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dictionarywrites · 6 years

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Brought To Justice: Chapter 4

Odin gives Loki a choice when he is brought back to Asgard: imprisonment, or execution. When Loki chooses the latter, Odin increases his punishment twofold, and Loki is sent back to Midgard in order to repay his debt. Bound by his own magic and forced to obey whatever order Steve Rogers lays out for him, Loki is forced to attempt a redemption he neither wants nor deserves.

Ao3 link. Steve Rogers/Loki. Slowburn. 25k. Rated M. WIP.

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June 3rd, 2012

“C’mere,” Tony murmurs, and Pepper leans in, smiling as she leans her hands against the table between them, her breath warm and scented with coffee where she puts her mouth over his. Pepper kisses him, and Tony tastes the caramel shot she took in her drink, cupping her cheek and smiling at her with all the warmth in the world. It’s a great morning, the sun shining brightly in through the window, and in front of him Tony has a spread of folders, all focused on the Avengers Initiative.

SHIELD has been into him today, with Fury talking to him about taking over the Initiative from SHIELD… Fury had been more than reluctant to let Tony just take up the Initiative for the team, but with Steve pushing it through, it’s down to him, now.

And Coulson…

He’d sent flowers to the cellist, offered to fly her in, but she’d said no. Poor girl.

“How’s business?” Tony asks, his hands on Pepper’s hips, and she smiles at him, her lips plump and glossy. She’s using some kind of new stuff – gloss, lipstick, Tony doesn’t know – and it makes her even more beautiful than usual.

“How’s heroism?” she replies, and Tony groans, gesturing to the folders.

“It’s a lot like business.” Pepper laughs, patting his cheek and taking up her own spread of folders, her coffee in her hand. “You got meetings?”

“Until four. How about you?”

“I’m driving out to X-Mansion today, probably gonna take the wunderkind with me. And I think Clint and Nat are coming, too,” Tony murmurs, running his palm over his beard as he thinks about it. Pepper frowns, tilting her head slightly.

“Clint and Nat? Why?”

“I think ‘cause there’s space in the car,” Tony says, and Pepper lets out a short, huffed laugh before he continues, “I dunno. They’re kinda up in the air at the moment – they don’t want to take their normal jobs ‘cause they’re both into the routine of the Avengers thing, I think. Neither of ‘em has ever been part of a team like this one before, and they’re excited to get into it.”

“That’s good,” Pepper says, and Tony nods his head, slowly.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, it is. I’m just worried about two hours in a car with Loki on one side and them on the other.”

“He’s not going to say anything,” Pepper murmurs, and Tony sighs.

“It’s the silence I’m dreading.” Pepper pats his shoulder, leans and presses a kiss to his head, and then she walks away, running to catch her eight o’clock. Tony sighs, pushing his meeting notes together, and he glances at his phone.

Henry McCoy, 07:25 Mr Stark, you’re new to running a heroes team. Please, don’t worry about the meeting at all – we’ll talk you through it and get you up to speed, and we even have some resources from older iterations of the Avengers. None of us is expecting you to have the whole world planned to the letter.

They’re not expecting to see Loki exactly either, Tony thinks, but hey. Coming from a guy who’s worked on and off with Magneto, Loki almost seems like a walk in the park.

-----✪-✪-✪-Ⓐ -✪-✪-✪-----

“So you can speak any language, pretty much ever, and read any language, but you can’t sign?” Barton demands, and Loki stares at him from the other side of the limousine. Why, precisely, Stark insisted on this method of travel, Loki is uncertain – it strikes him as mildly obscene, particularly when they’re going to a boarding school of all places, but then, Loki doubts Stark has spent much time in a normal automobile.

“Why would I be able to speak any Midgardian sign languages?” Loki asks, arching his eyebrows. “It’s called the Allspeak, Mr Barton, not the Allsign.” All of them are rather dressed up for this occasion: Romanov wears a black dress that clings to the lines of her waist and chest, accentuating an easy hourglass figure; Stark wears a pressed suit, and Barton wears a purple shirt that has a collar and everything. Loki hadn’t known the man had it in him. Loki himself wears a lilac shirt tucked into white trousers, a floral tie around his neck, and Stark had groaned when he had seen the outfit, but then complimented Loki thrice, so he would guess it’s fine enough.

“Yeah, but if it’s magic—”

“What about languages with clicks and whistles?” Romanov breaks in.

“They translate just fine. Some words don’t, of course – words for specific fruits or vegetables, materials, et cetera. But the Allspeak… It translates the meaning more so than it rewrites the words as I’m hearing them. When I hear any of you speak, I hear English, but the meaning is translated in my own head, I suppose. Which means I can still be aware of connotations, names, et cetera – it’s a sort of telepathic magic. If someone talks about, say, finar in the Fon System, even though I’m not familiar with finar itself, I would get the impression of the scent, the sight, of the grain.”

