"I am terrible at this game," Steve says, about three moves in. Sam glances up at him, his lips quirking into a little grin. On some level, Steve knows he should be good at chess – it's just military tactics, isn't it? It's just that, but on a square board, and it should be fun, too, but…

"Me too," Sam admits, moving his knight across the board. "But I bet we look really dignified right about now. Really, uh, really smart, you know?"

"Shit, you're right," Steve agrees, slowly. He takes Sam's knight with his bishop, then frowns when a pawn takes it. "Of course, anyone looking at the board…"

"Best to just talk over it, I think," Sam says, leaning back in his seat, and Steve taps the side of his nose, doing the same. A pause passes between them, and then the both of them are laughing, sharing twin grins. It's incredible, Steve thinks, just how much they click together right off the bat – and sure, maybe Steve hasn't taken Sam up on the whole bedroom thing—

("Look, I… I'm kinda trying to avoid all that stuff right now, with anybody. Not that you're not really beautiful, or that I'm not… It's just been a lot to take in. Seventy years."

"I get you, big guy," Sam had replied, quietly, and he'd quirked his lips into a warm little smile. "I was kinda just trying my luck. And, uh, you know, given the period—"

"What, you thought Captain America was a homophobe and you were trying to test him?"

"Look, for all I know, Steve, you are a homophobe," Sam had said mildly, shrugging his shoulders, and Steve had huffed out a sound, indignant, until Sam had shoved him playfully in the chest, and it had been like being back in the 40s with other soldiers, all over again, albeit a lot more liberal. Some things just stay the same, even though the times move on.)

But that's not the end of everything. Sam just gets him – and he's a good man. A damned good man. There are shadows under Sam's eyes, where the skin is just a little looser than it should be – he hangs out with Steve, and that's great, but is the guy getting enough sleep? Steve doesn't know. And he doesn't know yet if it's okay to ask.

"You getting deployed soon?" Steve asks instead, and Sam gives a slow nod of his head.

"Can't tell you where," he says, and Steve nods his head – he understands, of course he does. That's the thing about him and Sam: there's a baseline of mutual understanding, and there's something about Sam that just makes him feel comfortable, at ease, even as the world's moved on around him. "So. Two months in the twenty-first century – how's it feel?"

"Fast," Steve says quietly. He thinks of Peggy in her hospital bed, the two of them sipping tea together for hours on end. New York had always been fast-paced, he'd thought as a kid in Brooklyn, but now? Jesus Christ, now it runs so fast Steve feels like it's gonna spin right off its axis, leave him gasping in space. "Real fast. But… I dunno. It's better, of course it is. Brooklyn in the 40s was a different thing – we all looked after each other, 'cause we had to. No one else was gonna do it. I shared a flop with my friend Bucky, but in that block, there were other Irish, a rabbi, a pair of soldiers who came over from the Caribbean… I dunno. I know it's better, I'm not trying to say it isn't."

"But it's different," Sam murmurs, understandingly, and Steve nods his head.

"I grew up seeing corpses after the wrong rumours, Sam. It's pretty wild to see men holding hands on TV, or girls arm-in-arm in the street. Maybe I'm naïve, I dunno, but I can't… What the Hell did you call it?"

"Gaydar," Sam says. God, what is the obsession with portmanteaus these days? Steve shakes his head, slowly, and he taps his fingers on his knee.

"But how do you know?" Sam shrugs.

"Just do, I guess. Some guys have it, some don't." Sam leans on the arm of his chair, his hand on his chin as he looks at Steve, and God, he isn't so young, not really. People keep acting like Steve's really ninety years old, but he isn't: he's the same age he was when they put him in the ice, and it's not his fault it's all changed so much. "You been in any of the gay bars yet?"

"Nah," Steve murmurs. "Still trying to get my head around a lot of the, uh, the labels. The culture, I guess. It's one thing for me to act weird in a supermarket, 'cause people just brush it off – it's another if I come off weird in a gay bar. S'meant to be somewhere they feel safe, right?" Sam nods his head. "There was a scene, sure there was, but I liked girls just fine, and if I got arrested, I'd never have been allowed to stay in the military. My medical record was bad enough."

"It isn't perfect now," Sam murmurs. "Don't ask, don't tell was only repealed last year. We can't afford to get… Complacent, I guess, with any of it. Racism's still there; homophobia's still there. There's still rough spots. And what about Loki?" Steve glances up from where his gaze had wandered to the board, and he sees the intent, focused look in Sam's eyes – he's smart, perceptive. It isn't just a gaydar thing. And sure, nothing's going on between Steve and Loki, but that doesn't mean Sam's blind.

