’t been working with a Tesseract for a year, but Steve lets it go. “And now I’m thinking I better debrief you before I send you out. Any intel you might have on this guy can only help.”

“Right,” Steve says, feeling a weariness descend on him that has nothing whatever to do with his boxing practice. “Do I have time for a shower first?”

Fury eyes his watch. “Make it snappy.”

The new suit is...strange. It fits perfectly, and there’s enough kevlar in it that it’s probably better armor than anything he used during the war, but he keeps wanting to tug at it like it needs adjusting. Captain America is still an important symbol, so of course they’re going to give him something that stands out, but even at that it’s awfully flashy, enough to make him think self-consciously of his time as a dancing monkey.

And yeah, thinking about that is a lot less uncomfortable than thinking about Loki. Fury gave him a tablet for the flight over with more info about the Puente Antiguo incident and actual security footage from the PEGASUS facility, and Steve can’t stop seeing it in his head, over and over again: the metal monster on shaky cell-phone video, blasting its way through the little desert town, trying to kill Thor’s friends, actually killing Thor (desert, and blood on the sand). Loki’s arrival in the Tesseract chamber, looking sick and terrifying even before he erupted into violence that might or might not qualify as self-defense. Using that scepter to take over the minds of Dr. Selvig and those agents—and Steve doesn’t know what turns his stomach more, the scepter’s glowing gem that reminds him way too much of the Tesseract or the way Loki smiled as his new followers’ faces went blank. There was nothing kind in that smile, nothing sane, nothing of the boy Steve knew, just a kind of exhausted, vicious pleasure. And then there’s the way Loki stumbled and nearly fell on his way out with the Tesseract, his gait stiff and very slightly unsteady even after he recovered his balance.

God, Loki, what happened to you?

His nausea only grows when he gets to Stuttgart and takes in the situation. The chaos and screaming was bad enough, not to mention going after that guy’s eyeball, but the terrified crowd kneeling in front of Loki is somehow much worse.

“This is as close as I can get you,” Agent Romanoff says. “I’ll keep hovering here as backup, but there’s no room to land. And Rogers, I know you want to reason with him, but try to leave me a clear shot. Your friend might not even exist anymore.”

“Noted,” Steve says, and he vaults out of the quinjet. He hits the pavement in a tuck and rolls to his feet, shield at the ready, and sprints across the square.

“Look to your elder, people,” Loki is saying, leveling his scepter at the lone old man still on his feet. His intent is clear, and his voice is chilling—familiar still, but utterly devoid of compassion. “Let him be an example to you—”

No time for finesse. Steve lunges and blocks the shot with his shield, and half the crowd scatters. Good, he thinks distantly, less chance of civilian casualties, but most of his attention is on Loki—who is watching him, lip curled. He looks physically healthier than he did on the PEGASUS tapes, or at least he doesn’t look like he’s about to keel over, but his expression is no less feral, the glint in his eyes no less manic.

“Ah yes, the soldier,” he says, mocking, “the man out of time,” and then Steve tugs off his helmet and Loki goes absolutely still, eyes widening. “You.”

“Me,” Steve agrees. Loki recognizes him, and that’s something, but he can’t allow himself more than a twinge of relief. He takes a risk and slides his shield back into its harness on his back (“Rogers, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Romanoff’s voice says in his ear), then spreads his hands to show he’s otherwise unarmed. Loki watches him, throat working, but he seems unable to speak. “What the hell happened to you?” Steve asks finally, and Loki—flinches.

“You are more right than you know,” he says, voice hollow, and shuts his eyes. “Ah, Norns. Of course it would be you.”

“You know I won’t let you hurt these people,” Steve says quietly. “But I won’t see you hurt either, if there’s anything I can do about it. Tell me what’s going on. Let me help you.”

“You cannot,” Loki says. He licks his lips, swaying a little, and his grip tightens on his staff. “No one can.”

A prickle goes down Steve’s spine, but he carefully keeps his posture relaxed and unthreatening. Whatever Loki’s gotten himself mixed up in, it’s bad. “Try me.”

“I am burdened with glorious purpose,” Loki says, the exact same wording he used in the Tesseract chamber, “and I cannot stop what has already been set in motion. Not even for you.”

“Okay,” Steve says, “but you don’t need all these people, right? Let them go and we can talk.”

