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Things are going badly even before Loki arrives, teleporting into the midst of the fray in a flash of green lightning and a cloud of eye-searing smoke. The ludicrously named and outfitted Wolves of Fenris are far stronger than they should be; whatever arcane artifact is in the coffer they're carrying is clearly the real deal. Tony had seen Loki's hand in it from the beginning, when Old Norse cult objects started disappearing both from archaeological sites and from museums across Europe and the US, but Thor had insisted such petty theft and desecration was beneath the god of chaos.
Steve had been torn, but ultimately agreed that Thor knew his brother best, and if he said that Loki shared his distaste for those who would pervert ancient magicks to their petty ideologies – the graffiti on one sanctuary in particular had been offensive in the extreme as well as misspelt – then Steve would take his word for it. He'll definitely be having words with whoever put together the intel on these guys, though. Thugs they may be, and human, but they're cloaked in some kind of strength and speed enhancing spell, and their ancient weapons are doing real damage. Tony, in particular, is struggling with the very concept of bronze age spears that can somehow pierce his armour, and SHIELD should have sent the whole team, not just the three of them.
Thor smiles when he sees his brother, not the full one that could probably light up New York State, but the small, lop-sided, fond one he reserves just for Loki and hides when he sees the man himself, or the other Avengers, looking. Steve hesitates, but when he glances over at Thor the thunder god nods sharply and gives his brother his back, swinging Mjolnir at the advancing line of foes. Against his better judgment Steve ignores Loki doing likewise, turning back to Tony, who's pulled off the Iron Man helmet and is alternately gasping for breath and cursing magic and magic users to the deepest pits of Hell.
It certainly seems as though Loki is – well, to say on their side would be an overstatement, but he doesn't seem to be there to help the Wolves either. From what Steve can catch in bits and snatches as he uses the flat of the shield to knock a Wolf unconscious – racist jackasses they may be, but they're human – he's ordering them to hand over whatever item it is they looted from his temple and thus avoid his wrath. The Wolves clearly don't have the sense they were born with – well, really, what were the chances a white supremacist group taking on two actual Norse gods while wearing their sacred symbols would have any common sense? – and decline. Loki shrugs, and with a sardonic smile for his brother throws himself wholeheartedly into the battle. It's clear he revels in the carnage, changing shape, casting illusions and causing explosions, and then-
It happens in the blink of an eye, and as much as they will all blame themselves after, there's nothing any of them could have done. The leader of the group, a particularly unattractive specimen with gingery stubble on his shaved head and a grotesque parody of Mjolnir tattooed on his neck, walks right up to Thor, hands raised and open in front of him, in supplication or surrender. Thor lowers the real Mjolnir, and leans in to hear him speak. There's a flicker in the air, a brief distortion Steve's learned to recognise as dark sorcery at work, and as Steve tenses and Loki turns, a rare look of surprise on his face, the coiled serpent tattooed around the man's forearm hisses and leaps into the air.
Its jaws clamp around Thor's throat before he can react, fangs sinking in deep, and he staggers for a moment, then rips the snake off, crushing its head in his fist and dropping the carcass to the ground. He shakes off the bloody ichor from his fingers, then raises them to probe gingerly at the wound. It's bleeding sluggishly but doesn't seem too serious, and he turns back towards Loki who's staring at him in horrified fascination, one hand flung out and holding the Wolves in some kind of stasis.
"A good trick, brother," Thor says, trying to summon a smile, but then he coughs and a trickle of bloody saliva spills out of his mouth and into his beard.
"Thor?" Loki asks, uncertainly.
Mjolnir slips from Thor's slackening fingers, crashing to earth with a resounding thud. Loki's own fingers twitch, and the Wolves, all of them, burst into flames and with a tortured shriek are reduced to ash. Thor staggers again, and sinks to his knees. The other Avengers both rush to their fallen comrade, but Loki gets there first. A wall of green flame springs up between them, travelling and spreading to form a perfect circle around the Asgardians, Loki kneeling and pulling the fallen Thor into his arms. He's shuddering, the veins of his face and neck writhing black and swollen, as the serpent's venom spreads.
"We have to get him to a hospital," Tony says desperately, fumbling with his communicator which has been useless since the fight started, but something holds Steve back. They're both only children, but he'd longed for a brother growing up, and having found the next best thing in his comrades-in-arms, then and now, he can't believe there's anything in the world that could truly break that bond. Loki is a powerful sorcerer, perhaps the most gifted in the Nine Realms, and if anyone knows what to do, it will be him.
Thor gasps and whispers something, clutching at Loki's arm as his whole body convulses, and Loki strokes his face gently with his free hand, murmuring something Steve can't hear. There's a moment, as Thor stops struggling and leans into Loki's hand, that Steve thinks everything is going to be okay, and then a single tear rolls down Loki's face, freezing solid before it can fall. Loki scrubs at it angrily, and with a cracking sound the frost spreads to his hand and up his wrist, leaving a bluish tinge behind. Steve watches in absolute, stunned, horror as a jagged blade made of ice extends from Loki's hand and falls in one lightning swift strike.