"He's used to different attitudes for different planets, I think," Steve says. The answer is evasive: he and Sam both know it. But Sam doesn't press. He's gonna let that one lie, at least for now, and Steve feels awkward for a few seconds, wondering if he's coming across as stupid to Sam, or all paternalistic.

"You wanna watch a movie later?" Sam asks, casually. Steve feels a little relief in his chest as he opens his mouth to reply, but—

"Look, everyone!" Loki says from the doorway, slightly desperately. At his shoulder, there stands Thor.

Steve sits at the head of the table, and he takes another piece of the massive lasagne he had watched Loki make from scratch not a half hour before. Four different knives had been chopping vegetables at once, even as he made his tomato and Béchamel sauces from scratch, and Steve had been absolutely spellbound, watching the ease with which he cooked.

And the lasagne? It's pretty damned good.

Usually, at dinners, Loki is quiet and reserved, eating his food politely and mostly listening to other people speak. It's not that he acts as if he's under some kind of gag order, but he's quiet and mostly answers questions only when they're directed at him already, or explains a short thing and then goes back to silence.

This Loki?

He's pretty different.

"So I'm covered in blood by this point, absolutely none of it mine, and I burst into the room looking like— Anthony," Loki's hand touches Tony's, and Steve sees Tony's eyes widen at being called by his first name, apparently for the first time, "That Stephen King film—"

"Carrie," Tony says, grinning, and Loki returns to gesticulating widely.

"Looking like the young protagonist of Carrie, and there's Thor, sprawled on a chaise long with a glass of wine in his hand and the princess' cat in his lap, and he just says," Loki's hair changes colour, a thick blond beard sprouting around his face, and he says in a gruff approximation of Thor's voice, obviously intended to be mocking, "Oh, Loki, don't worry. I'm taking care of it!"

Pepper laughs so hard she snorts some of her drink out of her nose, and the whole table is laughing, Thor included. The older Asgardian has a rosy flush across his cheeks, and he sips at his drink, shoving Loki ruggedly in the side, and Loki laughs, looking down at his plate. It's wonderful to see him so comfortable speaking at length, and—

Kinda abruptly, all his normal hyperpoliteness is gone. The guy looks completely at ease. Steve watches as he moves his hands with ease before his face, and Clint reaches for the green beans, handing them over to Loki so that he can put a little more upon his plate.

"How long are you here for, Thor?" Steve asks, and Thor turns to look at him, his expression remaining serious for a second before it warms slightly. Steve can see Sam watching Thor like he's some kind of new puzzle, visibly interested, and he's glad to have the guy for dinner with the rest of 'em.

"Three days only," he says. "Although I shall only be here in New York until tomorrow afternoon."

"He has invited himself for lunch with myself and a friend," Loki says disapprovingly, and Steve's lips twitch. God, what he wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall in that conversation – Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme, at a table with Loki and his brother. It shoulda been you, says a voice in the back of his head, and Steve feels the fork bend slightly in his hand as he grips it a little too hard. Thor grins, looking very satisfied with himself, but he doesn't reveal anything further, instead ruffling his hand through Loki's hair, and immediately a lot of it comes out from his bun, frizzing up at the static from his brother's hand. Within a second, grease has slicked its way through Loki's hair, and he draws the ribbon out of it, leaving it to hang limply about his shoulders.

"We met with Prince Namor yesterday, Thor," Wanda says, her voice quiet and warm, giving Thor a pleasant smile. "Loki and I strolled from Coney Island out to the city of Atlantis itself."

"Oh, wow," Pepper murmurs, leaning forward. "How was that?"

"At one point, a sperm whale swam right over our heads. It was— huge." Wanda laughs, softly, and Steve can still see the spellbound look in her eyes, the way they defocus as she thinks of how it had looked… Loki is smiling as he looks at Wanda, the expression warm, and indulgent.

Steve glances to Clint, who signs something to Loki. Nat sniggers, and Loki clucks his tongue disapprovingly, shaking his head, but Thor is already replying, making hugely exaggerated gestures as he uses the ASL, and Steve can see Clint's eyes getting wider and wider as Thor continues to talk.

"I'm not going to translate this," Loki says, in evident disgust. "It is filthy." Nat is murmuring to Sam, Tony, Pepper and Wanda as Thor continues to talk through ASL, apparently too focused on making his movements as audacious as possible to speak himself, and Loki takes the opportunity to lean toward Steve.

"Tell me about Namor yesterday," Steve says, and Loki turns to look at him, smiling. It doesn't occur to Steve until halfway through Loki's casual conversation that his words were probably construed as an order, but… Loki doesn't seem to mind. Steve feels guilt in his chest, dragging at his belly, and his heart, but Loki looks at Steve with his eyes soft and his lips slack, and he looks—

"How was your day?" Loki asks, putting his chin upon his hand and giving Steve his full attention.

