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(Art by last-winter-rose)
There was a time when gods and men shared a bond as strong as the ageless branches of Yggdrasil itself.
Back then, gods would descend to Midgard to mingle with its inhabitants and help them and teach them––and even love them every now and again. Back then, men would build sanctuaries in return for the gods’ generosity and offered them tributes and prayed for them and worshipped them through their words and actions and thoughts.
Men have all but forgotten by now; gods have not.
They still remember that time fondly, for those memories are all they have been left with, since men have chosen new deities to call upon––money and power and technology.
On occasion, however, ancient remnants of the gods’ magic burn within a human child, forging the same bond of the old stories between Asgard and Midgard.
Sometimes the mortal never knows; they live and they die and never exploit their potential.
Some other times, though, something triggers the power within them and it catches the gods’ attention.
It has been centuries since the last Midgardian born with his seidhr burning underneath their skin, yet Loki recognizes the pull immediately, even locked up and forgotten in the dungeons of Asgard as he is.
It is as familiar as a mother’s kiss, as sweet as one of Idunn’s apples, and so much more effective.
It reminds him of how powerful the gods used to be, when they received men’s spiritual energy on a daily basis.
He shuts the book balanced on his thighs, throws his head back against the wall of his cell, closes his eyes and bathes in that delicious sensation.
It feels like coming to life once again, like a baptism.
Wildfire. The word––his name, his nature, his everything––pours into his ear like ambrosia and, when he opens his eyes again, they are blazing green like too long ago.
“Where are you?” he murmurs absentmindedly, a hand reaching out as if he could traverse the dimensions and touch the Midgardian, his Midgardian. He clenches his fingers into a fist and tries to teleport, but the spell the All-Father has put on the cell to hold him resists, although the power of Wildfire should allow him to break the enchantment.
Something is wrong, Loki muses to himself, frowning, and only manages to project his conscience on Midgard despite his efforts. It is already much more than he would have been capable of if the child hadn’t called on him, yet not even close to what he would achieve if his magic within the mortal responded as it should.
By the time he blinks once, his surroundings have already changed from his luxurious prison to a dark sky, bright flames and black ashes.
There is metal clinking, people shouting and weapons blasting, the air reeks of burnt skin and despair and a woman lies on her side on the ground, an arm raised to shield her face, her knees bent against her stomach. The rags that were once her clothes are consumed by the fire her skin emanates and red locks of hair whip across her shoulders and back, coiling and uncoiling in the wind like snakes. A man towers over her, surrounded by the same fire, and looks about to strike her.
They are so beautiful, yet so wrong .
“Oh, I think you will not harm her,” Loki speaks up, drawing both of the mortals’ attention to himself. His tone is light, almost friendly, in contrast with the danger gleaming in his gaze.
The man casts a look at him that is at the same time amused and wary, as though he is certain no men can touch him. It is probably true––the Liesmith can feel the intensity of his aura even from that distance; the mortal made an impressive use of his seidhr , even though it doesn’t belong to him––but the god is no man.
He is Wildfire incarnate, the very same fire that grants the two their new powers, and he doesn’t like thieves.
“Well, well,” the man laughs, loud and smug and mad, “who are you now? Do you think you can stop me?”
Loki doesn’t laugh; he smirks and the mortal falls silent, his cocky smile withering into a grimace.
The woman is watching him, recognition written in the creases on her forehead and in the way she purses her lips, but the Liesmith has never met her before. She doesn’t move, so the god focuses on the other Midgardian––neither of them poses a threat to him, though he has to at least pretend he is taking them seriously.
“I think,” the god replies politely, “you should consider giving back what you’ve stolen.”
The furrow on the man’s face deepens and turns confused. “What the hell are you talking about?” he snaps, taking a tentative step forward, despite the uneasiness Loki’s grin elicits from him.
The Liesmith does the same, only he looks much more confident and covers the distance between them in a few long strides. The closer he gets to the source of his power, the more his fingers itch to take it back. Wildfire roars in his ears, it is wrong, wrong, wrong , and the god wants to know, demands to know, where are you, child mine?
“This is my fire,” he explains, patient––let it never be said that he didn’t teach to humans like a god is wont to do. “You, however, are not a child of mine. Neither of you is. As it is, you have no right to it.”
His sharp gaze dances between the two mortals, the man striving to replace with ire the fear that makes him shiver involuntarily, the woman observing him, calm and composed like a statue. Loki admires her pride and wonders why she isn’t the child, wonders if perhaps he is mistaken––but no, he isn’t, because there is no rune on her marking her as one of his own. Pity.
“Thus,” he continues, lifts his arm and spreads his fingers over the man’s chest, not touching him just yet, “you aren’t allowed to keep it.”
The Midgardian looks down at the hand ghosting over him, horrified, closes his own into fists and makes as if to get away from the Liesmith, but the god presses his palm against his heart and hisses in Old Norse between his teeth. “Come back to me,” he commands while his eyes change from deep green to fiery orange and Wildfire obliges, flashing towards him underneath the man’s skin.
The mortal grabs Loki’s wrist with both hands, but it is more an attempt to find support than to free himself. He is being emptied not only of magic, but of his vital energy, too, because Wildfire is powerful and generous, but it is also hungry and unforgiving.
If you steal from it, it steals you . You cannot escape; it will always find you, no matter how much time it might take. Contrary to popular belief, Wildfire knows to be patient.
In the end, the man falls bonelessly to the ground like a puppet without strings and the power previously inside him paints a bright arch in the black sky as it hunts for its rightful owner. The god follows it with his eyes until it is gone, a satisfied smile playing over his lips, and promises, I shall have you soon, child mine.
The woman is pale and her shoulders are shaking with terror and disgust, yet she hasn’t even tried to escape. Perhaps she is hurt, perhaps she is simply brave enough to stay and face his destiny; it does not matter to him, so long as she serves his purpose.
Loki folds his hands behind his back and saunters over to her lazily, kicking a small pebble on his way.
