July 29th, 2012
06:03PM
Loki is taking his time. Steve doesn't want to rush him, doesn't want to back him into a corner, but he can see Loki's trembling hands as they set the cast iron pot over the fire, laying it on the old-fashioned spit. Then, he sinks very slowly into an armchair, and looks at Steve uncertainly, as if he isn't sure what Steve is going to say.
Steve isn't sure either.
"Can you—" He's aware of how harsh his tone is, how heavy his breathing is, and he takes a second to inhale, pressing his palm hard against his mouth. "Could you show me? The conversation that led to Odin saying that? I don't know if that's overstepping a boundary or not, I don't know… If it is, you can say."
"It isn't overstepping a boundary," Loki murmurs. "I don't mind sharing memories with you. But Steven, I can't… I don't understand—"
"Show me," Steve says quietly. Loki reaches out, his fingers brushing against Steve's temple, and Steve feels the memory wash over him, just like it had when Loki showed him the Grandmaster a few months ago.
You are dizzy, and exhausted. It had taken great energy indeed not to panic at the gag Thor had laid over your mouth, and although your tingling lips are now free, chains clink heavily about your neck and your wrists, but you hold your head high, and you move with composure. You still feel Him like a purple haze at the edges of your mind, and you try to focus your expression onto Odin instead, focus on this monster instead of the other.
Your heart is pounding. Here, you are ready for death.
"Loki," Mother says – but she is not your mother, is she?
"Hello, Mother," you say coldly. She must learn not to love you. She must be free of you, for once and for all. "Have I made you proud?" She recoils as if stung, looking at you with horror shining in her eyes, and you feel your twisted heart shatter.
"Please, don't make this worse." You suppress the violent urge to laugh, embittered at your situation and hers alike.
"Define worse," you say.
"Enough! I will speak to the prisoner alone!" Odin declares, and your gaze slides to the old man upon his throne. You are overwhelmed by the sickening hatred within you, heating your newly cold blood and driving you near-feral with rage, and you suppress the urge to spit upon the ground. No – he already thinks you a savage. Best not to prove him right.
"The prisoner?" you repeat, amusedly. "And yet, the last time we had one of these charming little tête-a-têtes, you were calling me your son. How the times change!" Odin looks at you with such disgust shining in his single eye – had he always looked at you like that? Have you simply been blind to it, all these years? You, the savage, the monster, the Frost Giant.
"You killed countless Midgardians," Odin says. "What have you to say for yourself?"
"You killed my wife," you reply smoothly. "She was worth a million." It's even true. Anything to distract the man from the purple threads dug through Loki's mind, anything to keep him distracted and emotional. Odin's old lips draw back, displaying his teeth.
"Your wife," he repeats, "was nothing more—"
"Than the same species as me!" You nearly scream, and you surge in your chains, but two Einherjar hold you back. "You let some paltry guards murder all that was dear to me, had my children fettered to the nine stars, and why!? So that I wouldn't discover that which you hid from me. My birthright."
"Your birthright," Odin says damningly, "was to die."
"I wish you'd let me." Odin stares at him. He doesn't recoil, but Loki sees the momentary slackening of his features – that has hurt him. Good. "I tried the first time to end this paltry little affair, but I yet lived. I suggest you swing the sword soon, Father, lest I live still."
"Your mother petitioned that you be imprisoned," Odin says lowly. "Not executed."
"She is not my mother," you whisper. "And I would rather die that spend one more day under the gaze of your ugly eye, caged or not."
"No!" Thor yells, rushing into the room, and you feel your eyes clench tightly closed.
"Get out!" you snap, half-desperately. "This is no place for a child playing king—"
"You can't kill him!"
"And what is your suggestion, my son?" Odin says, archly. The last two words strike you like a dagger, and you glance to the sword of the Einherjar closest to you, wondering if you can slit your own throat even with your seiðr bound, but the Einherjar notices your wandering gaze and shoves you to your knees.
"That's enough, I think," Loki says quietly. He is looking down at the floor instead of making eye contact with Steve, and Steve can see the shame on his face, the shame and the humiliation, the desperation— Steve grabs at Loki's hand, holding it tightly.
"It's okay," he says. "It's not— Christ, Loki."
