Five years later.
Tony is antsy. Despite himself, he is antsy, and he fidgets in his seat, tapping his thigh and bouncing his knee in its place. Pepper will occasionally give him a glance, a mix of "Stop it," and "Are you okay?", but Tony can't stop it and isn't okay, feels the heaviness of anxiety in his chest, weighting down his ribs.
"Do I need to be here?" he asks, for the fourth time: Natasha just gives him a hard stare. Clint turns, not because he hears the question (he's lost his hearing aids somewhere, C, though Tony would bet $100 that he's just "forgotten" them in case there are speeches today), and looks quizzically at Tony for a long few moments. He's a weird guy, Clint – Tony likes him.
"You okay?" Clint signs lazily, with just one hand. Tony shrugs his shoulders. Pressing his lips together, Clint nods his understanding, and nudges Natasha in the side.
The Avengers Initiative, which has now been running for two years, is one of the best things that's ever happened to Tony. He loves the work, loves being able to help people, loves working with Bruce Banner or with Clint in the lab, loves everything about it. He even loves being Iron Man, now that the terror of a secret identity has passed.
And yet here it is, that awful discomfort in his chest, this irrational sensation of complete fear over nothing at all except meeting oh, he doesn't know, a god.
Beside him, Steve nudges him in the side. Tony meets his gaze.
"He's not even that tall, Shellhead," Steve mutters. "Calm down." Tony sniggers. Steve offers him a small smile, nothing more than a little quirk of lips, and Tony inhales slowly. Steve Rogers came out of the ice and became an immediate pain in Tony's ass, but these days, it's all fine. Rogers understands the stupidity of Tony's anxiety attacks much better than Tony himself. "I met him already. He's a pretty nice fella."
"Blond, blue eyes, muscle man. You just think you're a nice fella." Steve grins, shows all of his super-soldier pearly whites. He and Sam Wilson are on the trail of some ex-Russian guy, a spy of sorts, who caused a huge problem last year in the middle of the city: apparently Steve'd known him back during the war, before he got put on ice. Steve doesn't show the stress too much these days, even though he must be under a lot. Tony breathes in, slowly one, two, three.
The doors open: all four of them stand. Bruce is out on some project with Rhodey in Maine, and Tony can't help but wish either of them were here, where he could talk to them, let them talk instead of Tony. Bruce and Rhodey are good at talking to people without pissing them the Hell of – Tony, not so much.
Thor Odinson is over six feet tall, with blond hair down to his neck and a short beard, tied up in a messy bun behind his head. He looks a little different from the photos Nick Fury had shown them – his hair is longer, as is his beard, and he seems bigger somehow, more important.
But then, it was eight years ago when Thor was last on Earth: maybe that's a long time on Asgard.
"You are the Avengers?" he asks, and he smiles. He has a nice smile, reminds Tony of a Labrador. Tony's heart is beating too fast in his chest, under the whir of the Arc Reactor, and he can hear his blood pounding in his ears. If he doesn't calm down right now, he's going to have a full-blown panic attack in front of their new team member.
He steps out.
Standing on the fire escape of the SHIELD building, he rests his elbows on the metal railing and starts a breathing exercise. Behind him, he hears the door open and close again, hears the quiet click of a stiletto heel on the metal of the floor: Pepper. She doesn't say a word to him, just lets him work through it.
Twenty-five minutes later, in a private bar, he greets Thor Odinson with a playboy smile and a confident hand shake. It'll just be a little party, mostly of SHIELD consultants and a few of the X-Men, some local heroes. It's not every day you get a whole new member of your team from outer space, is it? Disregarding that weird kid in the Young Avengers.
"Hey there, big guy. Tony Stark."
"You are the Man of Iron," Thor says cheerfully. "I have heard much of your exploits! You are as an Asgardian, making merry as you go. Have you fondness of ale?"
"You know what? I kinda prefer spirits," Tony says. Thor's quizzical expression melts away when he sees Tony's laugh, and he begins to laugh himself. "You're gonna be staying in the Avengers Tower – I built it, and I maintain it, so if you need anything or if you need something done, let me know. I bankroll a lot of the Avengers stuff, even if it's got SHIELD's name on it, you know?"
Doesn't play well with others, Tony thinks. That was even true, once. The thought makes him smile.
"I must have a horse!" Thor says earnestly.
"A horse? That's… We have cars, wouldn't you prefer that? Or a jet, or— You know what? Send me a list, and I'll let Cap go through stuff with you. For, uh, logistics."
"Cap?"
"Captain America – Steve Rogers."
"Ah, yes!" Thor claps one of his big, meaty hands on Tony's back, and Tony holds in the desperate need to wheeze. That man has some damned muscles on him. "Thank you! I look forward to seeing your might on the battlefield!"
"You too, big guy," Tony says mildly, and he looks fondly after Thor as he goes. Taking a few steps toward the bar, he leans over and orders a whiskey.
