He remains awake, long hours after. The light of the moon feint under the blinking yellow of his years-old nightlight. Before him, the open tome, words written in a script he couldn't ever hope to decipher for himself.

Yet the familiarity is no less jarring.

His conversation with Natasha comes slowly back, from whispers in the very back of his head to a gradual onslaught of every truth he still refused to accept.

"He remembers,"

Natasha had said, lips thinned. Grim. He had protested at first, called her for her insanity because he just couldn't believe her.

She'd shown him the tome then.

"You recognize his handwriting,"

It hadn't been a question. Natasha, she'd always seen right through him, she was too good for that.

She was right. There were, of course, the doubts he'd had. Piling high and exceedingly optimistic.

Loki, after all, had always been intelligent.

"Steve."

She didn't force him to accept the words she had to spare for him. Neither did she try to reassure him, the way she normally would on a mission gone wrong. Her stance was firm, resolute. She'd left, head held high and confident he'd change his mind.

He should've expected it, really. Though not heartless, she'd always been cynical with her loyalties, always keeping to her head and her own perception of right and wrong.

He'd never called her out on it before. He understood—understands.

He blinks back the wariness brought about by his fatigue, nursing the Asgardian grade coffee-substitute like a lifeline as he read through the notes Queen Frigga had been kind enough to compile.

They were translations, mostly. Tidbits on the tome itself, but more often than not, a look-see into her youngest sons' intellect.

Seidr, the art of Asgardian magic. For all that he had lost his memories, Loki knew it intrinsically. Talk of spells and potions and practice, words Steve could not understand but soldiered through regardless. There was a point to this, he knew. There was always a point to the things Natasha does.

The Cosmic Entities.

Death, Entropy, Infinity, Eternity.

He paused, then. Eyes landing on familiar diagrams.

Loki's scrawl had gone jagged here, lapping over figures and old script with little precision or real direction. Yet, for all that Frigga's notes called with every flicker of his eyes, he found himself unable to read it all through.

Bursting blue, and pulsing. Johann Schmidt and the arrogance that had consumed him long before the power did.

He flipped through those pages, eyes unfocused on anything except getting away.

He had no use for what would be written there. The tesseract was on Asgard, and Loki was here.

It meant nothing.

"He's manipulating us."

He stops on the very last page, blank of anything except Loki's handwriting.

It was in English.

—for the falls of Marmora forever cascade into the yawning trenches of the nether. For Innangard, the heart of the realm eternal, has always been secure and thus, has become complacent and her citizens remain ignorant. The eternities have called upon the death of their budding universe, and we, the Gods, now fall at their mercy, for they had not perceived the evilness wrought by their whims.

For every power created, Yggdrasil will pull forth from its breast a creature of equal wanting.


He'd gone home still bundled in the wraps of Loki's threadbare medical kit.

The kid had gone off to bed shortly after he'd fixed him up, as unassuming as always. He'd been up when Steve had gotten to him, staring at the fire licking through the small opening in the glass window.

He was relieved for it, if nothing else. The smoke had blotted out the street, and the screams had been loud enough that Loki hadn't heard anything he wouldn't have been allowed to.

Steve knew, of course, that Loki would be visited in the morning, SHIELD specialists and Asgardian doctors keen on keeping Loki's secrets hidden before the spell (or whatever it truly was) could break before its time.

It was crucial to recovery, according to them.

He sighed, hugging his good arm close to chest. The fire had baked off the worst of the chill, but autumn had been long coming, and the nighttime had since settled fully, pulling the temperature to a sharp drop.

He was, after all, only human.

(And he tries not to think about it, the days preceding. The grimy footage of an opened window and Loki in his thin pants and tee, staring out as if the chill hadn't mattered, hadn't truly bothered him in the slightest. It was hard for Steve still, accepting Loki as other. Even Thor got cold in autumn wind).

His apartment was dark when he arrived, save the lone flickering bulb left on in his kitchenette. A habit from before the war, before the serum, when darkness had meant others hiding within it. Ready to strike him for being slighter than they were. Different.

Kids were cruel, the ambitious, crueler. How else could they have proved themselves than buffing up against someone who was meant to be lesser, anyway?

