Author's Note: I must admit with some amusement and some hesitation that this story originally started out on a simple premise: follow Scott Lang's resurrection and see where it took me. About five lines into the session with Murdock in the last chapter, I realised watching Scott fill out tax and estate forms was going to be drier than toast. So I've made up some ancillary plot devices which I hope out us in mind of the original Avengers and their inherent 'derring-do' nature—particularly regarding Loki's views on that subject. Being a god after all, I figure he's one for nostalgia. So, what the story's become is something more interesting as we follow three disparate tracks. Believe me, this wasn't in the notes, but I'm kind of happy with where it's going. I hope you are as well, Readers. A note on Blake Burdick: the 17th precinct indeed exists in Manhattan. You can find the fine men and women that serve there on East 51st Street. Parts of Scott's conversation below come thematically from the excellent Tom Hanks film 'Cast Away', while my model for Peggy is Annette Bening, especially as seen in 'American Beauty'. Finally, I have no idea what precisely Peggy Rae Lang's real maiden name is and I'm not sure if she was ever given one in the comics. If someone happens to find one that contradicts mine, I'll gladly recant.


The Upper West Side.

Billy Kaplan's Journal:

The parentals are out of town for the weekend. Dad's exploring an offer to teach Law at UMass, instead of, er, meting it out every week in the Manhattan Superior , that was a lame turn of phrase but it works. Mom's gone with him—mostly to explore every Starbucks that side of Providence, but also for the mushy-gushy reason.

The one I've been batting around in regards to telling Ted.

The L word.

Dreaded letters of the seven seas.

'Course, it's entirely true.

I do love Ted.

As it so happens, I love everything about him but I think I'd sooner rip every hair from my body than admit it. Still, he does have it going on and that's okay to admit. The earrings are pretty cool—definitely not the sort of thing I would go in for, despite the fact that I already have, but still pretty hot. God, I just used the word 'hot' in relation to my boyfriend. God, I just used the word 'boyfriend'. What's happening to me?

I fear I'm growing up.

16 yrs old just doesn't get you what it used to.

An especially erudite 16, though, if I do say so myself. Maybe it's something in the drinking water?—getting into my system, my bloodstream and my brain, and ensmartening me.

Ensmarten. I just made up a word. (NB, tell Tommy about it later!)

And Ted.

The earrings. And the hair. I'm a sucker for blondes. The smile. The eyes. A complete goddamn package.

And the way he just so conveniently happens to look in the Hulkling suit?

Woof.

Just heard the front door close. It'll be Ted.

I'm going to wrap this up and bound down the steps to meet him—he'll already be sprawled on the couch with a Red Bull, flipping desperately through the channels looking for 'Top Gear'.

How the hell am I gonna explain this Loki thing to him?

And to Cass?


Castle Doom.

Often Loki found himself confronted with constructions of a double-standard from his brothers. Usually Balder, but not infrequently one of the others. He couldn't be bothered to know their names or even care. Partially, this was by design. Asgardians were by their very nature long-lived. They were gods. An overseen fact, much like the nose on Loki's face; one that escaped notice if not brought up once or twice a millennium.

It was a small, insular group. What with gods being what they are.

But the foundation of the issue—the dyad upon which the realm had not been built but which it now existed—was that it was Loki and Thor's world.

The rest of them were simply living in it.

Double-standards were counter-intuitive.

Exile had only broken the Thunder God marginally, which caused Loki great consternation. And yet little surprise. It hadn't been a shock that Thor still ambled around the world of Men as a stray in the gutter might, with his head yet held in a misplaced and prideful heft. But it certainly set Loki in a foul mood to see him doing it with that characteristic stiff upper lip of his.

Loki retreated to Earth, for the duration of one of their weeks, for private dismay. It was that, or rip Balder's arm off in a public display of anger.

And at this point, that trail could not be countenanced. The goal remained the same for the God of Mischief & Lies—who ever saw much and affected more, and had his leather gauntlets, as they say, stuck into many pies.

At this delicate stage, he could not risk a public stage for middling emotions.

So he internalised it. Let it boil.

Being a god, after all, he had the anger of a thousand lifetimes festering within.

Being a god, after all, he could deal with that.

He stood a metre from the gilded throne of the Lord of Latveria, his gracious host who in his wisdom and magnanimity had seen fit to shepherd the Asgardians, bereft of their home, to a new age.

One carved in Loki's own graven image.

