Fic; The Long Way Home, 4/6
Title The Long Way Home, 4/6
Rating PG-13/T for language and violence
Summary When Loki is reincarnated as a child on Midgard with dreams for memories, Thor searches to re-awaken his brother. When he finds him, he makes an executive decision. Instead of taking him to Asgard, he takes him to Avengers Tower. Journey Into Mystery & Avengers (Movie) AU.
Disclaimer Characters belong to their creators (Marvel owns everyone I love).
previous
oo4;
It rains for three days. Loki is a bundle of pale skin and black sweater for the duration of the storm, reading the day away or else trolling the internet. Steve comes back and makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and Loki eats them half-heartedly. Even Clint attempts to drag him out of his room to play “a game with lots of shooting and explosions, okay?” But a few rounds of stabbing at buttons and watching things explode on television cannot hope to hold his attention, and Loki lets Bruce take over his controller. Clint says, “Evil Loki was a huge douche-bag but this one you actually feel sorry for, huh?” to Bruce when he thinks Loki is out of earshot.
Bruce murmurs his agreement.
The next day it stops raining, and Loki comes down to the workshop of his own accord with Thor’s Stark Tablet. Tony spins the 3-D rendering of the bike they are working on and turns to him when he puts the tablet on a compatible dock. “I looked up the word ‘douche-bag’ on the internet,” he informs Tony, who chokes a little. “What a horrible thing to call someone! Your insults are disgusting.”
Then Loki flings his hands into the air, the tabs opened on his device following his digits as they expand with the projector. They are all videos - videos of the older Loki, in Germany, in Manhattan; Loki before a great fire; Loki fighting Thor, fighting all the Avengers; Loki with a wicked, manic grin twisting his lips. “You were made to be ruled,” says one of the video clips amongst the muted screams and sounds of battle from the others.
Tony gulps, tries to find an angle. “Is this what you’ve been doing the past few days?”
“I thought there must be some record,” Loki responds, quiet, face turned away still. “So I searched. Youtube is a wonderful resource. I found so many videos of my former self. So many instances of cruelty.”
“Well,” Tony starts, just as softly, taking careful steps toward the boy. “You’re right, that’s your former self. Not you. Not really.” When he lays a hand on his shoulder, the shoulder is shaking. Loki sniffs, rubs a hand across his eyes in frustration, but Tony’s touch seems to spark a chain of reactions, and the tears fall unbidden from Loki’s eyes. The boy turns into Tony’s arms and Tony soon finds himself laden with a sobbing, gasping child god. His shirt at his navel is getting damp. “This is why I am not welcome in Asgard!” Loki cries between hiccoughs, arms like a vice around Tony. “I thought I remembered, but the reality is even more gruesome. Why am I even so welcome here? After all that’s been done! I do not deserve -"
Okay. Tony trashes all the tabs that Loki had opened, and the ensuing lack of screams and explosions leaves the workshop eerily echoing. “Hey,” he says firmly. “Don’t. You’re here because we believe in second chances. And you’ve stayed because you’re a good kid, mostly. You looked up the word ‘douche-bag’? Well, Asgard has a lot of douches who aren’t so great with second chances, so Thor’s going to talk to them. They’ll come around to the idea, eventually. And in the meantime you get to hang out with Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. Not bad, huh? Just, jeez, stop crying-"
Loki says, “I am not crying,” and abruptly stops, still heaving for breath. But he doesn’t let go of Tony’s middle. Tony doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover uselessly around Loki’s head like some misbegotten halo.
“So you’re not.”
Loki sniffles once, twice, before finally taking a step back and pressing his face into his own sleeve. Tony sucks in a lungful of sweet air. “Is that the bike? Are the designs finished?”
That’s a diversionary tactic if Tony’s ever seen one, but he lets it slide. He can talk mechanics and engineering all day, every day. They tinker with the bike’s wiring for the next hour or so, before Steve knocks on the door and they have to put it away hastily.
A week passes; Thor does not return.
//
Clint does not like Loki. He absolutely does not think that this kid is one of the good guys despite the fact that he’s been somehow reborn and possesses the tear ducts of a veteran movie star. He could still be dangerous; he’s smart, for one. Too smart. And he spends way too much time alone in his room, hunched over that tablet, face illuminated by the blue glow. He could be scheming.
Scheming the newest way to prank Clint, most likely.
Clint scoffs. Okay, so the kid’s not too bad to joke around. And he kind of enjoyed the short-lived prank war, and this is absolutely the only reason why he finds himself standing in front of Loki’s closed door, fist raised about to knock, in sweats and a t-shirt, because he wants to check up on the prankster and liven up the Tower again. Everyone else is old or science-y or Natasha.
Also, it must suck not having your older-brother-who-searched-the-world-for-you-and-reawakened-you around. Clint’s not basing that on personal experience or anything.
“Come in,” Loki’s voice sounds through the door before Clint can knock. At Clint’s bewildered look as the door slides open, he explains, “Jarvis timed how long you were standing there not doing anything. What was it, Jarvis?”
“23.7 seconds, Mr. Laufeyson.”
“23.7 seconds, Mr. Barton.” Loki is, predictably, cross-legged on the bed, tablet in front of him. The sheets are a wrinkled heap on the floor, though, which is a change. He sits back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling. “You know, in that amount of time, one could have disarmed you, taken a picture, uploaded it onto the internet, laughed for five seconds, and then returned to end your humiliation.”
Clint blinks.
What he says is: “Like you could disarm me.”
What Loki says is: “Is that a challenge?”
And isn’t that what he came up here for, anyway? To get the little trouble-maker out of his room for once and preferably away from that tablet? A little rough-housing couldn’t hurt the guy. Clint bares his teeth good-naturedly. “It most certainly is.”
Loki’s returning grin is sharp as a knife. The archer digs into the pockets of his sweats. The only thing he has on his person is his Starkphone, so he brings that out to hold delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “I bet you one week on clean-up duty for the common room that you can’t take this from me in the next...twenty minutes.”
Loki’s teeth glint. “Fifteen,” he says.
“Deal,” and as soon as the word leaves Clint’s lips, Loki is launching himself off the bed, and Clint is turning and running - damn, that kid’s fast! - sneaking a glance behind him to see Loki execute a roll that brings him into the hallway. “Jarvis!” Clint yells, hoping the AI is a gifted mind-reader as well.
Jarvis informs him mildly, “I have unlocked the doors to all Emergency Exits, Mr. Barton.”
“Perfect.”
Clint crashes into the door by the floor’s elevator, deciding to take this chase to the gym, where they’ll have the space and padding to grapple, if need be. He descends the stairs quickly, feet practically a blur, coming out on the gym level. He expects Loki to be just behind him, but when he turns, the door to the staircase closes with no little boy exiting. The mats below his sneakered feet give with every step he takes toward the center of the sparring area.