“If that’s the case, then you should be able to understand sign languages just fine,” Romanov says, slowly. “Loads of languages include gestures as part of them, and if it’s a telepathic element, an impression, then sign language should be no different.”

Loki brings his index finger up to his chin, then brings it outward: True.

Barton nearly yells, burying his face in his hands and letting out a garbled sound of frustration, and when Loki grins, he shows all of his teeth, laughing. Romanov is shaking her head, letting out short chuckles, and Loki glances to Stark. Stark is looking between the three of him, his lips quirked into a smile between his obscene patches of sculpted facial hair.

“You spoke ASL this whole time, huh?”

“It’s called the Allspeak,” Loki says, not unreasonably, and Barton groans incoherently in his direction. Loki had been worried the journey would be much more uncomfortable than it is, but Romanov has been making polite, measured conversation with Loki, and it is Barton that has brought the levity in the situation with his humorous over-reactions.

“Why do you lie?” Barton demands. “There’s no reason to! We don’t speak sign language in front of you anyway, so we wouldn’t risk it – there was nothing to gain! You just, you just lied, for no reason!”

“I didn’t lie for no reason,” Loki replies. “I lied so you could enjoy unravelling my deception. Through logic alone.”

“But that’s— Why that? We could just play a game!” Loki clucks his tongue, disapproving, and Barton looks askance to Romanov, now speechless, but Romanov just smiles, shoving the archer in the side.

“I don’t play games.” Loki leans back in his seat, turning to look at Stark once more, and Stark leans in toward him.

“Here,” he says, holding something out, and Loki takes it, staring down at it. It’s a mobile telephone, much like Stark’s own, and Loki stares down at his reflection in the polished, black glass. “So your cell number is on the card stuck to the back, and this is yours now. It’s charged, and I’ll give you the charger when you’re back at the building – it’s a pretty standard smartphone, texting, calls, internet, camera. I think you should start an Instagram or something.”

“Instagram?” Loki repeats, and he frowns, staring at the screen. “Mr Stark, that hardly seems very secretive.”

“Well, we’re ironing out your paperwork now. Soon, SWORD is gonna give you your alien-on-earth papers, and you’re gonna be a real, fake citizen of the US of A. Besides, Loki,” Stark murmurs quietly, “It’ll look better if you’re… You know. Integrating. It’s great to do like, Wikipedia stuff—”

“So many of the articles are so badly written—”

“It’s a community encyclopaedia, your highness, I don’t know what you expect,” Stark says, shaking his hand for Loki to close his mouth, and Loki does, feeling the weight of the phone in his hand. “But you know, even just Facebook, or Twitter… Shit, even if you made some kinda weird blogging site or something.”

“If there’s some sort of injunction,” Loki murmurs, holding the phone in his hand, “You want there to be tangible, documentable proof that I’m accepting my place on Earth.” It makes complete sense to Loki, and yet the social media of Earth… It is not something he is entirely comfortable focusing upon, not something he thinks he would be naturally inclined to. Perhaps merely something private – that is an option, isn’t it?

“Exactly. It’s not an order – me and Steve talked about it, and we’re not gonna like, make you do social media or anything. Hell, Cap won’t even let me give him a phone yet. But you need to make some kinda presence. Loki, there’s a reason we’re taking you with us to the Mansion – people are gonna find out eventually that you’re one of us now, and we can’t really risk trying to keep it a secret.” Loki draws his thumb over the phone’s smooth, cool touch screen, and he looks at the screen that comes up.

“I’m going to have to take this apart,” Loki murmurs. “Make some improvements.”

“I slaved over that phone for you, Loki—”

“Interesting choice of words.” Stark’s eyes widen, his lips parting for a second, and Loki smiles before pointing out, “I did it to the laptop.” Something changes in Stark’s expression, some sort of irritation bubbling to the top – he doesn’t like the implication that he may not be the most competent engineer in the room, Loki thinks, and it might amuse him were it not so patronising.

“You took my laptop apart?” Stark asks, lowly, and Loki raises his eyebrows.

“You said it was my laptop,” he says mildly, and Stark presses his lips together, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning away from him.

“Look, Loki, no offence, but you’re not exactly an engineer. You can’t—” Loki turns away from Stark, looking to Romanov and Barton. He meets Romanov’s gaze, looking into her deep eyes.

“Is this mansplaining?” Loki asks. Beside him, Stark splutters, irritated and indignant, but Romanov just slowly nods her head. The limousine comes to a stop, revealing the open grounds of the manor, and Loki reaches for the door, sliding out. “Read my file, Stark,” Loki advises, and he holds the door open for Barton and Romanov.

It is a beautiful summer’s day, shining down upon the green grasses and the gravel road, and when Loki looks up to the windows of the mansion, he can see that the children who are meant to be in their classes are all pressed up, looking down to see what the visitors might possibly be here for.