Loki just looks at him for a moment, his expression opaque, and then he makes a weary gesture and his doubles all vanish, the real Loki’s horned helmet and elaborate cape dissolving as well. Several more people take the opportunity to flee, but the rest seem too scared to move until an amplified voice blares out, “You heard him, people, time to go. We’ve got this. JARVIS, repeat that in German, would you? Right, never mind, it’s only Americans who don’t bother to learn another language.”

Steve glances up and sees Iron Man hovering above the quickly dispersing crowd, and he can feel himself get just a little more tense. If Stark was originally considered too volatile for the Avengers Initiative, he might be the type to start shooting before Steve can really talk to Loki. “Stark, follow my lead.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Stark says. He lowers himself to the ground a few feet away, standing ready but not actually pointing any weapons yet, and Steve allows himself a little more cautious relief. He still has a chance to salvage this situation.

“I had a dream about you,” Steve says, and Loki breaks off from eyeing Stark and looks back at Steve, his forehead furrowing.

“Whoa, TMI, Pops,” Stark says. “You know what TMI means, right?”

Steve ignores him. “What I saw…it seemed real, and parts of it match the reports from New Mexico. Was the rest of it real too?”

Loki says carefully, “That depends a great deal on what you saw.”

There’s a lot, nearly all of it deeply private (if not in the way Stark implied). He sorts through the tangle of images and emotions and finally says, “You fell.”

Loki’s chin dips in a barely perceptible nod. “Then you saw truly.” He hesitates. “Did you…was there anything after?”

Steve shakes his head. “I woke up and I was sure you were dead.”

“That was the plan,” Loki says very quietly, and even Stark looks at him sharply. “Perhaps I was, for a time. Had I remained thus…” He opens one hand in a shrug, the motion tugging his sleeve up just far enough for Steve to glimpse what looks like a nasty burn around his wrist. “Well. Who can say?”

“Okay,” Stark says, “I gotta ask, Fury only gave me the short version which was that you two somehow sort of grew up together. So this is some kind of wibbley-wobbley, timey-wimey bullshit, right?”

“Probably,” Steve says.

Loki’s eyes widen. “The Tesseract,” he says, suddenly looking stricken. “Of course. That was the anchor.”

“I never actually touched it—”

“No, but you were near it, multiple times. In the case of such a powerful artifact, that could be enough.” He shuts his eyes briefly, and when he looks at Steve again, his expression is somehow even bleaker. “The Norns have made sport of me far longer than I guessed.”

Steve folds his arms. “Well, I still don’t believe in fate. You told me yourself that nobody really understands how time works.”

“The anchor was in our futures,” Loki says. “How can you possibly call it anything but fate? We are both here now because of the Tesseract, and I…” He swallows hard. “This was always going to happen. I was always going to fall.”

Stark raises his hand like a kid in class. “I have questions.”

“I don’t buy it,” Steve says stubbornly, ignoring Stark. “We all have choices, we have to, and even if you’re right, doesn’t that only bring us to today? If it was fate, if we didn’t have a choice in whatever brought us to the Tesseract, that’s already happened. It’s done. You can choose now. We both can.”

“I cannot,” Loki says. “You do not understand.”

“Probably not,” Steve agrees. “But I know you, and I know you’re not fated for Ragnarok. There’s no giant snake now, and—maybe I wasn’t there when you needed help. But I made you a promise once and I intend to keep it, because I’m here now. If you can’t believe anything else, believe that. Trust me.”

Loki inhales, shaky. He’s wavering, Steve can tell, and he keeps his expression open as he looks back at him steadily, willing him to surrender. Loki takes a step closer, then another, eyes darting between Steve, Stark, and the quinjet. He’s close enough to touch, and Steve almost does, but he holds himself still, hands at his sides, barely breathing.

Come on, he thinks. Come on, you idiot, stand down and let me help you.

And then Loki moves, quick as thought, already inside Steve’s guard, and Steve has no time or space to block him (and barely the space of a breath for a rush of horrified betrayal) before the tip of his scepter is pressed to Steve’s heart. Everything else disappears in a blaze of consuming blue light.

Chapter Text

And Steve sees—

He is drowning in pain and anger, and then (no, Loki) despair overwhelms everything else, and he opens his hand, and he falls.