He huffs, crosses his arms, scratches his head. Where was Loki?
A minute later and he’s really wondering. The kid didn’t get lost, did he? Just as he’s about to put his phone away, something metallic clangs far above his head and in the next instant a weight drops about his shoulders. It startles him enough for him to react with his reflexes, grabbing hold of the offending weight and twisting himself away from it.
Unfortunately, the weight is Loki, and Clint has just enough time to appreciate how he must have crawled through the vents before Loki tries to swipe his legs out from underneath him. Clint jumps, lands with his feet apart and balanced. His fists are up even as he realizes he’s likely about to spar with an eleven-year-old. Are you supposed to pull your punches on a child god?
To be fair, Loki looks like he’s having the time of his life. He feints left and then he feints right and then he pulls a move straight out of capoeira and cartwheel-kicks Clint in his shoulder. “Ow, man,” Clint grumbles, peeved. “Where’d you learn these moves?”
“I lived on the streets for a year before Thor found me. What do you think?” And then he gets a punch into Clint’s solar plexus.
“Oomph.”
They spar close-range, Clint’s forearms bruising even while he’s blocking and Loki’s tiny but he guesses god-level strength is not to be reckoned with and already regrets all the icepacks that will die for his benefit. At some point the fight becomes more intense, less playful, and Clint forgets for just a second that he’s fighting a little kid and not Captain America or Natasha. His hand flies out with a resounding crack and Loki drops, hand cupping his cheek, and -yeah -that’s blood dripping onto the sparring mats from Loki’s nose, and Clint feels like a horrible, horrible human being.
“Hrrrgh,” Loki says, or something like it, tears already welling in his eyes. Clint crouches next to him, urging him to lean forward.
“Oh, wow. That was not supposed to happen. Loki, man, I’m so sorry. It doesn’t hurt too much, right? It’s just a - fuck, you’re gonna have a black eye and Tony’s going to be so mad at me and your brother, oh my god. Are you okay?” He has a mini cardiac-arrest at the thought of Thor angry and/or furious with him. He’s rubbing circles onto Loki’s back like that will help anything. Where is his brain? He needs coldpacks and tissues, he needs cooling creams, he needs Loki to stop laughing like that because it is totally freaking him out.
Loki says in a nasally voice, “I win! You’re on clean-up duty for the next week!” He holds up Clint’s Starkphone. His grin up at Clint is bloody and really unnecessary for the resemblance it holds to another Loki that Clint remembers so well. He curses.
“Did you - was that your plan?”
“I disarmed you within the allotted time.”
“Yeah, by taking a direct hit to make me worry so that I was unaware that you were sneaking the phone from me!”
“If that was my plan, then it worked very well.”
“I’m not even going to - oh my god, let’s just get you cleaned up.” Clint drags Loki up by his elbow, marching him over to the lockers. Loki’s eye is already purpling, though the bleeding has stopped, at least.
He’s kneeling in front of Loki, whom he seated on one of the benches, gently wiping away the blood above his upper lip with a damp towel, when Loki breathes, “Thank you, Mr. Barton.”
Confused, Clint asks, “For what? The black eye?”
Loki slumps and sighs. “For the distraction. It is very kind of you. I should like to do this again, only perhaps next time you should try to disarm me.” His grin this time is less bloody.
Clint breathes a sigh of his own. “Sure thing, little guy. I’ve got to get you back for dumping clean-up duty on me, anyway.”
Another week passes; the bruise fades from Loki’s eye. Thor does not return.
//
Sixteen days pass in a blink, and Tony and Loki are in his workshop when the alarm blares, overheard lights blinking on and off in their programmed pattern. It has been a disturbingly quiet month so far, so the inventor figures that it’s just about time, anyway. Jarvis informs Tony politely that Director Fury is on the phone. He holds up a silent finger to Loki and asks for Jarvis to put him on speaker.
There’s a crackle, and then: “-before they are all over the city!” comes Fury’s growling, deep voice. “Suit up, Iron Man. Captain America and Hawkeye are on the scene already. Widow’s en route in the Quinjet with The Other Guy. You gonna let her get there before you?”
Fury already knows the answer to that. Of course not. “You think I would design the jet to be faster than my suit?” he teases, pressing the buttons on his homing bracelets. “Jarvis, upload coordinates. Fury, can’t wait for the debriefing. Iron Man out.”
Fury hangs up. Loki says, “Are you really going to -?” before an explosion rips away half of the wall of Tony’s workshop, the vacuum it creates pulling papers and tools from his tables. Tony turns - his suit is on its way, t-10 seconds, but it won’t be fast enough - and he counts one, two, three Doombots at the hole left behind by the blast, Loki standing between them, before a shock of electricity passes through his system and shuts it down.
Blackness, and then -
He coughs, rolls over onto his back. The floor is hard and unyielding and ridged. His hands are cuffed. He blinks open his eyes, the lights surprisingly dim until Tony realizes that there is no artificial light, but only the light of the setting sun through a barred window near the ceiling. “The fuck?” he manages, wheezing. Sometimes he hates being only human. A brilliant, genius, incredibly resourceful and wealthy human, but still.
He rolls again and sees Loki sitting against the wall - everything is made from square, gray stones - and holding between his hands a Starkphone, his thumbs moving quickly over the screen. “They got you, too?”
The phone nearly jumps out of Loki’s hands. “You’re awake!” Loki exclaims, nervously.
“You okay?”
The boy nods. “You’ve been unconscious for hours. I thought there might have been serious damage.”
“Aw,” Tony says for lack of anything better. A feeling worms its way into his heart. “They didn’t take my phone away?” he asks, pushing away the feeling-worm.
“Apparently those Doombots were incapable of performing outside of their programming, which I am guessing was limited to, explode, knock-out, kidnap, and imprison.”
“Is that sarcasm in the face of danger?” Tony feels something dangerously close to pride. Loki sends him a shaky smile for the effort.
“What danger?” he says, so of course that is when the door slams open and two Doombots seize them by their manacles, using some sort of electromagnet that pulls them both up and out the door. They are marched between the copies only a short distance, the hall also made up of gray stones and torches that burn a strange, pale fire. Loki mumbles, “How medieval,” and Tony chuckles, even though they are both certainly being led to Doctor Doom at this very moment, who will likely not have very good intentions towards them.
The hallway leads to a set of great wooden doors, and these creak open as their little party approaches. The throne room - Tony can’t really think of any other way to describe it - is even darker than the hallway, mostly bare but for a few robots and machine parts and weapons along the walls, and Doom, who is lounging in his metal throne and tapping his fingers against the material.