“In case you are wondering, I won’t kill you tonight,” he declares with a careless shrug. “Actually, I have need of you for the time being. You will search for the mortal this magic has claimed and you will see that they have it back. Do me a favor,” he adds, schooling his features into a reprimanding scowl, like a teacher warning a scoundrel. “Do not assume you can trick me, because I will be watching you more closely than you can imagine. Furthermore, you have seen it yourself. The power in you…” He shakes his head slowly, solemnly. “It doesn’t have mercy.”
She lets out a small, strangled chuckle, filled with bitterness and terror and helpless anger. “And how will I know I’ve found them?”
The Liesmith can feel she is about to break down––spasms wreak her lithe frame and tears stream down her cheeks, evaporating before they can reach her chin––and still she manages to answer to him after she has witnessed a murder by his hand. Pity.
“You will see this.” He draws it in the air with the flames and waits for her to memorize it before erasing it with a practiced flick of his wrist. “It is called Kaen . ‘Wildfire’ is the most accurate translation, even though it is impossible to define in your language. It is my rune and it marks my people.”
He bends down and pokes her forehead with the tip of his index finger. Her eyelids flutter shut and she holds her breath and clenches her teeth to swallow back a scream. The god laughs as though he has just pulled the funniest prank and backs away from her. “Remember that, will you, my dear?”
She opens her eyes, wide with fear and disbelief, and mutters something, probably a colorful expletive, but Loki has heard plenty over the millennia and will not waste his seidhr on that; he has to go back, before Odin notices his conscience missing––or worse, notices his child before the Liesmith himself.
There will be other occasions to make fun of Midgardians.
To his amusement, the woman passes out the instant before his incorporeal self drifts back into his body. As he closes his eyes, he sees her collapse on her side, the fire retreating inside her, her hair spilling like blood around her head, the flames, the real ones, not daring to touch her; when he opens them again, he sees the golden barrier of his cell in Asgard, the two guards standing right outside, their backs turned on him, their spears raised.
The Liesmith sits still, waiting for a reaction, but they show no clue of what has just transpired and he allows himself a small smile.
He stands up, crosses the room and stops in front of the small library Frigga provided to him. He looks over the volumes arranged in alphabetical order and brushes his fingertips along their spines, his smile slowly broadening into a grin. Only a few hours prior, they were his eternity; now, they are nothing but a pastime.
“Uncertain what to read first, my prince?” a guard calls from behind in a mocking tone. “Worry not, I am fairly sure you will have plenty of time to finish them all.”
The god doesn’t even grace him with a response and stifles the laugh that almost escapes his mouth to match those of the sentinels. To make a show of feeling humiliated, he closes his fist firmly, until his knuckles turn white, and emits a threatening sound, though he is careful not to turn lest they notice his pretense.
His feigned reaction leads to more laughter, but it soon dies out since he doesn’t say anything and doesn’t even deign to face them.
The first one who spoke to him teases once more, “Enjoy your reading. Perhaps you could give me some recommendations someday,” then, given the persisting lack of a response, they fall silent.
At last , Loki rolls his eyes, his annoyance, however, betrayed by the grin plastered on his face.
The time in the dungeons goes by slowly, but never has it felt so excruciating.
Each second is a new torment; impatience and hope and fear strangle his stomach in their deadly coils. He doesn’t sleep, only stares at the ceiling, and eats because they bring him food; the rest of the time he spends fantasizing about what he would do with such potential on his hands, whilst the Asgardians feast on nothing but old memories.
Wildfire chants sweetly in his ear, Loki, logi, ‘fire’ , and the Liesmith feels his bindings loosening more and more the closer the woman gets to his child.
She doesn’t do it willingly, not that the god expected it; she has the fire taken away from her through Midgardian technology, but even that results in the rune appearing in the god’s dreams, so he doesn’t stop her.
Eventually, the day comes when the fire finds Kaen.
Home , Wildfire thunders triumphantly.
Sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, eyes closed and hands resting on his knees as he meditates, Loki smirks. Mine.
He raises his arms, bends them at the elbows and flexes them sharply––he can almost hear the din of the shackles Odin cursed him with as they fall apart––then he extends them in front of himself as if to welcome someone. “Come now,” he breathes out.
He sneaks into one of the many passageways linking the dimensions together––passageways not even Heimdall is aware of; if Odin is, the Liesmith can’t tell––and lets the pull lead him until–– Oh, yes. Finally, my dear.
The first thing he lays his gaze upon is Kaen, a most magnificent sight to behold, carved into the child’s flesh with melted gold and sparks and ashes from the forges of Muspelheim itself. It shimmers gloriously and the god spots it whilst he is still travelling. He finds the right fracture in the wall of space and time, slips into it and lands in an all-too-familiar place.
He doesn’t pay attention to it immediately, however, for his whole world narrows down to the man standing in front of him, fascination and horror blending in an odd way on his features as though painted by the awkward hand of an unexperienced artist.
Struck by recognition, the god freezes, looking Anthony Stark over with wide eyes and lips pursed as if he can’t decide whether to smile or grimace.
In the end, he settles for cracking up laughing like he is mentally disturbed–– possibly ; ‘god of chaos’, remember?––which seems to confuse the mortal even more. Torn between attacking the Liesmith and he doesn’t know what else, Stark blankly stares at the god laughing so hard he almost doubles over.
Then Loki regains his composure, smooths down the creases on his clothes––a simple green V-neck shirt and a pair of black breeches; he doesn’t even have his slippers on, he took them off for additional comfort––and clears his voice like an actor getting ready to go on stage.
“Oh, Fates,” he calls out, wiping a tear away from the corner of his eye, “I am once more impressed by your cunning. Not only have you devised the greatest prank, you have also successfully played it on the prankster himself.” He bends his arm across his abdomen and makes a show of bowing far too deeply. “You have my admiration, I must say.”
Afterwards, he takes in every single detail about the Midgardian’s appearance with a hunger equal to that of a starving man before a table loaded with food.
The man is shirtless and, although his chest is intact, the absence of the glowing device must be like a gaping hole to those who can’t see the rune now in its place; his veins are a gleaming red underneath his skin, as though he has liquid fire running inside them instead of blood, and his blue eyes sometimes shine like there are sparkles lighting them up. He is just so beautiful the Liesmith can’t find it in himself to avert his gaze from him.
