Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Return him to his cell.” The guards obey, lifting Loki’s limp form off the table. He sags in their grip and his blood drips to the ground. They carry him out wordlessly under the Allfather’s watchful eye. He does not accompany them, nor does he need to. Loki is bound both in magic and chains, his magic dampened so thoroughly that it can barely heal the wounds inside him, let alone leave the barrier of his skin. The chamber Odin questions him is built with layers upon layers of powerful binding spells. Only Odin may use magic in that room, and even then sparingly. As they leave the room Loki’s manacles spark. They are engraved with runes of binding and protection, containing his magic. They restrain Loki as well, but he is broken and bleeding. He is no threat now, the god of mischief brought low.

The further away they walk from the chamber, the more Loki becomes something of a light show. The guards are not alarmed; it has become the usual for them. Loki’s cuts and injuries flicker strangely; his magic desperately trying to heal him, but it cannot, bound as it is. So, the result: a strange half glow keeping his blood from spilling but unable to knit the flesh together again. Such is the nature of his bonds. The god is silent. Nothing can be heard from him but labored breathing that he tries to control. He is silent, and he waits. The guards are too foolish to be wary, and so when Loki stops glowing they think nothing of it. They think Loki is too broken to fight back. They are correct, but at the same time they are so gloriously wrong.

Loki ignores the fact that without his magic his wounds begin gushing blood. A necessary sacrifice if his plan is to work. It should work. He’s spent months studying the runes on his manacles. He’s pushed his magic against his bindings in every way possible. Loki intimately knows the inner workings and strengths of the binding spell. He knows of its very few weaknesses, the slight imperfections that could become cracks if he pushes hard enough. It has to be now. The spells on his cell have no weaknesses. The light of his magic is snuffed out the minute he’s placed within its walls, where it could not even flicker feebly.

Loki gathers his strength and pushes. The guards give no notice as his body tenses. They take no notice as sweat drips from him, mingling with his blood. They take no notice until he screams. He expected pain, but not so soon. The bindings are already trying to force his magic back within him, and it feels as if it is acid. The pain is unimaginable, but not completely unexpected. The runes on his manacle begin to glow with a fiery cast as his magic pushes outward. He hadn’t meant to scream, but it soon became apparent that screaming is unavoidable. Loki screams louder, pouring more of his energy into the assault. The resulting pain is nearly enough to break his concentration. Nearly.

Even in his current state, Loki admires the spells used to bind him. They are meant to block his use of any spells, no matter the kind. That’s why he’s decided not to use any spells at all. Shoving raw power at a crack lacks his usual finesse, but it will do. After he has escaped, after he has regained his strength, Loki decides that he will orchestrate a special death for whoever created his bindings, as a token of his gratitude.

Slowly, he begins to feel the flaws in the spell crack. The guards have stopped moving now, the imbeciles finally having noticed something was wrong when he began to scream. Now, their pleasant routine disrupted, they are in a disarray. They have become far too complacent. One runs back from where they’d come from, no doubt to call for a magic user. Idiots. Loki would have made sure there was one present from the start. Despite their incompetence, Loki doubles his efforts. He is taking too long, and, at this rate, by the time he’d actually manage to break his bindings they would already have him back in his cell, broken, bleeding, humiliated, and doubly watched. Loki realizes what he must do, and the thought appalls him, but it is necessary. A means to an end.

Swiftly, before he can think better of it, Loki concentrates every single drop of his magic into breaking the spells. His screams stop, but his mouth remains open in soundless agony. Bones that had been held together by magic break, half healed wounds rip open again, the pain that had been dulled by magic suddenly roars, agonizing in its severity. The runes cut into his manacles begin to smoke. The guards are still holding him up, but he is dangling now, he doesn’t have enough bones intact to provide any sort of structure. The pain surpasses unimaginable, but Loki has had worse, and so he pushes on. Bit by bit his magic leaves him, consumed by the bindings like twigs in a fire, until there is but a small amount left, and this Loki lets go even more reluctantly.