The Void is an eternity of dark cold nothing, where there is no time, no light, no sound, no air, no life. He begins to unravel, he cannot truly feel his body but he knows the nothingness is eating away at him, dissolving him as his mind fragments. He falls, and falls, and falls, and he is never going to stop—

He has a brief glimpse of stars, and rocks, and then he lands with a shattering impact, so dazed and blinded with it that he can barely feel himself being dragged away. He is vaguely aware of metal at his wrists, of being hoisted into the air and most of his clothes cut away, but for an indeterminate period that is all.

Full awareness returns only gradually; first he recognizes that he is hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, with his feet barely touching the floor, and there is no position he can take that will ease the strain. His cell—if that is not an overly generous term—is so small he would not be able to lie prone, were he free to do so. As it is, the walls are all beyond his reach, but no further, so that it feels rather more like a large, upright coffin. The walls are all flat and featureless, made of some material he cannot easily identify, with no visible openings or markings of any kind. Not that he has much time to study his surroundings: shortly after he wakes, the chamber’s dim lighting vanishes and leaves him in absolute darkness. Thus it remains, except for the times when the walls flare blindingly, painfully bright, searing through his closed eyelids and seeming to drill right into his skull.

The chamber is uncomfortably hot, the first time he regains consciousness, and at first it is merely that; the strain in his arms and shoulders is the worse pain, but neither is unbearable, especially when the sweat on his skin and the bite of shackles into his wrists are concrete sensations, anchoring him back in his body after so long falling through an endless void. But gradually the heat increases, radiating out from the walls, until he is dizzy and sick with it and the shackles burn his arms, until he is blinded by stinging sweat and then stops sweating entirely, until he vomits up what little moisture remains to him and he is still wracked with cramps and nausea, until his skin cracks and blisters and the blisters burst and ooze. They are cooking him alive, he thinks vaguely, in some corner of his mind that is not overcome by heat. He survived the Void, so they are going to roast him to death instead.

They do not. At the razor edge of oblivion, the heat returns at last to a tolerable level. There is a spray of warm water from the ceiling, agony on his blisters but he doesn’t care, desperately craning his neck to get as much of the precious liquid in his mouth as possible. The thought crosses his mind that the water might be poisoned, but he cannot make himself care enough to stop. On balance, he thinks he would rather slake his overpowering thirst and suffer for it later.

The water is not poisoned, as far as he can tell; it is merely water, and when he is soaked with it (but long before he has managed to drink his fill), the spray shuts off and leaves him dripping in the sudden silence of the little chamber. He is still dizzy, and every drop that hits the floor seems impossibly loud.

And then lightning slams through the shackles and into his body, arcing and crackling through and around him, jerking his spine back in a hard arch. It keeps going, wave after wave of it coursing through his bones until—once again—he is hovering on the edge of unconsciousness, and then the current snaps off to leave him hanging there, panting, every muscle twitching and aching. He is granted only a few moments to rest before electricity lights up his bones once more, and this time he can smell his flesh burning.

It leaves him just as abruptly as it arrived, and as he shakes in his bonds, he registers a faint hissing noise, as of escaping air. A moment more and he realizes, no, not “as of,” that is exactly what he is hearing, air being sucked from the chamber or exchanged for a balance of gasses he cannot breathe, because suddenly he is suffocating. He gasps for breath, panic clawing at him, but whatever reaches his lungs is nearly useless. His head is spinning, lungs burning, dizziness swamping him and he cannot think past the frantic need for air—

Again: relief, just as unconsciousness reaches for him. Hissing again as the atmosphere in his chamber shifts, and his body drags him back from the edge. Again: it is only a short reprieve. Again: hissing, and suddenly he is choking, struggling to breathe when there is no air to be found.

And so it goes, in cycles with no discernible pattern—heat or electricity or suffocation, never in the same order, never for the same duration, each wave scattering his thoughts just as he begins to collect them so that he is unable even to count the number of times they have electrocuted or roasted or suffocated him. Even his brief periods of respite follow no apparent pattern, and the suspense is its own kind of agony. He knows it is absurd, knows he should seize the moments he is granted and use them to recover as much of his strength as he can, but the anticipation of pain winds his nerves so tight that it is almost a relief, each time, when the torment begins anew and he is no longer forced to hang helpless and waiting, wondering which way he will be hurt next. Each time, that almost-relief vanishes quickly, overwhelmed by the agony of lightning or unbearable heat or the panicked need for air. 