"I didn't recall, before I agreed… I was thinking of the conversation, not my train of thought at the time. I oughtn't have—"
"Loki," Steve whispers. He takes Loki's hand, and he presses it against his heart, where it is beating a little faster than he would like in his chest. God, it's never easy. "It's… I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at him. He shouldn't have said that to you. He was— Would he have done it?"
"Executed me?" Loki asks, breathlessly. His fingers press at the muscle of Steve's chest through the fabric of his shirt, and he swallows, hard. "I don't think so. He was eager for any excuse not to, despite his anger in the moment. He'd never have entertained Thor so rudely interrupting court proceedings otherwise. Steven, he… It's very complicated."
"He killed your wife," Steve says helplessly.
"No, he didn't," Loki whispers. "An Einherjar killed my wife. He saw a Jötunn in Jötunheimr, angry and drawing her blade, and he killed her. He didn't know she was my wife – he couldn't possibly have conceived of the idea that I, a prince of Asgard, would lie with a creature he thought was a monster. And I ripped his heart from his chest as it still beat as punishment." Loki laughs, bitterly. "And what did that accomplish? Two more children left without a father, who grew up knowing the Asgardian prince killed their father for defeating a beast." He turns his face away, dragging his hand away from Steve's chest, and he wipes at his left eye, wiping away a tear that threatens to well up there. "Forgiveness does not come naturally to me. I am… Angry, and bitter, and I feel ever as if I am made of shattered edges. But do not tell me I should not forgive Odin, because I cannot do anything else."
Loki drops to his knees on the rug before the fire, and he takes the pot off the flames, stirring the dark contents before setting it back. The scent of bitter chocolate is beginning to permeate the room, rising easily on the warm air. "Odin allowed my children to be taken from me, and he fettered them across the Nine Realms. Odin sent the Einherjar to my marriage home, without warning. Odin, afterwards, said that it was my fault for choosing such a creature as my bride. But I can't—"
Loki stops for a long, long moment. "I'm so tired, Steven. I cannot bear to spend another day despising the man that raised me as his son. I cannot stand the rage inside me, ever snarling and snapping, ever forcing me from one extreme to another. I feel it shall consume me. And what will it change? Angrboða will still be dead. My children were lost to me for a thousand years, but now they are free. Hating Odin will not retroactively release them sooner."
"Forgiveness," Steve says softly. "It's about… Loki, forgiveness is one thing. Not holding a grudge. But someone has to want to change to be forgiven." And Odin hasn't shown that he wants to change. Hell, didn't he just try to refuse Loki, when he tried to free Hel, Jormungandr and Fenrisúlfr?
"And how can he change, with me digging into him at every moment?" Loki asks, his tone just as soft as Steve's, his voice pleading. "How can he change, when I attack him every time he tries? You said, when I first tried to kiss you, that I couldn't consent, and I didn't understand what you meant. And I understand now, but that concept isn't universal. No one is born with that understanding. And no one is born knowing how to… How to love. How to communicate one's feelings. How to forgive. I am learning. So is he." Carefully, Steve drops down onto the rug beside Loki. He feels the soft fur beneath him, and he puts his hands very gently on the sides of Loki's neck, his thumbs touching the edges of his jaw.
"I don't want to see this guy hurt you any more than he has."
"I know," Loki murmurs. "But he's— He's my father, Steve. It doesn't matter how many times I deny it, he… He's my father. And I, stupidly or not… I believe he loves me. I think he's stupid, and foolish, and cruel, but he loves me. And I don't think I could forgive myself if I cut off all bond to him forever, and he…" Loki closes his eyes, and his hands touch over Steve's own. "Even the Asgardians that eat of Iðunn's fruit are not immortal, Steven. Me aside, all of us will die of old age in the end. And Odin's time is fading."
"What do you mean?" Steve asks, softly. "You aside? What, you'll live longer because you're Jötunn?"
"Worry not about it," Loki says, but his tone is a little too hurried.
"No, tell me. What does that mean?" Loki sighs.
"The way I use magic… It does more than offer me energy to perform acts of seiðr work, or to shapeshift. It is energy, in its purest, basest form, and it flows through me. It… It is very likely that I will far exceed the lifespan expected of me. That I will live for hundreds of thousands of years, if it comes to that." Steve stares at him, his mouth open. Steve worries, sometimes, about not ageing, about living to be two or three hundred instead of eighty, but… Hundreds of thousands of years— "I try not to think about it. The thought has always rather unnerved me, and… And I was supposed to die within the next few hundred years."