"Made better with your cooking," Steve murmurs. Loki laughs, showing his teeth, and Steve realizes that as the conversation further down the table has moved onto some ridiculous antics Tony got up to last year, Thor's gaze has landed on Steve's face. It still has that thoughtful, distrustful undertone to it, and Steve presses his lips together. "I didn't get up to much. Played chess with Sam, read a little… We watched a movie."

"What film?"

"Good Will Hunting."

"Oh," Loki says, and he nods his recognition.

"I thought you hated film and television?"

"Oh, I do," Loki says. "But I can read TV Tropes." Steve laughs, and he leans back as he watches Loki engage Bruce in a conversation about versatile polymers which his trousers can be crafted of. He doesn't know what Bruce is more surprised at – the fact that Loki is speaking so openly, freely and easily about something so heavily based in technology or science, or the fact that Loki calls him Bruce.

Later on, Loki washes dishes while arguing in-depth with Natasha about something or other Steve can't understand – it's all in thick Russian, and although occasionally Clint will throw in a word or two, for the most part they're speaking amongst themselves, but given how obvious both of them are being about their opinions, Steve would assume it's something relatively low-stakes – ballet, or art, maybe.

Sam is sitting on the table, and he's talking casually with Tony, the two of them exchanging back-and-forth conversation. They're talking about baseball scores initially, but from what Steve can grasp, the two of them are bouncing around talking about a few different sports at once, and Wanda has Pepper's hands in her lap, painting her nails with some complex design as Pepper laughs, doing her best not to fidget away.

"I'll do yours next," Wanda says to Bruce, and with the little smile on Bruce's face, you'd think he'd wanted his nails done all his life.

"Steven," Thor says, quietly, breaking Steve out of his reverie, and he turns to look at the taller man. It's weird, how comfortable Thor looks in Earth clothes – Steve had kinda expected him to be a bit… Off in them. But he isn't. "Might I speak with you?"

"Yeah, sure," Steve says, and he takes his jacket off the back of his chair, gesturing for the other man to follow him, and he and Thor begin to walk down the stairs toward the entrance of Avengers Tower, stepping out into the street. Thor has been here since late morning, but for nearly the whole day, he seems to have spent it in Loki's room, the two of them talking at length.

Steve supposes they have a Hell of a lot to talk about.

"He tells me he's happy here," Thor says, as soon as Steve and Thor step out into the warm summer air, and Steve glances at him, surprised. It's not yet dark, but the sun is beginning to make its way in the direction of the horizon, and Steve sticks his hands in his pockets, walking side by side with Thor.

"That's good," Steve says. "Right?"

"I didn't expect it," Thor admits, quietly. He isn't as arrogant as he had been a few months ago, seems just a bit more… Chilled out. "He looks at you as if you are his sun." There is something stiff and sharp about the way he says the words, and Steve turns to take Thor's gaze, which is positively severe.

"You got something you wanna say to me?" Steve asks, standing his ground.

"He says you refused him."

"I did," Steve says. "Thor… There's a consent issue here. If I just… I dunno, if I just said something offhand in the bedroom, he'd be bound to it, whether he wanted to be or not. It's bad enough he doesn't have a choice in the day to day stuff, let alone stuff like that."

"I don't think Loki considers such things, Steven," Thor murmurs, but his gaze has softened, and a lot of the hardness he had pent up, the stiffness in his shoulders, seems to have faded away. "Long as he chided me for my tendency to act upon impulse, but in his movement to lovers, always he has been…" Thor trails off, as if realizing he is about to say something he shouldn't be, and so he shrugs his shoulders. "I merely wished to ensure you were in no way abusing your power over him. What do you think of Strange?"

Steve is silent for a long few seconds. Again, he thinks of Strange bent into Loki's space, think of Strange's mouth so close to Loki's own, and he clenches his fists in the safety of his pockts, resisting the urge to grind his teeth. "That's early days, yet. They only had their first date the night before last."

"You do not approve," Thor says. He's strangely perceptive, for a damned viking from space.

"No," Steve admits. "But I told Loki, I'm not gonna stop him from doing what he wants, in that respect. He can choose his own friends, his own… Partners. I can't keep him on that short a leash."

"Who is Strange?" Thor asks.

"He's the Sorcerer Supreme," Steve says. "Which, uh, Wanda says is kinda a big deal, and Loki seems to think is worth about as much as a participation trophy."

"Loki has never held much respect for any magical accolades," Thor murmurs quietly. "Arguably, the Sorcerer Supreme is the most powerful individual in any given universe, but… He doesn't see it that way. He doesn't really believe in power being something calculable, nor something static."

