Holly took Steve up on his backstage offer, and within a couple days, she found herself snagging her laptop and heading down to the training rooms. It had been indicated in the writers' meeting that day that Steve's run needed to get off the ground. Mr. Stark stopped himself short of being explicit, but she knew that she needed to start producing a line, and quickly. It was good timing, then, that Steve had arranged for the current American Hero belt to meet with them that same day. She would be able to have something for the billionaire owner to approve of, she was sure of it.

Arriving in the training room, she spotted Steve across the room, standing near the ring and talking to a couple other wrestlers. She also saw Sarah heading out of the room on the far end, and they shared happy waves as well. The two guys with Steve, one African-American with an easy smile and the other a pale guy with chin-length black hair, nodded to Holly as their blond friend waved at her. The fellows chatted back and forth for awhile longer, with Holly taking the moment to go and grab one of the chairs from the far side of the room. As she was bringing it over, the other guys bid farewell to Steve, moving off in different directions. Setting the chair near the ring, she sat down in it, putting the computer on her lap. Her dark eyes looked up at Steve, almost expectantly, and he chuckled again.

"We gotta wait still," he explained, choosing to lean back against the corner of the practice ring. Lifting a shoulder, he continued, "Since your writing is helping with this run, Loki needs to be here for this."

Her eyebrows went up at that.

"You guys call him Loki out of the ring?" she wondered, having heard of the wrestler in passing and seeing him on tapings of recent matches.

Steve nodded. "Yeah, he and Thor—Don, I mean—came up together under a Viking story hook. They've both kept the names, and the outfits, since then. William prefers his ring name, to be honest. If it wouldn't break his mother's heart, he probably would change it legally."

"I see," she responded, taking a mental note of that. "I heard a little about it in the writing room."

That was true; the writers talked often about the wrestlers, not only because they were working on a particular angle for them, but because some of the performers had quirks as entertaining as their gimmicks. Loki was of marked interest more often than not, from what she had heard, but she had been very focused on her work (perhaps she was more anxious than focused, she thought) and didn't pay the gossip too much mind.

"I felt my ears burning," an accented voice called across the room, and the pair looked in its direction. The owner of the voice was a lanky man, dark hair tousled around a sharp, angular face. Like Steve, he was garbed in unremarkable sweats and a t-shirt. The bright eyes, though, caught Holly's attention. They pierced, taking in everything even as the man kept his attention on them. A sharp brow curved up as he approached them. The tapes, she realized, muted his effect. The proper English accent poured out again as he continued, "Must we speak about people when they are not in the room?"

Steve shook his head, humming slightly.

"You're here now," he pointed out, a corner of his mouth lifting. Gesturing to the woman beside him, he introduced her. "Loki, this is Holly. She's been assigned to write my run."

Holly nodded at that, stepping forward and offering her hand in a greeting. Up close, the dancing light in his eyes folded into a glow, the wry set of his grin reflecting out at her. Something about his gaze was all at once unsettling and comforting, like he would swear to keep all your secrets and then selectively use the deepest ones against you.

"Pleasure," he said, shaking her hand. "It's good to know who the engineer of my downfall shall be."

The handshake ended, and she blinked at him for a moment. "I, uh, I'm sorry."

A hand flapped through the air, his next words brushing off her discomfort as well.

"Nature of the business, dear. Don't fret over it."

"Sure," she muttered. Stepping back, she gestured at both men and the ring. "Why don't you two brainstorm a bit, and we'll go from there?"

Off her suggestion, Loki and Steve started to pitch ideas back and forth. As Loki was the current title holder, a meeting had to be established to show Steve was looking for a title shot against him. Climbing into the ring, the pair of men started doing some rudimentary sparring first, Holly putting down the laptop briefly to circle it and watch. A couple of the trainers also joined then, helping guide through some of the motions. Slaps and punches, grapples and armbars were traded, and Holly was starting to see what Steve's sketches were conveying. It was more than just lobbing hits and throwing people; it was a testament to the strength of both wrestlers, their abilities shining through. Loki was fluid, almost graceful, dancing in and out of range of his opponent. Steve has size and strength on his side, but he likewise moved with ease, comfortable in his own skin. What struck her, as the trainers and wrestlers conversed and tried out moves, was the control and the emphasis on safety in those movements.