When Stark exits the vehicle, many of them get very excited indeed, hopping up and down, and Loki smiles slightly, pushing the limousine closed. There are a group of people gathered before the doors of the house: Charles Xavier, Ororo Munroe, Henry McCoy and Scott Summers. Loki recognizes them all, at a glance.

“Professor Xavier,” Stark says, taking a few steps toward the house’s doors, and Xavier, an older gentleman in a wheelchair, shakes Stark’s hand. Loki has read about him and these marvellous X-Men, of course, and he looks at Xavier where he sits in his wheelchair, looking anything but infirm. His eyes are alight with intelligence, and Loki is almost wary to come forward and shake the man’s hand himself, so he hangs back as Romanov and Barton step up, with Stark introducing them. “What, you shy?”

“No,” Loki says, and he steps forward, coming away from the car and coming closer. As he does, he can see the beast-like blue figure’s yellow eyes widen, see Munroe’s expression turn cold, but Xavier’s remains quietly paternal, a slight smile on his face.

“Loki, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, Professor Xavier,” Loki says politely, putting out his hand to shake: the others make no movement to reach for his hand as they did for the others, but Loki says nothing.

“How are you settling in?” Loki can feel the impact of his telepathic energy against his magic. I wouldn’t advise that, Loki presses onto the air itself, and Xavier’s lips quirk into a deeper smile, his old face a map of wrinkles, showing the years that have passed him by. The depths of Loki’s mind are not easy for telepaths to grasp at, as a rule, so full to the brim are the banks of Loki’s memories, so strongly felt are his emotions, and he feels Xavier draw back.

Wouldn’t you? he replies.

“Quite well, thank you,” Loki says aloud. “Of course, I have a debt to repay.”

“You’re damned right,” says Summers, and Loki looks at him. The sun shines off the plastic-rimmed glasses he wears over his dangerous gaze, as Medusa with her bloodied blindfold, and Loki smiles, wanly, before giving a polite bow.

The others begin to make their way inside, Xavier moving up the ramp at the side of the trio of steps as the others move up into the house, but McCoy remains. He steps forward, and he puts out his right hand to shake: the hand is brightly blue, the palm rubbery and soft, and the back of his hand is thick with fur. Loki takes it, surprised, and shakes it well. McCoy’s hand is warm, surprisingly so, but Loki’s impassive expression as he surveys McCoy’s waistcoat and patterned trousers must unsettle him somewhat.

“What? Never seen a man like me before?” Loki looks at him for a long few moments, then allows the glamour over his skin to fall. Of course, he keeps the eternal masking over the scars on his mouth, his eyes, and around his neck, but he feels the tingle over his flesh as his skin turns as blue as McCoy’s own, showing the rough indentations on his skin, the redness of his eyes.

“I’ve seen something like him,” Loki replies, aware that his Jötunn voice has a breathier, raspier element to it, as the tongue itself is longer than that of the Æsir, and thicker. McCoy’s yellow eyes flit downward, taking Loki in from head to foot, and then he smiles, genuinely. He has sharp teeth, Loki can see, feline in their make-up.

“Welcome,” McCoy murmurs, nodding toward the steps, and Loki falls into step beside him. McCoy does not wear shoes, instead leaving his fur-covered, hand-like feet to tread upon the ground. As feline as McCoy’s face is, his hands and feet resemble – in shape – the chimpanzee, and Loki notes this with curiosity, resisting the natural urge to reach out with his magic and feel for McCoy’s biology. “Stark didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“This is something of a trial run, if my information is correct,” Loki murmurs, walking alongside McCoy into the house. “My… Service to the Avengers is not yet public knowledge.” A few children pass them by, peering up at Loki and McCoy with evident curiosity, but none of them stop to speak, and of course, none of them recognizes Loki.

“The people are going to hate it,” McCoy says outright, turning left and coming down a corridor, and Loki nods his head, slowly. “What was it? Mind control? Debt? Villainy?” Loki inhales, slowly, and then says,

“Desperation.” McCoy hums.

“Yes, that’ll about do it,” he says. The man has a pleasant voice, sounding like a kindly, American academic, and Loki doesn’t say anything when he realises they are going down corridors they oughtn’t – when he realises the others are on the other side of mansion, some way away. McCoy leads him down a set of stairs, then opens the door inward, revealing… Quarters.

Loki glances about the humble living room, and when McCoy gestures for him to take a seat at the dining table, Loki does. There are windows allowing in bright light despite the fact that this level of the mansion is subterranean, and when McCoy holds up a kettle, Loki nods his head to the offer of coffee.

“You know why you’re here?” McCoy asks, lowly, as he presses the mug toward Loki’s hands. He knows, instinctively perhaps, that Loki doesn’t take sugar or milk, or perhaps he simply doesn’t care.

“You don’t want me near the children,” Loki murmurs. “I understand. I didn’t realize Stark hadn’t told you until I exited his ridiculous limousine.” He brings the steaming brew up to his lips, and he feels it settle on his tongue, bitter and dark. It’s a rich blend, Moroccan in its origin, and he lets out a quiet sigh. He doesn’t often drink coffee, unwilling to allow himself the treat every day as many of the Avengers seem to – the caffeine content is simply not something Loki is used to, and he prefers to stay away from even the mildest of chemical imbalances.

