Disclaimers: These characters are not my own, sadly.
Thanks SO MUCH to my editor, Valylene, of whom has made this a medicore work into something much better.
Part I
I've seen a million numbered doors on the horizon
Now which is the future you've chosen before you gone dying?
I'll tell you about a secret I've been undermining,
every little lie in this world comes from dividing.
-Truth by Alexander Ebert
Loki was loathe to admit that he had anything in common with a certain bonded Steve Rogers, but when the human suggested they return to Stark Tower without fanfare, Loki quietly agreed.
Loki was little inclined to return to Midgard at all, much less back to the tower owned by the only human on the planet possibly more annoying than Rogers, but while Loki had learned how to rebel against Odin, his mother continued to stymie him. She'd knit her brows, mouth pinched, arms folded and level him with an even stare.
Even though Loki had outwitted Hreidmar, Fáfnir, Skadi and countless others, he had never learned how to outwit Queen Frigga: had never learned how to tell her no. When she told him he'd be going back with Rogers to Midgard, he had little choice but to agree. She said he owed it to the human—and if anyone, even his mother, expected him to owe anything to anyone, they were sorely mistaken—but Loki couldn't shake the uneasy weight that had settled onto his shoulders since Rogers' sacrifice.
Loki was convinced no man could be so altruistic, and so he agreed to go back to Midgard for two reasons: the first was to discover Rogers' ulterior motives in saving him, and the second was to unearth enough about the Avengers that when he took his revenge, it would be absolute.
They arrived in front of Grand Central Station with so little remark as to be hardly noticeable at all. Loki had never favored Heimdall's rather ostentatious arrivals and departures and he had found, quite pleasantly, that his way of moving through worlds proved much more successful.
He'd cloaked them both with the simplest of glamour spells, guaranteeing nosy pedestrians would recognize neither of them.
Rogers took the lead, although, as it was the tallest building in the city and the only one with a garish "A" (the rest as yet unfixed), Loki hardly felt it was needed: he would not lose track of where Stark's Tower was.
Rogers crossed the long blocks, hands shoved in his jacket, eyes distant in an expression Loki had come to recognize: the Captain was lost in thought and would speak little, if at all, on their journey to Stark Tower. This suited Loki just fine, and he didn't offer any commentary as he noted the changes since he'd been here last.
They had been gone several months by Midgard's time, and Loki was quietly impressed with how much rebuilding had occurred since then. Without either the skills of the dwarves or magic, it was hard work. Humanity's ability to rebuild after they had lost everything was something Loki had always grudgingly respected.
By the time they reached Stark Tower, the sun was at its apex, and the tower's shadow was almost non-existent. Sunlight reflected off windows and smooth silver siding, and Loki squinted as the light caught his eyes just right. Rogers stopped, a muscle moving in his jaw as he assayed the tower with unreadable eyes.
Just as Loki was about to comment, Rogers flashed him a toothy grin that failed to meet his eyes.
"Welcome home."
Loki sneered.
"After you, Captain."
Rogers crossed the plaza and pushed the broad glass doors open in a display of confidence betrayed by the tenseness of his shoulders. Loki idly wondered why the homecoming wasn't all roses and sunshine for the Captain, who had spoken in depth about New York and his friends.
The smooth mechanical clicking of weapons lowering from the ceiling and cocking killed Loki's line of thought. He had just thrown up his arms, the words of an offensive spell on his lips when Rogers looked at him sharply. He'd raised his own hands in a position of surrender, and although Loki suspected the klaxons sounding above them was probably meant to be disorienting to possible attackers and not a warning system for Stark, they did their job well.
Loki couldn't hear the words spilling from Rogers' moving mouth, but his body language was clear enough: "wait" and "don't attack".
Loki growled, his fists clenching at his sides as the Avengers poured into the room.
Besides Stark's gaudy suit, everyone else looked largely the same but the hulking green figure of the one that had bested him was missing. His eyes fell on the unassuming man that lingered behind the group in the crumpled white shirt and glasses.
