The Stone Series: Part III
Freeway
Chapter Five

Thing is, Loki killed upwards of a hundred people last time he was on the loose. So while Central Park doesn't really rank on the worst-case-scenario list, Steve's got no idea what they'll be walking into. That's the rough part, the not knowing.

But then Fury goes offline and Steve gets a look at Tony's face.

"Loki's attacking the city?" Tony repeats, bewildered. Then his expression hardens.

Steve frowns. "You don't think—?"

"What?" Tony bites out, all the warmth gone outta his eyes. They're the color of old brick, downcast so the light can't touch them, turn them gold. "That we're harboring an alien fugitive who's out butchering the general populace? That doctoring up those SHIELD files was a waste of my time?" He turns away stiffly, disappears inside the bedroom closet for a second or two. It's a lot bigger than the one at the Brooklyn apartment, and it makes Tony sound far away. "That I'm still a shitty judge of character at forty-fucking-five? Pick one, Rogers. Pick anything."

Steve shakes his head firmly, even as his heart sinks. "We don't know the situation yet."

"The situation," Tony says nastily, emerging with a blue bundle in his arms, "is that Loki's a pathological liar, criminally insane—"

"Tony. We gotta go," Steve tells him. "What's—"

"Armor," Tony says shortly.

"In the van with my shield." Steve moves forward, snags his elbow. "We need to get you to Iron Man."

"Cool your jets, creampuff," Tony snaps, his body a jumble of tight, frustrated angles. He shoves the bundle into Steve's arms. "Here. Welcome home."

It takes Steve a second or two to process what he's looking at: a new Captain America uniform. Upgraded with all the bells and whistles, looks like. He wonders where Tony found the time to make it. "Where are you going?" He asks, glancing up again.

"Suit up," Tony calls over his shoulder. His face could be carved from smooth stone. "I'll meet you on the roof."


Steve's never actually flown with Tony before. He kinda wishes he had, even in short bursts, before being hauled across the city a thousand feet in the air.

Through the dizzying height, the thrill of adrenaline in his wrists and chest, and the wet chill of the atmosphere, Steve tries to stop feeling like he's about to fall. But Iron Man's voice is distant and tinny and flat when he even bothers to speak, and the arms around Steve's chest are stiff and utilitarian. A steely cage with the bottom cut out. So Steve feels like he hasn't got a solid place to stand.

The air whips around them, tearing at his arms and face and legs. Buildings roll by in staggered streaks, blocky and blurred like an ugly impressionist painting. Too crammed together to get the details right, too muddy to showcase the otherwise beautiful colors of New York City at the height of summer.

Tony's spotlight-bright attention, once it's off you, leaves you cold. It's a new experience for Steve—he's never had to miss someone he was physically with before. But he's got a lot to think about, figures they both do.

He presses his face into the crook of Iron Man's neck, knowing Tony can't feel it. Closes his eyes, holds on.


Central Park's a damn warzone. Steve's seen enough to know.

Trees are torn up by their roots, pale and splintered like broken bones. There's an endless swathe of mud from where the Reservoir's broke open like soft tissue, wet and dark, leaking all along its rocky banks. The water seethes outta fissures in the stone edging like blood outta burst veins.

"Jesus Christ," Iron Man hisses. The lake's dotted with hundreds of pale, belly-up fish. Ducks, bloated and waterlogged, lose their feathers in oily clumps. Steam rises from the murky surface, opaque and foul-smelling with death. "How can—how is the Reservoir boiling!"

"Status," Steve barks into his communicator.

After a few moments of half-quiet white noise and Steve's own pulse in his ears, Black Widow responds. "Loki's on the Great Lawn," she says tersely. "Dead center. Hawkeye's got a bead on him from the roof of the Met, and I'm just off 85th. We haven't made contact."

"Thor and Bruce?" Steve asks, frowning at the poor connection. When he turns his head, Iron Man's standing close beside him, staring at the black clouds that race across the sky.

"Absent," she says.

Steve purses his lips. "Civilians?"

"No reported casualties so far, but visibility is poor."

Steve looks up at the sky too, studies the dark clouds churning over each other. The wind's picking up, dragging fallen branches and leaves over exposed soil. A section of tarp torn from a hotdog vendor flaps wildly like a wounded bird, fills the air with dust and dirt.

"Hold position," he tells her, throat tight. He hopes to a god he's not sure he believes in that everyone made it outta here okay. Then he realizes gods are probably what got him into this mess in the first place. Figures he oughta leave well enough alone. "You see anyone, you pull 'em out."

"Got it," she says.

"Iron Man, can you—?"

"I'll get an aerial. If you head in from nine o'clock—"

"We can back him up against the Turtle Pond, right."

"Right." Iron Man vanishes into the air just as the first fat drops of rain start to fall.

Five minutes later, Steve's soaked to the bone and circling the mangled softball fields. There's garbage all over the grounds, battered scraps of painted sheet metal, piles of crushed stone from either of the schists. A hot, heavy wind curls lazily through the air like an invisible leviathan.

The comm crackles sharply. Iron Man's voice comes through in pieces: "No idea how Hawkeye's gonna get a clear shot with all this shit flying around—"

"You just worry about your ham fists and your brute force," Clint says amicably. It's the first time he's spoken, and Steve's irrationally relieved to hear his voice. "Leave the detail work to me."

"I'll have you know—"

"Iron Man. Visual." Steve commands. He knows Tony doesn't respond well to authority, but Steve's got a whole laundry list of things he could've handled better in his life. They haven't got time for kid gloves right now.

"I'm assuming he's in the goddamn crater in the middle of the goddamn field," Tony snaps. "But unfortunately, what with all the interference I'm getting from the fog coming off the boiling lakes—"

"And all the dust in the air," Clint mentions. "And the rain."

"—huge fucking storm clouds—"

"I see him," Steve says suddenly. He's come to the edge of a great depression in the earth, as if Loki fell from the moon, as if he weighed thousands of pounds when he hit. The air seems too full, seems to be buzzing and sparking—seems dark and filthy, twisting in on itself like a tropical storm. Loki's barely visible, but unmistakable.

Steve gets his shield up and starts climbing down into the crater.

"Cap—," Iron Man says tentatively. Steve looks up on reflex. He catches the flash of gold and hot rod red through the dust clouds and debris, but only just. Feels like he's trapped beneath a frosted-glass bowl, overturned, maybe full of smoke on the inside.

"You stay outta range," Steve growls, biting back a grunt as a thick branch knocks him in the ribs. "You stay in the sky."