“Uhm, well…” Stark seems to have regained his ability to speak at last and scratches the nape of his neck, embarrassed by the intensity of the god’s gaze. He’s been undressed by many more eyes than he can count, but never has he been dissected . “Nice to see you, too, I guess? Given that I’m still alive, is it safe to assume that you’re not planning anything harmful?”
Kaen whispers to Loki everything he needs to know –– that the mortal’s tone is light because he feels protected within his own home and at the same time he tenses because he has already been thrown out a window once and isn’t dying for a second round.
The Liesmith offers him a pleasant smile and takes a step forward, causing him to take one back, much to the god’s delight.
“Oh dear, you are so much fun. Adorable ,” he croons softly and cocks his head to the side, inspecting him with something so creepily similar to affection that it has Tony wondering what he drank last night––which is especially worrisome since two seconds ago he was pretty sure he’d been sober for two months, thanks to Pepper, Rhodey and Rogers’ efforts combined to keep him away from alcohol.
“Did you,” the inventor instinctively looks around as if the god is talking to someone else, “just call me ‘adorable’?”
It’s like he’s missing something––a feeling that, as a genius, he’s always despised. Now it can also mark the difference between life and death, so he’s particularly keen to get rid of it, like, ASAP.
“Do you see anyone else here?” Loki teases in an all too endearing voice for him to be the same batshit crazy supervillain who tried to take over New York and to kill Tony multiple times––succeeding, if not in actually killing him, in giving him nightmares to the point that he seriously thought about going to therapy.
“Not really, no,” the inventor mumbles and crosses his arms over his chest to cover the arc reactor, even though it isn’t there anymore. “But, I mean, why? Why are you here? And why…?”
Then he thinks about it, really thinks about it.
The Liesmith hasn’t just cropped up at random to scare the shit out of him, he never does; he chooses his timing with the same accuracy Tony chooses the components for his suits. It doesn’t take longer for the inventor to realize that the god has appeared right after he––
Extremis. The realization hits him like a punch in the guts. But, why?
Whatever the reason Loki is interested in that might be, Tony backs away from him anyway, just in case. “What do you want from me, Lokes?” he insists, much more serious this time. The nickname sounds amiss when his stance is so rigid and his expression so wary.
The Liesmith smirks, glad that the mortal has finally drawn to the right conclusion. It took more than he expected, but he blames it on the Midgardian’s disorientation at his sudden visit. He doesn’t move to shorten the distance between them and spreads his arms slowly in order to reassure him, though his attempt only makes Stark frown more deeply.
“What. Do. You. Want?” He articulates each syllable and Kaen shimmers violently in his chest while the man struggles to hold it back.
“You already know why I have come to you.” The god points at the mortal’s chest suggestively. “Your new, let us say, ‘transformation’.”
“Extremis,” Tony corrects him absentmindedly and Loki arches an eyebrow.
“Is that how you call it? It is fitting, in a way. However, its true name would be Kaen, or Wildfire, if that makes it easier for you to understand. It is part of my own magic. Actually, I am Wildfire incarnated.”
Stark’s face pales as his heart starts beating erratically and his breath shortens to fatigued gasps. He swallows the lump in his throat, takes one more step backwards, and I need to get it out of me this is just a nightmare it can’t be please please please is painted in blood in his mind, but the Liesmith isn’t as amused as he expected; actually, the thought of the mortal disposing of Wildfire evokes rage and jealousy within him.
Only a few days prior, if anyone had told him he would become so possessive about Anthony Stark, he would have laughed at their idiocy.
Now, though, the bond between them makes the feeling inevitable. Natural.
“Do not fret. You cannot give up on your gift, but rest assured it will not harm you. I would never let that happen,” the god declares, the glee faded away in favor of something solemn and vast and terrifying, something that looks dangerously like a promise. “You are mine and mine alone. And no one, not on Earth nor in the rest of the realms, dares to touch what belongs to me.”
It looks dangerously like commitment, too, and Tony doesn’t do commitment in general, let alone if it involves a fucking freak who believes himself a god. He’s a scientist, no way he’s ever going to buy the deity thing, thanks, but no thanks.
“Hey, I think you’re rushing things a bit too much here,” he quips in what should be a less trembling voice, but at least he’s got the panic under control. “You pop out of nowhere and just claim I’m yours because of some hocus pocus I don’t particularly care about? Sorry pal, not my style. Get your number and follow the line, okay?”
A part of him, however, wants to ask more questions, to delve more deeply into what’s going on, to see if he could use this to his advantage––and Kaen knows, so Loki knows, too, and smiles sweetly.
“Wouldn’t you like me to explain it to you instead?” he suggests, folding his hands behind his back. “I can see you are curious and I am willing to dispel your doubts.” He pauses and spreads his arms. “There is no reason for you to be hostile when I do not plan to threaten you.”
Tony barks out a strained laugh, because honestly, that’s one of the last statements he’d think to hear from the god. To his relief, he’s avoided the panic attack; apparently, that’s what it does to him when Loki doesn’t entertain him with the detailed description of the many creative ways he’d love to torture and kill the people the inventor cares for.
“Okay, so what you’re saying is, you want to have tea and cookies with me?”
“Not literally,” the Liesmith shrugs, “but if it is an offer, I will not turn it down. I would have my tea green, with no sugar and only a few drops of lemon juice.”
This is madness, yet Tony is intrigued now. Not that he’s ever had that much self-preservation, in case. “You heard that, J? Tea and cookies for Reindeer Games it is then.”
“Sir, shall I remind you that you are dealing with a dangerous and mentally unstable––”
“No need to do that, pal,” the man interrupts him brusquely––better that the god doesn’t find out about the none-too-flattering report about him that Tony has implemented in JARVIS’s memory, for once that he’s––what? Momentarily not in killing spree mode? “Just get the tea ready, will you, m’dear? And please, no alerting the Avengers for now, thanks a lot.”
This is how Tony ends up sitting at the kitchen aisle in his penthouse in the company of a top-rated villain, with two steaming mugs and a plate of chocolate chips cookies between them. His mug is filled with black coffee, because how’s he supposed to handle the paradoxicality of all that without caffeine?
Loki sips from his tea, helps himself with the cookies and eyes the inventor with an air of perpetual amusement around him that irks Tony.
