The Stone Series: Part III
Freeway
Epilogue
Loki's eyes are closed when Steve gets back, and for one bright, panicked moment he's terrified they've lost him.
Leached of all color, Loki's flesh pulls tight and gray over the sharp angles of his bones. The light above his operating table casts white shadows around his body, and Bruce, staring tersely at the colorful on-screen alerts, almost matches him for pallor.
There's no sound, not even from the computers. Seems like even JARVIS holds his breath.
Almost fifteen minutes pass. Thor's eyes, red-rimmed, never leave Loki's face.
It's just as Tony steps back into the room, sheepish with messy hair over bruises and bleary eyes, that Loki breathes in.
"Is—?"
"It appears so, Sir," JARVIS replies quietly. The numbers on the screen, which'd been red and yellow before, are steadily rising. Some of 'em are turning green.
"We did it," Tony exhales. "I think I need a lie-down."
Thor looms awkwardly, offers both hands to Bruce and Tony one after the other. His palms cover their own, huge and strong, helpless with gratitude and relief. "My friends," he says roughly. His throat works as he tries to say more, but Tony just shakes his head. Claps him on the shoulder.
"We love you too, buddy," he says lightly. His eyes are still kinda wet, probably from throwing up. But maybe not.
Natasha touches Loki's neck, pursing her lips. After a moment, she glances up at all of them. "Pulse is steady," she says, the tense line of her back melting into the soft curves of her body. She smiles, just about stopping Steve's heart 'cause she's so pretty. Probably that's why she saves it, hides it away—she'd never get any work done, looking like this all the time.
Bruce stares at her with raw eyes, and her smile fades somewhat. "That's enough excitement for me," she says, inclining her head slightly. "I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up unless someone's on fire."
"What if we get lonely?" Tony asks, eyebrows raised.
"Then you'll be lonely without one of your limbs," she shoots back dryly.
"Do I get to pick which limb?"
Natasha pretends to consider. "No," she says. "But I suppose I'd let you choose the method of removal."
"Charitable," Tony says.
After she leaves, Clint makes to follow her out. Notices Bruce looking dully at his hands, pauses to get a hold of his forearm with spare, calloused fingers. "Next time,"Clint tells him, soothing and quiet. He goes.
There's silence for all of three seconds while Tony rubs at his nose. Then he says, "All right, Brucey, you're next."
Bruce looks at Tony for a long time, worried and angry , guilty and afraid.
Tony rolls his eyes in a way that makes Steve's heart ache 'cause it's so full of affection, kind you try to hide from yourself, kind everyone sees anyway. Tony's so damn obvious. Steve loves him.
"C'mon, Twizzler, I ain't got all day."
Later, they use words like psychoconceptual identity and intracranial intelkinesis, get into a complicated metaphor about sheets of rubber and dimensional weight. Describe energy like light slipping through in solid bursts, the spacetime fabric sucking it back up again and sealing itself shut.
They really try, Bruce and Tony. Steve's just not a metaphysically visual person.
"Well, it works," he finally says when they're on their last legs. "That's what matters."
And Steve's fine without knowing how. It's enough to see Bruce come into the kitchen looking like he's slept for a hundred years, a silver dollar-sized medallion tucked under his shirt and glowing very faintly green.
It's enough to see Natasha slide a gently perspiring glass of iced tea across the counter, their fingers touching when Bruce takes it from her.
Loki heals slowly. For the first week, there's almost no change—he sleeps like a corpse, his wounds raw and bright and heavily seamed when his bandages are changed. He breathes so shallowly that Steve's gotta put a thumb against his pulse just to check it's there. He's moon-pale and rigid, and beside Thor's ever-present bulk, he's got all the substance of a fever dream.
But two weeks in, his color starts to return. He opens his eyes after three, and by the time September rolls around he's even eating again.
So, bearing a gift of Chinese takeout, Steve stops by their floor late on a Sunday afternoon. It's a habit he's never managed to break: making sure the people in his life take care of themselves. It only started with Tony, but it's somehow grown to include all of them. It's a good thing, a warming thing—it's family.
He expects to find them arguing, which is typical, or maybe Loki telling some grand, convoluted fairy story that Steve'll almost recognize from his own childhood. Some days, Thor's hopelessly tangled up in a complicated riddle that ends with the two of them laughing. Flushed and grinning and cupping his elbows, Loki doesn't seem half so fragile as he did. They're all pretty sure he'll be able to walk soon.
