ON WITH THE SHOW!
Author's Note: Please notice that the rating has gone up throughout Act III for language and sexual content.
Chapter Eight: Earth to Echo
Not greatly to his surprise, Loki is not happy. But this time, much to his displeasure, even he must admit it might actually be his fault.
He's never one to admit that he's out of his depth, but he wonders helplessly, frustrated, if this time he might have gone too far. Still, he can't see where he went wrong, or where he might have stopped.
All he'd needed was an ally, even an unwitting one – especially an unwitting one, for then he could have fled and cared nothing at all for the world he would leave behind. Caring hurts.
Caring is the terror that had ripped through him at the desperation and grief and anguish that had echoed back through the wolfthread, as he prowled through an evening that had been overcast, somehow, never mind the lights and noise and chaos of an ordinary Las Vegas night on all sides. And then the phone he does carry with him – he tells Tony that he doesn't, but only to make the man scowl – had hummed beneath his hand. Bare moments after he'd answered the frightened, familiar voice, despair gripped his arm like killing ice, and he'd run.
Caring is the power he'd torn from the reservoir in his soul, shoving it into screaming, protesting forms so that every racing step became a thousand, twisting the space between them as he'd sought the home that sang of refuge, of sanctuary, that had opened to him and bid him welcome. Traveling in stumbling, painful leaps between places – not safe, to travel so, with the Void roaring hunger and the true Ways still hidden from his blinded senses – he'd thought only of his lover and his pain.
Caring is the howl of rage that had risen in his throat and choked him until he could not breathe with the fury of it, at the sight of his Tony near-dead amid the shards and devastation scattered across the floor where once they'd walked together, before some thief took that away.
Nothing he'd shown that night had been a lie, or even a misdirection.
Midgardians say my heart in my mouth; well, Loki had tasted the blood of his on his tongue, cradling it there like the most fragile thing, feeling it flutter in panicked sympathy with the one faltering under his hands. Not for the first time he had wished in vain that his magic paced more towards healing and less towards the shadows of war.
Caring is – oh, how badly he'd wanted to kill the man who'd struck his lover down. There was no fate in all the realms too dire, Loki had raged, for the man who had taken what is mine!
Only the light rekindling in Tony's eyes had cut through the desperate need to hunt and hurt and, eventually, kill, and Loki had pulled himself back from that madness enough to remember who he was, here.
One of the hardest things Loki has done since he was cast down to this world was to step away. Was to let Tony take on his armor and his weapons and fight, as his new-fledged and shining warrior was clearly meant to do.
But the sight of that battle had been almost as sweet as the taste of his enemy's blood, and if he could not have the one, then he would have the other. Loki had vanished the moment Rhodey had turned his back; the man has looked at him somewhat oddly, since, when he thinks himself unobserved, but no matter. Tony will hear no word of suspicion against him, even if Rhodey could bring some accusation that Tony would understand. And Loki had followed the tantalizing trail of fury and fire and jangling power bound up in blue light.
All unseen, he had walked the boundaries of the battle and rejoiced in it. Part of him had laughed in pure, unadulterated delight, seeing Tony come into his own and defend his crown. Part of him had licked the blood from its jowls and torn its claws into the earth, hoping for its chance to strike.
And when all was done and the last blow had fallen, power blazing towards the sky, Loki had breathed it in with satisfaction, feasting on the certainty that here was what and who he'd needed, after all.
Pepper thinks she was the first one to reach Tony's side as he lay battered and unconscious on that rooftop, but Loki moves on lighter feet and in less silly shoes than she. And with life beating through the tracking spell around his wrist, the magician, prince of another world in his own right and lover of a prince of this one, had knelt at his side and pressed a kiss to his forehead and whispered, "Well fought, my warrior."
Only in the days that followed had Loki realized his miscalculation.
What has he done to himself? His road home is within his grasp, but Loki finds himself thinking of the end of it with reluctance. If he lets things play out as he intends them to, then he will never be able to tell Tony all the stories of home that would make the man laugh, or that would bring bright amazement to his eyes, or that would catch his attention and keep it, breath held in anticipation against the next knot in the tale.
Loki wants to lift his hands between them, and say, "Look," and show Tony all that he can do.
No. Not quite.
He is a master of illusions and deceptions, invisibility his readiest weapon, misdirection his sharpest blade, suggestion his cleverest trick, and yet all Loki wants to say is, "See me."
He has not lied to Tony. He has never met his mortal's eyes and told him something that was not true. But he has let Tony believe, as if not mentioning the false road might be the same as leading him along a true one. He knows that when Tony comes to the chasm this path leads to, dividing them, he will take this discovery ill.
And that should not matter, for nothing matters, except returning home the only way Loki can bear to. But he erred, somewhere, and now it does.
Caring hurts, Loki maintains, and he does not like it.
The Norns must be laughing. He has found someone worth staying for, and it's the same person who might be able to let him leave.
Home, he reminds himself. Asgard. Asgard that must be mine, one day, if I wish it to remain standing.
There is more at stake than his selfish heart.
There are the shining towers of Asgard, as bright as the sea that becomes the stars. There are the secrets held close and protected within her heart, glorious dangers and terrible wonders that could restore worlds to life, or more easily set them aflame, used carelessly. There are the stories in the realms beyond, that should be only steps along hidden Ways and a leap across the Void beneath the worlds away, waiting to be uncovered and savored.
There is the complex and ever-shifting web of promises and alliances and ancient grudges that knots among the realms, all unseen, as essential as blood and much more difficult to trace with a light hand that leaves no mark. There are the whispers of the wind that blows through the Void, singing in unintelligible harmony with the ripples of the deepest-hidden springs that pour life and death throughout the Tree of Worlds.
There is a war of endings coiling in the darkness, and it waits to break free through any fracture it can find. The casual cruelty of a jest out of place. A challenge that should not be offered or met. Or simply the careless impulses of someone who does not understand consequences, or catalysts, or the scale of the game they were both born to play.
To protect these things from rough hands, Loki will do much, no matter who he wounds.
He just wishes he did not feel so conflicted about the world – and the man – he must leave behind, should all go as he still wishes it to.
Mortal, the darkness within him sneers, and turns away as the rest of him flinches, remembering the fear and the pain deep inside at the sight of Tony gasping, dying, as he inevitably will – as he must, Midgardian and fragile that he is.
Mine, the rest of him replies, and holds tight to that, for Tony is. And it is a strange and wonderful comfort, to have a friend and a lover and an ally, someone he can go to and reach out to and lie beside, knowing that he is wanted. He had been sure of this even when Tony had sent him away – and that had hurt keenly, but the spell bound about his wrist had told him how much to do so had hurt Tony, as well. Loki had not truly believed in the rejection. He could be patient, and wait for the damage to Tony's soul to heal before Loki tried to touch him again.
Loki has been a wounded wolf before, and bitten those who were only trying to help him; that is what wounded wolves do, and no fault of theirs.
"Hey," Tony's voice cuts into his thoughts, amused. "Loki, you still in there?"
Blinking, Loki tries to raise one hand to brush his hair away from his eyes and remembers in time not to. "I – yes. I was…elsewhere."