Her friend Sarah had mentioned that wrestling outcomes may be fixed, but the matches were not fake. To have the agility and strength they did, they exercised measures of safety, since blows and high-flying moves were exchanged. People took hits, got hurt, and even in the training, Loki rubbed at a raw spot on his chest after Steve did a few chest slaps. Deep in observation, she lost track of the time, enthralled by the process in front of her.

What could look brutish to an outsider made so much more sense to her now.

Eventually, a rough outline of the fight they would engage in was settled on, one that satisfied both parties and trainers. As they all began to climb out, Holly grabbed her laptop again, hastily opening it and logging back in. A blank word processing document was opened, and she started typing out what she had seen, making sure to put it at the bottom of the page. Clicking to return to the top, she glanced up, watching as Loki and Steve started fielding ideas for the verbal confrontation. As they swiped sweat from their brows and grabbed chairs for themselves, Holly began to reach her own conclusions on ideas.

"So, the comeback needs to reflect not only Steve returning, but how that affects the company," she hazarded after some long moments. Gesturing to Loki, she continued, "Ruffling feathers and such. Which for your persona is equivalent to a sin."

The dark-haired man blinked at that, leaning forward in his seat. Word around the complex was that the new writer was very green, that she had never written for wrestling and was given Rogers as a test. However, it seemed she was a quick study. At least, it was more than he was expecting.

"For no experience, you are certainly apt, aren't you?" he stated after a second or two. He wanted to see her reaction, to see how she would take the observation about her skills. Out the corner of his eye, he caught Rogers stiffening, but he chose to ignore it, preferring to watch Holly. Red started to flood into her face, but she still met his gaze fully.

"Backhanded compliment aside, yes. I am learning, William," she remarked, pointedly emphasizing his given name. His jaw quirked and his brow furrowed; quite apt, indeed. And blunt, too; that would either be a blessing or curse to someone directly working with the blond fellow beside him.

"Hmph," was Loki's only response to that, and Steve cut in, moving the conversation back to the promo. Phrases and ideas continued to build on one another, and despite it being projected to be a relatively short spot, they were all sincere in suggestions. Soon enough, Loki had to depart, imploring them to email him a draft of the plan when it was finished. Once he was out the door, Steve cast a gimlet gaze over Holly, nodding with approval.

"You handled that pretty well." Off her questioning look, he hastened to explain, "Loki has a, well, polarizing affect on people most times."

Holly raised her chin. "Ah, love him, hate him, nothing in between?"

Steve shrugged. "Indifference is rare, that's all I'll say."

She snorted at that, and he chuckled as well.

"Either way, your riffing with him is a great start," she said, giving him a warm smile. Finally, finally, her duties were starting to click, and she was eager to get started. As he returned the expression with a small grin of his own, she told him, "I'll get to writing an outline for a promo. Maybe we can get you back out there sooner than we thought."

"I hope so," he replied, crossing his arms and furrowing his brow at the same time. "I'm not a fan of sitting around and doing nothing."

That arrested her attention, and brown eyes met blue directly for a few moments. He was anxious, ready to get back to work, and she could easily see that. Underneath it, though, she detected a sense of nerves. Perhaps, even, there was doubt with it. He wanted it, wanted it to work so badly, but somehow felt he may come up short.

"I gathered," she replied shortly, discreetly hitting the save icon in her document. Closing the laptop, she set it gently on the floor beside her chair. The brunette leaned closer to him, placing a reassuring palm on his shoulder. Endeavoring to be nothing but honest, she promised him, "We'll get you back out there."

She meant it. She would do what it took to get him back into the ring; she was too invested now, too invested in this big, blond man and his desire to do what he felt he was meant to do. Carefully, she squeezed his shoulder, smiling encouragingly at him. Slowly, slowly, he nodded, his fingers patting her in a featherlight tap.

"I know," he responded, the trust in his voice impossible to ignore. Her heart fluttered at that, and she withdrew her hand, hiding the pink flush of her cheeks as she bent down to get her laptop again.