The blade carves through armour and chest alike, hot blood steaming and freezing before it has the chance to spill, and as Steve screams and throws himself at the mystical barrier the flames flare up hotter and higher than before. Loki's face changes as he thrusts his clawed blue hand into Thor's ravaged chest. The scarred, corpse blue spreads, and his eyes shift from green to a demonic red, but worst of all is the way his teeth sharpen and elongate. It's a grotesque sight; he looks like some kind of wolf, and for the first time Steve recalls the stories he read as a child where the trickster gave birth to one. He remembers Thor saying his brother was adopted. Perhaps this is his true form. Or perhaps it's another dark spell. Either way it's monstrous, the outer form matching the inner, Loki's handsome veneer stripped away and the true evil inside him showing to the world.
Even so, he can't quite believe it when Loki pulls Thor's slowing heart out of his chest and takes a massive bite. Blood smears across his lips and runs down his chin and neck in steady streams as he continues his nightmare meal, and then he turns his head and smiles at Steve. He's never, in his life, wanted so badly to kill someone with his bare hands, and he could do it, he thinks, bring the shield down on Loki's slender neck, sever his head from his body and stop for all time that lying mouth. The ring of fire is an inferno now, raging, blistering the paint on the shield and searing the exposed skin of his face and neck, and he'd still try to force his way through, but Tony has a firm grip on his upper arm, metal fingers digging into muscle, and Steve can feel his bones grate together under the pressure.
Loki rises gracefully to his feet, his eyes never leaving Steve's, and in the flickering glow of the flames a flush of pink washes over his skin, features returning to normal, though his pale face is still caked in gore, his eyes more than a little crazed. He reaches out one slim hand, and Mjolnir jumps into it without hesitation.
"Don't you dare," Steve forces out, Tony bracing for action beside him despite the compromised armour. If this was Loki's goal all along, the whole thing just a trap, the Wolves just pawns…
Loki raises the hammer above his head, and the mid afternoon is plunged into sudden darkness. The heavens open and torrential rain bursts forth, pelting down hard enough to hurt, hissing as it hits Tony's superheated armour and slowly extinguishing the ring of cursed flame. A massive sheet of lightning splits the sky, so bright it's blinding, and a clap of thunder that shakes the ground they're standing on, and when Steve opens his eyes again it's just the two of them, sunlight returning to reveal streets scoured clean. Gauntlets off now, Tony reaches out wordlessly to take his hand. There's no sign of Loki. Or of Thor. They won't even have anything to bury.
For all the long years of their childhood, Thor's favourite game was Aesir and Jotnar. He didn't have much imagination, or over-much patience either, for world building, preferring to get as swiftly as possible to the inevitable action, be it the conquest of Jotunheim or the liberation of Asgard, or even the occasional foray to Midgard. He did enjoy listening to Loki formulate their quests, however, and would lie on his back with his eyes closed, letting the story wash over him.
Loki, for his part, would spin out the tale for as long as he could, weaving together everything he'd ever learned from his tutors or read in books or half-remembered from his nurses' bedtime stories, and using all his skill with words to make it come alive. Thor always grew bored before the end, and would bide his time until Loki got caught up in a climax, then sit up suddenly, tripping Loki into a crumpled heap and binding his hands with his own sash, or gagging him with a belt, or just tossing him over the garden wall. It seemed a very poor recompense for his efforts to always, always, be condemned to play the frost giant, be it the captive or the invader, and eventually Loki abandoned the game entirely, retreating to the deepest recesses of the library, and the dusty, forgotten scrolls that put his wildest tales to shame.
Once, just once, Thor sat with him while he was sick abed, letting their friends begin the game without him. In Thor's absence they arm wrestled for the role of commander, a victory nobly won by Sif to the shock of all around her. Thor stroked Loki's sweaty forehead gently, brushing his lank hair out of his eyes, and picked up a book at random from the bedside table. If Loki had been feeling more himself he would have caustically observed how often Thor stumbled over the ancient words of the text, but instead he just closed his eyes and listened. It was a horrible story about frost giants sneaking into civilised realms to steal babies and eat their hearts, but Thor's enthusiasm for the gore helped carry him through the hardest passages, and, wretched as he felt, it was one of the best afternoons Loki could remember spending in years.
Waking screaming in the night from fevered dreams of blood and death was decidedly less pleasant. Amazingly, Thor was still there, and he fetched a cup of ice cold water that tasted like heaven trickling down Loki's dry and scratchy throat. Loki was less than eager to go back to sleep, but Thor straightened the fallen blankets and tucked them back in tightly, then patted him clumsily on the cheek.
"Sleep now," he whispered. "I'll protect you. No one will hurt you while I'm here."
Loki slept.
