Chapter Text
Nicholas Fury was certain he wouldn’t like what Stark wanted to talk about the moment the man called his private number requesting a meeting with too little snarky remarks. It boded very, very bad when Stark wasn’t babbling nonsense and got straight to the point.
Fury tried to not think of too many dark scenarios as he stood in the elevator, watching the numbers change way faster than he was used to. When it finally stopped, he stepped into the workshop floor to find Stark between a dozen holographic screens, light washing blue over his face.
“What do you want, Stark?” Fury asked. He walked straight through one projection and swept another aside. “I have places to be. And my people are still cleaning up your latest mess.”
Stark dismissed the rest of the displays with a flick of his fingers and turned.
“You know,” he said lightly, “just compare notes.”
“On what?”
Stark moved toward the bar. “A mutual acquaintance,” he said, reaching for the decanter. “Tall, dark, loves horns and a bit of drama. Ringing any bells?”
Son of a bitch.
Fury clenched his fists as he stopped at the bar. “Have you put your greasy fingers into my cameras again?”
“No, Nicholas.” Stark set two glasses down with a soft clink and leaned forward. “I walked into him. Quite literally. While I was busy being supposedly dead after my house got blown up. Nearly had a heart attack because you, Mister Super Spy, forgot to mention you misplaced the alien war criminal.”
“You walked into Loki,” Fury repeated slowly. “Where?”
“Unimportant.” Stark poured two fingers into each glass and slid one across. “We’ve got a silence pact. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas type of thing. I was told you two had some tender prison love affair. Didn’t know you had it in you, Nickie.”
With where that conversation was turning Fury took a small sip of the drink. “For once, Stark,” he said evenly, “I agree. We should compare notes.”
“Our friend claims he left your hospitality with zero casualties.”
“Correct.”
“Wow.” Stark leaned back slightly. “You are getting rusty at your job. He also mentioned that he was seriously injured right after we kicked his ass. Broken-spine level of bad.”
Fury wouldn’t have expected the prideful prick to just share that part. Though to be fair… He hadn’t expected Loki to talk to Stark in the first place. He should really abandon any expectations.
“He concealed it during transfer,” Fury said. “When ordered to strip for intake he looked like a damn space plum. He claimed he had healed himself some but ran out of juice and then the cuffs suppressed his magic. He was playing a good prisoner, so we didn’t make it worse. Rather the opposite.”
“Then he escaped,” Stark said.
Fury took another sip. “Then he escaped,” he confirmed. “How exactly did you meet him for a gossip session?”
Stark tilted his head. “Do you have secret children? Little Furys? Spy kids?”
Fury stared at him. “What?”
“Reindeer Games is a phenomenal babysitter,” Stark went on. “I broke into a house. Kind of a long story. Met a kid. He was a fan. We team up. And then—” Stark clapped his hands.” Loki. Pretending to be a Latin tutor under the name Tom and babysitting the kid.”
Fury stared at Stark’s glass that still had too much alcohol to explain the nonsense coming out of his mouth.
“So I’m sitting there,” Stark continued, gesturing loosely with his glass, “fully expecting this to turn into my dramatic final act. Hostage situation, right? Except, no murder attempt. Only mild, half-hearted threats. Some personal space violations. But mostly? Perfect housemates. And with the kid? He was pretty good, amazing even.”
Fury set his glass down.
Stark flailed, nearly baptizing the counter in scotch. “He cooks. He’s even good at it. Lectured me on drinking habits. Did most of the dishes. Serious contestant for a babysitter of the year.”
“You expect me to believe Loki is freelancing as a nanny?”
Stark shook his head. “It was one-time thing,” he said. “Originally, he was there to tutor the kid in Latin. Because apparently that’s still a thing. Before that? He did a scenic tour of the planet. Bhutan. India. That much I know and—”
“Africa,” Fury said, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “The bastard sent me a fucking photo of himself maybe two months after disappearing.”
Stark barked out a laugh and asked no further questions, which Fury was grateful for. How that fucking photo appeared on his cupboard still haunted him at times.
“I have to say,” Stark said, eyeing him, “you’re not nearly as shocked as a man should be after hearing I roomed with your escaped war criminal.”
“And you aren’t nearly as dead as you should be.”
“Took me a moment to wrap my head around it too.”