Under other circumstances, Loki thinks he might be impressed with his captors’ efficiency. They are expending no apparent effort and still grinding him down, and he does not want to think what it means, that this all must be in preparation for something—or that perhaps it is not, and he truly does not know which thought is worse.

(Once, only once, the chamber’s temperature plummets, freezing him instead of cooking him, and for the briefest of instants this is agony too, the cold biting deep into his bones—and then he turns Jotun-blue and the relief is nearly enough to overcome the surge of revulsion. The temperature continues to fall, frost creeping along his body and the walls, and he feels his heart begin to slow. He relaxes into it, dormant instincts easing him toward a deep sleep like hibernation, and he welcomes it without a single flicker of alarm. But even as the strain leaves his body, the temperature shoots upward again, and he burns, and whatever overseer is keeping watch on his suffering does not attempt the cold again.)

Loki does not know how long he has hung in his chamber, weeks or months or years, only that it has been a very long time, when the Chitauri come for him and haul him down from his chains. It has been so long since he has encountered another living being that he nearly weeps to see them—and this almost-relief, too, dies a quick ugly death as they begin to take him further apart. They do not speak to him, do not react when he speaks to them, when he screams, when he abandons his pride and begs; they only continue methodically with their work, cutting into him or beating him or burning him, drowning him or forcing poison down his throat, shattering his bones or pulling apart his joints or peeling off his skin. And when he is bleeding and unable to move, consumed by pain, they return him to his tiny cell. This is his new routine, for time without end, unmeasured and immeasurable, as he is ground down in an endless cycle by the impersonal torture inflicted by the cell and the pain worked into his flesh and bones at the hands and claws and weapons of the Chitauri.

The Other comes to him next, at first merely to observe and then to clamp its grotesque hands to the sides of his head and dig through his mind with all the finesse of a butcher. This is a new kind of agony, one that exists only in his mind, and he cannot resist it or flee from it as it sears through every nerve. For the Other, he does weep, coming back to himself with his body broken and his mind shredded and his throat raw from screaming. Only then does the Other speak to him, telling him of Thanos, the mighty Titan who may yet find a use for the pathetic waste of flesh that has wrecked itself, uninvited, against the shores of his sanctuary. Loki latches onto the alien’s words with the desperation of a drowning man clutching at a lifeboat because he can use this, at last, something that might give him the chance of saving himself if he is careful and clever enough.

When at last Thanos comes to him in person, Loki is lying bolted to a metal table, his chest and abdomen cut open to reveal his innards, and he no longer remembers what it is like to feel anything but pain or taste anything but his own blood and bile. The titan stands above him, brimming with power, and he asks, “Whom do you serve, child?”

“You,” Loki gasps, “you, I serve you, I swear it,” let me go just let me go kill me please kill me I will take what you give me and destroy you with it—

And Thanos smiles. “You do not. Not yet. But you will.” He raises a scepter with a glowing blue gem and touches its blade to Loki’s exposed heart, and tendrils of blue sink into his mind and rip him open. If the Other’s mental touch is fire, the Titan’s is acid, chewing its way through all the cracks in his walls and splitting them wide, eating into the core of him and leaving nothing behind but his fears and failures and an ocean of pain. When Thanos finishes with him and leaves, he is not even aware of it, only coming back to himself when he is once again in his cell.

Let me, he thinks, let me but it is so hard to remember what he thought he might be able to do.

I am Loki of Asgard, he thinks, and you will not break me, but for the first time it feels like a lie.

Thanos returns to him again and again, sometimes without the scepter, sometimes only to speak to him when he is near delirious with pain, and Loki clings to his voice even as he hates it as it soothes and terrifies in equal measure. He tells himself he can trick the Titan, turn the scepter against him somehow, cannot stop thinking it, and each time it feels more like a lie (because he is a lie, the greatest lie of all). Each time it becomes harder to remember that there is more to the universe than agony and the scepter and the Titan’s voice.

And so Loki breaks, not once but dozens of times, and that same flicker of cruelly stubborn hope continues to return—but each time it is weaker, until at last he understands that freedom is a lie, that no one is coming for him, that there is no escape, there is only Thanos and his commands, that Thanos is everything, is inevitable, is inescapable. And Loki breaks for the last time, because he lacks the strength to resist any longer (because he can no longer believe there is any purpose to resisting).

