Welcome back! Sorry for the long delay between chapters-between the Tour de France starting this weekend, a wedding, and friends visiting I didn't have much time to get to the computer.

Thanks again for all the reviews, alerts, and favourites. You guys are lovely. :)

Warnings: past abusive relationship, drug use

I do not own the Avengers or anyone therein.

Chapter 5
"Night, guys."

"Night, Steve. Catch you in the morning." Tony grinned and waved and Steve smiled a bit. Loki was watching him with this odd little expression, like he knew something was up, and Steve made a shooing motion with his hands for them to go so he could lock up the diner.

He looked up before he headed over to his car, and tried very hard to ignore the pang of jealousy as he watched them walk towards Tony's favourite bar. They were leaned together close, hands clasped together, and the wind carried the sound of them laughing.

This was good. Tony was happy.

He wasn't jealous at all.

XXXXXX

"Just because I happen to like men does not mean that I only drink cocktails," Loki said, pointing his finger in Tony's face so that he went cross-eyed. His voice was incredibly clipped and precise, his face flush with booze.

"Settle, settle, I never ever said that. Or suggested that y'do." Tony pushed the finger out of his face. "Just thought you might like it. To try it. Yeah? If you don't, then I'll drink it, I don't think my masculinity is being threatened because I happen to like men and cocktails."

Loki turned the most interesting shade of red, stuttering and glaring and grabbed the cocktail out of Tony's hand and drained half of it one one go.

"Oh," the younger man said, blinking, "that is nice."

Tony smirked.

XXXXXX

Steve browsed through the liquor cabinet, sorted past the six different scotches Tony seemed to think he must have at all times otherwise the world would end (heaven forbid), and finally found the single bottle of bourbon that hadn't been touched in quite some time. It wasn't open (Tony didn't care for bourbon even if Steve did), and it had been a gift from a fellow chef at a Christmas party a year ago. He twisted it open deftly, and poured it into an empty lowball glass.

He didn't particularly like his bourbon on the rocks.

He took the glass and bottle with him to the couch, flipped on the television, and started sorting through the somewhat massive collection of movies Tony had managed to get loaded on the digital movie library. He took another sip of the bourbon, enjoying how it bit the back of his throat.

This was completely normal, drinking, enjoying a movie. Almost peaceful, having the house to himself and not having to wonder about who Tony had in his bed for once.

(Just who was with him at the bar, green eyes and a quick wit)

XXXXXX

"I wish it was warm," Loki said idly, running his finger around the rim of his glass. He let his eyes roam over the inside of the dark bar—more pub than bar really—licking lips that felt a little numb. Everything was buzzing ever so pleasantly, and when he turned his head a little the world took a second to slide with him.

"Yeah?" Tony's voice was husky, burned by the scotch he was drinking, and it made Loki want to squirm in his seat. Loki looked at him, met honey-brown eyes staring at him intently over the rim of a glass. He started with a bit of a jolt, tried to remember what he had been saying.

"Yes. We could go outside. Warm summer night, maybe leave town and find a field and lie and watch the stars. I like stars." Loki looked at his drink, some fizzy cocktail that Tony had insisted he try after the third (or was it forth?) of the other he'd been… not tricked, goaded, yes, goaded into drinking.

"You're pretty drunk now, aren't you?"

Loki stiffened, looking up and mouth tightening. Tony's eyes were just curious, soft and curious and warm. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease a little, but tried to stay haughty.

"Why do you say that?"

"You don't usually talk about what you want to do. Or what you like, for that matter."

Loki tried to convey his displeasure through narrowed eyes. Tony just laughed at him, reaching over and taking one of his hands. He moved his thumb in small circles on the back of Loki's hand. Loki tried to convince himself it was all the alcohol that made a surge of warmth shoot up his arm.

"It is not very important."

"Isn't it, though?"

"What?"

Tony shifted on his bar stool so he was facing Loki, the hand he'd been using to hold his glass gently grasping Loki's chin and pulling it so Loki can't help but look at Tony. He closes his eyes in petulance, but this is… not bad. Tony's touch is soft, his finger tips roughened with callouses from years of working with and inside machines, and there's a certain surety that he usually conveys in words that is still there, in his touch, that Loki finds to be deeply comforting and arousing and so many other things that he doesn't have words for right now.

"Loki," and his name is little more than a whisper, "look at me."

"No."

"Please?"

Loki frowns and opens his eyes and entirely loses what rebellion he had. Tony is right there and Loki wants to count all the different shades of honey he can see flecking his eyes. He's close enough he could.

"It is important. I want to know…" Tony pauses, eyes darting over Loki's face, "I want to take you apart and put you back together and see what makes you tick, I want to know what you love and hate and what you love to hate." Tony's words are spilling over themselves, tripping and slipping and Loki can't believe that he's saying them. "I want to know your favourite colour and what you look like when you wake up in the morning, what you wear when you're alone and don't have to go out, I want to watch you when you're absorbed in art and seeing something that I'm too blind to see. I want to know your favourite foods and movies and positions. I want to know everything."

Loki can barely hear for his heart thundering in his chest. He can't breath. It's too warm in here, too dark and smoky, and he manages to get off the bar stool, the room only spins a little and his knees only nearly give out. He pushes himself out the door and into the snow and cold, finds the wall with his fingertips and leans against it. There's painful laughter bubbling in his throat as he leans his head against the wall. He hears the door open, the sudden rush of warmth and light spilling over the snow, and there's Tony again, face worried, with both their coats.