The guards, who had been yelling at each other, fall silent as Loki’s body grows colder. It is his blood that changes color first, turning from bright red to a dark, sluggish purple. His skin turns a vivid blue, the color creeping up his skin like inky tendrils. His eyes change last, becoming as red as his blood had been. Scar-like ridges rise along his face, chest and arms, telling a biological story that has long been forgotten. For a split second, silence spreads throughout the guards, a silence akin to the calm before a storm. The only thing to be heard is Loki’s labored breathing. The silence is broken when thundering footsteps approach from farther down the hall. Loki’s manacles are smoking heavily, the runes glowing like embers.

Loki’s transformation is complete, and the airs cools around him. The blood he had shed before changing freezes on his skin. Disgust and surprise flit across the guards’ faces, and they drop Loki before they back away. He never hits the ground.

Thor rounds the corner in time to catch a glimpse of Loki before he disappears. His eyes widen and he falters momentarily. Thor has never seen Loki in his Jotun form before. The guards kick up a fuss; more about Loki’s being a frost giant than Loki escaping. Accusations and insults are tossed around, some even towards the royal family. Loki’s true heritage was not public knowledge. Thor ignores them, staring at the pool of blood on the floor. Dark purple mingles with bright red in alarming quantities. Thor is a warrior, and the amount of blood chills him. That much blood, even for an Asgardian, usually means death. He has to warn Midgard, whether or not Loki even survives long enough to get somewhere. He thinks of the friends he’s made and winces. They will not be happy.

The elevator doors close behind the last of Pepper’s things. And the mover, but Tony doesn’t care about him. Well, he doesn’t care about him beyond the fact that Pepper sent a mover, a mover, to come and collect her things. Things had gone to shit between them. He wanders through the penthouse noticing everything that’s missing and he hates it. Of course, it isn’t much, just little things here and there. Pepper kept her own apartment throughout the whole thing, and Tony should have known better. He doesn’t even want to go into the bedroom, considering that’s where she kept everything. Tony sighs and heads for the bar, reaching for his favorite bottle of scotch. She’s finally had enough. Briefly he considers a glass but then decides to fuck it. He takes a swig straight from the bottle.

Pepper has finally had enough. He knew it was coming. Hell, he would’ve been shocked if it hadn’t happened. Their relationship has been steadily falling apart since the Chitauri invasion. Tony thought he could save it. He wanted to save it, wanted to do something so it wouldn’t fall apart. Pepper was one of the best things that had ever happened to him, and Tony was not going to just sit back and let things break. So he suggested they leave New York for a bit and go back to Malibu to try and get back to normal, or at least, as normal as they had been before aliens invaded New York. Before worked for them. Tony takes another gulp of scotch; the liquid burns down his throat. Malibu may have been exactly what they didn’t need.

Tony thought they just needed some time alone to sort things out. No avengers business (unless strictly necessary) and no Iron Man business (ditto). Just the two of them, with Tony trying to be what Pepper deserved, no outside influences. He had thought that was exactly what they needed. He hadn’t factored in the dreams. He hadn’t even considered that he—Tony goddamn Stark—would have panic attacks. No, he hadn’t considered that at all, and even if he had, Tony thought that Pepper would at least… at least try and help him. Not that he’d ask, but if Pepper woke up screaming or couldn’t go to sleep at all, Tony likes to think that he’d do his best to help her, in his own ways. It had burned in so many ways when Tony realized that not only was his mind torturing him, but he couldn’t even protect Pepper while it was happening.

He also hadn’t thought that they’d be attacked. Then again, he should’ve expected that they’d blow up his house, he gave them his address for Christ’s sake, but hey, he didn’t think they’d actually do it. He never thought they’d go after Pepper, but who ever expected terrorists to have access to biotechnology like that? But go after Pepper they did, and what a clusterfuck that turned out to be. The worst part is that after he’d saved her, after he’d fixed the time bomb they’d made out of her, Tony thought they would be fine. He actually honestly thought that they would be fine. They’d made it through that much, what were a little relationship troubles then? He thought that surely they could work it out. Laughing almost hysterically, Tony plops down on his stupid designer sofa. Boy had he ever been wrong.

“Jarvis, shut down all communications for a bit.”

“Including summons for the Avengers, sir?”

Tony sighs. He forgot about that. “Right… Everything but that.”

“Very well, sir,” the AI responds. “Though in light of that, might I suggest that you avoid alcohol in case you’re—”

“Nope, not a chance. Mute.”