"Right, but, the thing is, I can't—"

"That's an order," Steve says firmly. "Follow it." He picks his way through the gouges in the earth, maneuvers over the broken remains of roughly half a forest. Ducks under his shield as a jagged length of chain link fence scrapes over him, tangles briefly, passes on.

"Steve," Tony hisses in his ear. "The fucking tornado you're crawling into is almost completely black—"

"What I believe Iron Man means to say," JARVIS delicately interrupts, "is that, due to environmental factors, he is not confident in his ability to provide adequate support from his current position. He would respectfully request relocation, preferably to somewhere in your immediate vicinity, Captain."

"I don't need a goddamn translator—," Tony growls, but the rest is lost over the sounds of a tree breaking and scattering around Steve. The rain thunders down, heavy and hard, and decorative stones fall like hail against his shield. There's a concussive force buffeting at his entire body, turning his heels to lead, hitting him like the opposite of gravity.

"—mospheric anomalies," Widow's saying when his world's quieted some. "Thor has some control over the weather. It might be a god thing."

By the time Steve's close enough to really take a look at Loki, he feels like he's gonna be swept off the ground, like the wind could catch his shield like a kite, fling him into the sky. Loki's facing away from him, solid as anything, hunched on his knees with his arms wrapped tight around his middle. The bony lines of his back picked out through the wet rags of his t-shirt. Even though Loki's not a small creature, he looks small now: beneath the broken angles of his shoulders and the utter stillness of his silhouette, he even looks human.

"You good, Steve?" Clint asks neutrally. He sounds clear as a bell, not a lick of static.

"Gimme a minute," Steve replies. He takes another step, pausing at the watery suction under his boots. He glances down. Meets his own eyes reflected back at him from a standing pool of blood.

"No," Tony says fiercely. "We will not give you a fucking minute—"

The sick, cloying metal smell hits Steve hard, overwhelms him, makes him gag. "We need to get ahold of Thor," he rasps. "I don't think—he's not—"

"Steve," Tony presses, a thread of anxiety in his voice

"Cap," Natasha echoes quietly.

It's more blood than Steve's ever seen come out a person before. Loki's not moving...

"Answer me," Tony demands.

...and no casualties have been reported. Something clicks in Steve's head. "He's been attacked. He's—," bleeding out. Unconscious. Dead or dying.

"I can't fucking see you," Tony shouts in his ear. "I'm coming in!"

Steve glances up, but the sky's almost completely blocked out. Bits of light trickle through to where he stands alone with a—with a dead god, there's no way Loki's not—how's he gonna tell Thor

Iron Man falls through the veil of darkness, but falters almost as soon as he comes into view. He's about five yards above the crater, buoyed and pitching in the wind. Here at the center, the loose dregs of Central Park spin around the three of them like a jagged, stuttering cage.

"Is that—," he asks haltingly, slowly touching down. The soft, mechanical sounds of the armor seem to echo in the dead space.

"Yeah." Steve firms his jaw, tightens his grip on his shield. Closes the final bit of distance to get a hand on Loki's shoulder.

Loki doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. But he trembles like a live wire, like there's a current twisting and howling inside him. Fighting to get out.

"Jesus," Steve breathes. "He's not—? Hawk, Widow, we need transport!"

"We can't get to you, Cap," Hawkeye says tightly. "Not until this shitstorm passes."

Tony, who's moved around to get a look at Loki's face, goes absolutely still. "Steve," he says, breathless and stunned, "oh fuck, Steve, this is—"

Steve leans in close, angles his head over a broad, bony shoulder. Looks where Tony's looking. Takes in a rough breath.

Blood leaks from Loki's mouth in main force, collects in the angles of his collar bones, smears over his lips and jaw almost to his ears. Coats his hair in tacky clumps, streams dried and cracked from his nose. Sticky and dark in the grooves of his fingernails, the delicate creases in the flesh of his hands.

Cut open like an autopsy, his slippery wet guts spill out even as he struggles to hold them in. Blood flows over his arms in hot pulses, paints them red to his elbows.

The only clean things about Loki are the blank gems of his eyes, the tears that rinse his face in pale, solitary streaks.

"We need to tranquilize him," Tony says, an uneven scrape in his a voice. "If his magic's going haywire because he's—because he's in agony and can't control it—"

"I don't have any tranquilizers." Steve exhales, nauseated. He can feel bile rising in his throat.

"So knock him out." Hawkeye says, steady and practical.

"Will that work?"

"You have a vibranium shield," Natasha reminds him. Then: "Still no sign of Thor."

"Try Jane," Tony tells her.

"It makes sense that I would overlook the obvious," she deadpans.

"What about Bruce?" Tony tries helplessly, an edge of panic to his voice. "Bruce is a doctor, we could definitely use a doctor—"

"Shut up, Stark. We're doing all we can," Clint says. "Steve—bash Loki over the head. Do it now. Try not to kill him."

Iron Man glitters in the strained sunlight like dusty treasure, flashing clear and bright every time the shadows from Loki's storm pass him over. Tony's eyes are hidden, and the tight line of his mouth, but it doesn't matter. 'Cause Iron Man nods.

Steve raises his arm. Steve brings his shield down squarely on the back of Loki's head.

The wind surges, wild and raw.

Then, as if breathing out a stale lungful of air, the storm dissipates. Trees crumble from the sky, stones and trash and bits of bark. Someone's lawn chair, a catcher's mitt.

He doesn't realize 'til it's over, shield above his head as he cradles Loki's body, that Iron Man's bent protectively over them both.

When it's done, Loki limp in his arms, Steve carefully gets to his feet. Hauls up the long, rangy body like there's nothing left of it.

Iron Man's got a hand on Steve's shoulder, probably helped pull him to his feet. Steve doesn't even remember. "Can you," he asks bleakly.

'Cause he can, of course he can, Iron Man reaches out and gently takes the body. "He should be heavier. He weighs five hundred pounds, why isn't—," he trails off, shaking his head. The distant sound of a jet engine curls toward them over the ruins of Central Park. "Come on, Cap. Let's—let's get this guy home."


"I am not qualified for this," Bruce says straightaway, raking his hands back through his hair. He looks exhausted, dressed in a bright green t-shirt and loose purple pajama pants. He looks like he just woke up. "I am not a medical doctor. There are intestines next to my spectrometer."

Natasha and Clint picked them up, Tony swearing low under his breath while Steve held a hand against Loki's abdomen. He did his best to keep everything in, to not lose his lunch in the process. A sharp twist in his gut reminds him that he hasn't actually eaten since breakfast, but he's—actually not interested in food right now.

