A/N: I usually keep my authors notes to a bottom page post, but this chapter deserves an FYI: It gets heavy in this chapter for Tony before it gets better (such is the nature with alcoholism and depression) but it does get better I promise-it just happens in the next chapter so don't kill me yet.

CHAPTER THREE – Help me I'm drowning

Asgard remained largely unchanged in his long absence. For that, he was strangely satisfied, and comforted. As a child he never truly appreciated her beauty for all the natural fragrance, cleanliness, vibrancy, and strength, because to his limited experience of the nine realms, he could imagine no other kind of existence. As he grew older, that would change slowly over the years, but change and grow he did. He learned of poverty, racism, misogyny, homophobia, and inequality. Most important of all, however, he learned the construction of lies.

Loki sat lounging in a velvet plush reading chair of what had been his childhood chambers, positioned next to an open set of double doors that led to a private balcony. Out on the balcony, his herbs and plants had long either died or gone into hibernation. The first day of his freedom from imprisonment he tended to what he could and purged the rest. His mother had come by after he just finished it, hoping to help him with the very task, but instead had tea brought in and helped him clean his rooms properly, because Odin forbade anyone, including her, from entering Loki's rooms during his imprisonment, even going as far to lock them shut with a complicated dwarven chain lock that required three different keys.

Perhaps the old man had taken Loki at his word that his chambers had its own set of traps and tricks.

All he'd cared about at the time was keeping Thor from breaking something.

Mother and son had dusted off his books and wiped down the shelves and tables while a couple of maids changed the bed sheets. It was Frigga, and Frigga alone who spent his first meal out of captivity with him in his chambers. Thor did not come to visit until the next day. Odin he had not seen since his near-execution. And Loki was content with that.

It was his mother again who forced him to wash, dress, and put himself back together. She offered to cut his hair, but he pushed her off. To cut it would be like the old days. The length reminded him of what present he was in, how far he'd come, clawing his way back from the depths of the purge, the torture, and then the possession. It had been a close thing. In his nightmares he relived it. In his waking hours it was all he could try not to think of. He almost preferred imprisonment to this false freedom, for at least down there away from the prying eyes that mattered, he could take out his anger in secret. Here, if he broke something, it would be harder to conceal for any length of time.

His magic simply did not have that far of a reach while bound. The simple chain that laid so innocently around his neck was enraging, because though Odin demanded it, Frigga allowed it, even after Loki's name had been cleared. Perhaps that was how he'd been brought up from the dungeons so quickly, a deal brokered in secret on his behalf. But he would never know. And he didn't care to know. Because its very presence was galling enough.

It had been a total of seventy-eight hours before he did break something. The first was accidental, but the second and third had been on purpose. By the time Frigga had been told of his destructive behavior and had come to see it herself, there was no evidence left and Loki remained stubbornly aloof. He refused to acknowledge it and she looked on him sadly before leaving him to the slightly larger confines of his new and comfortable prison. That had been three days ago. Since then he'd submerged himself in his old books, refusing even to move for meals when they were delivered and then taken away untouched.

Loki wasn't stupid.

He drank the water.

Even the tea when it was brought in the afternoon.

But food he would not eat.

How could he eat when all he saw in his dreams and memories were the blood, destruction, and pain he'd let himself cause. He'd been a puppet, yes, and though he raged and fought for control the entire time, sometimes so achingly close to getting it back, he had still been the body responsible for all that was wrought in the mad titan's name. He would never speak of it to another soul, but acknowledging that he, Loki, had been used was not an easy thing for the god to admit, even to himself.

He had only felt such humiliation once before, but in the joy that came from that encounter all those months later it made his pain seem insignificant.

His joy…

His little precious ball of light-

Loki's anger surged again, hot and violent.

His book hit the wall opposite his bed with a loud slam.

His ears picked up on Thor's entrance too late. The only thing Loki could do was force his white fingers to slowly release their death grip on the arms of the chair and to recline somewhat more languidly, as Thor stepped around his desk and into Loki's line of vision.

"Bad book," Thor asked, tentatively, and smartly keeping his distance.

Loki huffed laughter devoid of humor. "You know how poor grammar insults me so."