Silence spreads throughout and Tony decides that he likes it, for now. He stands up and goes to the bar, grabs a second bottle of scotch (the first one is already nearly half empty) and heads down to his workshop. In his experience, copious amounts of alcohol and explosives are a disastrous mix, so Tony decides to work on his cars. Also in his experience, copious amounts of alcohol, deafeningly loud music and mechanics are pretty effective for blocking out the world. Engines aren’t nearly as combustible as repulsors, so Tony gets to work. Even while drunk he’s a genius, so he figures nothing can go wrong.

But cars are boring. They’ve been boring ever since he created something so much more fun to work on, something that distracts him completely, something that even he needs total concentration for. His cars bore him, so he starts working on new suit upgrades. He still has a couple, the ones that weren’t at Malibu are still intact (left out for Avenger’s emergencies, because as much as he loved Pepper he really couldn’t just abandon his team). A new, upgraded suit is exactly what he needs. Tony dives into the work and time flies past. Soon he’s taking apart one of the gauntlets, trying to tweak the repulsor. He needed some adjustments for his upgrade to work successfully. He’s startled out of his work when Steve starts banging on the door. Absently, he notices that Jarvis must have shut his music off and he wonders why he hadn’t told him Steve was at the door and oh yeah, Tony muted him. He tries to get up to go to the door, but now that his concentration is broken he nearly falls over. He realizes that his vision has gone funny, all blurry and tunnel-ey. Tony looks at his scotch bottles. The first is empty and the second is pretty close to being empty.

“Jarvis, open the door,” he slurs, and shit he must be drunk if he’s slurring. Still, he’s kind of proud of himself. A full bottle of scotch usually guarantees a blackout, and he’s nearly finished two. Steve is less pleased. Through the haze, Tony realizes that the room is swaying. He’s momentarily confused, because that’s not good, they’re on the sixth floor of a tower, but then quickly realized that it’s him that’s swaying. Steve says something, but Tony doesn’t quite catch it. He giggles at Steve’s concerned parent face. He wears it so well, it looks like he’s a mom or something. Steve frowns and Tony wonders whether or not he actually said that out loud.

“When did you come down here?”

Tony frowns. He doesn’t really know. “What time is it?”

“It’s nearly two.”

“In the morning? Why are you up?” Had he really been down here all night? It only felt like a couple of hours.

“Two in the afternoon.”

“Oh.”

Steve’s expression goes from concerned to outright worried. “Tony, how long have you been down here?”

Tony shrugs. “Since yesterday, maybe?” He grabs the remaining bottle of scotch. Yesterday was a bad day, he doesn’t want to think about yesterday. Before he can drink it, though, Steve takes it from him.

“How much have you been drinking?”

Tony grins, reaching for the first bottle. It’s empty and he shows Steve. “Almost two.” Steve pales and Tony grins wider. “Usually pass out by now. Guess it’s ‘cause I’m not moving much?” Steve doesn’t respond. He just picks Tony up and carries him to the elevator. The lights and machinery in Tony’s workshop shut down as Steve drags him away. “Hey, capsicle, put me down!” Steve’s carrying him in a lame princess hold, one arm under his knees and the other across his back. Tony’s no princess, and he makes that very clear. Steve ignores him and the elevator ride is unpleasant, to say the least. The world is lurching and spinning around Tony, and he hopes he doesn’t throw up on Steve because that would be beyond embarrassing. He blacks out before the elevator even reaches his floor.

Steve carefully puts him in his bed, pausing to check his breathing. “Um… Jarvis? You there?”

“I am always here, Captain Rogers,” the AI responds crisply, sounding vaguely patronizing. Steve’s face reddens and he glances around the room, looking in vain for the source of the voice.

“Can you watch him? Call one of us if something happens?”

“By something, do you mean any dangerous changes in Sir’s vitals?”

“Yes… um… yes.” Once again, Steve glances around. No matter how often he hears Jarvis, Steve is still uncomfortable with bodiless electronic voices.

“I will alert you if anything arises, Captain Rogers.” Steve nods and then stutters out a quick thank you, because he really isn’t sure what signals Jarvis recognizes and what he doesn’t (despite the many times Tony’s assured him that Jarvis understands everything) and retreats from the room.