(“I didn’t realise you were gonna be so… Fastidious,” Rogers had said, paging through the list Barton had compiled of things Loki refused to eat, and Loki had stood there, embarrassed, until he realised every refusal was being taken into account, and added to a file to keep him from being served that which he wouldn’t eat.

“So you’ve said before,” Loki had replied. He had known not what else to say.)

“You have children?” McCoy asks, and Loki inclines his head. It is strange, to look down at his hands and see that his fingers are blue, his fingernails hard and silver-tipped, circular markings coming down even to his wrists and the backs of his hands.

“I used to,” he says. “You’ve read the mythology, I take it, Doctor McCoy?”

“We read all sorts to the children here,” McCoy answers, finally settling down at the table himself, and he puts a set of biscuits upon the table, but all of them are sugary-sweet, and Loki politely keeps his hands to himself. “I’ve read a few versions of most of the world’s myths at this point.”

“Some of it is more correct, some of it is less so,” Loki says. “Six children. All mine. I wouldn’t hurt them, Doctor McCoy – but then, my assurances don’t mean much.”

“You know the death toll for New York, Loki?” McCoy asks.

“Thousands,” Loki murmurs.

“You feel guilty?” Loki smiles, looking at McCoy and examining him, his head tilting to the side. McCoy is a kindly gentleman, from what Loki has learned in reading about him – kind, and warm, and firm, when needs be.

“The blame is upon me, Doctor McCoy,” Loki says delicately. The coffee is hot in his throat, so strange in this skin he is ill-used to, and he feels it bubbling in his belly, at odds with the natural homeostasis of the Jötunn form. “The deaths that occurred, occurred. The horrors I caused, I have caused. This link with the Avengers… I believe Captain Rogers has called it a rehabilitation. I will do what I can.”

“You think people will forgive you?” McCoy asks.

“No,” Loki replies. “Not unless the peoples of this planet are more foolish than once I thought.” McCoy opens his mouth to go on, but there is a knock at his door, and McCoy moves to open it, standing in the doorway.

“Professor Xavier said to come get you,” says a quiet voice. “And the other guy. Who is he?”

“Thank you, Mr Jenkins,” McCoy replies mildly.

“Yeah but—”

“Goodbye, Harry,” McCoy murmurs, and he turns to look to Loki. “We should—” Loki stands, and the light bleeds from his body all at once, leaving him entirely invisible. “Oh. That is convenient.”

“I do try,” Loki replies, and he sets his mug down on the ground. McCoy touches his shoulder as he comes closer, rather surprising Loki with how comfortable he is navigating invisibility. “You believe in redemption, Doctor McCoy?”

“I’m afraid I do,” he replies quietly, and allows Loki to follow him out into the hallway.

-----✪-✪-✪-Ⓐ -✪-✪-✪-----

Tony taps his nail against the desk. He sits with Clint on his right, Natasha to his left: across the table, Scott Summers stares him down. “You wanna tell me where my guy is?”

“Henry has taken him aside,” Xavier says, quietly. “I thought we’d discuss a few things without him in the room. For example – why is he here?”

“He’s one of us now,” Tony says breezily. “What, you got a problem?”

“With someone who killed a thousand people in three days? Yeah,” Munroe says, smacking her palm against the table. “We have a problem.”

“Isn’t your guys’ whole thing about rehabilitating super villains?” Clint asks, arching his eyebrows and looking smoothly between Summers, Munroe and Xavier. “’Cause no offence, I know he doesn’t live here, but Magneto—”

“That’s complicated, and you know it,” Summers says, bitingly. Tony knows without knowing that he says it just to protect Xavier, whose lips are quirked into an infuriatingly knowing smile.

“This is complicated too,” Tony replies. Xavier looks at him for a long few moments, and Tony wonders if this, this is what telepathy feels like, if Xavier is reading his mind right now and it doesn’t feel like anything at all. “He won’t hurt anybody – he can’t. There’s, uh, a Harry Potter life debt situation kinda going on. Magic, shmagic, whatever. But Loki isn’t why we’re here: we’re here to talk about sharing resources, and mobilising teams. And I want him here, at this table, or we’re leaving right now.”

“Have one of the students collect Hank, Scott,” Xavier says mildly. “He’s in his quarters.”

“You can send a message, Prof, just—”

“Scott,” Xavier says delicately, and Summers turns on his heel, stalking from the room and out into the corridor, the door slamming behind him. Xavier wheels over to the table, leaning back in his chair to look at Tony from across the table, and he says, “We’re more than willing to share resources with you. It’s useful for there to be a network between teams. Is this new initiative still headed by SHIELD?” Tony frowns, looking between Xavier and Munroe, but both of their expressions are completely impassive, and he slowly shakes his head.