When next he woke he was tied hand and foot to his bed frame, and Thor was dictating a ransom note to the King of Jotunheim in highly uncouth and insulting language. His fever had broken though, and he was feeling decidedly better, despite his clammy robes and dishevelled hair. Sighing deeply, he began the response that Thor liked best, proposing single combat in front of the assembled armies of both nations to settle for all time dominion of the Nine Realms.
It was a contradiction that would last their whole lives together. It was also many, many years, and a greatly increased knowledge of sorcery and Jotun lore, before Loki understood quite how badly the Asgardian mythographer had misinterpreted the object of his study.
They go together to Asgard to take the news to Thor's family. It isn't the first time Steve's had to carry the worst of bad tidings to a fallen soldier's loved ones, but the fact that the only way he can promise justice for their son is to threaten their other child makes it even worse. Frigga collapses, sobbing, into the arms of her ladies-in-waiting and is carried to her bed chamber, but Odin just stands there, in his golden reception hall, his single eye looking from Tony to Steve, to Thor's gathered friends in their varied poses of grief, and back to Steve again.
"I do not understand," he says at last, and he looks old and exhausted as he says it. "Why has Mjolnir not returned?"
Steve breathes in deep. "I'm so sorry, sir," he says. "I know how special it was to Thor, but Loki took it. I couldn't stop him."
There's a collective intake of breath, and Odin seizes Steve's arm. "What?" he shouts.
"I'm sorry," Steve repeats, mortified and ashamed. "I never-"
"Loki lifted Mjolnir?" Odin interrupts. Around the room Thor's friends stare at each other in silent consternation.
"Thor's brother, yes," Tony says, resting a hand on Steve's shoulder. "There was nothing Steve could-"
"What else happened?" Odin demands.
"Nothing," Tony says, resolute.
"What else?" the old king thunders, and in that moment it is easy to see the resemblance between father and son. "Loki's ways are ever hidden, even from Heimdall, else we should have known of this catastrophe ere you came."
It's almost more than Steve can do to force the words out, but he does. Thor's parents deserve to know the truth, even if he had thought to spare them.
Instead of looking horrified Odin just looks thoughtful. "I thank you for your embassy, Captain, Stark," he says at last. "Now return to Midgard and your duty. I must speak with my Queen."
As they're escorted to the bridge that will take them back to Earth, Steve can't help but feel they've missed something really important.
It became an inescapable fact of life as Thor's brother that Loki could feel at the same time the most treasured thing in existence, and the most undervalued. Thor was highly protective of him, always had been, but it was difficult to tell if it was because he truly cared for him, or simply was jealous of his possessions and loth to let anyone else touch them. Loki ranked somewhere near Mjolnir among Thor's prizes, which was no mean thing to be sure, but not very flattering all the same. In the dark small hours, musing on it in his narrow bed, it seemed to Loki that, as usual, Thor had been given everything, the hammer and his brother's heart, and, as usual, he himself had been given nothing.
The first time Thor leaned over, half drunk but wholly nervous, and kissed him, Loki thought that everything would finally change. His book learning yielded to what he assumed to be Thor's practical experience, and he allowed Thor greater liberties than he had ever allowed anyone else. That Thor was as virginal as he was, though no blushing flower with it, had honestly never occurred to him, but as they fumbled their way through the act, clumsy and painful as it was, it was a joy, for once, to be equals.
For a while the secrecy and thrill of it did serve to bind them, Thor bowing to Loki's pleas for discretion, Loki alternately demurring and suggesting new and imaginative methods of bringing each other pleasure. And pleasurable it was, there was no denying it, Loki as willing and eager to receive Thor's visits to his chambers as Thor was to make them. It was not long, however, in the scheme of things, before Thor's touches grew less hesitant, and less gentle, his hands on Loki's hips and thighs more controlling than comforting, and Loki soon grew accustomed to waking in the morning with Thor's fingerprints stamped into his flesh. It was not long after that that Loki noticed Sif and others sporting similar bruises.
He probably could have reconciled himself to a lack of exclusivity; his besetting sin was envy after all, Thor's was jealousy. One thing, though, he could not tolerate and could not forgive, and that was Thor's increasing disrespect for talents that were not martial, and disinclination to acknowledge achievements other than his own. It was frustrating in private, but in their public lives it was becoming truly dangerous. The last straw was when they found themselves ambushed on Nornheim, a mere half dozen surrounded by a hundred Disir warriors. It took all their combined skills to escape; the most complicated cloaking spell Loki had ever cast was barely enough to hide them, and they were all bearing wounds of greater or lesser degree by the time the Bifrost opened. Sif caught his eye as they listened to Thor brag in the healing room, and he was surprised to see that she was as annoyed as he was.