Luckily, nothing happens, and though Steve checks in several times, Tony sleeps peacefully. However, any illusions of peace shatter when Tony wakes up. If he’d ever had a worse hangover he can’t remember at the moment. There are two things he needs: coffee and more scotch. Or whisky, depending on what he’s got. And maybe an aspirin. Three things, then. He staggers to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, flinches at the thought of a shower, locates the aspirin, and is in too much pain to notice everything that isn’t there. That finished, he shuffles towards the bar. Tony was thinking of skipping the coffee and grabbing a bottle of whatever before heading back to his room, but what he sees brings him up short. The bar is empty. There is not a single bottle left, not a drop of alcohol. Even the shitty coolers he bought for when Bruce felt like joining in are gone.

“What the fuck? Jarvis?”

“Captain Rogers emptied this bar, as well as the one on the common floor, after depositing you in your room, sir.”

“Son of a bitch.” Tony grimaces and heads down to the common floor. Steve is already in the kitchen and the wonderful smell of coffee greets Tony as he walks in. Steve notices when he enters and goes to stand in front of the coffee machine, clearly blocking Tony from accessing it. Tony does his best to glare, but his head is pounding and so he knows he looks more pained than angry. “C’mon, Cap. Give me the coffee, I’m not in the mood.” Other than raising an eyebrow, Steve doesn’t move. Tony’s limited patience crumbles after about three seconds. He’s in no mood for a stare-down with Captain America.  He tries to walk around Steve, but the super-soldier pushes him into a chair. The abrupt movement is almost enough to make Tony throw up.  His smart-ass retort is lost in his effort to control his stomach.

Steve slams a glass of water down in front of Tony who flinches. The sound drives a spike of pain into his skull, but Steve in unsympathetic. He waits until Tony finishes the entire glass and then makes him drink another. Tony is tempted to leave, but he’s far from his best and he has a feeling Steve would be difficult to deal with even if he was wearing the suit. Second glass done, Steve finally gives him the coffee, black as pitch, just like he wants it. He sighs gratefully and gulps the scalding liquid. The mug is empty in a matter of seconds and Steve patiently refills it. He waits until Tony takes a few more sips before he speaks.

“What were you thinking, Tony?” Tony doesn’t comment. “There’s no excuse for that kind of behavior! What if we’d been called out while you were unconscious? Natasha and Clint are off with S.H.E.I.L.D. and Thor is completely unavailable. You put innocent lives at risk!”

Tony’s gaze snaps up from his coffee cup. “What about me, huh? Or is there no ‘me’ in your star-spangled dictionary?”

Steve scowls, but there’s more concern in his expression than anger. “What about you, huh? Okay, so let’s say you aren’t part of a team. Let’s say there aren’t thousands of people depending on you and your team. Let’s say it’s just Tony.” Every word that comes out of Steve’s mouth causes a stab of guilt and a stab of pain. His voice is rising, and Tony knows that is not good at all. The captain rarely loses his cool, and the fact that he’s so close to yelling now makes Tony wish he never left his room. He looks back down at his coffee, avoiding Steve’s eyes.

“What’s your point?”

“You were PISS DRUNK and working with EXPLOSIVES, Tony!” The engineer flinches, and yeah this is really not good. “It’s one thing when you’re drinking with Clint and you pass out on the sofa, but you were alone and in danger. No more alcohol in the tower.”

Tony chokes on his coffee. “Hey now, it’s my damn tower!”

“I don’t care. You’re being reckless and you’re putting lives at risk. No more alcohol.”

Tony glares for all he’s worth, and even whines a bit for good measure, but Steve won’t be moved.  His expression does soften though, and Tony feels guilty again. “You scared me. I’ve seen men drink themselves to death on less.”

“It takes more than that to kill me,” Tony grumbles.

“Good.” Steve stood up to leave and mumbled something that sounded like “I’m tired of my friends dying on me.” The guilt is starting to outweigh the pain, but he’s still not happy with Steve. At all. In fact, he’s more than not happy. He’s damn furious. He’s a grown man, for fuck’s sake. He can take care of himself. At least, he can manage well enough so he doesn’t die. Mostly. He’s made it this far, hasn’t he? Well, whatever. Fuck everything. Spending his days in a drunken stupor is dumb anyways. Tony’s got a better idea.