Natasha's clearing off the lab table, including what's probably the spectrometer, while Clint follows behind and sterilizes the surface with a cloth and some rubbing alcohol. They are, perhaps, the most practical and efficient people Steve's ever encountered. He's so very glad they're his.

He still kinda wants to throw up though.

Bruce watches unhappily as Tony arranges Loki's unconscious body on the cold stainless steel. He's still in the armor, but his faceplate's up. "Jesus christ, Tony."

"I know," Tony says, looking up at him sadly. There's a cut on the bridge of his nose. "Sorry I'm such a shit friend. To be fair, you knew what I was like going into this."

Bruce shakes his head, jaw tight. But his eyes are soft on Loki's mangled form.

"JARVIS," Tony says.

"Running comprehensive analyses now, Sir. I would recommend Doctor Banner begin by washing his hands. I can direct placement of the lower intestines from there."

Tony goes white as a sheet. While Steve debates whether or not he could go to him without giving everything away, Clint beats him to it. He hooks Tony by the elbow and says, conversationally, "So yeah, let's get you out of this monkey suit. I need to touch base with Fury anyway."

"Sure thing, applebutter," Tony answers, voice distant. Clint leads him outta the room, fishing his phone from his pocket. Steve watches them go.

"We've got this, Cap," Natasha says, tying her hair back. A few strands lay against her pale neck, a too-familiar contrast of crimson and cream that makes him sick. There are wet patches on her SHIELD blacks. "You don't have to be here."

"It's fine," Steve says firmly. 'Cause this is the goddamn price: it could be any of them on the table. This what it could cost them. Steve would always rather know than not know. You can't help anything, ignoring it.

"Suit yourself," Natasha murmurs without inflection.

Bruce pushes up his sleeves, tugs latex gloves over his nervous hands. Stares blankly at Loki's sallow, shadowed face.

He lets out a long breath. "Ready when you are, JARVIS."

"Very good, Doctor Banner. If you look to your left, you will find a pair of scissors suitable for cutting polyblend fabric..."

It takes about two hours in all. Natasha trims away the ruins of Loki's shirt, then offers steady, silent assistance while Bruce very carefully tucks the organs back in place. There's about twenty-five feet of intestines, a liver and most of a stomach. Cartilage around the sternum where it was crushed in a couple places.

The room's thick with the smell of metal and salt as they work. Steve keeps his lips pressed tight together. There's a small graphic on Bruce's shirt that says HULK, SMASH! that he stares at it when he's gotta look away. It warms him a little to see, 'cause Bruce hardly ever wears his own merchandise.

At one point Bruce says, despairing, "My hands are literally inside of his chest cavity, how is he breathing."

"Previous data suggests he will remain in stasis until his body stabilizes, at which point he will begin to heal rapidly," JARVIS replies crisply.

"Previous data?" Steve asks, raising his head to look at nothing.

"From his confrontation with Doctor Banner," JARVIS explains.

Bruce clears his throat. "It's true the guy can take a beating."

"Medical tape?" Natasha asks, looking up from where she's been arranging the cracked pieces of Loki's ribs around his lungs. Next to the stillness of her hands, the organs appear to be pulsing.

"In the cabinet above the sink," JARVIS tells her.

"Thanks," she says dryly.

"Of course, Agent Romanov."

They clean Loki up best they can, clinical and thorough, while Steve looks on. 'Cause he can't shake the feeling they're preparing a corpse for burial, he eventually looks away.

"I know he'll heal on his own," Bruce murmurs, shaking his head as Natasha slides an arm beneath Loki's broad, bony shoulders. They've bandaged him, wrapped him in a clean blanket 'cause he'd just bleed all over clothing. "With magic. But putting away his guts without stitching them up first?"

"We stitched up the sections that were fully severed," she points out.

Bruce makes a face. "There is no way he isn't bleeding internally, Natasha. It doesn't make any sense."

"Magic," she says, shrugging. There's a bit of dirt on her cheek. Some blood on her wrist.

"While it is true his organs have suffered extensive trauma," JARVIS volunteers, "they are not hemorrhaging at this time, Doctor Banner."

"Who even knows how," Bruce mutters, gently scooping up Loki's long, limp legs.

"There is not enough blood remaining to do so."

"Fucking hell." Bruce sighs. He looks deeply uncomfortable, but his hands are steady as a drum.

Steve follows as they carefully take Loki to Thor's bedroom. Natasha rests her hand briefly on Bruce's back after settling Loki beneath the sheets. Then she turns to Steve.

"Get something to eat, Cap," she commands. Her eyes are hard, but by now Steve knows it's the kinda hard where she's trying to protect you. The kind where, if someone tells her you're lonely, she shows up and makes you take her out to lunch. He's not inclined to disobey.

She must be leveling a look at Bruce, too, 'cause Steve hears him on the way out: "I'm not hungry."

"You're always hungry."

"I think you mean the other thing," he huffs.

"No," is all she says.

Tony's in the kitchen, leaning back against his habitual cabinet. Clint, looking for all the world like a perched bird, sits on the counter with his legs crossed, peering over Tony's shoulder. They're studying something on a wide, bright tablet. They both look like they've showered, and the arc reactor glows through Tony's clean t-shirt like a teal sun behind a thin veil of cloud cover.

"Hey," Steve says awkwardly. "What are you guys doing?"

Clint glances up, his eyes catching a strange, ethereal blue from the screen. "Setting up a timeline, trying to piece together what the hell happened. Fury sent us what SHIELD was able to record, so we're corroborating stories for the press release, the official file, and the redacted file."

"What've you got so far?" Steve asks.

"A change of clothes for you," Clint says flatly. "You're covered in blood, get out of here."

Tony looks up then, his frown splitting into a grimace as he takes in Steve's appearance. "Second floor, first door on the left." He pauses. "Just, uh. Let your uniform soak in the tub for awhile when you're done. There's industrial-grade dish soap concentrate mixed in with the body wash, so throw some of that in, too."

Clint looks at him like he's nuts. "Dish soap, Stark? Weirdo."

"Dude, engine oil," Tony raises his eyebrows. "Seriously."

"Dude, I believe you," Clint parrots back, reaching around Tony's arm to slide his fingers across the screen. Then he glances up at Steve. "What you still doing here?"

"Natasha told me to eat something. She intimidates me," Steve says, shrugging. "Thought I'd bring something back for her and Bruce, too."