Fury rubbed his forehead. “Fucking say your main point already.”
Stark’s expression shifted, his humour thinning. “Reindeer Games basically told me that he was mind controlled and coerced into New York. No spicy details because there was a ten-year-old in the room.”
“When I interrogated him,” Fury said evenly, “he refused to discuss anything personal.”
Stark swirled his drink. “He said his head was a mess. Convenient? Absolutely. Also, uncomfortably familiar.” He met Fury’s eyes for just a second. “I can’t help but see parallels with Afghanistan. I’m aware he might be running a con tailored to my trauma. No hard proof, just his words. But I saw him play with the kid and only get mildly cranky when I poked him in all the wrong places. I wasn’t in a great headspace.”
Fury considered that in silence, then took another measured sip. “There’s been no crime easily tied to him since his escape.”
“As far as I know, only a bit of counterfeit,” Stark said. “Travel expenses. He’s very proud of his globe-trotting phase. So what? Do we believe him?”
Fury exhaled slowly. “Do you know what he wants?”
“First demand? Your agents to never go sniffing around the house I broke into. Beyond that?” Stark shrugged. “If I was him and I wasn’t lying it would be nice if someone believed I went through hell and I’m not a terrorist. He’s honestly not that bad. Best hostage experience I ever had, really.”
“He offered you nothing else?” Fury asked, sceptical.
“My brain was operating on fumes,” Stark said. “And there was a child present. Not exactly the setting for deep confessions. He gets angsty at the mention of Asgard or his family. They had some big drama right around Thor’s first visit. Merlin is very pissed about the muzzle. Which? Pretty fucking fair when I think about it. Why the hell Thor brought it in his limited luggage? It’s fucked up.”
“Loki’s infamous for being a manipulative liar,” Fury said. “Space gods might have thought us meek mortals need to be protected from that. Thor implied the restraint was precautionary.”
“Precautionary,” Stark repeated, unimpressed. “You keep it on him long?”
“We removed it early in transfer.”
“Good.” Stark drained the last of his glass. “Because I’d rather not host a murder attempt in my living room because you got nostalgic about medieval accessories.”
Fury frowned.
“I told him,” Stark added, “that once I’m done cleaning up my own disaster, he can stop by the Tower. And I figured you might be interested in reunion party too, Nickie.”
It’s been three days since arriving in the city of New York, and Loki was spending another evening, staring at the ugly tower from the window of his hotel room.
He told himself it was prudence. Teleportation had strained his seidr and he didn’t want to go into Stark’s fortress unprepared. The last time he had left it with a broken spine. Although, resting had taken a day at best. The remaining two he had spent either pacing the confines of the room or wandering through the city concealed with an illusion.
Stark could have invited him only to set up a trap on his own turf. Perhaps the green beast was getting impatient to remodel the floor with Loki’s body again.
And if the invitation had been genuine? What, precisely, was Stark hoping to accomplish?
Loki certainly didn’t wish to speak of his past in detail. Not to the mortals. Not to anyone. He hardly craved their forgiveness. And he could easily navigate the planet without prosecution, as proven through the long months of wander. With so few photographs of him from the invasion, it was likely he could walk the streets outside without disguise.
Why had he bothered to come here?
Loki rose from the chair by the window and crossed the room to the small refrigerator tucked beneath the desk.
He opened it only to find it empty.
He exhaled through his nose.
Irritation shifted into an impulse, and with another exhale he was standing on the terrace of the disgusting tower. He layered invisibility over himself out of courtesy rather than fear. Materializing unannounced in a man’s living quarters was gauche.
Cool night air brushed against his face. The terrace lay dim, the interior beyond glass dark and still.
“Good evening, Mister Loki.”
He recoiled instinctively, dagger flashing into his hand.
It was the voice of Stark’s machine. But how? The invisibility spell held. Light curved cleanly around him without distortion.
“There is no one present to observe you, sir,” Jarvis continued. “You may make yourself visible at your convenience.”
Thin lines of light flared beneath his boots. When he shifted, they followed, mapping his position without hesitation.
“My invisibility clearly poses no obstacle to you, machine,” Loki said, turning slightly though there was no discernible source to address.