Out of nowhere, he chortled. A voiceless affair, motivated by his encounter with the young mage in his 'Manhattan' earlier.

Young Master Kaplan's was a hard shell. But it could be cracked.

Loki had put the first stress fractures in it by mention of the mage's romantic consort. The Kree-Skrull half-breed.

Gods, how these humans repulse, Loki thought.

'Construction Hugo'. That was the name the young master devised. Loki had sensed it by an entirely elementary probe into the boy's mind—one which the boy hadn't even noticed.

Loki smiled.

Of course he enjoyed the Nyarlathotep approach. 'Shape-changing' was such an ugly term, but it had its adherents. And benefits. The obvious one was subterfuge, but also anonymity.

Since it was Loki's raison-d'etre anyway, the creation of mistrust came as naturally as breathing. Doing so in the guise of 'Lawrence'—a simple mono-name from someplace called Iowa, who, despite his comely avocation of construction and contracting, read Marx and sympathised with Charles Manson and thought every deviant and thief ought to be subjected to 'Old Sparky'? That was better than any death trap.

All Loki had to do was sit there and let it happen. The humans would sign on willingly, if given a genius loci for their hate.

And now the world was so much more interesting. Given Osborn's proclivities for dealing under tables many and manifold, Loki's existence became one of ceaseless joy and boundless optimism.

Yet in his quiet moments he ever regretted the actions caused by his hand that created the Avengers to begin with. But he could—would—always deal with them later. The better things lay with the rabble. Mortals, who bandied about in their little spheres with their little problems.

For a god sufficiently motivated and overqualified? It was, in their own words, 'fish in a barrel'.

He stopped and slunk slowly into the throne, coming to rest in a low posture. His arms stretched out on the velvet and gold armrests, his legs bent over the edge, heels in abutment of the clawed feet. His breathing stopped. He looked at the ceiling: a row of chandeliers running from the throne and the dais down to the oaken door, on hinges built by the Romanian impaler, bathed the hall in dim warmth.

What fools these mortals be.

The fact of the matter was that Victor had raised Scott Lang from the dead, intending to use him as a psychological weapon against his hated nemesis, Reed Richards. But matters changed, and Victor abandoned Lang. Relinquished him back to his heroic fraternity—who would doubtless have no clue how to handle Lang.

The resurrection magics Victor used wouldn't last forever. Sooner, quite rather than later, Lang's very essence would begin to break down. And in his dying rage, Lang would exact revenge on his reanimators.

For his own part, the God of Mischief longed to avoid that fight. And the very distinct possibility of righteously angry superheroes on his doorstep.

Despite the secret little thrill he got from fighting the Avengers.

Loki stood from the throne and went to the windows, a wide expanse of open cathedral-high crennellations facing west.

The fact of the matter was that Billy Kaplan had stood up to Loki. Had faced down the God of Mischief with nary a glint in his eye. Hadn't even flinched. Loki resented that.

Billy Kaplan had made himself a powerful enemy, yet didn't seem to care.

The fact of the matter was that Billy Kaplan and the rest of his Young Avengers had stood up to Kang the Conqueror—

To Mr Hyde, troglodytic pretender that he was—

To Kl'rt the Super-Skrull, though that one was never a challenge—

To the Kree and the Skrulls, all in one afternoon—

—And they had lived to tell the tale.

A God of Mischief with a vested interest in the mystical advancement of youth had to admire that. Despite whatever other misgivings he had on the subject.

Loki had failed with the original Avengers, failed to sway any of them. So rigid with their justice and their democracy.

He would watch young Master Kaplan's career with great interest.

Time makes all things possible...


Billy Kaplan's Journal:

Dinner went better than I'd expected. Amazing what I did with a couple of eggs and some Aunt Jemima. Pancakes, much less the whole idea of breakfast for dinner, is one of life's little joys. Couple years ago it was Folger's In Your Cup, but now? The sufficiently gifted adolescent cooks whatever he wants. The magic helps, too. Or at least saves me from calling the Fire Marshal.

And since it was Ted, he loved it all. The sausage links and the raspberry jam for topping. Even if the pancakes had been burned-solid bricks of themselves, he would have wolfed them down with a smile and a gleam in his eye and said, "no, I don't blame you for not knowing how to cook."

As it turned out, to my surprise, he really didn't.

"Leave the dishes on the table," I'd said once we were done. "I'll get them tomorrow."

He put up a small protest but that didn't get very far.

