Sleeping is Giving In / The Avengers
Title: Sleeping is Giving In
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Avengers
Prompt: Requested by acoffeeshop, who asked for Loki wakes up beside Steve, who is in the midst of a nightmare. at the request page. (Of course, as is custom, this story took a life of its own. 0__0)
Summary: Not even Steve can love someone indefinitely without being loved in return. (Title from Arcade Fire’s Rebellion (Lies).)
Loki is not one to wake leisurely.
Hedonistic tendencies (such as dallying in bed, loitering after breakfast, or sleeping late on holidays) are frowned upon in Asgard, where soldiers cannot afford to indulge in sloth. Odin expects his army to be alert by morning and to stay alert no matter the late hour, and Loki has always believed that this deeply-ingrained diligence would serve him well throughout life.
Modern Midgard proves him wrong. Here, there are no invading hordes to track or aggressive realms to mobilize against, and the fact Loki and Thor’s sleep habits are built around these now-inconsequential factors is frustrating.
In the two years since coming to Earth, Loki has relaxed enough to sleep through the night under two conditions: the first is that no one disturbs him (a "disturbance" ranges from an explosion in Tony’s workshop to Thor bumbling down the hallway like a graceless animal-Loki has been trained to hear these small things, and they wake him like a gunshot); the second is that he must be gone from Steve’s room by dawn. Most nights, these conditions are easily met. Tony has learned to work on his volatile projects in the daytime, and Thor has learned to keep away from Steve’s room once the lights are out.
And yet, this morning, something brings Loki back to consciousness with a sudden and ferocious yank.
His eyes fly open.
Loki’s first inclination is to simply turn over and go back to sleep, regardless of what dared to make a sound. Six other people live here, and it is inevitable that they might talk too loudly, or drop dishes in the kitchen, or make some form of racket-but a lifetime of Odin’s teachings deems such flippancy unacceptable. Loki resigns himself to wakefulness until he is satisfied that there is no threat. He removes his arms from Steve’s waist, untangles their legs, and moves farther away, the mattress spread between them like Pangaea. He sits up and scans the room: the dim city lights filter from beneath the curtains and highlight Steve’s dresser, the piles of clothes they left scattered about, the half-finished canvas leaning against the far wall. Loki listens for noisy traffic; for Steve’s cell phone; for JARVIS, but all is still and quiet, and that unnerves him.
Beside him, Steve makes a sound that Loki assumes is sleepy protest. He always knows when Loki has moved away-often in preparation to leave-and most mornings he tries to convince Loki to stay, offering coffee, or breakfast, or another romp, though that particular bid is invariably followed with a blush high on his cheeks. Loki declines each time, first because he had no interest in forming a permanent attachment with the Captain, and then because it was habit. Now it is merely a game that Loki detests losing.
Steve makes another sound, but this one is depressingly familiar: the rattle of breath caught in his chest, the quarter-formed words, the flutter of his eyelids that show only the whites.
The dream has returned, then.
It never fails to arrive quietly, like a thief creeping through the house of strangers, a repeating nightmare that plagues Steve once every few weeks, often enough that Loki understands what it is, but not so often that it encumbers Steve’s sleep with any regularity. The bigger question is whether Loki should wake Steve or let him shoulder through the dream on his own. He has been careful to draw a line between himself and Steve’s issues-these nightmares are not Loki’s concern and he has no duty to help Steve carry the burden-but waking Steve results in a better rest for them both. It is a purely selfish decision.
“Steve,” he says, reaching over to touch the man’s shoulder. He moves closer and sees Steve’s face is wet, his fingers curled into fists: he is thoroughly lost in the memories of the war, from the life he lived before this, before Loki ever knew him. With a grunt, Loki grabs Steve’s wrists (if he doesn’t, Steve will unconsciously strike out-it has happened before) and snaps, with his every bit of princely authority, “Steve,” and Steve’s red-rimmed eyes open at last. For a moment he stares up at Loki as though he doesn’t recognize him, caught between the dream’s violence and the reality of the bed, the quiet night, the absence of bombs and foxholes.
Steve takes a shuddering breath. He breathes, and Loki breathes, and they are quiet.
Loki unthinkingly brushes his thumbs against the inside of Steve’s wrists. When he first became Steve’s lover, such gestures were an effort, or an afterthought-now they are second-nature, a learned behavior that Loki fears has made him soft.
“Steve,” Loki says again, more gently, and leaves it at that. You were dreaming. You were living in the past.