Tony snorts and Clint, rolling his eyes, hops down off the counter. "Go shower. I'll feed the animals." He sticks his head in the pantry, casts around. "Gimme twenty minutes and I'll bring you a sandwich or something."

Steve looks over at Tony, who glances curiously at Clint's back before meeting Steve's eyes again. Then he winks, flashes a wicked smile that goes straight to Steve's gut. "Room service, Barton?" He asks, expression at odds with his light tone. "Who do I have to blow to get on that list?"

"You should be so lucky," Barton laughs.


Steve takes a shower in Tony's huge bathroom, stands under the water 'til the water runs clear. The heavy-duty body wash leaves his skin red and tender, but does the job. The only stains left are in his memory, and those aren't things you can just wash away.

He's just pulling on the pair of sweats he found on the bed when someone knocks at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Clint steps inside.

"So I have soup for you," he says, setting a plate and a bowl on Tony's desk. "Also grilled cheese."

Steve straightens, the t-shirt slung over his arm. "What kinda soup?"

Clint raises his eyebrows. "Tomato. Naturally."

Steve shakes his head. "My grandma used to make me that all the time," he says, when he means to say, Thank you. "Me and Bucky. Before she died."

"Mine, too," Clint replies. "Minus the Bucky part. There was only me, and I didn't stick around very long." His eyes narrow suddenly on Steve's chest. "The hell are those from?"

Steve glances down. He hadn't really taken a look at himself, getting outta the shower, but his torso's crossed over with mostly-faded bruises. He doesn't heal as fast when he doesn't eat. "The trees, probably. Maybe the chain-link fence," he says, pulling the shirt on over his head. It's a bit tight around his shoulders, but the fabric's warm and comfortable. Smells kinda like Tony.

"Stark's all banged up, too," Clint says, irritated. "If I didn't know better, I'd think he was running out on Pepper with the fucking Hulk. I don't know why he bothers with a padded undersuit at all, you should've seen the bruises on him."

Steve coughs soup outta his windpipe. Clint raises an eyebrow. "All right there, buddy?"

"Hot," Steve mumbles. "You really think Tony would—?"

Steve's saved from asking a very stupid, very telling question by the sound of thunder splitting the sky. Within moments, Thor's voice echoes through every hall.

"Party time," Clint sighs.


"You will take me to him at once." Thor commands. There's an undercurrent of heat, the crack and snap of restless, electric energy.

"Easy, big guy," Tony's saying. His hands are up, conciliatory and maybe defensive. He doesn't look afraid, though. "We need to go over a few things first."

"You mark my words, Stark," Thor says, voice gone cold as Steve's ever heard it. "If my brother draws his final breaths while we stand wasting ours—"

Natasha quietly and deliberately shifts her weight. She's not standing between Thor and Tony, but in half a lethal second she could be.

"Thor," Steve says gently. Thor turns, his face caught between the bottomless canyons of fury and grief. "Loki's alive. We've done all we can for him, and now we're working out what happened."

"You are ever my friend, Steve Rogers," Thor says thickly. His big shoulders dip, and the room suddenly seems a whole lot emptier.

Tony crosses his arms, like he doesn't know how to touch someone without baiting or teasing them. Like he's got no idea how you console somebody.

Steve meets Tony's eyes over Thor's bowed head, gives a short nod.

"This is what we've got," Tony says, holding up his tablet. For what it's worth, his tone's a little kinder. "Based on security footage, SHIELD intel, and JARVIS's tracking software—"

"Tracking software?" Natasha asks sharply.

"Obviously it's shit if I can't ever find anyone," Tony says pointedly, staring Natasha down like she couldn't kill him where he stands in seconds. He's either really brave or really goddamn stupid. "Just another example of R&D's incompetence and why I have to do everything myself—"

"Watch yourself, Stark," she warns. But she doesn't shift the protective stance of her body away from his.

Tony clears his throat. "So Clint's out back on the range, Bruce is in his room, Thor is MIA—"

"I misunderstand," Thor says weakly.

"We didn't know where you were," Tony clarifies impatiently. "Natasha's gone, I'm gone, Steve's gone. No one even knows Loki leaves."

Steve glances over at Bruce, who's hovering near the stove making tea. He's got six mugs set out and a big pot of water boiling. He looks pale and small. Steve asks him, "You didn't hear anything?"

"I was asleep," Bruce sighs, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger. The motion tilts up his glasses, loosens them. Makes him look frail and groundless. "Stoned out of my mind. An earthquake wouldn't have woken me up."

"I guess we should probably cut back on that," Tony mentions, mouth twisted in an unhappy line.

"Probably, yeah," Bruce says. "Don't worry about it. We knew it was a temporary solution."

Tony flashes Bruce a crooked smile, then turns back to the room at large. "As far as we can tell, there weren't any witnesses. He can teleport, so no one saw him getting from point A to point B. Also, that part of the Park was mostly deserted and the storm kicked up pretty much immediately." His lip twists. "We don't have any idea whether or not this was intentional, but it makes damage control easier."

"Fury's gonna go with unseasonable weather," Clint adds, "or, if it comes out that someone did see Loki, he'll say it was one of the weather or elemental mutants. Charles Xavier will back us if we say it was an accident during a training exercise. Public opinion of him is high, so his reputation wouldn't suffer nearly as much as SHIELD's might." He smiles humorlessly. It looks outta place on him. "Especially if word gets out Loki's back."

Steve's not all that comfortable with blatantly lying to the public, even less so if Charles would take the blame. But it's not like they have plans to announce Loki's new position within the Avengers, and most people wouldn't recognize him without the armor, the horns, or the spear. Far as New Yorkers are concerned, he's just another tall, dark-haired guy slinging magic.

Since that's a thing that happens these days. Steve's head hurts.

Tony nods. "While I think we can all agree that, superficially, this looks like Loki hitting up old habits again as soon as we turn our collective back—"

"You would dare—," Thor seethes, but Tony holds up a hand again and keeps talking.

"Hang on, hang on. I'm saying what it looks like. We had the option of giving Loki over to SHIELD custody for medical treatment, but we didn't. I want you to understand why."

Thor looks at Tony for a long, quiet moment. Then he says, "SHIELD does not look kindly upon my brother."

"No," Natasha agrees.

"They would, perhaps, have little concern for his grievous injuries."

"Very little," Clint says, watching Thor with sharp eyes.

"And JARVIS has more data on you guys than SHIELD does," Tony says. "I can promise you that we did the best we could under the circumstances."

"Tell me what has come to pass," Thor says desperately, letting his shoulders fall. He looks brokenly at each of them. Steve's gotta fight not to look away.