Too invested now, was the thought that echoed in her mind, too soft to irritate, too loud to fully forget.

xXxXxXx

Behind the PNC Arena in Raleigh, a lone driver on a Harley Davidson pulled up to the checkpoint stationed beyond the loading doors. Leather motorcycle gear covered his clothes and a full helmet obscured his identity. A commissioned ID came to hand for the driver, showing it to the security guard in the booth. Once it was checked, the driver went straight into the parking area, wedging into an open space between the large trucks. The MWE logo was emblazoned on each truck's sides, with various wrestling stars from the roster surrounding it. The company had arrived the previous day, along with its wrestlers, though only one was supposed to show up that late. Glimpsing himself on one of the boxes, the driver let out a slow sigh as he put down the kickstand and shut off the bike's engine. Flipping up the visor on his helmet, blue eyes swept across the lot as he stood, taking in the sight of crew members wheeling in and taking out select paraphernalia. The crash of traffic sounds met his ears as he lifted off the helmet, and Steve let out another sigh. On the road again, but it felt good to be there. Swiftly, he stashed his helmet in one of his bike's saddle bags before detaching the other. Putting on a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket, he strode quickly to the marked back door, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

It was finally time; the promo he had been working on with Holly had been greenlit, and over the course of the last week, they along with Loki had been fine-tuning it. Within days, it was ready. He was ready, and he remained ready as he passed through the portal into the arena's backstage area.

He had barely gotten through the door and taken off his sunglasses before someone was calling his name.

"Steve!" an enthusiastic voice shouted. Turning, he was met with sight of one of the youngest wrestlers on the circuit. Though his alias was Spider-Man, the older fellow knew him as Peter Parker. Emulating the luchadores of Mexico, the kid had chosen to wrestle fully masked, only lifting it past his mouth whenever he needed to speak in ring or other filmed shots. He liked the anonymity, and so kept it that way. In the present moment, though, he cheerfully ran up to Steve, grabbing his hand and pumping a happy handshake. "Good to see you back. Looking forward to what you guys have planned for your shoot."

The younger man's attitude was infectious and made Steve grin in return.

"Thanks. It's good to be back." Sensing someone else coming up behind him, he looked over his shoulder. The good humor in Steve's face melted away slightly as he took stock of the new arrival. "Rumlow."

The man in question nodded his head, his chin rising in a sort of defiance. Dressed down as he was with skull and crossbones patterned shirt and jeans, the other fellow had the swagger of a man dressed for a gala. Brock Rumlow had been in the business only slightly longer than Steve, but he had often fallen down the card due to his unpolished technique and blasé attitude towards others. His specialized moves, though, were incredibly technical, highlighting the contradiction of his person. The scars on his face, obtained from an accident years ago, creased as stared down the blond man.

"Rogers," he returned, deliberately scanning over the other man's form before smirking. "Let's hope you can stay on your feet tonight."

Steve's shoulders squared unconsciously. "I don't think that will be a problem."

"Hmm. We'll see," was the retort before Rumlow shouldered past Rogers, checking him even though the backstage area was wide enough to pass without touching. Steve ignored it, his jaw ticking at the slight. Clearly, Brock (or Crossbones, as he preferred) felt higher than the other man.

"He's letting his job bleed into real life, I see," the blond fellow muttered.

Peter scratched his neck, the clear lack of comfort in his person as he shook his head.

"He's gotten worse since you've been gone," he said, pitching his voice low. Dipping his chin, the younger man muttered, "He takes being a heel a little too seriously."

Steve grimaced at that. Brock Rumlow had a career littered with pushing the envelope, with often providing the dark foil to upcoming babyfaces. However, in the last year, the board had been pressing to have some storylines take harder edges, to show that the unfairness of the world still existed even in a fictional wrestling universe. Hence, a wave of heel wins started overtaking the brands, and Rumlow was now in possession of the top title of Core, having capitalized on the trend. Media debate still raged over it, but Steve never paid the online forums much mind. It was clear, though, that the man was riding the high of being top dog, as it were. It would probably be best to steer clear of him for the time being.

Bidding farewell to Peter, Steve made his way further backstage, having come in the day before to check out the arena's set-up. He passed by a couple of other wrestlers, nodding hellos or waving at them as they too prepared for the evening's events. God, he missed this.

Despite viewing himself as no different than the rest of the other guys, Stark had other plans for him. To keep his return under wraps, the billionaire had arranged with the arena staff to give Rogers his own dressing room. The dressing room was nothing too special: a couch, a television set, a table and mirror set up against the far wall, and an attached bathroom. The door did not even have his name taped to it, keeping the mystery going until showtime. Setting down his personal bag and shucking off his motorcycle wear, he did note that there were a few cards on the table for him, ranging from friends to Tony and Pepper wishing him well on his return to the ring. He gave a half-grin to them, gathering them all and putting them in his bag, making a mental note to send thank-yous out later. Switching on the television, he tuned it to the station that would be showing the events of Core. Laying on the couch, he spent the next while zoning out, playing over the upcoming spot and how it could go. There was always a chance the fans would be upset with him; he was fairly confident there were a good number who would rather not have him on the roster anymore. Still, he did not know how things would play out, and he kept running scenarios in his head.