Wake up.
Steve’s body, tense with fear and anxiety, relaxes muscle by muscle. He returns Loki’s stare with a somewhat dazed one of his own, before exhaling. A sheen of sweat highlights his forehead; his hair, properly tamed in the daytime hours, is in a mad disarray that inspires commentary on the mornings Steve doesn’t think to brush it before going downstairs.
Steve’s throat bobs when he croaks, “Sorry.”
He lessens his grip on Steve’s wrists, trailing his left hand to Steve’s chest, where his overflowing heart hammers at an ungodly speed. The other combs through Steve’s sweaty hair with his fingers. It is not a gesture Loki usually employs, too affectionate and revealing for his tastes, but the darkness helps erase some of the intimacy. He can shrug it off later, if Steve chooses to address it in the daylight hours.
“Sorry,” Steve repeats. He runs his hands along the sides of Loki’s torso in a characteristically non-sexual motion, as though he is trying to permanently anchor their bodies together. Loki immediately disregards the thought, as Steve knows perfectly well Loki’s stance on the matter: being one-half of a dedicated relationship is a treacherous path Loki refuses to travel, going so far as to leave whenever Steve brings up the subject. Though Steve himself would not be an undesirable companion, it would also indenture Loki into the Avengers’ servitude, and wisdom dictates that Loki serves no one but himself.
To speak plainly, the partnership Steve desires directly conflicts with the freedom Loki is afraid to lose.
“Think nothing of it,” Loki answers. He moves towards his side of the bed, surprised that Steve doesn’t pull him back. The Captain has a habit of keeping them as close to one another as possible, especially in situations such as these.
Instead, Steve swings his legs off the bed and disappears into the bathroom. Loki can hear the sink faucet run, where Steve is washing his face of sweat and tears, and Loki thinks now might be the best time to go. Steve is obviously suffering no ill-effects from the dream, and it would be a graceful exit with no undue conversation. Loki smooths out the comforter and, after a second of consideration, rejects the idea. He’ll wait until Steve is asleep again; to leave now would be rude, and it’s not as though Loki isn’t legitimately concerned. Just because he and Steve aren’t together in an official capacity doesn’t mean Loki can’t act as nurse on occasion; besides, he has lost count of all the times Steve has stayed with him, through illness and injuries, never once complaining of the obligation.
When Steve steps out again, his drawn expression morphs into one of surprise. He and Loki stare at one another from their vantage points in an oddly charged silence.
“Cat have your tongue?” Loki teases, if only to break the contest. Steve shakes his head and smiles.
“No, I’m just-I mean, usually you take this time to... go? Wherever it is you disappear to,” he answers, strangely flustered. “You can leave now, if you want. I’m fine. I’ll probably be back to sleep in no time.”
Loki runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth while parsing through Steve’s clunky dialogue, but can find no hidden request to stay. He is giving Loki free permission to leave. In fact, it’s quite clear he expected Loki to be gone already.
“Would you prefer I go?” Loki carelessly asks, even as he tries to remember when their routine had changed. Perhaps Steve is in the mood for solitude. Loki can’t blame him for that.
“What? No, of course not! I’d love-I mean, I’d like it. If you stayed.”
Steve’s words seem to be tying themselves in knots. Out of mercy, Loki pats Steve’s pillow with his palm, indicating that he should return to bed.
“Come lie down before you fall down,” he says, pleased when Steve surrenders any notion of furthering the conversation. He slips tiredly between the sheets, facing Loki; Loki, in turn, lays down to face Steve. Their features are nearly lost in the darkness, but there’s just enough light that Loki can make out Steve’s eyes and the slope of his nose.
“Perhaps,” Loki says, after a moment, “you should share the dream’s specifics. It might help.”
“No,” Steve unhesitatingly replies. “I’d really rather forget it, if it’s all the same to you.”
Loki has no doubt he could drag out the details another time, when Steve is better prepared to discuss the war. He decides, tactfully, to save that topic for later and veer the subject in another direction.
“Then tell me something else,” Loki whispers. He traces the shell of Steve’s ear with his fingers, swipes his bottom lip with his thumb. He normally avoids this sort of indulgence, but Loki is not a complete monster: two years has inspired a strong fondness for Steve, and he knows perfectly well that Steve craves tenderness more than sex. Who is he to deny it at a time like this? “Tell me about America when you were young. Was it not more ideal than today?”