"No kidding." Tony pops another vegetable into his mouth agilely and talks around it. "Think I could have taken that bit of chicken you've been meditating over right away from you and you'd have never seen me do it."
"You could not have."
"Can so. Watch me!" Clacking his sticks together like snapping teeth, Tony leans over the table and pinches the disputed piece of meat away. Loki lets him have it, smiling faintly, amused less by Tony's antics than by the man's evident pleasure in them. "See? Serves you right for stealing my food all the time."
"I would have noticed, if you'd tried." And yet, Loki briefly doubts this. He has been trained to be aware of anything around him that might be a weapon, and he himself could do significant harm with even something as innocuous and breakable as eating sticks – no, chopsticks, here, despite having no chopping edge whatsoever. But the more he learns of this language, as he listens to sounds rather than relying on his innate understanding of meaning, the less he expects to understand it. There's a poetry in it, sometimes, and it seems distantly related to his first language, but it's otherwise a terrifying jumble of phrases.
Despite the power slumbering above Tony's heart, and the fire held at bay within it, Loki knows he's in no danger here. Not from this man, beaming up at him and threatening with laughter in his voice to hand-feed the meal to him if he doesn't eat.
"Voices in your head getting too loud, huh?" Tony grimaces. "Been there. Usually I head downstairs and work until I pass out on my desk or fall over Butterfingers or try to drink a mug of pens or something. How 'bout you?"
Voices in my head…perhaps, but Loki wishes they weren't all his own. And that he had a truer answer to offer Tony in reply, for he cannot tell the man I turn myself into a wolf, and run until something tries to kill me and I can tear it apart, or I lock myself within my rooms and build illusions so detailed I can fall asleep in them and wake not knowing where I am or how I came there.
"Something similar, I suppose," he says instead, and adds, "And now I have you."
And why, after all, has he entangled his life with this man's if not so he can reach out and kiss the taste of the meal from his lips, and that of the wine far too rich for it, and that mysterious and intangible taste all Tony's own from the tongue meeting his gladly?
He does so enjoy the way Tony kisses him, every touch a demand and plea, all that bright intelligence focused down to this moment, here.
"Yeah," Tony agrees a little while later – the food has not grown cold, at least – eyelashes fluttering delightfully. "That helps. God, I should have kicked everything else out the door and asked you to come home days ago. Almost forgot how good we are."
Loki can't help but laugh, slightly scandalized, at the thought of him as this man's attendant lover, called back to his side to calm and comfort him before the next battle. Oh, but turn the thought about, and that's delicious.
But he does want to be here – this man is his, hadn't he won Tony fairly enough? And what if some other jealous, slinking traitor had tried to move against him?
True enough, Tony is the darling of this world now, all eyes turned to him and all praise showered upon him for his cleverness and the show he puts on so readily, but…
Insisting the entire time that he didn't come when called for, Loki had still returned to his lover's side the moment Tony asked him to, which is how they come to be here, locked away from the attention of strangers, content with Tony's home and simple food and each other's company.
"I do have work of my own, you realize. Although I am tempted to leave those teleporting boxes of mine broken, and the people who continue breaking them to wail for their own amusement."
The fight over who tampered with them this time may still be going on, for all Loki knows. But the team behind that show isn't going to find the culprit this time, for it was the work of a moment and a thought for Loki to break them himself, only a thread of the spell pulled askew for reasons of his own. For one thing, the director irritates him.
"Aw." Tony sets down his wineglass and throws an arm around his shoulders briefly, a rough but affectionate embrace. "But they're just so tempting. And box-shaped. And clever. They still after you to build bigger ones?"
"Now and again, but I have done all I can with what I have. To do more I would need something both sturdier than their current frames and more intricate, to safely move larger objects over greater distances."
His mortal friend beams. "Hey, now you're talking my language. Finally! That's an engineering problem! They keep bugging you, call me – and don't give me that look, I know, I know. Your secrets. Seriously, though. Can't wait to see you beam someone into the middle of the Mandalay wave pool with those…which I would not be surprised if you could do."
Loki smiles, and says nothing.
"Holy shit. You're kidding. Are you kidding? You can't do that. Can I be first?"
He can't resist the urge to brush his fingers across Tony's awestruck and disbelieving expression. I might, pet. Think on that. "And that," he says simply, "is one of the reasons I enjoy my craft so much."
Tony catches his fingers and kisses them. "Sure. You don't fool me. I know you don't really like it there, remember." His lover nips against his pulse, and Loki bites back a sigh. "C'mon, Loki, admit it, you'd rather be here. Wouldn't you?"
Yes, but then I might never leave, and I must. Loki pushes him away, but not very hard. "Then what lies would I tell to the rare few who work up the courage to ask me about you?"
"No, no, then you wouldn't have to! So, uh, what are you telling people? Now that you mention it and all."
With Tony sufficiently distracted, Loki ducks around him and steals the last bit of sauce-slathered steak that the man had been hoarding not quite out of his reach. Over Tony's halfhearted protests – the entire meal has been one extended game of keep-away, and somehow most of it has stayed on the table – Loki grins at him and says, "Little enough. I've no desire to share your spotlights, pet, as you seem to be chasing every one you can find."
"Okay, in all fairness, they come after me, and I don't think they're going to stop this time. The Iron Man thing – I mean, god, I'm having fun, it's the best thing since you, really, but this, this here? This is the first more than half an hour I've gotten to myself since that press conference."
He likes this rice mixture. This is good. It's not complicated, but it's good, and it sticks together interestingly. Most of it tastes familiar, why hasn't Asgard come up with this yet?
Oh yes, because if it can't be roasted over a campfire on campaign, it's for babies and handmaidens, and not real food.
"I tell them what they knew already, that you wished my magic for yourself, and that I would not give it to you no matter how fiercely you wooed me – and no, Tony, you know I can keep secrets. To them I speak only of my craft. I say that you have found a far shinier toy to play with, and that they have only to look to the nearest screen to see the truth of that. But I could not have hidden that we spend time together, and so the questions continue."
Tony frowns thoughtfully. Loki sets aside the urge to kiss him, at least for now. "You know, I never figured that out. You're right, we've been all over Vegas together, and that place is full of cameras. Any insights on how come not a single tabloid ever got hold of that? Most of the time even before Iron Man, I couldn't even buy a new pair of sunglasses without it getting written up somewhere."
Because one of my ready spells now blurs cameras, perhaps? Because you bask in the glare that would burn me? Because I need you, not the stares and the whispers of your followers? Because while I can hide myself from the golden eyes of the Gatekeeper, the tracks I leave on the world must be brushed out one by one, or else not left at all?
That lesson he learnt early, that even an invisible child would still leave tracks in snow as he slipped away from a tutor he was tired of listening to. Loki wishes he could tell Tony that story. He wants to see Tony laugh, and to laugh with him – the sting of that rebuke has long since faded, and the humor in it shines brighter.
"Was this the pair you sat on, by chance?"
"Shut up already."
"Then how am I to answer you?"
"You are just the worst."