"Do you agree with him?" Steve asks, and Thor hums, then shrugs his broad and mighty shoulders.

"It hardly seems my place to agree or disagree. Magic is Loki's area of expertise, not my own, and he is the greatest sorcerer Asgard has ever known, barring Amora the Enchantress." Steve stares at Thor, uncomprehending for a second or two, and Thor's lips quirk into a small smile. "I never knew my brother to be humble. He told you not?"

"He's carefully avoided comparing himself to anybody on Asgard," Steve admits. "I even have a file he made for me, of all his skills written out on the page, and there was no way to know how it compared to other Asgardians."

"A file of his skills?" Thor whistles, lowly. "What I would trade for such bountful information… He really must tell you the truth, when you ask it of him?"

"Yes," Steve says.

"That must wound him," Thor murmurs. "Long has my brother worn deception as a winter's coat. He feels the chill without it." Steve nods his head, slowly, and he looks out over the sky, which is still brightly blue but is threatening to change colour at any moment. "Your Avengers, they seem to enjoy his company."

"More than he lets them," Steve admits. "Tonight… I don't know, he's been kinda walking on eggshells with everyone for the past few months. Keeping everyone at arm's length. I've had to tell him off a few times for getting nasty with people just for being friendly. Tonight, though, he's— I don't know. Vibrant. Full of life. You bring that out of him, I guess."

"I had worried we would never return to the way we once were," Thor says, in the tone of a confession, "but he seems to have settled once again at my side as if he was meant to be there always. And yet he tells me he shall never return to Asgard, even when your life is over, and his shackles are broken."

"I don't think my life is gonna be as short as the average Earthling's," Steve says, and Thor turns his head, his eyes widening.

"Oh, Captain, my apologies, I did not mean—"

"It's okay," Steve says. "I know, I know. We're just mayflies compared to you guys. Is this all you wanted to ask about? Strange?" Thor nods his head, slowly, and he sighs.

"I worry for my brother, Steven. I so convinced myself his genial tone in his letters was merely a farce, intended to assuage my worries, and yet… He seems prosperous here. He seems content."

"Good," Steve murmurs. "'Cause it's hard to tell sometimes."

"Let us return," Thor murmurs, and Steve falls into step with him.

"The story of Christ in Galilee, with the exorcism," Loki says, and Samuel leans back in his seat, looking at him. It is somewhat frustrating to look through the lenses of the spectacles on Loki's nose, as they rather limit his peripheral vision, but this is fine.

"Which version?"

"Which version," Loki says, and he scoffs. "The original written in Mark! What is the sense of repeating oneself in the gospels in—"

"Because the Bible isn't just a book, it's a lot of books and documents collated together."

"Ridiculous," Loki says, and Samuel laughs at him, shaking his head.

"Go on, then," Samuel says, his tone full of challenge. "Tell me why that one's your favourite."

"It's realistic," Loki says simply. "I've noticed there is a prevailing narrative that Christ was well-loved where ere he went, but of course, that isn't true. The Christians were as yet new in their bones, heavily preceded by the Hebrews as merely one example, and Christ was positively reviled in many circles. The crucifixion was hardly a surprise. And so when one examines the story of the Gerasene demoniac, where he saved a man at the price of hogs – a sacrifice we might easily see in any modern iteration of such an exorcism – and they ask that he leave… A simple act of kindness weighted against the fear of the unknown, and the weight of livestock…" Loki trails off, and he realises that Samuel is watching him with his brows furrowed, his head tilted to the side.

"When did you read the New Testament?" he asks, quietly.

"Some weeks past. After I finished the Old Testament, and the Tanakh, and the Quran."

"The Tanakh is the Jewish bible, right?"

"I shouldn't call it that," Loki advises, thinking of the way Pietro had responded – most explosively – when Loki had compared the two. "There is a long history of the Jewish holy texts being redigested through a Christian lens." Samuel Wilson is looking at Loki as if Loki is something deeply complicated, as if he's never seen something like Loki before.

"You're really trying, huh?" Loki furrows his brow.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're not throwing the Bible around to get a rise out of me," Samuel says. "You're trying to assimilate." Loki leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and crossing one leg over the other, but Samuel's gaze remains intent, focused. Loki will give him this – the man displays no fear in the least.

"I am learning," Loki says archly. "You would rather I did not?"

"It just seems weird to me," Samuel admits, shrugging his shoulders. "My dad was a preacher, you know. Most respected minister for miles around, really. He got gunned down, protecting others, and I— I don't know. Religion isn't important to everybody, but it's important to me. And I know that the way it's important to me isn't ever gonna be important to you."