He is broken, and so he is built back up again, his seidr channeled through the scepter that is itself bound to his mind and his flesh, his only thought to do as his master commands and feel nothing because the alternative is too terrible to consider. He refuses to feel the burning of his own magic trapped in his body, of the scepter binding him tight; refuses to feel his despair, even knowing what Thanos will do with the Tesseract, what he will do with a puppet that is no longer of use; refuses anger and fear and pain because he is no longer capable of comprehending another choice.

His mother appears to him, moments before he steps through the portal. He does not heed her. He knows it is an illusion, perhaps a last test from his master. He knows this. (He has to know this.)

(Doesn’t he?)

He kneels to his master, refuses to feel the anger and humiliation at his own subjugation (he does not feel it, must not, Thanos will know), and then everything is torn away in searing blue light, and he is on Midgard and the Tesseract is singing to him and oh, what he might do with that power—

(Pain. Blue light. He mustn’t. He mustn’t.)

His opponents are only mortals armed with primitive weapons, but when he fights them off he cannot help the surge of adrenaline that clears his head, just a little, and with it terror because Thanos will know, he will know that Loki is listening to the Tesseract’s song, that Loki is not thinking only of the plan he must follow, that Loki is even fleetingly tempted to disobey, he will know and make you long for something as sweet as pain

(but Thanos isn’t here)

The closer he gets to the tesseract, the more he is aware of something else, beyond the chaos and the noise, the unreasoning fear, his heart pounding pounding pounding until he thinks he will choke on it—something he knows, something familiar, and he doesn’t know why but it is almost, almost like a spark of something far too dangerous to consider—

(Frigga, and now this. What if—)

He turns his mind to the plan, to what he knows he must do, but even as he leaves the facility with the tesseract and new allies, he feels it, that tiny flicker he had tried so hard to snuff out because it was far too dangerous—

(hope)

Hope is terrifying beyond comprehension and his mind flinches away from it, and yet his thoughts keep circling back—you cannot fight the Titan, you know it, you know there is no point (but what if) no you idiot he will hear and he will rip your mind asunder (but what if—)

Barton tells him of the Avengers Initiative, and for a moment he thinks good, maybe they will stop this but he knows Thanos is too powerful. To think otherwise comes near to blasphemy. And still it niggles at him, gain their attention and perhaps they and he cannot, cannot think it.

And then there is the opera in Germany, and the fleeting satisfaction of seizing control, and two of the heroes confront him, and he thinks destroy them. He thinks put on a show. He thinks he will lose what is left of his mind if he continues to be torn between all the things he knows he must and must not do.

Captain America takes off his mask and turns into Steve Rogers, and Loki’s thoughts stutter to a halt.

Barton had told him a little about each person on the list, had even mentioned Steve’s name, and Loki had thought it a coincidence because it had to be, surely it was a common enough name and his Steve was no supersoldier. His Steve was almost certainly dead and Loki was grateful for it, that he would not see what his friend had become, would not suffer the terror of the Chitauri invasion or the Titan’s destruction. Instead Steve is here, facing him, once again placing himself in harm’s way to defend someone who needs his help, and he is going to die—if not at Loki’s hands, then the Chitauri will kill him, or perhaps Thanos will find him worthy enough to sacrifice to Death himself. Even if Loki does not strike the killing blow, he will be the one to blame.

It is fitting, he supposes, that the monster should destroy everything that was once good in its life, even this. Steve does not deserve this, does not deserve to suffer for unknowingly befriending a monster and finding himself inevitably drawn into the monster’s fate, but he will, and Loki can almost feel his spine bending under the weight of his own despair.

Trust me, Steve says, and Loki remembers, all those years ago Will you trust me and Steve’s nod without a moment’s hesitation, and he thinks, I do, and it is not going to be enough.

(but what if it is?)

(what if—)

(what if this too is fate, that he should be here after so long, to stop the monster before it can hurt anyone else—)

He had not even thought to hope for this, because of course it was impossible, and now—in Steve he sees, for the first time, the chance of a way out of the Titan’s plans. Loki is not meant to survive this, was never meant to survive this, but if Steve knows the truth, he might yet save Midgard.