And so, with all the grace and majesty associated with being a genius, billionaire, playboy and philanthropist, Tony flops down on the couch and proceeds to sulk. He watches dumb TV shows, he has his food brought directly to him and he doesn’t leave the couch unless he absolutely has to. Bruce appears a while later, but Tony barely pays him any mind except to offer him some pizza. Delivery guys really will do anything when money is involved. Bruce stays for a bit and tries to talk science. Tony doesn’t feel like being productive at all, though, so he responds to Bruce’s questions and theories with a shrug. There’s a reason Tony’s watching crap reality TV, and the reason is that he really doesn’t want to think at all. To Bruce’s credit, he figures this out pretty easily. He stays for a while, obviously trying to keep Tony company, but the reality television does him in and he leaves pretty quickly. Tony barely notices.

He refuses to feel any sort of shame. He’s decided that he’s earned a good sulk. Hell, he’s more than earned it, he needs it. Tony watches TV through the night and falls asleep on the couch. The next morning his back hates him for it, but Tony doesn’t care enough to go back to his own bed. Steve put him there the other night, but he’d been too drunk and then too hung-over to notice anything. Tony is not eager to try it without booze. He would much rather fuck up his back on the couch. Taking a shower is briefly considered, but his bathroom is too far and showers are for productive people anyways, so the idea is quickly discarded. He spends another day on the couch with Steve hovering around. The super soldier is obviously worried. It’s unusual for Tony to be still. Ever. Even if he’s sitting he’s moving, he never shuts up, but its approaching the three day mark and Tony has been still and silent.

On the fourth day, Clint and Natasha return from their mission. Tony has set up camp on the common floor, mostly because the couch is the closest to the kitchen (he only has a bar on his floor), but also because it’s much more comfortable than the shitty designer one he’s got in the penthouse. The assassins walk in and pause, taking in the scene before them. Natasha wrinkles her nose and edges around the room into the kitchen. Tony doesn’t blame her. He hasn’t showered in days and he can taste how bad his breath smells. Clint, as always, is less subtle.

“Dude. What. The. Fuck.”

Tony waggles his eyebrows. “Like my new cologne, darling?”

Clint manages to look disgusted and amused at the same time. “Okay, where’s Pepper? There’s no way she’d let you stay like this. Is she on a business trip or something?”

Tony doesn’t answer and any traces of amusement leave his face. He doesn’t want to answer, but Clint is persistent. If he doesn’t just answer now, the next time Clint opens his mouth he’ll be pestering him about Pepper, and Tony doesn’t need that right now. “She left, Barton. Now run along and go shoot something.”

Clint’s mouth falls open, but for once he leaves without a word. Tony continues with his sulk. Suddenly, it occurs to him that since Natasha is now home, Steve is going to enlist her help with Project No Alcohol. Sneaking it into the tower is probably impossible now. Not for the first time in his life, Tony is glad he has so many security measures on his workshop. There’s a bar in there too, well stocked and completely hidden under junk and tools. Steve’s accusations had cut him, but it’s good to have an emergency plan for a rainy day. Tony has no doubts that that day will come. Besides, even if Steve doesn’t know about it, Tony can behave responsibly, and he’s going to prove it. Just because it’s there doesn’t mean he’s going to drink it.

Overall, he manages to last seven days. Seven days of not showering, seven days of mindless TV and no thoughts whatsoever. On the eighth day, Tony wakes up with his back screaming at him and decides the seven days is enough. His teeth feel fuzzy, his hair is greasy and his stubble has grown in odd patches. Yes, it’s definitely been long enough. One very long bathroom trip later, Tony is clean and dressed in his work clothes (old jeans and a holey shirt). He promised Clint an improved quiver a while back, one that holds more than three arrows, and he’s thought of a promising design in the shower that he’s eager to try out.

If Steve is shocked when he sees Tony up and moving about, he tries not to show it. He does smile and say good morning, making Tony look at the clock. Most people’s sleeping patterns would be messed up by now, but Tony’s took a turn for ‘normal’. He has to fix that. Tony goes through the kitchen, making himself a coffee, and Steve watches him carefully. He’s still far too quiet, but at least he’s off the couch. Tony had thought it would be harder to go into his room and find no trace of Pepper, and in a way, he was right. It looked like she’d never even been there. Oddly enough, Tony wasn’t as bothered as he thought he’d be. They had a good run, Pepper and him. In the elevator Tony decides that he’s glad Pepper left before he really fucked up. What if they had kept it up and had a kid or something? It would have been a disaster. She deserves someone who’s normal and not him. They did well, and it’s time to let go. Feeling lighter than before, Tony walks into his workshop and jumps into his new project.