Tony moves a bit closer, like he's afraid he's going to spook Loki even more, and Loki has to gasp because the laughter is stuck in his chest.

"You'll leave," he says.

"Not today, or tomorrow. Learning all that would take a while." Tony sounds so… reasonable about what he's saying, what he's asking Loki to give him, eyes serious.

"You don't want to know all that."

Tony steps a little closer, frowning slightly, a tiny crease on his forehead. "But I do."

Loki tries to process. It's really all a bit much.

"Loki," and something in him gives because the way Tony says his name, rolls the syllables off his tongue, burnt by scotch, is a sound he wouldn't mind staying around for; if telling Tony about himself is what it takes, then maybe he can do it.

"I want…" he stops, because the words are so unfamiliar. Tony waits, steps a little closer. "I want…" The street light casts shadows just-so over Tony's features, while Loki is trying to figure out how to even say what he wants while he's consciously thinking about it, and he realizes exactly what he wants in this moment.

He stumbles forward a bit, Tony automatically reaching to catch him, keep him from falling, and Loki grabs his shirt with one hand, fingers of the other twining into Tony's hair, kissing him. Tony makes this startled little noise, and then Loki feels his back hit to wall, the kiss all teeth clashing and lips, no elegance, just want.

Eventually they surface, and there's a little blood glistening on Tony's lip and Loki's lips feel bruised even with the booze dulling the pain. Tony grins at him, dark and sly, and asks, "Does this include wanting to come back to my place?" and underneath the dark and sly is hope, not certainty.

Loki just pulls him into another kiss.

XXXXXX

The bottle of bourbon is half-empty. Steve can't sleep, eyes half-closed, watching another movie.

XXXXXX

Tony has to half-carry Loki sometimes, and vice versa, the two slipping on ice and snow and fumbling. His lip stings, but it's a good sting, the kind of sting that he wouldn't mind more of. It's not far back to his place but it feels like it might take forever in the cold. He presses Loki against another building, slides his hands up his shirt over surprisingly lean muscle (not an ounce of fat on him), Loki burningly hot and pressing back against him.

"Fuck," Tony swears when they come up for air again and Loki's answering growl makes him seriously contemplate just stripping him and fucking him right there on the sidewalk amidst snow.

XXXXXX

Steve has almost fallen asleep and he hears the door bang open, Tony stumbling and slamming into the wall in the foyer.

XXXXXX

Loki's stifling giggles, which is not helping them be stealthy or Tony keeping himself from ravishing him, but the light in the living room is on and he can hear a movie, so he presses a finger to Loki's lips to try and get him to shush. And Loki's tongue flicks out and licks, mouth closing over and that is absolutely obscene Jesus. Green eyes are flashing in amusement at his reaction and the sound of the television lets him gather his wits a little and point to Loki's shoes, to stall him some.

He walks into the living room, expecting to see Steve sleeping on the couch (already unusual), and instead stops. Steve is awake, sitting up, blinking at Tony coming in. His eyes are wet, face dry, and there's a bottle of bourbon Tony didn't even know they had on the coffee table, half-empty. The euphoria and desire fade as he looks at Steve and everything and realizes something is deeply wrong here.

Steve hasn't really drank since Peggy died.

"It's not fair," Steve says, voice a quiet whisper.

"Steve?" Tony says cautiously, moving closer. "You okay buddy?"

Steve gives him this look full of hurt and resignation that stops him in his tracks.

"It's not fair," Steve repeats.

"What's not fair?" Tony asks, not knowing what to do, so he just crosses his arms, taps his chest, and tries to look like he's not tip-toeing around a bomb. Steve is looking at him and there's this little flash of anger burning his eyes before he starts to speak that makes Tony brace.

"Him. It's not fair. I've been here for years, Tony, and you don't notice. We live together and you don't notice. I don't know what I expected, you've always been terrible at this, but really?" Steve laughs, voice cracking. "You've known him for two months and already you do nothing but see him, talk about him, plan your time around when you'll see him next."

"You're talking about Loki," Tony whispers, suddenly understanding and he has no idea what to say. Sorry but you're my bro? That he's never seen Steve in that light and never will because Steve is a shoulder to lean on for support and family?

"Of course I'm talking about Loki," and Steve's voice is dripping with venom and anger and hurt.

"Steve, that isn't… this isn't anything to drink over. I'm not anything to drink over. You deserve better anyway." It sounds hollow in Tony's ears.

"No, no, Tony, you deserve better than some college drop-out waif that just shows up on my doorstep, who clearly barely knows what he's doing and probably would end up in a gutter somewhere if not for Natasha. You deserve better than some fuck up, but you won't ever take it because you always do the worst possible thing for yourself and you always have. I've been here for fucking years," Steve is roaring now, "and the first pretty twenty-five year old failure who snarks back at you and smiles pretty and you go head over fucking heels and ignore everything that anyone has ever done. That's why Pepper left, you always want the worst thing you can find and take it and fuck the rest!"

Silence, other than the background noise of the television. Steve is breathing hard, shaking, crying.

A door slams and Tony remembers. Loki.

Steve blinks at him, and the anger fades replaced by a growing look of horror.

"Tony, I…"

"No," Tony says, and he doesn't know what to do anymore and he doesn't care. This is too much. He can't handle this. He needs to be too many places at once, and it's all so much work. Steve likes him. Like that. Loki is gone, whatever brief glimpse of the man underneath the mask hidden again.

"No," Tony says again. He grabs Steve's half-empty bottle of bourbon and locks himself in his room.