Today, though, the castle-styled chambers are oddly quiet. Steve pauses cautiously in the stone hall just outside the open bedroom door.
Inside, Thor's bowed low over Loki's face, blocking him from view. His shoulders bunch together in tight, rigid lines, and Steve can see one of Loki's hands curled bright and pale against his arm.
Sometimes the way they are together—certain shared looks, or the way Thor touches Loki, the way Loki lets him—makes Steve feel as though he's trespassing on sacred ground. He wonders if this is what it means to worship a living god, wonders when they stopped bothering to hide from each other.
Steve hangs back, a young child creeping past an old church, hesitant to disturb their air of reverence.
"You must promise me," Thor's saying in a low rumble. "You must. This, if nothing else."
"And Father contends that I am the dramatic one," Loki murmurs wryly, coarse and quiet.
"Loki—"
"I promise, Thor," Loki says shortly, his voice soft and serious. Steve can't see his face, but those thin fingers slide up to circle around the back of his brother's neck.
"Swear it," Thor breathes, rough and unsteady. "Say the words."
"If you insist." Loki's long, bony hands twist cautiously into golden hair. "I swear, Thor, upon the blood arush in my veins. I swear upon the fierce garnet of your anger, and the baleful sapphire of my cold rage. I swear upon the azure of your eyes, and the warmth of your hand on mine."
Thor inhales, slow enough Steve almost misses it, shaky enough he wishes he did. "You must never be without me."
"I must never be without you," Loki echoes. "And as I love you, this I swear: you shall never part from that which you cherish best above all the realms."
Heart hammering, Steve leaves the greasy brown takeout bags just outside the door.
"What's that?" Steve asks the next day, helping Tony prop up some kinda converter in his lab. They're near one of the computers, and Steve's caught his name on the screen. When he leans down for a closer look, he sees it's got all of them: Tony and Steve and Thor, Bruce and Clint and Natasha. All with neatly-typed dollar amounts the next cell over.
At the bottom, the cursor still blinking, is Loki. There's no numbers filled in yet after his name.
"Oh. That's the household account," Tony says. "Weekly allowance."
"What?" Steve asks, bewildered. "You're—why're you paying us?"
Tony shoots him a blank look, sweat and a bit of machine oil high on his temple, just above his still-bruised cheek. "I'm not," he says. "I mean, not really. It's just—you guys've got to eat, right? And it's not like we can have real jobs when we're busy saving the world. Natasha drinks expensive tea and I like seeing Bruce in clothes that aren't threadbare from ten previous owners, Clint's gear is all custom—"
"'Not really'," Steve interrupts. "Explain 'not really'."
"Okay. Don't get your panties in a bunch, but." Tony takes a deep breath, spreads his hands over his thighs like he's been found out. "I, ah—own the rights to our identities. Well, the public ones. I mean I trademarked all of our superhero names and likenesses."
Steve stares at him. "What?"
"Well, I inherited yours. Sort of. Captain America's trickier because it's also the property of the US Government, and that stuff's mostly public domain. But I get royalties, and I'm the copyright holder for the rest of the team—"
"Are you telling me you own us? Tony, are you kidding me?"
"Well, no, of course not! It just means that I get royalties. We get royalties," he amends conscientiously. He taps his knuckle against Steve's chest, right in the middle of the Iron Man graphic. "Merchandise. Media appearances, interviews, magazine spreads—newspapers, especially. But I'm not making any money off it," he adds hastily. "Almost all of it goes back to the team."
"For expenses?" Steve asks, squinting at the chart again.
"For expenses. I just manage it. Well—I mean, Pepper managed it, and now JARVIS manages it. With occasional assistance from me."
"The highlight of my day," JARVIS says pleasantly.
"Yes, well," Tony says. "It keeps us funded, anyway. And the rest is on reserve for whenever we destroy the city." He pauses. "It's a bit tapped right now, what with Central Park."
Steve turns it over in his head. Eventually he asks, "So these t-shirts." He's wearing the yellow Iron Man one. Makes him feel romantic.
"Yeah," Tony says, smiling slightly. His forehead's smoothed over. He looks relieved. "Royalties."
They finish with the converter, and Steve's phone rings just as Tony's pulling up some designs for a new Avengers toy line. The tiny Iron Man really looks just like him, but someone exaggerated the size of Thor's arms almost comically.