"Does Thor know?" Steve asks in a whisper.
"Nobody knows," Loki mutters. "Amora and I… Amora is an enchantress, the greatest enchantress upon Asgard. We've discussed it once or twice, for we practice magic in much the same way, but I never felt it would affect me in a practical sense. The more one uses magic, the more it curses you. Nothing comes without a price. Nothing. Living that long…" Loki trails off. "It changes you. The Elders of the Universe, for example – do you have tales of them here, on Midgard?" Steve shakes his head. Loki moves to grasp the pot of hot chocolate from the fire, and he pours two mugs of the thick stuff, passing one of them to Steve.
"All I know is that the guy from before, the Grandmaster… He's an Elder, right?" Loki nods, and Steve glances down to his mug, bringing it slowly to his mouth and taking a sip.
It's bitter and slightly spicy, more like a brew of tea than cocoa, and the taste is a little strong for him. Loki drinks heavily from his mug, however, and relaxes marginally as he leans back with the mug in his hands. "The Elders are beings from the beginning few centuries of the universe. They're so full of magic that they're saturated with it. They can snap their fingers and start new realities or end them, and each of them has a specialist interest, an obsession, that they cannot live without. You see, the universe cannot let them have such awesome power and let it go unchecked – there needs to be some sort of balance in motion, and thus, each of them has their sphere of influence. I've met two. One, he's called Taneleer Tivan – the Collector. He collects everything – stamps and coins, costumes and weapons, but most of all, he collects living specimens. People. His museum of curiosities on Knowhere is…" Loki trails off, and his lip curls slightly in disgust: he buries it in the mug once more. "And the other. Ord Zyonz. The Gardener."
"The Gardener?" Loki nods. His disgust gives way to a fond smile, distant.
"He can take the most barren world and make it lush and green and beautiful. His knowledge of botany and horticulture is unparalleled… The thing that unites the Elders is that they are the last surviving members of their species, each of them long-since lost to the annals of time, but none of them is bogged down in melancholy. They are all so awesome in power that they are as gods to us as we are to Midgardians. Every one of them is dangerous – even Ord, who is kindly at heart, struggles to understand the concerns of mere mortals, which is all the Æsir are to them." Steve reaches out, and he puts his hand on Loki's knee.
"I'm not gonna say you won't live that long," Steve murmurs. "'Cause that seems, uh, a little fatalistic. But, Loki, you can't just live your life in fear that it'll last too long."
"Nor can you," Loki responds.
"Touché." Steve bites his lip. "You always seem to know what everyone else is thinking. Doesn't it get exhausting? Predicting what everyone else is gonna do before they do it?"
"Unbearably so. But I don't really know how to stop." I wish I did goes unsaid, but Steve hears it in Loki's voice nonetheless.
"I hate this," he admits, and he pours his hot chocolate into Loki's mug. Loki lets out a soft, sweet laugh, and he sets his own mug aside, shifting closer, his hands either side of Steve's thighs. "Oh, this, though," Steve murmurs. "This, I like."
"Don't I frighten you?" Loki asks. He whispers the question, as if he's hoping Steve won't hear it.
"No," Steve answers. "No, I don't think so. Why? Do you want to?"
"No." Loki glances down at Steve's chest, his expression quietly pensive. "But I feel there must be some cosmic catch to this arrangement."
"What do you mean?" Steve asks.
"Some people aren't destined to be happy," Loki murmurs quietly. "Every time I allow myself to sink into domesticity, it is snapped in one way or another, and I don't wish to see you hurt because of my folly in permitting this engagement." Steve feels something dark in his chest burn with heat – a fierce, sudden desire for revenge, but revenge against who? The whole damn universe? Destiny itself?
"You don't have to worry about destiny anymore," Steve promises, and he sets his hand on Loki's chest. Very gently, Loki takes hold of his wrist and slides it to the right of his body, about a quarter of the way down his torso, and this, Steve realises, this is where Loki's heartbeat is most powerful. "That's where your heart is, huh?"