The last time they made love was on the morning of Thor's aborted coronation. He had been so insufferable for weeks that Loki had hatched a plot to bring him down a peg or two. Nothing serious, just a bit of fun to ruin the big day. Thor was so adorably nervous as the day dawned, however, seeking Loki's help with his speech, turning this way and that in front of the mirror and asking repeatedly how he looked, that Loki had almost decided not to go through with it. Almost. But as Thor slung him up against the column in the hall, supporting his weight as if he was nothing, fumbling with his clothes and rutting into him where any of the servants could see, his words echoed in Loki's mind – Some do battle, brother, others just do tricks – until it seemed almost his duty to protect the realm from his brother's idiotic rule a while longer.
That was not, of course, the last time they indulged in sexual congress. Even on Midgard the pull they both felt was too strong to ignore. But there was nothing of love in it now. The act was as pleasurable as ever, no pretence of gentleness, the bruises from their coupling mingling with those from their battling, but if Loki appreciated the honesty, he also missed, just a little, the old lies. Thor always seemed stupidly happy once the anger burnt off, and truly, why wouldn't he? As always, he was surrounded by friends and loved ones wherever he went. It was only ever Loki who straightened his ripped and stained clothing and went home alone.
No one says anything when Steve shifts Loki's picture to the top of the Avengers' Most Wanted list, leapfrogging Victor von Doom and the Mandarin, and even Red Skull. Truth be known, he probably should have been top already, based on sheer destructiveness if not casualty rates, but Thor had always argued against it. The whole thing had been more a joke than anything else at first, Tony coming down one morning in a huff and slamming a photo of his nemesis du jour onto the fridge door with an industrial strength magnet, and everyone else following suit, prioritising their own villains, naturally. Glaring at Loki's smirking face every morning as he eats his oatmeal is a great motivator though, and Thor won't ever be here to laugh and shift him down a few places again.
Tracking Loki down isn't easy, despite the fact that he's more active, and more visible, in the next couple of months than he has been in ages. He's on some sort of villainous downsizing-cum-killing spree, removing everyone who's ever crossed him, and a surprising number of people who'd crossed Thor. It's almost as if he's cleaning house, which Steve finds highly worrying, but Tony says to roll with it. Actually, Tony says they should sit back and let Loki clean up the city, then take him out and go to Tahiti. Steve's pretty sure he's joking; the body count is unacceptably high, even for an internecine supervillain war.
And then, just as suddenly, Loki disappears. No parting gesture, no grand farewell, no master plan gone tragically and epically awry; on the contrary, it's as though the thrill is simply gone, and without Thor to torment the other Avengers aren't worth his time.
When they do finally find him it's almost an accident. Iron Man and Captain America are investigating an old Hydra base that's shown signs of being less abandoned than previously believed. Braced for some kind of world-threatening lab experiment, or ranks of clone armies or similar, the last thing they're expecting is Loki curled up on a surprisingly ornate chaise longue, a mohair blanket spread over his lap, half asleep in front of a television showing Supernatural re-runs of all things.
They react instinctively, months of pent up rage and grief fuelling them, but they move like a well oiled machine, the smoothest of partnerships. Iron Man seizes Loki by the shoulders and drags him over the back of the couch, tossing him full force into the wall, while Steve raises his shield for the killing blow. There's no point taking him in; they both know there's no prison that could hold him. Loki gasps and reaches out with both hands, one to each of them, and breathes out the single word, "Please."
Steve hesitates, moving to block Tony's advance, and Loki moans in pain as he collapses to the floor, making no move to defend himself, whether physically or magically. His hands shift instead to his stomach, and Steve recoils in horror at the sight. Loki's habitual green and gold silk tunic is stretched tight over what is unmistakably a pregnant belly.
"What the ever-loving fuck?" Tony demands, speaking, albeit uncouthly, for both of them.
"Don't just stand there," Loki groans, looking up at them. "Help me."
"Yeah, I don't think you understand how this smite evil thing works," Tony retorts.
Loki doubles over, gasping and curling in on himself. When he straightens all sign of mischief is gone from his face.
"I apologise for my past offences," he grits out, "but please. Help me. Help the child if you won't help me."
Steve drops to his knees at once, the instinct too strongly ingrained to fight, even in the face of his worst enemy and what is almost certainly a trick. Tony sighs behind him, the sound unmistakable even through the suit's voice modulation.
"What do I do?" Steve asks. He'd delivered twins in a bombed out schoolhouse at Monte Cassino, but somehow he doesn't think that experience is particularly salient here.
"Get me a knife from the kitchen," Loki moans, and Tony stomps off in the general direction of his pointed hand.
"Can't you just… magic it out?" Steve asks, fully aware of how inane the question is, but loth to perform an emergency Caesarean with a carving knife on the floor of a dusty warehouse.
Loki meets his eye, a surprisingly open look on his face. "I forswore my magicks for the duration," he says quietly. "It was the price of the spell."
"Oh," Steve manages, nonplussed at the thought.
Tony returns, helmet and gauntlets off, a selection of knives in one hand and a bunch of tea towels in the other. Steve looks at the knives squeamishly, then Loki sighs and snatches the biggest one out of Tony's hand.