“Stark,” he hisses through the grill plate in his mask. He doesn’t address Loki. The Doombots escorting them step away when they are but ten paces from Doom. Light falls through the open doorway, elongating their shadows in front of them.
“Doctor,” Tony greets with pseudo-politeness, even inclining his head. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Your own intelligence condemns you. I require something that only you can provide.”
Tony cocks his head. It isn’t like Doom to be so straight-forward. “You mean, like, you need me to work with you? Yeah, no,” he says emphatically.
“No,” Doom says. “That’s not it.” His eyes lock onto the blue glow of Iron Man’s power source, and he hums in appreciation. Tony catches where he’s looking and very nearly scoffs. It’s been tried, he wants to tell Doom. You’re insane to try it again. Well, insanity is definitely a part of his enhanced power. Doom’s fingers continue that tap-tap-tap over the arm of his throne. “Something else.”
“Well, I decline. Sorry, not signing any waivers. Not agreeing to the lab demo, either. So that’s a ‘no,’ in case you didn’t get that. Do not give consent.”
“You misunderstand,” Doom sneers - or, he would probably be doing so, if only he could see under that mask. “I am merely informing you of my intentions. Don’t think that you’ll have any say in the matter. You’ve been in this business long enough to recognize a threat before it’s been said, I assume. I know your people, Stark. I will get what I need from you.”
“My people are kind of invulnerable, you know. It’s working out for them.”
Doom leans forward suddenly, probably angry, though his expression doesn’t change. “And what about this whelp standing next to you? Is he as invulnerable as the rest?” With a swipe of his hand and a spark of green, one Doombot steps forward, creaking metal arm outstretched to Loki, who’s just staring at it with wide, green eyes, knees locked in place, and Tony’s about to move, to put himself between them, when Loki spits, “Fool,” snarling, and the Doombot stills its progression, victim to Doom’s surprise.
“What did you call me?”
Loki schools his face into one of complete and utter disdain. It’s completely out of place on an eleven-year-old yet so Loki that Tony can’t help but gape, just a little. “Did you not recognize me, Victor? It is your sometimes-ally, Loki Lie-Smith.”
A long moment passes in which Doom regards the child. He takes in the dark hair and intelligent eyes, the regal air and contempt, and must see something familiar. Finally, he grits, “You are smaller than I remember.”
“A side effect of reincarnation.” The steps he takes toward Doom are confident and large. “I have spent weeks playing my brother for the sentimental oaf that he is; I know now the soft underbelly at which to strike to eliminate the Avengers, all of their secrets and weaknesses. I have been biding my time, Victor.”
“For what purpose?” Doom sounds suspicious. Loki turns, interest apparently on the weapons along the wall. He moves toward them slowly, gradually, running a finger along the blade of a particularly wicked looking axe when he reaches the array. Still, Doom makes no move to stop him. Likely he thinks he could easily overpower any of those weapons should Loki decide to surprise him.
“Because I am extraordinarily evil and wish for my brother and his friends’ demise, I would align myself with a worthy ally, of course.” He pauses, the barest hesitation, before continuing, “In my current form I possess no magics. My sorcery is lost to me. I have the knowledge but not the means with which to defeat them and Thor.” He spits at the name.
“And you would have me provide the means.”
“I will provide you with the schematics for Stark’s newest suit in return for your assistance in defeating Thor,” he amends, turning back around to face Doom.
“Hey!” Tony yells, struggling against the electromagnet that keeps hold over his manacles. “Not cool, Loki. You don’t have to do this. Also, don’t steal my stuff.”
“What I do is none of your concern, mortal,” and, oh, that’s the sting of betrayal Tony feels in his chest, right next to the silent press of his arc reactor. Tony tries to will it away. The kid is acting, lying through his teeth. It has been weeks and anyone putting on a show for this long would have shown some cracks, Tony thinks, mentally persuading himself. Had there been any cracks? All that time spent in the workshop, playing pranks on Clint, trying to meditate with Bruce, the Loki from before definitely would have snapped before now, right?
If only he had his suit, he could blast his way out, grab Loki, and give him a thorough shaking once they touched town at Avengers Tower again. He looks down at his encircled wrists, the pulse of electricity faint running along his skin. As long as these weird fortified cuffs are on him, the homing bracelets are useless, and thinking of possessions, where is his phone? His eyes dart back up to Loki, and from the angle of his stance Tony can just make out the sharp edge of his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. Oh.
Even as the idea is coming to him, the stifling press of electricity along his forearms disappears, and his homing bracelets warm against his wrists. He allows himself a little victory smile and hopes that the satellite he borrowed to aid with locating has a reach that extends into Doom’s castle. Without Jarvis he isn’t sure how long it will take for the suit to reach him. Perhaps Loki has factored that in, also.
Doom turns his gaze slowly between Loki and Tony, considering. “Your bargain intrigues me, but what of Stark? You want me to release him.”
Loki waves his hand absently, chains between his wrists clinking. “It is of no consequence to me.”
Doom says, “Prove it.”
It was a good act, really. Until now.
Loki hesitates, mouth open to speak but no sounds leave his lips, and in that hesitation Doom knows he has been played. Hissing, he flings out a metal arm, an arc of blue-white current exploding from his fingertips. This blast of energy hits Loki square in the chest, and he flies back from the wall at the burst, screaming, crashing into a slightly smoking heap nearer to Tony. And Tony is already running to him, on his knees, rearing back suddenly when with a cry Loki surges toward him, something glinting in his hand - what the fuck - and slices, the chain between Tony’s wrist snapping neatly in two.
Loki rasps, “Run!” and Tony does, scooping the injured god up and over his shoulder like Thor has done so many times. The Doombots are turning, converging; Tony tries to remember if there had been any in the hall, tries to think about how long that hall stretches before they can reach another door, before they can reach outside, and how long until his suit gets here? “Duck!” Loki screams, a sentient rearview mirror, or something. So Tony ducks, and the wall beside the space where his head had been burns quick and black. “Run faster,” Loki commands.
“Oh, my god!” Tony calls back, exasperated. “I’m not Captain America, here. This is as fast as I go!” His lungs are already burning, though they aren’t even halfway down the hall that Tony can see. Carrying a hundred pounds over his shoulder is not helping his speed any. “Doom following us?” he asks, gulping air.
“No,” Loki admits. “He’s just sitting there all lazy and evil.”
A crash sounds behind them as they round a corner. It seems that the hallway actually completes a circuit around the entire castle. “That was -?”
“Doombot,” Loki finishes. Then he shouts, “The window!” This actually gives Tony pause, and he falters, stumbling before the narrow window they’ve come across.
“What?”
“You’re going to jump.”
“Excuse me?” Tony peers out over the ledge. The trees below them look like little green golf balls. “Not even in hell. No.”