"I'll get that," says a smooth voice beside him, with some European accent. The guy is maybe five nine, five ten, with hair a little darker, sandier than Thor's, and blue eyes. There are no real similarities between them, though: this guy has a thin face with soft lines, and he doesn't have the same chiselled jaw; his beard is much shorter, too, trimmed in short little pieces around his mouth and chin. There is something vaguely familiar about his face, but Tony can't quite place it.
"Thanks," Tony says, taking the glass as the woman behind the bar pours him a measure. The guy is drinking a tall glass of some kind of ale with a big head, managing to sip at it without coming away with froth on his moustache – Tony's gonna have to ask how the Hell he manages that. "You buy people drinks often, or am I just a special girl?"
"I confess, I've been hoping to meet you for quite some time," he says, pushing his hair back from his face. Pinned through the shell of his left ear, there is a silver bar, and it matches the tie pin on his silver skinny tie: Tony can't pronounce the name, but he can see the pin has been fashioned after Thor's hammer. The stranger is wearing a soft grey suit, paired with a green shirt, and it actually looks good rather than ridiculous, even with his fancy tie pin and shiny shoes. The suit's tailored nicely to the guy's body, and Tony can see the way that it sticks at his shoulders, his hips, his legs. "I do some consultation work for SHIELD' technology division."
"Do you?" Tony asks immediately, not bothering to hide his intrigue. Very few engineers do consultation work for SHIELD – a lot of them come out of SHIELD's own schools, and pretty much feed into their departments from college 'til untimely death.
"Mmm. My name is Luke Svensson: I'm the founder of Kuldeheim Industries."
"Kuldeheim," Tony repeats. "Sounds like some of the names the Asgardians have for their other realms – you a big fan or something?" Svensson laughs: he has very white teeth, but they're a little crooked in places, and yet Tony finds himself amazed at how chill this guy seems, how calm. Some people have their own energies, he guesses – not when it comes to some psychic shit, but just that some people give off the feeling that they're in charge, or that they're ready to take orders; that they're not someone to mess with, or that they're a prankster. This guy comes across as without a care, without seeming like he has weed stuffed into every pocket of his stupid suit.
"No, although I believe that was why Ms Danvers placed me on the guestlist – she certainly saw the humour in it. My parents were each academics before they retired: they believed Loki to be a rather good name for a child, and it actually says that on my birth certificate, if you can believe it. Luke is a little more usual for one to go by, however," Svensson says mildly. "I was raised on the Norse mythology. The pin was a gift from a friend some years back, and I appreciated the irony. Kuldeheim is similar to the names they have for Alfheim, for example, or Vanheim. Kulde means cold."
"Cold, huh?" Tony furrows his brow. Kuldeheim. It seems vaguely familiar, and Svensson's face feels like something he's seen before, but he can't quite place it. Svensson's gaze slowly pans away from Tony, fixating on something behind the bar. Tony follows the look: he is looking at the fridge behind the counter. It's a nice fridge, Tony guesses, with a glass front so that the bar staff can see inside, and with a touchpad on the outside to let them change the temperature. This is one of those new fridges that automatically takes its own stock, so that the staff don't have to manually do it at the end of the day. In an icy blue decal on its front, showing a tree in midwinter against a falling or rising sun, and below it declares its manufacturer: KULDEHEIM INDUSTRIES.
"Shit," Tony says. "We have your fridges in Avengers Tower." Tony grins. "They're meant to be the best on the market, right? Fridges, freezers, that kind of stuff." He knows precisely what sort of consultation Svensson does now – there are rows upon rows of hypersensitive blast chillers, freezers, fridges and cryochambers in the scientific labs of SHIELD, and he knows that just two years ago they had a lot of their stuff replaced with something an external engineer had designed. Tony remembers now where he's seen his face: he'd looked with curiosity at one of Fury's files, and been interested in the engineer who lacked security clearance, but who SHIELD was interested in courting. "Steve Rogers saw some of the stuff you did for SHIELD, and was surprised you had stuff on the general market, too – your fridges are hugely energy efficient, and they have some kind of… Fuck, like an air current system so that less heat escapes when the door is open?"
Svensson's nod is confident, but his smile is almost shy. It's a very small quirk of his lips, and he looks down as he smiles: Tony has to wonder how often the guy talks to other engineers, people who actually have an idea of what he makes beyond that it's useful. It's rare to find yourself on a level with somebody else in that way, Tony knows, and he feels lucky to have a few different scientists and engineers he can bounce ideas off, or just work alongside in the lab. He quite likes to work on something in one of the bigger labs in Avengers Tower while Clint Barton sits working on some new kind of arrow – there's no chatter or asking about each other's stuff, but just a simple companionship.
"You're pretty new on the circuit, aren't you? Kuldeheim – the company's like, four years old?"