I like you too, pet.
"Oh, I threatened them," Loki says instead, mildly.
Tony blinks at him. It's almost too easy to take the carton of spicy vegetables out from under his hand. No real challenge. No fun. Loki will wait. "Sorry, you did what?"
His eyes have fallen to Loki's wrists, and the knives he believes hidden there, and it's not hard to follow his thoughts. "Not like that," Loki scolds. "I don't run through the city shouting, throwing a sword in the air, when a word will do. I've seen that done. It wasn't particularly attractive."
"Ouch?" Tony ventures.
"He – a friend of my brother's – called the result interesting dueling scars."
"I'm guessing you didn't agree."
At least this is one story he can share, if slightly edited. "I called it accidentally hacking off half of your own face. To his face, and in front of his friends."
"Definitely ouch." But he has made Tony laugh, which is…pleasant. Loki decides not to share the part where Thor had very nearly picked him up like a kitten to keep him from tearing Fandral another interesting dueling scar, although Fandral had come off worse, in Volstagg's enormous hands. And it hadn't even scarred, at that – Aesir healing gifts at work.
"But after you came searching for me, I only mentioned that if I was not left in peace to work my magic, then I and my craft would go elsewhere."
"And that worked?"
"Given the persistence of people who take apart my teleporting boxes? Like magic, if you'll pardon the phrase."
Tony rolls his eyes extravagantly. "Oh, you think you're so clever. How long have you been waiting to use that one?"
"Long enough."
"Diva," Tony says, as affectionate as a caress.
Ironic enough, as most of the singers – if Loki understands that term correctly – won't even be in the same room as him anymore. It's no great loss. Loki can always find other targets to sharpen his tongue upon. "I'm not the one watching myself on the television all the time," he teases, for there is indeed a screen in the next room left on, if silent – Loki can see the flicker of its light.
Tony points out, somewhat righteously, "There's nothing else on."
There isn't. Every spotlight in this world seems trained on Tony and his near-magical – "No, no, no, it's technology, Loki, it's just really good technology, you should understand that!" – suit of armor.
Loki can understand that – he does enjoy watching Tony work on it and within it. Although he does not yet see how, should he ever get the chance, Loki should love to test his own skills against it. He might not be as quick to leap into a brawl as his brother (he does miss Thor, although possibly only because Thor is safely elsewhere) or his brother's friends (whom he does not miss at all, except as unwitting targets) but there is joy in a good fight, in practice or in play. And perhaps Tony would find a decent sparring match as tantalizing as he does…
"And look who's talking about vain," his lover grins, eyes glittering, "I've seen you brushing your hair in the morning. It's like porn."
Briefly, Loki considers throwing the vegetable he was going to eat at Tony instead. On Asgard this would be perfectly acceptable, even expected – any feast that doesn't turn into a fight at some point is considered boring.
But somehow, erecting one tiny magical shield to protect one's drink from flying venison is cheating.
…fine, as was enchanting every piece of thrown food to rebound upon the thrower, which had led directly to the often-repeated and as-often-violated "no magic at the table, Loki!" rule.
"Oh, I've noticed," Loki replies smoothly – Tony enjoys watching him groom himself just as much as Loki enjoys doing so, and both of them are perfectly happy with the arrangement. But there's always space to push a little further. Watching his chance, he adds, "You could always help, since you're so interested."
Tony nearly coughs up his mouthful of rice and meat and vegetables. "You mean that?"
Misdirection, timing…same blade, two edges. "Well," Loki says, wrinkling his nose in mock disgust at the noises Tony is making, "not anymore."
"God, I hate you."
I need to go home, and I don't want to leave you, Loki regrets, bittersweet, as he takes that for the invitation that it is and kisses his lover into surrender, the meal forgotten, the rest of the night and the morning beyond their own to share.
I want to take you with me, pet, he traces into Tony's skin as the man whimpers beneath his hands.
I need you here, he cries out, muffled in the body slotted against his own.
Trust me just a little further, Loki whispers as he draws them both towards the edge, as if it were nothing more than part of the game between them.
And remember, he thinks, closing his eyes and letting everything else fall away, I told you that you shouldn't.
Perhaps there is another way. If Loki can only find it before Tony follows the lures he set out so carefully, then he can cover lie with lie and lead his lover – his friend, he has a friend, how did that happen? – away from the chasm. And then Loki will be…not forgiven, for he will have done nothing wrong…but able to meet his eyes clearly, and to share all the things he wants to.
And he does have a lead he can follow. He has a scent-trail laid down months ago and neglected for more immediate concerns, and more charming pleasures, than following in the tracks of his enemies.
In the half-darkness of a street where a pack of trolls had dared to hunt him, and paid in blood and lives for their presumption, Loki crouches over a stone that still remembers that death and crooks his fingers to it.
Tell me, he says to it, in a way it cannot ignore. Show me. Remember.
No shape visible to mortal eyes rises from the stone, but a sense of the troll lingers. Heavy and hunting and alien, wary of a sun and sky not its own, hungry and angry like relentlessly grinding stones. Steps that dragged across the surface of Midgard, this world's clutch so much stronger than its own realm. Aware of its fellows, and its leader, and the hot, quick blood all around, prey incautious in its belief that stone given life long ago has remained as slow as its forebears.
There's the trail, and Loki rises and breathes presence into the shadow, giving it the brutish form it had reclaimed after the magician had sent his friend away to protect him.
And it had been a good fight, as Loki counts such things. Freed from the grasping weight of mortal eyes and with bloodlust surging in his veins, the half-darkness had seemed bright as clear day or an empty stage, brought into sharp focus by the knowledge that he was fighting for his freedom, what little of it remains, and his sanity, and his life.
"So take me, if you can," Loki had challenged Thiassi's pets in return, flipping one blade idly in a hand to draw their eyes while the other remained low and ready. "And be quick about it. I'm sure you have only moments until your master dies of his wounds, and do you really believe that bitch-child of his will honor his debts?"
A flicker of movement to his left was two of them leaping to the attack, and Loki had held his ground as if he'd seen nothing.
Idiots. One day he will face someone who thinks before they jump at an illusionist, and on that day Loki may well surrender to them just for the pleasure of their company.
Loki's first reflex in battle is to be somewhere other than where he seems to be, even if it's only a step backwards. He was still close enough to slam his long knife through the ear-hole of the nearest diving troll and knock its twitching corpse under the feet of its fellow as they both stumbled through the shuddering image and then into each other.
In a crowd, he can be everywhere and nowhere, weaving illusion and invisibility and the magic hissing along the edge of his blade into a merciless whirlwind.
The hunting pack had not died silently, but they had died quickly.
Loki had elsewhere to be, and someone to be with, and little time to play.
To follow his friend and soothe his fears, and not to track his enemies – Loki had made that choice without hesitation, caught by the sentiment that dogs his steps ever more fiercely. He cannot truly regret it, rewarded as he was. But under the cold light of trepidation that burns through him, now he returns to turn their pursuit to his own purposes.
Nearly transparent, a ghost recreated from stone's memories stands still, until Loki casts his spell wider.
