It's a gray morning in November when the sleek black car pulls up alongside the cemetery. The man driving it parks on the side of the road, reaches into the back, pulls out a bouquet of freshly cut azaleas, and gets out. Despite the chilly weather, he's wearing only a pair of dark jeans and an emerald green button-down. As he passes through the cemetery gates, his skin flickers and turns a light shade of blue for a moment before returning to its normal pale state.
Eyes as green as his shirt dart restlessly between the graves before he's sure no one's here that might recognize him from the old days. Then he heads down a path which he has walked so many times he could shut his eyes and not trip or get lost—go forward fifty paces, turn right, forward another seventy, turn left, and then there's Stark's tombstone.
Tony's, Loki corrects himself, knowing that his lover would not care what he was called but wanting to use his first name out of respect, both of where he is and of the day. Tony's been dead now for ten years, and it has yet to get any easier.
The stone is starting to get weather-beaten, and Loki sets down the flowers at its head before allowing his magic to encircle his wrists, his fingertips. He carefully cleans it off, softens a few rough edges, and touches up the lettering: Anthony Edward Stark. 1977 – 2072. A great physicist and a greater man, and more of a genius than he will ever know.
Then Loki sinks down to his knees and forces a small smile to his lips, despite the tears brimming over his eyes, running down his cheeks. "Hello, love," he says, quietly. "It's our anniversary. But of course you knew that already." He reaches forward, moving the flowers so that they rest more towards the center of the tombstone. "I hope everything's going okay in the afterlife. I wanted to come visit you this year but Odin forbids it and Hel cannot see me but once every century anyway." He swallows hard, brushing the tears off his cheeks, hating how utterly mortal these emotions are making him feel. He is silent for a while; a light rain begins to fall and he shivers, his skin fading to blue again for a moment.
"I could have saved you," he whispers, finally, unable to stop himself. His voice catches and he moves closer to the grave, feeling vulnerable and still angry at himself, after all this time. "I could have prevented the years from catching up to you. Oh, Tony… we could have been gods."
He breaks down then; he does not care if anyone sees. He cries, hard, and his tears mingle with the rain. Long fingers grip the dirt, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he were no longer immortal.
After what feels like hours, Loki straightens up. His eyes are red, but they are dry, and he is calm again. He is going to make it through this. He's going to survive. Maybe he'll end up doing what Thor's been suggesting and just go back to Asgard. There is nothing left for him here, anyway, without Tony.
"Until next time," he says to the grave, his voice fairly even. He walks out of the cemetery with his back straight and his chin held proud as any Aesir, and he does not notice his husband's ghost lingering near the back fence, unable to communicate, unable to do anything but watch Loki get in the car and drive off, his arc reactor still glowing faintly beneath his shirt.