“No,” Tony says. “No, they’re not. The initiative is under my management now, and Captain Rogers is gonna lead the team in the field.” Xavier and Munroe share a small glance, and then Xavier nods, setting out a few files upon the table.

“Very well,” he says. “Let us negotiate, then.” Tony frowns, trying to put the SHIELD thing into context in his head, but it doesn’t come.

-----✪-✪-✪-Ⓐ -✪-✪-✪-----

“Jesus Christ,” Clint says beside him, and Tony turns to look at Clint at first, then follows his gaze. Beside Henry McCoy, there’s a tall man with shining black hair, loosely tied at the nape of his neck, and his skin is soft blue, his eyes thick with a protective, red lens. There are even horns growing from beneath his hair, just beginning, and it isn’t until Tony’s gaze drops lower, taking in the white pants, the tie decorated with flowers, that he realises what he’s looking at – who he’s looking at.

“My apologies,” Loki says, his skin already turning back to pale white as he takes his seat beside Natasha, his hands neatly folded in his lap. “Doctor McCoy and I were bonding over our shared aesthetics.”

“Colour schemes,” Xavier says warmly, seeming full of humour. “What a thing to bond over.”

They return to negotiations, discussions. Loki remains in place, utterly silent, and doesn’t say a word for the rest of the time they’re there.

-----✪-✪-✪-Ⓐ -✪-✪-✪-----

“Best that I take on the Jötunn form, whilst I am here,” Loki murmurs in Stark’s ear, and Stark turns to glance at him. Is it fear on his face, Loki wonders? Is it disgust? Throughout the discussions, Loki had remained quiet, and despite Stark’s words – that the word must get out somehow, that Loki’s status cannot remain secret, he feels vulnerable, and uncomfortable, with showing his face about children who might know to be frightened of him. It is weak of him, perhaps. Certainly, it is.

“That— That’s real?” Stark asks.

“That’s what I look like, yes,” Loki murmurs. “For a shapeshifter, Mr Stark, the reality of one’s true form is ever debatable, but that is my base form, if you will. It unnerves you… You thought the Jötnar were as the Æsir and Vanir, outwardly resembling humanity.” Loki’s illusion bleeds away once again, leaving him as what he is, with some small adjustments. “I hate to disappoint you.”

“It’s not that,” Stark murmurs. “It’s not that you look like an alien, just— You said you didn’t know you were a Jotunn, not until a few years ago. So, what, you didn’t know you looked like that?”

“Odin’s magic sealed it from my knowledge,” Loki murmurs. “I knew so much as suspected.” There is disgust on Stark’s face, now, curling his lip and twisting his nose, and he puts his hand on Loki’s shoulder: his hand is warm.

“You take whatever form you want,” he murmurs, tone firm. “And Odin— God, what a fucking monster.” He spits out the words, astounding venom crossing over his lips, and Loki finds himself staring at him for the longest few moments, astonished. Never has someone criticized Odin so freely to him, so easily – and with such language…

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and he follows Stark as they make their way into the main part of the building, taking the seats in the living room. Stark takes a seat in a winged armchair, ever needing to put across control, and Loki settles on the lefthand arm, his back straight, one ankle crossed over the other. Romanov is speaking with two younger mutants Loki recognizes not – an extremely tall man, seemingly crafted of steel, and a smaller, dark haired girl that leans against him as they speak – and Barton is speaking in rapid, easy sign with Xavier, who is nodding and speaking occasionally. Even Stark looks at home in the strange room, lazily sending a few texts before engaging McCoy in conversation, and Loki stands, quietly excusing himself before moving outside.

His hands in his pockets, Loki takes a slow, easy walk down the path of the Westchester grounds, reaching up and drawing the ribbon out of his hair, so that it settles loosely on his shoulders, brushing against his upper arms.

(“You don’t braid it,” Rogers had said. “Isn’t that a big thing, for vikings?” Loki had considered correcting him, but Rogers had a little smirk on his face, and it was plain he was jesting.

“I never liked braiding my hair,” Loki had replied. “The Jötnar don’t, you know. It is considered bad for the growth and shine of one’s hair to tie it up in knots, and they hate the idea of looking like the Æsir in any way.”

“Huh,” Rogers had murmured, and then nodded his head.)

Loki rolls the shirt sleeves up to his elbow, feeling the heat of the waning sun on his skin. They had arrived some time past one o’clock, and it is now late in the day – the traffic had been rather bad today, and he supposes it will be somewhat better on the way back… He hopes, at least. He walks at least a mile over the lightly sloping fields of green, green grass, and it feels… Freeing.

When he reaches the treeline, Loki stops, glancing over the grounds the X-Mansion is settled on, farther up the hill. Paths run off in each direction, and Loki knows there are miles upon miles of grounds for the young children to play on, and for X-Men to train upon, but he hardly wishes to explore. He had merely wished to be outside.