"That's just it," Tony says, reaching over to take a mug of tea from Bruce's hands. He takes a long swallow. "There's no sign of a struggle. If he was fighting anyone, there isn't a fucking fingernail left of them." He takes another sip of his tea, forehead wrinkled in thought. Steve fights the urge to lean in and kiss it away. "There's only Loki and a bunch of dead fish."

Steve wishes Asgard would stop sending all their princes to him. He's doing a terrible job keeping them safe. He can still see Thor in his mind's eye, suspended in the air like a ragdoll on hooks; Loki, a hunched red mass holding his insides close. Just more images Steve's gotta keep 'cause the stains won't wash away.

"If there's something you should be telling us," Tony goes on, surprisingly delicate even as darkness moves behind his eyes, "about Loki's possible affinity for—self harm."

"He would not ever," Thor says softly. It's not the immediate, angry denial Steve might've expected. "Though many things may be said of him, my brother is too covetous by far to simply—to wish all away." He opens his hands when he says all, like the empty air in his palms is an eternity. Who knows? For someone like him, maybe it can be. "There is a scaled beast on Asgard our family often likens him to: it has a hoard which can be taken or stolen by the very brave, the very strong, or the very foolish. But it willingly lets go nothing."

"When he wakes up," Steve says finally, "we can ask him."

"When he awakens," Thor says solemnly, taking the mug Bruce passes over to him, "the two of us shall together journey to Asgard and seek the chambers of healing under care of our mother. We will return to you after, to battle beside you with our full strength."

It's Bruce who eventually guides Thor outta the room, explaining in quiet tones about the damage, the surgery. What they had to do, what condition Loki's in. He keeps his hand on Thor's back the whole time, easy, steady, reassuring.

Clint watches them go, drinking from his own mug of tea, and Natasha watches Clint. Her eyes are critical, like she's looking him over to make sure everything's still in working order.

Tony stares into his cup. It looks empty from where Steve's standing.

"Do you think Fury kept Loki's part in this quiet from the Council?" Steve asks wearily.

"Hard to say. He'd definitely try to. We're always making him look bad." Clint smirks, but there's an edge to it. "He didn't argue when Natasha told him we'd be treating Loki's injuries ourselves."

"Depending on which side of the bed he's on with the Council and the mutants," Natasha says, taking Tony's mug away with light fingers, "he might just blame the damage on Magneto and call it a wash." She starts running soapy dishwater. "Either way, it's possible we're off the hook for now."

"I'll see if he has an update for us," Clint says, drumming his palms idly on the counter. Steve wonders if he misses his bow like a limb when he hasn't got it. It's how Steve feels about his shield. It's probably how Thor feels about his hammer.

"You do that," Natasha says. "I need to change my clothes." Clint fishes his phone from his back pocket and follows her out.

Steve wanders over to the sink for something to do with his hands.

"Do you need any help?" Tony asks when they're completely alone.

"No," Steve says.

Tony snags a towel anyway, starts drying the dishes in silence. When Steve glances at him edgewise, there are tight, pensive lines around his eyes. Steve waits.

"So we're pretty sure something happened to trigger him," Tony murmurs, getting water all over the counter. "Then he got as far away from everyone as he could before he started ripping his guts out. Then his magic went pear-shaped."

"Any idea what it could've been?"

"Well, he talked to Thor," Tony sighs. "Then Thor left. They didn't look like they were arguing in the footage, though."

"He'll wake up. We can ask." They work side-by-side in silence for a time.

"I didn't mean to be a dick," Tony eventually says. "Earlier."

"Which time?" Steve sets the wet, clean dishes on the dish rack. Tony picks at them and sorta dries them off.

"Well." Tony pauses, appears to think about it. Smudges his fingers all over the ceramic. "All continuous instances, I suppose. I mean, it's pretty rough getting shot down by Captain America—"

"For chrissake, Tony, I wasn't—"

"—but I guess this whole thing came out of left field for me." His lips are flatlined when he looks up at Steve, like there's no heart in him at all. "I should have expected it."

"No," Steve says, catching Tony's hands in his own. He honestly doesn't know if Tony's still talking about Loki or not. If maybe he's talking about this thing between them instead. In either case, Steve takes away the plate Tony's been towelling dry so furiously. He sets it safely on the counter where it will live to serve another day.

"I get these ideas of how I think things should go. Then I think that's how they will go. But I'm actually not the best judge of character," Tony admits. Like it's a weakness, like it's true, like it's got anything to do with anything. "It's gotten me into some pretty fucked-up situations."

"I'll let you in on a secret," Steve says, taking Tony's towel and folding it neatly so it'll dry out. "Even when you call it right, shit still hits the fan."

Tony swallows, throat working. Then he grabs Steve's wrist and stares at the floor.

"Here," Steve murmurs quietly, just as Tony pleads, "Let me—"

The front door opens and they pause, listening. They separate just as she walks in the kitchen.

Sky-high heels and a soft gray suit. Pink lipstick. Her coppery hair twisted up in a bun, pale green eyeshadow and matching paint on her flawless fingernails.

She sets her briefcase on the kitchen table, her movements soft with exhaustion but graceful all the same.

"Pepper," Tony says in a strangled kinda way. He takes a few steps toward her, reflexively, 'cause he loves her. Steve knows he loves her.

Steve starts putting half-dry dishes away.

Pepper moves her arms awkwardly like she wants to hug him, but Tony doesn't go any closer. "Hi, Tony. Steve," she says, sparing him a glance and a small smile.

"What are you doing home?" Tony asks. It sounds almost accusatory, and Steve winces. There's so much wrong here.

"I don't want to fight with you about this," she says gently. Steve tries not to watch, but he's gotta keep turning back to grab more dishes. "I know you worry about me. But I have too much to handle on the East Coast to be out of New York right now." She takes a few steps closer to him, slowly bridges the distance. "Loki isn't even conscious right now. I had to hear that from JARVIS, Tony. You haven't called for almost a week."

"We have a lot on our plate," Tony says, hands restless at his sides.

"Don't you think that's something I should know about?" Pepper counters. Then she reaches out, catches the edge of his palm with feather-light fingers. "Do you just expect me to stay in Malibu until you decide it's safe for me to come home? We've talked about this, Tony. You have to stop keeping things from me."

"I'll just," Steve mutters, leaving. No one watches him go.


He locks himself in a second-floor bathroom. Takes a minute to splash water on his face, brace his hands on the counter. Stare at his reflection in the mirror, try to clear all the junk outta his mind, pull himself together.