He cannot simply tell Steve about Thanos, of course, he knows he cannot betray the Titan so fully and still retain his own mind outside the scepter’s influence. But if he can use the scepter—forge the connection as if he is going to make Steve his thrall but break it off before Steve goes under entirely—he can flood the link with his own memories and then Steve will simply know everything Loki needs to tell him. Steve will let him get close enough, and the others, the Iron Man and the one still piloting the jet, will respond quickly enough to interrupt the link.

It is still a terrible risk, especially if he miscalculates and the scepter takes Steve under thrall, but if he is to thwart the Titan’s plans, he knows he cannot do it alone—

—and then the scepter is ripped away and Steve tumbles across the paving stones, disoriented, his head ringing, the copper taste of blood in his mouth. He slams to a stop against the steps and for a second all he can do is stare at the pavement under his nose and try to steady himself.

Thanos. Sounds like…Thanatos, god of death. Greek? Probably Greek. Huh. God, he’s dizzy. He makes it up to his knees, and Agent Romanoff’s voice finally pierces the static in his head: “—report. Rogers, are you with us?”

“Hope you’ve got a plan if he’s not, because my hands are kinda full with Reindeer Games over here,” Stark says tightly.

“I’m fine,” Steve says to them both. “I’m…you got to me in time. The scepter didn’t—I don’t know, finish.” He gets to his feet, one hand going to the nearby stair rail for balance, but the wobbliness is clearing rapidly now, enough that he doesn’t need the support.

Across the square, Loki is sprawled against the nearest building, hands raised in surrender, Iron Man facing him in a fighting stance with both hand repulsors and at least two mini missiles primed to fire. Loki’s lip is bleeding, his armor charred in front where he must have taken a direct hit from Stark’s weapons (burned, like the Titan burned him, and Steve can’t think about that too long or he’ll lose himself in fury at the monster who tortured his friend, who needs him to think, to strategize, to save Loki like he promised). He’s tense, even shaking a little, but it’s not fear of Iron Man: his gaze is intense, a little desperate, and fixed entirely on Steve, who figures he’s regained as much of his equilibrium as he can and starts across the square nearly at a run.

“Close enough, Cap,” Stark says when he’s still several paces away, and he points one palm in Steve’s direction without looking away from Loki. “JARVIS, check him.”

“You interrupted the scepter’s connection,” Steve says, and he wants to say more, wants to say that there isn’t time, but he holds still as a bright little light from the back of Stark’s helmet sweeps over him.

“Yeah, well, that’s what you’d say if Rudolph made you his man on the inside, so no, I’m not just gonna take your word for it,” Stark says. He pauses, head tilting a little, and adds, “But I do trust JARVIS and he says you’re showing no signs of outside control, so I guess those baby blues are natural.”

“Good,” Steve says, “because I have a lot of new intel you all need to hear.” Later, he will be furious and horrified, and he will help Loki heal—but right now Loki and Earth both need him to keep his cool and lead his team in preventing an alien invasion. His thoughts have settled back into order, letting him pick apart the tangle of Loki’s fear and pain and desperation to tease out the plan without Loki’s masters ever realizing their puppet is fighting his strings in the only way he can. Steve’s thoughts race through the possibilities—containment, evacuation, contingencies and countermeasures for organizing a response if they can’t intercept Selvig in time to stop the portal opening. The scepter, and freeing everyone who’s under the scepter’s control. Freeing Loki too, somehow.

“It’s okay,” he tells Stark and Romanoff, but he’s looking at Loki as he says it. “It’s okay. Before the scepter’s connection broke, I got a glimpse of his plan.” More than a glimpse, of course, but he’s not going to say that where Loki’s puppet-masters might hear. “I think I know how to stop him.” Loki’s eyes fall shut for a second, his shoulders dropping in plain relief before he looks away, and in the privacy of his own mind Steve adds, You saved me once. Now I’m gonna save you. I promise.

Chapter Text

Under bright stars burning
We will make our own ending
—Hey Marseilles, “Bright Stars Burning” 

“Food’s here!” Tony calls, coming in with two of his robots in his wake, both burdened with takeout bags. “I got shawarma. No idea what it is so I wanted to try it and there’s a little place two streets over that delivers.” He eyes Thor, Loki, and Steve. “I figure we’ve got three superhuman metabolisms so I ordered a ton, but if it’s not enough, please leave some for the rest of us and we’ll supplement with pizza. Or maybe good hot dogs. You’ve all been missing out.”