“So,” the inventor starts, because the Liesmith still doesn’t speak and the silence is getting awkward, “explanations?”
A glint of irritation flares in the god’s pupils and he raises a hand as if to hit him; Tony parts his mouth, a breath away from activating emergency measures, when Loki shushes him dryly: “Please, Stark. I am trying to enjoy my tea.”
“Are you kidding me?” The inventor gapes at him, because what the fuck?
The Liesmith just glares at him and goes on drinking and eating in silence for a while, until Tony’s positively pissed, but he speaks up again right before the man loses his patience completely and snaps––actually, the timing is so accurate the inventor wonders if he did it on purpose. Probably so.
The god tells him a story about old times, when Christianity didn’t exist yet and people were children of the gods. The deities feed on faith, so they were much more powerful back then, whereas now they have to make do with what little they receive. The inventor does his best not to interrupt, but he just can’t help himself at some point.
“But I don’t believe in you. I don’t have faith,” he chimes in, shaking his head. Of all people, he’s probably the least inclined to religion, let alone to Loki’s .
“It would be better if you did, but it is not really necessary. You are, let us say, power made flesh. Part of you, at least. That…” The Liesmith points at his chest, where the arc reactor doesn’t shine anymore and instead Tony can feel something burning, even when he isn’t using his newly acquired skills. “I believe you call it ‘Extremis’, am I right? Anyway, that is the mere consequence of my magic––my seidhr ––buried inside you. It was asleep when you were younger and for a while it was even sealed by the contraption sustaining your heart. I assume this is the reason why I had never sensed it before. Anyway, after Extremis found you, it was finally set free. It creates an unbreakable bond between us and strengthens my own power whenever I am in your vicinity even more than faith would do.”
The inventor isn’t stupid. Even if he hadn’t noticed the victorious grin spreading upon the god’s lips––which he had, by the way––he would have easily put two and two together in less than two point three seconds.
“Are there any other––what did you call them?” He scratches the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Yeah, ‘children’. Are there any other except for me?”
Loki’s grin widens, which is usually equivalent to an ‘imminent death, destruction and bad things in general; evacuate immediately’ sign. “There has been no one like you for centuries, Anthony Stark.”
Tony is chewing a mouthful of cookies, so he has to wait until he’s swallowed it before he says in the most casual tone he manages: “Then you’re basically telling me you’re the strongest out of your fellow godly friends for the time being. Thanks to me.”
“Basically, yes.” The Liesmith hums in agreement, licking sugar off his fingertips. He finishes his tea, sets the mug down and casts an intense glance at him, somewhere between mocking and grave. “Don’t you find it most contradictory? That the alleged ‘superhero’ is ultimately the tool leading to his enemy’s triumph?”
To the god’s utter bewilderment, Tony smirks like he’s just completed his latest Iron Man design and avoided joining Pepper to a gala, the ultimate happiness. “Yeah. Most contradictory and fucking awesome.”
Loki can’t help but furrow his brows at him. He searches for Wildfire in order to gauge if the mortal is pretending, but apparently Stark is being honest. He is enthusiastic, whereas he should be wounded, furious and helpless. “What?” the Liesmith mumbles stupidly and mentally curses himself for that. He cannot lose his manners to a Midgardian’s unpredictability.
“What?” Tony repeats, eyelashes fluttering in perplexity and eyebrows rising. “Aren’t you happy I’m cool with the whole thing?”
“Well…” Eventually, the god cloaks himself in his usual self-confidence again and shrugs. “Of course. Only, I wonder why. You did not seem as interested earlier.”
“True,” the inventor admits with a careless shrug, “but that’s because I didn’t know what you were talking about. You can’t blame me for that, right? I had questions. Speaking of which, I have one more.” He hesitates until Loki nods, still disbelieving, and the man goes on: “You mentioned me being yours and all that jazz. You were serious, right? You’d protect me from whatever and whoever might, say, want me dead?”
Loki’s eyes narrow to calculating slits as a suspicion uncoils in the pit of his stomach. However, the pull towards Kaen is stronger than the instinct to lie. He tilts his head to the side in confirmation. “Yes, I would.”
Tony claps his hands together, leans towards him until they’re so close the inventor sees the Liesmith shift in his seat in a display of discomfort, and lights up with his Tony fucking Stark smile, eyes shimmering with satisfaction. “Don’t you find it most contradictory ? That the alleged ‘supervillain’ gets to save the superhero’s ass whenever he’s busy protecting the Earth?” He claps a hand against the god’s back companionably and laughs with childish glee. “You could’ve just said you wanted to sign up for the Avengers team, Reindeer Games.”
Loki can’t fight Wildfire’s warmth softening his features as a consequence of his mortal’s delight yet at the same time he feels played, humiliated and oh , so angry.
Admittedly, he had not delved into those dynamics with too much accuracy before setting off to find Stark. All he cared for was freedom from Odin’s chains, therefore he had not realized he had only just built new chains of his own doing, as the man has just pointed out.
He is both pleased and unnerved by his cleverness and it only makes him all the more aggravated.
“I would kill you, Stark,” he breathes out, syllables ghosting over the man’s lips, they are so close.
The Midgardian looks him in the eye and the Liesmith feels Kaen pulse as though the mortal wants to kiss him, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, Stark mocks him with a knowing grin. “But you won’t.”
The god glares at him and grits his teeth. “No, I won’t,” he agrees, then he teleports away.
When the Fates trick the trickster, they go all in.
The first time he tests Extremis, Tony goes all in, too.
The Abomination’s on the loose for no apparent reason––aside from Fury’s ineptitude at playing the fucking SHIELD director, of course, but no one dares to mention that––and has engaged the Hulk in a wrestling match in the middle of Manhattan, with the Avengers trying to limit damage and protect civilians.
At some point, anyway, some stupid fellow just has to stand in the Abomination’s way, frozen to the spot in terror, and Rogers is screaming into the comms not to go, that he’s got it covered, and Natasha is calling Tony a ‘fucking idiot’ and Clint’s muttering unintelligible curses, so the inventor activates Extremis and flies headfirst towards the guy, shoving him to the other side of the road right before the Abomination makes a civilian-shaped omelette––the inventor doesn’t have time to dodge his gigantic bulk, though.