“Jarvis, bring up the schematics for Barton’s quiver, store any improvements in the Hawkeye Equip file, block it from S.H.I.E.L.D., the usual run.”

“Right away, sir. Shall I also bring up your emails and missed calls?”

Tony sighs. “Yeah, sure. Are there a lot of them?”

“It’s been seven days, sir.”

Tony winces. Yep, that’s a lot. “You know the drill, Jarvis. Sort into important and ignorable. Fury gets his own file.”

“Is that a special version of ignorable, sir?” The AI’s voice is cheeky and Tony chuckles.

“Play some tunes, Jarv.” He doesn’t bother answering the AI’s earlier question. Jarvis knows what he wants. The schematics flash across his screens as AC/DC blares. He begins by adding modifications here and there, but soon decides the S.H.I.E.L.D.’s original design is shit and starts from scratch. The work is consuming and interesting, so time flies. The only interruption is Steve bringing him food, which he’s really happy about. Soon though, Tony is finished the design and starts making the actual quiver. That takes longer. He needs more concentration to add the tiny mechanics threaded throughout the quiver. He is so intent on his work that he doesn’t notice a slight thud or the way the temperature suddenly drops.

“Sir,” Jarvis says. Tony doesn’t respond until the second time. “Sir, there is an intruder.”

“What?” He looks to the door. It hasn’t opened, and so he spins around in his chair. He casts his eyes around the room until he finds a hand sticking out from behind a counter. Now that he’s listening and his equipment is off, Tony hears labored breathing.

“Shall I alert the other Avengers, sir?”

He opens his mouth to say yes, but pauses when he sees blood. “No, wait until I give the signal.”

“I would not advise that decision, sir.”

“Doesn’t matter, do as I say.”

“Sir…” Tony gets up and slowly moves towards the hand.

“Jarvis.” He swears he can hear the AI sigh, but he didn’t program him to do that and it’s weird.

“As you wish, sir.”

The puddle of blood is growing and Tony walks faster because he really doesn’t want someone to die on his floor, intruder or not.

“Holy shit!” Whatever he was expecting, whoever he was expecting, it was definitely not— “Loki?” The god’s eyes fly open at the mention of his name.

“Sir, I think you should call for—”

“Shut it, Jarvis!” Tony stares at the broken god for a few seconds in complete shock, but then launches into a flurry of activity, going straight for the med kit. Loki looks awful. His jaw is hanging loosely, and Tony thinks it’s more than just dislocated. It looks like nothing but hid skin is keeping it attached. There’s blood everywhere, pouring from the wounds covering his body. Tony can see white pieces of bone sticking out through his skin, and his skin! There are patches that are mottled yellowish purple, bruises so bad they’re almost black, and then there are cracks of vivid blue, spread out in bursts and inky tendrils. Over all of that are terrible burns that shimmer oddly over the blue skin. One eye is blood red and the other bright green, and Tony is more than a little freaked out. The air around Loki can’t decide whether to be warm or cold, the differences in temperature making the air swirl.

Tony rushes back with the med kit (five times bigger than any other med kit thanks to Bruce’s paranoia) and Loki watches him warily, his expression changing to bewilderment when Tony starts cleaning some of the smaller injuries. That expression lasts only a second though, before his face becomes closed off. Tony cleans any small injuries he can find. He’s got no idea what to do with the larger ones, but the small ones he can handle. One gash is on a patch of bright blue skin, and Loki flinches as Tony touches it. Tony pauses too. The skin has a different texture and is ice cold. He still does his best to clean the wound, though, noticing only vaguely that the blood is a different color. Blood is still blood, no matter the color. The bleeding is starting to slow down and Tony hopes that it’s because of super-fast healing and not because Loki is bleeding out. He doesn’t want Loki to die and he doesn’t know why, but it’s not important right now. It’s another question to ponder on a rainy day.