Couple of minutes later we're making out on the Davenport, and Ted's boring the hickey to end all hickies into my chest, at which point I stopped it. He put up a little fight at that too, giving me the old and tired, "C'mon" with the oh so deadly come-hither look. That didn't last long either.

Then he sidled up and planted his head on my chest and said, with all the subtle anger of a four-year old, "Okay, Billy, what is it?"

"I had a lovely visit from, er, an old friend at Starbucks today."

The conversation didn't go this smoothly but you get the picture.

"Oh dear God," Ted said. Then, "You went to Starbucks?"

"Har har," I said. "You want to hear about it?"

"Sure."

"Loki."

A silence followed, during which I'm sure Ted's hope of a truly great night together summarily died.

"Loki?" he said. "The Loki?"

"You wouldn't believe it," I said and stared up at the ceiling. "You honestly wouldn't."

"I dunno," he said and wormed his fingers between mine and clutched. "We've seen a lot of weird shit. Try me."

"Said he was Loki. Man, but he looked like some construction slob."

Ted laughed. "That must've been rough."

Right. "I don't know. Something's wrong, Teddy."

"How do you figure?"

"He seemed to know everything about me. Wanted to know more about you. And Cassie. And her dad."

"Her dad?" Ted asked. His free hand started tracing circles on my abdomen. "Why her dad, he's been dead for like two years?"

"Yeah." Then I frowned. "I think we should tell her that there's a God of Mischief after her."

"And not try to stop him?"

"Well," I said. "There is that."

"But?"

"This is Loki. He didn't look the part. But I could tell. Y'know. I just could tell. Whole thing was trippy."

"So we go beat him up and save the day," Ted said. His hand moved lower.

"This is Loki," I said again. "The reason the Avengers got together in the first place. I mean. This could be a hornet's nest, Teddy. I think we need to tell Cassie immediately."

I stood and pulled my shirt back on. Ted stayed slouched on the couch and followed me, sheepish, a moment later. Giving the sad-puppy look and saying, "Shucks..."


The Baxter Building.

Scott Lang.

He was in the middle of another nightmare.

Sleeping on the couch could have been a cause for it. Not that the Fantastic Four particularly lacked guest accommodations. More that Scott didn't feel. Properly. Right. About the charity. Fact of the matter was, though, that he had nowhere else to go.

So much 'well' and 'however' and 'sort of' and 'maybe just perhaps'. So much uncertainty. Instability.

The easy route would have been to stroll down to Manhattan Chase, open the accounts again—noticing of course how much Peggy had scraped off the top in the interim to finance her little 'cop's-wife' bit—and find a place to go be ignored for the rest of his life.

Maybe East Egg.

He didn't want to join one of their super teams. Not now.

Jessica Drew could do it after coming back from Skrullnonymity.

So could Colossus.

Scott was neither of those people.

And never could be.

So here he was. Balled up on the lounge Davenport with one of Sue's mom's heritage quilts curled over him.

Stirring.

'Tossing and turning'.

Dreamland. Scott and Peggy Verbal Sparring, Round 478:

"God damn it Scott, when does it stop being okay? When do you get a clue in that fucking head of yours that there are lives here?! Why do you always have to be so goddamn right?! Answer me!"

And breaking things off with Jessica Jones:

"I'm going to quote Jimmy V. You know him, possibly the best sportster to ever have existed. Don't give up, Jess. Don't ever give up..."

Yeah, sure. Loving her enough to let her go make the mistake of her life with Luke Cage. Knowing that that Casablanca bit about having to let someone you love go is really true. That's the pisser. Knowing that in a few years you're going to see her on the street and flash a mutual nod and that'll be the end of it. Or maybe one stops the other one and says, we should get a coffee sometime, and the other says, yeah that'd be great, and then knowing that it's one date that'll never be kept. Not for lack of effort, but because you've both arrived at the worst place a human possibly can.

'I used to know her'.

That's the worst, he thought.

When time passes you by and you didn't even know about it.

Because you weren't there.

He flipped over and his head burrowed into one of the pillows, letting out an unconscious sigh.

Dreamland. Sharing a bowl of Count Chocula with Cassie in the kitchen. While Wolverine and Pym shared a Labatt at the island, their heads hiding behind dangling pots and pans:

"You don't want to be like me, Cass, trust me. Heroes are an overrated bunch of guys, and eve if you save a kitten or stop a jumper from the Brooklyn Bridge, it's a hard life. We're not firefighters—we don't get that kind of respect. We do the world-saving that four-alarms don't compare to. Remember when I told you about Taskmaster?