"Right there," Loki confirms softly. "I'm sure it seems so dull compared to yours."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, no stars, no stripes… My heart must be so plain compared to yours." Steve shoves him in the chest, and Loki falls back onto the rug, laughing.
"One more word out of that smart mouth—"
"And what? You'll put a flag in me?"
"I'll put more than that in you." Loki smiles, sprawled as he is on the ground, like he belongs there. Loki is looking at him with a quietly interested stare, and Steve thinks about how he'd first felt when he'd seen Loki's eyes, red-rimmed and heavily affected by the power of the Tesseract. He'd been uncertain, aware that this god was unpredictable, erratic, full of chaos— He doesn't see that any more. Loki feels predictable, now, working within a set framework no one has ever bothered to unpack. You ask uncommon questions, he'd said, but somebody's first time… Isn't that a question that always comes up in the end? Isn't that a normal curiosity, even for alien cultures? "You ever have questions you want to ask me?" he asks, softly.
"Some," Loki murmurs. He is slightly cautious, as if he is waiting for the hidden catch in Steve's question, but there is none. The silence hangs between them for a long few moments until Loki asks, "You seem like a very private man. I know now what I should ask and what I should not."
"You can ask," Steve says, sotto voce. "You can always— I'll never get angry at you for asking me a question. And that's not just about Earth stuff or explaining something. You can ask me about stuff, memories, stuff like that. I can't show you mine like you can show me yours, but I don't want you to feel like you have to tell me stuff and you can't ask me about anything." Loki lays his hands delicately upon his stomach, looking up at him.
"Tell me about Peggy," he says softly. It's like a punch to Steve's gut, and he doesn't know what his face looks like, but he sees Loki's eyes widen, sees him recoil and shift upon the rug. "Sorry," he mutters, and he takes up his mug of hot chocolate and hurries out of the room – he moves so fast Steve can't really stop him, and Steve remains kneeling on the rug beside the quietly crackling fire.
You said he could ask you anything, says the voice that sounds Erskine.
But not about her, Steve thinks back, helplessly.
July 30th, 2012
10:36PM
Loki stands with his hands in his pockets, and he stares up at the statue. He isn't visible to the security cameras upon the island, and even if he were, it would take some minutes for a ferry to come out to the island to apprehend. In the warm light of the lingering summer evening, the Statue of Liberty shines brightly green above him, and he stares up at the crown, the torch…
"You a tourist now?" Loki turns his head, and he looks at Anthony – Tony. Iron Man hovers some thirty feet above the ground, the propulsors in the boots of the red suit keeping him suspended, and Loki wonders if it was wrong of him to leave him so visible to any that might search for him.
"Mother of Exiles," Loki says. "Am I a tourist if she welcomes me thus?" Tony is silent. The face of the Iron Man is somewhat disconcerting, lacking as it is in all basic expression, but Loki takes gracefully onto the air to join him. Of course, Iron Man's expression does not change, but he sees the marginal shift in Stark's shoulders, the way he leans back marginally.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine," Loki says. "You?"
"I'm okay," Stark says. "Fighting crime, you know. No big deal."
"No big deal," Loki echoes.
"Jeeze, you look… Real down, Lo. You sure you should be on your own right now?"
"I did something—" Loki stops himself. "Best I give him space for now." Stupid of him. Truly, truly stupid of him – Loki is a perceptive man, someone who understands that which others are sensitive to, who understands where he ought tread lightly, but he had been so desperate, when Steve had said he could ask questions, and— He's read about Peggy Carter. Seen her work after Steve Rogers went into the ice, wished to understand precisely what they were to one another, and he had been so eager to know more…
"You want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Okay. You wanna go get ice cream on Ninth?"
"It's the middle of the night."
"So? It's July. Bet you're real hot." The heat is oppressive. As soon as Loki had left the apartment he had felt the way the cloying stick of the New York summer to his skin, and with no breeze to speak of, there is nothing to temper it.
"Alright," Loki says. Tony leads the way, and he seems to jolt when Loki flies beside him, using his seiðr to control his movement through the air – it is different indeed to Skywalking, which requires a lot more careful calculations of energy usage and gravity. Flight, in contrast, is easy. When they land in the street, Stark's suit folds neatly away from his body and disappears beneath his wine-coloured shirt and his dark trousers. People look at him, but most of all they look at Loki as he lands neatly upon the ground, with quiet awe and curiosity. Loki ties his hair into a tighter bun.