“What the hell, you’re supposed to be in jail. Shit, how did this even happen? Please tell me you’re not bleeding out!” Tony’s frantic muttering only makes Loki look even more confused. Tony honestly doesn’t expect Loki to answer with his jaw all messed up, so he just keeps muttering and working until a terrible cracking noise makes him jump. His eyes flick over to Loki’s jaw, and he realizes that it’s shifting under the skin, like his face is putting itself back together. It moves into place with a final popping sound, and the god moves it around experimentally. Further cracking noises and winces prompt Tony to look over the rest of Loki’s body, and he watches with fascination as the blue recedes and his bones pop back to where they belong. Most of the bigger gashes close, but the bruises and burns and smaller scrapes stay where they are. A rasping breath draws his eyes back up to Loki’s face.

“Why help me?” He sounds even worse than he looked, as if his throat’s raw.

Tony blinks. “Uh, don’t know. I’ll get back to you on that.” The question brings Tony back to the clusterfuck he’s now in and he groans. Loki, an insane, genocidal god shows up bloody and broken and Tony’s first instinct is to help him. Maybe he should’ve sulked longer. Maybe eight days was the ticket. “What are you doing here, anyway? Last I heard you were in prison on Asgard.”

Loki chuckles humorlessly. Or at least, he tries. It sounds more like the wheeze of a dying man combined with a gurgle. “I was.”

Tony whistles. “Then whoever you ran to first was not happy to see you.”

“This is the first place.” Tony freezes, staring at the god with wide eyes. There’s no way he’s telling the truth. “Not on purpose, mind you,” the god continues, trying for his usual lofty tone, but he still sounds like he’s close to dying.

“No offense, Reindeer Games, but you look like you’ve been torn apart. How many guards did you kill in your daring escape?” This is the only logical option and Tony says the words scathingly, but he has a horrible feeling that he’s wrong. Loki confirms it.

“None.” Tony flinches and Loki laughs. “Come now, Stark. Surely you’ve heard of torture before?” The words make Tony shudder, something Loki doesn’t miss. “What do you think of my father’s handiwork?”

His father? Tony furrows his brows. Odin? “Holy shit.” There’s no other way for Tony to respond. Another wheezing chuckle escapes the god’s throat, this time turning into a cough. He spits up a bit of blood at the action, painting his pale lips red, and with that the Norse god of mischief falls unconscious. Tony sits frozen for only a moment before he finds his voice. “Jarvis, check his vitals.”

“He is still alive, sir. His body temperature is significantly low, but all other vitals seem to be fine.” Tony let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Sir, perhaps you should notify Captain Rogers or Agent Romanov of Loki’s appearance.”

“No,” Tony finds himself saying. “No, Jarvis, we’re keeping this under wraps. Erase all security footage starting from ten minutes before Loki shows up to ten minutes after we leave. Nobody hears about this.”

“I do not think that this course of action is advisable, sir.”

“I know. Do it, please.”

There is a pause before the AI responds. “Right away, sir. Since you insist upon this, might I suggest that you take him up to your floor? Your security protocols are much more effective in your private living space.”

Its times like these that Tony is very proud of the AI he programmed. “Shit, right. Good idea. Bring down the elevator and lock off my floor. I want the best security measures we’ve got, the ones that can keep even Tasha out. Also, while we’re in the elevator, no stops at other floors. Point A to Point B, Jarvis.”

“Thank you for your wonderful explanation, sir.” The AI’s sarcasm is clear, and despite the situation Tony cracks a smile.

“Don’t sass me.”

“I would never.” Not expecting that response, Tony laughs but otherwise ignores him. There are other things for him to worry about. He tries picking Loki up, be he’s not as thin as he looks. Tony curses.

There’s not an ounce of fat on him, which probably makes him weigh more. In fact, the god’s pretty solid. No showy muscles like Thor or the good Captain, but they’re definitely there, no buts about it. If Loki was shorter, he’d probably look more bulky, but as it is, he definitely looks thinner than he really is. Tony ends up putting on the suit to carry Loki upstairs, thankful that the god is unconscious. The last thing he needs at the moment is a rant about the weakness of mortals, at the end of which one of them would probably end up dead, most likely Tony if only because he’d end up calling the god fat in self-defense. If the god is as big a diva as they think, Tony is sure he’d at least be seriously injured if he so much as insulted Loki’s hairstyle. Instead of being afraid as he should be, Tony finds himself chuckling. Maybe he’s the crazy one. Pepper certainly thought so.