Svensson seems to hesitate before responding: it looks like he's tasting his words in his mouth, feeling them on his tongue in the same way someone might taste wine. "I started out modifying kitchen appliances, trying to improve them. I would like to branch out, though: I'm actually currently experimenting with computers, tablets… I would adore to launch a smartphone."
"You're ambitious," Tony says, with a little admiration, and maybe a little flirtation. Where is Pepper? Would she hate this guy? Would it be fucked up if the first person Tony tried to get into bed with after their break-up was a dude? An engineer? A fridge expert? "Not everyone can be a playboy, genius, philanthropist…"
"I believe you're projecting, Mr Stark," Svensson says, with a small quirk of his lips. "I don't think I claimed to be any of those things." Tony finally takes a sip of the drink Svensson had bought him, and takes a seat at the bar. Svensson, with his long legs, stays standing, leaning casually against the bar as he drinks from his glass. "I'm a great admirer of your work. The Arc Reactor is a truly impressive piece of electromagnetism – it actually inspired me in my current venture."
"Yeah?" Tony asks, leaning his elbow on the bar and placing his chin upon his hand. "What's that?" Svensson's eyes light up: he takes his hand away from his glass, and gestures with some passion as he speaks.
"Computer processing! Our primary issue with laptops, smartphones and tablets is in the matter of size, you see: there is a limit to how much processing power you can fit into such a small space, as you need the processor to be small enough, and you need fans to keep the engine cool. I've been experimenting with tablets, initially – I'm currently testing a very early prototype, but it's so much more exciting to work with than fridges and freezers. I always found that sort of engineering quite simple, but computer science is much newer to me, and so fiddly in comparison. Oh, I love it." The guy is in his mid-thirties, but when he gets excited, some kind of energy seems to show in his eyes, something much more youthful, like he could be just nineteen.
How long has it been since Tony heard a guy talk so excitedly about something so completely within his sphere? How long has it been since Tony's talked to a civilian with such a damn brain in his head? Talked to someone who was just smart, without being a superhero or a mutant or an… Ex-carnie?
"Tony!" comes a call from the door: Rhodey is waving from across the bar, a big grin on his face, and Tony can see Bruce behind him.
"I gotta go, Mr Svensson."
"Luke is fine," Svensson breaks in. There's something different in his eyes, now, that Tony can see – a spark he hadn't quite spied before, a spark of something warm and friendly.
"Luke. You can call me Tony. Thanks for the drink – we should meet up some time. See if we can't make a playboy out of you." Svensson laughs, the sound long and low and deeper than Tony had expected.
"Of course, Tony," Svensson murmurs. He gives Tony a little wave, takes his drink, and steps away. He sees the guy later that night, engaged in deep conversation with Pietro Maximoff over drinks: Maximoff barely ever sits still, and cannot usually be convinced to maintain a regular conversation for a lengthy time, but he and Svensson had been speaking in Polish, and Tony imagines that improved the mutant's sympathy for Svensson quite a bit.
He'll look Svensson up once the party's over, he thinks. Guy seems pretty damned interesting.
✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯MY STARS FOR AN EMPIRE ✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯
One hour earlier.
Loki vomits, and the thickness of his own bile makes him cough. His most recent meal – a rather over-seasoned chicken breast, paired with a wonderful gratin and a wine he'd discovered a newfound affection for – spatters messily into the sink. He had sprinted into the bathroom, unable to utilize his magic in such a closed-in space, with so many superheroes, mutants and the like around him. His skin is covered in a sickly-cold layer of sweat, and he feels himself physically shaking with a mix of terror and uncertainty.
No one had told him for whom this party was being held.
Maria Hill had extended the invitation to Loki, and Loki had been rather flattered to accept – he had been told this would be a private gathering for some members of the super community, as well as certain suppliers and business-owners, to greet the new member of the Avengers from his home planet. Loki had, of course, inquired after the hero's identity, but apparently it was intentionally kept a surprise, and now Thor is here, Thor, Loki's own brother—
Loki gags, chokes, and more vomit spatters into the sink. The smell is awful, and he flicks on the tap.
He hears the door open behind him, and he stiffens: he cannot use his magic here, where it can be recognized, where he could be recognized. There is no escape, trapped in his human alias.
"Hey, Svensson. You okay?" Loki looks up at the mirror. His own face is pallid and marred with a thin layer of shining sweat, his lips stained, his eyes puffy and slightly watery; the man in the doorway looks quite healthy. He has silver-white hair, angular bones, a prominent nose… Pietro Maximoff: Quicksilver.
"I wasn't aware you knew my name," Loki coughs out. His entire mouth feels sour and dry with bile, and in a second's flash, Maximoff is across the room, examining Loki with care. A glass of water, conjured seemingly from nowhere – Maximoff easily moves far faster than even Loki's eyes might track – is pressed against his palm.