Extremis burns so hot in his veins that Tony’s afraid to suffocate before the Abomination gets a chance to beat the hell out of him; instead the heat goes down and the monster’s enormous fist never reaches him as he’s lifted from the ground ever so delicately by two strong arms catching him under his own.
The inventor looks down and spots the Abomination strapped to the ground by invisible bindings, fighting uselessly against them while the Hulk rushes towards him from behind; then he looks up and sees––
He’s pretty sure he’s looking at Loki, although the Liesmith is way different than usual, even if Tony doesn’t know how to describe the change. His physical aspect is the same as always, except for the glowing green energy outlining his body, but it’s the way Tony perceives him that’s new. He’s already experienced it once, a few days ago, when Loki turned up in his penthouse to claim him as his ‘child’––how morbid is that, by the way?––but at the time he successfully ignored it.
It’s like he’s happy the god is there, like he’s safe, which is utter bullshit, because Tony’s stopped doing trust ever since Stane and even if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t trust Loki the Liesmith of all the freaking people.
The god barely spares him a glance when he sets him down on top of Stark Tower. After that, he disappears.
Only then does Tony realize that the comms are still on and there are three bewildered and furious Avengers trying to catch his attention by either insulting him or threatening his life. The inventor stares up at the sky, where Loki was floating mere seconds ago, and sighs.
“Activate Explaining Weird Stuff To The Avengers protocol, J, will you?”
“Of course, sir. May I suggest that you avoid telling them you put your life at risk on purpose?”
The second time, Tony has to be more subtle. The other Avengers and Fury kind of bought his ‘I have no idea why he saved me or why he was green like a highlighter’ speech––Natasha and Fury were the less convinced, but they always are, even when he tells them he’s actually wearing underwear, so it doesn’t really bother him––but he knows they’re keeping an eye on him to hinder whatever plot they suspect Loki’s planning.
Tony doesn’t talk to them about the Extremis––or Wildfire, or whatever––thing, because Fury would be all too happy to lock him down in a lab and, as much as the inventor loves science, he likes to test stuff, not to be tested.
So, when one of the tentacles of the Kraken that Amora’s evoked out of nowhere strikes him like a thousand whips and knocks him into the sea, it seems like an accident. In hindsight, Tony would’ve appreciated subtlety better without the part where the monster pounds the air out of his lungs like he’s a punching bag, denting his suit and probably scratching his faceplate, too.
“You are by far the biggest idiot I have ever encountered in this ditch of a realm,” Loki hisses in his ear over the roaring of the tide and Tony almost smiles, but he manages to catch himself before it’s too late.
This freaking bond shit is less fun than he thought––mostly because he thought it’d only affect the Liesmith.
The god deposits him on the shore much less gently than the other day; Tony lands on his face, spluttering sea water and swearwords, and rolls on his back before he breaks any more ribs than the Kraken already has.
Yeah, he could’ve definitely handled subtlety better.
“My patience is wearing thin.” Last time he checked, the inventor was sure Loki had to touch people to heal them; now, the Liesmith just blinks and the pain immediately subsides. “Mark my words, Stark.” Does the god honestly think Tony can take him seriously after Loki’s just saved his ass for the second time in less than three days? “You…”
“Loki?”
The feeling Tony gets and recognizes reflected in the Liesmith’s eyes is eerily similar to that of when your parents walk in on your teenager self while you’re having sex, only it’s Amora staring down at them from mid-air, eyes wide with incredulousness and lips twitched into a perplexed grimace.
“What are you doing with the––” She gestures in Tony’s general direction and something unpleasantly like disgust tugs at her bottom lip. “–– human? ”
The god casts at her a blank look, then at the inventor, then back at the goddess. “Oh, dear, this is most inconvenient,” he comments in a calm, poised tone. He heaves a sigh, and Amora disappears.
No, Tony corrects himself, blinking repeatedly in utter confusion, she doesn’t disappear ; it’s just like she was never there to begin with. Like Loki’s just magicked her out of existence or something and it’s the first time the inventor notices how powerful he’s become and it’s holy fucking scary that he could do that to another Asgardian. What he can do to common people, to ‘humans’, is just too disturbing to even imagine.
When the Liesmith sets his gaze on him again, Tony can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine. The god stiffens at that as though the inventor’s just slapped him in the face or something, then he adjusts his garments, mumbles “Stay out of trouble” in a mildly threatening voice, and leaves.
For once in his reckless life, Tony Stark listens.
The first week that goes by without Stark on the verge of death on a daily basis takes Loki by surprise.
What shocks him most of all, though, is that he misses it. Misses him .
He has never had only one child, thus he didn’t know what effect it would have on him; he is used to hordes of people gifting him their faith, enhancing his powers in so many he can’t possibly keep track of all of them, not to a single man who doesn’t even believe him to be a god. That makes Stark’s unwilling present so much more precious, so much more delectable .
When they are apart, Loki can’t focus on anything but him; when they are together, he hungers for more, like a dying man in a wasteland would hunger for water.
So, when the Midgardian apparently stops risking his life on purpose, the Liesmith is disappointed .
He decides to make it known to the one concerned, too.
“In case you were wondering,” he says as a way to make his presence manifest after projecting himself sitting on one of the many devices in the mortal’s workshop, “I did not kill her.”
With a sharp intake of breath, Stark starts, spins erratically on his wheeled office chair and clenches a hand on the left side of his t-shirt as if to prevent his heart from bursting out of his chest. “What the fuck,” he spits, so taken aback that he can’t even phrase it like a proper question.
“Amora,” the Liesmith clarifies in a clipped tone. “I simply teleported her to another location, where she would not do harm.”
“Okay, and why should I care?” Stark bites back, nonplussed.
“Your face, when you saw me perform that trick, was quite telling.”
“Well, why do you care?”
The god sighs loudly and rolls his eyes, exasperated by the man’s thickheadedness. “You already know. We are connected to each other by too strong a bond for either of us to fight it. I care, as much as it plagues you.”
The Midgardian inhales, exhales, looks at the ceiling above Loki, closes his eyes, trying not to panic like the last time. “Why did you do this?” He pauses, his brow creasing as his voice turns accusing. “Why to me, anyway?”