There is something cathartic about being out in the dying sun, feeling the evening breeze upon his skin: Loki smells summer blooms and wild fruits on the air, and the scent of freshly mowed grass is thick in his nose and upon his tongue. Being here, amongst nature, is so much more comfortable than the bustling cities of New York, and for a second – a bare second, that is all he will allow himself – Loki lets himself imagine he is back in Asgard, out at the edge of the great wood in which he and Thor had played as children.

There is a vibration in his pocket, and Loki removes the phone.

UNKNOWN NUMBER, 19:16 its tony. u okay?

LOKI, 19:16 Yes. I am out upon the grounds – my apologies, I merely needed the air.

UNKNOWN NUMBER, 19:18 dw abt it. We r heading out in like, t-10

LOKI, 19:18 Very well. I’ll begin my return.

Out here, in Westchester County, there is hardly any worry about being seen, and so to speed his promenade he takes upon the air, his footsteps touching upon it as easily as they might ground or stair. Loki has Skywalked since he was a child, and it is his most basic, intrinsic magic, even before his illusions and his shapeshifting – strange, that this should equally be the magic he finds the most exciting.

He climbs the invisible stairway up into the air, until he is surveying the X-Mansion’s sprawling grounds from far above, taking the bird’s eye view. The grounds are beautiful, and Loki even sees a lake on the other side—

(“Skywalking, huh? What’s that?”

“Like flight, but more controlled. I walk upon the air, as it were.”

“Huh.” Rogers had murmured, and made a note on the page.)

He begins his descent, and when he comes into sight of the entrance hall, everyone is gathered on the steps once more.

“You can fly?” Summers barks out.

“As well as you can see, I should wager,” Loki replies. “I might not see your eyes, Mr Summers, but that does not mean I disbelieve their existence.”

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr Summers,” Loki says, taking Summers by the left shoulder and forcing his hand into his, shaking it firmly. Summers seems surprised at having someone come so easily into his space, leaning back, but loosely shaking Loki’s hand nonetheless. Munroe is watching him, her dark eyes focused on him, and Loki gives a low and princely bow, his posture perfect – isn’t it always? To think, that there is so much royalty to be found in this strange city, and yet—

Perhaps she embraces her blood. Perhaps not. Who is to say?

“A pleasure to meet you, your highness,” he murmurs, and Munroe’s lip twitches before she offers him her hand. He takes it, feeling the warmth of it, and most of all, feeling the storm within her – her energy is not dissimilar to Thor’s, and for a second, Loki’s very heart leaps in his chest.

“Good to meet you too,” Munroe murmurs. “You going to be good?”

“I’m going to try,” Loki says.

“Tony tells me you’re going to make a Facebook,” McCoy murmurs, taking Loki’s hand in each of his own, and he says, “You should add me.”

“Should I?” Loki asks, surprised by how so insignificant a gesture should mean to him, and he inclines his head. “I will, Doctor McCoy.”

“Call me Hank.”

“Henry,” Loki assents, and McCoy’s laugh is low and resonant. His hands are so warm on Loki’s own, and yet it is nothing to the genuine warmth the other man radiates, wave by wave, easily. “Thank you,” he says, surprised by the genuine feeling in his own words, and Henry pats him on the shoulder before turning and making his way into the house.

We should have a talk, says a voice at the edge of Loki’s mind, and he turns to Xavier, meeting his gaze. You sure you don’t wish to stay the night?

Is that a proposition? Loki replies, and he moves, snakelike, toward Xavier’s chair, leaning and putting one hand over each of Xavier’s, his head tilting.

“Hey!” Summers says, but Xavier laughs, and he reaches up, patting Loki’s cheek. Henry is already drawing Summers away, clucking his tongue and shaking his head: for an old man, growing infirm in his age, Xavier doesn’t seem upset by Loki’s mockery.

“You know very well what it was,” Xavier replies, and Loki chuckles himself, leaning back and standing properly before Xavier.

“I do,” Loki says. “You are hungry for knowledge, Professor, that you do not have. You have touched the minds of ancients and immortals alike, and yet you crave more. Easily might I comprehend a feeling I have long-since nursed within me. You know as well as I do what would happen if I gave you what you wanted – your mind would turn to slurry, and bleed from those ears as liquid.”

We should have a talk regardless, Xavier says, his lips smiling, and unmoving. You’ll give Henry your phone number? Loki nods his head, slowly, and he reaches out, taking Xavier’s hand once more.

You and Henry share a fatal flaw, Loki thinks, even as he turns away from Xavier and holds the door open for Barton, Romanov and Stark, allowing each of them to get in before himself. Xavier’s gaze remains on Loki, his intelligent eyes unblinking.

Oh?

You know the truth, and yet you choose to hope instead. Why is that? Loki slips into the limousine, closing the door shut behind him, and yet he feels Xavier’s presence there beside him nonetheless, feels his energy, hears his voice.