Thinking he could harness chaos had been folly; even the green beast's owner could not bend the creature to his will.
"Steve?" Stark's disbelief echoed, tinny, from the helmet, and he remained in an offensive posture, arm extended and blue energy held in the palm of his hand.
Loki could see confusion in the set of his shoulders and the way he dropped his armed hand slightly, the blue light fading to a pulsing orb.
"Is this a trick?" Stark demanded, tone cross behind the obvious confusion that leaked through.
"No trick," Steve lowered his hands. "I'm back." His lips quirked in an unsure smile as he added, "Again."
"With Loki?" Barton's cold voice came from above, and Loki didn't have to look up to know that there was an arrow aimed at his heart. In his bid to win the team, Barton would be his greatest obstacle.
"He can't be controlling Steve," The woman—Romanov, Loki remembered—observed him from where she flanked Stark. "He doesn't have the tesseract."
She was sweating slightly and her hair was matted to her forehead. Her attire clearly indicated she'd just come from a workout session and Loki felt oddly victorious he'd managed to catch them so off guard.
"I'm not being controlled," Rogers said. "It's just—" he trailed off for so long that Loki looked over at him in bemusement as Rogers clearly sought the right words. "It's just... a lot has happened."
He winced, and Loki's amusement only grew.
"No shit." Tony lowered his arm, the blue light completely fading, but he didn't move to breach the space between them.
For all the hatred and discontent Loki had caused, the team's focus was entirely on Rogers, and Loki began to realize why the human was so tense.
There was a sudden commotion, and a side door, previously unnoticed, clanged open. Thor was there with all the energy of a late summer storm. Paying little heed to the lines drawn between the fragmented team, Thor was through the door and across the floor in a few long strides.
"Brother!" He exclaimed delightedly, pulling Loki into a breath-stealing hug.
Loki gritted his teeth as he tolerated Thor's theatrics. Loki had never found solace in hugs the way Thor did. He usually didn't suffer them at all, but he felt strangely guilty of the way he'd left things with his brother.
"Get off me," he hissed, sure he might suffocate if he allowed Thor to carry on for too long.
It was the icebreaker the team had needed. Ignoring Loki, they swarmed around Rogers, taking turns in welcoming him back. Stark prodded Rogers several times in the chest.
"You feel real," he acknowledged with childish curiosity. "Not one of Loki's illusions."
Thor loosened the hug, instead clasping his heavy arms on Loki's shoulders, his face close and beaming.
Thor's smiles could light a world, and Loki had spent his childhood devising pranks that would bring a smile to Thor's face.
There had been a time, briefly, when Loki had been the highlight of Thor's day, but then Odin had told them the days of pranks were of the past and they needed to grow up. Loki had never forgiven their father for the remark.
Not long after, Thor dogged Odin's every footstep, learning what it meant to be a man and a king, and had forgotten all about Loki and his escapades.
"We thought you dead! Even mother did not know what lands you trod," Thor declared, impassioned. His arms were heavy on Loki's shoulders, and he was not sure he could bear the weight. "Father sent his ravens across all the realms and still you were shielded from him!"
"What are you doing with him?" Banner's soft, firm voice cut through Thor's clamoring as he warmly shook Rogers' hand.
The Avengers fell silent as they awaited Rogers' answer. Rogers glanced at Loki, who shrugged. This was Rogers' battle: he had been the one to insist they return to his team. It stemmed, Loki was sure, from some sort of misplaced sense of duty that drove Rogers to lead this group of unhappy misfits.
"It's a long story," Rogers began, his eyes travelling upward and landing on Barton before making an effort of meeting the gaze of each teammate in turn. "How long were we gone?"
"Six months," Stark keyed the visor down. He pressed a button, dissolving the suit into a neat suitcase, revealing a casually dressed Stark, hands black with grease. Loki could see something in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
"It felt like a lifetime," Rogers' shoulders slumped in barely contained relief. He ran his hand through his hair. "I thought it had been longer."