“Thor,” Loki says, and Thor replaces the carton he’s already picked up, looking guilty.

“I guess that’s our cue,” Natasha says. She and Clint join Tony at the table, and Steve hangs back with the Asgardians to let the others go first.

“How’s your head?” he asks Loki. “And…the whole rest of you, I guess.”

“I have been better,” Loki says wryly.

Bruce looks up from his plate, flushing. “I really am sorry about the, you know, smashing.”

“You needn’t be,” Loki says. “It is a small price to pay for slipping the Titan’s leash and frustrating his plans. If anything, I am in your debt.”

“You’re pretty much the whole reason we prevented a massive alien invasion,” Bruce says, shifting uncomfortably, “so I think probably we’re even.”

“Besides, what’s a little blunt-force trauma among superhero friends?” Tony says around a mouthful of something wrapped in a pita. “This is actually good, by the way. And people say I have bad taste.”

Loki goes stiff at Steve’s side, expression closing off like he’s bracing for mockery. It’s not a hugely visible reaction, but Steve notices because he’s paying attention, and then it takes him a second to realize what it means. He supposes that answers his question of whether Loki ever managed to make other friends who weren’t mostly there for Thor (and then he wonders whether anyone’s ever called Loki a hero before, even by implication, even after one of the times his magic saved Thor and his friends).

He’s about to put a hand on Loki’s shoulder in response, but Thor beats him to it. Loki twitches very slightly, eyes flicking toward Thor and away again, and if he doesn’t acknowledge the gesture he also doesn’t do anything to reject it. For his part, Steve moves a little closer, letting his arm brush Loki’s. Loki glances at him, expression faintly uncertain, but after a moment of silent support on both sides and not a single mocking word from the other Avengers, he relaxes into the contact, and Steve smiles to himself. It can only be a good thing, if Thor’s learned to pay attention to his little brother too, and maybe, after all this…

“Okay, now you guys are just making me feel guilty,” Tony says. “Come on, eat up, us vanilla humans have enough we’re not going to wither away and die.”

“Your generosity is truly boundless,” Loki says dryly, but he takes a paper plate and starts loading it up as soon as Steve and Thor do.

“See, you make fun now, but that’s just because I haven’t broken out the good booze yet,” Tony says. “Actually, hold that thought.” He ducks behind the bar and starts rummaging around.

Loki takes a careful bite of his shawarma, and his eyebrows shoot up. “This is traditional New York food?”

“Well, it didn’t start here,” Bruce says.

“It’s New York food now and that’s what counts,” Clint says, “so yeah, kinda. Halal trucks, anyway. I think that’s kind of similar.” He’s been a little on edge around Loki since the scepter’s control was broken, but not actively hostile, and he’s at least talking in Loki’s general direction, which Steve figures is another good sign.

“Ah-ha!” Tony straightens with a flourish and two dusty bottles. “I’m sure none of you heathens will really appreciate this, but take my word for it, this is the good stuff.”

“I wish I had some Asgardian mead to share,” Thor says. “Even a newer vintage could easily be older than all of you combined.”

“Yes, and none of them would live much longer if you gave them more than a few sips,” Loki says.

“Okay, no, I don’t care what’s good on Asgard,” Tony says, handing around glasses. “This is the good stuff and I expect you all to at least pretend to enjoy it, and then we can start on shots if you want to go cheap. Cheaper. Fair warning, I’ve been known to drink a lot of people under the table.”

Natasha raises one eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”

Tony glances around the room, and Steve can practically see him thinking god, supersoldier, god, Russian, potential rage monster. “Uhhhh. Maybe between me and Clint.”

Clint gives him a lazy smirk. “Yeah? Bring it.”

“How about a toast instead,” Bruce suggests.

“I’m sure that’s safer for anyone likely to overestimate their abilities,” Natasha says, eyeing Tony.

“I’m going to ignore that and pretend I wasn’t just insulted in my own home,” Tony says. “A toast, sure. To, what, not having to avenge the world after all? Kicking alien ass?”

Steve raises his glass. “To new beginnings.”

“Aye,” Thor says, “I will drink to that.”

Loki meets Steve’s eyes over the rim of his glass and smiles at him—a little tentative, a little fragile, but unmistakably genuine and god, Steve hadn’t even realized until now how much he’d missed it. “As will I.”