Chapter Text
Gold.
There’s too much fucking gold.
God, Tony’s only guess is that he's somehow on the sun .
He can’t think through the shine invading his vision.
Yea, screw that.
He puts looking around on hold, deciding to first figure out if he is indeed alive.
He feels alive - for the most part. Wait, can he even remember what living feels like? What were the requirements again?
Breathing? Check. Heart beat? All he can hear.
Proof of life.
So why does he feel all… Fuzzy? It's like his body has been encased by a swarm of vibrations, (which makes no sense) Everything is buzzing, simultaneously numb and all too aware
Maybe he is dead. Being in heaven would explain the excessive gold blaze.
Nah, who's he kidding? Tony couldn't hope to qualify for a place among angels. Not that he'd want it.
Alright, time for eye opening attempt number two.
Yep, still bright.
As painful as the glare is, Tony manages to pry his lids open, forcing his pupils into adjusting for the light. The weird sensation gradually subsides, chased away by a searing headache that replaces it.
It registers that he's sprawled on a solid surface, sense of touch favouring a fashionably late appearance. He presses his palms flush against the floor, scraping enough for a reassuring sting. Tony needs to make sure he's grounded.
Rough. Flat. Hard. Kinda painful to grate your skin against. Warm. Concrete? Yea, it's concrete. He should ask JARVIS. Actually, come to think of it, why has his AI been so quiet?
And when did he let his eyelids off duty?
Crap, now he has to start the process of prying them apart again.
Breathe, feel the pavement, open.
Ouch .
Tony blinks away the dizziness, determined to see his surroundings this time round. The initial effect is a boost to his headaches power, but he stays strong, focusing as the world takes shape around him.
Is that a building? No, actually, is that a castle?
A fucking castle.
A fucking castle made of gold.
Nothing like this exists, not that Tony is aware of. If it did, there's no doubt it would be a landmark of some kind.
Impossible as it may be, it's there. Right there. Imposing beyond imagination and glistening under a blue sky. The top is merely a pin from this distance, and would be shrouded if the clouds hung low enough.
So maybe he is dead. But this still can't be heaven. If it were, and he'd somehow slipped in, there would be alcohol. He also wouldn't be flat on his back with a searing headache.
“JARVIS?” Tony croaks the first thing that comes to mind, praying for the smooth, informative answer which usually follows. “Please tell me I'm high and this is just a new feature at Disneyland.”
No answer.
Fuck .
If he thinks about it rationally, the absence of his Iron Man suit should’ve tipped him off to the fact he's alone. To be fair, castle sunlight took most of his attention away from the missing weight.
Great. Tony is isolated in what appears to be a fantasy land. If he meets a fairy godmother, he's quitting life. Actually, he's wishing for a bottle of whiskey, then quitting life.
But for now, he should sit up. Laying on concrete with one leg bent out to the side is awful.
Tony drags his arms up, cursing whoever replaced them with sandbags, and positioning them at a convenient angle for the impossible task of moving. Why are his limbs so fucking heavy?
Shit, he has to shut his eyes again.
You know what? Fuck whatever he drank, and fuck whoever gave it to him.
The protest of his headache is sickening, and he’s beginning to think this is all the result of history's worst hangover. It’s not impossible, but that still doesn’t explain the lack of JARVIS.
He can barely hear himself think, (not that he can think much) over the roar of his heartbeat, faint sounds of chattering barely slip through.
Wait, chattering? He can hear something external. Chattering means people, and people could mean answers. Hopefully they speak English.
Tony ignores the possibility that opening his eyes will bring up lunch, (or whatever meal he last ate) and forces himself to endure. He’s greeted again by the impossible castle, and it's then he remembers his head can turn. So that's what he does, tilts his face as far to the left as possible, almost passing out at the pain.
If the castle wasn't weird enough, (it was, and frankly still is) the gathering behind him should be.
Where the hell is he, a damn cosplay event?
From what he can see, there are around twenty people gawking at him, all of whom appear to think they’re living hundreds of years ago. Did he miss the dress code? Is that why they all seem to be so shocked he's not dressed like a seventeenth century peasant?
He’d usually assume the reaction was prompted by recognition - Tony Stark flat on his back in public sure as hell makes good news. Yet, something about it feels off. No one has their phones out, no one is asking questions, no one is even shouting his name. No one seems to know him. It's the strangest, most wonderfully unsettling thing.