Loki pounds his little fists on his back. “Put me down,” he commands imperiously. Tony puts him down, and aside from being a little red in the face, Loki looks remarkably put together for someone who has just been blasted with magic electricity. “It is time for our escape!” he announces.
“I’m not jumping out this window. Me and windows do not get along. Don’t you remember your little conversation with Pepper when you first met?”
“You will jump first. I will jump after. This is simple!” Another crash as the Doombots gain ground. For once, Loki looks a little panicked, his eyebrows high, color on his cheeks and eyes shining. Or maybe that’s just excitement. If Tony knows his own face, which he does, he’s probably wearing a similar expression.
Tony braces his hands against either side of the gap in the wall, looks out the window, and then looks down the length of the hall. It’s a long hallway that likely leads back to Doom. He looks out the window again, taking a deep breath. “This is so not a good plan,” he mumbles to himself. “Jump out a window. Hah! There has to be another way to-“
And he can’t finish that thought because that’s when Loki pushes him out of the window and Tony is falling, wind whistling past his ears and ground rushing up to meet him, Loki’s words of, “Trust me!” as he pushed him a distant echo in his mind.
He crosses his arms in front of him, like that’s going to help at all when he crashes at terminal velocity into the lawn below, and then since he has the time he debates how he should land. Feet first? Head first? On his back, or his stomach? He looks up, smiling brilliantly as he does so because that’s when he catches a glint of red in the distance. “That little shit,” he says, fondly. Yes. “Come to Daddy.”
The suit finds him, binds to him, wraps him in that familiar metal armor, all the plates sliding into place, already at full capacity and Jarvis’ blessed snooty voice says, “We’ve missed you, sir,” and Tony laughs, exhilarated as the thrusters engage and slow his fall until he’s hovering stationary in the air.
“Lock on Loki,” he says to his suit. “We’ve got a god to catch.”
//
Being that Loki is half frost-giant, the cold that comes with flying at an altitude of 30,000 feet doesn’t really bother him, but just for show he pulls up the hood of his sweater and zips the zipper as far as it will go, sitting astride Iron Man’s shoulders. Water collects on Tony’s suit that falls away into the atmosphere as ice. Doom doesn’t follow them once they fly beyond his borders, possibly because he doesn’t want to give further cause for international parties to be angry with him. Judging by the state of his Doombots, Tony figures that Doom isn’t quite ready to take on multiple world powers quite yet. Whatever the case may be, he’s relieved that the metal man doesn’t follow, because two hours into flight he’s running low on energy and they’re skimming over the lights of Paris.
“Brace for landing or something,” he says for Loki’s benefit as they descend. He feels the kid press his palms against the helmet a little tighter. “That’ll work.”
It’s terribly difficult being discreet in Iron Man’s suit - also Tony has never been one for discreetness - and he figures they could use a hotel and room service, like, five minutes ago, so he decides to circle the Eiffel Tower once before they land, looking for a building with ‘L’Hotel’ in bright lights. Finding one that looks suitably ornate and which has the doors open wide at ground level, he flies right into the lobby, bellboys and visitors ducking and gasping at the sight. Whatever.
The maitre d’ is a pointy woman with long, straight dark hair and perfectly plucked eyebrows. She doesn’t miss a beat. “Reservation?” she asks in a smoky voice when Tony approaches the counter, flipping up his face plate, Loki still on his shoulders. He might be sleeping. He hasn’t made a sound in over an hour.
“Don’t have one,” Tony says, cheeky. He leans onto the counter, metal plates protesting, and offers her the most shit-eating grin he can manage. “But I’m sure you have a room available for one ridiculously handsome world-class hero and his adorable, tired charge who happens to be a child Norse god.”
He watches her exhale through her nostrils. “You are lucky,” she says, lip twitching. “We happen to have just one.” With one hand she crosses something out on her giant notepad and scribbles something else down in its place, and with the other she is on the phone, speaking in rapid, clipped French. The exchange lasts mere seconds, and she nods with finality before hanging up. “You’re room is ready for you, Monsieur Stark.” She hands him a card with a metallic stripe on one side. “22-B.”
“Merci, my dear.” He snatches up the card, grin still in place. “Send up food and drink, too. Steak, potatoes, those little baby carrots with the tops still on. Caviar? No, not caviar. You know what I’m in the mood for? Curry. Send up some curry, would you, sweetcheeks?”
“Tout de suite,” she nods, tersely.
“And pastries!” Tony adds, walking towards the elevators now. “Sliced apples, too.” He would keep listing things but the elevators close and then he and Loki are alone. The elevator mirrored on all sides, he sees that Loki has indeed fallen asleep on his shoulders, arms crossed over the helmet of the suit and head pillowed on them. Tony’s pretty sure there’s no way in hell that’s a comfortable position for anyone to sleep in, but somehow the kid has managed, and he’ll not begrudge him a few winks of sleep after all the excitement that’s been had in the past few hours.
It isn’t until they’ve reached the twenty-second floor and the elevator slows to a stop that Tony realizes how dead on his feet he is, how the drag of his feet feels like he’s walking under water. Once they are safely in their room Jarvis connects him to Avengers Tower, and of course it’s Steve on the other end, frantic:
“Where have you been? Are you all right? Is Loki with you? Tell me he’s with you. Thor’s back and he is not happy. Clint is going insane. You know you were untraceable for nine hours? Where are you now? Have you stopped? Can we come get you? Are you safe?”
“Jeez, Mom,” Tony cuts in before Steve can ask if he’s had his daily serving of vegetables. “I didn’t break curfew that much. I’m fine, thanks. Loki’s with me. Suit’s running low so you’re going to have to send the jet. I suppose I could just charter a flight out of here, but I have a feeling Fury’s going to want to see me sooner rather than later. Not that I like to make things easier for him, but, there’s that. Jarvis will send coordinates.”
“Sending coordinates, sir.”
“We can be there in a few hours,” Steve promises. “Wait, you’re in Paris?”
“Sure am.” Carefully, he reaches up and lifts Loki up from under his arms, letting him fall into the bed on top of the covers. His sleep remains undisturbed, though he twitches his nose a little at the movement.
“Isn’t that -that’s where Loki’s from.”
“Uh, pretty sure he’s from Asgard. Or that other place with the ice and the giants. Yoda’s Hive.”
“Jotunheim.”
“Yeah, that. Look, he’s not awake so it’s not like he can appreciate being in Paris, anyway.”
There’s white noise on the other end and then Steve says again, “We’ll be there in a few hours.”
With help from Jarvis Tony manages to get the suit off of him, though in no way is it in the compact bullet-shaped package that it found him in. He drinks about a fish-tank full of water and then pisses it out immediately after - hey, it’s been a long day - and forgets about the food he had ordered. He falls asleep next to Loki, his arc reactor glowing soft, pale blue under his shirt and creating shadows on the god’s face.