"Even divinities believe in higher powers," Loki says delicately. He does not see fit to explain the precise importance of the Norns at this moment, but perhaps he ought bear the concept in mind. "I do not need to convert to make myself abreast of world religions. I wouldn't call it assimilation." That seems to make Samuel thoughtful.

"You say it like it's a bad word."

"Perhaps it is." Loki reaches up, touching the bar through his ear, feeling its cold silver beneath his fingers. "I must seem so…" He trails off, unsure how best to speak on, and then he shakes his head, slowly. "I mean not to be hostile to those who integrate with the cultures they join. It would not be unfair to say I have my own issues in that regard: I hardly wish to speak for others."

"I guess I just didn't expect a planet-invading megalomaniac to try to do the whole "yeah, I'm woke," thing," Samuel says, evenly. There isn't hostility in his tone so much as curiosity, and Loki frowns at him.

"Woke," Loki repeats. "Would you define that for me?"

"It means you're aware of current affairs, into social justice. Stuff like that," Samuel explains, and Loki frowns.

"I would not use that descriptor," he says, gravely. "We aren't speaking on current affairs – we're speaking of events two thousand years ago." Loki is discomfited, and he taps his fingers against the fabric of his chair, looking at the other man for a long few moments, and then he says, "My apologies. I have upset you."

"Nah, you haven't," Samuel replies. "Just you and Thor, it's… It's hard for a religious guy to get his head around something like that. You get that, right? You get why it's hard?"

"He is God in heaven above and on the earth below; there is no other."

"Deuteronomy," Samuel murmurs. "You got a photographic memory or something?"

"I have an ear for quotes," Loki replies evenly. "I couldn't recite the texts from memory, but I recall passages."

"I probably could recite the thing from memory," Samuel admits. "I read that thing a lot. My dad died, and the next year my mom was gone too… There were some nights where I just couldn't do anything, just read the Bible from cover to cover. Made me feel closer to them, somehow, I guess."

"Is that why you became a social worker?" Loki asks, and Samuel's eyebrows raise, showing surprise. "I do listen when you speak at the dinner table, Samuel. You think I do not?" Samuel's features are handsome, and in the evening light that shines in through the windows, his eyes are bright with fire. Loki notices the eyes are dry, and slightly red – he knows of the support group Samuel Wilson runs, and he wonders if this disorder comes with nightmares. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder…

"Yeah, I guess so," Samuel says. "I wanted to help people. Not just 'cause the Bible said so, but that was a contributing factor. How about you?" Always the questions. Is Samuel so natural an interrogator?

"What do you mean?"

"How come you want to help people all of a sudden?" Abruptly, Loki is aware that Samuel is not aware of the arrangement under which Loki is bound, and for a long few moments he is entirely silent, looking at the other man. Loki is under orders not to reveal the precise nature of his situation to those who are not already aware (as Xavier and Strange had been within moments of meeting him), but how best to phrase his excuses? "What? You not got an answer for that one?"

"I am trying to be better." It is all Loki says, and he says it just as Steven and Thor return from their sojourn outside – he sees that Steven hears his words, and he shifts his position in his seat, forcing himself to loosen his stiff stance. "For the longest time, Samuel, I have been the monster in the shadows. Odin sent me here instead of imprisoning me within the bowels of Asgard: the least I might do is make something of my service."

"You think you deserve it? A redemption?" Samuel asks, and Loki sees Steven step forward behind him, but Loki puts up a hand to stop him.

"No," Loki says quietly. "But I can try to be worthy of it. I won't bring up the Bible with you again."

"No," Samuel says, shaking his head. "Bible's just fine with me. I just— I kinda thought you were getting at something. We're good, Loki. I just keep forgetting you're an alien."

"People keep saying that to me," Loki murmurs mildly, his lips twitching. Would they continue to forget, he wonders, if they saw him as he is? Saw his blue flesh, his red eyes, the horns that are growing from his very skull?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Steve keeps his gaze on Loki, and then he taps Sam's shoulder, catching his attention. Sam turns to look at him, and the communication that passes between them is entirely silent: arching his eyebrows, Steve says, without saying, You and him okay?

And equally silently, with a short nod of his chin, Sam replies, Yeah. We're fine.

"I was just saying to Thor, I was figuring we should go out. Take Thor to an Irish session."

"A session of what?" Loki asks, visibly perplexed, and Steve can't help the laugh that bubbles up in his throat.

"You'll see," Steve says. "Hey, guys, drinks on me."