Thor stooped to pick up the book, and Loki watched with interest as his brother showed a bit of care when he noticed the spine was broken. "Mother says you refuse to join us for dinner."

"I seem to remember very clearly being confined to the walls of this room," Loki droned, turning his attention to his seedlings trying to flourish on the balcony. The sun had passed behind the towers and brought with it evening shadow. "Under threat of death, no less. I fail to see the point of this request."

"Neither will you eat here when your meals are brought."

"I must be such an anathema to you."

"You are my brother," Thor said, stepping closer to him, and then offering the book. "Is it so hard to believe that we want the best for you? That we worry?"

Loki looked at the book, then at Thor. "We? Come, Thor. Unravel your veiled motives as you mean to unravel mine."

Thor sighed and dropped the book into Loki's lap. "Father meant only to impress the importance of your obedience, not to-"

"Ah, did he," Loki said, his anger swirling in indignation. "I also seem to remember the sharpness of the axe man's blade, before you swept in to save the day, as you always do. Pray tell, would you have avenged my wrongful death had you not been so fortunate with time? Would you have mourned?-"

"I did mourn you," Thor snapped, continuing quietly after the outburst. "Once was enough… You know father still considers you a-"

Loki then made eye contact, sharp and threatening. "That is enough. We will not discuss this."

"Can you not forgive h-"

"Forgiveness," Loki laughed. "Such a construct. And a cheap fallacy. One day, brother, you will awake from such fairy tales, and I will be waiting for you with your own fairy tale: the open arms of a loving brother."

Thor pressed his lips into a line. He was frustrated. He paced. And Loki watched, ready for the next blow with cutting replies guaranteed to set the god off and prove to himself and to Loki the deceit behind such brotherly affection he alleged he still had. "You will ignore our parents," Thor finally said. "Fine. Would you ignore a guest?"

Loki paused. …guest? "What guest?"

"Stark. Mother requested his presence to celebrate your exoneration."

Stark… the mortal. The annoying little iron pest. The plaything of his wretched hours of dark and deep boredom. The distraction from the chaos, inside and out. Perhaps even a temporary balm to the pains of his insanity, if Loki was feeling particularly generous, depending on the day… and the hour.

It felt so beneath him, to narrow his focus on a mortal. But in his need, in his imprisonment, when his fantasies and tricks seemed empty even to himself, he'd had his Midgardian gift, the tiny little device that provided him some contact with another living and somewhat intelligent being (though he'd never admit it to the mortal). Loki knew the moment he'd accepted the phone how dangerous the slope was that he would attempt to traverse, and how many times he would fail to escape its pitfalls. Yet accept the offer, he did. And shun the companionship company he did as well.

Even here, in his limited freedom, his progress, he shunned it.

And still, Stark persisted.

It all bothered Loki: Stark and his self-satisfying aggrandizements, his attempt at wit and humor, his poorly disguised jokes, his inability to privatize his own needs and desires…

For pushing him away, it made the god of lies and mischief feel…guilty. And simultaneously offended at being made to feel such. It downright made Loki seethe at the worst of times. And moreover the guilt remained and increased a little each day because of it.

The little device sat oh so innocently on a side table next to the doorway behind Thor. The incessant little green light still blinked with the new notification of unread messages. It had been blinking for the past few days. Loki refused to touch it, less he break it also in a fit of his anger.

"I didn't know you knew the meaning of that word," Loki replied, evenly.

Thor smiled. "She has planned it for tomorrow. Father has agreed to allow you to the dining hall for the duration of the meal, and the gathering of warriors after."

"Has he? You may relay to him my solemn gratitude for his kindness."

Thor narrowed his eyes.

And Loki gave him a smile that never reached his eyes.

"Fair better, brother," Thor said as he exited Loki's rooms. "I will see you on the morrow."

Loki silently watched him go, letting his eyes settle on the little phone. As his thoughts and emotions swirled in an angry torrent, they funneled down onto a singular point of fact. Stark was coming to Asgard. And they would both be in the same room.

How fucking ironic.


"Sir, I have run all scenarios thirty-seven times and still calculate a ninety-five percent probability that you will encounter Loki Odinson at your dinner later this week."