//
next
Rating PG-13/T for language and violence
Summary When Loki is reincarnated as a child on Midgard with dreams for memories, Thor searches to re-awaken his brother. When he finds him, he makes an executive decision. Instead of taking him to Asgard, he takes him to Avengers Tower. Journey Into Mystery & Avengers (Movie) AU.
Disclaimer Characters belong to their creators (Marvel owns everyone I love).
previous
oo4;
It rains for three days. Loki is a bundle of pale skin and black sweater for the duration of the storm, reading the day away or else trolling the internet. Steve comes back and makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and Loki eats them half-heartedly. Even Clint attempts to drag him out of his room to play “a game with lots of shooting and explosions, okay?” But a few rounds of stabbing at buttons and watching things explode on television cannot hope to hold his attention, and Loki lets Bruce take over his controller. Clint says, “Evil Loki was a huge douche-bag but this one you actually feel sorry for, huh?” to Bruce when he thinks Loki is out of earshot.
Bruce murmurs his agreement.
The next day it stops raining, and Loki comes down to the workshop of his own accord with Thor’s Stark Tablet. Tony spins the 3-D rendering of the bike they are working on and turns to him when he puts the tablet on a compatible dock. “I looked up the word ‘douche-bag’ on the internet,” he informs Tony, who chokes a little. “What a horrible thing to call someone! Your insults are disgusting.”
Then Loki flings his hands into the air, the tabs opened on his device following his digits as they expand with the projector. They are all videos - videos of the older Loki, in Germany, in Manhattan; Loki before a great fire; Loki fighting Thor, fighting all the Avengers; Loki with a wicked, manic grin twisting his lips. “You were made to be ruled,” says one of the video clips amongst the muted screams and sounds of battle from the others.
Tony gulps, tries to find an angle. “Is this what you’ve been doing the past few days?”
“I thought there must be some record,” Loki responds, quiet, face turned away still. “So I searched. Youtube is a wonderful resource. I found so many videos of my former self. So many instances of cruelty.”
“Well,” Tony starts, just as softly, taking careful steps toward the boy. “You’re right, that’s your former self. Not you. Not really.” When he lays a hand on his shoulder, the shoulder is shaking. Loki sniffs, rubs a hand across his eyes in frustration, but Tony’s touch seems to spark a chain of reactions, and the tears fall unbidden from Loki’s eyes. The boy turns into Tony’s arms and Tony soon finds himself laden with a sobbing, gasping child god. His shirt at his navel is getting damp. “This is why I am not welcome in Asgard!” Loki cries between hiccoughs, arms like a vice around Tony. “I thought I remembered, but the reality is even more gruesome. Why am I even so welcome here? After all that’s been done! I do not deserve -"
Okay. Tony trashes all the tabs that Loki had opened, and the ensuing lack of screams and explosions leaves the workshop eerily echoing. “Hey,” he says firmly. “Don’t. You’re here because we believe in second chances. And you’ve stayed because you’re a good kid, mostly. You looked up the word ‘douche-bag’? Well, Asgard has a lot of douches who aren’t so great with second chances, so Thor’s going to talk to them. They’ll come around to the idea, eventually. And in the meantime you get to hang out with Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. Not bad, huh? Just, jeez, stop crying-"
Loki says, “I am not crying,” and abruptly stops, still heaving for breath. But he doesn’t let go of Tony’s middle. Tony doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover uselessly around Loki’s head like some misbegotten halo.
“So you’re not.”
Loki sniffles once, twice, before finally taking a step back and pressing his face into his own sleeve. Tony sucks in a lungful of sweet air. “Is that the bike? Are the designs finished?”
That’s a diversionary tactic if Tony’s ever seen one, but he lets it slide. He can talk mechanics and engineering all day, every day. They tinker with the bike’s wiring for the next hour or so, before Steve knocks on the door and they have to put it away hastily.
A week passes; Thor does not return.
//
Clint does not like Loki. He absolutely does not think that this kid is one of the good guys despite the fact that he’s been somehow reborn and possesses the tear ducts of a veteran movie star. He could still be dangerous; he’s smart, for one. Too smart. And he spends way too much time alone in his room, hunched over that tablet, face illuminated by the blue glow. He could be scheming.
Scheming the newest way to prank Clint, most likely.
Clint scoffs. Okay, so the kid’s not too bad to joke around. And he kind of enjoyed the short-lived prank war, and this is absolutely the only reason why he finds himself standing in front of Loki’s closed door, fist raised about to knock, in sweats and a t-shirt, because he wants to check up on the prankster and liven up the Tower again. Everyone else is old or science-y or Natasha.
Also, it must suck not having your older-brother-who-searched-the-world-for-you-and-reawakened-you around. Clint’s not basing that on personal experience or anything.
“Come in,” Loki’s voice sounds through the door before Clint can knock. At Clint’s bewildered look as the door slides open, he explains, “Jarvis timed how long you were standing there not doing anything. What was it, Jarvis?”
“23.7 seconds, Mr. Laufeyson.”
“23.7 seconds, Mr. Barton.” Loki is, predictably, cross-legged on the bed, tablet in front of him. The sheets are a wrinkled heap on the floor, though, which is a change. He sits back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling. “You know, in that amount of time, one could have disarmed you, taken a picture, uploaded it onto the internet, laughed for five seconds, and then returned to end your humiliation.”
Clint blinks.
What he says is: “Like you could disarm me.”
What Loki says is: “Is that a challenge?”
And isn’t that what he came up here for, anyway? To get the little trouble-maker out of his room for once and preferably away from that tablet? A little rough-housing couldn’t hurt the guy. Clint bares his teeth good-naturedly. “It most certainly is.”
Loki’s returning grin is sharp as a knife. The archer digs into the pockets of his sweats. The only thing he has on his person is his Starkphone, so he brings that out to hold delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “I bet you one week on clean-up duty for the common room that you can’t take this from me in the next...twenty minutes.”
Loki’s teeth glint. “Fifteen,” he says.
“Deal,” and as soon as the word leaves Clint’s lips, Loki is launching himself off the bed, and Clint is turning and running - damn, that kid’s fast! - sneaking a glance behind him to see Loki execute a roll that brings him into the hallway. “Jarvis!” Clint yells, hoping the AI is a gifted mind-reader as well.
Jarvis informs him mildly, “I have unlocked the doors to all Emergency Exits, Mr. Barton.”
“Perfect.”
Clint crashes into the door by the floor’s elevator, deciding to take this chase to the gym, where they’ll have the space and padding to grapple, if need be. He descends the stairs quickly, feet practically a blur, coming out on the gym level. He expects Loki to be just behind him, but when he turns, the door to the staircase closes with no little boy exiting. The mats below his sneakered feet give with every step he takes toward the center of the sparring area.