Remember this one. Tell me where he walked.
The ghost shambles backwards, retracing its steps.
Loki smiles, and follows.
To be precise, perhaps there is another Way.
There are places where one realm bleeds into another, like secret passages slipping down back stairs and through deserted wings where no one goes. There are places where the Tree of Worlds grows across itself, often no more than one branch brushing against another, and there the boundaries between places are weaker. There are cracks in the world.
They can be traversed, with care, and by those with eyes to see the signs and the patience to seek them out. While they are not always safe, and they change over time as the wind between worlds blows, the knowledge of them is precious and indispensable.
Loki has made the finding and exploring of such Ways a pursuit of his. It suits him to appear where he was not expected, and walk where no one knows he has traveled, and the subtle Ways are more to his taste than the blazing, shining, raw power of the Bifrost.
Let others ride out in force heralded by light that can shatter stone, and the blessing of the Gatekeeper, and an escort of brassy, full-throated lurs just to complete the spectacle. Quite often those warriors in their jangling armor have found Loki already waiting there, with the shape of the battlefield drawn out in light before him, and the secret fears that soldiers whisper to themselves in the imagined privacy of their own camp held ready to use against them.
Every Realm has its stories of those who have slipped through the cracks in the world by accident and found danger and adventure there – Midgard is bursting with them, crossroads of worlds and nest of storytellers that it is.
Loki wonders sometimes if Tony has paid the slightest bit of attention to the books left half-read all around his house, and the tale so many of them tell.
Most of the stories are full of cracks themselves, but the core of them is real.
There are gaps in the skin of the world where the twigs of one branch of the Tree twine amidst the leaves of another. There are Ways to walk from one to another, most holding the endless Void beneath at bay – if the walker is careful, nimble and light on his feet, and perhaps with light in hand, for that is a spell that was ancient-old when Loki first heard it.
Some Ways are treacherous. Some can only be walked in one direction. Some must be stepped away from just as the temptation to continue grows greatest, or they can never be left at all. Some pass through places as inimical to life as the Void itself, ready to crush and burn the unwarded traveler and never notice. Loki can make his way through the fires of Muspelheim, or the deep cold of the Jotun ice, but the Way that opens only on rock buried in the core of one world or another was a trap he escaped only by heartbeats; perhaps not even his father's wolves would have ever found his corpse.
But the Ways can be understood, with care, and if Loki can only find the crack in the skin of this world that brought his enemies to him, then he can follow it back to more familiar ground.
The memory-shadow emerges onto busier streets, and Loki cloaks it and himself with a thought. If the indistinguishable hordes streaming by sense it at all, they will feel only a breath of cold, or perhaps a prickling of their skin, and a shudder easily brushed away.
Still, the lights burn through it, carving away wisps like ravens descending upon the dead, and the solid stones that had answered his spell give way to crushed and broken ones.
The road remembers less. No thick blood was spilled here, and the shadow of the troll flickers into the disguise it had worn to pass unremarked-upon by mortals. No different. Not memorable.
Too long ago.
Too much has happened, since then, he realizes, forlorn hopes dying as quickly as the spell. Too many feet and too many machines have passed this way, all but obliterating the trail. And as more of Loki's attention turns to the intricate dance of moving invisibly among crowds, the spell begins to fade.
No! Loki curses it, gritting his teeth and reaching for the reins of it as if it were a misbehaving horse. He shoves his magic along the spell at the core of all of it: Do as I command!
This is his chance to set things right without hurting the man he has grown so fond of. If he can only find this single Way his enemies must have trodden… He knows from whom and where they came, and from Thiassi's halls, even burnt and smoking as they may yet be, he could find the Way to Asgard with the eyes of his body and the eyes of his magic all closed.
It should be easy. He knows this dance. He can balance dozens of illusions with a broad handful of spells in the crush of battle, fending off blades and turning arrows upon their own archers, and still raise his voice to taunt a friend or an enemy or his brother, without missing a step. This crowd should be no different, but this world… The starstruck visitors move differently, and his battle-honed reflexes begin to fail him in the face of so many hungry-eyed, trusting mortals.
A single lapse of concentration and the scent will fade, or some mortal will stumble into him and demand to know what it has hit, but Loki cannot lose the trail now.
It had taken him months to realize the cruel cunning of the All-Father's punishment in abandoning his younger son here, in this realm where no Aesir has set foot in centuries.
There are Ways here. There must be. Midgard has too many tales of the Aesir, with too many names right – but the stories wrong, and Loki has long since sighed and set that irritation aside.
Loki cannot see the Ways.
The trick of vision and magic he uses to sense the hidden crossroads has been struck from his mind, inner eye as blinded as his father's lost one by Odin's curse.
Loki's magic is his, part of him for as long as he can remember. He has honed that innate talent through long study and practice into a ready weapon, and to remove it all might well kill him. As well tear out his heart – and memory pulls tight across that new, raw weakness within him, that sighs and softens under a mortal's smile.
But that single, tiny, crucial skill has been taken from him.
Clever, clever, Loki has cursed the All-Father in return many nights over. He has spent so many of those nights hunting blindly through this ever-changing city of travelers and illusion and crossroads for the one lost corner where the barrier between the worlds would wear away just thin enough to be torn.
He's never found it.
So much more tidy than trying to defend against him from all sides, walling Midgard away or raising Asgard's shields against its own prince. What need for walls, when Loki cannot even find the path towards them?
It's an elegant solution. Loki hates it.
It's an ironic solution, the master of illusions blinded to what he should be able to see at a glance. Loki hates that especially.
That moment's distraction, as he wraps a fist around that grievance and feels it bite deep, costs Loki dearly. The noise of human voices, jumbled and meaningless and full of blind glee, beats against him as his focus shifts away from his fraying spell. Someone in the crowd knocks into his elbow, and he startles, leaping away on instinct and turning with one hand raised to strike or defend.
He remembers where he is too late, but quickly enough to find a path out of the laughing, awestruck mob of visitors who pour through the Las Vegas Strip like a million tiny rivers each running in their own watercourse. Agilely, Loki ducks and turns and steps aside, weaving through gaps like a shadow, until he senses the presence of a wall at his back.
A human would have been trapped there; for Loki, it's an easy leap to the roof.
Safely atop one of the buildings that pretends to be a seafront inn, Loki snarls in frustration. Actors promenade across the deck of the nearby sailing ship and burst into song alongside costumed bird-women in the rigging and fish-women in the water below. Flames break out. They're not his doing.
He knows instantly that the spell is broken, the memory lost, the shadow faded, and that every attempt to resurrect it will only destroy it further.
He has lost the trail. The Way remains hidden.
"And now I'm lying to myself," Loki mutters to no one at all. He tries not to talk to himself aloud. It's a poor habit, for those who wish to keep secrets. But there are overblown pirates trying to out-scream a platoon of women wearing feathers and little else, now hanging from hidden wires over the deck of the sinking ship, and who does Loki imagine will hear him?