Tony glared at the numbers on the screen in front of him from behind stubbornly sulky crossed arms. His chin was propped on his crossed arms, which were laid across his table, his back arched half across the table's edge from where he sat on his lab chair with spread legs. "And the probability that Thor will kill me for backing out after saying yes a day before the dinner," he asked.

"Still at eighty-six percent probability," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied.

Tony groaned loudly and buried his face in his arms. "Why did I say yes? Why did I say yes?"

"I only have the ability to make an educated hypothesis based on your most recent correspondence and behavior, sir."

"Yeah, well, enlighten me, Jarv," Tony snapped, kicking his wheeled chair away and stalking over to an old Mark and detaching the arm with a frustrated yank. "And skip the part where you tell me how many times I've needed to properly fuck something this past week because for you and me that's too much TMI to process."

"Very well," the A.I. responded. "Sexual behavior aside, your correspondence with Loki Odinson has grown dependent and suggestive over the past month, however, within the past week it has decreased in numbers with little explanation, accounting for possible confusion and-"

"Yeah, mixed signals, I get it."

It was all true. The last text Tony had gotten from the god was almost a week old. And the last bit of info Tony had gotten from Thor was that Loki had been settling into his old rooms in Asgard. If the guy was just sitting in his rooms all day and night, why the sudden radio silence? It very obviously had to be related to their last set of texts, which Tony definitely hadn't gone over in private again and again and again. And it wasn't as if Loki didn't know what he was throwing back at Tony with that evil little arrangement of letters either. But it just made little to no sense to not get anything back for days.

Unless the god regretted it…

Tony had sent a few texts of his own to test the waters and see.

Stark (Freaking Iron man): Heard you got sprung, jailbird.

Stark (Freaking Iron man): That was totally not an innuendo btw.

Stark (Freaking Iron man): Okay maybe it was.

Stark (Freaking Iron man): Or only if you wanted it to be.

Stark (Freaking Iron man): All good in the land of Space Vikings?

Stark (Freaking Iron man): Should I expect an autobiography to top the NY Times Bestsellers list soon?

Stark (Freaking Iron man): You probably don't know what that is…

Stark (Freaking Iron man): Your evil ego will be happy to know George R. R. Martin is publishing a new book…

Stark (Freaking Iron man): Spoiler alert: it's a prequel.

But nothing.

He'd checked the phone, tested it even, and found to his frustration that it was still functioning at optimal capacity.

Tony couldn't make Loki talk to him, or text him back, he just wished the god would.

Maybe Tony was being a little desperate. Maybe he was being a LOT desperate for their…whatever it was they had to continue. Maybe that was part of the problem. If Tony couldn't describe what this thing between them was, he doubted Loki could or would even waste the energy trying to figure it out either. On one hand, Tony felt smug that he'd made such an uncomfortable puzzle for the god to solve. And on the other hand, Tony felt bad, because it wasn't as if he was blameless himself. So how was he supposed to apologize for potentially weirding the god out, when Tony was probably one of his only contacts on that phone he'd given him? To be fair he only programmed two contacts into it: his own and Thor's.

Last week, Tony had been been angry, frustrated, and on top of that sexually frustrated. This week he was, dare he even give it its actual name, mopey. Fucking moping was what Tony god damn Stark was doing and he god damn knew it but fuck all if he knew what to do about it because tomorrow he was supposed to attend some grand Viking dinner and be in the same fucking room as this asshole and somehow not get a hard-on and not jump him and make an ass of himself or cause some intergalactic political incident.

Fuck.

He hadn't felt this lost since college-which was practically high school for him, but that was beyond the point-

"Incoming call from Pepper Potts," J.A.R.V.I.S. interrupted.

Trying to pry two pieces of outer armor apart, Tony accidentally pinched his finger, immediately yanking it out and shaking his hand with a pained grunt. "What?" he answered when the call connected and the video popped up on screen.

"Well hello to you too," Pepper replied with a raised eyebrow. "I guess you don't want to hear about your soaring sales on the new Stark phone?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "Usually you guys send me an email."

"Usually you read your emails."

"Touché," he said, pushing the offending arm piece away. "Out with it, why did you really call, Pep? That level of mundaneness is below your pay grade."

"Well…" she hesitated. "You remember when we cleaned out Obadiah's old office and threw everything into storage?"