We're not good guys, Steve thinks wretchedly. We're just guys who try to do good things and sometimes screw everything up.

It's the best he can do. Tony says, I'm leaving Pepper for you, and then he looks at Pepper like he loves her more than his own goddamn hands. Steve can't fucking take it, even though it'd be best for everyone if Tony never so much as touched Steve for the rest of their lives. If they could pretend none of this ever happened.

Steve leans against the counter 'til he's got his breath under control, 'til his pulse is back to normal. Then he goes to check in on Loki.

The blankets are loose around his waist, the bandages on his chest spotted with blood. His dark hair fans over the pillow like a shadow, a heavy contrast to his snowy face.

Thor's stretched out next to him in the king-sized bed, the only other person in the room. He's got one hand propping his head up, the other curled gently around Loki's wrist.

"Hello," Steve greets, mouth dry. They look liked matched set, imply something Steve can't make sense of, can't shake. While he's never believed you walk around with half a heart 'til you meet someone who fits, he's prepared to accept that maybe they do things different on other planets. That's what watching them feels like, to him: changing your mind.

"Steve," Thor murmurs, voice gravelly. He doesn't raise his eyes. "His pulse is weak, but steadily gains strength." His thumb moves in small circles over the center of Loki's palm, which he raises to his chest. "Forgive me. I was told that you risked yourself rushing to his aid. I have not expressed my gratitude." Solemnly, Thor inclines his head. "I thank you, Steve Rogers. A more worthy companion I have not met in centuries."

"It's fine," Steve says, pulling up a chair. "You'd do it for any of us."

"That may well be," Thor murmurs, watching Loki's still face. "Though you would not be indebted to me for such a thing."

"So you understand, then," Steve says, "when I say you don't owe us anything."

Thor looks up at him with surprise. The smallest of smiles touches his mouth, though it fades when he glances back at his brother.

"It was ever Loki's lot to be miscast by those around him," he says after several minutes. "To this very day, I am unable to determine whether that is his intention always." He swallows, reaches forward to touch his brother's hair. "He has certainly played me the fool on countless occasions."

"Thor," Steve rasps, uncomprehending. He finds his eyes are wet, his throat tight. He's got no idea why.

"Leave us," Thor says softly. "I would contemplate matters."

Steve nods, standing. Shuts the door quietly behind him.


It's dark when he steps outside to clear his head, warm enough but overcast. He can't see any stars, and the moon follows him in hazy pieces.

Steve shoves his hands into the pockets of his borrowed sweats, walks, and doesn't think about anything. Focuses on the feel of the sidewalk under his bare feet, the steady beat of his lungs. The distant sound of the wind in the trees.

After about half an hour, the sky opens up for the second time today. Soaked to the skin, the rain streaming down his face and beading on his lashes, he hasn't got a damn thing sorted out in his head. But he feels cleaner, somehow, like a darkness has been rinsed away, even if nothing's changed at all. He takes his time walking back.

A thin crack of lightning splits the sky for a few bare instants, silent and faraway, as Steve comes up the drive. He stares up at the dark outline of the Stark mansion with water on his cheeks. There are people he cares about in this house, but right now it just looks like a relic from an earlier time. A fossil that recognizes another fossil and asks, What are you doing here?

Two shadows move together in one of the upstairs windows. Bitterly, Steve thinks: so much for being almost-faithful.

Pepper is Tony's girlfriend, regardless who he's sleeping with or what promises he's made. Tony's the bad guy, Steve's too selfish to turn him down, and Pepper's the one getting the short end of the stick. Steve pushes a hand back through his hair, sluicing rain down the back of his neck. He's not being fair. He's got no right to feel like he's losing something he never had to begin with.

But he goes on feeling it, right up 'til he walks inside and finds Tony leaning against an end table. His eyes are down, his arms crossed. There's a half-empty glass at his elbow, but he's not sharing shadows with anyone.

Steve's relief dissolves under his guilt, and what the heck else is new?

Tony looks up at him, jaw tight, like he's been waiting here a while. "Where have you been," he asks flatly. Then his forehead folds in on itself. "Why are you wet? Did you fall in a lake? Where did you even find one?"

"Went for a walk," Steve says, frowning. He moves closer, takes in the deep crescents cut under Tony's eyes and the faint edge of alcohol clinging to him like perfume. The most sleep Tony's got in maybe two days has been the couple hours in Steve's bed, and Steve's got no idea when he last ate something. Probably room service, he thinks, resigned. Yesterday morning seems like a lifetime ago. "It's raining."

"That would do it," Tony sighs. "Come on, I have towels."

Steve follows close behind, wondering if he's allowed to touch Tony's hand the way Pepper did. He never knows where the goalposts are, feels like they move around. There's a probably an analogy here somewhere: the closer Tony is to Pepper, the further he is from Steve.

But maybe Steve needs rest, too, 'cause that's not any kinda metaphor. That's just a damn fact from every angle. "Loki wake up yet?"

"No," Tony answers. His shoulders are sharp in the semi-darkness of the hall. The only light comes to them from a lamp in the den as they pass by. He sounds worried. "He's not healing, either. Thor said he should be. I don't know what that means."

Steve ducks his head, lips pursed. There's a hot, desperate part of him that wonders if he'll ever be able to save anybody, if it's even possible to win the long game. Maybe you can manage it the first time around, or the eighth or the twenty-seventh. But one day you're not gonna make it. One day he'll miss Bucky's hand by inches, or his date with Peggy by decades. One day he'll close the portal too soon for Tony to fall back down to Earth.

Steve feels brittle, bone-dry even as his clothes cling heavy and clammy, drag him down. Just 'cause you save someone a hundred times doesn't mean you can save them the hundred-and-first. It's an endless circle of close-calls and eventually Steve will lose.

"I'll get you some pajamas," Tony says then, sliding his fingertips into the soft joint of Steve's elbow. His voice banishes the darkness like a charm, and there's gold in his eyes again when he glances up. It takes Steve a minute to realize they're in one of the spare rooms. "You're sleeping here tonight." Tony grabs a towel outta the closet, throws it on the bed. "And—if you think you can manage—I'd fucking love it if you'd stop looking like someone murdered your dog."

"I never had a dog," Steve finally says, distracted and troubled with his heart in his throat. "I was allergic."

Tony studies him for moment. Then he says, somewhat stiffly, "Loki's not dead yet. What happened to him sucks, but. I mean, he'll probably be okay."

"I wasn't thinking about Loki, Tony," Steve says. The cold's finally starting to creep in, makes him shudder involuntarily.