Steve laughs tiredly and reaches up to cover Loki’s hand with his own. Loki swallows hard and thanks his lucky stars that Steve’s voice obscures the sound.
“Some of it was more ideal,” he agrees. “The music was better, and so was the way people dressed. Back then, musicians got on the radio if they could sing well, or really play an instrument. Now computers fix your voice, and people go out in their pajamas, or let their pants fall off when they’re walking. Some of the girls don’t seem to wear anything. It’s embarrassing.”
Steve runs his thumb over Loki’s knuckles.
“People grew gardens back then, and mended their own clothes. Today we just... buy new stuff, even if we can make or repair it ourselves. We’re not as industrious as we were.”
“You dislike this century.”
Steve considers the statement.
“I know I complain about it, but the twenty-first century has some good things, too. People are more accepting. During the war, Pepper would never get to be CEO of a company, and Fury would never be head of Shield. And you and me, we wouldn’t have stood a chance, socially speaking. I could kiss you in the middle of Central Park tomorrow and no one’d care.”
“I might,” Loki dryly points out, and Steve laughs, but there’s something missing from it. He’s sad. He’s sad from the dreams, and from living in a century that does not belong to him, and from having a lover who refuses even the smallest public display. It’s quite possible, if their roles were reversed, that Loki would be sad as well.
“Tell me about where you grew up,” Steve says, even as he re-winds their legs together and, upon feeling no resistance from Loki, precedes to tangle their bodies in a knot. Loki’s lips thin into a pinched line. He does not care to speak of Asgard, but it is where he grew up, and most of his memories, for better or worse, are connected to Odin and Frigga. In any case, it is only fair. Loki was the one to bring up the past, and he can’t expect Steve to answer his questions without having a few of his own.
“Imagine,” Loki finally whispers, “a great waterfall, and a sprawling gold city as its crown,” and he goes on until Steve is breathing in a perfect rhythm. Loki’s story trails off; he listens to the sounds of faraway traffic and the swisha-swisha-swisha of the ceiling fan. He closes his eyes and tries to join Steve in sleep, but it slips away, and his first inclination is to blame this insomnia on Odin’s strict rules (no dallying, no loitering, no sleeping late, there is always one more horde over the mountain).
But the blame doesn’t fit. The things that kept him awake in Asgard are not the same things that keep him awake now. He stares towards the window, where morning light will soon unveil every corner of the room (the dresser, the clothes, the canvas covered in paint). Loki needs to leave; to do otherwise would mean declaring himself to Steve.
Would it be so distasteful to bind himself to Steve, and Steve to Loki? Aside from the freedom of making choices, what would Loki really lose? He knows Steve has been monogamous since they started this liaison, and Loki... he has not warmed another’s bed, either. He has little desire for anyone else; plus, Steve’s reaction to Loki’s theoretic infidelity-which Loki would be allowed, as he and Steve have made no promises-would be decidedly unpleasant. Steve is not the sort to shut himself away and cry into a hanky, but Loki has no doubt he would be hurt and disappointed, and it would be nigh impossible to return to his good graces. Steve values truth above all else; he would prefer Loki break things off openly rather than shroud his activities in secrecy.
The clock hits 3:30, then 4:00, then 4:30. Somewhere between there Steve rolls over, stealing half the blankets, which is just as well: Loki does not particularly enjoy warmth. In fact, it’s probably an indication that Loki should take his leave. Steve’s own military training refuses to let him sleep past 6:00.
Loki sits up again, but this time Steve is not awake to share stories of their childhoods. He wonders, briefly, what he will do with his day. Would it be such a waste to break his own rule and spend the morning with Steve? The fact Steve had expected Loki to disappear puts Loki on edge. Steve is not the type to give up-but he is also not the type to play dumb. Two years is long enough to realize one’s partner is never going to commit, and even good men like Steve know when to call the game. If Loki did not come back tonight, or this week, or this month, would Steve be surprised? Is Loki, in his zeal to keep Steve at arm’s length, losing him regardless?
Loki’s spiraling paranoia is given a reprieve when he notices Steve’s SHIELD communicator, diligently situated by the digital clock, has lit up with an incoming message. Loki manages to reach over and grab the device before its shrill brrring can wake Steve, and he creeps out of the room and into the hallway, communicator pressed to his chest as he closes the door. Agent Romanoff’s name is scrolling across the minuscule screen.
“What?” he snaps.