"Should have tracked them while the blood was still wet, but no, I got stupid. I went after him, because what, because he was scared? Because he would have worried for me? Stupid, stupid, so what? He's just – he's not – I shouldn't – oh, I hate this, I just want to go home!" His blade materializes in his hand, and he stabs it down into the tarred-over wood, tearing strips out of the roof.
It's work, to remember that the ship isn't really supposed to burn. Loki does want to burn something right now. But he bites the impulse back and takes control again, summoning up all the throwing knives that will fit into his hand and flicking them down around him. He counts the thunks off carefully, focusing on that familiar sound.
"No. No matter. I'll find a way." He smiles mockingly, but mostly at himself, and clicks his fingers. The knives fade back into the magic they'd come from, a wisp of light that floats into the palm of his raised hand and melds back into his skin without leaving a mark. "Or make one."
Still, the failure makes the raucous noise and glaring lights of his prison that much worse, and instead he narrows his eyes at the orchestrated chaos of the mock ship battle.
He can't see the mischief that glints in those eyes, but he feels it as a tickle in his fingers from the magic waiting there; the grin that nips at the corner of his mouth, bitten back through long practice; the tug in the back of his mind that unspools possibilities across his imagination; the memory of movement, a push in just the right place to make things spiral so that they're more interesting…and a snap of fingers to spark it all to life.
Shadows dive out of the flaming sails and swoop around the wire-suspended, feather-garbed women, and their amplified songs choke in their throats as an unearthly screech answers. Barely visible, stage lighting doing nothing at all to illuminate them, things flap and soar, tumbling wildly among the performers. They're a shade larger than the flying singers, and a thousand upturned and bared throats gasp in unison.
For a moment, the performers try to stick to the script, drawn along by the recorded music blaring from discreet speakers. But then one plunges into a spotlight and snaps its wings out into a sudden stop, revealing itself as one of the sirens – although they did not call themselves that, and a closer word might be harpy – that Loki is familiar with, a state that he rather regrets.
Straggle-haired and scarred, feathers patched across the bloodstained and filthy skin of stomach and flat chest, its face is narrowed into a muzzle not quite sharp enough to be called a beak, and the plentiful fangs it flashes at the staring audience below are as narrow and sharp as needles. Its sallow golden eyes flash in the shifting light as someone quick off the mark in the lighting booth plays the spotlight across its multicolored, garish plumage, and it screams a harsh challenge.
Half a dozen more swarm around the ship, throwing all into chaos for an utterly delightful minute or so. Someone on the ship rallies the pirates, and they put up a good show of trundling a prop cannon around while others wave swords and long hooks at the unscripted menaces, although the harpies never come quite close enough to engage.
The crowd roars, drowning out the hastily improvised dialogue – someone on board is getting a raise for quick thinking – and the applause from everyone not holding up video recorders and the occasional new cell phone is deafening. The Sirens show runs every half-hour or so (which Loki well knows, it's impossible to ignore) but this is new!
They love it, and from the rooftop, still invisible, Loki chuckles to himself. The appreciation is real, for all they don't know who's behind it. It's a surprising pleasure to have even mortal strangers respond to his magic like the magic it is rather than a cheap trick from someone who'd rather plan his way out of a fight than charge at the thickest clump of it with a yell. With a wave of a finger and a mental command, he directs the illusory harpies to swoop over the cheering crowd in a long loop, and then through the spotlights as they stab into the night sky randomly, trying to keep up.
To the accompaniment of whoops and whistles and yells of mingled delight and disbelief, the harpies converge on the ship in a swirling tornado of colorful, ratty feathers and flashing claws, and stream up into the night in an insignificant echo of the Bifrost's beam.
When the spotlight loses them – almost immediately – Loki clicks his fingers again and dismisses their images. Somewhere in the sky they blink out, and the magic dissipates.
The applause goes on even through the announcer's attempt to bring the show to some sort of conclusion. No one's having any of it.
Also, some actress's scream of "What the fuck!" gets broadcast by accident, which is almost as big a hit as the harpies.
Smirking, amused, Loki lets himself bask in the approval, undirected as it is, and although he wishes he'd never had to come here, once again he wonders that there's a place like this in all the Realms.
He tries not to admit even to himself that he'd still rather be at Tony's side.
For nearly two weeks, Loki sets his plans aside and pretends he has nothing better to do than argue with sound engineers and condescend to fix teleport boxes. He looks over stage layouts and watches acrobats practice, accompanied by the ambitious scriptwriter explaining what she has in mind and asking if it's possible and what he thinks about it. He stops by the stables in the basements of Excalibur, just to remind the herd that he's one of their people. He stays to talk with Hiromu, who is one of the more unobjectionable humans that he's met, being more a horse inside anyway. The horsemistress tells him that Kodi has stumbled and torn a muscle, and Loki takes over grooming the wounded horse for a few minutes while the small woman asks if he'll teach the newest reserve not to run away from illusory fire.
That would be an excellent distraction were it not that it reminds him so very much of raising and training Sleipnir – Midgard has the story wrong, mind. Loki's going to find whoever passed on that rumor all the way here and introduce him to just how hard an eight-legged horse can kick, especially an intelligent one who understands spoken words and is protective of his people. More than once Loki finds himself leaning against Bulba's side with his fists clenched in the horse's brown-and-white mane, remembering just how much he misses home.
And every time he turns around, someone has turned a television on, or has left a magazine lying around, or is chattering with their equally awestruck friends; it's Iron Man, Iron Man from all corners.
Tony's texting him at least once a day with insights – or, at least, thoughts.
Two days ago was there's an action figure! pepper wants to sue, but c'mon.
Yesterday's text was suit is not made for backflips, i'm not sorry and i learned nothing!
Today's, early in the morning and Loki hadn't been awake, turned out to be serious talk about NK is seriously too weird to be boring but mostly sad, they couldn't hit the floor if they pissed at it, place has problems with their problems, R & NSC did not appreciate this assessment.
He's been trying to figure out the history of Midgard, so Loki had decoded that eventually. He'd then spent several hours on his computer – nicked out of a lost and found box, and pawed at with magic until it let him in – reading everything he could find so he could send back I don't believe any of this I'm reading.
believe it! Tony replies later. wish you were here nope wish I was there.
It's late everywhere, outside in Las Vegas and inside Loki's traveling room, where he's sprawled out across his furs carefully carving tiny runes into the leather of a bracelet not unlike his own. The stylus was forged long ago in Svartalfheim and is probably too rare a relic to be used for the whims of exile princes, but that is not at all his problem. It has a point too fine to be seen, perfect for spellwork permanent enough for him to walk away from and leave to be set alight by others. There's only a tiny, precise shimmer in the air as it meets the surface.
A formless ball of light hovers above Loki's head so he can see to work, but the rest of the room is dark. The false window that looks out on a memory – and the future – is full of the stars of home, warm and hospitable firelight burning in glimpses from windows scattered through the city, the shapes of it more implied than seen.
"And did you?" he asks idly.
"No, see, the senator brought his grandkids along, right?" Tony's voice says from the phone lying where Loki had dropped it. "And no one was really watching them, because, well –"
"Because everyone was watching you."