OK, so new theory: he’s somehow stumbled upon a secret, disconnected civilisation with castles of gold and people who live as if electricity hasn't been thought of. Yep, totally believable. This could not get any weirder.
“Uhh… does anyone happen to have aspirin on them?” The act of speaking feels more like regurgitating sand, but Tony thinks it’s understandable.
He gives it a minute before concluding he won't be getting an answer, let alone any painkillers. Fuck, he’d do anything to be rid of this headache.
“Halt!”
A loud bark stops Tony before he can ask where the hell he is, drawing his blotchy gaze to the right. He officially takes back his earlier statement, because things do indeed get weirder.
Two, no, three nights in golden armour approach him, sunlight dancing over each groove in the plating. They all support menacing spears, pointed ends trained on Tony.
What? Are his jeans some kind of offence?
A particularly burly man grunts, jabbing his weapon a hair's breadth from Tony’s nose.
“Woah there, careful with that. Your Mom never tell you to keep sharp things away from people's eyes?” He uses a finger to redirect the spear, but Lancelot shoves it right back. A near miss for Tony’s vision. “Alright, I get it. Don't mess with the spear.”
He shifts round slightly, not enough to piss off sir pokes-a lot, but enough to free his leg from its awkward position. It has long been dead, and Tony misses having toes that aren't tingling. Every move he makes is followed, and he can't figure out why he's being treated as such a threat.
The two men not invading his space close in, one at either side of Tony. If he weren't in such a state, making a break for it may be feasible, but his legs are currently on strike. The pair grab one arm each, tugging Tony to his feet with an unnecessary aggression.
“Thanks for the help, but I can stand on my own.” (no he can't) “So, why doesn't everyone chill out, and we can have a nice chat about chivalry - “
The dipshit at his right elbows him in the ribs, and his guts almost make the trip up to say hi.
“Shit! What the hell is your problem?”
“Quit your jabbering. Humans are not permitted within Asgard, and you are to be brought forth for judgement.”
Uhh… what?
Loki hasn't had much in terms of entertainment today.
Thor is out engaging in whatever reckless activity tickles his fancy, while his younger brother is sentenced to pointless reading. He doesn't have to, but flicking through whatever he may find is mildly amusing, and mild the best he can get.
Perhaps he should locate a servant to torment - transforming unwitting waiters cutlery into snakes never gets old.
No, he's not in the mood. Besides, his mother had been noticing his antics more recently, and he fears she's getting closer to saying something. So it's best to leave it a while, then start up again when her concern for their staff has calmed.
But books still won't do, Loki has reread the same sentence three times, and he still hasn't an inkling of its contents. Lack of focus is to blame, and he's not bothered to fix it.
He snaps the hefty volume shut in single swift movement, discarding it carelessly off to the side.
Why must these slow afternoons be such a drag?
A soft breeze caresses his cheeks, reminding him of the open window. To stare aimlessly through the glass serves even less purpose, but Loki isn't searching for productivity.
He shifts his position, still draped over the plush window seat, and now at a convenient angle for idle gazing. His boot covered feet rest against the wall of his nook, heels propped on a pillow.
The alcove is positioned in one of many libraries, his view of the city below provided by a ceiling high window, gold engravings winding up its frame. Lush plants are positioned in various places around him, the only company he has, and requires. The walls are a faint eggshell, rather refreshing in contrast to the harsh gold of everywhere else.
All in all, it's a pleasant escape from daily complexities, Loki is simply restless.
People hundreds of floors below wander the streets, cobblestone paths providing direction. They seem so simple to him. It’s bewildering in his mind that people can be so content with such simplicity. Choices are made for them, laws set, and they follow along mindlessly, getting on with life.
Citizens crave security, whether or not they realise is irrelevant. For them to indulge in their domestic ways of life, they need someone to handle everything. Maybe only people destined for more can comprehend the aspects of control, perhaps those are the only ones who deserve it.
Thor will never grasp philosophy such as this, and Loki isn't sure he has anyone else willing to listen. Well, listen without being obligated to, that is. His mother would speak of their peoples beauty, and his father…
Hm.
Maybe he should go turn something to snakes.
Loki turns again, arm flopping to cover his eyes. He decides it's just destined to be one of those days: slow and dull, a dreary hour of mindless daydreaming.
“Silence mortal! You will be brought before King Odin for your crimes.”
Or not. It seems something interesting is set to happen.
Loki's ears prick up at the commotion, the bellow having come from the hall outside. He swings his legs to the floor and his arm from his face, promptly rising to his full height. He's always been warned not to interfere with guards and their jobs, but he's also never been one for mindless obeying. Besides, he only plans to follow along, he’ll even do them the favour of not being caught.