"It was long enough," Stark frowned.
"I think I need a drink," Steve smiled, brighter this time. "Is there any iced tea in the fridge?"
"Uh," Stark shifted his weight as he eyed Loki. "Pepper made some. I think it's still there unless Clint drank it all."
"I didn't," came Barton's tight reply.
"Before I let Loki into my tower, I need to know that he—" Stark fluttered a hand at Loki "—won't try and wreck it again. Once you tell your story, we'll decide if he can stay as a team."
Rogers looked mildly surprised at the mention of the team becoming democratic in his absence.
"Sure," he agreed, "Although you should understand, where Loki goes, so do I."
"That so?" his raised eyebrows conveyed his surprise. "Are you two...?" he asked slyly, eyebrows shooting even higher on his forehead, and made a vague motion of his hands. Rogers turned bright red, the tips of his ears tingeing pink Loki smirked.
"No, nothing like that," Rogers denied. "It's complicated."
Stark waggled his brows. "I'm sure it is. Well, it should be a good story, anyway. Too bad you can't have anything stronger than ice tea."
"Yeah," Rogers muttered, shooting a look at Loki before gliding past him and following Stark into the Tower.
Once the team had piled into the den with drinks of choice clasped in tense hands, the atmosphere was anything but warm, and it hadn't gone without notice that Barton remained apart, his bow still at gripped in white-knuckled hands.
Rogers toyed with the glass in his hands, staring into the amber drink, condensation pooling around his fingers. Finally, he looked up.
Licking his lips, he began.
"When we grabbed the mistletoe, it turned out it was cursed, and we were transported to the icy fields of Niflheim, physically bonded together by the plant. Queen Frigga cursed it—" he continued, catching Banner's look of confusion. "—because she had not earned a promise from it that it would not harm Balder."
"Oh, that makes complete sense." Stark rolled his eyes. Irritation flashed across Rogers' face.
"Are you going to let me talk, or are you going to try and be witty at every turn?"
"I wouldn't say try," Stark returned.
"Tony, shut up," Romanov said. Stark glanced at her, but made a motion for Rogers to continue.
Rogers smiled at the agent before he continued. Loki couldn't help but notice that he left out large parts of their adventure.
He made no mention of how they'd almost been lost on the icy fields of Niflheim, or the shades that had dogged them. He kept the mythology to a minimum, expanding instead on how Loki had saved his life on several occasions, and the bond that had forged between them through the curse of the mistletoe and how due to the nature of the curse, the bond would remain until death, and the death of either of them was the death of the other.
Loki remained silent throughout. Rogers made no mention of the trade made for Loki's soul, of their time in Niðavellir and the consumption of the mead of the gods or the apple of eternal youth. He told a story of some poisonous food he'd been given that Loki saved him from. Loki was sure it had happened, because—of Rogers' many faults—the inability to lie ranked the highest.
Still, he had no recollection of the incident. After he had been poisoned by the Nightmare, his recollections increasingly grew more and more absent, and the few clear memories he did have were bizarre.
When Rogers finished, the team remained silent as they gazed thoughtfully at Loki. Barton's face was still screwed up in a scowl, but Thor was beaming, his broad face radiant with a happiness Loki hadn't seen since they were children.
"Brother, I knew you were better than you allowed impression of," he exclaimed happily. Loki clenched his teeth. His brother was so simple and ignorant, and it rubbed him in all the wrong ways.
"No," Barton said, his eyes dark, his shoulders tense, the bow string pulled taught with an arrow ready.
Romanov glanced at the sharp shooter and pursed her lips.
"Steve, from what you've told us, you certainly couldn't have survived without his intervention. Still, I've known a lot of guys like him and they're experts at the long con. If he's playing us, we won't know it until it's too late."
Loki had learned never to discount a woman, and Agent Romanov was no exception. She was perhaps the cleverest of the Avengers. She had fooled him once, and if Barton was a time bomb, she was a mine field.