“We need Cap,” she announces, completely unfazed by Loki’s curt and unexpected greeting. If there’s anything Loki admires about the team, it’s their adaptability: they accepted Loki’s presence in the mansion, but only after much compliant and rule-making-rules that Loki follows for Steve’s sake, not his own. “There’s a situation in Detroit. Lava monster.”
Despite his natural inclination towards chaos and disorder, not even Loki expects the term lava monster to enter the conversation.
“Tony and Thor are already in Michigan. Based on Tony’s video feed, I agree with his assessment. Your brother believes the creature found a tear and traveled from Hel to Earth,” she impatiently explains. “Now tell Steve to suit up before I do it myself.”
Loki is struck, suddenly, with a strange sense of indecision. His fingers wrap around the doorknob as though to open it, march into the bedroom, and inform Steve of the team’s new plight. And why shouldn’t he? This is an Avenger matter, this is Thor’s concern, this is Steve’s burden, and Loki has no duty to help Steve carry it. It wouldn’t do to assist them now and then have the team expect further aid in the future.
He twists the knob and peers inside the room. His gaze traces the outline of Steve’s shoulders, the dip of his waist, the ease with which his chest rises and falls. Steve is loaded with endless responsibilities and worries, so duty-bound to team and country that his body is constantly wound tight-unlike now. And if indeed a Hel creature is terrorizing Detroit, what hope does Steve have of conquering it? It would be simpler if Loki and Thor took care of things, just this once, and save the others from a multitude of burns.
Just this once. And afterwards, no more.
“I’ll see you in Detroit,” Loki tells Natasha, “and if you alert Steve to this, I will personally ensure you regret it,” and then he slides the communicator into a pocket of his leather overcoat. He spares Steve one last look, noting the punch-purple circles beneath his eyes, and feels his uncertainties disentangle in his head. He is doing a good thing. Not for the team, or even himself, but for Steve, and he is surprised by how that is enough.
An hour, and the creature is well and truly put down; an hour, and Thor keeps casting Loki a perplexed gaze, never asking why are you here, why now, after so long?; an hour, and Loki returns to Steve’s room, where the man is just waking, blearily fishing for his communicator on the bedside table, none the wiser to what Loki and Thor have just faced. Loki takes Steve’s hand and places the communicator in his grasp, gently folding Steve’s fingers around it.
Steve stares up at him from the bed.
“You look terrible,” Steve finally says, his voice raspy from sleep. “Why is your coat singed? Jesus, your hands are burned,” and it’s that direct, focused concern the makes Loki feel foolish for believing Steve would consciously steal his freedom. Steve does not, and has never, wanted to control him or take away his choices.
“There was a situation in Detroit. It’s been neutralized.”
“We were called to fight?” Steve demands, abruptly awake as he scrambles out of bed. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“You were sleeping.”
“Are you kidding? Is everyone okay? Are you okay?”
“The others are fine. This is not the first time Thor and I have faced such a creature,” Loki tells him, a remark that leaves Steve all but yanking out his hair: he is used to being the leader, and is bowled over by the thought that he slept through an attack on Motor City, his friends tossing themselves in harm’s way while he slumbered on. “As for myself, I am perfectly all right. The burns are already healing.”
He holds up his palms as proof. Indeed, the skin is morphing from black to peach, a pain far removed from him. Steve examines them for a moment before shaking his head.
“I guess raiding the First Aid kit would be pointless.”
“It would,” Loki agrees, and waits for Steve to add an invitation for coffee, or breakfast, or bandages (regardless of the fact Loki doesn’t need them). The silence stretches on for seconds, first in single digits and then in the tens, the twenties. It is a vague comfort that Steve looks equally unsure as to what to say. Somewhere on the tip of Steve’s tongue is let me make you some coffee, let’s spend the morning together, let’s be partners for real, but Steve’s brain has recognized Loki’s unending pattern of no, no, no. At some point, when Loki wasn’t paying attention, Steve has learned not to ask.
The offer is not coming. Loki must make it himself. A lifetime in Asgard, a lifetime of battles, and somehow Loki is more frightened of Steve’s rebuff than he ever was of an invading horde.
“But breakfast,” he finally goes on, “would not be amiss.” He glances towards Steve. “If you would care for me to join you.”
Anyone else would say no. No, I’m over it. No, you took too long. No, you missed your chance.
But Steve is not anyone.
Steve smiles, and his body loosens, like a puppet at rest. He reaches out and pulls Loki towards him, pressing his lips against Loki’s forehead. Loki closes his eyes.
Morning light pools on the floor, and they are standing in the middle of it.