Because we’re human, Loki. Will you join us in that, I wonder? Loki closes off his mind, the energy at the edge of it clouding over, and he looks out of the frosted glass of the window as the Westchester countryside passes them by.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asks, looking at Stark, and Stark nods his head.

“Did you?” The question confuses him, annoys him, and so he ignores it. Stark lets him.

-----✪-✪-✪-Ⓐ -✪-✪-✪-----

“May I?”

The words play in Steve’s head like a litany, and he feels the heat in his arms as he brings himself down to the ground again and again, pushing up and away from it. Jesus Christ, it’s been two fucking months of being alive again, and his girl is dying in a hospital bed, stuck with IVs, dying of old age; all of Steve’s friends are dead, and the city itself is different around him, and he says May I?

He’s in the same boat as you, you know, says a low voice in the back of his head, a voice of reason: it sounds like Abraham Erskine, accent and everything, and Steve feels a burning nausea settle in the belly. No? You don’t think so? Alone in a foreign city, deaths behind him, regrets?

Our situations aren’t the same.

No, they aren’t. You can choose to leave: he can’t. Steve jumps up from the ground, and he begins to rail punches down on the steel-reinforced punching bag Nick Fury had sent over: he’s replaced the chain twice today already, and soon, he’ll need to replace it again. Steve punches it again and again and again, feeling the sick burn in his knuckles, feeling the bile in the back of his throat.

Loki’s lips, freezing cold against Steve’s own, and Steve remembering the cold again, the ice! He punches the bag so hard that the casement bursts, and bent steel cuts the back of his fingers to the bone, making him hiss out a sound and come away from the punching bag, reaching for some kitchen towel to stem the bleeding.

He shakes his head, walking up the stairs toward the main halls, and it’s just as Tony’s returning from Westchester.

“What’d you do to your hand?” Tony asks, and Steve just groans, shaking his head.

“Got a bit aggressive with that punching bag. Punched straight through the steel. Loki!” he calls down the hall, gripping his torn fingers a little tighter and ignoring the pain. “How were the X-Men?”

“They were great,” Tony admits, shrugging his shoulders. “A little, uh, apprehensive about him at first, but— You haven’t met Henry McCoy, but the guy’s got a soft spot for people like Loki. And Xavier…”

“I know Xavier,” Steve says lowly, and he turns to Loki, who is looking at him with uncertainty on his marble features. “Can you heal this?” Loki looks down at Steve’s hand, and for a second Steve thinks he’s going to try to refuse, say something like I can, and try to walk away, but he takes Steve’s hand in his palm, magic tingling over his flesh and repairing the cuts.

“You should let me make a punching bag,” Loki says softly. “One you can use – one I could use. It would take me some time, but I—”

“Do it,” Steve says, nodding his head. “That everything?” A shadow passes over Loki’s face. Turning on his heel, he walks away without another word, and Steve watches him go, his lips pressed together. Tony is staring at him like he just kicked a damn puppy, and Steve says, “What?”

“Steve,” Tony says, “You can’t just do that. You didn’t even thank the guy.”

“I’m not gonna have this conversation right now,” Steve says, crumpling up the towel and throwing it into the trashcan at the side of the kitchen. “Tell me about the meeting.” Tony seems hesitant, as if he wants to chew Steve out for not wanting Loki near him right now, but he backs down, and he talks shop.

It’s great stuff, all of it, even if Steve doesn’t trust Charles Xavier, but Tony seems unwilling to ask about that either, and Steve wonders if he’s really that much more perceptive than his father, or if he trusts Steve that little. They talk for an hour or so, and Steve knows there’s a lot more to go over, but for now…

The X-Men are gonna give them resources, government contacts, links to other superhero teams, even trade-offs when teams don’t work out. It’s all good, and yet… It doesn’t feel like enough. As Steve walks away, he thinks about the punching bag downstairs, thinks of the blood on the leather.

He’s knocking on Loki’s door before he knows it, and the door opens. Loki looks at him, his expression completely impassive, expectantly. After a long pause, he says, “No orders, Captain?”

“What happened to Steve?” he asks, and Loki moves to shut the door in his face, but Steve’s hand catches it before he can close it shut. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t know,” Loki says archly. “It’s hardly my decision, is it? Mr Stark owns what paltry possessions I might foolishly lay claim to, and you possess me. Why should you ask me such a question as can you when you know that you can?” Loki walks away from Steve, moving into his rooms, and Steve shuts the door behind him as he follows Loki in.

“That’s what it was about, huh?” Steve asks, “What, you try to mount a seduction so that I’ll order you around less? That what you want?”

“No,” Loki says. He says it emphatically, singularly, and says nothing else.

“Did you think I wanted it? Was your magic trying to get you to anticipate some—”

“No.” Loki is holding his hands in front of him, and his thumb and forefinger rub into the muscle packed onto his slim hands, the anxious movement serving to send blood flush into the pale skin.

