A/N: Special thanks to my readers who have taken time to comment.

eilisnp: I'm glad you're enjoying it!

dash11: I'm glad MCU Thor is working for you. I want to make sure I do him justice as well as Loki. Thanks for the feedback!

New York is different from the last time we were here. The summer heat percolates through a bustling mad hive stuffed with young and old crawling from th Underground to offices, eateries, taxis. They are busy again with sports, television, the stock market. They are content to imagine that the Chitauri never brought their city to its knees. They, like the Aesir, are happy to forget I ever existed.

Actually, I see as we walk deeper into the crowded streets, that isn't true. Little shrines decorate the odd building side. Fresh flower wreaths spill from the corners of gloomy alleyways. Pictures and paper notes carpet low walls like concert posters in memorandum for the dead: firefighters, police officers, civilians.

Thor stoops to set a ceramic flowerpot right side up, because he wants to revel in my humiliation.

"I thought we were going to talk to Stark," I say. I'm hanging back, outside the alley. "Why aren't we talking to Stark?"

"Shut up, Loki."

"You shouldn't call me that. At least think up a pretend name. You can't go around calling me the Nameless Wretch, either." It makes me nauseous standing here with Asgard's ruin so close in my mind. There's a sickly trail connecting the faces on the walls to the souls buried in floating debris a realm away, searing like a live wire through my head. Pressure rises in my chest. My throat spasms. My heart breaks into a sweat. If I keep talking, maybe I can shut everything from my mind. "I like your jacket."

Thor fixes me with a glare I'm certain he hopes will scald my blood.

I say, "Kind of a nice break from the astrium plate armor."

"Keep talking," Thor vows, "and I will nail your tongue to the wall beside these flowers."

"What's with all of this violence against my tongue?"

We return to the main street at arms' length from each other. Thor enters the mortal sea flowing from an intersection, yanks me along, then growls, "You are going to get us caught."

A car zips past.

I roll my eyes.

He says, "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are still you. Change your shape."

The sea breaks at the pavement's corner. Yellow taxis and a hideous cubical automobile squeak to a stop. Thor starts forward across the street, grabbing my shoulder in a witless attempt to keep me safe, as if I don't know what a zebra crossing is.

I shake him off. "The trick about hiding in plain sight lies in using the observer's prejudice against them. A lovely smile goes a long way." So does curly blond hair and a small beard. I'm trying to irritate Thor, not give Midgard a chance for revenge. My humorous Midgardian shirt and small wheeled suitcase are just to heighten the effect. It feels shockingly good not to be trapped behind Odin's guise after so long.

"Please will you take up another disguise," Thor says. "You lose your bet if we end up in a dungeon." He evidently spies our destination through the human swamp, as he turns his back on me without another word and wades bullheaded through traffic. I stroll after him. We met again as Thor is buying four kabobs from a vendor who then spends an incredulous few minutes in argument with him because my dear brother cannot comprehend that a seller of meats does not also provide mead as an accompanying drink. Thor drags me to a metal bench beside a costume jewelry stand. We share formal truce in the oldest warrior's tradition . . . with Coca-Cola.

"You're not going to like that," I say.

"Shut up." After a hilarious moment where he can't figure out how to open a fizzy drink, Thor pops the tab and lifts his Coca-Cola on high. He solemnly intones, "Let us fight arm in arm and revel in the blood of our enemies. May they die at our feet without mercy. May we leave a river of tears in our passing, that widows and orphans fear our names for all eternity."

I raise my can in salute. "To death and glory."

"We shall make our ancestors proud."

". . . Yours, at least. I think mine would disown me all over again if they knew I was conspiring to save the Aesir."

Thor takes a long pull from his can and then spits dark liquid across the pavement.

"Told you."

He holds his fizzy drink at arm's length. "What is this foul elixir?"

"It was better a couple of centuries ago, when they made it with real cocaine."

"Jotun piss." Thor takes a shorter pull, grimaces but keeps it down. "What is cocaine?"

"Oh? You should tell Jane that you want to try it, when we get back to Vanaheim."

His shoulders slump. In an instant he goes from staunch warrior to lovelorn wretch, brooding at the puddle by our feet. "She is in danger on Vanaheim. I do not understand why she refused to return with us to Midgard."

This is not the topic I would have preferred to discuss while we finish drinking to our truce, but since he brought it up I don't mind hunting through this mess for his weaknesses. "She is a sorceress surrounded by technology millennia ahead from her own. Of course she didn't want to come back. You probably gave her the best wedding present in the history of Midgard, showing her around Nibelung's flagship."