"Know your name, know your story. Don't know why you're retching up your lunch, though. You sick?" Loki takes a sip from the glass. The water is made bitter by the remnants of his stomach contents clinging to the inside of his lips, his teeth, his tongue, but he gulps it down nonetheless. As a result of the anxious tremors racking his body, the glass of water is held in a white-knuckled grip, and its tide moves from one side of the glass to the other as he fails to hold it steadily.
"I doubt that," Loki mutters. Is he sick?
Loki wonders how best to approach this. How does it look to any one of these people at this party, the majority of the attendees acquaintances or strangers with whom Loki wants to grow closer? If he claims illness, he will be forced to take his leave, and that might be suspicious, particularly after the guest of honour has just arrived – but then, why should anyone notice his taking his leave? Luke Svensson had been a curiosity, an extra name upon the party guestlist. He is under no misapprehensions: Maria Hill had invited him because Fury had no doubt amused himself with the idea that Luke Svensson might be over-the-moon to meet his childhood hero…
Or perhaps that is the route he might take.
"Not sick," Loki murmurs, taking a pause to drink heavily from his glass. "It is merely that Thor Odinson… He is a figure of my childish imaginings, one I think of as I remember being a child at the hearthside, or walking with my father and hearing his stories. To see him in the flesh!" Loki brings a little light into his eyes, tries to force his shaking to stop for just a second, tries to show excitement. "I cannot help but think he might find me wanting."
Maximoff studies Loki like he might study an interesting specimen collected in the field. Loki has met the man's father, and it is astonishing to see the similarities in their faces, in their hard looks and deep eyes – and yet in personality, he has grasped in snatches of overheard conversation, so completely at odds! Loki thinks of Hel, with her smooth, white skin, her green eyes, her cupid's bow and her black, black hair. She looked like Loki, once – before he took this new face.
His stomach gives a lurch, but this time he holds it in check.
"This is a unique situation," Maximoff says quietly. Loki knows him to be Polish in his birth, and yet his accent doesn't betray his origins – he sounds generically American, with an accent not so different to that of many of those Loki speaks to here in New York. Why is that, Loki wonders? Why? "Are you scared to meet him?"
"Yes," Loki says. The honesty falls from his tongue like water, flowing in the same manner as his lies – but lies taste better. "I don't know what to do." Maximoff is past seventy, but neither he nor his twin look their ages, assisted by their respective mutations – and Magneto himself! Well. The man is doing well for his age, Loki will happily declare, for a human.
"You are young," Maximoff says quietly. How little he knows. "It is so easy for us to put those we admire on pedestals: we must remind ourselves that they too are people. As my nephew would phrase it: we all take a piss, don't we?" Maximoff's thin lips quirk into a small smile, and Loki gives a slow nod. He oughtn't flee, no – better to meet Thor, better to meet him in this human skin, put on all the anxieties, perhaps even spill a drink. To seem embarrassed and uncertain – that will appeal to Thor's ego and keep him from latching onto Loki in turns. Thor likes to be made a fuss of, and someone seeming scared in his presence will swiftly be left alone.
"Thank you," Loki murmurs. Maximoff inclines his head. "How did you know me?"
"I build most of my own appliances," Maximoff says. "Bought one of your fridges."
"Really?" Loki laughs, despite himself. What a strange world Midgard is – the consumerism doesn't shock him, but that his products can reach so far and so wide, so easily… That delights him. "I will take a moment to collect myself – and to rinse out my mouth. Then, I shall introduce myself with honour."
"Thor is a good man," Maximoff says with confidence. He says it with such confidence that Loki is sure they must have met some time before this, that he must have some experience of Thor to believe him to be so. "But he's just a man. No more different to any of the mutants you work with, or the other hero-types. Do you follow me?"
"Like a hound."
"Good." Maximoff smiles. It is a tiny shift of his lips, which are normally kept in a thin, tight line.
"Your accent," Loki says, in the half-second where Maximoff begins to make his turn away. "You sound like an American." It strikes him that anyone else, anyone not in the same position as himself and Maximoff – coming from far-off lands and standing here on American soil, surrounded by a melting pot of strange ideas – might see the change in subject completely bizarre. But Maximoff knows. Although he could not possibly be aware of the gravity of the situation, could not possibly conceive of how much of a foreigner Loki truly is, there is a parallel between them Loki cannot deny.
"People look at my hair, they see I'm a mutant," Maximoff says, his hand upon the bathroom door. His tone is carefully pruned of emotion, but Loki can taste the bitterness upon the air. "They needn't think me a foreigner as well." And in the next second, Maximoff disappears.
Loki looks back to himself in the mirror.