The buzz of the phone in his pocket registered later on, and he pulled it out, swiping the screen and opening the text message app.

Good luck tonight, Steve.

The corner of his mouth curved at the text, unbeknownst to him. They had exchanged numbers awhile ago, needing to keep in touch while working on the promo. However, it had morphed into them sending memes or gifs to each other during the days, little jokes passed here there with them. Holly would not be present for the show that evening. While writers often followed along with the rest of the crew on the road, a good chunk of them had to stay back in D.C. since that night's show was in North Carolina. Any changes on the fly could be handled by a select group of senior writers, of which Holly was not. Steve personally thought it was a bit silly to have her stay back when he was getting the push back up that evening, but he wasn't in charge of that scheduling.

Still, she had mentioned she would be watching from home, taking notes, and the mental image floated through his head. He could just see her, bent over a notebook and scribbling furiously when someone got suplexed or thrown from the ring. It made him chuckle to himself.

Thanks. Appreciate the support, he sent back to her, following with a thumbs-up emoji.

Her following reply consisted of: Of course. Gotta make sure we're on the same page with both of us keeping our jobs.

Ah, the joking cynicism caught him, and he laughed outright at that.

Fair enough. He glanced at the clock in the corner of his phone screen, and frowned. It was nearly time to start getting ready. I'll be going out soon.

A few long minutes passed, the texting bubble with the ellipses blipping on and off during that time. Eventually, though, she sent him a message.

You've got this. You'll be great.

Tucking the sincere confidence away, he also sent her one more response.

Thanks again, Holly.

Pushing his phone into his bag, Steve sported a small smile as he started to assemble his ring gear. It had changed over the years, reflecting the shifts in his character. The original gear was kept at home in a display box (courtesy of Bucky, even though the blond man thought he'd thrown it away): blue leggings capped with soft, red boots, a belt holding scaled blue trunks, and the top with a stars-and-stripes motif and a cowl with wings protruding off it. Captain America was a gimmick imagined by his friends, touching his past in the military and the oh-so-fun coincidence of his birthday being July 4. That gimmick, though, had carried him through the tough first years, even if the gear did not. Soon it morphed into a leather bomber jacket and jodhpurs, then a thick vest with muted colors and pants, helmets replacing the cowl. Eventually, he had graduated to his current attire: dark boots, dark blue pants, and another vest, but one that was less bulky and molded better to his form. A star sat in the center of the chest, a little faded but still clearly a patriotic symbol. Lacing up his boots, he did a final check of the gear, making sure everything was sitting right.

The crowning glory of the ensemble was a shield. It, too, had been part of his early gimmick, when he refused to take up arms against his foes, and instead looked at using a defensive strategy. He was able to market it in those days as part of his merchandise, though it had gone through a redesign as well. It was circular, with painted red bands surrounding the silver, another star set on a field of blue in the center. It bore some scratches, but those were cosmetic. He would often incorporate it into his matches, but tonight, it would remain as a prop. He slid the shield's straps over his arm and dared to look at himself in the wall mirror tacked up nearby. Not too shabby, he mused silently before heading out of the dressing room.

A short trip over to hair and makeup was called for, light work done on his hair and face (on purpose; he hated wearing the stuff, as the staff well knew) and then he set to his typical pre-show exercise: pacing the hall. He made sure to steer clear of the cordoned-off areas where live shoots would be happening, instead opting for a hall just off the exit into the arena. The chants and cheers, the rise and fall of the crowd's voices echoed in the hall, following him as he stepped, going over his promo lines in his head silent. Occasionally, he tried a gesture, alternately shaking his head or nodding to himself on his body's natural movement.

After getting some water and a bathroom break, a stagehand approached him, motioning for Steve to come into the monitor room and wait for his entrance. Since the promo was meant to end the night's events, he had been secluded for a good chunk of the evening. Now, he stood upon the precipice, flutters erupting in his stomach. It didn't seem to matter that he'd been actively part of the business for years: he still got a little nervous before each promo, match, or whatever was called for. There was a certain comfort gained from performing, but in the moments leading up to it, he could feel the tremors, the what-ifs floating through his mind. Pointedly, he turned his focus on the television in the corner, showing the broadcast version the people at home were viewing. The music for Loki's walk-up was pumping, and the man himself stood in the center of the ring, casting his gaze around before opening his arms in his signature gesture. Its purpose was to convey the self-importance the character felt, and it had the effect of alternating cheers and boos from the crowd.