FIN.
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Avengers
Prompt: Requested by acoffeeshop, who asked for Loki wakes up beside Steve, who is in the midst of a nightmare. at the request page. (Of course, as is custom, this story took a life of its own. 0__0)
Summary: Not even Steve can love someone indefinitely without being loved in return. (Title from Arcade Fire’s Rebellion (Lies).)
Loki is not one to wake leisurely.
Hedonistic tendencies (such as dallying in bed, loitering after breakfast, or sleeping late on holidays) are frowned upon in Asgard, where soldiers cannot afford to indulge in sloth. Odin expects his army to be alert by morning and to stay alert no matter the late hour, and Loki has always believed that this deeply-ingrained diligence would serve him well throughout life.
Modern Midgard proves him wrong. Here, there are no invading hordes to track or aggressive realms to mobilize against, and the fact Loki and Thor’s sleep habits are built around these now-inconsequential factors is frustrating.
In the two years since coming to Earth, Loki has relaxed enough to sleep through the night under two conditions: the first is that no one disturbs him (a "disturbance" ranges from an explosion in Tony’s workshop to Thor bumbling down the hallway like a graceless animal-Loki has been trained to hear these small things, and they wake him like a gunshot); the second is that he must be gone from Steve’s room by dawn. Most nights, these conditions are easily met. Tony has learned to work on his volatile projects in the daytime, and Thor has learned to keep away from Steve’s room once the lights are out.
And yet, this morning, something brings Loki back to consciousness with a sudden and ferocious yank.
His eyes fly open.
Loki’s first inclination is to simply turn over and go back to sleep, regardless of what dared to make a sound. Six other people live here, and it is inevitable that they might talk too loudly, or drop dishes in the kitchen, or make some form of racket-but a lifetime of Odin’s teachings deems such flippancy unacceptable. Loki resigns himself to wakefulness until he is satisfied that there is no threat. He removes his arms from Steve’s waist, untangles their legs, and moves farther away, the mattress spread between them like Pangaea. He sits up and scans the room: the dim city lights filter from beneath the curtains and highlight Steve’s dresser, the piles of clothes they left scattered about, the half-finished canvas leaning against the far wall. Loki listens for noisy traffic; for Steve’s cell phone; for JARVIS, but all is still and quiet, and that unnerves him.
Beside him, Steve makes a sound that Loki assumes is sleepy protest. He always knows when Loki has moved away-often in preparation to leave-and most mornings he tries to convince Loki to stay, offering coffee, or breakfast, or another romp, though that particular bid is invariably followed with a blush high on his cheeks. Loki declines each time, first because he had no interest in forming a permanent attachment with the Captain, and then because it was habit. Now it is merely a game that Loki detests losing.
Steve makes another sound, but this one is depressingly familiar: the rattle of breath caught in his chest, the quarter-formed words, the flutter of his eyelids that show only the whites.
The dream has returned, then.
It never fails to arrive quietly, like a thief creeping through the house of strangers, a repeating nightmare that plagues Steve once every few weeks, often enough that Loki understands what it is, but not so often that it encumbers Steve’s sleep with any regularity. The bigger question is whether Loki should wake Steve or let him shoulder through the dream on his own. He has been careful to draw a line between himself and Steve’s issues-these nightmares are not Loki’s concern and he has no duty to help Steve carry the burden-but waking Steve results in a better rest for them both. It is a purely selfish decision.
“Steve,” he says, reaching over to touch the man’s shoulder. He moves closer and sees Steve’s face is wet, his fingers curled into fists: he is thoroughly lost in the memories of the war, from the life he lived before this, before Loki ever knew him. With a grunt, Loki grabs Steve’s wrists (if he doesn’t, Steve will unconsciously strike out-it has happened before) and snaps, with his every bit of princely authority, “Steve,” and Steve’s red-rimmed eyes open at last. For a moment he stares up at Loki as though he doesn’t recognize him, caught between the dream’s violence and the reality of the bed, the quiet night, the absence of bombs and foxholes.
Steve takes a shuddering breath. He breathes, and Loki breathes, and they are quiet.
Loki unthinkingly brushes his thumbs against the inside of Steve’s wrists. When he first became Steve’s lover, such gestures were an effort, or an afterthought-now they are second-nature, a learned behavior that Loki fears has made him soft.
“Steve,” Loki says again, more gently, and leaves it at that. You were dreaming. You were living in the past.
Wake up.