The remnants of that far off yesteryear bug off with smug certainty, leaving him hollowed within. They, those boys and those men, were as dead as he had been, going into the ice in the end.

"Captain."

He stops in the entryway of his kitchen, back stiff at the sound of the voice. A grumbling gasp he'd recognize anywhere.

"Thor."

It was as much of a greeting as Steve was willing to give, angered still.

Thor inclines his head, only just. The movement so reminiscent of Loki it stings.

"I have come bid you hello and my thanks, if you will have me"
Lumbering, the polite mask mangled by the expectance in his stance. Thor was a prince, and for the first time in a long while, Steve can clearly see it.

"Coffee?"

He offers, because that's what he always offers guests. He knew it worked as much on Thor as it did on him, but he didn't really care.

"It will not be necessary"

Thor says. Takes one gracious step back and plops down on Steve's only other table seat.

"I bring word for you as well,"

Steve nods along to that, not really finding the words in him to respond. Thor takes that as an o-k, drives right over the usual pleasantries and into the focus of their topic today. Loki. Of course.

"Mother…informs me that you and the Lady Natasha are to be my brother's caretakers"

"We are,"

Steve amends, marking his way through the kitchen. Something sweet to calm his temper— he'd never had much time for leisure after the war had begun, but time with Loki had quickly gotten him into a daily rhythm he could abide by, other than his responsibilities with SHIELD and the Avengers initiative. He liked sweet things, that hadn't changed, and his former apprehension of new packaging came unfounded with the realization that most everything remained similar, if not for the extension in longevity.

Better this way.

(And he thought, "if only these things existed before the war" but the war was gone and he was in the now, and he had to accept that). He settles the milk in a pan on his gas stove, mixing absently as Thor seems to mull over his words, picking and choosing his response.

"…I've come to warn you,"

Steve pauses at this, hand just barely grasping the wooden ladle he'd been using to stir the milk. Thor doesn't seem to notice. Thor just soldiers on.

"My brother,"

He starts, and Steve can hear him pull at his leathers, nervous, in a way.

"He is dangerous."

This pulls Steve up short. The milk bubbles in the pan, sloshing with every lick of the flame but Steve does not see it, eyes staring resolutely into the adjacent wall, mind blank save for the words Thor spoke of his own brother.

And it's not New York that comes to mind, though New York had happened just one year ago. It's not the devastation of the city, the loss of lives, or the fact that it was Loki at the helm. What he remembers is something smaller. The twinge of his muscles as he shifts over, reaching for powdered cocoa. The burns on his arms from the raging fire that had begun because Thor had struck Mjolnir in a fit of rage he called despair, and the way he'd talked himself out of it with a claim of ignorance.

What comes to mind instead, the seed planted by Thor's words are his brother's steady hands, thin and light as he dressed Steve's wounds because he was there. The kindness in his smile, wavering with every grit of Steve's teeth and his reassurance that he knew what he was doing, even if Steve hadn't ever asked.

The knowledge that, though he knew exactly what Thor meant, he refused to believe it on impulse. Because from what he'd seen and heard and now knows….

"Why tell me that?"

Thor pauses, as if he hadn't expected to be questioned. When Steve turns to look at him, his head is bowed, and a frown mars his lips so deep it could almost be called a scowl.

"I assumed mother had told you of his deeds on Asgard and Jotunheim,"

Thor says flatly, brows drawn. Steve looks back at his pot of boiling milk, adds his cocoa and takes it off the stove before he truly burns it. He had a feeling he'd need the drink now, if anything.

"She did."

Thor's frown reaches his eyes with its ferocity, something Steve hasn't ever seen from the God. He takes it in stride. He's seen worse, anyway.

"It is not that I do not trust you, or my brother,"

It's placating. Almost condescending. Steve takes a gulp from his mug, burns the top of his tongue and thanks himself for it. The pain distracts him from his own bubbling irritation.

"But… you do not know him as I do,"

He thinks on those words, hearing none of what follows after. Thor is going on a tangent now, listing his reasons and doubts and sorrows. He's as confused as the rest of the world is, clearly. And he has only enough brain to take it up with him instead of his mother, who had orchestrated this.

"I'll have to stop you there,"

Indignation, little hidden by the curiosity peeking through. Steve had never thought of Loki and Thor as brothers, not before now, when it was so exceedingly clear.