They're upstairs in an Irish bar Steve's been in before – there's no session on tonight, but this building has been here since Steve was a kid, and it's where he drank his first beer, where he kissed his first girl, where he and Bucky would come after a celebration. It's cramped, and a little too hot, and dark, but the standing piano is the same one Steve learned to play on, even if the bar itself has changed hands. They'd let the group of them upstairs, and Steve wonders how many ground rules he really has to set – like no magic, and no fighting and don't get so drunk I have to carry you.

But no, no. Everyone's sat around, settling down as Loki meticulously and fastidiously takes drinks from the tray in his hand, setting them before those who had ordered them. Loki had broken out a bottle of something that had made Thor cheer his delight, and Steve wonders if it'll work on him… It's something to think about.

He sits down at the piano stool, letting his fingers run across the keys, and he begins to play a few experimental chords, feeling a hand at his shoulder. The hand is warm, so it isn't Loki – he turns to meet Nat's eye, and she looks over his shoulder at the keys.

"I didn't know you could play," she says softly, patting him on the shoulder. It doesn't make him uncomfortable, having her so close, and on some level, that surprises him.

"Yeah, there was no TV," Steve says, in a mild tone. "We had to make our own fun. Sing our own songs. Loki!" Loki turns from where he had been pouring his brother a glass of something golden and syrupy. "Can I have some of that?" Loki laughs, sharing a glance with his brother, and then he nods, passing Thor a pint and pouring another for Steve. There's much more in the bottle than should be physically possible, it seems to him, but who knows what kind of stuff Loki's drinking?

Loki walks over, setting the glass on the low table beside the piano, and he looks at the instrument thoughtfully, his fingers stroking over the wood."The X-Factor is en route. Remy LeBeau asked Wanda if they might join us, and she agreed."

"It's gonna be a real party," Steve says, reaching for the glass, and he examines it, thoughtfully. It both looks and smells like beer, and he brings it to his nose, inhaling the heavy, hoppy scent of it before taking a sip. It's lighter than he expected, filled with fruity undertones and a slightly sour aftertaste, and he runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth, thoughtful. "What's the percentage on this?"

"We don't measure percentages," Loki murmurs, and Steve sees Natasha's eyebrows raise. "But Thor goes from sober to tipsy in one, to inebriated with two, to…"

"Banjaxed?"

"Indeed."

"I'll drink it slow," Steve assures him, and Loki inclines his head. "Can you sing?"

"I don't sing," Loki says. Not actually what Steve asked, but okay.

"How about you, Nat?"

"No," she says.

"Both of you are filthy liars," Steve pronounces, and Loki and Nat exchange a glance before walking away from him. It feels good to have Steve's hands on the keys, to feel the shift and movement of his fingers and the muscles in his hands, his wrists held aloft as he was always taught. How many times has he sat at this piano, in this bar? How many times? He feels a vague ache in his chest as he thinks of the last time he was here, thinks of being here without Bucky, with just Peggy beside him… Yeah. That won't do him any good. "Anyone else here play an instrument?" There is a resounding silence. "Come on, Tony, I know you play the guitar."

"Let's have a few drinks first, Cap," Tony calls across the room. "We can sing later." Steve sighs, pulling himself up from the piano, and he drops into a seat beside Sam, immediately finding that Nat leans back in her own chair, crossing her legs in his lap. Steve pats her ankles, amused, and can't find it in him to throw her off. "What is that?"

"You can't have any," Loki says immediately, and Tony crosses his arms over his chest, looking at Loki. Loki holds a tall glass in his hand, and inside it, swirling with shiny, glittery notes, there is a liquid that is entirely black. A light steam comes off it, and even from here, Steve can smell the citrus in it. "It is a spirit brewed from the Grappa fruit."

"The Grappa fruit?" Sam repeats. "What's that?"

"It is a citrus that grows on Nakom," Loki says. "It is not suitable for human consumption."

"Let me try it," Steve says, and he can see the struggle on Loki's face for a second before he says, "I mean… Can I try it?"

"No," Loki says resolutely. "It will injure you. It would injure Thor." Steve puts out his hand, and Loki frowns at him, shaking his head. "No."

"Your tolerance can't be that much higher than his," Steve says, nodding in Thor's direction, and Thor laughs, clapping his hand upon Steve's back.

"The Grappa fruit is an acquired taste, Steven. I would not taste it were I you."

"Go on, Loki," Steve says. "How bad can it be?"

"I will allow you to taste a droplet, from my finger," Loki says. "But no more."