He huffs, crosses his arms, scratches his head. Where was Loki?
A minute later and he’s really wondering. The kid didn’t get lost, did he? Just as he’s about to put his phone away, something metallic clangs far above his head and in the next instant a weight drops about his shoulders. It startles him enough for him to react with his reflexes, grabbing hold of the offending weight and twisting himself away from it.
Unfortunately, the weight is Loki, and Clint has just enough time to appreciate how he must have crawled through the vents before Loki tries to swipe his legs out from underneath him. Clint jumps, lands with his feet apart and balanced. His fists are up even as he realizes he’s likely about to spar with an eleven-year-old. Are you supposed to pull your punches on a child god?
To be fair, Loki looks like he’s having the time of his life. He feints left and then he feints right and then he pulls a move straight out of capoeira and cartwheel-kicks Clint in his shoulder. “Ow, man,” Clint grumbles, peeved. “Where’d you learn these moves?”
“I lived on the streets for a year before Thor found me. What do you think?” And then he gets a punch into Clint’s solar plexus.
“Oomph.”
They spar close-range, Clint’s forearms bruising even while he’s blocking and Loki’s tiny but he guesses god-level strength is not to be reckoned with and already regrets all the icepacks that will die for his benefit. At some point the fight becomes more intense, less playful, and Clint forgets for just a second that he’s fighting a little kid and not Captain America or Natasha. His hand flies out with a resounding crack and Loki drops, hand cupping his cheek, and -yeah -that’s blood dripping onto the sparring mats from Loki’s nose, and Clint feels like a horrible, horrible human being.
“Hrrrgh,” Loki says, or something like it, tears already welling in his eyes. Clint crouches next to him, urging him to lean forward.
“Oh, wow. That was not supposed to happen. Loki, man, I’m so sorry. It doesn’t hurt too much, right? It’s just a - fuck, you’re gonna have a black eye and Tony’s going to be so mad at me and your brother, oh my god. Are you okay?” He has a mini cardiac-arrest at the thought of Thor angry and/or furious with him. He’s rubbing circles onto Loki’s back like that will help anything. Where is his brain? He needs coldpacks and tissues, he needs cooling creams, he needs Loki to stop laughing like that because it is totally freaking him out.
Loki says in a nasally voice, “I win! You’re on clean-up duty for the next week!” He holds up Clint’s Starkphone. His grin up at Clint is bloody and really unnecessary for the resemblance it holds to another Loki that Clint remembers so well. He curses.
“Did you - was that your plan?”
“I disarmed you within the allotted time.”
“Yeah, by taking a direct hit to make me worry so that I was unaware that you were sneaking the phone from me!”
“If that was my plan, then it worked very well.”
“I’m not even going to - oh my god, let’s just get you cleaned up.” Clint drags Loki up by his elbow, marching him over to the lockers. Loki’s eye is already purpling, though the bleeding has stopped, at least.
He’s kneeling in front of Loki, whom he seated on one of the benches, gently wiping away the blood above his upper lip with a damp towel, when Loki breathes, “Thank you, Mr. Barton.”
Confused, Clint asks, “For what? The black eye?”
Loki slumps and sighs. “For the distraction. It is very kind of you. I should like to do this again, only perhaps next time you should try to disarm me.” His grin this time is less bloody.
Clint breathes a sigh of his own. “Sure thing, little guy. I’ve got to get you back for dumping clean-up duty on me, anyway.”
Another week passes; the bruise fades from Loki’s eye. Thor does not return.
//
Sixteen days pass in a blink, and Tony and Loki are in his workshop when the alarm blares, overheard lights blinking on and off in their programmed pattern. It has been a disturbingly quiet month so far, so the inventor figures that it’s just about time, anyway. Jarvis informs Tony politely that Director Fury is on the phone. He holds up a silent finger to Loki and asks for Jarvis to put him on speaker.
There’s a crackle, and then: “-before they are all over the city!” comes Fury’s growling, deep voice. “Suit up, Iron Man. Captain America and Hawkeye are on the scene already. Widow’s en route in the Quinjet with The Other Guy. You gonna let her get there before you?”
Fury already knows the answer to that. Of course not. “You think I would design the jet to be faster than my suit?” he teases, pressing the buttons on his homing bracelets. “Jarvis, upload coordinates. Fury, can’t wait for the debriefing. Iron Man out.”
Fury hangs up. Loki says, “Are you really going to -?” before an explosion rips away half of the wall of Tony’s workshop, the vacuum it creates pulling papers and tools from his tables. Tony turns - his suit is on its way, t-10 seconds, but it won’t be fast enough - and he counts one, two, three Doombots at the hole left behind by the blast, Loki standing between them, before a shock of electricity passes through his system and shuts it down.
Blackness, and then -
He coughs, rolls over onto his back. The floor is hard and unyielding and ridged. His hands are cuffed. He blinks open his eyes, the lights surprisingly dim until Tony realizes that there is no artificial light, but only the light of the setting sun through a barred window near the ceiling. “The fuck?” he manages, wheezing. Sometimes he hates being only human. A brilliant, genius, incredibly resourceful and wealthy human, but still.
He rolls again and sees Loki sitting against the wall - everything is made from square, gray stones - and holding between his hands a Starkphone, his thumbs moving quickly over the screen. “They got you, too?”
The phone nearly jumps out of Loki’s hands. “You’re awake!” Loki exclaims, nervously.
“You okay?”
The boy nods. “You’ve been unconscious for hours. I thought there might have been serious damage.”
“Aw,” Tony says for lack of anything better. A feeling worms its way into his heart. “They didn’t take my phone away?” he asks, pushing away the feeling-worm.
“Apparently those Doombots were incapable of performing outside of their programming, which I am guessing was limited to, explode, knock-out, kidnap, and imprison.”
“Is that sarcasm in the face of danger?” Tony feels something dangerously close to pride. Loki sends him a shaky smile for the effort.
“What danger?” he says, so of course that is when the door slams open and two Doombots seize them by their manacles, using some sort of electromagnet that pulls them both up and out the door. They are marched between the copies only a short distance, the hall also made up of gray stones and torches that burn a strange, pale fire. Loki mumbles, “How medieval,” and Tony chuckles, even though they are both certainly being led to Doctor Doom at this very moment, who will likely not have very good intentions towards them.
The hallway leads to a set of great wooden doors, and these creak open as their little party approaches. The throne room - Tony can’t really think of any other way to describe it - is even darker than the hallway, mostly bare but for a few robots and machine parts and weapons along the walls, and Doom, who is lounging in his metal throne and tapping his fingers against the material.
“Stark,” he hisses through the grill plate in his mask. He doesn’t address Loki. The Doombots escorting them step away when they are but ten paces from Doom. Light falls through the open doorway, elongating their shadows in front of them.