Yeah, sure.

His eyes opened reflexively. Easily. As if he had merely been keeping them shut this whole time.

Stared at the ceiling, but really at nothing.

Threw the blanket off and stood.

And made for Reed's lab.


Now.

Brooklyn Heights.

This is Peggy Rae Burdick.

Formerly Peggy Rae Lang.

Maiden name Peggy Rae Blankenship.

Doing the laundry. Hearing the phone ring. Settling the basket full of Cassie's clothes onto one hip and waddling, uneasy, into the kitchen. Plucking the wall phone off its receiver and cradling it between her ear and a tensed shoulder.

"Hello?" she says and sets the basket on the kitchen island and starts to sort through the socks.

"Ms Burdick?"

"Yeah."

"Um. This is Susan Storm, of the Fantastic Four."

This is Peggy Rae Burdick cocking an eye at that and saying, "I know who you are, Miss Storm," even though she didn't really.

"I have some news for you."

Peggy rolls her eyes and says, "What's Cassie gone and done now?"

"It's about your husband, Miss Burdick."

She freezes, mid-fold, and stares ahead at the Spode shining through the china cabinet. "Blake?"

"No," Susan says. "Scott."

Her face creases.

"Uh. Say that again?"


Manhattan.

NYPD Precinct 17.

They had put Scott in one of their goddamned interrogation rooms. Questioning rooms. Whatever they were calling it these days. The lamp overhead was harsh and white, and Scott imagined that if the temperature dipped, the radiant heat would cause those fascinating little wisps of heat to curl away from it. An ice cube on a stove burner.

You think about things like that in your quiet moments. Idle things that have nothing to do with anything, like if you were in Denver and not on an airplane and having sex, would it still count as joining the Mile High Club?

And since Scott seemed to have an awful lot of quiet moments in the past four weeks, his thoughts were everywhere. As big as the world. And none of them really important, if he thought about it. More like the inane ramblings of a loser put out of time and place and trying to find his way back.

Yeah, he thought. Sure.

The walls on all sides were unpainted cinder blocks. The grey kind that resembled a prison cell—and he was sure this wasn't an accident on the part of the architects.

It had been a simple process getting down here. Too simple, though Scott didn't really think about that kind of thing before so why bother now?

Got up. Called Sue and Reed and said, I need to talk to her, and they both said, okay, and down here they came.

Blake Burdick worked out of Precinct 17. When Scott first noticed him, Blake had been on the 5th Avenue part of P-14's jurisdiction. Had strolled up and down outside the Mansion for weeks, doing the Irish cop thing and twirling his baton around in his hand. And whenever Peggy or Cassie would come to visit, he would make an extra effort to get Peggy's notice.

When the divorce finally happened, Scott wasn't surprised that she'd run to Blake for comfort, for help, and for whatever else someone like Peggy did with someone like Blake.

When that happened, Blake transferred a few blocks away to the 17th Precinct. Scott suspected it was a line-of-sight thing. That if Blake and Peggy didn't want to see him, they wouldn't have to. Not if he worked five blocks away.

Scott grinned. As if Ant-Man could be stopped so easily.

The door ahead of him, on the other side of the polished aluminium table that reflected the lamp-light obnoxiously, clattered and opened slowly. The hinges whined in their rust.

Peggy stepped in. Looking very cold and ethereal. Her arms crossed over her chest, just below her breasts.

A white button down and grey trousers with black heels.

Scott still gave her the once-over, his head peering over the table-edge as he did.

Then they locked eyes.

His heart sank. He imagined his balls shrivelling up. His mouth hung open.

In the car on the way down here he'd had a pretty good idea what he wanted to talk about. What he wanted to say to her. To tell her.

Now it was all. Immaterial.

His mouth hung open. Because he knew, and he suspected that she knew too, that this was it.

He'd arrived at the worst stage a human being could.

They looked at each other, and Scott swore for a moment he saw a little sigh in her. A slumping of the shoulders. A depressing of spirit. Some kind of vague dissatisfaction or sedation. Directed at him. Like it used to be.

What was he going to tell her? 'Surprise I'm back and I don't even know how?' 'Where's my daughter, did she grow up to be a rampaging bitch like you?' 'Are you still leaving a trail of human wreckage or did Blake dump you?'