Tony frowns, lips in a flat line, and starts to tug at Steve's t-shirt.

"Thank you," Steve says quietly after a moment or so. "For the new uniform. I never said."

"You're welcome," Tony mutters. "The soak got most of the blood out. It's in the washer right now."

"I appreciate it," Steve says as Tony manhandles the shirt the rest of the way off. It hits the floor with a loud slap.

"You should. I put a dense, flexible polymer plate between the layers of fabric. It'll stop bullets without weighing you down. Won't shatter on impact, will move with you but retain its shape." His fingers skid over Steve's shoulders, dip beneath his arms. Like he's checking for damage, for other things he oughta fix. 'Cause he likes to make things better, Steve remembers warmly. "I had to leave some places open, though, for mobility. I, uh, meant to brief you earlier. Before you actually had to wear it in the field."

Steve fixes his eyes on the muted glow of the arc reactor, reaches out his hands. Tony's close, radiates heat. Steve trails his cool fingers over Tony's bare hip where his shirt's shifted, where his belly shows.

Tony clears his throat, his eyes falling to Steve's mouth and going dark. "So—so you should have full range of motion—did you notice?—but, um. Don't get shot or stabbed in your armpits. Or your groin, or the backs of your knees or the, the inside of your elbows." He ghosts his fingers over each of these places in turn, working his way down. He slides off Steve's sweatpants as he goes, palming the curve of Steve's backside, leaning in briefly to press a kiss against the half-hard shaft of Steve's cock. Then he straightens with a graceless jerk. "You'll be more than formidable against a head-on attack. Just. Don't let anyone sneak up on you."

Tony's voice has dropped steadily 'til it's just a breathy whisper, suspended between them in the air. Steve shifts, allows himself to be gently towelled off. His cock aches dully between his legs.

"I'll be right back," Tony whispers, pushing him down on the bed. His hand twitches in the direction of Steve's thighs, but he doesn't touch him again. He gathers up the wet clothes instead. "Don't move, soldier boy."

He must doze for a while, 'cause next thing he knows there's an arm under his back, a warm pressure moving the blankets and sheets around.

"Tony?" He mumbles.

"Shh," Tony says. "Go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Time's it?" Steve asks, sighing. He hadn't meant to fall asleep for the five minutes Tony was gone.

"About eleven." Fifteen minutes, then.

"Is Loki—"

"Still breathing."

"Okay." Steve shifts onto his side. The sheets feel wonderful against his bare skin, the angle of his hip, the swell of his butt.

Tony looks pained. "You should put these on," he says, motioning to the flannel pants he brought back with him. " I will never leave this room if you don't, and I have work to do."

Steve's cock swells again, jumps slightly at the heavy want in his voice. Judging by the way Tony's eyes cloud over, Steve figures he notices.

But then Steve props himself up on his elbows and asks, "What kinda work? If there's anything I should do—"

"You should stay right here and rest," Tony says. Then, softer, "And—maybe let me look at you for a little while."

"I—," Steve fumbles his words, feels safe and wanted beneath Tony's intense gaze. Feels like everything's okay.

Tony's hands move feather-light over Steve's shoulders and arms. A nail catching lightly at his nipple, the line of a thumb sinking into the muscular ridges of his hip, his thigh. The five-finger grooves of his rib cage.

Pepper's here, she's somewhere upstairs in this very house, and Steve doesn't fucking care. He gets his hands around Tony's chest, thumbs the soft, thin t-shirt. If he presses in, he can feel the rapid thrum of Tony's heartbeat.

Tony leans close, fully-clothed down to his Wolverine socks, and buries his face in Steve's throat. Breathes him in.

"Gimme a minute," he says, voice muffled, arms stealing around Steve's waist. Steve shifts, hugs Tony tightly against his body. Presses his jaw into that soft, brown hair. He smells like sweat and metal. Steve never wants to let go.

"Okay. Okay," Tony says, wriggling free and getting some distance between them. He keeps a hand on the side of Steve's neck. "Right. So I'm gonna tuck you in—"

"I'm not a kid—"

"I'm going to tuck you in," Tony repeats, yanking the covers out from under Steve's body and settling them snug around him again. "Since you refuse to be any kind of decent and cover up this festival of carnality—"

"Festiv—ugh." Steve shakes his head, but he can't get the smile off his face.

"—and since we. I mean, we take care of each other," Tony says. He looks earnestly at Steve's face. "We do that," he repeats, but he says it like it's a question. Like maybe he doesn't know.

"We do that," Steve tells him firmly.

"Okay. Good." He relaxes a bit. "I won't be up all night," he says seriously. "Just—give me an hour or two. Then I'll come back and we'll both get some sleep, yeah?"

Steve motions gingerly toward the ceiling, does his best to keep his voice neutral, "You're gonna be missed, Tony."

"We've got a butchered god on the ground floor, a class five mutant in bed with our Homeland Security organization, and an unmedicated rage monster that would really like for me to finalize a working alternative for his effective but incapacitating drug habit," he says, counting off on his fingers. "Pepper would find it incredibly suspicious if she saw me at all in the next twenty hours." His eyes slide over Steve's bulky form, heavy and thoughtful. "Thirty hours. Thirty-seven hours."

"If you say so." Steve can't even find it in him to get angry. The day's been too long, too draining by half. Physical exertion is nothing to him; it's everything else that makes Steve wanna turn himself off for awhile.

Tony's mostly the opposite, though. He can work through whatever you throw at him, right up 'til his body gives out from exhaustion. Steve wonders if he and Tony balance each other other in a weird sorta way, or if they're both just deeply flawed people.

"I'm really the worst boyfriend ever," Tony whispers after a while, voice rough. "It's no wonder you don't wanna date me."

Steve reaches for him, takes his hand. Squeezes. Tony's a little drunk and a lot exhausted, and Steve wants him to stay here. To sleep, to touch. But all he says is, "See you in an hour."

"Right. That's—right," Tony says. He presses Steve's hand to his mouth, his lips warm and dry and soft. "An hour."


It's about four in the morning when Steve wakes up alone. The clothes Tony brought are still on the bed, so he pulls them on with quick, mechanical movements. The shirt's tight around his chest, the pants kinda loose. He cinches them at the waist and pads quietly into the hall.

It's entirely possible Tony ended up in his own bed, so Steve doesn't look for him. He goes to check in on Loki instead, see if Thor's gone to sleep yet.

He hangs back when he reaches the half-open door. Thor's not on the bed this time. Instead, he's got a chair pulled up, head bowed over Loki's hand as he holds it gently in both of his own.