"You say that like it's a bad thing! So they climbed up to the balcony around the dome, and started throwing things at the suit. Handfuls of gravel, I think. Maybe Cheerios. And everyone freaked, either because they thought the suit would go rogue and vaporize two cutesy little girls, or because it's not a very safe balcony. I seriously thought I was gonna have to rescue them, and Iron Man does not get kittens out of trees. Nuh uh. Iron Man kicks ass and takes names and looks awesome."
"And flies."
"And flies, Loki, you have no idea. It's like…you ever driven really fast in a car, like, stupid-fast?"
He's dived from the sky on falcon wings, and flown skiffs in ways they were never intended to turn. He's crashed them a couple of times, leaping clear at the last moment. He crashed one into Thor once, slightly on purpose, although he'd denied any such intent; that was a great day. "I've been in a car with you driving stupid-fast."
"Oh right. It's like that, only better. Anyway, obviously I didn't blow the kids up by mistake, because JARVIS and I don't make mistakes like that. I flew up and said hi, also cut it the hell out, girls, only not in those words. They didn't get that there was a guy inside the suit, they just thought it was a robot. Clearly no one's let them watch Terminator yet."
"So you had fun." Loki turns the bracelet around in his free hand and starts thinking about the runes for the clasp. It's a rare, strange pleasure, lately, talking just to talk about nothing at all.
"I got to watch a senator's head nearly explode. Happens around me a lot, you think they'd learn. So yeah."
There's something irrepressible about the engineer, and more than a bit charming; Loki is quietly grateful that battle has honed his mortal lover rather than shattering him. He enjoys Tony's disrespect for authority even though Loki is, himself, Authority – or should be. Asgard's rulers are near-absolute monarchs, the throne ancient and deep-seated, the adjacent Realms long since subdued or allied with. The traditions are carved into the hearts of Asgard's people, the royal family's place unquestioned, and the wars that shattered worlds are over.
But that could change, if Loki falters now – gives up, gives in, is himself subdued – and leaves that balance to fall into his brother's hands someday. "Where to next?"
"Beats me. I want to go home and see how the contractors are doing with the remodel. If I knew trashing the shop would get me more space, I would have done it years ago. Can't wait to show you. Are you sure your phone won't accept pictures?"
"You're the one who understands it. You tell me."
"Right. Need to get you an upgraded version. Or an email address, Loki, c'mon…"
"No, Tony. I'll see the new workshop when you return."
"Totally. Even if it's not done by then." Tony taps his fingers against the arc reactor. Loki recognizes that sound even faintly, even through the phone. "But we might be on the road a while longer. Pepper keeps rewriting the schedule, and Rhodey's talking about war zones when he thinks I'm not listening. Apparently the suit scares the shit out of people, so hell yeah, that was the point."
Loki switches the stylus off – a thought and it responds, not his magic but it's made to be used – and sets it and the bracelet aside. Without looking up, he flicks his fingers at the light and it dims in response, flowing back towards one of the torches along the walls where unreal flames sometimes burn.
Asgard's night gleams off the casing of the phone that Tony gave him, that's not to be thrown away – until the day when it must be left behind forever, but not tonight – and Loki rolls over onto his back, folding his hands beneath his head and lying still.
"You still there?" Tony says after a minute.
"I'm here."
That's the problem, isn't it?
"Working on something?"
"I was. Now I'm not." He can hear the dull note in his voice. Maybe the phone won't transmit it clearly.
"'kay, wrong question. You okay?"
Honesty gets the better of him, for once. "I don't know."
Tony's the one who falls silent, this time. Loki doesn't make any effort to break it.
"Lots going on," his lover says. "Big changes. But we're gonna be okay, right? Actually, there's this thing I'm kicking around right now, might change things even further, but I think you'll like it. Wanna tell you about it in person, though."
Loki turns his head just a bit, to look at the phone. And then at Asgard, glowing just out of reach.
"All right." Home.
He smiles, even knowing Tony can't see it. It's a good thing Tony can't see this room. He'd love it, true; he'd wonder at it and be amazed, but he'd ask questions Loki has been very careful to keep him from asking, if only by handing him answers he's not ready to accept. "Until then…you know Treasure Island? And that pirate ship of theirs?"
The door to the basement workshop opens at his touch, and not because he's bespelled it into doing so, but because he's allowed here and welcome and wanted.
Pepper had called out to him in greeting from among a scattering of devices, one hand raised to her ear to mute the one that sits there and listens. "Oh, there you are," she'd said, a note of relief humming through her distracted air. "Maybe you can calm him down enough to tell the rest of us what he's so excited about. Or knock him over and sit on him, since you're bigger than he is."
"It's always an option," Loki had replied, smiling not entirely in jest.
The workshop has always been a place of purposeful disorder, the clutter of a happy, busy mind with the ability to indulge itself at length, and it's become familiar, with pleasant memories outnumbering the ones that burn white-hot and frightened through him still. It's always changing as Tony moves things around and adds new toys and buries himself in various projects of creation and repair. Now it's expanding, and the debris of hasty construction spills from the hatches to the new spaces, left ajar.
Loki still doesn't know many of the tools by name, and he identifies them more by their functions as he's seen them used. There's the one for holding tightly, the many for removing bolts and fasteners to lay a larger piece open, those for cleaning, these for tightening, the others for welding metal, the one a little further into the room for casting molds, and there are more hidden in spaces beneath the floor. The drafting table, not unlike the images Loki uses to shape his own creations, which is indeed for shaping things not yet made. The seemingly endless drawers, many unlabeled, others graced with names like scrap and reciprocators and bits of stuff and solenoids and oh god floppy discs why; as usual, several have been pulled open and left hanging like the tongues of insolent children.
Added to this, under the clear lights that make the entire room seem like there are windows somewhere pouring in sunlight, are boxes torn open and discarded, worktables pulled out of alignment to make space for the construction beyond, an upturned wheeled chair that DUM-E is trying to maneuver around to trundle over to the door to greet Loki as someone the bot recognizes. They fascinate each other, the robots and the exile prince. DUM-E is, for some reason, clinging tightly to a fire extinguisher, and Loki carefully redirects the nozzle away from himself before laying a hand on the machine's "head" in reply.
DUM-E whistles and beeps in a charming simulacrum of happiness, and trundles into a corner between a computer workstation and a pile of couch cushions, where it promptly gets stuck.
"– no, you're not listening to me, this is constant thrust. This is it. I'm talking about the solution, boys and girls, or at least the start of it. When's the deadline for Discovery? Three years? I'm talking about filling the gap before it even opens, at minimum. We can even keep the countdown if you want. Everyone loves the countdown. Hang on."
Tony props his feet up on his worktable and leans back in his chair, peering around the chaos as he looks for the source of the sound, and whether that irrepressible grin is for the baffled bot or for the magician picking his way through the debris of Tony at work, careful step by careful step, Loki can't be sure. The smile warms him anyway, just to see it, and he fights down the impulse to vault over the lot of the clutter in a single leap. Humans can't do that, and Tony has never seen him move to his full capability, but the way his jaw would fall open at the sight…
"JARVIS, mute a sec, willya?" His eyes flick down to the computer screen again. "Thanks. Hey, you."