Banner, a man that Loki soon realized only spoke after great consideration said, "This is a team comprised of second chances. We'd be hypocrites if we didn't allow Loki one." He let that stand for a second, then, as an afterthought, added, "We can always smash him again if he's lying."
"No," Stark said vehemently. "No way. This dude trashed my tower."
"I fixed it," Rogers protested.
"Just the barroom!"
"That's all that matters," Romanov pointed out dryly.
Stark huffed.
"He tried to take over the world! Manhattan will take years to fix."
"It was a war, and he lost," Rogers leaned forward. "If we were expected to never forgive the losers, we would never have been reconciled as a nation, to say nothing of our current status with Japan or Germany."
Loki's anger simmered. He was a god and a prince, and he wouldn't be ignored by the man that had—and then Rogers shot him a glance that said We'll get them on our side, just give them time, and Loki wondered when they had become 'us'.
"I have a hard time believing that." Stark crossed his arms.
Loki remained silent. He could feel Rogers' frustration with his team, wondered why the man was so vehement in his defense. Rogers had more reason than most to despite Loki, in fact, Loki had counted on it.
No soul existed in all the worlds that were as forgiving and accepting as Rogers, and Loki wondered if the human wasn't trying to con him. Looking at Rogers' bland face, his emotions stamped openly upon it, Loki wasn't sure Rogers had the capacity to be so clever.
"If you hadn't been afforded any second chances," Romanov spoke to the man of iron, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, "You'd still be manufacturing weapons for the government."
Starks's arms fell, and as he glared at Romanov he rebutted, "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
Romanov shrugged.
"Fine," Stark relented, throwing his arms up in the air. "Fine! He can… hang around. But he's not one of us, and the moment he shows the slightest sign of betrayal, it's game on. We've already lost too much because of this joker."
"If it comes to it, we'll handle it," Banner's dark promise carried more weight than all of Stark's posturing, and beside Romanov, Loki had to admit that he carried a modicum of respect for the one human that had managed to best him.
"I still say no." Barton snapped before standing stiffly to stalk out of the room.
Loki met Romanov's gaze. She considered him a long time, face indiscernible, before standing to follow Barton out.
Later, when Rogers was cleaning his room of six months of dust, Loki came by his open door and leaned against the doorframe.
"I was wrong."
"Yeah," Rogers agreed. "But about what, specifically?" he glanced up, a dusting rag in one hand, an old picture in the other.
"You do lie."
"I didn't," Rogers protested, but Loki counted it as a victory. If Rogers knew what he was talking about, the man already felt guilty about it. "I just left out parts. There's a difference."
Loki folded his arms, fighting the smirk that threatened. He couldn't bend his bonded to his will just yet, but if he could, it would be a better victory than killing him. He decided to let the thought smolder.
"Your team doesn't trust me."
"You almost wiped out our home and you aimed to enslave us," Rogers reminded him as he rehung the picture. Loki glanced at it. The tiny, black and white faces were unfamiliar to him, and he wondered at their importance.
"Are you not also angry with me?"
Rogers stopped cleaning and straightened, his blue eyes assessing Loki.
"Sure I am, Loki, but what do you want me to do? Continue fighting you until one of us is dead? You've proven that you have both the capacity for great deceit and great heroism. If I hadn't thought you worth saving, I wouldn't have done it."
"You are a fool," Loki sneered. He wanted to hate Rogers, wanted to think that if he acted the part, Rogers would hate him, too, and they could be done with this façade.
"Maybe," Rogers agreed amicably, returning to his work.
His walls were full of his own drawings and some posters that Loki discerned were from his era—a sailor kissing a nurse in the streets of New York, a recruitment poster, black and white pictures of trees with "Ansel Adams" in bold below them.
While many of Steve's own drawings were of his team or period sketches of a 1940's New York, many more were of Peggy. As Rogers moved across the room, he quietly removed all of them. The collected sketches grew into a pile as Loki watched.