“Doctor,” Tony greets with pseudo-politeness, even inclining his head. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Your own intelligence condemns you. I require something that only you can provide.”
Tony cocks his head. It isn’t like Doom to be so straight-forward. “You mean, like, you need me to work with you? Yeah, no,” he says emphatically.
“No,” Doom says. “That’s not it.” His eyes lock onto the blue glow of Iron Man’s power source, and he hums in appreciation. Tony catches where he’s looking and very nearly scoffs. It’s been tried, he wants to tell Doom. You’re insane to try it again. Well, insanity is definitely a part of his enhanced power. Doom’s fingers continue that tap-tap-tap over the arm of his throne. “Something else.”
“Well, I decline. Sorry, not signing any waivers. Not agreeing to the lab demo, either. So that’s a ‘no,’ in case you didn’t get that. Do not give consent.”
“You misunderstand,” Doom sneers - or, he would probably be doing so, if only he could see under that mask. “I am merely informing you of my intentions. Don’t think that you’ll have any say in the matter. You’ve been in this business long enough to recognize a threat before it’s been said, I assume. I know your people, Stark. I will get what I need from you.”
“My people are kind of invulnerable, you know. It’s working out for them.”
Doom leans forward suddenly, probably angry, though his expression doesn’t change. “And what about this whelp standing next to you? Is he as invulnerable as the rest?” With a swipe of his hand and a spark of green, one Doombot steps forward, creaking metal arm outstretched to Loki, who’s just staring at it with wide, green eyes, knees locked in place, and Tony’s about to move, to put himself between them, when Loki spits, “Fool,” snarling, and the Doombot stills its progression, victim to Doom’s surprise.
“What did you call me?”
Loki schools his face into one of complete and utter disdain. It’s completely out of place on an eleven-year-old yet so Loki that Tony can’t help but gape, just a little. “Did you not recognize me, Victor? It is your sometimes-ally, Loki Lie-Smith.”
A long moment passes in which Doom regards the child. He takes in the dark hair and intelligent eyes, the regal air and contempt, and must see something familiar. Finally, he grits, “You are smaller than I remember.”
“A side effect of reincarnation.” The steps he takes toward Doom are confident and large. “I have spent weeks playing my brother for the sentimental oaf that he is; I know now the soft underbelly at which to strike to eliminate the Avengers, all of their secrets and weaknesses. I have been biding my time, Victor.”
“For what purpose?” Doom sounds suspicious. Loki turns, interest apparently on the weapons along the wall. He moves toward them slowly, gradually, running a finger along the blade of a particularly wicked looking axe when he reaches the array. Still, Doom makes no move to stop him. Likely he thinks he could easily overpower any of those weapons should Loki decide to surprise him.
“Because I am extraordinarily evil and wish for my brother and his friends’ demise, I would align myself with a worthy ally, of course.” He pauses, the barest hesitation, before continuing, “In my current form I possess no magics. My sorcery is lost to me. I have the knowledge but not the means with which to defeat them and Thor.” He spits at the name.
“And you would have me provide the means.”
“I will provide you with the schematics for Stark’s newest suit in return for your assistance in defeating Thor,” he amends, turning back around to face Doom.
“Hey!” Tony yells, struggling against the electromagnet that keeps hold over his manacles. “Not cool, Loki. You don’t have to do this. Also, don’t steal my stuff.”
“What I do is none of your concern, mortal,” and, oh, that’s the sting of betrayal Tony feels in his chest, right next to the silent press of his arc reactor. Tony tries to will it away. The kid is acting, lying through his teeth. It has been weeks and anyone putting on a show for this long would have shown some cracks, Tony thinks, mentally persuading himself. Had there been any cracks? All that time spent in the workshop, playing pranks on Clint, trying to meditate with Bruce, the Loki from before definitely would have snapped before now, right?
If only he had his suit, he could blast his way out, grab Loki, and give him a thorough shaking once they touched town at Avengers Tower again. He looks down at his encircled wrists, the pulse of electricity faint running along his skin. As long as these weird fortified cuffs are on him, the homing bracelets are useless, and thinking of possessions, where is his phone? His eyes dart back up to Loki, and from the angle of his stance Tony can just make out the sharp edge of his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. Oh.
Even as the idea is coming to him, the stifling press of electricity along his forearms disappears, and his homing bracelets warm against his wrists. He allows himself a little victory smile and hopes that the satellite he borrowed to aid with locating has a reach that extends into Doom’s castle. Without Jarvis he isn’t sure how long it will take for the suit to reach him. Perhaps Loki has factored that in, also.
Doom turns his gaze slowly between Loki and Tony, considering. “Your bargain intrigues me, but what of Stark? You want me to release him.”
Loki waves his hand absently, chains between his wrists clinking. “It is of no consequence to me.”
Doom says, “Prove it.”
It was a good act, really. Until now.
Loki hesitates, mouth open to speak but no sounds leave his lips, and in that hesitation Doom knows he has been played. Hissing, he flings out a metal arm, an arc of blue-white current exploding from his fingertips. This blast of energy hits Loki square in the chest, and he flies back from the wall at the burst, screaming, crashing into a slightly smoking heap nearer to Tony. And Tony is already running to him, on his knees, rearing back suddenly when with a cry Loki surges toward him, something glinting in his hand - what the fuck - and slices, the chain between Tony’s wrist snapping neatly in two.
Loki rasps, “Run!” and Tony does, scooping the injured god up and over his shoulder like Thor has done so many times. The Doombots are turning, converging; Tony tries to remember if there had been any in the hall, tries to think about how long that hall stretches before they can reach another door, before they can reach outside, and how long until his suit gets here? “Duck!” Loki screams, a sentient rearview mirror, or something. So Tony ducks, and the wall beside the space where his head had been burns quick and black. “Run faster,” Loki commands.
“Oh, my god!” Tony calls back, exasperated. “I’m not Captain America, here. This is as fast as I go!” His lungs are already burning, though they aren’t even halfway down the hall that Tony can see. Carrying a hundred pounds over his shoulder is not helping his speed any. “Doom following us?” he asks, gulping air.
“No,” Loki admits. “He’s just sitting there all lazy and evil.”
A crash sounds behind them as they round a corner. It seems that the hallway actually completes a circuit around the entire castle. “That was -?”
“Doombot,” Loki finishes. Then he shouts, “The window!” This actually gives Tony pause, and he falters, stumbling before the narrow window they’ve come across.
“What?”
“You’re going to jump.”
“Excuse me?” Tony peers out over the ledge. The trees below them look like little green golf balls. “Not even in hell. No.”