“I did not do anything,” the god defends himself and scoffs mockingly. “Besides, I would not choose you for this if it were up to me. It happened to both of us, do not feel entitled to complain.”
“Okay, okay.” Stark raises his hands in both defeat and peace, then he runs them through his hair––already quite a mess, Loki notices absentmindedly––and casts a wary look at the Liesmith. “So, our best option is to just live with that and not kill each other, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” the god agrees dryly. “However, if I must repeat myself, I would never kill you. Do you not trust me at all? I cannot control it.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” the mortal mutters, reluctance pulling the angles of his mouth downwards. “The problem is that I trust you too much. God, I’d trust you with the Iron Man suit, which is pretty much all that matters––”
“Your life,” Loki interrupts him and gives him another eye-roll when the Midgardian just stares at him like an idiot. “The suit is your life. I told you, you cannot lie to me, god of lies or not. Would you like me to write you a reminder?”
“Awesome, so now you’re kidding me?” The Liesmith doesn’t answer and Tony doesn’t want him to. “Anyway, yes. Exactly. I’d trust you with my suit, isn’t that crazy? It’s crazy. It’s driving me crazy, too. I’m going nuts, Loki, and I don’t know what to do and I thought I could handle that, but I can’t, I probably never could, I…”
The god reaches out and rests a hand upon the inventor’s, still clutching his t-shirt. Tony meets his eyes and falls silent, his jaw still working by force of habit although no words come out.
They hold each other’s gaze steadfastly while Loki bends his head down towards him and the inventor doesn’t back away for once. The Liesmith opens his mouth as if to speak, but before he can say anything another voice, much more high-pitched, alarmed and definitely feminine, chimes in: “ Don’t touch him! ”
Tony’s head snaps in the direction of the door, where Pepper is standing with the most peculiar expression painted on her face that he’s ever seen––she looks terrified and in pain at the same time, like she feels guilty for only God knows what. Eh , he muses to himself. Bad joke.
Loki turns to her, too, but doesn’t move his hand and the inventor can’t find it in himself to complain. Actually, a hidden, pathetic part of him would complain about Pepper interrupting.
“I do not need your permission, woman,” the Liesmith remarks in an inexplicably gentle tone. Soothing, even. The world is weird and Tony doesn’t want to live in it anymore. “He has always been mine to begin with. You were only a means to awaken his nature.”
The inventor looks between them, puzzled, then he clears his throat and utters: “Yeah, right. What the fuck now?”
It’s not very elegant, he has to admit, but he’s trying to make a point, not win a goddamn contest of manners.
The Liesmith sends an amused look Pepper’s way and chuckles in an unpleasant manner that makes Tony shiver and Pepper cringe so slightly only the inventor would notice it. Well, me and Loki, apparently , he has to rectify when the god’s laugh turns a bit louder.
“You wish he wouldn’t trust me.” Loki’s lips move so slowly it’s almost painful to watch him speak, all smooth velvet and sharp knives. “Yet you would not even tell him the truth.”
When he vanishes, it’s only half unexpected, but still pretty fucking annoying.
Tony fixes his gaze on Pepper, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side in an inquiring stance. He doesn’t want to believe what the Liesmith left lingering in the air after he left. He wants it to be a lie. At least that, at least the fact that Pepper–– Pepper ––hid something from him. Something so big it’s turning him into a ‘bag of cats’––because Doc wouldn’t mind if Tony borrowed his words, he’s cool like that.
But his co-CEO face starts to crumple into tears and streaks of mascara and she whispers, “I wanted to protect you from this.”
And Tony’s whole world shatters.
The end of the second week finds Loki extremely unhappily not alone.
“Would you dare to come near me now?”
His voice is like pure honey and his smirk so strained it is blatant that it is feigned, but Thor has never been this perceptive, lucky Loki. The involuntary joke makes his expression a little more genuine. Wordplay.
“I would even if you were a menace,” the Thunderer replies. “Which is obviously not the case.” Mjolnir is hanging from his side, half-hidden among the folds of a brown hooded coat tied around his neck by hemp strings over a shirt a shade darker and a pair of breeches.
It irks Loki that he wouldn’t even bother to go to him armed and armored. It makes him feel small, no matter all his new power.
The Liesmith raises an eyebrow questioningly. “And what precisely makes you so sure about that?”
Thor even has the gall to smile and Loki wants to close his hand and crush him, because now he could, his seidhr is strong enough. He doesn’t, though–– and that’s the whole problem , as Stark said.
Stark. Stark is the problem––or, rather, the fact that he is constantly on his mind, regardless of what the Liesmith does to get rid of him.
“You are sour, brother.” Why Thor would look so gleeful about it is beyond Loki. It even makes him somewhat uneasy. “You could have destroyed me and taken Asgard the very moment Tony Stark was bound to you, but you did not. It has been two weeks already and you have not caused any harm to anyone yet. I have started to think you may not wish to.”
“Perhaps I am merely planning something bigger than what your unimaginative mind would concoct.”
Not even the Thunderer is so thickheaded to buy that and his smile broadens to a cheeky grin. Loki’s insides clench in disgust and disdain.
Sometimes he is grateful he was adopted.
“I think not.” Thor is abusing the word ‘think’, in the Liesmith’s humble opinion. “I think you are sour because the Man of Iron is sour himself. I think his mood affects you and therefore renders you unable and unwilling to bring about destruction.”
Loki snorts, but he averts his eyes from the Thunderer’s lit up face. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard from you, Thor, and believe me—”
“See?”
The interruption leaves the Liesmith lost for a split-second. “What?”
“The bond has already triggered a deep change in you, brother.” Thor’s expression softens in a way that is even more disturbing than him being happy about Loki’s uneasiness. “It has been long since the last time you called me by my first name.”
“Why, pray tell,” the Liesmith snarls, derisive and scathing, like he does when he aims to hurt, “when was the last time I called you ‘brother’?”
The Thunderer’s smile does not falter. “It is still better than when you do not call me anything at all.”
To that, Loki has no reply.
