Day before it was an op. A witch they'd found his grimoires and an object. Stane as he on occasion does drops by at base or else or wherever he's closer, heard the tell waited the chance stole a glance and pictures, to his lab sent, research made and translations, a discovery. Such power the relic possessed invincible can make one,
immortal…
Years he's tried to talk them into using relics he missed the time they had before – couldn't post what happened to Bruce and Erskine persuade them.
That relic, he will have it, whatever it takes. And from whom it was taken not one witch but of a coven, and they wanted it back and he tracked them down and promised, with their aid with his intel and plan they'd retrieve it. They did not trust him – they agreed. They meant to kill him after, and he with Tony's inventions and his own meant alike to drop them.
…It was not supposed to go the way that it had – he told the team he told Howard, Tony was not meant to die let alone be harmed! – it didn't work trying to pin it somehow on the tribrid,
who shortly after apparated behind him.
XX
To the shower he led him, said he'd wrap something up and return promptly.
…It hasn't slipped Tony's mind,
who was accountable for what happened.
XX
No beat to react into the chair into Stane's back he jammed a hand around his heart wrapped it – squeezed – Stane screamed – guns were aimed
none shot
– he tore out his heart, to Stane's face held it to his eyes that seconds after were grey, departed. Into his limp lap the organ dropped – facing none of the heads or Steve stood in the room Loki spoke sharply:
"Do you know what he told me, this fucking morning? He said he was tired, of living in constant fear – killing, being what you made him to be," Howard's pointedly addressed gaze face churned in wrath and repulsion. "He wanted out, of the so-called life you'd forced him into – I never should have let him come back," a breath shaken left him greens watered. Guns down speechless as the rest most unable to permit Loki's presence – a tribrid…To to him speak this way,
blame him.
"...He's not gonna be able to live with himself like this," tensely said – a look incredulous Loki gave – greens narrow – he frigidly asks him:
"...And if he can? If he chooses life, over death, would you condemn him? Would you. Be repulsed, by him?"
"...This isn't life; it's not right."
"Not right?" widen those eyes steps he closer takes edging everyone standing. "Not right, would be to raise him into this militia, not right, would be to treat him like a soldier, or a boy, instead of your son, not right, would be to yell and push – never once give a kind word! – When was the last time you told him you loved him? When was the last time...you told you were proud...of the man that he'd become – no thanks to you," every word cut was searing hot Howard could not respond to – rage built up near matching Loki's who did not relent. "All he's ever done, was to try and make you proud…When it should've been the other way around. You should have protected him – You should have been there, when he needed you,"
to whom then does he speak his own tears fall – he blames himself – won't speak it.
"…This is as much your fault as it is that wretched piece of filth's," head to the corpse tilts.
A pregnant beat all're fazed shocked and grieved intensely.
"…What are you gonna do?" hoarsely Howard asked disdainful. "Teach him to kill?"
"I'm gonna teach him to live, Howard. How to live. Something that you never could."