Steve’s body, tense with fear and anxiety, relaxes muscle by muscle. He returns Loki’s stare with a somewhat dazed one of his own, before exhaling. A sheen of sweat highlights his forehead; his hair, properly tamed in the daytime hours, is in a mad disarray that inspires commentary on the mornings Steve doesn’t think to brush it before going downstairs.
Steve’s throat bobs when he croaks, “Sorry.”
He lessens his grip on Steve’s wrists, trailing his left hand to Steve’s chest, where his overflowing heart hammers at an ungodly speed. The other combs through Steve’s sweaty hair with his fingers. It is not a gesture Loki usually employs, too affectionate and revealing for his tastes, but the darkness helps erase some of the intimacy. He can shrug it off later, if Steve chooses to address it in the daylight hours.
“Sorry,” Steve repeats. He runs his hands along the sides of Loki’s torso in a characteristically non-sexual motion, as though he is trying to permanently anchor their bodies together. Loki immediately disregards the thought, as Steve knows perfectly well Loki’s stance on the matter: being one-half of a dedicated relationship is a treacherous path Loki refuses to travel, going so far as to leave whenever Steve brings up the subject. Though Steve himself would not be an undesirable companion, it would also indenture Loki into the Avengers’ servitude, and wisdom dictates that Loki serves no one but himself.
To speak plainly, the partnership Steve desires directly conflicts with the freedom Loki is afraid to lose.
“Think nothing of it,” Loki answers. He moves towards his side of the bed, surprised that Steve doesn’t pull him back. The Captain has a habit of keeping them as close to one another as possible, especially in situations such as these.
Instead, Steve swings his legs off the bed and disappears into the bathroom. Loki can hear the sink faucet run, where Steve is washing his face of sweat and tears, and Loki thinks now might be the best time to go. Steve is obviously suffering no ill-effects from the dream, and it would be a graceful exit with no undue conversation. Loki smooths out the comforter and, after a second of consideration, rejects the idea. He’ll wait until Steve is asleep again; to leave now would be rude, and it’s not as though Loki isn’t legitimately concerned. Just because he and Steve aren’t together in an official capacity doesn’t mean Loki can’t act as nurse on occasion; besides, he has lost count of all the times Steve has stayed with him, through illness and injuries, never once complaining of the obligation.
When Steve steps out again, his drawn expression morphs into one of surprise. He and Loki stare at one another from their vantage points in an oddly charged silence.
“Cat have your tongue?” Loki teases, if only to break the contest. Steve shakes his head and smiles.
“No, I’m just-I mean, usually you take this time to... go? Wherever it is you disappear to,” he answers, strangely flustered. “You can leave now, if you want. I’m fine. I’ll probably be back to sleep in no time.”
Loki runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth while parsing through Steve’s clunky dialogue, but can find no hidden request to stay. He is giving Loki free permission to leave. In fact, it’s quite clear he expected Loki to be gone already.
“Would you prefer I go?” Loki carelessly asks, even as he tries to remember when their routine had changed. Perhaps Steve is in the mood for solitude. Loki can’t blame him for that.
“What? No, of course not! I’d love-I mean, I’d like it. If you stayed.”
Steve’s words seem to be tying themselves in knots. Out of mercy, Loki pats Steve’s pillow with his palm, indicating that he should return to bed.
“Come lie down before you fall down,” he says, pleased when Steve surrenders any notion of furthering the conversation. He slips tiredly between the sheets, facing Loki; Loki, in turn, lays down to face Steve. Their features are nearly lost in the darkness, but there’s just enough light that Loki can make out Steve’s eyes and the slope of his nose.
“Perhaps,” Loki says, after a moment, “you should share the dream’s specifics. It might help.”
“No,” Steve unhesitatingly replies. “I’d really rather forget it, if it’s all the same to you.”
Loki has no doubt he could drag out the details another time, when Steve is better prepared to discuss the war. He decides, tactfully, to save that topic for later and veer the subject in another direction.
“Then tell me something else,” Loki whispers. He traces the shell of Steve’s ear with his fingers, swipes his bottom lip with his thumb. He normally avoids this sort of indulgence, but Loki is not a complete monster: two years has inspired a strong fondness for Steve, and he knows perfectly well that Steve craves tenderness more than sex. Who is he to deny it at a time like this? “Tell me about America when you were young. Was it not more ideal than today?”
Steve laughs tiredly and reaches up to cover Loki’s hand with his own. Loki swallows hard and thanks his lucky stars that Steve’s voice obscures the sound.