There are two bedrooms on Tony’s floor. One, of course, is his. The second one was for Pepper from before they got together in case she needed to stay late for work. Well, Pepper’s gone now. Luckily for Loki, there’s a vacancy in Avengers Tower. They’ll discuss rent later. Carefully as he can, Tony sets Loki down on the bed. The god is truly out cold, not even stirring as Tony lays him out. Belatedly, Tony realizes that he should have put Loki under the blanket or something, but he doesn’t want to move him again. Oh well, he’ll grab a spare from his room later. Leaving the room as quickly as he can, Tony steps out of the suit, setting it aside for easy access later.

“Jarvis, monitor Loki. If he wakes up, let me know immediately. Do not give him access to the elevator, stairs, or any of the external doors and windows. As for everything else, level one guest access.”

“Right away, sir.”

Tony nods absently. It’s thinking time. So, a crazy genocidal Norse god appears in his workshop, obviously tortured and wearing nothing but prison pants. Ah, shit, clothes. Loki will probably want clothes when he wakes up. Tony beelines to his closet and tries to find something long enough. He settles on an old pair of sweats—the legs had always been too long for him, but who the hell bothers to hem sweatpants?—and an AC/DC t-shirt, because he doesn’t have to worry about short sleeves being too short. Also stopping to grab a spare blanket, Tony goes back to the god’s room, drapes the blanket over him as carefully as he can, sets the clothes on the end of the bed, and leaves just as quickly.

Okay, no more distractions. Thinking time. He settles on a couch looking out the windows. Absently, he notes that this couch is nowhere near as comfortable as the one downstairs. Stupid posh designers wouldn’t know comfort if it kicked them in the ass.

His eyes find the window that Loki tossed him out of months ago. Jesus, the nutcase tossed him out of a window, outright defenestration, and here Tony is, helping him. Why? Why? Why help his enemy? The question parades around in his skull, but he really has no clue. He can’t even say that it had felt like the right thing to do, because there was no alternative. It wasn’t as if Tony had chosen the lesser of two evils. Leaving Loki to die or calling another Avenger was just not an option. No, his only option was to help Loki, right or not, and Tony is beginning to feel scared. Not because there is a psychotic murderer sleeping in his guest bedroom, though that is an excellent reason, but because even now Tony is worried about him. Worried. Tony Stark doesn’t do worried, except that he is and that’s terrifying.

If he really pushes himself for an answer, Tony thinks it’s because of the torture. He does not approve of torture. It doesn’t matter who a person is or what they’ve done, nobody should be tortured. It’s the line that Tony will not cross, the line that, in his opinion, sets them apart from the bad guys. Originally, Tony thought Asgard was the pinnacle of honor (not that he’d ever tell Thor), filled with gods who knew where the line was. He gets that feeling from Thor. Now, though, he isn’t so sure.

Loki killed thousands of innocent people, a voice whispers from the back of his mind. Maybe he deserved to be tortured. Tony shakes his head as if he can fling the voice away. No, he can’t even pretend to believe that. How many innocents had died because of Tony? How many people suffered from the destruction his weapons caused? How many people died since Tony became Iron Man? How many were killed for revenge against him, killed during battles that got out of hand, killed for nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time? If Tony had been counting, he would have lost count long ago, before Iron Man had even come into existence. As it is, he’s positive that his body count is right up there with Loki’s, yet Tony is considered a hero. He hasn’t always been, and there are still some people against him, but he is now. The line separating him from Loki is flimsy, structured by sheer happenstance. They’ve both fallen, destroying countless lives as they went. Yinsin had caught Tony, Pepper not far behind, but Loki’s still going. Tony is going to try and catch him.

Tony had been given chances and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t offer Loki the same thing. Tony’s past has been erased. Loki’s past is longer, but Tony is nothing if not determined. He is going to give Loki a choice. Who knows, maybe Loki wants this chance. Whether or not that’s the case, Tony is going to give it to him.

Feeling largely satisfied with his decision, Tony leaves Loki to rest and heads back down to his workshop. Clint’s quiver isn’t going to finish itself.