There are too many flavours of ice cream in the ice cream parlour, so many bright colours and overly alliterative labels that Loki looks at each of them and cannot quite pick one. He is almost grateful for the distraction when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, and anxiety bursts in his chest as he realises who the message is from.
Steve Rogers, 10:53
You still in New York?
Loki, 10:53
Yes. Getting ice cream with Anthony.
Steve Rogers, 10:54
Good. Just wanted to check you were okay. We don't have to talk about it when you come home, if you don't want. I'm sorry for going silent on you – I'm not angry. It just kinda took me by surprise.
Steve Rogers, 10:54
Get me a raspberry ripple?
Loki, 10:55
I am a complete foreigner to this planet, and even I know nobody has taken that flavour of ice cream since 1952.
Steve Rogers, 10:55
Nonetheless.
Loki, 10:56
Roger that, Captain.
Loki swallows, sliding his phone into his pocket once more, and he says quietly, "May I have a small tub of the Grapefruit Giggle, please?" The young lady behind the counter, a pale-skinned creature with a buzzcut and a ring through the fabric of her lip, gives a short nod of her head, and moves to reach for the ice cream scoop. "And a cornet with two scoops of the Raspberry Ripple," Loki adds softly. Tony doesn't permit him to pay for the two portions of ice cream himself (and nor does he ask about the second). Loki momentarily banishes the second ice cream to a pocket dimension somewhere in the vicinity of his own hip, keeping it cold and unmalting until he returns to Steve's apartment.
"You could get a bigger portion, you know," Tony murmurs. "Don't think it'd kill you to put on some weight."
"The Jötnar don't build fat deposits like humans do," Loki says, bringing the small, plastic spoon to the thick, creamy substance and tasting it bitter and sharp upon his tongue. "Besides, I had an omelette for breakfast, and I oughtn't eat too much dairy in the course of a day." Tony glances at him, a grin drawing at his features.
"You lactose intolerant? Seriously?"
"There are no farms on Jötunheimr," Loki says simply. "My people don't drink milk of any kind. Jötunn young are fed soft meats, even – it would make little sense were I to be entirely able to digest lactose of any kind." Loki takes a slow bite of his ice cream, and he recalls the fear and uncertainty he had felt when he had borne Fenrisúlfr within him, and his stubborn breast had offered no milk to feed his new child. How it had frightened him at the time, how terrible a mother had felt, and without the means to study the process of lactation, without the means to replicate its process with shapeshifting alone…
"What's going on in that head of yours, huh?" Tony asks softly, and he gestures for Loki to sit down on a bench with him. Loki does, sliding to seat himself on the cool wood. "I heard from Nat that you, uh, that you got your kids back."
"Yes," Loki murmurs. "Fenrisúlfr and Jormungandr are now settled upon a planet I know well in the Gaian System, and Hel is on Fenix IV. I am very glad to see them free."
"I always wanted to be a dad," Tony murmurs. "Sometimes, I wake up, and I think about me and Pepper just… Settling down, you know. Hanging up the suit. Having a few kids run around." Loki watches him for a long few moments as Tony carefully licks a stripe around his chocolate cone, preventing its contents from dripping down over his fingers. "What's it like?"
"It's everything," Loki whispers. "You wake up one morning with this… Tiny little thing in your arms. And you know that your heart is broken already, for half of it lies now outside your chest, its beat faster than your own. When I looked upon my very first son, the feeling was indescribable. The pride I felt, the surprise that so beautiful a creature could have come from me—" He thinks of Sleipnir with his eight clumsy legs, whinnying softly as he tried and failed to stand. Loki recalls himself exhausted and seiðr-weak, gently washing away blood and tissue from his new foal's soft skin. He recalls the sensation of Sleipnir's new muscle, his soft skin, even now, remembers even the scent of him—
"I'm sorry," Tony is saying, and he presses a napkin into Loki's hand. Loki realises his eyes are watering, and he takes it, dabbing at his eyes. He cries so much, as of late, at scarcely anything – it is weak of him, weak indeed. He ought have more control than this. "I didn't mean to upset you. Your first son, that's… That's uh, Fenris, right?"