Loki's inky hair was slicked back, his chosen gear for the night a sized-down version of his horned crown, painted golden like its larger counterpart. The other crown was with his regular gear, redesigned holdovers from his Viking storyline. His typical attire was replaced with a green three-piece suit, the material tooled with golden thread. He had taken pride in the design and had showed it to Steve just a few days prior. Pinned to the lapel, like a campaigning politician, was a button bedecked in the stars and stripes, matching the design of the title belt around his waist. Block letters on the button stated, 'Vote for Loki,' the finishing touch to the outfit.

The music petered off, allowing Loki the chance to hold out his hand to the referee standing in the corner, a microphone passed to him. Taking another glance around the crowd, the dark-haired man pulled himself up to his full height and cleared his throat.

"Well, well, well. I was told that North Carolina was filled with ingrates, but I hadn't imagined they would all end up in one place," he growled into the microphone, a wave of boos washing over him. He sneered at them, playing into his heel tendencies well. Steve watched as Loki continued with a speech full of self-aggrandizement and hubris. He only held the American Hero title for a few months by this point; he was making sure that the crowd would relish the return of a true hero. It was an idea Holly had interjected, one that the other man more than happily took to. He tuned in and out of the speech, his attention coming back to the moment when Loki boomed, "Heed me, you mere mortals. I am your king, your champion. Who here has the guts, or temerity, to dare challenge my authority in this ring?"

Silence for one second, two, three…behind him, Steve heard the call down headsets to hit his walk-up music. The bright, rousing music roared out, and the crowd roared back. The naked, pure fervor of the people gathered in the arena reflected back at him, the last boost of encouragement propelling him out through the curtains and out towards the opening to the ramp.

Giant LED screens were set up around the opening, graphics with his ring name flashing on them, intermixed with clips of his past matches. He stood just beneath them, looking out at the sea of screaming faces. Lights flashed and glowed, roving over all the people watching. Joy and excitement rained down upon him, and Steve felt it rush through him. It was a nearly indescribable feeling, when a pop went over so well. Quiet pride swelled inside his chest; all those months away, and people still wanted him there. Thank goodness.

"Cap, Cap, Cap!" rose the chants, and once a few rounds of the voices calling his name went, he strode forward. His gaze remained on Loki, though he did stop and take a picture with a few fans. Hands reached out to either touch him or high five him, a few of which he returned. Striding right up to the ring, he paused daring to stare at Loki unflinchingly before climbing the steps by the post and getting in with him.

"Loki," he started, looking the other man directly in the eye. "You call yourself a king. Probably not the best place to do that. See, we stopped relying on royalty over two hundred years ago in this country, and claiming false authority doesn't work here, either."

Another roar went up, chants of 'USA, USA' called out. The announcers on the far end of the open space could not be heard, but neither man were paying them any mind. The self-proclaimed king played his part, glaring around at the people in the arena before turning his attention back on Steve.

"Captain America," Loki retorted snidely, lip curling in a near-snarl. Starting to circle the blond man, he boomed, "I was wondering when you would come crawling out of the woodwork. Six months is quite a long while to be out of the ring. I do wonder, has being frozen out affected you much? Have you learned how far you have fallen?"

Loud disapproval boomed around them, and Steve raised his chin.

"If you'll recall, I was injured, not pushed out. Some people understand that." He gestured at the crowd with his shield, and the disapproval went back to cheers. Maintaining focus on Loki, he pronounced, "Others, well, they capitalize on openings, waiting until a person they know they can't beat is out of the picture so they can make their move."

A scoffing laugh broke out of Loki then. "Jealous, are we?"

Steve shook his head. "Nah, just calling it like I see it. It says a lot about a person when they swoop in to steal something they have not earned. After all, you've done it so much to your own brother, you've practically defined yourself by that. And that very definition is why you will not retain that title."

Reactions of smarting pride hit, the callback to how Loki's persona had gained footing in the company a weapon against him now. In kind, the fellow strode forward, a finger jabbing into the taller one's face.

"I will not be lectured at by a man who has not stepped foot in this ring for half a year, who has not bothered to actually see the state of this company for what it is!" Loki shouted. Steve did a flinch, giving the title holder an opportunity to seize on. "You have been left behind, lost to time. That nobility you carry is nothing more than naivety."