"I'll do it," he says, unbuttoning his tunic one-handed. "You take the child."
"All right," Steve nods, though a parade of horrific images is rushing through his head.
"It's not going to be a giant snake, is it?" Tony asks, his mind obviously on the same wavelength. "Or a mutant horse?"
Loki sits up, pain forgotten. "By the Norns!" he shouts. "I had thought you intelligent. For one of Midgard, anyway."
"The Starks are from Prussia originally," Tony says defensively. "I grew up on this stuff."
Steve doesn't even have that excuse, just a child's membership card to the New York Public Library, where the furnaces were always lit, and it was always warm, even in the depths of winter. "Let's get on with it," he says firmly.
Loki nods, then plunges the knife, without hesitation, into his own abdomen, drawing it diagonally up and across, almost to his sternum. The violence of it shocks Steve, reminding him inescapably of the last time he saw Loki, and then Loki's hands are plunging into his own ravaged flesh, holding the wound open.
"Hurry," he groans.
Steve breathes deep, and pulls out a wriggling, squirming mass. Swiping a hand across its face to clear its nose and mouth he laughs at his own foolishness; it's just a baby, plump, ruddy faced, squalling lustily as cold air fills its lungs. He picks up the discarded knife, and cuts the cord. Loki slumps back against the wall, eyes closing, breath slowing, and Steve passes the baby urgently to a reluctant Tony.
All is not forgiven, and Loki's crimes have not been forgotten, but lying there, for the first time ever, he looks small and weak and exhausted. He looks human. Steve pulls the afterbirth out of the gaping wound – this part he remembers, more or less – then presses the raw edges together gently. There's a faint hum under his hands, and a feeling of warmth, as the skin knits back together neatly, the vicious scar fading to a soft pink. Loki stirs, struggling to sit up and craning to see the child.
"He is well?" he asks.
"He's fine," Steve assures him, then glances at Tony to make sure.
Tony holds up the infant, now wrapped in an incongruous I ♥ NY tea towel, and chewing on one chubby fist. "Fighting fit and raring to go," he says, smiling despite himself.
Steve smiles back at him fondly, then turns to Loki who's climbed to his feet and is fastening his tunic and tutting at the way it no longer fits quite right. "Do you want to hold him?" he asks.
Loki glances over at Tony and his son, a querying look on his face, then says quietly and politely, as though it's the most natural thing in the world, "No, thank you."
"What?" Steve boggles at him, sure he must have misheard.
"I thank you for your assistance," Loki continues, bowing slightly, "and when next you find yourself in need of mine, call and I will answer. Once."
"Now, hang on a minute," Tony says, nowhere near as menacing as he no doubt means to be, with a swaddled child in the crook of his armoured elbow. "You're not seriously going to-"
Loki vanishes in a flash of green light.
"Guess he wasn't kidding about the duration," Tony sighs.
They secure the child – Loki could at least have deigned to give him a name – in a nest of towels inside the shield, and Steve holds it close against his body as Tony wraps an arm around his waist and flies at a relative snail's pace back to Avengers Mansion. The kid's half Asgardian, or half Jotun, or whatever the heck Loki is, but he's a newborn, and Steve's taking no chances.
They bathe him carefully in the marble basin of their en suite bathroom, Tony having ducked the haymaker Natasha flung his way when he suggested she might like to do it. Steve cradles the baby in his big hands, breathing deep and visualising an eggshell or a priceless heirloom or a spring blossom, and Tony dabs at his skin gently with a soft cloth. It's pretty obvious he's pretending the baby's a piece of fragile, irreplaceable machinery, and he traces the lines of his body with all the care he'd usually apply to a particularly magnificent new piece of alien tech.
Once all the blood and amniotic fluid is removed, the child is revealed as blond haired and blue eyed, and truly beautiful. He weighs at least twelve pounds, and is clearly in the best of health if the fierce way he clutches at Steve's fingers with his own small hands is anything to go by. Tony's less than amused when Steve sends him out to buy formula.
"This is exactly what I built this suit for," he grumbles, "twenty three million dollars and hundreds of man hours, Stark hours, to make diaper runs."
"Good thinking," Steve agrees. "We do need diapers. What else?"
"I'll seduce a woman at the drug store and ask her," Tony snaps back.
Steve ignores him and keeps playing with the baby. By the time he has him dressed in one of Tony's old MIT t-shirts and temporarily diapered in a couple more, Tony's back and banging around in the kitchen downstairs.
As Steve feeds the baby from an expertly heated bottle, Tony takes a black marker from the cup by the phone and scrawls DEADBEAT across Loki's photo. "You know," he sighs, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually expected better of him."
"Yeah." It's odd, but Steve did too.
Once the baby's been adequately fed, diapered, re-dressed in a very cute onesie with a picture of the founding Avengers – Thor's smiling face gives Steve a pang – on the front, and swathed in a blanket, they do what they always knew they'd have to. They take him back to Asgard.