Thor runs a hand through his hair, shaggy at the ends, matted as if he hadn't had the chance to properly wash it. Steve turns away.

"I haven't known him as long as you have, I'm not that old, and Loki hasn't been here long, anyway"

The chair Thor sits on creaks, and Steve finds himself moving back to the side where the shelves are, the drawer by his hip where he keeps his cutlery. Thor wasn't known for his good temper, and Steve wasn't sure what he had to say would be welcomed.

"But I like to think I'm not dumb."

There's a flash outside, seen through the slit in the window above his kitchen sink. The grumble of thunder soon follows.

"I don't know him like you do Thor, but I do know him. Right now, that Loki you think you know? He's gone."

The crackle of lightning rattles him to the bones, but he stands firm, looks Thor in the eyes and waits out the temper tantrum. Thor's grounding out at him, protests of anger and annoyance and his own refusal to accept the obvious.

It's while waiting that Steve realizes with stunning clarity, Thor does not know. At least, Thor does not realizes what has happened fully.

"Have you even talked to the Queen?"

Thor faces him abruptly, blue eyes cold as the lightning he likes to wield. From beside him, Mjolnir stirs quietly.

"My mother and I have spoken, I have come here from her chambers in your SHIELD."

Cold words belied all of his impatient anger, and none of the compassion Steve had come to expect from him. With a pang, he realizes, however angry he might've been at the god, so was the god with him, and his mother, SHIELD and everyone involved with this thing.

"Thor, Loki doesn't— he's not like you remember him—"

"Do you think I do not know?"

Thor's standing now, Mjolnir tight in his grasp. Outside, it starts to rain.

"My brother… Loki is not as he used to be, and that has been fact for as long as he has been lost to Asgard. When he fell from the bridge that day, he has been lost since then, I know this."

Slowly, Steve places his mug down, lays his palm flat against the opening of the drawer behind his back. Thor looked stricken.

"He told me thus. He told me himself, when he was imprisoned in Asgard. He told me himself, Captain."

Thor spat his title like it was acid, and Steve felt as if he were in a free-fall.

Frigga had told him— them all— that Loki hadn't talked of his past under Odin's watch. She'd said he was paranoid of it, without his Seidr, the gatekeeper could watch any conversation and he had been careful.

"I know my own brother, Steven."

Thor's words come tiredly. Outside, it continues to rain.

"That is why I am here. Not to fight, not to be a burden. Our mother knows us, yes, but she does not know him as well as I,"

There's a pause then, the quietness breached only the pouring of the rain.

Slowly, Steve gathers his mug, cradles it close to his lips. The mix had cooled, but he takes a sip anyway.

"Tell me,"

He says later on, when the rain has pattered off and his mug lay empty in the sink.

"Tell me everything."


When he opens the door, the first thing he sees is Loki, svelte fingers lining the thick of the room's curtains, looking outside for what seems to be the first time in weeks.

"Hey,"

He says, kicking off his boots and walking in. Loki's unsurprised by his sudden appearance, waves him off while pushing his cheek against the glass.

Steve frowns, walking up to the God and deciding to take a peek himself. There's nothing he can make out in particular, at least, nothing he would think could draw Loki's attention. He's about to ask after it, curious of the way Loki seems so invested, but then Loki puts a hand over his mouth, effectively silencing him.

"There's a man there, in the third building behind that one,"

He points out, whispering the words low enough that even Steve has to strain himself to hear. Loki taps a finger on the glass, smiling slightly. As if he were amused.

"I don't think he's noticed you yet, he's busy right now."

Loki pulls away from the window, then. Draws the curtains, and drenches the Apartment back into its seemingly perpetual state of darkness. His smile spreads then, only just, but wider than Steve has seen it in a while. It's a stark contrast to the rings around his eyes, dark and mocking in its presence. As always, Steve pretends not to have noticed them.

"You saw a man?"

Loki nods, resting against the cushions of his window bench. He stifles a yawn, but his shoulders sag lowly in fatigue. Steve doesn't mention it, even though he wants to. It's against protocol.

"He is spying on me, always is this time of week."

Steve's eyes widen, but Loki seems so unperturbed, waving him off.

