This is my entry for the Frostion secret santa, a gift for naturegirlsrock. The prompt was "Classic Fairy Tail AU", so this fic is based on Andersen's "The Snow Queen." It ended up being a way looser interpretation than I had originally intended, but hopefully the core story is still recognizable.
Once upon a time, a very long time ago. Or not at all, depending on how long your life and memory.
Once upon a time, there lived a King who ruled over a land of Ice and Snow. His subjects were Giants, born from the cold of their land, and it is a cold that seeps deep into black bones and blue blood.
The ice of Jotunheim never melts, and so her children thought her invincible. And so her children went to war.
And so the King, who lead the army with brutal strength and cold determination, who slaughtered hundreds of mortals - there were so few of them then - without a moment's hesitation, the King who claimed the eye of the hero who came to stop him, that King gained the reputation he has now.
A fierce warrior.
A brutal monster.
And what of the seiðrmeister, who wielded Winter in his grasp and through ice made copies of himself, so lifelike and so living that they deceived any who looked upon them?
Forgotten, left in old tomes and dusty shelves. Left to wait and ponder on the solitary throne of a ruined palace.
"For all that has been lost, amends must be made," said he one day, low voice echoing in the empty hall. It was daytime, after all, and the subjects still left to him were all asleep.
And after he spoke, he stood, and after he stood he vanished, into the cracks of the tree that shapes Nine Worlds.
The ice of Jotunheim never melts, it is a creeping cold that is home to her children and despair to all others.
Such despair is what we shall see next.
"He's gone," said Natasha one day, reporting directly to Director Fury. There is no one King of Midgard, but that man is one of the few that come close. There are those who would call themselves his superiors, members of a Council permanently in the shadows. But SHIELD spans far and wide, tentacles reaching all around the Earth, eyes everywhere, and who holds more power than the man at the center of it all?
"He's gone," Barton had grumbled, half elated and half disappointed. He had twirled an arrow in his hand, a very special arrow for a very special someone. Not the kind of "special someone" one loves, but the kind he thought about daily, dreamed about sometimes, watched from afar and who made his heart beat faster every time he came near, which was not love but something very similar indeed.
"He's gone," says Tony numbly. His living room is dark and empty.
The scotch in his glass tastes like water. The ice cubes click together, their chime is mocking him.
He is gone, they say, and you sit here and drink. He is gone, and what good are you doing?
"I am thinking," Tony replies. "It is what I do, it is what I am good at."
You think poorly, chastises the drink that is not water. You will only think more poorly in the hours to come. Why not run instead?
"Why do you not burn my throat," Tony asks in lieu of an answer. "It is rude of you to ask question me at all, when you will not even warm me as you usually do."
You think poorly, it says again. It is all very obvious. I do not burn because he is gone, and the world is cold.
The world is a strange place: the most wonderful man to upon this Earth is gone, and no one cares.
"He probably snapped, like everyone thought he would," Steve said, shaking his head in disappointment even as he is completely unsurprised. "Relapse happens even in the most willing to change, and he was far from that."
"I do not believe that," Tony replied.
"He must have left," Bruce said instead, voice full of kindness yet not kind enough. "Watched every waking hour, suspicion on all sides. Hard to bear even for the most patient, and he was always more temperamental than he was willing to admit."
"He didn't leave," Tony replied, "he's gone."
"Get over it, Stark!" Fury had ordered, one eye shining bright with authority - Tony does not like authority, never has, like beetroots and cold coffee and being handed things and people being gone. "Whatever that maniac has decided to do, it isn't our problem anymore so long as he isn't on our planet. The only reason you aren't classified as compromised is because we need the Iron Man more than we want you in a cell. Don't do anything stupid - fraternizing with that criminal was bad enough already."
"Where is Thor?" Tony had asked, because that is the question, is it not?
Tony loves Loki best, like flying and creating and the smell of melted iron, all wrapped in hands that are always a little cold at the fingertips. All the better to bring them to his lips for, kiss them under the pretence of warming them up. (Not so much for the feet, though. Those are for brushing against exposed calves under bed covers, teasing Tricksters nuzzling the neck of grumbling Inventors).
Tony loves Loki best, but Thor has loved him longer. It is a love that had lasted through invasion and war, betrayal and rage on both sides. It is a love that had made him fight and defy all who would oppose him in his efforts to win Loki a chance at redemption. That made him stand by his brother despite all those that scorned such a bond, including that brother himself.
So when Loki is gone, when he has vanished of the face of the Earth, should Thor not be here, demanding answers and retribution? Should there not be a vengeful god at Tony's side, to help him fight against their indifference?
But there is no storm on the horizon. It is a clear winter day.
Thor should be here. He isn't.
Why?