Loki pounds his little fists on his back. “Put me down,” he commands imperiously. Tony puts him down, and aside from being a little red in the face, Loki looks remarkably put together for someone who has just been blasted with magic electricity. “It is time for our escape!” he announces.
“I’m not jumping out this window. Me and windows do not get along. Don’t you remember your little conversation with Pepper when you first met?”
“You will jump first. I will jump after. This is simple!” Another crash as the Doombots gain ground. For once, Loki looks a little panicked, his eyebrows high, color on his cheeks and eyes shining. Or maybe that’s just excitement. If Tony knows his own face, which he does, he’s probably wearing a similar expression.
Tony braces his hands against either side of the gap in the wall, looks out the window, and then looks down the length of the hall. It’s a long hallway that likely leads back to Doom. He looks out the window again, taking a deep breath. “This is so not a good plan,” he mumbles to himself. “Jump out a window. Hah! There has to be another way to-“
And he can’t finish that thought because that’s when Loki pushes him out of the window and Tony is falling, wind whistling past his ears and ground rushing up to meet him, Loki’s words of, “Trust me!” as he pushed him a distant echo in his mind.
He crosses his arms in front of him, like that’s going to help at all when he crashes at terminal velocity into the lawn below, and then since he has the time he debates how he should land. Feet first? Head first? On his back, or his stomach? He looks up, smiling brilliantly as he does so because that’s when he catches a glint of red in the distance. “That little shit,” he says, fondly. Yes. “Come to Daddy.”
The suit finds him, binds to him, wraps him in that familiar metal armor, all the plates sliding into place, already at full capacity and Jarvis’ blessed snooty voice says, “We’ve missed you, sir,” and Tony laughs, exhilarated as the thrusters engage and slow his fall until he’s hovering stationary in the air.
“Lock on Loki,” he says to his suit. “We’ve got a god to catch.”
//
Being that Loki is half frost-giant, the cold that comes with flying at an altitude of 30,000 feet doesn’t really bother him, but just for show he pulls up the hood of his sweater and zips the zipper as far as it will go, sitting astride Iron Man’s shoulders. Water collects on Tony’s suit that falls away into the atmosphere as ice. Doom doesn’t follow them once they fly beyond his borders, possibly because he doesn’t want to give further cause for international parties to be angry with him. Judging by the state of his Doombots, Tony figures that Doom isn’t quite ready to take on multiple world powers quite yet. Whatever the case may be, he’s relieved that the metal man doesn’t follow, because two hours into flight he’s running low on energy and they’re skimming over the lights of Paris.
“Brace for landing or something,” he says for Loki’s benefit as they descend. He feels the kid press his palms against the helmet a little tighter. “That’ll work.”
It’s terribly difficult being discreet in Iron Man’s suit - also Tony has never been one for discreetness - and he figures they could use a hotel and room service, like, five minutes ago, so he decides to circle the Eiffel Tower once before they land, looking for a building with ‘L’Hotel’ in bright lights. Finding one that looks suitably ornate and which has the doors open wide at ground level, he flies right into the lobby, bellboys and visitors ducking and gasping at the sight. Whatever.
The maitre d’ is a pointy woman with long, straight dark hair and perfectly plucked eyebrows. She doesn’t miss a beat. “Reservation?” she asks in a smoky voice when Tony approaches the counter, flipping up his face plate, Loki still on his shoulders. He might be sleeping. He hasn’t made a sound in over an hour.
“Don’t have one,” Tony says, cheeky. He leans onto the counter, metal plates protesting, and offers her the most shit-eating grin he can manage. “But I’m sure you have a room available for one ridiculously handsome world-class hero and his adorable, tired charge who happens to be a child Norse god.”
He watches her exhale through her nostrils. “You are lucky,” she says, lip twitching. “We happen to have just one.” With one hand she crosses something out on her giant notepad and scribbles something else down in its place, and with the other she is on the phone, speaking in rapid, clipped French. The exchange lasts mere seconds, and she nods with finality before hanging up. “You’re room is ready for you, Monsieur Stark.” She hands him a card with a metallic stripe on one side. “22-B.”
“Merci, my dear.” He snatches up the card, grin still in place. “Send up food and drink, too. Steak, potatoes, those little baby carrots with the tops still on. Caviar? No, not caviar. You know what I’m in the mood for? Curry. Send up some curry, would you, sweetcheeks?”
“Tout de suite,” she nods, tersely.
“And pastries!” Tony adds, walking towards the elevators now. “Sliced apples, too.” He would keep listing things but the elevators close and then he and Loki are alone. The elevator mirrored on all sides, he sees that Loki has indeed fallen asleep on his shoulders, arms crossed over the helmet of the suit and head pillowed on them. Tony’s pretty sure there’s no way in hell that’s a comfortable position for anyone to sleep in, but somehow the kid has managed, and he’ll not begrudge him a few winks of sleep after all the excitement that’s been had in the past few hours.
It isn’t until they’ve reached the twenty-second floor and the elevator slows to a stop that Tony realizes how dead on his feet he is, how the drag of his feet feels like he’s walking under water. Once they are safely in their room Jarvis connects him to Avengers Tower, and of course it’s Steve on the other end, frantic:
“Where have you been? Are you all right? Is Loki with you? Tell me he’s with you. Thor’s back and he is not happy. Clint is going insane. You know you were untraceable for nine hours? Where are you now? Have you stopped? Can we come get you? Are you safe?”
“Jeez, Mom,” Tony cuts in before Steve can ask if he’s had his daily serving of vegetables. “I didn’t break curfew that much. I’m fine, thanks. Loki’s with me. Suit’s running low so you’re going to have to send the jet. I suppose I could just charter a flight out of here, but I have a feeling Fury’s going to want to see me sooner rather than later. Not that I like to make things easier for him, but, there’s that. Jarvis will send coordinates.”
“Sending coordinates, sir.”
“We can be there in a few hours,” Steve promises. “Wait, you’re in Paris?”
“Sure am.” Carefully, he reaches up and lifts Loki up from under his arms, letting him fall into the bed on top of the covers. His sleep remains undisturbed, though he twitches his nose a little at the movement.
“Isn’t that -that’s where Loki’s from.”
“Uh, pretty sure he’s from Asgard. Or that other place with the ice and the giants. Yoda’s Hive.”
“Jotunheim.”
“Yeah, that. Look, he’s not awake so it’s not like he can appreciate being in Paris, anyway.”
There’s white noise on the other end and then Steve says again, “We’ll be there in a few hours.”
With help from Jarvis Tony manages to get the suit off of him, though in no way is it in the compact bullet-shaped package that it found him in. He drinks about a fish-tank full of water and then pisses it out immediately after - hey, it’s been a long day - and forgets about the food he had ordered. He falls asleep next to Loki, his arc reactor glowing soft, pale blue under his shirt and creating shadows on the god’s face.
//
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