"Fenrisúlfr," Loki says. "No, he was my second. Sleipnir was my first." Tony's expression freezes for a second.
"Sleipnir, the uh, the horse?"
"Yes," Loki answers. "Fenrisúlfr the wolf."
"Like," Tony hesitates. "Like, literally? Horse and wolf?"
"Of course."
"God," Tony says, turning his head to the side for a second. Loki expects him to laugh, to offer some mocking joke perhaps, but neither comes. Instead, Tony runs a hand through his dark hair, and he shakes his head. "It's hard, you know, to… To grasp how different you are. The universe must be so weird from your perspective. People, animals. Gods, men. For you, all of them blend together."
"Yes," Loki agrees. "Of course, there is a separate category."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"The Hulk." Loki smiles thinly, and Tony laughs at his joke, leaning back against the bench and looking entirely at home there. The bustle of the city is something Loki can appreciate on many levels, but he is aware that he doesn't belong here in the way that others do: Tony is one of those easy souls that New York seems to open its very soul to, leaving him at ease regardless of where in the city he lands. Loki takes another small bite of his ice cream, and he thinks of Sleipnir, stabled upon Asgard even now. "Thor doesn't know, you know."
"Know what?"
"That Sleipnir is mine. You know the tale, I assume?"
"I've heard versions," Tony admits. "The big stallion, uh, Svad?"
"Svaðilfari." Loki has no more appetite for his ice cream, and he sets it neatly onto the wooden planks of the bench beside him. "My father kept the truth hidden from everyone in Asgard, except for himself and Heimdall. I was already often mocked and made a game of amidst the Asgardians, and already it was plain to all that I did not belong in Asgard. I wasn't merely the second son, I was… The people of Asgard hated me. So viscerally, at times, I don't think… I was only a boy. I didn't understand it at the time, didn't understand what I could possibly do to fix how they saw me, couldn't conceive of how to make them love me. But it wasn't truly about my choices, or what I wanted to do. I was foreign, visibly so, even if no one suspected my true heritage. It wasn't my fault, but at the time I felt that surely, surely if I could be less ergi, I might win the people's favour. You know what it is like, I think, to fall upon the sword of public opinion." Tony is looking at him with that uncertain, quietly caring look in his eyes, but Loki finds his mind wandering. He thinks of Steve's words about Thor, thinks of all that Thor does not know…
"My dad wasn't a great dad," Tony murmurs. "He… I don't mean to beat on him. He was friends with Steve, you know, back in the day, but— He wasn't a good dad. And I always kinda struggled, I guess, with the fact that I hated him and I loved him at the same time. Sound familiar?"
"Yes," Loki murmurs. "A parent needs to be more than loving to be good, Anthony." After a moment's hesitation, he allows his hand to alight on the other man's shoulder. "You will be an admirable father."
"You don't know that."
"I do," Loki replies. "I'm a patron of parents on many planets. Young mothers especially, but parents in general. I know." Something small and subtle changes in Tony's face, the slightest blossom of relief, and Loki smiles. "I must return. Thank you, for the ice cream."
"Thanks for the talk, big guy," Tony replies. Loki allows the universe itself to shift around him, feels the dimensional transitway drag him along like a train upon a track, and he settles in the corridor of Steve's apartment, holding the ice cream in his hand. He knocks quietly on the door of the bedroom, and he steps inside.
Steve is sat on the edge of the bed, a sketchpad in his hands. Loki sees the smooth, artful strokes of the pencil upon the cream of the paper, sees his own hard features wrought in graphite before Steve hurriedly turns the page over and sets the book aside.
Loki hands him the ice cream, and Steve smiles, looking at it.
"Thanks," he murmurs. Loki sinks slowly onto the edge of the bed beside him, and he stares down at his own palms. He allows his scars to slide into place, and he looks at the marks of battle upon his fingers and his hands, at the chunk of flesh missing on one side, at the ghost of Fenrisúlfr's young jaws on the other side. "You didn't have to go out, you know."
"I didn't want you to feel you had to seek me out, to comfort me," Loki murmurs. "I wished to give you… Space."