"I thought she might find the star charts interesting. She likes pictures of stars. And—brother, Jane is not yet my wife."

"Really? Well, you had better wed her soon. She won't be around much longer."

"We have time." It is more a statement for reassuring himself than an argument. He chokes down another swig.

I say, "We didn't really have a chance to talk during our flight to Svartalfheim. I mean, while you were unconscious because that Dark Elf cracked you in the head and then you woke expecting me to take advantage of your prone state by chucking you over the side into the water so you sat up and immediately tried to kill me—"

"You had not given me cause to trust you," Thor says.

"In any case, what I wanted to tell you was this: your life with Jane will pass in a heartbeat. You're telling yourself it will be a good long time, that going into this knowing that you're going to lose her will make it easier. It won't. When it happens, her death will come upon you fast. You'll never be ready."

Thor glares at me. "Does it satisfy you to see me in your predicament?"

"Satisfaction is not in my nature."

"Surrender is not in mine." He sets down his can. "I will love Jane tomorrow and a hundred years from now. I defy the Fates. I will be hers for all the time we are allowed."

"And after? When you put on black and stand by the worm-filled hole she's lowered into—will it be love in your heart, then, or something else?"

His hard expression melts. Thor glances at his hands, and falls silent.

I pull my last kabob apart in small, fibrous sections.

He says, "I was at Henry's funeral. I stayed in the back, so you wouldn't see me."

A knot lurches up my throat. "Did Father know?"

"Truly? I do not think so. You became so very good at hiding your movements, even from Heimdall. But who can say what Father knew or didn't know? He never mentioned it."

"Perhaps he gave up trying to get me to be respectable. He grew less horrified with my choice of bedfellow as time wore on."

Thor makes a noncommittal noise.

I wrinkle my nose. "Ha ha, Mother wonders what is wrong with us. You have to admit there is a certain pattern. I understand my excuse; what's so wrong to you about the Aesir? Or Vanir?"

Thor snaps, "Loki, our realm is in pieces and you want to talk about women."

"Doesn't have to be women." I leer.

He grinds his teeth.

I say, "But you should tell Jane you wish to go to a club, I think she would enjoy that."

"I shall tell her," he agrees somberly. "I wish to go to a club and try cocaine."

I snort into my drink.

Thor pats my shoulder. Some of the world's long bitterness flees underground. We aren't fully friends again—I suspect nothing could ever do that—but we are at peace.

Thor says, "Loki?"

"Call me something else. What?"

"What is cocaine?"

"It's . . . a kind of sweet."

"A sweet?" he says.

"Yeah, like sugar. Only you have to smell it instead of eat it, because it doesn't taste sweet at first. Just keep smelling it. Smell lots and lots of it."

His honest handsome face wrinkles. "Loki?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

Thor raps on the sliding door into Stark's penthouse and gives its owner a friendly wave through the glass. Stark pushes the door open but he frowns at my not-brother. I'm lurking in the shadows for the moment, so it's him that Stark addresses. "Don't tell me you guys blew it."

Thor's eyebrows raise. "I do not understand."

Stark slouches against his doorframe. "Your dad stopped by. He told me you guys were planning an invasion against something terrible and if you failed we were all going to face an Apocalypse worse than your demented brother."

Thor blinks twice. "He did?"

"Yep. Well, first he let himself into my private property to eat my ice cream and watch Fight Club, but eventually he got around to it."

"He told you of Vorsgard?"

Stark says, "My TV is stuck on either some movie channel or HBO, which I don't even get. I had to order a new one. Your dad owes me for a TV."

Thor glances at me.

Stark says, "Oh, and he also said that if you guys completely failed—like you did, I'm guessing—you'd come back and we'd all have to beam up with you to save the universe. Or something. I dunno. Some unimportant-sounding small talk. Do you take after your mother? Because to be honest I don't see the resemblance."

Thor's gapes at him. Then he says to my shadow, "You told him this?"

Stark cranes to look. I choose that moment to sidle into the sunlit walkway and watch Stark's face goes grey as a corpse.

Here's how I'm going to turn my gaolers into allies: expression polite, eyes focused, posture keen but relaxed, hands resting in a military at ease behind my back. I've kept the blond hair but exchanged the humorous shirt for what passes in West Midgard as outdoors-casual. This little bundle of lies is named Good Loki, and he is a clever but submissive fellow who is happy that his superior officer is his idiot brother.

Good Loki says, "Good morning, Mr. Stark."