"Yeah… And I'm liking this less the more you go on, so lets just get to the point."

"Paul found a box the movers never saw. It was shoved in some kind of compartment beneath the floor next to the desk. It's a dark rug, so I guess we just never saw it since the edges practically disappear. I just sent Happy over with a box of stuff that I think is yours. There was some other sensitive information in there, but I've already had that sent over to be destroyed."

Tony frowned. "What kind of stuff?"

"Weirdly enough, duplicate blueprints for old Stark weapons. We have the originals, but for whatever reason he had multiple copies in paper format."

"Maybe he was trying to sell them on the side," he guessed. "You know Obi was an opportunist."

"In the worst way," Pepper agreed.

Tony frowned and rubbed at an itchy eye. "You said that box had stuff of mine in it?"

"Yeah," Pepper said with a perplexed look. "Lots of old notebooks and papers and some folders. Looks like the bulk of it was from your college days. I don't know how he got a hold of it, but all of it looks like its yours, so you should go through it and see if you want to keep anything."

"Sounds like a boatload of fun. If only there was a bottle of scotch in there."

"That would end well," Pepper scoffed.

"Hey, you'd be proud of me. I haven't had one in a week. That's a lot of self-restraint."

"I am proud," Pepper said with a smile. "Turn it into two weeks straight and I'll throw you a party with balloon animals."

An hour later, Happy descended the stairs to the lab and dropped the dusty box off with only a few sneezes. "'Ere you go, boss."

Tony tossed a tissue box at Happy, who caught it with a grateful groan. "You need a Claritin before you go?"

"Uh-uh," Happy said, shaking his stuffy head, and loudly blowing beautiful snot rockets out of his nose. "Um good!"

"Take the rest of the day off, champ," Tony said with sympathy. "Your allergies are hereby knighted for their efforts."

Happy gave him a look before leaving, throwing out a miserable "Funny," on his way.

The contents of the mysterious box remained a secret until after a filling take-out dinner of carbonara that made him miss his mom's cooking. The last time she'd made it for him was on his sixteenth birthday, only months before she'd been killed. He wanted a glass of wine so bad, but he'd held off, promising himself that if the contents of the box were that bad then he'd just get fucking wasted and call it a day. He had the whole morning tomorrow to get over the hangover, so it could work. It didn't make pulling the box up from the lab any easier, nor sitting down with it in the living room.

Tony sighed.

His college days at MIT had been blighted by his parents' deaths. It hadn't been all bad, but it was hard for him to look back on those times with much fondness. He didn't have to go through this box. He was a multi-billionaire. He could just throw it in storage with the rest or have it destroyed. But Tony was tired of ignoring his problems. Ignoring the weapons his company made and sold to terrorists nearly cost him his livelihood. The state of his fractured friendship and partnership with Obadiah nearly cost him everything. His alcoholism and lifestyle as a superhero had cost him Pepper. And nearly Rhodey. Tony could only deal with one thing at a time, and if he was going to tackle the booze properly, then he needed to man up and get over his goddamn fears and insecurities and sort through this one freaking box.

He pushed the voice of his father to the back of his head and opened the lid of the dusty box.

Maybe he should snap a picture of this and send it to his old therapist as a little fuck you.

True to Pepper's word, it was filled objects and the musty smell of his college days. On top was a beat up MIT day planner that Tony recognized as his own. He reached in and plucked it from its place. Flipping through the pages haphazardly, he wasn't surprised to find something fall out and flap to the floor. It was an old polaroid.

Tony snorted as he reached down to grab it.

Oh God, what kind of evidence from the stone ages of technology did that picture hold-

He froze when he turned it over.

Liam…

His heart clenched with a spike of long forgotten pain.

Tony hadn't seen his face in so long. He was ashamed to admit that he'd forgotten what the boy looked like, and forgotten how much he missed those dark brown curls and freckles. Debbie, a mutual friend of theirs from MIT, had snapped the picture and given it to Tony years later. At the time, it hurt so much to look at it that he eventually shoved it in his planner to forget it ever existed-too much of a coward to actually destroy it.