Still staring in the distance, he twists his mouth into a grimace and glares at nothing in particular as though it was Thor. “Have you come here to mock me? To remind me of the good use I have made of my new abilities so far?”
“If only you would let me, I have come to aid you,” the Thunderer offers in a needy tone that makes him sound like the one requiring aid, which the Liesmith avoids pointing out because it would take too long for Thor to get the subtle irony. “Why do you not talk to me about it?” The Thunderer presses on and completely ignores Loki’s eye-roll. “I could be helpful for the both of you, I––”
The Liesmith tunes out the rant and conjures up multiple tortures he could subject the other to as a way to pass the time, but Thor seems to be in a rather chatty mood and just keeps going on and on and on , until Loki can’t take it anymore.
“I thought it was unimportant,” he snaps at last, not fully realizing what he is saying until he finishes his statement. He wants to regret it, to stop, but the words pool out of his mouth of their own accord. “I thought that, even if he had no Faith, the bond would suffice. In a way, I was right. I can use my powers as I please, no matter what he feels towards me. However…” His lips set in a firm line and his jaw stiffens. “I do not wish to. I cannot , because he would be bitter if I did. Norns, he is so aggravating.”
The Thunderer is torn between being grim to show the Liesmith solidarity and suffocating him into an embrace because it has been so dreadfully long since they were like this. Like brothers. In the end, he manages to stay composed and proposes: “Why do you not speak to him?”
As a response, Loki arches both eyebrows suggestively, to which Thor counteracts in a hopeful tone: “What if I speak to him in your place, then?”
If the Liesmith had been drinking, he would have sputtered everything in the Thunderer’s face. How he wishes he had. Instead he has to settle with making a fool of him, “You cannot be serious. This is…”
Actually, he ponders, making an abrupt pause, this could be quite a bit of fun to see. Distracting, at least, from the distress he has been experiencing as of late.
Thor notices the change in his expression and they grin at the same time, like looking in a mirror.
By the middle of the third week, Tony has come to the conclusion that his encounters with Loki, although odd indeed, were like daily life when compared to Thor sitting on the couch of his penthouse in front of him, clasping––crushing––a gigantic hand around his shoulder and looking straight into his eyes like a father promising his daughter to a young man. Which is even more terrifying, considering their discussion revolves around––surprise, surprise––Loki Laufeyson.
“You’re telling me I should believe you guys are gods and begin making rites and stuff?” Until now, the inventor didn’t think it possible for his eyebrows to shoot so high. A lot of things he didn’t think possible have been happening lately, in any case, so it’s not overly shocking.
The Thunderer shakes his head. “Not us,” he rectifies, his tone patient like that of a teacher dealing with a retarded child. It makes Tony feel weird––not even angry, just weird, because Thor . “We were what you call ‘gods’, yes, but that was a long time ago, when Midgard and Asgard were very different than now. For the time being, Loki is the closest to what we once were and you are the source of his magic. Thus, you influence him. I ask you to believe it and make the best out of it for both yours and my brother’s sake.”
“‘The best’?” Tony emits an incredulous, fake laugh. “How can you even ask me that? It’s… It’s turning everything upside down in the worst possible ways. Can you imagine finding out your Lady Jane has been keeping a secret from you and that secret is that you’re a somehow magical something that can turn a sociopath into the Super Sayan version of himself? Do you have any idea how weird and wrong it is when Loki pops out of fucking nowhere and saves my life because he can’t help being kind to me ?”
He realizes he’s rambling nonsense and practically opening his heart to the Thunderer––who, as much as the inventor might like him, is nowhere near his best friend––so he shuts up and rubs a hand over his face tiredly. God, he feels old.
“This is as difficult for him as it is for you, my friend,” Thor says quietly, with an intense look that suggests Tony doesn’t contradict him. Tony doesn’t, though not because he’s afraid of the Thunderer, but rather because it requires much more energy than what he has at his disposal right now, so Thor rewards him with an appreciative nod and continues, “If you could try to solve this with him, I am sure it would turn out, if not well, at least better than it is now.”
“Shouldn’t you be a little more concerned about him breaking out of your allegedly safe prison?”
“Can you really not see it, Tony? This is our chance to truly redeem Loki.” The Thunderer’s eyes sparkle with so much hope it physically hurts the inventor like a punch in the guts––he hasn’t seen as much hope, ever, after that one time Yinsen talked to him about his family and joining them again. “You can do it. Loki would listen to you like he would no other. Will you not give it a single try?”
Thor’s pleading voice has Tony surrendering, even though he refuses to acknowledge it at first. He’s not a sensitive person; he doesn’t even know what feelings are.
“I want you to know that I’m only doing this because you pretty much said I can control him.”
Loki, too, wanted the Thunderer to know that he is only doing this because it is better than the alternative, but Thor wisely decides neither of the two needs to be informed of the other’s intentions.
He makes sure that they meet in the best mood possible in a neutral location, where they will not be disturbed––the most suitable place turns out to be the Fosters’ small, homey living room. Thor strategically invites Jane––why Tony thinks he calls her ‘Lady’, he does not know, but it amuses him greatly––and her parents to a restaurant on the opposite side of the city in order to leave his brother and his comrade alone.
Tony arrives after Loki, because the Liesmith was escorted by Thor, and takes a long, intent look at his surroundings so that he has an excuse not to hold the god’s gaze. “Nice place. Cozy, isn’t it?”
“For your information, I find this whole plan of Thor’s utterly ridiculous,” Loki notes.
The inventor can’t help but meet his eyes at that and a sheepish grin works its way onto his lips. “Here’s something we agree on.”
“However,” the Liesmith continues, calculation glinting in his dark pupils, “I can see through Thor’s idiocy that it could be of help and I am willing to attempt to reach a compromise between us. You must be honest with me, though.”
Tony shrugs as though it’s nothing, even if it’s not. “Can do,” he assures, then casts a pointed look at him, “but you have to do the same, otherwise I doubt it’s going to work.”
The god only nods. “Your gloom annoys me to no end,” he declares, true to his promise. “When you feel something, I feel the same, apparently, and you feeling like you would appreciate one of your vehicles––the heaviest and fastest, if possible––running over you numerous times is unbearable.”