“Some of it was more ideal,” he agrees. “The music was better, and so was the way people dressed. Back then, musicians got on the radio if they could sing well, or really play an instrument. Now computers fix your voice, and people go out in their pajamas, or let their pants fall off when they’re walking. Some of the girls don’t seem to wear anything. It’s embarrassing.”
Steve runs his thumb over Loki’s knuckles.
“People grew gardens back then, and mended their own clothes. Today we just... buy new stuff, even if we can make or repair it ourselves. We’re not as industrious as we were.”
“You dislike this century.”
Steve considers the statement.
“I know I complain about it, but the twenty-first century has some good things, too. People are more accepting. During the war, Pepper would never get to be CEO of a company, and Fury would never be head of Shield. And you and me, we wouldn’t have stood a chance, socially speaking. I could kiss you in the middle of Central Park tomorrow and no one’d care.”
“I might,” Loki dryly points out, and Steve laughs, but there’s something missing from it. He’s sad. He’s sad from the dreams, and from living in a century that does not belong to him, and from having a lover who refuses even the smallest public display. It’s quite possible, if their roles were reversed, that Loki would be sad as well.
“Tell me about where you grew up,” Steve says, even as he re-winds their legs together and, upon feeling no resistance from Loki, precedes to tangle their bodies in a knot. Loki’s lips thin into a pinched line. He does not care to speak of Asgard, but it is where he grew up, and most of his memories, for better or worse, are connected to Odin and Frigga. In any case, it is only fair. Loki was the one to bring up the past, and he can’t expect Steve to answer his questions without having a few of his own.
“Imagine,” Loki finally whispers, “a great waterfall, and a sprawling gold city as its crown,” and he goes on until Steve is breathing in a perfect rhythm. Loki’s story trails off; he listens to the sounds of faraway traffic and the swisha-swisha-swisha of the ceiling fan. He closes his eyes and tries to join Steve in sleep, but it slips away, and his first inclination is to blame this insomnia on Odin’s strict rules (no dallying, no loitering, no sleeping late, there is always one more horde over the mountain).
But the blame doesn’t fit. The things that kept him awake in Asgard are not the same things that keep him awake now. He stares towards the window, where morning light will soon unveil every corner of the room (the dresser, the clothes, the canvas covered in paint). Loki needs to leave; to do otherwise would mean declaring himself to Steve.
Would it be so distasteful to bind himself to Steve, and Steve to Loki? Aside from the freedom of making choices, what would Loki really lose? He knows Steve has been monogamous since they started this liaison, and Loki... he has not warmed another’s bed, either. He has little desire for anyone else; plus, Steve’s reaction to Loki’s theoretic infidelity-which Loki would be allowed, as he and Steve have made no promises-would be decidedly unpleasant. Steve is not the sort to shut himself away and cry into a hanky, but Loki has no doubt he would be hurt and disappointed, and it would be nigh impossible to return to his good graces. Steve values truth above all else; he would prefer Loki break things off openly rather than shroud his activities in secrecy.
The clock hits 3:30, then 4:00, then 4:30. Somewhere between there Steve rolls over, stealing half the blankets, which is just as well: Loki does not particularly enjoy warmth. In fact, it’s probably an indication that Loki should take his leave. Steve’s own military training refuses to let him sleep past 6:00.
Loki sits up again, but this time Steve is not awake to share stories of their childhoods. He wonders, briefly, what he will do with his day. Would it be such a waste to break his own rule and spend the morning with Steve? The fact Steve had expected Loki to disappear puts Loki on edge. Steve is not the type to give up-but he is also not the type to play dumb. Two years is long enough to realize one’s partner is never going to commit, and even good men like Steve know when to call the game. If Loki did not come back tonight, or this week, or this month, would Steve be surprised? Is Loki, in his zeal to keep Steve at arm’s length, losing him regardless?
Loki’s spiraling paranoia is given a reprieve when he notices Steve’s SHIELD communicator, diligently situated by the digital clock, has lit up with an incoming message. Loki manages to reach over and grab the device before its shrill brrring can wake Steve, and he creeps out of the room and into the hallway, communicator pressed to his chest as he closes the door. Agent Romanoff’s name is scrolling across the minuscule screen.
“What?” he snaps.