That smile is definitely for Loki.
"Conference call. So…"
The words go unspoken but Loki understands their meaning – people could see and ask questions. "I'm not certain I could get over to anywhere they could see in the first place," he answers, and offers, "I'll stay where they can't see me."
"Ah, most of it can be climbed on." Tony waves a dismissive hand. "You should know. But yeah, probably safer. Hang on, I'm gonna yell at these guys until they give up and do what I want them to, because I'm right, and anyway, it's a great idea."
He turns back to the screen and says, "Okay, J, they can talk again. Actually, no, they can listen," and goes right into, "Look, I did the math, break out your slide rules, kids, and keep up –"
Loki tunes out the subsequent argument, which is almost entirely in numbers that relate to each other and interact in what sound like complicated ways. It's a language no innate magic can translate. While he suspects some of the scholars in other Realms could make Midgard's equations look like finger maths, the magician himself is not familiar with such things, being more inclined to magic that works by will and control and as much by instinct as learned reflexes.
Instead, he rescues one of his books, a history this time, from a pile of other tools tossed haphazardly onto a worktable and ignored. Settling down on the couch that lives down here – it's a mystery where the cushions still confounding DUM-E came from, as these are still in place – he tries to find his place in the chronicle of this nation's wars.
He can't focus on it, never mind that he'd been caught up in the drama of the story, most recently an account of the bombardment of a great city that nevertheless endured, and finds himself watching Tony as the man jabs a stylus at the computer screen as if it were a sword. Butterfingers rolls over to crane over Tony's shoulder and whirr inquisitively at the computer, and nearly gets stabbed by the waving stylus.
It's the engineer Loki needs, clever and creative and easily tempted by the possibility of technology beyond his, but the ordeal of the past few months has stripped something away from that man, reshaping him like whittled wood into something with an unyielding core.
Tony has no idea how strongly the knowledge of that warrior spirit within him has affected Loki; he caught his hands trembling once, at the thought of his mortal lover flying into battle, and facing it, and striking his enemies down. Mortal, fragile, and yet – and yet! That contradiction fascinates him more than he can understand.
Oh, he would have crossed worlds for intelligence that blazes so brightly and desire that laughs on the edge, and that rises from the shadows of death to fight. The same mortal body that once trembled at a long fall now can fly without wings or magic, only his own intelligence and creativity to bear him and protect him and make him into a warrior who might be able to stand beside Loki in battle, near his equal even there –
And yet Loki is trapped here against his will, and if all goes as he means it to, they will never fight side by side, and that taints it all.
Still, he watches, for the pleasure of it.
"Look," Tony finally says, "the math checks out. So heads up. I'm ready to go for this, and I can. I'll get authorization like that." He snaps his fingers. "And I'll paint it red and gold all over, you can't call that advertising, c'mon. Don't be ridiculous. Or we could, you know, talk about this. Think it over. Call me. Going now."
The screen must switch off, because Tony tosses his stylus away without bothering about where it lands and raises his hands above his head in a stretch.
"Dammit," he says. "Sitting still. Can't do it. Too excited." Suiting actions to words, he leaps to his feet and reaches over to wave a hand through the projections above the drafting table, making the simulation of the Iron Man helmet grow and open to show the tiny circuits within. Tony collapses it again, reopens it, collapses it and leaves it stuck between phases. "That's my head right now."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Loki says dryly, looking up from the London Blitz again. The besieged army has quickly and understandably grown tired of spelling the long German word for vengeance weapon and have started calling it a V-1 instead. Clearly the desire to abbreviate things is inherent to all engineers.
Tony picks up a coffee mug, tips it back and forth, decides that nothing in it is drinkable and sets it aside again. "That's because it's a surprise," he declares. The space around the couch and television and small kitchen are slightly set apart from the rest of the workshop and so are mostly clear of engineering and construction chaos. "C'mere a second? The surprise is for you, I guess. Well, it's for you first."
Loki could have sworn that his next breath had been taken on Jotunheim, for something sharp-edged and dark slithers into his chest and wraps itself around his spine. But Tony reaches out and catches his hands, both of them, and turns his face up to Loki's, beaming.
"Okay. So. The company isn't – I'm not – making weapons anymore, right? No more, not ever."
"The world knows this, pet, you said it loudly and with illustrations of how much you meant it."
"Yeah, and I know you never cared, or if you did you didn't say anything –" Loki didn't care; what were Midgard's wars to him, other than stories, until his lover was drawn into one and reforged there?
"But all those people and me, we've got to do something, and I love being Iron Man, but company-wise, that's publicity, and…I'm off the point. Don't give me that look. The point is, I've been thinking. JARVIS said a thing, and I forgot about it because he was joking, and also because I'd just crashed through four stories of very solid house onto my armored ass like an idiot who forgot how much the suit masses. But I had an idea, and I think you're going to like it."
For a moment, Loki wants to keep Tony here forever, full of ideas, caught up in inspiration, all that joy turned towards him with a glow he could bask in.
"So, what I'm saying is, how'd you like to go to Mars for real, spaceman?"
Long practice at his father's court and in command of armies keeps everything that slams into him from showing on his face. Part of him wants to laugh aloud as pieces click into place, as a whisper dropped casually into an ear comes echoing back in a new and finer form, as a die cast years ago to bounce and ricochet trembles on its vertex, moments from toppling, its verdict immutable.
At the same time, there's something terribly ragged and empty within him, like a spear has torn straight through him and the wind between worlds has descended upon him like one of his mother's enchanted needles, pulling the endless Void in its wake to bind Loki's heart back where it belongs.
But his lover's face is shining, full of hope and affection and excitement and the same disbelieving stifled laughter that beats its wings against Loki's throat, the sound of a longed-for dream nearly within reach.
And that – that is what matters. Loki can hold onto that and warm himself against it for just a little longer, as Tony talks about "constant thrust not dependent on fuel, Loki, that's what breaks the tyranny of the rocket equation! The repulsors can run off the arc reactor, or an arc reactor, at least, guess I will have to build more, and they'll keep pushing a little all the way until the midpoint, rather than one big push at launch plus whatever gravity assists the trajectory can swing – get it?"
Loki doesn't get it, but Tony goes on anyway, so maybe he wasn't meant to. His lover hasn't let go of his hands. Tony will feel them shaking, wonder why…except it's clear that Tony can't see anything but the vision before his eyes.
"Even a small acceleration adds up over time, as long as it keeps pushing. That's what the repulsors do. Holy shit, Loki, I think I invented the impulse engine! Build slightly bigger ones into spaceships – we're going to build spaceships, I got chills just saying that! – and a ship that ran on arc reactors wouldn't have to tote hundreds of thousands of gallons of fuel around. If we're just going to Mars – ha, listen to that already, just going to Mars – that's doable. The math says so, anyway."
I did this, Loki thinks, because for two years and more he has been saying space in answer to every question about where he comes from, and that idea has been in the back of Tony's mind all along, just for this moment, and the next, if he takes that step.
I cannot undo it, but I can stop.