He thinks of the way his skin had been, all those years ago, when he had touched the Tesseract – how colour had seeped over his white flesh like dye in milk, how his eyes had darkened to blood red, and how he had so resembled those monsters he had been raised to despise. But that had been his old face – the face of Loki Laufeyson. Much has changed since then, for now he wears the face of another man, far removed from his Norse roots.
Reaching up, he touches his own cheek, feels the dusting of hair there. Five years on Midgard is a long time, for those that know what to do with it.
Loki well remembers his fall.
How long ago has it been since he left Norway behind him, coming here, to America, to New York? Three years?
The two years he had spent in Norway had been dedicated to carefully crafting a life for himself – using seiðr to subtly affect the memories of those in Trondheim, creating a false history for himself, he had ensured everyone knew Luke Svensson, the son of Arnljot and Jonfrid Svensson, who had been leading academics in the field of Norse mythology. Strange pair – they had kept to themselves in an isolated area, lived in their cabin alone to work on their respective papers, but were well-liked on the few occasions they decided to venture out into Trondheim proper.
And in New York…
When Loki was a child, he had dedicated his every waking hour to practising his magic. Spending hours locked into his quarters, he had experimented with one spell and then the next, building up his tolerance for the magic that would flow through his veins, and then as he had begun to travel the universe, Skywalking from one realm to the next, he had never wavered in his devotion. But in recent years, in the past few centuries…
Only upon settling in Midgard had Loki realized how comfortable his magic had become for him. How easy, how normal, settling on his body like a second skin, filling his every moment – Loki Laufeyson had a thousand spells for every moment, could curl magic about his fingers and spread seiðr about the room. But Luke Svensson? Well, if he used magic for everything, certainly eyebrows would be raised. Even if he were to attempt to secrete himself amongst the mutants or the Inhumans, too much scrutiny would be laid upon his shoulders – better to disguise himself amongst the entirely human of the world.
But without magic? Without that careful dedication, concentration – a hundred tasks to consider in every second? He had been bored.
Technology – technology as the Midgardians view it, separate from the natural flow of seiðr in the world – had been a new source of fascination. A new source of delight.
There are parallels between the two, between magic and a piece of engineering, but the latter was different enough to be new. To be exciting! To be… magical.
Loki stares at his reflection, at his sea-green eyes and sandy hair. You are human, he whispers to himself. You are an engineer, a technological wizard, and you are human. Thor is a fantasy to you, a hero of your childhood, a living wonder. He will suspect nothing of you but your adoration, and that will make him uncomfortable. He will leave you be within minutes.
Loki exhales. His hands are shaking. His skin still has a sheen.
But he is ready.
✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯MY STARS FOR AN EMPIRE ✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯
Loki extends his hand, a bright smile on his features, his eyes a little glassy. Thor looks so different. He seems so much taller than he did when Loki saw him last, so much broader, and yet… He is older. Thor radiates confidence, but not arrogance, now – there is a temper to it, something like wisdom. For so long, Loki has been aware that despite Thor's greater age, Loki had always had more certainty, more maturity. For the first time, in Loki's life, he stands before Thor and feels like Thor may just be his equal.
And Thor can only see the human before him. Not even a mutant! Not even an Inhuman! But a human.
"Thor," Loki breathes, bringing the spellbound into his eyes, his lips, his tongue. "I mean— Ah, Mr… Odinson. Sir. I, uh, I—" Loki's hand is shaking even more, now, and Thor grasps it in his own.
"What is your name?" Thor asks quietly. His smile is soft, encouraging.
"Loki," Loki blurts out. Thor's eyes widen, just as Loki knew they would, and so he amends, "Luke, to most, but Loki on my birth certificate. Luke Svensson – Loki Svensson. My— My parents were… I grew up on the stories of— You're so much taller than I thought." For the longest second, he thinks Thor will turn away, clap Loki cheerfully on the back and declare it a pleasure to have met him, whilst walking swiftly away to hide his own discomfort.
"I am tall," Thor agrees, and he smiles. "You were named for my brother – for Loki. What was your favourite of his tales?" This is a question Loki didn't expect. He feels his breath catch in his throat, wishes for his magic, that he could shroud himself, that he could fight, that he could flee.
"I love the tale of Loki and Skadi," he says. It is one of the tales in the Norse mythos that he did not know himself, and it had made him laugh uproariously when first he had learned of it. He has read many articles on that particular tale, and delighted in it – after Idunn's kidnapping (something Loki was most certainly responsible for), the giantess Skadi had apparently come to Asgard to demand recompense for the death of her father, and one of those demands had been that someone was to make her laugh. The Loki of myth had apparently accomplished the task by tying a rope between his testicles and a goat's beard, so that each of them squealed as the rope was taut between them. Loki has never known of a giantess Skadi – he had known Thiazi to be childless – but he hopes the tale was inspired by some real event, if not himself.
Thor gives a rueful chuckle. "One that brought me joy as well, although not a real event, I fear. We must meet again, Loki, son of Sven."