"It's alright, he is amusing enough. He hates me,"

A grin, as if this were something to laugh at.

"You brought me something?"

The plastic in his hand crinkles, and Steve is startled by it, having almost forgotten the plastic was there.

Amber's bakery, it reads, emboldened in yellow and navy blue. One small remnant from the 40's, when it had been new. Steve's go-to since he'd awoken here, and eventually, Loki's preferred as well.

"I got you something plain, if you don't mind. You haven't been really interested in sweets lately,"

Loki's grin widens into something almost cheerful, and Steve is struck by just how young he looks then.

"Thank you."

Thin fingers grasp his, not to take the plastic but as his own form of appreciation. It's the farthest Loki has ever allowed himself to do in terms of physical affection. Steve thinks he understands it, even if Loki didn't truly, yet.

It's later on in the day, with twilight fast approaching and supper drawing near that Steve asks him if he'd like for him to cook. He hadn't done it too often in all the times that he'd known the god, but Loki seemed to enjoy his cooking well enough before, and Steve was hard-pressed to order take-out, as that seemed to be all Loki would eat these days.

He hadn't expected anything overly expressive, Loki wasn't really the sort. He had, however, expected not to be outright rejected.

"I've had a good lunch today, Steven. Your baked good has only exacerbated my satiation."

Steve blinks back at him, taken aback. He tries not to let it show too much, but Loki has always been perceptive, and the God reaches out, placating smile in place.

"It is quite alright. Regardless, it is getting quite late,"

He points at the overhead clock lining the long wall above his flat screen television.

The smile never leaves his lips.

"Oh,"

Steve bundles up the book he'd been reading, gathers his coat from where it'd been thrown over the side of the couch. Loki gives him a short wave goodbye.

"Godspeed, Steven."

He says, a word he'd picked up and taken to using after he'd encountered it in one of Natasha's novels. A cheeky smile overtakes his features, barely discernible from the normal blankness of his expression. It was only the fact that Steve'd spent so much time with him, that he knows to take it for what it is. A try at a joke. Something hearty to send him off.

A distraction.

"You too,"

Steve leaves without preamble, toeing on his shoes and walking out the door with barely a wave back in his haste. He feels Loki's eyes on him, long after the door has closed.


He goes by his morning routine normally. Coffee— more for the taste than the boost. Then joggers on and a ten mile run through the quieter streets of the inner city's pseudo-suburbia.

The sun shines through in fleeting rays of gold and pink, the air just barely warm in the face of the coming winter. The trees sway with the low winds, lone leaves rustling off skeletal branches and painting the sidewalk in the colors of autumn.

Red, yellow, orange.

He counts the colors as he runs, relieves mind of memory and focuses only on his track and the need to sidestep the occasional civilian as he goes through. It is perhaps this distraction that allows him to stop short, shocked out of his mind when a figure jumps down from the grills in a nearby apartment, hair coiffed and dressed in all black.

It's his face, and Steve's own thankful recognition of it that keeps him from completing the jab at his throat.

"Clint!"

But he's startled enough, and the name comes out more shrill then welcoming. Clint grins anyway.

"We've been trying to contact you on your cell, you hadn't been picking up so Nat got me to rush on after you. Which, by the way, what the fuck? You run like a freight train!"

To add to dramatics, Clint bends down, holding his knees in mock-windedness.

The sound of the chopper, and the chatter it brought with it, gives him away. Steve points that out, but Clint only shrugs, walking ahead of him, back the way he came.

"I mean, you didn't notice it coming, not my fault I wanted to milk it."

Steve frowns, but doesn't say much about it. Clint wasn't…wrong, after all.

"If I were you,"

He starts, when they're already halfway up the apartment buildings fire escape.

"I'd buckle up. Fury's being prissy— well, prissy-er than you usual, you know what I mean."

Steve's shoulders stiffen, but he shakes the mounting apprehension off, waiting to cast judgement only after he knows what exactly was going on.

"Well, your report came in and he's worried, I guess."

Clint's voice hardens then, his grip suspiciously white around the railings. He turns on just, head over his shoulder and eyes narrowed, though not unkindly. Merely scrutinizing.

"He thinks you're at risk of being compromised. He wants to check."