When all traces of Peggy were gone, he moved to throw them away.
"I'll take them," Loki offered, wondering why, exactly, the removal of this woman who had meant so much to Rogers once, and now meant nothing, bothered him as it did.
Rogers turned, the sketches in hand.
"Are you sure? They're just some character study. Probably a woman I saw in a book or something. I don't know why I became so obsessed with drawing her. They're not very good."
"When Stark gives me a room, I will need to decorate the walls with something. These will suit."
"You're a little presumptuous, aren't you?" Rogers handed over the pages with a crooked smile. "Think Tony will just hand you a room?"
"I believe he will grow tired of my occupation on his couch."
Loki was right: Stark did grow tired of having to contend with Loki during his trips to the bar.
Loki wasn't sure if it was because Stark didn't like someone knowing how much he drank, or because he felt it was an intrusion on his space, but within a matter of days, Stark arrived with a pillow in hand which he promptly chucked at Loki.
"Wells will direct you to your room," Stark indicated a small robot that whirred over obediently. "I don't want you sleeping on my couch again, getting that greasy hair all over everything."
"Why, Stark, I do believe you're growing fond of me," Loki purred as he followed Wells past the irritated philanthropist.
"Just get the hell out of here," Stark growled.
Loki's room was austere as anything in Stark's tower could be, outfitted only with a bed and what would have been an outstanding view of Manhattan's skyline, had the buildings not been broken and battered, jutting up from the earth like broken bones.
There had been a beauty to it once: even Loki had to acknowledge that. The Aesir had never built something as grand as the steel and cement buildings that the humans were obsessed with: grabs for immortality before their short lives sputtered and closed.
As he settled into his room, his first course of action was to append the pictures of Peggy to his wall with tacks he'd palmed from Rogers' collection. He wasn't sure why he bothered—he hated himself for caring, but Loki felt responsible for remembering the woman Rogers could not.
That night, as he lay in bed and stared up at a ceiling cast in the stark shadows of reflected building lights (darker, Loki thought, than it would once have been), he thought of his brother and the team that was reluctantly adopting him.
While the shadow of destruction and death hung over him, Thor had yet to mention Loki's part in the destruction of Manhattan, of his imprisonment and subsequent escape or the six months of missing time.
Loki knew if he pressed the issue, Thor would wave his hand, butcher an American saying Stark had taught him in their absence like "Let sleeping dogs sleep" or "Let bygones be gone". Loki wanted to hate him for it, but his simpleton of a brother was also his only ally, and Loki had learned from a life trying that he could never make his brother hate him.
As for Rogers' team, they were wise to distrust him. Once Loki discovered how he could break the bond between him and the Captain, he planned to take full advantage of it. In the mean time, he was curious enough to find out what drove Rogers and resolute enough to follow through in whatever plan would follow. He would be there when Rogers revealed a kink in his armor, showed the world (and Loki, a part of him whispered) that the man wasn't the paragon of virtue he attempted to be.
The humans had a saying he appreciated: revenge was a dish best served cold.
And Loki... he could wait.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
On a Saturday morning, not long after the team's reluctant acceptance (if not their approval) of Loki's presence in the Tower, Loki sauntered through the Avengers Mansion and spied Rogers making breakfast in the kitchen. He was mixing something thick and creamy in a red bowl, his expression distant, as if his thoughts were far from the present.
Sneering at himself for even recognizing that expression, Loki leant against the doorway and contemplated mocking the Captain for doing servant's work. Just as he opened his mouth, a smooth, mechanical voice echoed through the room.
"Something is missing, sir."
Steve's back stiffened, his hand freezing over the bowl. "JARVIS," he replied.
Loki felt his hackles rise as he searched for the disembodied voice. He twisted and turned his head as he looked up towards the source of the sound, but there was no one in sight.
"Forgive my intrusion, sir, but you have changed."
Steve slowed from where he was pouring the bowl into the frying pan.
"I'm fine, JARVIS."