Stark says on his exhale, "Your dad said he was dead."

Good Loki adopts an embarrassed smile. "Well, actually, I said I was dead. I am a shapeshifter . . . and, in truth, a double-agent."

"Loki is a master of magic," Thor growls. I don't think he knows what a double-agent is. If he did, he would have sprayed herbicide on that little seed I planted.

"Christ," Stark says.

I cough politely. "I thought we agreed I'm the other one?"

"Okay. That conversation makes so much more sense now."

"Doesn't it?"

Thor eyes me warily. "What have you done?"

Good Loki neatly clasps his hands together, stands up straight, and says, "I warned them. Your Highness, with your permission I think Mr. Stark deserves to know the truth about my involvement with the Chitauri as a double-agent." This is all for show, so I don't wait for an answer before addressing Stark. "I infiltrated the shadow organization responsible for the New York attack. I'm very sorry about the lives lost. Would it be all right if the Prince and I come in?"

Stark gapes at Thor. "Is he serious?"

"Loki speaks true," Thor says.

"Oh god."

I fight to maintain the benign expression against what I can feel prying at my cheekbones.

Thor sets his shoulders. "I apologize, Man of Iron. Your realm, as well as every other realm in the World Tree, is in danger. We must find the person responsible and bring her to justice. Loki will lead us to our target, who is also a lieutenant for another . . . being."

Stark toys with his pockets and wipes his palms on his thighs, staring at me. He looks at Thor, who nicely holds his gaze. Stark shakes his head the way a drunkard might to throw off the beginnings of a hangover, then glances at me, fumbles at his pockets again, taps his fingers together.

Good Loki says, "I understand this is quite a shock."

"No. No. Shock is an understatement. This is insane. Thor, your brother is a—"

"Double-agent," I insist.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he says to our beloved prince.

Good Loki holds out a hand. "He didn't know. If it makes you feel any better, I did tell you—when you taunted me about my 'pissing off' your Avengers being a guarantee that I would fail in conquering Earth. I said, 'That was the plan.' I meant it. I even opened the play in Stuttgart by raving about 'freeing the world from freedom'—I'm surprised your SHIELD let me get away with that theater language; I thought I was being obvious enough someone would have picked up on it without blowing my cover. After, I waited for anyone to interrogate me but you only seemed interested in poking me with a stick and keeping me at arm's length."

Stark scrubs a palm into his eyes.

I say, "Don't feel too bad. My own brother did not bother to question me, either. Our father the King debriefed me above his head."

Thor refocuses the conversation and gives me an irritable side-eye. "You and the other Avengers must accompany us to the Fringe. It is a derelict country in a hostile realm. Loki has contacts in that place who may be able to help. You must not take vengeance upon him. Loki is a devious worm, but he is not currently our enemy."

Stark mutters, "I'm gonna call the others."

"Please," Good Loki says.

"They're not gonna be happy to see you."

Good Loki raise a sardonic eyebrow. "Given the circumstances, I won't be precisely thrilled to see them."

He examines me for a long moment, looks at Thor, and finally pushes his sliding door wide. Stark retreats, beckoning us to follow.

Good Loki says, "I'm sorry I broke your telly."

Stark takes refuge behind his bar while rattling off instructions to his invisible servant. My not-brother seats himself on the couch and pulls me after. I make myself the embodiment of quiet charm: smoothing my clothes, sitting with one leg hooked across the other. Hands in my lap. Calm. Well-behaved. Deferential.

Thor leans close to say into my ear, "When we have Smirna, I will return you to Vanaheim and ask these mortals to speak at your trial."

"Thank you, brother."

"I do you no favor."

"Of course not. I would not accept favoritism, even from you."

His eyes narrow. He suspects a trap, but he can't see the angle I'm playing. He would never comprehend why I might render myself utterly helpful unless I'm trying to goad him. I hide behind Good Loki even when his mortal warband arrives and Barton sticks an arrow under my chin. Good Loki waits for Thor to defend him, which Thor does. Then Romanova tries to crack my mind. This is absolutely fun: her persona leads my persona into a ditch and, when she is finished pulling apart poor innocent loyal Good Loki, Barton allows, "You know I'm all about second chances . . ."

"Okay." Romanova gives me a sharp nod.

"Loki will keep his word." Thor drops a heavy hand upon my shoulder. He squeezes. I wonder if he thinks his warband has accepted his order not to kill me because they respect him. I almost feel sorry for Thor.

I did warn him, though. The trick about hiding in plain sight is using an observer's prejudices against them.