“Did—”

“Please,” Loki says. “Stop it. I was wrong to make such an advance: you soundly rejected it. Let us move on.” He looks like an animal, trapped in a cage, and Steve takes a slow, careful step forward: Loki steps away from him. Steve takes another step forward, and another, until Loki is backed right against the fake window of his bedroom, and he is trying to keep his gaze on the ground, trying to ignore Steve’s stare, until Steve pushes him in the chest and Loki has to look up.

“You can’t do that,” Steve says, very quietly, and then says, “Do you know why? Do you need me to tell you why?” Steve doesn’t wait for Loki to reply, and he says, “Because you can’t really say yes, or no, to me. Because if you don’t want something, you couldn’t say no.”

“So?”

“What the Hell do you mean, so? You want me to make you do things you don’t wanna do?”

“You already do,” Loki says. “What’s the difference?” Steve stares at him, stares at him, and he sees only genuine confusion, bafflement, hurt in Loki’s face, and Christ, that’s just not normal. He turns away, putting his hand on his head, and he swallows the bile that rises all the faster in his throat.

“They’re different, Loki,” Steve murmurs. “Me making you save lives, be an Avenger – that’s for a greater good. I’m not ordering you around because I like it, or because I want it: I’m doing it because it’s what I have to do. “I don’t want to order you to…” he trails off, shaking his head.

“I believe the point is that you’re not ordering me,” Loki murmurs. “Others in your position would jump at the chance to—”

“Yeah, well others aren’t in my position,” Steve snaps, and Loki stares at him. His fingernails are digging the meat of his hand, now, so deeply they leave crescent marks in the skin, and Steve reaches out to pull his hands apart before he can draw blood. Loki lets him, his wrists limp in Steve’s hands. “Don’t hurt yourself,” Steve murmurs. “Don’t do that, Loki.”

“Captain Rogers—”

“Loki,” Steve interrupts him, emphatically. “You can call me Steve, if you want.” Loki’s Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat as he swallows.

“Captain Rogers,” Loki continues in the smallest of voices. “They’re all just so young. But you—”

“What?” Loki’s lips part, his eyes shining for the barest second, and then the illusion comes right back, and Loki pulls his arms protectively over his chest. “What?”

“I don’t belong here,” Loki murmurs. “Much as you are unwilling to admit it, Captain Rogers, nor do you. They waited until they needed you, and they broke you out of that ice, to use you as a tool – as much as me.” Steve sets his jaw, staring down at Loki. It’s surprisingly perceptive, some of the shit he says, and especially given that it’s coming out now, when Steve knows he isn’t saying it to manipulate him. “How does it feel?”

“Shitty,” Steve replies. “How about yourself?”

“Much the same.”

“I can walk away, Loki,” Steve murmurs. “You can’t.” Loki laughs, shaking his head.

“Of course you can’t. Just because there isn’t magic binding you doesn’t mean you truly have a choice. You are in the debt of a Cold War operative who has yet to realise his war is over; you are in the lap of a new century. You are a soldier for a country that no longer exists, not as it once did. If you think you have any more choice than I do, you are a fool as much as you are a patriot.” It should piss Steve off, to hear Loki talk like this, to hear him take him to pieces just to lay him out with labels on the page, like a diagram in Loki’s stupid notebook, and yet… “And even if you had a choice before, you don’t any more. Here I am: your final shackle.” Loki reaches up, and his hand touches Steve’s cheek. His hand is freezing cold, as if a statue has touched him, but before Steve can say anything, Loki draws his hand away, and Steve’s face is cool on one side, flushed with heat on the other.

“It’s different, Loki,” he repeats.

“I believe you,” Loki says, and he begins to undo his tie. “Good night— Steven.”

“Nobody calls me that.”

“I do,” Loki replies evenly, and Steve stares at him for a second, then smiles, grimly. “Mr Stark says I’ll get my papers this week.”

“So?”

“I don’t know what name to write on the form.”

“Loki?”

“They want a surname. I have two to choose from: Odinson, Laufeyson. Which brush do I tar myself with?” Steve frowns, pressing his lips together, then takes a few steps back, moving toward the door.

“Pick something new. It’s your name, after all.”

“Really? I believe someone informed me my name belonged to him.” He’s asking me permission, Steve realizes, all at once, and he feels guilt churn in his chest – hasn’t he got enough guilt to deal with? Does he really need more?

“Sounds like he was just pissed he’d been backed into a corner,” Steve replies. “Real dick, that guy.”

“Oh, I agree,” Loki says, carefully undoing the cuffs of his shirt. “Good night, Steven.”

“Good night, Loki,” Steve replies, and he pulls the door shut behind him – and promptly presses his face against the cool wood, smelling the varnish, smelling the new paint, now dried against the door. He takes out the phone he’d taken from Pepper that morning, and he types in a text.

Steve Rogers, 21:43 You wanna go for a drink?

Sam, 21:43 Thought you’d never ask.

#frostshield #shieldfrost #brought to justice #fanfic #dictionary writ #marvel

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