“I’m afraid to trust you,” the inventor replies, just as honest. He has trouble speaking, because a voice in his head won’t stop screaming, making it hard for him to listen to himself–– Stane, the Ten Rings, Afghanistan, Yinsen, never ever again . “I’ve been betrayed before by someone I trusted a lot and now I’m forced to trust one of the craziest people I’ve ever met––not only that, but to have faith in him. It annoys me to no end, too.”
One moment he blinks and all of a sudden there’s Loki standing so close the pull between them almost makes Tony quiver in pain. He can see the same reflected in the Liesmith’s eyes and keeping away from another being has never been so damn complicated. On instinct, the inventor dips his head to the side; a similar instinct brings the god to bend forward until they’re nearly touching, but they don’t.
“If you gift me with your faith, I will prove trustworthy.” You can’t say that Loki isn’t good at phrasing stupidly obvious solutions in the poshest way ever, Tony muses to himself.
“I wish it was that easy.”
“I wish I could devise a decent prank without being interrupted by you risking your life or you ignoring me, but I suppose no one can have all they want,” the Liesmith counters smoothly, not even blinking, and steals a small laugh from the inventor. A genuine one.
“Is that the issue with you? You’re disappointed because you can’t make pranks ? Or did you say ‘world domination’ and I just misheard?”
“World domination?” The god scrunches up his nose in distaste, like Tony has just offered him to eat caramelized insects. “You do realize that is highly overrated, do you not?”
Making the child laugh twice in a row gladdens Loki more than he is ready to admit. For once, Kaen’s pulse beats in time with his own heart, reminding him that he actually has one. Somewhere under a library of evil plots.
Tony isn’t sure it’ll be easy to get acclimated to the idea of feeling safe in the Liesmith’s company, or of enjoying it, even––though he is just a step away from that, enjoying , whether he admits it or not.
Giving it a chance, however, is better than wallowing in self-pity. He’s Tony Stark, for fuck’s sake.
Besides, if he does hold any sway over the god, like Thor said, that means he can talk Loki into conspiring with him to set up the best jokes ever. Which has such a better ring to it than world domination.
It turns out that ‘proving trustworthy,’ in the Liesmith’s own very subtle language, means ‘installing oneself in Stark Tower for the next forever and becoming the owner of said tower’s creepy––yet creepily attractive––shadow for the sheer pleasure of freaking him out on a daily basis.’
The first day Tony is too caught up in the aforementioned meaning to notice anything else.
The second day, the god forces him to sort of confront Pepper about what happened––they haven’t talked to each other ever since, what with the inventor refusing to answer her calls or stubbornly avoiding her in the halls––because ‘it obviously pains you and thus gives me migraines’. It goes better than Tony expected, probably because Loki was sensitive enough not to participate. He isn’t sure he can forgive Pepper just yet, but it’s nice to see her timid, guilt-filled smile right in front of him, instead of spying her on JARVIS’s footage. He is kind of grateful to the Liesmith. Kind of.
The third day, the inventor starts noticing the discomfort of the other Avengers currently in the tower––namely, Doc and Rogers (there’s Thor, too, but Thor doesn’t count when there are ‘Loki’ and ‘discomfort’ in the same sentence)––despite the fact that the Thunderer has already explained the situation to them. Tony has no idea how, but he’s certain it was better than his ‘the crazy ass thinks I worship him’ speech would have been.
The Liesmith doesn’t seem to care; on the contrary, the inventor can feel he is amused. Tony is so grateful Barton and Romanoff are on a mission, for he suspects his head would have gotten in the way of their taking their revenge on the god if they hadn’t been.
At first the inventor doesn’t say anything, because, c’mon, it is fun. Then, on the fourth day, Doc accidentally Hulks out in the middle of the R&D department and nearly destroys half of the tower, at which point Tony takes Loki aside and makes him promise to be less terrifying. The Liesmith gets offended––sometimes he’s so damn childish ––but makes sure he’s never in the same room with Doc or Rogers without Tony to ease the inevitable tension.
On the fifth day, Stark stops being uneasy around the god. The Midgardian isn’t aware of the change yet, but it catches Loki’s watchful eye immediately. Instead of stiffening, the mortal relaxes when they are together, speaks freely––too freely and too often, according to the Liesmith, which seems to be a shared sentiment in the tower––and laughs, even, every now and again. A short, almost shy chuckle, which makes Wildfire sing to the god.
That evening, they even watch a movie on TV together, Stark sprawled on the couch like a beast, much to Loki’s distaste, and the Liesmith elegantly perched on one arm.
The god perceives Thor’s presence, lurking in the darkness of the hallway every so often, and he once again wonders why he hasn’t killed the Thunderer yet. Or at least made him pay for what he did.
He mulls it over in his head in silence whilst he passively endures whatever idiotic movie the Midgardian chose to put on, until a new weight on his thigh pulls him back into reality.
Stark’s head has just fallen on his leg; he is in such an unnatural position that Loki realizes he must have fallen asleep, slowly sunk down into the mattress and then slid against him. The mortal’s eyes are closed, his lips are slightly parted, his breath is even and his heartbeat normal. The Liesmith has never seen him so exposed, so vulnerable, so serene.
So––he ponders, raising an eyebrow at the none-too-graceful drop of saliva crawling down Stark’s chin––this is what having an only child with trust issues is like. He stretches an arm across the Midgardian’s chest and rests his hand on the spot where the reactor used to be.
It has only been five days of relatively peaceful cohabitation, the pathway to faith is still long and he isn’t particularly impatient to kill Asgardians––Loki doesn’t like to jump to conclusions, but it doesn’t bode excessively ill for once.
He lifts up his free hand, eyes already fluttering closed, the movie on TV dimming to background noise, and moves it lazily in the air. “Stop loitering around, it unnerves me.”
He pretends he is too dizzy to see Thor’s face-splitting grin when the Thunderer sits down next to them. Thor’s joy is so grand that he accidentally lands on one of Stark’s feet, making him jump with a loud ‘fuck’, quickly followed by a fair share of swearing in a girlishly acute voice and right into the Liesmith’s ear.
Now , Loki thinks, steaming with anger.
Now he thirsts for Thor’s blood.
Everything is finally back to normal.