1965

Tony stood in the doorway in nothing but his open bathrobe and glared angrily at Pepper Potts who shoved him aside, ignoring his dirty looks as she began cleaning up. He had been in a mood for months and Pepper was tired of it.

"Get cleaned up," she told him, opening his fridge before closing it not seconds later. Pepper wrinkled her nose in disgust. "How do you live like this?" she asked, not expecting an answer from her client.

"What for?" Tony asked, finding a half empty beer bottle and downing it, gagging at the lukewarm taste. "I've got nowhere to be."

"Wrong," Pepper told him. "I convinced Fury to let you back into the studio."

Tony laughed, running a hand through his hair, plopping down into a chair. Good old Pepper. Always looking out for him. He shook his head, getting those thoughts out of his head. What was he thinking? No one cared about him anymore. He was washed up. Old news.

He couldn't keep up with the new kids, though it hurt for him to admit it. "No thanks," Tony said, making his way back to his bedroom.

"Tony," Pepper started.

"No," he growled. "I'm not going back." He wrapped himself in his blankets, hoping that Pepper would get the hint and leave. "I'm retired," he reminded her.

"You're being a baby."

"Am not," Tony muttered, just as Pepper ripped off the blankets, proving, once again, that he had no say in their professional relationship.

Tony slammed the door of his Chevy in protest, following Pepper obediently. Her hair was perfect and her heels made a wonderfully annoying clacking sound on the pavement. It made Tony grind his teeth.

He knew things were going to be different. He had gone to war knowing that, and when he came back, he was right. Music changed. People changed.

He changed.

There was a gaping hole in his chest, band-aid together with luck and a little bit of intuition. His father headed the Manhattan Project, for pete's sake. People were always surprised to hear that he had graduated with summa cum laude at MIT when he was 17 years old.

Then again, when you decide to go into rock and roll instead of the family business (if that's what you could call Stark Industries), it's much simpler to write you off as a block head.

SHIELD was just like Tony remembered. Large and impersonal. Albums lined the walls of the waiting room and hallways, gold records and smiling faces of those who had made a quick buck for the studio. It was disgusting. And he couldn't have been more disgusted when he saw his own face grinning back down at him, a cruel reminder of who he had been.

"Who's that?" Tony asked, staring up at an album with silhouetted figures, one large, the other small. No band name. Nothing. Very strange, as far as record albums went.

"The Odinsons," Phil Coulson told him, coming seemingly from nowhere. Tony, used to his sneaky ways, nodded his head absently. The Odinsons… Tony had never heard of them. "Just signed them," Phil Coulson said, answering Tony's unvoiced question.

He stared up at the album as Phil and Pepper chatted quietly in the background.

The day was cloudy and rainy, and unbearably humid. Loki felt like throwing himself out the window and onto the shrieking girls standing beneath his balcony. He lit another cigarette, closing his eyes and laying comfortably on the couch.

"Brother," Thor interrupted. Loki pressed his hand to his head, cursing under his breath. Two minutes. He only wanted two minutes.

"God, what?" Loki snapped, taking a long drag of his cigarette, praying that Thor would say what he wanted and get lost.

But if Thor's giant smile had any say in the matter, it was obvious that wasn't going to happen. "We're going to have a visitor," he buzzed with excitement.

"Who?" Loki asked, sitting up. That meant he'd actually have to put on clothes. Damn it. It was official. He was never again coming to New York in August.

"Tony Stark!" Thor boomed. Ah. Well… that would explain Thor's eagerness. Or rather, over eagerness. Thor was always eager. It was one of his most infuriating qualities. Among others, of course.

"Really?" Loki asked, feigning disinterest. "What on earth for?"

Thor shrugged, not caring for the reason his idol, the man he worshipped for years before going into rock and roll himself, wanted to meet them. Two barely famous rock and rollers from London.

Sure they had their over eager fans, but it was nothing compared to The Beatles or The Rolling Stones or Herman's Hermits. Even Dusty Springfield had a larger following than The Odinsons.

"What time?" Loki asked, hoping that he could still lounge for a little bit longer.

"Now," Clint Barton, their manager, announced, stepping into the hotel room, a very cool and relaxed Tony Stark behind him.

Loki slunk down into the couch. Damn it.

"Nice sheet," Stark smirked, eyeing Loki beneath a pair of outdated sunglasses.

There he was. Tony Stark. The rock and roller that started it all.

He remembered the first time he had heard Stark come on the radio. He and Thor both never looked back after that. How could they? Elvis was brilliant, and Chuck Berry could do it like no other, but Tony Stark.

The loud talking, obnoxious, shiny toothed, and personable musician just seemed to call to you. His voice dripped sex and his guitar playing exceeded anything Loki or Thor had ever imagined. Elvis had his pelvis, but Tony Stark just had to show up and the girls dropped their knickers, no gyrating necessary. Though no one would complain if he decided to.

Loki huffed, but extended his hand in greeting anyway. "Loki," he introduced himself. Tony shook the hand, before turning to his brother. "And Thor," Loki continued. "Pleasure."

"All mine," Tony murmured, looking around the room, his eyes falling on the bar in the corner. "Can I?" he asked, already grabbing a bottle of brandy and pouring himself a drink, no permission necessary.

Clint raised an eyebrow at Loki's lack of wear, but didn't say anything. A sheet was much better than him being naked, which Clint had witnessed more times than he'd ever like to admit.

Thor joined Tony at the bar and the two began chatting away, as Loki watched from the couch, refusing to move.

When Stark left, an hour or so later, Thor shot Loki a look of pure happiness, that he couldn't help but smile back. It seemed this childhood hero didn't let them down. Loki didn't have the heart to tell Thor that Stark was only checking out his competition.

Everyone knew that Stark was trying to get back into music. But things had changed. It'd been nearly seven years since he had released an album. The war had stunted his career, while the rest of the world plowed on.

Nobody was listening to rockabilly anymore. Sure, there were a few who were hanging on tight. But you had to move on. Rock and roll was well and truly dead.

Now there was this music. The sound of The Byrds, The Animals, Bob Dylan, and The Temptations. The Odinsons. There was no room on the charts for Tony Stark.

And everyone knew it.

Author's Note: So technically I'm still on hiatus. At least for TCOLO, but I get stupid plot ideas all the time and I hate myself so I wrote this down. I'm thinking maybe four chapters for this fic. It's going to span... twenty years, maybe. I hope you guys enjoy this fic. It just lets me show off my useless knowledge of the 50s, 60s, and 70s and my need for more historical frostiron au. So yeah. :)

Aardvark!