Of anyone else in the world, Steve's probably got the most in common with Thor—they're both so outta sync with the present era, even if it's from different directions, that they may as well be on equal footing. Unbidden, the thought crosses his mind that the same's true for Loki.

Then he realizes Loki's awake. There's a dry rasp and a fragile bracelet of words, a flash of green.

"You swore an oath to protect me," Thor's replying quietly around a ragged, worried smile. "Yet allow yourself such grievous injury."

"Thor," Loki whispers, voice dry as dust, "I was protecting you."

Thor smooths his fingers over Loki's thin wrist in anxious circles. "So must we return to Asgard," Thor growls, like it's an argument they've been having for hours. "That the healers may put you to rights, that you may fight at my side once more."

"No," Loki says. Steve's gotta strain to hear him. "You think I would lead them along the straight path to Asgard? To their coveted prize? You think I would loose those forces upon your home?" He coughs, weak and brittle. Thor seizes his shoulders, holds him through it. With a sick twist to his stomach, Steve realizes there's blood on Loki's mouth. "It was all that I could do to keep them at bay as-was."

"It is your home as well," Thor insists. "Father will seal the portal, or Heimdall. I yet believe Jane could—"

Loki turns his face away from his brother, makes a soft, complicated sound. It takes a moment for Steve to recognize derision—jealousy.

Thor looks startled, but his tone's gentle. "Loki—"

"I am not here to suffer your dalliances," Loki says in his sharp voice. But it comes out all wrong, cracked and heaving and distorted. Anger and agony are at war in the lines of his face, the rigidness of his limbs. The way his torso curves in, fetal and helpless like a sick little kid in a cold church.

"You are here because I wish it," Thor says soberly, reaching out to rest a heavy hand on Loki's narrow rib cage. "And because you wish it."

Steve raps gently on the doorframe.

When Thor looks up, there are dark, heavy smudges around his eyes. Wearily, Steve supposes that answers the question of whether or not he's gotten any rest.

"Steve," he smiles wearily.

"Thor. Loki," Steve greets. He takes a few steps in, but doesn't sit down.

Loki shifts up to look at him, offers a tiny nod. His breath comes shallow and his fingers twist in the sheets, but he closes his eyes when Thor combs a hand through the dark, tangled mess of his hair.

"We couldn't get ahold of you earlier," Steve says to Thor. He tries not to sound accusing. "Wanna tell me where you were?"

Aggrieved, Thor meets Steve's blue eyes with his own. "I was calling on the Lady Jane of Foster," he explains. "She is possessed of a singularly kind and gentle nature. I had hoped she might assist us with present matters." He pauses, searching through the folds of his cloak.

It's probably one of the weirdest things Steve's ever seen, a man in magical armor with a magical hammer at his waist pulling out a smartphone.

Thor runs his thumb over the smooth screen, puzzled. "In the great basins of the New Mexico, though our mighty cell phones did battle with valor and honor, they could not overcome the brute strength and sly trickery of the intermittent service towers."

Thor went to see Jane, had poor reception. Steve sifts through for the important parts. "'Present matters'?"

Thor opens his mouth to speak, but doesn't. He glances down at his brother instead.

Loki doesn't look at either of them, but after a moment he says: "A halfmoon ago. When I divined the orchestrative nature of Director Fury's involvement with Magneto's attack."

"Yes," Steve says. Trepidation swirls in him like an illness, rises bitter in the back of his throat.

Loki exhales carefully. "My association with the Chitauri required a link forged between myself and their leader. It is how we communicated. It is how I accessed energies and abilities which were not my own." He raises his hands, circles his slender fingers together over his chest. "I do not otherwise traverse the realm of thought and psychic control."

"He speaks truly," Thor says, as though he expects Steve to think otherwise.

"The caveat," Loki continues, eyes snapping up over Steve's, "should I have somehow failed to uphold my end of the bargain, was that the link could be reshaped into a portal. I was able to seal it when Stark destroyed their central ship; I am exceptionally resourceful, and in that moment they were weak." He pauses. "However..."

Steve feels a pulse shudder through him. It's a long moment before he understands it as fear. "You had to unseal it. When you read Fury's mind."

Thor leans forward angrily. "This is—is this true?"

You don't know? Steve thinks sadly.

"Yes." Loki says simply. "And now I am, effectively, both journey and destination for a collective of powerful adversaries desirous yet of the tesseract. I imagine they mean to apply methods varied and extreme to encourage my... cooperation in locating it."

"Let them make any attempt," Thor rumbles fiercely. There's a blackness to his gaze, a bloodlust and a kinda hate that comes from loving someone enough to kill for them.

"You outta your mind?" Steve asks finally, searching Loki's pained face. "What part of tearing down your only line of defense against those guys seemed like a good idea?"

"I harbor grave concerns," Loki says flatly, "when a man who deigns command myself and mine offers neither explanation nor rationale for his actions."

"It couldn't've been worth this," Steve says, motioning to the nightmare of Loki's abdomen. "We would've found out about Fury and SHIELD on our own."

"I will not risk Thor's safety," Loki says, easing up onto his elbows. "I will not leave his fate in the hands of mortals, to be manipulated at their pleasure."

"You really think this is better?" Steve asks seriously. "Making yourself an open door for 'powerful adversaries'? That ain't a risk to Thor's safety?"

Loki presses his lips together thoughtfully. "But they cannot come through at present. As I am so damaged, it would likely kill me. Then they would have no gate at all. Their lead to the tesseract would disappear." Patiently, he studies his hands. "So I will remain this way for a time."

Thor grits his teeth. "Loki—"

"I will remain this way for a time," Loki repeats firmly, even as his breath hitches. "And perhaps your—Jane—can seal their link once more. Perhaps destroy it entirely."

Steve's suspected, like Tony's suspected, but now he's sure.

Thor stares at his brother, eyes wide and endlessly, achingly blue. "You did this?"

Loki sighs tiredly. He even reaches out and touches Thor's tightly curled knuckles. "It would not have been my first choice, had I any other."


Steve's been sitting in his guestroom for the better part of an hour, coffee gone cold on the bedside table, when he notices. Under the TV remote, his name scrawled on top in a loose hand, is a neatly folded note. He wonders when Tony left it there.

He reaches for it hesitantly, fingers careful as they slip inside, open it up. He studies the neat type, surprised, 'cause he'd almost forgotten he'd asked for it.

At the very bottom of the list of names and addresses, there's a single line of text: His secrets have secrets. But he left this one right where I would find it.