Granted Tony had been sixteen and Liam almost nineteen (so the levels of illegal had definitely been there), but it hadn't been that long since the funeral of his parents that it happened outside a frat party, and Tony had been in such desperate need to feel something. So when the Irish boy went to kiss the side of his face as a joke, to teach Americans how to get over their own awkwardness with European greetings, it felt so natural to just turn and meet his lips with his own. Liam had stared at him in surprise for a few moments long enough to make Tony begin to regret it, but then Liam put his Guinness down and wordlessly gave him a real kiss. It didn't end up being taken back to either of their dorm rooms, nor did it stay outside the frat party either.

Tony did remember having several drinks that night, so his memory of the kiss was a little fuzzy around the edges, but he did remember Liam making him walk off all the alcohol he'd had until 5AM, after one of the most amazing make-out sessions he'd ever had. It blew the first one with Becky Young right out of the water. And the surge of righteousness at knowing his father would have been furious at him made it all the better. The next morning after his classes, and his first real hangover, he'd run into the boy at the library. Liam asked him if he remembered the walking. Tony did. Then Liam asked if he remembered the kissing. Tony did. Liam tried to hide a smile from him but did a poor job of it. It made Tony feel warm inside to see it.

After that they'd developed some habits. They'd meet in Liam's room to listen to records. They'd meet in Tony's room to share snacks and attempt to help Liam with his bioengineering homework. But mostly, they'd get distracted and end up in bed with each other. Liam had taught him what a blowjob was and that despite how weird and gross it sounded, how fucking amazing it felt to have his prostate touched.

Looking back on it, Tony knew it had all happened very fast, but at the time it felt so right he didn't really care what anyone else thought. Until it came to Obadiah. In the wake of his parents deaths Obi had tried to fill that fatherly void for him, and Tony needed some kind or form of approval from someone. Obadiah had taken the news of Liam better than Tony feared he would. He'd actually closed the door to his office and took the other empty seat beside Tony in front of his desk.

"Were you afraid of telling me this," Obadiah asked, giving Tony his full attention.

Tony just shrugged.

"Tony," he chided, gently. "I don't ever want you to be afraid of telling me things. Okay? I'm here for you. Whenever you need me and whatever you need me for, got it?"

Tony nodded. Obi laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"You do know you need to be careful, right," Obi asked him quietly.

"I know," Tony responded automatically. "It's not like we're-"

Obi held his hand up. "I don't need to know those details. I've got your back, kiddo. No matter what you do. But you've got to work with me a little bit, okay?"

Tony had been confused. "What do you mean?"

"If this comes out about you," Obi started. "And him, it would affect the company. The board doesn't really like surprises like that."

It had been a different generation when Tony and Liam were young. He knew that now. But at the time he just didn't want to understand it. He remembered being angry at Obi for a while after that, thinking he was a hypocrite despite all the support he'd pledged. Talking to Liam about it wouldn't have ended well, but because he didn't talk about those fears and insecurities he was forced to deal with at sixteen, he was lashing out in other ways, sometimes even at Liam for the smallest and stupidest of things. And bless the boy, every time Tony did Liam would forgive him.

Liam was the one person in his life who didn't make him feel guilty about anything, and actually went out of his way to make sure Tony was coping properly with his parents deaths. Sure Obi had asked time and again, but it wasn't the same as when Liam dragged him out for a walk and a beer at sunset along the waterfront of MIT's campus (because going into Cambridge or even Boston proper was out of the question given that every journalist knew Tony's face at sixteen). When the streetlights started to come on they'd steal quick kisses, both thrilled at being out in public, and got a few glances here and there, but never got in real trouble for it.

There had been several of those exact kind of outings, and it was exactly what their last time together had been. Because the next morning, after pulling an all-nighter for an asinine history final, as Tony was walking alongside the sidewalk next to the international dorm, he noticed campus police, state police, and a medical examiner. He'd been frozen to the spot just like a bunch of other older students. They were whispering to each other. No one knew what happened, but someone said someone else had died of natural causes.

But who fucking died of natural causes before the age of twenty-three?

Tony kept asking over and over who it was, but no one knew. A few reporters had even snuck on campus and snapped a few pictures. Tony knew they weren't there for him, but his being there wouldn't have been good either. But before he could think better of his position, they brought the body out. The breath caught in his lungs. He could see it over and over, the freckled hand that fell out from beneath the white sheet.