The pair paused in their back and forth, letting the men, women, and children in the arena make their feelings know. Inwardly, Steve mused at Loki's ability to play the crowd. He had a talent for making them sympathize or despise him, and the man seemed to relish it. He played tricks, lied, stole, cheated, did what he needed to get on top. But they both knew how this needed to end. Fixing Loki with his own dark look, the captain raised his mic to his lips.

"I may not have been in this ring for six months, but you have never seen the integrity of it in the six years you've been here, Loki." As had been written and agreed to, it was time to drive home the points he had been rehearsing for hours. "Respect is earned, not given, and not once have you earned it. You scheme and plot and sit in the shadows, that's what you're good at. Having a title does not mean you are deserving of it."

The taller man stepped back, which a few could interpret as retreating. However, that was not the case at all. He was merely giving himself room for a harder swing.

"Enjoy your reign, Your Majesty. It will be ending very shortly."

As he turned to leave, he felt the beat he was waiting for mentally: Loki grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to turn back around. The smaller man was practically in his face, screaming down into his mic.

"I am a king, Rogers! You just cannot—"

"I can," Steve countered, cutting him off. Unlike Loki, he was not shouting, his words having more impact that way. "And will. Like I said, enjoy the reign. Before you fall, again."

Pointing at the belt around Loki's waist, Captain America delivered a final verbal blow.

"I am coming for that title, so you better damn well be sure that you fight harder to keep it than you did to get it."

Loki threw his microphone away, the crown and belt following before he launched an attack at Steve. Tossing aside his own mic, the captain raised up his shield, using it push him back. Blows were traded back and forth, the brawl sounding brutal even as tosses and punches were prepared for. Loki rebounded off the far ropes, intent on a clothesline, but Steve ducked it easily. As the other man attempted it a second time, Steve tossed aside the shield, ducking and reversing to grab him around the waist. Feeling Loki brace, he went back into the planned German suplex, the other man flying. As Loki lay flat on the mat, Captain America got to his feet again, grabbing the self-satisfied man and hoisting him onto his shoulders. Taking a moment to breathe in the exuberance of the crowd, he then slammed him into the mat again.

It was over. Captain America had shut up the title holder, his intentions very clear to all watching. Standing up, he saluted the people, music swelling once more and the crowd's chants almost deafening in that instant. Drinking it in for one long moment, Steve fetched up his shield, ducking through the ring ropes and exiting up the ramp, his focus solely on the exit. There was no pull on his ankle or foot, no weakness in his legs. He had done it; he had made it through his match without hurting himself or his sparring partner.

A group of wrestlers were waiting for him as he reentered the viewing space, gathering around him to hug him or give him a handshake. Don, having shed most of his accouterments for his Thor persona, gave him a hearty back slap, nearly winding him with it. Natasha, fresh off a bout against Yelena, gave him a hug, tell him he did well. For behind him, he heard a hard breath, and he glanced over his shoulder at Loki. No longer playing up his injuries to the crowd as he had been walked out by referees, he stood up straighter, giving his opponent a small, approving grin.

"Well done," the so-called king murmured, and the two shook hands. They had committed to the path, and they would see it through, one way or another.

Some faces were missing (Rumlow and a few of the newbies who had taken to following him around, to name them), but at the back was a face Steve had not been expecting. Tony Stark had was there. He was not slated to be in Raleigh, but it seemed now that was a feint.

The group of wrestlers ringing Steve parted to let the billionaire through, the light in his dark eyes veritably dancing.

"Now that was a damn fine ending." Slapping the taller man's shoulder, he declared, "Welcome back, Rogers."

The victory was made all the sweeter to see the hard work he'd put in pay off. The icing on the top, then, was to see a congratulatory text from Holly on his phone later on, all smileys and joyful emoticons directed at him for his efforts. It was great return indeed.

A/N: William (Lawson) was an alias for Loki used in the comics. I haven't seen Loki, so if it's used there, too, let me know! Also, Don (Blake) is the alias for Thor that has been used in both comics and the MCU.

Steve's walkout music is the end title music from Captain America: The First Avenger. Loki's outfit is based off the stills for Loki I remember seeing around the time the first season came out, but the mental image is likely morphed away from the original. Steve's would be modeled a bit off the Age of Ultron uniform, but with a vest instead of full armor.

The road to the belt has started, let's see where things go.

I own nothing from MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references in the text.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one.