"Oh," Loki says. "No, no, my name is Luke—"
"My brother was lost to me some time past," Thor murmurs: he places his hand on Loki's shoulder, and Loki wishes for a moment he had made this human form of his taller. "The idea that a man should carry on his name brings me more joy than you could imagine. Use the name your parents gifted you, and carry magic where you go." A warmth appears and spreads through Loki's chest, heating his heart and settling in his lungs, and his smile is entirely genuine.
"Thank you," Loki says. It surprises him how much the words ring true – and for once, he does not wish for the taste of lies on his tongue instead. His delight is real, and true, and Thor… Is different.
Loki is glad he might be happy, and that he might grow, just as Loki has in separation.
Stepping away from Thor, Loki smiles to himself. Relief bubbles through him, and he feels the stiffness and uncertainty leave his body all at once, feels himself relax entirely. When he goes to the bar and purchases himself an ale to drink, he looks at the fridge behind the bar – KULDEHEIM INDUSTRIES, it says. Kuldeheim: Loki's very own empire, and now, with his brother's permission, in his own name.
He looks at the man that comes to the bar, with his thick hair and his grey suit, sunglasses hanging from his pocket – this man is Tony Stark, and his work has provided an excellent frame of reference for Loki to begin his own engineering focus. He had taken apart a great many Stark products, examining their engines and their moving parts, just as he had various other implements upon the market.
But only two or three engineers or architects had really taken him aback with their subtlety, their artistry, their skill – and Stark's work stands out among them.
"I'll get that," he says as Stark makes his drink order. He looks at Stark's smile, at the way the way his sculpted beard shifts with the change in his expression, and he delights in how there is no longer any tension in his body whatsoever. He is calm, he is confident… And he is entirely human.
Or so they think.
✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯MY STARS FOR AN EMPIRE ✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯
"Anything interesting happening out in the wide world today, JARVIS?" Tony asks. He says it absently, almost throwing the question over his shoulder, as he bends over the generator in Avengers Tower. It's nothing crucial – just a little routine check-up of the old girl, making sure everything's in fine, working order. He likes to have a look over the generator every month or so, just to make sure – just to check.
Some nights, he wakes and lies in the middle of his bed, stares up at the ceiling under his blanket of sweat and scares himself with the thought of what might happen if the Avengers Tower was attacked and Tony's fail-safes failed, or if the foundations blew, or if the generators broke down.
It's a good time he has JARVIS to talk to, now Pepper lives in Avengers Tower. It's better than letting the silences stretch on.
"An interesting advertisement was printed in the classified section of several of the newspapers today."
"Papers, huh? Pretty old-fashioned," Tony mutters – it doesn't matter. JARVIS can hear him.
"WANTED. Personal assistant wanted. Vim, intelligence & a sense of aesthetic required. Inexperience preferred. No degree necessary." Tony furrows his brow, glancing over his shoulder at one of JARVIS' screens: he's scanned in the newspaper page, and Tony can see the script from the paper, as well as a neatly printed phone number. "The number matches the head office of Kuldeheim Industries, here in New York, sir."
"Huh," Tony says. He'd mentioned to JARVIS when he'd come home from Thor's welcoming party the night before that he'd met Luke Svensson, and JARVIS had brought up some interesting stuff. Tony read some of his mom's book last night – or maybe his dad's. He doesn't know shit about Norwegian names. It had been interesting stuff: retellings of the Norse myths, most of which Tony had never heard before. "Pepper has two degrees – I always figured people kinda wanted their PAs to have degrees."
"I believe most do, sir. When I placed an advertisement for the position Ms Potts eventually assumed, I stipulated Bachelor level or higher."
"Maybe he's going for something else," Tony says, in the tone of someone brushing it off, but it takes a forefront in his head. Inexperience preferred. That just sounds creepy, and yet having met Svensson, he feels like if the guy was some kind of sociopath or monster, the guy wouldn't be this stupid in trying to carry them out.
"Perhaps," JARVIS agrees, in exactly the same tone as Tony. Damn bastard knows him too well.
He hears movement on the stairs down into the basement, footfalls on each step, big ones. Could be one of the X-Men, he guesses – Rasputin has visited a few times recently, or maybe Luke Cage if he's in a pissy mood.
The door opens up. Thor Odinson pops his head through.
"Hey, big guy," Tony says. "You lost?"
"I am wandering," Thor says cheerfully, as if that's an actual response. Tony chuckles, and he picks up a spanner, loosening a maintenance hatch and opening it up. Thor steps up behind him, curiously looking over his shoulder as Tony works. Tony had a look at some of the Asgardian technology – most of it is far beyond what they'd grapple with here on Earth, but they use so little of it, primarily relying on more classical means of education or transport. It really doesn't seem like Tony's kind of place.
"How're you settling in?"
"I spoke to the Spiderman," Thor says. Tony grins.