“We need Cap,” she announces, completely unfazed by Loki’s curt and unexpected greeting. If there’s anything Loki admires about the team, it’s their adaptability: they accepted Loki’s presence in the mansion, but only after much compliant and rule-making-rules that Loki follows for Steve’s sake, not his own. “There’s a situation in Detroit. Lava monster.”
Despite his natural inclination towards chaos and disorder, not even Loki expects the term lava monster to enter the conversation.
“Tony and Thor are already in Michigan. Based on Tony’s video feed, I agree with his assessment. Your brother believes the creature found a tear and traveled from Hel to Earth,” she impatiently explains. “Now tell Steve to suit up before I do it myself.”
Loki is struck, suddenly, with a strange sense of indecision. His fingers wrap around the doorknob as though to open it, march into the bedroom, and inform Steve of the team’s new plight. And why shouldn’t he? This is an Avenger matter, this is Thor’s concern, this is Steve’s burden, and Loki has no duty to help Steve carry it. It wouldn’t do to assist them now and then have the team expect further aid in the future.
He twists the knob and peers inside the room. His gaze traces the outline of Steve’s shoulders, the dip of his waist, the ease with which his chest rises and falls. Steve is loaded with endless responsibilities and worries, so duty-bound to team and country that his body is constantly wound tight-unlike now. And if indeed a Hel creature is terrorizing Detroit, what hope does Steve have of conquering it? It would be simpler if Loki and Thor took care of things, just this once, and save the others from a multitude of burns.
Just this once. And afterwards, no more.
“I’ll see you in Detroit,” Loki tells Natasha, “and if you alert Steve to this, I will personally ensure you regret it,” and then he slides the communicator into a pocket of his leather overcoat. He spares Steve one last look, noting the punch-purple circles beneath his eyes, and feels his uncertainties disentangle in his head. He is doing a good thing. Not for the team, or even himself, but for Steve, and he is surprised by how that is enough.
An hour, and the creature is well and truly put down; an hour, and Thor keeps casting Loki a perplexed gaze, never asking why are you here, why now, after so long?; an hour, and Loki returns to Steve’s room, where the man is just waking, blearily fishing for his communicator on the bedside table, none the wiser to what Loki and Thor have just faced. Loki takes Steve’s hand and places the communicator in his grasp, gently folding Steve’s fingers around it.
Steve stares up at him from the bed.
“You look terrible,” Steve finally says, his voice raspy from sleep. “Why is your coat singed? Jesus, your hands are burned,” and it’s that direct, focused concern the makes Loki feel foolish for believing Steve would consciously steal his freedom. Steve does not, and has never, wanted to control him or take away his choices.
“There was a situation in Detroit. It’s been neutralized.”
“We were called to fight?” Steve demands, abruptly awake as he scrambles out of bed. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“You were sleeping.”
“Are you kidding? Is everyone okay? Are you okay?”
“The others are fine. This is not the first time Thor and I have faced such a creature,” Loki tells him, a remark that leaves Steve all but yanking out his hair: he is used to being the leader, and is bowled over by the thought that he slept through an attack on Motor City, his friends tossing themselves in harm’s way while he slumbered on. “As for myself, I am perfectly all right. The burns are already healing.”
He holds up his palms as proof. Indeed, the skin is morphing from black to peach, a pain far removed from him. Steve examines them for a moment before shaking his head.
“I guess raiding the First Aid kit would be pointless.”
“It would,” Loki agrees, and waits for Steve to add an invitation for coffee, or breakfast, or bandages (regardless of the fact Loki doesn’t need them). The silence stretches on for seconds, first in single digits and then in the tens, the twenties. It is a vague comfort that Steve looks equally unsure as to what to say. Somewhere on the tip of Steve’s tongue is let me make you some coffee, let’s spend the morning together, let’s be partners for real, but Steve’s brain has recognized Loki’s unending pattern of no, no, no. At some point, when Loki wasn’t paying attention, Steve has learned not to ask.
The offer is not coming. Loki must make it himself. A lifetime in Asgard, a lifetime of battles, and somehow Loki is more frightened of Steve’s rebuff than he ever was of an invading horde.
“But breakfast,” he finally goes on, “would not be amiss.” He glances towards Steve. “If you would care for me to join you.”
Anyone else would say no. No, I’m over it. No, you took too long. No, you missed your chance.
But Steve is not anyone.
Steve smiles, and his body loosens, like a puppet at rest. He reaches out and pulls Loki towards him, pressing his lips against Loki’s forehead. Loki closes his eyes.
Morning light pools on the floor, and they are standing in the middle of it.
FIN.