"Rogers," Steve answers promptly.
"So we need to get past how unpleasant this is and take care of a few things," Pepper says briskly in his ear.
Steve leans against the work desk, mouth dry. She's been managing Stark Industries without Tony since she left New York.
"Hello?" Pepper asks impatiently.
"Yeah, sorry. I'm here." Tony's wheeled away from the computer to watch Steve keenly.
"I've managed to keep it out of the papers," Pepper says flatly, "but you're going to have to make a formal announcement. People are starting to notice, and we need to put a positive spin on things."
"Notice—?"
She's silent for half a heartbeat. "That Tony and I aren't together at SI events? That the two of you have been photographed at one of Tony's known date restaurants?"
Her voice is perfectly neutral. Steve's chest aches. "I didn't—think about it."
"Well, welcome to being Tony's partner," she says sharply. "Tony never thinks. You knew full well what you were getting into."
Jaw tight, Steve exhales quiet as he can through his nose.
"I've spent a truly repulsive number of hours," she says pointedly, "for the past month and a half, talking down bloggers and gossip rags. I am a very busy person, Steve. Cleaning up after Tony's scandals was not my favorite chore before I became involved with him, and it sure as hell isn't a picnic after."
"I'll talk to him about it," Steve says stiffly. Tony reaches out to touch his elbow, uncharacteristically reserved.
"See that you do," Pepper says. "We'll need to issue an official statement—something about us growing apart, or that I need to focus on the company now that the Avengers have taken up the bulk of Tony's time."
She doesn't sound bitter, but then she's Pepper Potts. She's nothing if not utterly professional. Even when discussing the publicity control of her breakup with the man her partner cheated with.
Steve meets Tony's eyes, takes in the soft, dark curls at the back of his neck and pressed flat against his forehead. Reaches out to run his fingers through his hair—probably Tony oughta get it cut—and quells a mild wave of nausea.
"With everything that's been going on, it's a good pitch. The never-see-each-other-anymore angle," she continues, almost to herself.
"Not that I don't wanna help, 'cause I do," Steve says gently, "but shouldn't you be having this conversation with Tony?"
Pepper answers quickly enough that Steve feels bad even for asking. "Tony is exactly the last person I should be having this conversation with."
"Okay," Steve says.
"So please talk to him. I'll—I'll schedule the press release for Monday, and it can coincide with the new Hydroponics product line—"
"Okay, Pepper," Steve says again. Tony looks away, awkwardly busies himself with a wrench. He's gonna strip the screw, over-twisting like that. "I'll talk to him when I see him. I'll call you tomorrow."
She's quiet for a few moments. Then she says, "Thank you. Steve."
"Least I can do," Steve says seriously. Then he hangs up the phone, thinking, I should've done better.
"She's a very busy person," Tony's saying at the podium a week later. "Mostly because I don't have to be anymore. We're still very close."
Steve and Pepper've managed to orchestrate the whole thing, from the talking points to the dark, charcoal-on-black pinstriped suit Tony's wearing. His hair's only a little unruly, his beard neatly trimmed, his makeup flawless over the last of his yellowing bruises. Steve, off to the side, watches apprehensively.
A young journalist up front starts with, "I've heard rumors—," eyebrows knit together and stylus hovering over his tablet, but Tony cuts him off with a raised hand.
"Our relationship ended unofficially several months ago. That's the long and short of it," Tony says. Then he grins. "We were just trying to find the right way to tell you kids. We didn't want you to feel that this was in any way your fault. We promise to remain an active and involved part of your lives. Just—consciously uncoupled."
He gets a few chuckles from the crowd, and a muscular woman with dark hair stands up with her microphone extended. "Sally Floyd, Front Line," she prefaces.
"Hello, Sally," Tony beams.
"Before your involvement with Miss Potts, TIME Magazine named you America's most eligible bachelor." She tilts her head in mock thoughtfulness. "I notice the internet isn't yet filling up with leaked sex tapes and naked selfies—should we assume you're back on the market?"
Way they'd rehearsed, Tony's meant to drop certain keywords to let his publicists and Pepper (and Steve) know he's answering questions to script. He's meant to brush off the are-you-single question, meant to say, "I need some downtime for now." Downtime's two or three lines below conscious uncoupling on the list.