"You're taking too long," Tony says to Thor, even though the living room is still dark and empty. He stands up, knocking his crystal glass on the floor. The drink pours out, the ice cubes spill onto the rug.
He doesn't grab much: a warm coat, his wallet, a hat. It's all he can take.
"Listen close, Stark: you do not leave New York, you do not get in a suit without permission, you toe the line," Fury had threatened, Natasha and Barton standing behind him. "The moment you even hint at trying to go to that fucker, you're done. Compromised at best, an enemy at worst, and the best you will be able to hope for is that we don't bury you too deep when we come to take you in! If we don't just shoot you out of the sky!"
Tony Stark is not an idiot. In fact, he is a genius.
He knows when to consider limitations.
He also knows when to send them to hell.
"JARVIS, hold the fort," he orders as he steps out the tower. He probably won't be back for a while. "I'm not letting anyone take my stuff."
Finally, sigh the ice cubes as they slowly melt into the carpet.
It would be a lie to say it had been unexpected.
But it would also be a lie to say that it hadn't completely knocked the wind out of Tony. Or Loki, if we are completely accurate.
Both of them had been caught off guard at how inevitable it really was.
From the very beginning: "Look, Rudolf, since you're apparently here to stay, the least you can do is pay rent. With science. Follow me to the lab, I'm going to study your magic so hard it will start obeying the laws of physics!"
To some time later: "Captain, as much as I understand your outrage" he says very loudly to distract from Tony's barely concealed giggles, "I can vouch for Stark's alibi, and he can vouch for mine. So whoever say fit to tamper with your shield, it couldn't possibly be either of us!"
Until not a word is spoken.
Late at night, when all the other inhabitants of the Tower have long gone to sleep, on the balcony, where Tony and Loki lay on the deck chairs drinking scotch in silence.
Neither of them are drunk: Loki because it would take so much more to affect a god, Tony because he doesn't want anything to keep him from appreciating Loki's presence.
Or Loki's face.
Alcohol ever so addles the vision. It would dull sharp features, muddle pale skin, blur the lines between black hair and black sky, and wouldn't it be a crime to meld into the dark someone who shines so brightly?
Maybe he has indulged more than he thought ; he doesn't usually think in bad poetry.
But Loki is so beautiful at night time.
Loki is always beautiful.
That isn't poetry, that is science. Generalization from careful observation in multiple settings, with varying parameters going from lighting to Loki's outfit, culminating in the empirical but unquestionable conclusion that this god is the fairest of them all.
Serendipity has it that he also makes this prince of Earth laugh. And that he is most skilled in defeating evil Captains who guard the access to the coffee machine.
The wind blows, almost eerily loud, and Tony shivers despite it being a summer night. A few seconds later, he feels inexplicably warm again. Like being wrapped in a blanket and given hot chocolate. With marshmallows.
He shoots a thankful look towards Loki, who doesn't even look back, doesn't acknowledge his own gesture or Tony's beyond the smirk he bears.
That's another thing with Loki. Magic. Which is really only science under witness protection.
Tony will crack it one day. Maybe Foster can help. Although out of the two of them, Tony has the better god. Thor is nice, but useless when it comes to explaining the magic he uses daily. The same way Clint doesn't know how a vacuum cleaner works.
Loki though… Loki is brilliant, absolutely brilliant. Not like Tony, but just as much in his own way. More instinctive in the use of his art, less so in the formal application, more lyrical and eloquent when it comes to explaining what he does, in a voice that Tony should record for safekeeping. Soft and laughing and just deep enough, it is the most marvelous weapon at Loki's disposition.
And Tony knows weapons.
He must have gotten lost in thoughts at some point though, because somehow he finds himself perched on the side of Loki's chair. His hand is clutching the god's rist almost too tightly, his knuckles turning white and doing nothing to bother the man in front of him.
But Tony's hand is trembling, and the movement spreads itself in Loki's wrist and up his fingers, into the glass the god is still holding. The alcohol shimmers, the ice cubes bump against the edges.
The sound echoes into the open space, somehow.
Tony doesn't forcefully lower the god's hand, because he isn't strong enough to do that. Rather, he guides it downwards, Loki lets him, until it bumps against the armrest and Loki lets go of his glass.
Fingers part open, only just. Neither of them move any further.
Tony has no idea what he is doing.
But that's fine, because Loki seems to. His eyes widen, in understanding, in shock, in exhilaration.
He lets out one laugh, full of humor and longing and almost like a gasp, almost like a sob.
And then Loki's lips are on his.
Just like that.
And Tony leans forward and loops his arms around his god's neck.
Just like that.
The pull apart for breath, and Tony lays his head against Loki's chest. A hand comes to cup the back of his neck, and there they stay.
Just like that.
When they wake up in the morning, the ice cubes have melted.