"Very well, sir," the voice agreed with startling perception, "Some morning jazz for you? Perhaps some Glen Miller or the Anderson Sisters?"
"Please," Rogers agreed.
The opening bars of a brassy tune filled the air.
"What sorcery is this?" Loki demanded, stepping into the spacious kitchen to straddle a stool at the counter, laconically resting his head in his hand. He thought if he could project a disaffected air, Rogers wouldn't pick up on his discomfort.
Loki had seen many things in his travels, but never before had a room addressed an occupant. Rogers had only turned on the light above the stove, so he was half cast in the cheery yellow light and half in the gray light of a morning sun not yet visible in the sky.
Rogers glanced at him, shaking his head as he added some brightly colored vegetables to the pan from another waiting bowl.
"It's not sorcery, it's JARVIS. Tony made him. He's like... like a ghost. A computer," Steve struggled with the unfamiliar words.
"Like Star Trek," Loki guessed, grinning slyly. From Rogers' frown, he could tell he'd had an impact.
Turning slightly so that he could see Loki, Rogers shrugged.
"I don't know?" He eyed Loki. "How do you know about that?"
"I am the Sky Traveler, or have you forgotten? This is not the first time I've been on your planet. I would think by now you would have realized how boring Asgard can be." Loki waved his hand in the air, flicking his fingers dismissively.
"Boring is not the word I would ever use." Rogers turned back to his concoction. "Anyway, I think we would've remembered you," Rogers muttered more to himself than anything else.
Loki rolled his eyes.
"I just know how not to make the disruption Thor does whenever he goes anywhere."
"Ah."
"I am amused you know so little about your own world," Loki smirked as Steve plated up an impressive ensemble of eggs, bacon, toast and hash browns. "I did not ask for this," he eyed the food distrustfully.
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And anyway, I know a lot," Rogers protested, his cheeks flaming red. "SHIELD had me go through a history course of everything I missed when I woke up. I just don't get pop culture."
"A relic of an age past," Loki mused softly, picking up a fork and pushing the food around his plate. The smell was pleasing and it had not been burned. Loki wondered when Rogers had learned to cook.
"Yes," Rogers agreed, staring at the stove.
0o0o0o0o0o0o
On Sundays, Rogers went to church. He'd leave early in the morning before the rest of the team was awake, wearing one of the suits Stark had purchased for him in his absence. He'd tucked a crisp twenty into an envelope that he'd give an attendant at the stairs.
Rogers said Stark had shoved several suits at him.
As they walked to church, the Captain pulled on the hem of his jacket and said, "I wonder if he bought these because he thought I'd returned alive, or he wanted me to be well dressed if I came back on my shield."
Loki was going to comment on how he'd have been better off if it were the latter, but then he'd seen the look in Rogers' eyes, and for some reason, his response didn't seem so witty and so he'd said nothing at all.
More Sundays than not, Loki accompanied him.
In the beginning, it was a mere curiosity, but he came to appreciate the quiet mornings. Rogers also had the strange habit of walking all the way to the stone church and then just standing outside and watching as the congregation filed in. In the many weeks they'd begun this habit, Rogers had yet to breech the threshold.
They'd wait until the bell sounded, and then Rogers would turn away, retracing his steps back to the Tower, only stopping to pick up doughnuts and coffee on the way home.
Loki hadn't asked about this queer habit at first because he convinced himself he didn't care what Rogers did or did not do. Now, the curiosity ate at him.
On a Sunday morning, several weeks post return to Midgard, they walked the streets of New York to the humble, stone building Rogers stopped at, Loki looked askance at his bonded.
"Why do you persist in your believing? You've seen worlds never discussed in your Bible, seen things your God never did. And where is he?"
"He saw us through, didn't He?" Rogers glanced at Loki. "Do you think He should be petty, like you? Is that what you think a god should be?"