That pattern of freckles he knew so intimately well-

Tony slammed the picture face down on the coffee table, and took a few moments to take some deep breaths; He was not going to have a fucking panic attack over this. Rubbing both hands down his face, Tony steeled himself to sift through the rest of the box.

Distract.

Find something else.

Inside were a few notebooks, a bunch of folders, and some loose papers. He pulled a notebook out and opened it up, brow creasing in confusion at the sight of the handwriting that wasn't his own. These were… these were Liam's bioengineering notes. Not Tony's. He recognized his own scrawl right next to Liam's as he ran the dates of the study sessions through his rusty memories. This had been months before he died.

Why would Obi have these?

There was a manila envelope: There were pictures that Tony had never seen before. Pictures of him and Liam walking to class. Pictures of them eating on the campus lawn. Pictures of them… in Tony's dorm room studying. Kissing. Touching each other. On top of each other… "I don't need to know those details," Obi said to him.

Had Obi confiscated these from a newspaper? Had someone tried to run a story about them? Tony swore up and down he'd been careful back then to avoid journalists. He supposed not…but there was something about the pictures that made him feel like they hadn't been snapped by a journalist. It was as if whoever took the photos cared more about where they were instead of what they were doing…

Additionally inside the box was a crinkled and yellowed copy of a class schedule. And it wasn't Tony's. He never took Intro to Theatre… "Maybe I can sneak you backstage when they cast me in 42nd street," Liam joked. "I could use a dresser for a couple of quick changes."

The newspaper article about Liam's sudden death…"Sometimes these things just happen," Obi said gently with Tony in his arms, rubbing his hand comfortingly up and down his back. "Sleep Apnea's a real thing. I'm sorry, Tony."

Tony instantly got sick to his stomach when he saw what lay forgotten at the bottom of the box: his mother's catholic medal… "If you're trying to convert me," Liam whispered in his ear, after Tony placed the precious medal around his neck. "You're a wee bit late 'cause I'm already burning." Liam tenderly kissed the side of his face, then pulled away to look at him. "I'll keep it safe for you. Won't take it off for nothing. I promise."

Someone had taken it from his body… but how did it end up here? Wouldn't it have been buried with him? Wouldn't a medical examiner have known better?

A copy of the police report. "Call received from Resident Assistant at MIT dormitory requesting emergency response for unresponsive student. RA reported finding no light underneath the door in the early hours of December the 10th… "Don't you laugh at me," Liam threatened. "Dark is serious business. Never sleep with it off. Haven't since I was a babe. I'll buy you a sleep cover fer yer eyes if you want but that lamp is staying on, Stark."

"Sshhit," he cursed, stumbling away from the box and its contents and fisting his hands in his hair, falling to his knees on the unforgiving marble. "Oh God! No…no, no, no!"

That…that fucking bastard had-had lied and fucking… killed him!-"I don't ever want you to be afraid of telling me things. Okay," Obi asked.

That piece of shit had taken Liam away from him-why-why-why?!- "The board doesn't really like surprises like that," Obi said.

Tony had nightmares for years about Liam. God. He'd even gone and confessed the nightmares to Liam's fucking murderer.

It was his fault.

It was Tony's fucking fault that Liam was dead.

And it fucking hurt-even all these years later.

Because Liam was another person to add to Tony's list…

"Oh fuck," Tony shakily cursed, getting to his feet and heading straight for the locked bar.

"Per protocol, sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. tried to interrupt. "I will be forced to notify Ms. Potts or Colonel Rhodes if you attempt access to-"

Poor J.A.R.V.I.S. tried.

But Tony had made quick work of hacking the A.I.s security walls to shut him all down but for simple security footage. The sudden silence was deafening. He felt a like a shit afterwards, guilty for doing it to his friend, because this was exactly what alcoholism did. Tony knew it. It grabbed you by the hair at the back of your head, yanked, and made you believe that all you needed to make the panic and the pain go away was the release of just a few drinks.

Or several.

He went to a utility closet near the lab stairs, pulled out a crow bar, and broke open the cabinet underneath the bar with a loud crack and splintering of expensive wood. He dropped the crow bar with an even louder clang and reached in to pull out three bottles of Johnnie Walker Black. He stumbled to his knees near the edge of the roof, two of the bottles tipping over, but still sealed, saving the precious liquor within. Tony hadn't realized that he had a death grip on the third bottle as he positioned himself against the railing and the open air beyond.

