It was a suitable day for a funeral: rainy, foggy, and miserable. The world became monochromatic as the grey of the skies blurred with the black overcoats and umbrellas of the many mourners.
He had been a popular man, world famous, in fact, for his genius, his playboy persona, and his dedication to the side of the angels in every fight, so quite a significant amount of people showed up. None, save a handful, were important: the deceased's renowned team, his real friends, of which there were only several. A red-haired CEO. Those 6, and one more. His husband, a tall, slender, dark haired man who had started out as his worst enemy but quickly became friends, and then... Well, you can figure it out from there. As the crowd slowly began to disperse, only those 6 people remained at the final resting place of their best friend. One by one, even these slunk away, wiping tears from their faces as they headed back to their lives, now more empty than before. Soon, only the lover was left, holding a vibrant red rose. His favorite. He knelt down before the tomb, ignoring the wet ground staining the knees of his trousers. He gently laid the flower on top of the recently-overturned dirt, now covering his beloved's body six feet beneath his own. He closed his eyes and heaved in a large breath before an unbidden sob was torn from his aching chest. The salty tears dripped onto the already-soaking earth, minuscule crystals against a plain of brown.
"I'm so sorry," he choked, head falling into his trembling hands.
He knelt there for what seemed like ages, letting the water pouring from the sky wash over his face. Even the heavens were weeping.
Suddenly there was a cloth wrapped around his shoulders, held in place by firm, familiar hands. He looked up at the man kneeling next to him, his blonde hair hanging limply around his shoulders as he wrapped a comforting hand around the weeping lover, bringing him into his chest for a hug, letting his tears stain his jacket as he held him close, rubbing soothing circles on his lower back.
The two brothers sat there in the rain for hours, a dark silhouette against the rest of the world. The rain clicked as it hit the pavement, and the sounds of heartbreak permeated the air of the small cemetery. And still they sat there, unwilling or unable to move until at last the Captain forced them inside.

Loki stared out the window, as was typical since Tony's death. No one knew what he was looking at. No one asked. If they had, they would have been ignored by the man, who would continue to simply stare out into the nothingness.
Sometimes they would bring him food, try to encourage him to eat. He refused. They tried to get him to do things with them. He refused. All he did was stare out the window, looking at something only he could see.
Eventually they left him alone, still bringing up trays of food for him, then taking them back an hour later with only a nibble eaten. And still he went without saying that any conversations involving Tony took place far from the tower.

Avengers business went on, but now they were two members down: one dead, one as good as dead.
Everything was far more subdued without the incessant witticisms of Stark. Of course, no one would say this, but everyone knew it.
The slot of Iron Man was soon filled by Col. Rhodes, the Iron Patriot.
No one mentioned it to Loki.

Loki came down to eat one day, about three months after, "The Incident." He was silent and avoidant, but at least he came downstairs. And he ate all of his cereal.
Everyone observed this silently, not willing to say anything lest it turn out to keep him from doing it again.

Loki was back on the team, now. He'd had quite a shock when Iron Patriot was there, but he quickly managed to ignore it as much as possible. And if anyone noticed that he avoided Rhodey, well, no one said anything.

He strayed around the tower, now, occasionally freezing and just standing there, lost in thought. The rest of the team learned to stay away when he got like this, giving him a wide berth until he would abruptly snap out of his stupor and continue wandering the halls like a ghost, as if he'd never stopped in the first place.
He still didn't talk except pertaining to Avengers business.

Bruce tried to sit down and talk to him, once. Loki had just stared at him blankly, his face emotionless, eyes unfocused.
Bruce stood and left.

He tried again a few weeks later. All Loki did was repeat two words, over and over like a mantra.
"My fault."
Bruce tried to assure him that it was quite the opposite, but the god wasn't listening anymore, his mind far away where no one could reach. Safe.

Two years later, things were almost back to normal. Loki was mostly back to his old self, only occasionally losing himself from this world. The team took it as an improvement.
No one noticed how Loki disappeared from his room sometimes, returning with ancient, dusty books covered in intricate runes. He immersed himself in these every night, and if JARVIS noticed, he remained silent.

Then he disappeared for a whole two weeks. No note. No message. Just a flash of light from his window, then nothing.
Upon conducting a search of his room, they discovered an array of items.
A pentagram. A shining silver blade. White powder. A stone bowl of red liquid. An array of candles. A match. A piece of burlap with an odd symbol painted on in the same blood from the bowl. And a spellbook, opened to a faded page illustrating what looked suspiciously like Hell.

He returned with a grin on his face, but it seemed... off, somehow. There was something dangerous in that smile. And if his teeth appeared sharper, his pupils bigger, no one said anything to him.
He also returned with a living Anthony Stark.

It was news everywhere. People rejoiced, loved ones rushed to embrace him. They questioned him about what happened, why he was back, but everything since that battle was a blur of indecipherable color.
They asked Loki once. After that, they didn't ask anymore, not wanting to face his new explosive anger over that particular question.

Loki was spending most of his time by Tony's side, making up for lost time.
Yes, he disappeared more often in the middle of the night, but he was always back by morning, so it was okay. Right?

One night he came back with blood on his hands. Everyone was asleep but Clint, who jumped up out of his chair at the table where he'd been cleaning his bow to question Loki.
In an instant he was pinned to the counter, arms twisted painfully behind him as the god leaned over him, bending his head down to hiss into Clint's ear. "You will say nothing of this or I will personally kill you in the most sadistic, excruciating way possible and hang your mangled corpse from the chandelier. Do I make myself clear?"
Clint, stiff beneath him, nodded in affirmation, and the god released him. He turned to say something, but Loki was gone, the only sign that he was ever there the bloody handprints on the archer's forearms.
Something was very, very wrong.