"I'm not petty." He spat the word indignantly. "I have read your sagas—" Loki stepped around a beggar, a Styrofoam cup muffling the sound of coins that jangled with every shake of his hand. Hesitating for a moment, he realized it was not a compulsion that drove the man to shake the cup but tremors that forbid his hands from obeying.
"The Bible," Rogers corrected, dropping coins in the proffered cup. Loki wanted to tell him that the motion was useless, but then, so was telling Rogers. He was quickly learning that the man had a compulsion of his own in aiding those weaker and less fortunate than he. It was weakness, but Rogers didn't agree.
"As you will. What about Job? Adam and Eve? Those were petty decisions."
Loki had read the Bible in a week. It was not dissimilar from any other mythological text, its claims as ridiculous as any he'd ever read.
He'd found the Old Testament enjoyable enough, with its vindictive god and stories of war and destruction. The entirety of the New Testament had been dry, except for the last book. All mythologies foretold the end of the world, and not only was this version suitably violent, but Loki played no part.
"God admitted he had been cruel, and changed His ways when He gave His only son so that humanity might be saved," Rogers said as they paused at a stoplight and waited for the "walk" signal.
"And Job? He was just the object of a bet between God and your Devil."
"This world is brief," Rogers picked up his pace as they crossed the street. Even now, a red hand was blinking. "The ailments we suffer are nothing compared to the glory that awaits. Job knew that. Money and possessions meant nothing."
"What about those he loved? God killed them to prove a point."
For all of Rogers' intelligence, his persistence in believing in something as blatantly fictional as Christianity rankled Loki.
Rogers grew pale, his mouth thinned as he replied quietly, "They waited for him at the River."
Interesting. Modern Christianity would have its believers buy into the notion that pearly gates and naked babies waited upon death. Rogers' beliefs stemmed from wholly American ones, echoed in their hymns and literature.
"Do your loved ones wait for you at this river?"
"They do." But Roger's face was troubled. Loki saw the opening.
"They will be waiting a long time." Loki pointed out, observing Roger's face out of the corner of his eyes. He remained stoic, but his eyes took on a dead quality.
It was a rotten victory.
"Maybe," Rogers agreed as they came to the church, the morning congregation streaming in through the stony steps in their cheery frocks and suits. "But they'll be there, when I am called home."
Loki said nothing as he mulled over Rogers' words. He wondered if the man was as staunch in his beliefs as he claimed, or deliberately trying to rankle Loki.
They waited until the bulk of the believers had filed in. The doors closed and the bell resounded in the early morning air. Rogers ran his fingers over the worn stone.
"This was my parents' church," he confided, his fingers lingering on a stone block on the corner of the church before he turned to head back down the street. Loki waited for him to expound on that thought; realized that he hadn't thought about Rogers' parents at all. He wondered, briefly, who they had been, and what had happened to them.
They smelled the bakery before they saw it, the warm, delicious scent of freshly baked bread wafting down the street.
"Chocolate glazed?" Rogers prompted, pushing to the counter to order enough doughnuts to sate his teammates.
"And a bear claw," Loki shuffled around the press of humans cluttered inside. Loki had never admitted it aloud, but Rogers had realized his weakness for sweets.
Rogers pressed the treat into Loki's hand as they headed home. Normally, Rogers was talkative if not a little reflective on their walk back to the Tower.
Today, he was unnaturally quiet as they traversed home, his surface thoughts melancholic and conflicted when Loki touched them. Rogers stopped abruptly, anger twisting his features. Loki was surprised: it was not an emotion he saw often enough.
"I'm not a toy, Loki. Just because we're bonded doesn't mean you have free reign to assault my mind whenever I'm not openly entertaining you."
Loki reached out again, deeper than ever before, in an effort to provoke Rogers. Beneath the surface irritation was a well of sorrow and longing such as Loki had never known. Unprepared for the assault, he pulled back rapidly, a strange lump forming in his gut.
Rogers refused to meet his gaze, and Loki realized he didn't have the words, snide or comforting, to deal with the things Rogers was feeling.
So he said nothing at all.