"You know, growing up in Brooklyn… You never had space." Steve takes a slow lick of his ice cream, and he adds, "Some of the apartments here had twelve people in 'em. We grew up near the shtetel – the Jewish ghetto. That's how I knew Bucky. And you know, the Irish, we were still kinda looked down on a little, although that was fading fast, same as the Italians. But I was so used to being surrounded by people on every damn side, and yet no one was a stranger. I knew the name of every single person that lived in our building. Knew the names of every person in our street, and they knew me. It was close quarters living – Hell when there was stuff going around, I got scarlet fever one year, and a lot of kids my age died – but it wasn't like it is today. Sometimes I walk through this city, and I'm in a crowd of fifty people, but all it feels like is space. I'm just saying, you know… Sometimes what you'd need in a situation isn't the same as what I need. You know?"
Loki slides his hand down the expanse of Steve's back, feeling the tense muscle there. "I'd like to tell you more about her someday," Steve murmurs. "Introduce you. But right now, I… I don't think I'm ready to do that." Loki feels a sick, cool sensation begin at his heart and spread gel-like over the surface of his lungs, his two livers, his entire torso. He feels it tug at the strings of his gut, feels the difficulty at keeping his expression entirely impassive, not allowing it to change at all.
Steve doesn't seem convinced. "Let's play a game," he murmurs. "Truth or dare."
"That's a party game."
"Two's a party." Loki feels the bitterness within him well like a storm, and he feels the distant urge to strike Steve, now, to leave upon his heel. The wolf, snapping its jaws within him, hates how Peggy Carter dominates the other man's mind, although she is old, and Steve is not. Logically, Loki knows this line of thought to be stupid, and cruel, and self-indulgent…
"I don't want to," Loki says, his voice a little harsher than he intended, "I don't see the point."
"You can ask me questions," Steve says softly. "Fast-paced, whatever you want."
"Just not about her."
"Not about her."
"I don't want to." Steve sighs.
"That's okay." It isn't okay, Loki wants to growl. It isn't okay. Why am I so full of hatred all the time? Why can't I be like you? Kind and warm and easy, never feeling a bad thing about anybody? Why do I have to be the monster? You volunteered for your role – I was forced into mine.
Feelings torrent within him like a storm, and Loki feels his fists clench at his side: he is struck by a sudden desire to drag his teeth down Steve's neck, take him into pieces until he'd never dare not to answer a question Loki posed him, make him kneel at Loki's feet—
"I'm going to sleep in my office," Loki says, a little thickly. Steve pauses for a second, looking him up and down.
"You sure you don't want to talk about it?"
"Talking won't help."
"Talking always helps."
"No."
"Okay. You want to fight it out?" Loki freezes. "Conjure a different dimension. We can spar. Tire you out a little." A vision assails Loki's mind: Steve Rogers sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily with Loki's marks all over his chest, his neck, even a scratch bleeding lightly across his cheek. His hands are up, and he bows his head in submission. Loki feels disgust.
"I don't think that will help me either." Steve sets his jaw, and his eyes darken slightly.
"Fine," he mutters. "Go on, then. Go sleep in your office." Loki punches him. The motion is so swift and so sharp that Steve's head whips to the side with a sickening crack, and Loki feels the head of Steve's blood upon his knuckles. Quietly, Steve laughs, and he gets to his feet. He widens his stance, throwing the ice cream into the air – Loki vanishes it before it can hit the ground. "Guess we're fighting after all."
"You are a child," Loki whispers.
"No," he replies. "You're just angry. Pent-up. If you won't talk, we'll work it out a different way." He speaks in a measured, commanding tone, as if Loki is little more than one of his soldiers, and it infuriates him.
"This is ridiculous," Loki snaps. "It isn't any of your business where I—" Steve's jab goes for his throat, but Loki blocks the move, stepping into Steve's space and bodily pushing him back to prevent him from building up the momentum for another strike, but Steve responds by hooking one foot under Loki's ankle and elbowing him in the side as he falls. Loki lands with a huff of air and a sharp thump against the floor.
Immediately, the bedroom fades away around them, replaced by the dust and sawdust of an arena, and Loki stands to his feet.
"No magic," Steve says.
"No shield," Loki replies.
"No knives."
"No talking." They stand for a moment, staring into each other's eyes, one figure from the ice poised against the other, and Loki feels himself – an ugly part of himself, an angry part of himself – soar to be able to send the arrogant Captain America sprawling in the dust.
It is Steve that strikes first.