No one seems surprised to see them – having an all seeing gatekeeper must help with that – and no one seems surprised they have a baby with them either. Before Steve can launch into the speech he'd prepared, a radiant Frigga reaches out to take the child.
"Loki didn't give him a name," he says awkwardly.
Frigga laughs. "He is Thor," she says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the universe.
Tony looks at Steve oddly. Steve shrugs. The child is her grandson after all; it's not unthinkable that she would name him for his uncle, regardless of his father's – mother's? – crimes.
"Come, friends," Odin says, extending both arms to them. "Tonight we celebrate."
Earthly alcohol may have no effect on him, but Steve soon discovers that Asgardian mead does. Three horns of it and he's pleasantly tipsy, three more and Tony, despite his legendary tolerance, is smashed. When Steve tries to surreptitiously tip the seventh round into a golden urn he discovers the horn is, in fact, bottomless and self replenishing, a true cornucopia. He settles for wrapping an arm around Tony instead, and Tony smiles and leans sleepily back against his shoulder.
It's the first really fun night out they've had all year, and as Thor's friends rise and propose toast after toast he finds he can remember him without it hurting quite so much. When a warrior of truly prodigious appetite puts down his half devoured ham and launches into a tale of Thor and Loki, and how they once dressed as girls to cheat some dwarves, Steve actually laughs, and is surprised to find he doesn't hate Loki quite so much any more, either.
It was a decision made wildly, rashly, between one beat of Thor's slowing heart and the next, without any of the reasoned consideration the adult Loki gave everything he did. In hindsight it was, perhaps, the purest instinct of all, the urge to give life instead of take it; the knowledge that he could do this thing coupled with the absolute certainty that he would do it, never a thought spared for whether he should. The desperate, tearing, all-consuming grief he'd felt, watching Thor stumble, overruled all.
He'd been terrified when he first learned all the things he could do, the natural abilities and needs of his frost giant body no longer constrained by the spells of binding cast by Odin. Terrified and disgusted. The shock and shame of it had been too much for him on Asgard, walking the halls in which he'd grown up, catching glimpses of himself in every mirrored surface, seeing always what he knew now to be his true face. Those around him saw still what he wanted them to see, a simple glamour that took no thought or strength to maintain, but though he had the desire he had not the will to make himself see it. No wonder he'd driven himself mad.
Later, after the fall, he'd travelled the Nine Realms, seeking every teacher and mage and wise one, gone even to the Norns to find the knowledge he needed. And slowly, ever so slowly, but surely, he'd learned to embrace his new gifts. Odin's bindings had not been motivated solely by the desire to protect and conceal him, he discovered. On the contrary, a mastery of sorcery such as his was as rare and unappreciated among the Jotnar as it was among the Aesir, but his ability to combine his heritages was unprecedented, and it was truly his uniqueness Odin feared.
In any case, once he recovered from a brief but disgraceful outburst of hysteria at realising what he'd done, the pregnancy was a revelation. On a purely physical level it was uncomfortable and unpleasant, the size and weight of the growing child almost too much for his frame. The one question no one had ever been able to answer was why he was so small for a frost giant, but he found himself thanking heaven nightly that he was tall, if lean, for an Asgardian.
On an intellectual level it felt cognitively dissonant, his mind insisting that it was impossible for Aesir men to fecundate at all, let alone as bizarrely as this. And yet the evidence was there; he was not Aesir, and he grew more and more gravid each day. On a spiritual level it felt unmistakeably right and natural. When the child moved within him for the first time, he knew himself glad to be Jotun. Glad, and proud. No Asgardian sorcerer could ever have done such a thing. Not even Odin.
Even so he could not, without lying, deny he was glad to have the thing over with.
It's a sunny afternoon in Central Park, some six months later, when next they find themselves overmatched. Steve can take twenty or thirty Doombots easy, and Tony can probably take forty when the suit's in full working order. A hundred's a bit much. Still, nothing to panic about. He's about to call for back up when a sudden blast of icy wind sweeps through the trees. There's a flash of red on his right, when he knows Tony's at his left, and, he'd swear, the swirl of a heavy cape in his peripheral vision.
"Hail, friends," a voice booms. "Do these varlets give you trouble?"
Steve's so surprised he misses the return swing, and the shield goes careering into the side of an illegally parked SUV. He turns to look, and-
"Thor?" he asks, Tony echoing him in just as much astonishment and popping the faceplate of his helmet.
"Verily," Thor laughs.
"Where did you come from?" Steve asks, Doombots forgotten.
"Why, Asgard," Thor answers. "Is that not where you left me?"
"What?" Tony demands. "No, seriously, what?"
"That small infant garment you dressed me in was delightful," Thor grins. "I had not believed you so sentimental. There was quite the competition among the court ladies to acquire it once I grew out of it."