"Isn't that kid a marvel? He's only twenty-six, you know," Tony says, reaching in and feeling around inside the hatch. No undue heat, which is what he's checking for, so he pulls his hand back and closes it up. Parker runs circles around Luke Cage, and the two of them are almost always bouncing off each other, playing videogames. "You met Deadpool yet? Wade Wilson?"
"Deadpool?" Thor repeats. "No."
"He sticks to that kid's side like a bad penny. Trust me, Thor: you rarely see Spiderman around here if Wade isn't right behind him." Tony pats the generator fondly, then stands and gestures for Thor to follow him back up the stairs. "What made you decide to come here? To Earth?"
"A diplomatic arrangement," Thor says. "Certain artefacts have fallen from my realm to yours, and it is best for us all that they be suitably contained. Midgard lacks the technology to reign in some power."
"Ain't that the truth?" Tony says, not bitterly at all. Totally not. "What, and SHIELD said, sure, you can have the stuff, but only if we get one of you guys out of the deal?" Thor's chuckle is rueful.
"Not exactly," he says. "I have been to Midgard once before in recent times, five years ago. I met a woman here: Jane. She and I are now re-acquainted."
"Uh huh!" Tony chuckles to himself at the idea – Thor's a big, handsome guy, and it makes sense to him that Thor would have girls interested in him. Thor even seems the slightest bit shy about revealing the details, not booming as he ordinarily would. "She pretty?"
"She is a genius," Thor says, categorically. "Never have I heard someone speak of the stars as she does, with such knowledge, and such wonder."
"You stick with her," Tony says. He thinks of Pepper, thinks of the way he'd watch her sometimes in the morning, when she was pouring over documents or looking at stuff on the big screens. She'd been at her most beautiful when she was concentrating on something complicated, worrying her bottom lip under her teeth, her blue eyes in deep focus. "You stick with her, big guy."
"Yes," Thor says, with a quiet delight. "I shall."
✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯MY STARS FOR AN EMPIRE ✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯
Loki looks up at the screen, examining the screen. The night before, a series of programs had attacked his computer system, and Loki had allowed them access – his own personal files occupy a private network, disconnected from the Internet entirely. The program had carefully combed through his files, searching for something, and he'd been curious about its flourishes and its stylistic elements – they had been most distinctly non-human. Distinctly.
The computer tracks it to a little house in Ealing, London. Just a normal house, in a little borough.
Loki frowns.
"Mr Svensson, your eleven o'clock is here."
"Thank you, Reethika, please allow her in." It is raining outside. Rain comes down in fat droplets, pattering against the wide windows of his office. He is not on the highest floor of the building – Loki's own sense of strategy had dictated to him that such a thing would be too obvious a weakness to exploit, were he to ever be attacked – but there is a beautiful view of the city below.
The girl is pretty. Not audaciously so, not made out in the ways that the models of Midgard are, but pretty. Her hair is chestnut brown and wavy, falling about her shoulders, her eyes a darkened blue, her lips plump. Something about her is vaguely familiar, now that Loki sees her in the flesh, but he cannot quite put his finger on it. He glances at the file on his tablet: Darcy Lewis. 24. Bachelor's degree in political science. Mixed experience.
"I have a reference," she declares. She says it matter-of-factly, with the slightest bit of aggression, as if she's expecting to be disbelieved, and she steps up to his desk, handing out a folded piece of paper to him. Written in a slightly messy but legible script is, indeed, a letter of recommendation.
Dearest Loki, Son of Sven
(Mr Luke Svensson)
Darcy did not ask for a letter of recommendation, but I insisted I give her one when she mentioned you had accepted her interview for the position of your personal assistant. I came to Earth once before, five years ago, and I was assisted by two scientists – Erik Selvig and Jane Foster. Darcy was, at the time, their "intern".
Darcy is prone to bouts of physical violence, and responds immediately to any situation. I consider her to be a most honourable warrior, and a surprising ingenue, and believe she would benefit from a position in your company.
She is sarcastic. She is semi-monstrous. But I like her! I think you will too.
Yours,
Thor
Son of Odin.
Loki smiles.
"What does it say?" Darcy asks. "He told me not to read it." Loki looks up at her, examining her. She wears relatively cheap clothes, he notices. By no means is the girl badly dressed, but she is thin, and her clothes are worn, her shoes scuffed.
"But you did read it," Loki says. "Didn't you?" Darcy Lewis looks him in the eyes, her own widening slightly, her lips parting. There is absolutely no guilt on her features, no guilt at all, but mere surprise, and perhaps the slightest bit of awe.
"How'd you know that?" she asks, and she shows a little of her teeth, showing him a slight smile. Her teeth are rather white.
"You aren't the only natural liar in the world, Ms Lewis." Loki slowly stands from the table. Leaning over, he presses his finger to the intercom, and says, "Reethika?"