But he doesn't say that. Instead, he looks right at Steve, grinning broadly. Then he says, simply, "Nope."
There's a sudden burst of energy, but Tony talks right over the excited din. "That's all I got for now, guys. See ya."
It's about two in the afternoon, and Steve's got three missed calls from Pepper and a wry text from Natasha that reads, Good show. Congrats on coming out.
Tony's warm and exhausted against his chest, soft now inside him. Steve kisses the sweat from his temple. "Could've handled that better," he sighs, letting his eyes close.
"I think, under the circumstances," Tony murmurs around a yawn, "I performed admirably. One might even say I exceeded expectations."
The next morning, the New York Post headlines Iron Man and Captain America: A Super Romance? over a blurry but unmistakable photo of the two of them out to dinner.
Steve puts his voicemail on speaker. "Good luck going anywhere without the press up your ass," Pepper's irritated voice remarks coldly.
Steve figures they'll just lay low for awhile. At this point, far as he can tell, it's just speculation—they could officially announce their relationship in a few more more months, maybe. He hasn't got a real good grasp on how this PR stuff works. Probably he's gonna have to learn.
"Looks like we're out," Tony says, glancing gleefully at his phone. "Just in time for our first official date. Wicked tomorrow night!"
"Oh," Steve replies helplessly. "That's great, Tony."
In the late afternoon, Loki stands for the first time since saving Tony's life. Thor tries to get a nervous arm around him, but Loki ignores him in favor of resting bone-brittle fingers on Steve's arm.
"Your paramour," he says evenly, "has introduced me to a mortal confection known as star bucks. I would partake, should you kindly escort me."
Tony, Loki, coffee, Steve thinks. He almost laughs, and it must show 'cause Loki's mouth curls in a small, amused way. "Right. If you can manage a block, I'll walk with you."
"Paramour," Tony mutters, pecking at his phone. "The gall."
It's four of us, Steve thinks worriedly as they make slow progress past a corner shop. It's not a date. It's Tony Stark and some really tall guys hopefully no one'll recognize, and Steve.
"You're Thor," the girl at the counter gushes, calling over one of her coworkers. "Can I get a picture with you?"
Thor agrees graciously, and they end up getting the coffees for free. Tony sticks a hundred dollar bill in the clear plastic tip box, though.
"I find this soothing," Loki sighs, content around his steaming latte. A previous couple left one of the coffee house's plastic chess sets on a nearby table, so Steve's appropriated it. He teaches them the basics of how to play.
"This is really nice," Tony says after a while, watching Loki put Thor in check for the second time. He almost sounds surprised.
"Yeah," Steve says. "We should do it again."
Tony's about to reply when his phone jingles weirdly at his elbow.
"There is a situation in Queens," Fury barks, loud enough for Steve to hear. "If the six of you are finished playing house."
"That's Tony Stark," someone nearby whispers excitedly. "Do you think—?"
"Seven," Tony corrects. "We've spawned, remember?"
"If you pay very close attention," Fury says in a flat, bored voice, "I'm sure you'll be able to pick up on how exceptionally thrilled I am at this development."
"As you should be," Tony says, glancing up Steve with a bright smile. "It's not like we've been sitting on our asses for the past three months. In one fell swoop, we've managed to head off a second alien invasion, neutralize a social civil war, and add a shiny new powerhouse to your gallery of heroes."
"I believe I have mated you in check, my brother," Thor says hesitantly.
"That is simply not possible," Loki replies.
"Did I miss anything?" Tony asks politely, grinning with teeth.
"Lightyears of paperwork for yours truly," Fury says tightly. "Compromised agents. Central Park."
"Which we've taken care of," Tony says hastily.
"We don't have time for this," Fury snaps. "There's a level three gifted we've been trying to contact. About twenty minutes ago, he took a hit during a robbery."
"A robbery," Tony says flatly.
"Apparently the kid ain't bulletproof," Fury says. "We have men on the scene, but it's become a hostage situation."
"Oh, good, I've been itching for another one of those."
"Funny," Fury says coldly. "Get moving."
Steve glances at Thor and Loki, who appear to have started a new game. "How do you wanna play this?"
"If this kid can't handle a freaking robbery without turning it into a hostage situation, he has no business playing hero," Tony complains, standing.
"I meant," Steve says, gesturing toward the other two.
"Oh," Tony says. "Loki, think you can get the big guy home okay?"