Steve's jaw drops in a way he's sure it hasn't since he got his first look at his new body in 1942. "You were the baby?"
"The baby was you?" Tony parrots.
"Of course," Thor agrees, shaking his head at their simple-mindedness. "Was it not obvious?''
"No!"
"Then you believed me dead?" Thor frowns. "I am truly sorry for it."
"No problem, big guy," Tony laughs, slapping him on the shoulder. The full weight of the armour is barely enough to shift him. "We're just glad to have you back."
"But Loki…" Steve begins. "He… With your heart… And then he…"
"Ah, yes," Thor agrees. "My brother has always been wise beyond the telling."
"Wise?"
Thor smiles wistfully. The Loki smile. "And he has always held my heart."
Steve isn't sure what hits harder; that, or the lead Doombot that's clearly tired of waiting for their emotional crisis to resolve itself.
"DOOM!" it insists, following up the sucker punch to the kidney with a wild strike at his head.
And just like that, everything falls into place. Tony and Thor go back to back behind him, and even without Mjolnir it's all over bar the shouting. Tony foregoes his hi-tech weaponry, and the three of them go hand to hand, laughing and joking and keeping count of their victories in ever more raucous competition.
When the Doombots are nothing but a pile of sparking and smouldering scrap metal they head back to the mansion. Thor can't fly without the hammer so Tony wraps an arm around each of them and takes off, complaining loudly about how ridiculous they must look. He can't keep it up though, and starts laughing again, and launching into increasingly complicated loop-de-loops. Steve feels positively giddy, and it's the best feeling ever.
Back at the house, Tony breaks out a massive bottle of champagne and sets to opening it. Steve tries to demur – explanations are clearly in order – but Tony insists, then looks askance at the frosty steins Thor is pulling out of the freezer.
"This cost me twenty thousand dollars at auction!" he complains, but there's a twinkle in his eye.
"I have pressing business elsewhere," Thor says. "And no time to play with your tiny, fragile glasses."
"Fine," Tony says, filling the mugs to the brim. "We'll have your proper welcome back party later. The others will want to be here anyway. Bottoms up."
They raise their drinks in a heartfelt toast, and as Steve sips at his he has to admit it's good, even if the thought of paying that much for anything short of a house or a car is baffling to him. Thor downs his in a single long swallow, then turns to leave. He stops short when he sees the fridge door.
"My friends, for shame," he says, shaking his head and frowning at both of them.
Tony shrugs, and for once Steve joins him. It's been a long, hard year.
Thor pulls Loki's picture off the door and cocks his head, clearly calculating where exactly on the scale to put it. For a moment it looks like he's decided on the gap between Absorbing Man and the Wrecking Crew – Steve can only imagine how affronted Loki will be at the downgrade – but then he crumples the photo into a ball and tosses it in the trash. He walks out the door without looking back.
Steve stares after him for a moment, but then Tony wraps an arm around his waist and leans in to whisper in his ear. "I'm still in a mood to celebrate," he says. "Let's take this party upstairs."
They do.
With complete control of the local mystical underworld, and a truce of sorts in place with the Avengers – or at least no longer actively harassing them, which had largely lost its savour – Loki found the Midgard days stretched long. After working his way through the entire inventory of a corner bookstore, he enrolled in a correspondence course in Old Sumerian – its status as a split-ergative language made it pleasantly difficult, and cuneiform, of course, was delightful – and another on cordon bleu cookery. He was conjugating the aorist form of the irregular verb to be and filling chicken and mushroom vol-au-vents when his apartment door opened behind him. The wards he had placed around it did not react, and the heavy tread was one he recognised.
"Ah, Thor," he said coolly as he breathed deep and turned, wiping his spotless hands on a towel to hide the fact they were trembling. "You look somewhat better than the last time I saw you."
"Indeed," Thor said archly. "I understand the last time you saw me you'd just given birth to me."
"Yes," Loki mused. "I'm not entirely sure why I bothered. It was a dreadfully dull affair. Must you track mud all over my parquet?"
Thor looked down at his feet, then shrugged, an appalling habit he had picked up from his Midgard friends. "I had to walk across town to get here," he said.
"Oh?"
"Yes. I believe you have something of mine."
Oh. Of course. "It's under the bed," Loki said, wondering why he'd expected anything else. "Go and get it."
Thor snagged a vol-au-vent as he squeezed past Loki in the tiny kitchen, and stuffed it whole into his mouth.
"These are a ridiculous food, brother," he complained, mouth full. "Don't you have anything else?"
"They need to be baked," Loki answered, caught off guard. "They're much nicer hot."
"Well, I hope you've made plenty," Thor called back as he headed down the hall. "I'm famished."
"When aren't you?" Loki shouted after him, even as he swapped the new tray for the finished one in the oven.
"I've lived on a steady diet of milk, honeyed mead, and Idunn's apples for the last six months," Thor said, re-emerging, Mjolnir slung over his shoulder. "Even you'd be ravenous by now."