"Yes, Mr Svensson?"
"Please call the other three interviewees and inform them the position of my personal assistant has been filled, but that they are welcome to come in for their interviews nonetheless."
"Yes, Mr Svensson," Reethika says brightly. He will be sad to see her go – Reethika had been his personal assistant when he first began Kuldeheim Industries in New York a year and a half previous, but recently she had expressed a desire to return home to her mother in Gujarat. Loki is awarding her a generous severance package, and he had offered to open an office in Ahmedabad, and give her a management position, but she had politely refused. Such an honourable girl.
Loki truly will miss her.
"Is that it? Seriously? You read Thor's letter and suddenly I'm hired? What if I faked it?" Despite her apparent surprise, Darcy Lewis does not lose confidence or come suddenly shy. She still stands before him, looking out of place in his clean, modern office, with her hands in her pockets and a most hideous hat of knitted wool hiding the top of her head from view.
I recognize his handwriting, Loki thinks of saying, but it would be far too suspicious. "You didn't fake this. Thor and I are acquainted, and a few of the salient details of our meeting have bled through. Have you only recently ceased to work for Ms Foster?"
"Pretty recently," Darcy Lewis says. She seems to be fighting the urge to teeter between her toes and her heels, and it seems to him she is precisely what he wants in an assistant. Any individual who had previously been an assistant would have formed ideas of how to approach the work, and for now…
"I just referred to her as Ms, and not as Doctor," Loki points out. "Many young women – particularly academics – would correct me on that point."
"Isn't it, uh, kind of illegal to try and ask if I'm a feminist during a job interview?"
"The job interview ended some moments before: you are now hired. I should like you to begin work on Monday. Also, no, I don't think so. Were I to ask if you were to become pregnant, or if you were pregnant – something like that might be an offence. Asking as to ideology is rather different."
"You said the others should still come in, for interviews," Darcy Lewis says. She examines Loki as if she's examining something truly alien – around his staff, Loki is a little less anxious than usual as to revealing who he might be. He can be more… Usual. Whatever usual is for him, in this form. "Why?"
"I'm curious as to what manner of people they might be. I read their resumés, and their cover letters. The people I called into interview drew my curiosity – even if I may not want them in their capacity as my personal assistant, I may still wish to hire them elsewhere. It's difficult to find a job in New York." Darcy furrows her brow a little, leaning in toward him. Her practised façade of apathy interests him, but it fades a little here, instead replaced by a genuine curiosity.
"What, so you're some kinda philanthropist? Seriously?"
"Not at all," Loki murmurs. "I merely believe in, shall we say, cultivating loyalty. Kuldeheim is my empire, Ms Lewis: I rule it fairly, with all intent to care for those within its sphere as I carefully build and expand. Do you understand?"
"Nah," Darcy says. "You're batshit." She says it admiringly. "And hot."
"Do you think so? I've always thought myself rather cold." He ought not stand for flirtation, not really, not from a new employee… And so he shall not. Loki stands, adjusting his tie, and then says, "Let us walk together. I'll give you a tour of your new workplace – as well as your salary, I will offer you a stipend for an appropriate work uniform. Heath insurance comes with the position – dental healthcare is included, I should mention, as well as use of the gym on the corner. There's a Kuldeheim tab."
Darcy grins.
"Okay, Son of Sven. Let's go."
✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯MY STARS FOR AN EMPIRE ✯ ⇜ ⇝ ✯
Settling back in her chair, Sarah Jane frowns at Mr Smith's screen.
"Nothing seems untoward," Mr Smith says. Pages and pages of data scroll across the top corner of the screen, and Sarah Jane puts her hand on her chin, frowning up at it. Something about it all seems a little bit wrong, a little bit strange and off, and yet… "There is no sign of alien life, beyond the strength of the technology. My apologies."
"Oh, don't worry about it, Mr Smith. If Kuldeheim Industries seems normal, perhaps you're right – it just feels like that company's growing very fast. Too fast."
"I share your suspicions, but I cannot find anything."
"And in his history? In Luke Svensson's?"
"Nothing, Ma'am. He was born in Norway, and went to America two years ago. His parents were academics." More information flashes across Mr Smith's primary screen, showing Svensson's date of birth his parents' books, and even childhood photographs pulled from his social media.
"Mum?" Sarah Jane turns. She sees Luke in the doorway, looking slightly ruffled from sleep. He's really enjoying school, it seems to her – but it absolutely exhausts him, thank God. "What are you doing?"
"Oh, just some research," Sarah Jane says quietly. "Come here." She pulls him close to her, hugs him close, smells his hair and feels his head beneath her chin. There's something not quite right about this… But she's sure she'll figure it out in the end. She'll have to.
"What's for tea?" Luke asks. Sarah Jane laughs.
"I don't know," she murmurs. "Let's go downstairs and decide."