"Surely," Loki replies, intent on the relationship between his rook and Thor's bishop. "Don't get yourselves killed."
It's not too messy by the time everyone's cleared out, but the kid's not in great shape.
"Peter," he says sullenly when Iron Man asks his name. Probably he only answers 'cause he's in shock, and Iron Man can be intimidating. They've got him away from the cops and the reporters, and Steve'd frowned severely when one of the EMTs reaches for the kid's mask. So it stayed on.
"Well, Peter," Iron Man says sharply. "You fucked up. Good luck only gets you so far."
"Fuck you," the kid says tiredly. They've stripped off parts of his rubbery suit to get at the bullet wound, and under the grime and blood it looks like it was mostly blue and red before.
"He's done good work," Steve allows. "Fury said he took out some lizard guy?"
"Yeah, but—he's what, twelve?"
"Oh my god, why are you still here," the kid growls. He doesn't sound too good.
"It's one thing if you're trying to get yourself killed," Tony scolds, "but there were kids in that bank."
"Tony," Steve says quietly. He remembers what it was like to be young, to wanna help. To hate bullies. Wasn't so long ago for him.
"Doesn't matter," the kid's mumbling. "Everyone dies. No p-point. Got uncle Ben killed, got G-Gwen's dad killed, got… Gwen…"
"Oh, shit," Tony sighs, turning his head. "The Stacy kid was your girlfriend?"
"What?" Steve asks.
"I know you're playing catch up," Tony says gently, "but at least watch the news, yeah? About six months back, a whackjob with electrical abilities shut down part of the city. Kidnapped the police chief's daughter. This kid stopped him, but the girl was killed."
"She had a name," the kid hisses.
"Yeah, well, we all did once." Something's changed in his voice, and he pops up the face of his helmet. "You wanna come back to the Tower with us, Peter?"
"Can we keep him?" Tony asks, straightening his tie. "I think he's really fitting in."
"Natasha's got him scared to death," Steve reminds him. "Clint's been using him for target practice."
"The patter of little footsteps. The only thing our little family was missing."
Steve shakes his head. "Put your shoes on. I'll pull the car around."
The curtain goes down for intermission, and Steve's kinda glad he drove 'cause Tony's breath smells like whiskey.
"What do you think so far?" He asks, bright and warm at Steve's side in the big, gorgeous theater. The lights've gone up, but the glorious climax of Defying Gravity still dances brightly over the darkness behind Steve's eyes.
"It's different," he says, thinking about the rush and swell of the music, something like hope hanging off Elphaba's smooth syllables, tangled and trapped in the sincerity of the silly lyrics.
"Different," Tony murmurs, and Steve makes a small huff of a sound and helps him to his feet.
"Different's not bad," Steve says, studying the giant clock on set. He remembers, in this moment, how time gets away from you. How you gotta make choices. "Just gave me a lot to think about."
Tony grabs a couple beers from the bar, visibly irritated when someone steps in to get his picture. He's got wiry black hair and thick glasses, and there's a press badge around his neck that reads Jose. Must be here to interview the actors.
"Are you here alone?" He asks Tony pointedly.
Tony opens his mouth, then shuts it again and darts a glance at Steve.
He's asking permission, Steve realizes. He told the world he wasn't single, he told me we were out, he said this was a date.
He's waiting for me.
So Steve goes to him, gets an arm around his shoulder. Feels Tony relax against his body. "No," he tells Jose firmly. "He's here with me."
Jose takes a picture, and Steve smiles for the camera. When he shakes his hand, the reporter looks surprised and pleased.
So Steve says, "It's our first date. Wish us luck."
Jose does, sincerely. Then he excuses himself to talk to the man playing Prince Fiyero, though it doesn't look like his heart's really in it.
"You're a goddamned saint, Rogers," Tony says tiredly, staring after him.
"He was gonna get a picture anyway," Steve says, shrugging. "May as well be a nice one."
Tony shakes his head, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "That actually makes perfect logical sense, but. Mostly I think you're just—the most decent man I know. Really."
"Well. I'm no genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist," Steve replies. "But I do what I can."
Tony looks at him for a long time, all humor gone from him. "It's enough," he says softly. "I know guys with all of that worth none of you."
"Tony—," Steve says, chest tight.
Tony leans in and kisses him. "C'mere," he says. "Shut up and just," and Steve does.