And he definitely hadn't realized he'd already opened the first bottle and gulped down just less than a quarter of its contents in one draw. He gasped and panted, feeling that evil relief begin to take over his body. He leaned back and tipped his head up to the night sky, tears filling and spilling from his eyes.

"God, I'm so fucking sorry," he said, hoping somewhere Liam could hear him.

He couldn't even promise to make Obi pay for what he did because Obadiah was already dead.

Wiping at the tears and snot Tony pulled his knees up to his chest to conserve some kind of warmth. He was trembling, which meant he had to be cold. Even though it was the dead heat of summer. Or maybe that was the shock. Whichever it actually was, it left him feeling exposed and raw and like that scared little child again.

Death followed Tony wherever he went.

The scorching burn of the whiskey down his throat never felt so good.


Loki's bedroom was a rather small part of his rooms, all things considered. There was space enough for a large bed, two bedside tables, a long low bookcase stuffed with ledgers and books and papers, and a rune-carved wooden chest at the foot of his bed. His weapons had once adorned the walls above his bookcase on display hooks and shelves, but their absence now made the wall a bare skeleton devoid of its prior history. Instead of the little stands for his daggers and space for his armor, there was a cushioned chair brought in by his mother and some of his equipment from his study, which he had yet to deserve access to.

He exited the walk in closet next to the entrance for the adjacent bathroom in a soft pair of back sleeping pants and a loose dark grey three-quarter sleeved open tunic. He left the ties undone, the shirt more like a robe than anything, but the feel of it was familiar, and it had been a gift… from his first wife. The green embroidery around the collar and the hem had held well over the past several hundred years. Despite its resilience, Loki would not think of her.

He did not retire to bed, but propped himself up on pillows on a window box seat to watch Asgard beneath him. Within another hour, lights would start to flicker out one by one, families returning to their homes to rest for the next workday. In guest chambers, Stark would have a different view. It would be higher. He would be better able to see the entire expanse of the gardens.

Loki assumed he may enjoy that.

Or perhaps he would be enthralled by the architecture and defense technologies instead.

Material creature that Stark was…

Loki wondered what he was even supposed to say to the mortal. He had an idea of what he would be expected to say, and say it he would to appease his mother, but if Stark tried to engage him in conversation Loki was certain it would frustrate them both. He didn't want to speak to the mortal. He didn't want to dine with him. He didn't want to see him.

None of this was on Loki's terms and that was what angered him the most-

The phone made a noise: one new notification.

Loki rolled his eyes. It was probably another text. Of course Stark would try to text him again the night before-

A second notification.

He let out a long and low growl, glaring at the wall and refusing to acknowledge the little thing because he would not entertain this selfish constant need for-

A third.

A third?!

Loki cursed, and snatched the device from the floor, fully intending to send it flying right out the window. But before Loki could give in to the urge, he found the screen lit up on its own, displaying the three new texts from Stark himself.

Stark (Freaking Iron man): Welp, nine voicemails later on a Friday night and you're my last shot.

Stark (Freaking Iron man): You busy?

Stark (Freaking Iron man): Please don't be busy…

More than a little annoyed, Loki took a few calming breaths, weighed the consequences (for it wasn't as if he would be sleeping any time soon anyway), and reluctantly typed out a response.

Loki (Reindeer Games): Should I be offended at not being last on your list of contacts?

Damn it all, Loki was growing soft… he'd have to ensure Stark still feared him tomorrow.

Stark (Freaking Iron man): You are.

Loki snorted in disbelief.

Loki (Reindeer Games): Oh good.

A few minutes later:

Loki (Reindeer Games):

Loki (Reindeer Games): Well?

Loki (Reindeer Games): Stark, if you think I will speak first you have apparently lost what remained of your sanity.

Stark (Freaking Iron man): You have no idea how happy that makes me.

Loki raised a curious eyebrow.

Loki (Reindeer Games): Ah. Rest assured I still think you the tiny insect you are, mortal.

Loki (Reindeer Games): Was that it?