Loki cast a jaundiced eye over him. "You look good for it," he allowed at last.
Thor's face split into a broad smile. "Sif tells me I was an adorable child. But I confess I'm curious. You didn't want to raise me yourself? Iron Man and Captain America were most dismayed at your failure to take responsibility."
Loki glared at him. "I was raised as your brother. I have been your lover. Forgive me if I could not stomach the thought of life as your mother."
"I do forgive you," Thor said solemnly. "For everything."
Loki's heart clenched. "Thor, don't," he said sternly.
"Please, brother," Thor said. "I have asked you once before, and I will ask you once again. Forgive me my own transgressions."
Loki sighed, then slid the finished pastries off the tray and onto a serving dish. "Take this through," he said, and thrust the platter into the hand Thor was reaching out to him.
"Are you sure you don't have any meat anywhere?" Thor asked plaintively. "A nice rare side of beef?"
"In this kitchen?" Loki laughed at him. "I know you habitually live in a mansion, but we apartment dwellers have to make do."
"And you can't conjure anything?"
"I got used to doing it the hard way while you were gone," Loki said quietly, avoiding Thor's eye. "I could not use magic when all my energy went on nourishing and sustaining you. And it filled the time."
"Ah," Thor said equally quietly. "Yes. You sacrificed much for me. I already knew this. And I am truly thankful."
They retired to the living area, Loki remembering to turn off the oven as they went, and they settled on the couch with the pastries and a bottle of wine. Thor devoured a dozen of the small pies in the time Loki ate four, but he did concede they made a passable meal. He then began to rib Loki for living in an upper Manhattan loft and a stunningly decorated one at that; Loki took revenge by threatening to tell Jormungandr that Thor had already met and faced the Midgard serpent and he would have to find something else to do, come Ragnarok. It was almost like old times. It was almost more than Loki could bear.
"Why are you still here?" he asked at last.
Thor put down his glass and took Loki's hand, tightening his grip when Loki tried to get free.
"When I was dying-" he began.
"Don't!" Loki snapped, striking ineffectually at his shoulder.
"When I was dying," Thor repeated. "There were only two thoughts in my head."
"So many?" Loki demanded waspishly, desperate to change the subject. "I am surprised you were capable of it."
"The first," Thor continued undaunted, "was how glad I was to have you there with me."
"And the second?"
"How sorry I was that you were not there with me."
"That makes no sense," Loki scoffed.
"You are wise enough to take my meaning," Thor said heavily. "Do you remember what you said to me?"
"No."
"Liar."
Loki sighed. "I said, 'Sleep now. I'll protect you. No one will hurt you while I'm here.' But Thor, it was a pleasant lie, the custom in such situations. You must know that."
Thor shook his head. "You are my brother and my friend. And sometimes I'm arrogant, and sometimes I'm unkind. But never doubt that I love you."
"I was lying then too," Loki hissed. "You are a fool."
"No, you weren't," Thor said. "You're a gifted liar, but I can always tell when it matters."
"Thor."
"Now give us a kiss."
Steve's enjoying that rarest of rare things, an afternoon spent in bed, entirely free from obligation or alarm, his communicator and his cell phone abandoned on the nightstand alongside Tony's, all four of them mercifully silent, when a blood-curdling yell from downstairs jolts him out of his doze.
"Steve!" Tony shouts from the kitchen where he'd gone in search of sustenance, even as Steve stumbles out of bed and into his discarded boxers. "Steve Rogers, get down here right now!"
He sprints down the stairs and crashes into the kitchen, to find Tony equally dishevelled and half-naked in a corner, brandishing the jug from his hi-tech blender like that'll save him – it might, Steve would rather die than touch one of his wheatgrass and algae concoctions – while Thor chuckles merrily from his seat at the breakfast bar, and Loki-
Loki is seasoning what looks like half a cow, the sleeves of his sage green henley pushed up above his elbows as he rubs rock salt and olive oil into the meat.
"My friends," Thor says, clearly delighted. "Loki has consented to prepare a celebratory feast for us tonight."
Steve feels his jaw drop.
"In my kitchen?" Tony demands.
"Mine is too small," Loki says, as though that answers every outstanding question, and turns to open the door of the industrial oven that no one has ever used, the stove top and microwave sufficient to the Avengers' communal culinary prowess and free time.
Thor surges to his feet as Loki goes to lift the massive roasting pan, shifting him gently but firmly out of the way and hefting the weight himself with one hand. Loki glares at him, but Thor just smiles sweetly, trailing the fingers of his other hand across the front of Loki's faded jeans.
"What's going on?" Tony asks suspiciously. "What are we celebrating?"
Thor blushes, and busies himself with positioning the tray in the oven. Loki flings him a filthy look, and sets to cutting vegetables with a bigger knife and more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. And Steve, Steve starts laughing, remembering, in the old legends, Thor wasn't just a weather god.