"What, like a baby with whiskey?" Loki frowns at him, tilting his head to the side, and Steve says, "It's an old teething ritual. Okay, fine, fine." He leans in closer, and Loki dips one of his clean, white fingers into the black swirl of liquid, leaning forward and dropping a single droplet onto Steve's waiting tongue. He had thought he could make this erotic, make it vaguely sexy, even, but—

"Agh," Steve hisses, clapping his hand over his mouth as it burns with pain, and Loki is already grasping at his chin over the low table between them, sending magic bursting through his skin. "Isth thad acid?" he mumbles, feeling the chunk of tongue that had sizzled away slowly being returned to him, and Loki nods his head. "Why are you drinking that?"

"I like it," Loki says. "The Grappa fruit is a delicacy for tongues that can withstand it."

"Why do I feel like you're somehow talking down to my tongue?"

"I might be, a little bit."

"It's gonna get you drunk, though?"

"Oh, very drunk," Loki agrees, and Steve grins.

About halfway through Steve's first pint, the night becomes hazy in his memory, and the next morning, clutching at his aching head, he remembers it only in snatches.

Everyone is cheering, drumming their hands upon the table or stamping their feet upon the ground, and Sam grits his teeth, gripping at Nat's arm a little harder, but Nat doesn't budge in the slightest, and Sam seems to become a little bit more in love with her every second that ticks by.

"You want me to take mercy on you?" she asks, and Sam laughs, breathily.

"Oh, yeah," he says, and lets out a short groan as she slams his hand into the table, winning her fourth arm-wrestling match of the night.

"Never have I ever, uh," Steve trails off, trying to think of something good. "Never have I ever been married." As one, Loki and Thor each take their drinks and sip. So do Clint and Wanda.

"You're so tame," Sam mutters, shaking his head. "Never have I ever had sex in front of an audience."

"How big is an audience?" Thor asks, and Steve hears Bruce cough into his drink – water. Bruce doesn't get drunk.

"Uh," Sam says, "More than two people watching?" Thor and Loki share a glance, shrug, and knock their drinks back. "Is there anything you guys haven't done? You've not gone a single one of these rounds without drinking."

"Never have I ever," Loki says, artfully, "had an inappropriate relation with a goat." Steve feels his gaze flit down to the column of Loki's throat, and he swallows.

"My relations with my goats are not inappropriate," Thor says immediately, and within seconds he and Loki are wrestling on the ground.

It takes five minutes for Loki and Thor to learn every damned line of Whiskey In The Jar, and when they sing it, they all sing together.

At some point, Pietro Maximoff and Remy LeBeau arrive, and there is a moment where Steve sits amidst the group of all the people gathered, and not a single person is speaking English. He smiles.

This is what it's about.

Pietro is playing the fiddle, easily, as if he's been doing it his whole damned life, not even a little fast, and Loki is laughing with him as he joins in harmony, playing a round instrument that resembles an accordion. When Pietro begins to sing, it is plain he is doing it for Loki alone, making the god beam, but Wanda joins in with him, harmonising on his every note, and they all go quiet, watching the twins make music together.

It's not a song Steve knows, but he recognizes it as something Polish, and whatever it is, it is bright, and joyful, and he's never seen Pietro or Wanda look so content.

Everyone's pretty drunk. Thor, Clint and Tony are trying to make a castle out of beer mats; Nat is in Sam's lap, her lips against his, his hands in her hair; Wanda and Pietro are trying to explain something to Remy, but both of them are drunkenly arguing with one another and slurring their words; Bruce and Pepper are engaged in a very serious conversation, which is only partly hampered by the fact that Pepper is red in the face and hammered, and Bruce is stone-cold sober.

Loki is sitting on the ground, holding the guitar he had conjured for Tony to play earlier, and his fingers play absently over the strings. It sets Steve on fire to see his fingers move so easily, and in his drunken haze, he thinks of clambering on top of Loki right here, kissing him for all to see.

"I didn't know you played anything," Steve says, aware of the way he is swaying slightly with the lilting music, and Loki chuckles, quietly. There is a lilac flush to his pale cheeks, and his usually pink lips are blue: some of his illusions are all over the place, but he's trying anyway, and Steve would guess Loki's not been this drunk in a long time. "Play me something. You know anything from Earth?"

He doesn't expect Loki to do it, and he doesn't expect Loki to sing, but Loki's voice is sweet, and sorrowful, and low, as if he hasn't sung in thousands of years. And the whole time, the whole damned time, his eyes are on Steve's, hazy with drink and full of heat.

"Thinking it over, I've been sad,
Thinking it over, I'd be more than glad
To change my ways, for the asking…

Ask me and I will play."

In the bed beside him, a body stirs, and Steve turns to look at Loki, who is slowly sitting up, his pale skin back to all white, the blue and lilac tinges to his body gone. Steve stares at him, feeling first a burst of possession, then guilt, dry-mouthed and full of shame, but Loki just turns to glance at him with a soft smile.