Loki (Reindeer Games): Have you finally realized your insignificance in the vast cosmos?

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Something like that.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): But dn't worry.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Depression and me r old buds.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Alcohol 2.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Bit of a Freebird kind of thing

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): *Firewall

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): **Threesome

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Nevermind-bad ref anywy.

Of course the Midgardian idiot was drunk. Why he was drunk on the eve of his first visit to Asgard however Loki could not immediately surmise. He had a theory, but he was not certain whether to be bothered or amused by it.

Loki (Reindeer Games): I can smell the drink from here…

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): No you can

Loki (Reindeer Games): Ah, yes. That was pungent.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Was tha evn mean?

Loki (Reindeer Games): It means you should probably reconsider your life choices.

Loki (Reindeer Games): And your grammar.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Theres the whole point of drnking FYI.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Solves life problems

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Just not the headaches

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Or swims

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): *swimming thing

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): You know what I mean!

Loki (Reindeer Games): Drinking yourself to death would be disappointingly reductive given your ego is the size of Asgard and Midgard put together.

Loki (Reindeer Games): Whatever idiot idea you have in that tiny brain of yours is literally that small, Stark.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Says you.

Loki (Reindeer Games): What is that supposed to mean?

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Thought you were the one with all the answers, Mr. god

Loki (Reindeer Games): Omnipotence is sadly not one of my highly sought after skills.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Damn. Could use a fortunately tales.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Forward telephone.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): God fuck.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Fortune! Teller!

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Jesus.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Fucking auto correct.

Loki (Reindeer Games): What was that about alcohol consumption again?

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Har har.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): But seriously, know any?

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): *Fortune Tellers.

Loki (Reindeer Games): The only seers I know of reside in Vanaheim. And they are notoriously difficult when one attempts to obtain a straight answer.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Sounds like you.

Loki (Reindeer Games): Our tutor as children was a Vanir. I was clearly the better student.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Close enough. Know whether I end up dying alone and miserable in a few years?

Loki (Reindeer Games): Given your avenging proclivities I could hazard a guess, but one can never say for certain.

Loki (Reindeer Games): You do fly around in your metal suit of armor after all.

Loki (Reindeer Games): And red is an abysmal color for subterfuge.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Figured good to know.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Just in case.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Not like it matters.

Loki (Reindeer Games): In the case of what, Stark?

Some more time went by. Loki watched as Stark started typing his response, stopped, started again, stopped again for a longer while, then finally sent one through.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Fucking rails.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Don't hire NY contractors.

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): They suck.

Loki stared at the last three texts in confusion. Rails? Contractors? A small chill went up his spine when he remembered one of the first texts Stark had ever sent him… Thanks for destroying my tower, asshole…

Loki (Reindeer Games): Stark. Where are you?

Stark (Freaking Iron Man): Roof.

Loki's eyes widened. That fucking idiot!

Barely a second went by after receiving the chilling one-worded message before he was calling Stark's phone. It rang a few times before an annoying sound blared. Loki tried calling again and was already moving before the I'm sorry, this number is not currently in service. Please hang up and try your call again could finish. He threw on his cloak and angrily stuffed a few vials into his pockets before slipping from his chambers and down the walls from his balcony.

If that stupid mortal actually fell off his own damned tower Loki was making a special trip to Hel just to take ownership for his punishment. Oh how Loki would gloat and lash his ears for an eternity for being so colossally moronic. He expected such behavior from his own brother, not Stark. Loki remembered the secret passages, the nooks and crannies along the way to stop and wait for guards to pass on their nightly patrols. Along the way Loki had barely enough time to send out a short reply.

Loki (Reindeer Games): Stay where you are or so help me, Stark, you will rue this night…

Loki received no response.


A/N: This entire chapter was a motherfucking BEAR to write. I went back and forth for a long time on whether or not to split it into two chapters because of the sheer length and whether the structure could handle it, and I ultimately had to separate it. I blame these complicated idiots, so, it's not entirely my fault. *Loki gives me the death stare* Uh-huh. Totally your fault, bud. Loki is totally a chapter hog. Chapter four will be up shortly. I kind of got ahead of myself with the posts on AO3 and am just getting around to updating it here. So, double present! Let me know as always what you think!