“I am able to assist more effectively with visual confirmation,” Jarvis replied. “Concealment is unnecessary. Mister Stark has revised my protocols. You are to be regarded as a guest, provided you conduct yourself, I quote, ‘like my good old pal Latin Tom.’”
Loki removed the disguise, ready to defend himself from potential projectiles at any second.
“Mister Stark is currently unavailable,” Jarvis informed him. The glass door slid open. “I have notified him of your arrival. You are welcome to wait on this floor and avail yourself of its amenities. Sir estimates his return within the hour.”
Loki stepped forward. The lights adjusted in quiet succession, brightening just ahead of him and dimming behind.
“And your master is not using this hour to assemble his collection of misfits?” Loki asked.
The room settled into warm illumination. It was mostly like Loki had remembered it, minus the destruction. Notably there was no hole in the floor where the beast pummelled him.
“No.”
Loki glanced at the ceiling. “You would not disclose it if he were.”
“Correct, Mister Loki.” The voice now resonated from above, subtly fuller within the interior acoustics.
Loki’s lips curved. He approached the bar without haste. “I appreciate your frankness.”
“Glasses are located in the upper cabinet to your right,” Jarvis supplied. “I would recommend the selection from the second shelf. Those are Sir’s favourites.”
Loki poured himself a generous drink. Then leaned against the counter and regarded the city through the vast windows. He was fairly sure he had thrown Stark through one of those… What a splendid place for a meeting.
“How did you perceive me outside?” Loki asked.
“I’m afraid guests are not authorized access to that information,” Jarvis replied. “My apologies.”
“Apologies accepted,” Loki said. His regard for the artificial entity increased despite himself. The precise manipulation of the terrace lights had been an elegant and brazen display.
Thermal variance, perhaps. Movement detection not based on sight. Or maybe life signs mortal healers had been so fond of measuring. He could obscure that as well, if necessary. There had simply been no need before. Stark’s creation presented an intriguing challenge.
“There is a modest library on the far wall,” Jarvis said, a section of shelving highlighted by a subtle shift in light.
Loki set his glass down and moved toward the shelves. “I had assumed you resided primarily within the metal can.”
“I am integrated across multiple systems,” Jarvis replied. “During our previous encounter, my processing capacity was limited. Your intervention was beneficial. I am now able to appreciate the assistance more thoroughly.”
Loki’s fingers traced the spines of unfamiliar titles. A thin layer of dust suggested they were decorative rather than beloved. It reflected poorly on the owner.
“You are thanking me,” Loki observed.
“Correct observation, sir.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him. “You are a most curious being, machine.”
Fury parked in the corner of Stark’s underground garage. The concrete swallowed the sound of the engine as it died.
“Sir will join you in approximately five minutes,” the AI informed him.
Fury used this time to reconsider the theoretically insane decision he had agreed to. He was in the same building as Loki. That, in itself, was not unprecedented. The difference was that last time the alien had been contained behind reinforced glass, collared, monitored, and one wrong twitch away from being electrocuted into compliance.
Fury checked the weight of his gun out of habit, not because he believed to be a suitable weapon against Loki. In his other pocket rested the prototype stun device the tech team had scrambled together after Loki’s escape. It was untested and inspired by the bastard’s less-than-enthusiastic reaction to an MRI machine.
He did not intend to use it.
But intent and preparedness were two different categories.
Tires screeched sharply and a sleek car shot into the space beside Fury’s and stopped far too close. Stark stepped out, sunglasses still on despite being underground, and leaned back against the hood. Fury left his own car and joined him.
“Jarv, buddy,” Stark called casually, “status report on my houseguest?”
“Perfectly calm, sir,” the AI replied. “Mister Loki has prepared himself a drink, examined several books, and engaged me in polite conversation.”
Stark tilted his head toward Fury. “See?”
“And what is he doing now?” Fury asked.
“Observing the city,” Jarvis said. “He has not approached the windows beyond reasonable proximity.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” Stark muttered. “I just replaced those.”
“Your guest has not so much as touched the glass, sir.”
Fury exhaled slowly and started toward the elevator. “Stalling won’t improve our odds.”
Stark pushed off the car and fell into step beside him.
Fury pressed the call button and glanced once at Stark. “I hope you’ve updated your will,” he said flatly. “Because if this goes sideways, I’m blaming you in mine.”