"Are you very hungover?" he asks, quietly. "You were rather far gone last night."

"Why are you in my bed?"

"You don't remember?" Loki chuckles, fondly. "Thor fell asleep in my bed, and he snores so terribly; my magic was in no state to move him, so I fell asleep here with you. I ought brew that hangover cure, oughtn't I?"

"We didn't do anything?" Steve presses, and Loki frowns.

"No," he says quietly, looking slightly wounded. "We were each much too drunk." He looks so confused, as if Steve wouldn't want to take the opportunity to take Loki to pieces, as if, as if— What the Hell is wrong with him?

"You serenaded me," Steve says, hazily.

"You ordered me to." Steve watches Loki as he stands from the bed, wearing loose green leggings, and he feels something stir in the pit of his stomach, sees the corded muscle of Loki's naked back, the rounded curve of his ass through the leggings, the thickness of his thighs.

"You don't have to take my words literally," Steve says quietly. "From now on, when something's an order, I'll tell you so."

"It's nearly eleven," Loki murmurs, apparently not listening to him. "Thor and I are meeting Stephen at one, so I suppose I ought raise him and get him to bathe."

"Please," Steve mumbles, sitting up in bed. The light streaming through the windows is painful, and Loki turns to look at him. "Come sit here for a while." Loki seems to take pity on him, and he steps forward, clambering onto the bed and conjuring a vial from the air, which he puts to Steve's lips. When he drinks it, he feels the hangover – the headache, the heavy sweat, the dry mouth – all fade away. He combs through his memory, but he remembers only patches and snapshots – he remembers pouring Sam into the back of Tony's limo, remembers all of them falling over each other to get it, and he remembers Loki carrying him up the stairs as everyone else took the elevators. "Do you get hungover?"

"No," Loki says.

"How come?" Loki shrugs.

"I don't know." Steve hands the vial back.

"Did I make you uncomfortable last night? Did I do anything to make you feel… Unsafe?"

"No," Loki says, arching his eyebrows slightly. "I gave you mead, Steven, not the wine of Bacchus. As soon as my head touched your pillow I was sleeping quite soundly. You gave me no orders at all, after I sang to you."

"When was the last time you sang?" Steve asks, and Loki sighs, softly.

"Approximately?" he says. "One thousand or so years ago. I sang lullabies to my the children of myself and Angrboða, to put them to bed."

"What about yours and Sigyn's children?" Loki slowly shakes his head. Steve can feel something feral and desperate in his chest as he looks at Loki's bare chest, his messy hair, his eyes. It's just from the alcohol, he guesses, but he is so full of want— He could grab Loki right here, press his face against the glass of Steve's bedroom and fuck him for all the world to see, fuck him so soundly he couldn't so much as walk after, let alone go out for lunch with Stephen Strange. "Did you understand what I said? That unless I say it's an order, it's not an order?"

"I understand," Loki murmurs.

"Come here," Steve whispers. "I need— I want—"

"I'll make breakfast," Loki says casually, his voice cold, and he begins to walk away. Steve doesn't stop him.

"Commander Fury," Loki says, buttoning up his shirt as the older man walks into the room, and Loki makes his way toward him. Initially, he expects Fury to snap at him as he has done before, but he does not: Fury meets Loki's gaze evenly. "Everybody is as yet abed – we were all drinking last night. Pray, will you stay for breakfast?"

"This what you are now?" he asks, lowly. "Domestic, non-threatening?"

"I can threaten you if you would prefer," Loki offers, his tone slightly crisp. To his surprise, Fury smiles. It isn't a friendly thing, more of a show of teeth, but… It is a smile. "Coffee?" Loki asks.

"Sure," Fury murmurs, and he sits down at the kitchen counter. Loki pours him a mug, pushing it over the marble counter, and he watches Fury for a long few moments – the man looks tired. "You've been here nearly two months, and you ain't killed anyone, huh?"

"It's a record," Loki says, unenthusiastically, and begins to chop peppers and mushrooms to put onto fry.

"It's good," Fury says. Loki stops, the knife in his hand, and he glances up at Fury, but Fury's focus is on his steaming coffee. "Look, kid. I don't trust you as far as I can throw you, and I know you weigh a Hell of a lot more than you look, but…" Fury trails off, his single eye staring into space. "There's something coming. We're gonna need all the allies we can get."

"Steven trusts you so implicitly," Loki murmurs. "Therefore, so must I. He believes you are a good man."

"Nah, he doesn't," Fury murmurs. "He believes I'm trying to do the right thing – what has to be done. The two ain't the same." Those words settle within Loki, heavy within his chest, upon his lungs.

"Very well," Loki says. "I'll set you a place at the table, nonetheless."