"…and we're going to have to figure out if the repulsors even work in a vacuum, which is one of the many reasons I'm playing phone tag with NASA. Making vacuum chambers big enough to test in that accurately replicate even orbital conditions would be a pain in the ass, even more so than falling through the roof, and I should know, I've done both. Hell, maybe we won't even bother. Just piggyback on the next satellite launch, and test remotely. But seriously, NASA can get out of the way or they can get on board, and I think they're going to get on board."
No. No, I cannot.
"I'm probably – well, someone's probably, maybe shouldn't be me – going to have to talk to Congress, which is uggghh –" Tony makes a face and rolls his head around on his shoulders extravagantly, and Loki smiles for him, since he's expected to. "They're finicky about things like that. But clean and affordable space travel! Do you know how much rocket fuel costs?" He doesn't stop for an answer. "So much, Loki, and you need so much of it just to get to LEO…that's low earth orbit, by the way. Can I swap out some of your fantasies for sci-fi, just so you know the terms? No, I'll teach you, it'll be fun."
I have to go home and keep Thor from tearing Asgard apart someday.
Tony's not slowing down, caught up and exhilarated, and Loki is holding on to his hands now, how did that happen? "And I know you saw the news, because we talked about it. People are shutting the hell up and backing off, and maybe the cease-fire will only last until someone sneezes wrong, but maybe we can do something better until then."
I don't belong here.
"And turning SI into a space industry, at least part of it, solves so many problems with what I'm going to do with all these weapons-making technicians and facilities and designers. We'll just redirect their launch trajectories and tell 'em not to make the things blow up. They're all good nerds anyway, most of them, and hell, we got our astronauts out of the Air Force in the first place, so I can even sell this to Rhodey."
I don't belong with you.
"This is making sense, right? Tell me I'm not crazy, Loki, and we'll all have a family meeting about this tomorrow if Rhodey can make it, and throw a giant press conference next week or something. Maybe some reporter will actually cream their pants this time."
Tony laughs. "I've been waiting for that to happen, actually. Sometimes it's great being me, I can stare at people's crotches and no one's at all surprised."
I want to go home. I want my family, and you didn't even hear what you just said, and you're wrong…
"Also, we'll have to hire something like half the planet to kit out the ship for what we'll need to actually set up camp on Mars. The stocks will go stratospheric and the Board of Directors will probably give me a medal, and then I can hire you for real. Well, put a title on you, anyway, and then I can actually take you out to real dinner once in a while."
I have a duty to my world, and my kingdom. I was meant to rule. I was promised. And it's all I've ever wanted…
"Because no one would be surprised at that, and we can tell the tabloids to take a flying leap. C'mon, you've got that suit, and my suit is still my favorite but that sharp black one is a close second. When do I get to see you all dressed up again? Talk to me here."
I need to…
"…I haven't stopped talking in a while, have I?" Tony realizes.
Loki manages to smile at him, amused and fond and happy to see his lover happy, even as the sharp-edged pieces of things slot into place around him. Soon he must wear armor as unyielding and imperturbable as Tony's around his treacherous, seduced heart, ward himself again against caring, but for the moment…
He should enjoy this, while he still can.
"I'm not sure you've been breathing," says Loki, and hears the real laughter in his voice.
"No, I'm a big fan of breathing these days," Tony answers, and finally lets go so he can put a hand over the arc reactor, blue disc visible through his shirt. He's grown so much more comfortable with it, learning not to shy away from a trusted hand that happens to brush across his chest, beginning to treat it as the badge of victory it is, a survivor's scar. "Also coffee…"
He picks up the nearest mug, bright red and chipped, in a burst of movement, all but racing towards the waiting machine on the small countertop, green light glowing steadily.
Absentmindedly, Loki follows him, body moving thoughtlessly and on instinct as the longed-for shock rings through him. He wasn't ready for it after all, despite laying the path himself, and he steels himself to push just a little further. He's barely aware of the textures of ceramic and metal against his hands, or of the sound of water, until a strange, rhythmic sound, almost hollow, breaks into the thoughts and desires at war with each other within his skull.
He blinks, and realizes that the sound is Tony kicking his heels against the cabinets. The man is perched on the surface of the countertop with a different coffee mug in his hands, from which no steam rises. There are droplets of water on Loki's hand where the impressions of the mug's jagged handle linger against his palm. The sink at his back has been turned on recently, draining around the upturned red mug it contains.
"Oh my god," Tony complains. "Pepper is a bad influence on you. I'm no longer glad you like each other. Ganging up on me, dammit."
But he drinks the water.
Loki can't deal with what just happened, but he doesn't have to, because Tony starts talking again, a bit slower, a bit more calmly. "Do you like it? I was working on fixing the icing problem a couple of weeks ago, and I remembered JARVIS saying I'd have to do that if I wanted to visit other planets. And I thought of you. I mean, there are other reasons…most of which I think I told you…but I thought of those afterwards. But Obie –"
The name catches in his throat, and he flinches, and Loki's instincts roar, cheated of their right to hurt the man who hurts his Tony still. In motion before he can stop himself, he manages to turn the possessive, claiming lunge into an offer of an embrace, and his lover rests his head against his shoulder as Loki gives into the impulse to hold on to him.
While he can.
"– said," Tony resumes after a few moments, hands wrapped around his mug of water, "that this wasn't one of my space games. And…fuck him. I'm making it one."
While he can, while he can… Loki kisses his friend's, his lover's, hair and drinks in the scent of him. "Quite right."
Still shaken – Loki can feel it from the way Tony breathes – he asks, "You're coming with me, right?"
I was wrong, my warrior. I wasn't clever enough to bring you through this unharmed. Forgive me.
And for the first time, Loki lies to him.
"Of course."
Tony laughs, trembling. "Should've let me have that coffee. Caffeine crash."
"Finish the water, and then you can drink whatever horrible ooze you desire."
"Bossy," his lover scolds him without malice, sliding down from the countertop as Loki steps away. "That's for hangovers. Not like you'd know, spaceman. And don't hate on coffee, you like the way it smells. But that's a yes, right? We're going to space!"
Tony raises the emptying mug towards him in a toast. "It's a long way to go, so we'd better get started."
"Another world," Loki says, tasting the irony like blood. "Yes. I want that very much. Although it does seem rather the long way around."
As he kicks things aside carelessly, trying to forge his way back towards his workspace, Tony calls back, "It's space, Loki, there aren't any shortcuts. That's the definition of space. Mathematically. I think. I doodled robots through a lot of higher mathematical theory, which might be why DUM-E is still stuck in the corner, I am donating you for scrap, you useless pile of bolts…"
I need to go home. I need to go home. What have I worked my whole life for, if not to keep shining Asgard safe from all who threaten her…
No matter what I must sacrifice.
"Hey," Tony says a few minutes later, freezing with one hand raised over the drafting table, skeleton of a spaceship taking shape. "Hang on. Wait a second." He reconsiders. "Wait eight damn seconds. What did you just say?"
What's the Midgardian phrase? Loki muses to himself, as the last ricocheting piece strikes its mark.
Gotcha.
To be continued.