"Hey," he merely said.

She said nothing. One hand, trembling, shuttered out and grasped the chair at the other end of the table. Pulled it out and then the rest of the body followed. Like some stunted robot, she sat in the chair. Looked like maybe she was about to projectile some vomit in his general direction.

And what was she going to say? 'Gee, I'm sorry I ran off and moved on without you?' 'Are you expected maybe a reconciliation?' 'Oh you were dead but now you're back, is this some fucking trick, Scott?'

God...

He made the first move. "Look I don't care about anything. I'm not gonna say I'm surprised you even showed up. I'm not even gonna say that it means you still care about me, because I think it's pretty fucking obvious you don't and never did. Otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation. Otherwise the last fifteen years of my life wouldn't have happened. I just needed to see you. I needed to do something here and you're looking at it. Okay?"

She spoke, staring at the table, one hand covering her mouth, probably stifling a breakdown. "You died."

"I know," he said. "I was there."

"I mean," she said. "We had a funeral. At the Mansion. Everyone was there. Funeral. Coffin."

"Coffin?" he said and their eyes met again. "What was in it?"

Her eyebrows rose and fell and her head inclined slightly. "Well, everyone put something in."

He leaned forward. In a focused voice he said, "What did you put in?"

"Those letters, Scott. All those letters you wrote me. From High School until...until you went to jail." Then she started weeping.

He sat back in his chair. Waited a moment.

So she had carried a torch for him.

How odd.

"What about Cassie?"

Through teary-eyes, she whispered, "We had to let you go, Scott. I mean. I saw your body. There was nothing left. The last thing I said to you was 'I'm sorry', Scott. I was holding your hand when I did that. Your bony, very dead hand. Sitting in some Stark Enterprises morgue out on Coney Island."

She leaned forward. Laid her hands on the table and buried her head in them and the crying came steadily.

He clasped his hands together and didn't go to her.

Fuck connections. Fuck compassion.

Think of what she did to you, Scott.

The tough front didn't last very long.

His breathing quickened and he wiped his eyes before they blurred completely. Before a tear could escape and give him away. He spoke and as he went on, his voice rose:

"Jesus, Peg, I loved you. And you ran to Humboldt and said those horrible things and filed the papers. You said that I was putting our child's life on the line—that I was risking Cassie's life chasing after my glory days." He chuckled a little bit, astonished at the surrealism. "And every fucking judge in town took your side! You said irreconcilable differences. That we weren't getting along—was that it? 'Cause it if wasn't please stop me! Tell me, Peg, were you grabbing your ankles for Blake before or after you signed the papers?!"

She shot out of her chair. Slammed her fists on the table and screamed it at him.

"Shut up!"

He mirrored it. Not willing to give in. Slammed his own fist on the table.

"I want to know! Was I in some way unpleasing to you? Was the idea of fucking a goddamned cop just too romantic to pass up?! What about a goddamned Avenger, huh?! You know, I saved the world too goddamn it. I was a hero!"

Her head came up to look at him slowly. Face red, mascara streaming across her temples and down to her jawline along with teary tributaries.

"Scott," she said and it was hardly audible. "You're the love of my life. I had to do what was best for Cassie."

That did the trick.

He sat back down slowly. Deflated.

"I love you," she said. "And I love Cassie."

"And Blake?"

It was a stupid question. But he had to know.

She nodded. Sucked more snot back into her sinuses, and touched a hand to her forehead.

And waved the other one away idly. The silent 'don't look at me'.

"So," she whimpered and ran both hands through her hair and sucked more snot. "Just go, Scott." She waved toward the door. "I deserve it. Fucking. Go. Neither one of us deserves the other. I'm sorry I wasted your time, Scott. Your life..." And the crying started again in earnest.

Five minutes passed. Near the end, her voice cracked as she tried to contain her tears. Then she slapped herself and said "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Through clenched teeth she let out a steady breath.

Across the table, Scott was nearly catatonic. His eyes didn't move from her the whole time. His jaw was clenched, either in anger or for some other reason. He couldn't tell.

He bowed his head and wiped his eyes. Pursed his lips and stood.

Went to Peggy and helped her to her feet.

Hugged her.

Which turned into a kiss, which both of them allowed.

She pulled away.

"I loved you, too," he said. "But the fact of the matter is, I don't have a lot of time left. I need to know how I came back. And who did it."


Continued...