The knights can do their work, and Loki can entertain himself. It's a win-win.
He straightens his fine leather attire, careful to slip down the hall with muted footsteps. His pursuit was delayed, so the group he intends to follow is no longer in sight. No hindrance, it’s no issue to locate them with all the bickering. In no time at all, Loki can see the group, three guards, and an odd looking man.
Once he’s closer, and the scene is clearer, the puzzle only gets further from solved. The three Asgardians pose no confusion, but the complaining man they’re tugging does.
The first thing Loki notices are his garments, they certainly aren't normal. His pants seem to be of an odd, stiff texture, a dull blue in colour. The top half is covered in a simple shirt, plain black with bright splashes of colour across his back.
Loki can't see his face at this angle, so he can't decide on an age yet. This man seems relatively well built, muscular arms on display by his strange top, tall enough to not disappear beside the gold clad men. Messy hair is sticking out at various different angles, brown strands obviously having been jostled about.
He looks like a hooligan.
And he sounds like one too.
“What's with the nickname? I've come up with some shitty ones in my time, but ‘mortal’ really doesn't make much sense.”
The man is clearly rambling, and with a strange accent too. Where is he from? It's highly unlikely he's from Asgard, he seems genuinely confused.
Loki follows unnoticed, listening to the stream of nonsense spurted while the mortal is tugged along. There's no doubt they’re headed to the throne room, which means this situation is of utmost importance.
It’s wonderfully interesting, because Loki finally has something to do. So, naturally, he doesn't want to lose it. The best option is to arrive at his father before them. It would be considered rude to barge in while important topics are being discussed, but if he's already present, it's likely he will be permitted to stay.
Loki is holding all the cards. Not only are his opponents in this race ridiculously slow, (and unaware of the competition) but he has his ways when it comes to the art of slipperiness.
Within a matter of seconds, he’s made a few alternate turns down familiar halls, arriving at extravagant doors. He wastes no time in his entrance, offering the guards a subtle nod.
Once in, the doors click shut behind him, the sound echoing through the vast chamber.
Every inch is lathered in gold, so much so that one has to ponder its origin. The ceiling is at such a height it could count for three stories, and pillars line each wall.
You could fit hundreds of individuals inside, but it's built for the benefit of one.
The throne is the main spectacle, a symbol of superiority and power. It's strange that an object can radiate such intimidation, forbidden to near unless it's your purpose. There's an unspoken rule: a throne feels safe for nobody, you feel endangered in that spot if it's not publicly yours.
Occupying the throne puts onlookers in their place, makes them feel smaller, makes them feel weak . Loki thinks that's its true purpose, no matter what others may say.
The man casting such an aura here is Loki’s father. It's taken him years not to feel insignificant in the Allfather’s presence, but he's learnt to cope. Mostly.
“Loki, my son. What brings you before me?”
Just as he planned, the entertainment arrives to interrupt his non-existent answer.
The hefty doors swing open, hurried footsteps clattering in right after.
“Your highness! We have an urgent matter!”
Loki makes haste, slinking into the shadow of his fathers throne. It’s better to remain an afterthought, the more inconspicuous the better.
From here, the brunette's face is on display.
Huh, not what he expected.
The face presented is that of a young man, presumably in the earlier years of existence. Precise numbers will depend on the species, but this man can't be much older than Loki. he has neatly groomed facial hair cut close to his flesh. His eyes are some kind of brown, although it's difficult to make out from this distance.
The burliest of guards shoves him forwards, positioning a spear at the back of his neck.
Loki casts a sideways glance up at his father, catching the narrow of his eye.
“What is the meaning of this?” Odin’s command slices the disorder, bringing everyone to attention. Well, almost everyone.
“Yeah, what Pirate Santa said. I wanna know-” The man is kicked to his knees before Loki can so much as guess what a ‘Santa’ is. He must be losing his grasp on consciousness, pale enough to blend in with snow.
Yet, he doesn't seem intimidated in any way. Other than being on his knees, this man shows no display of fear. People tend to cower under Odin's scrutiny, reduced to a pathetic mass of trembling nerves.
This man is the opposite. His attitude is nothing but defiant, the senseless comments are enough proof he's not taking anything seriously. He’s either a complete idiot, or incredibly bold. Probably has no clue what’s going on either.
“Stop with the shoving, would ya?”
“Quiet, human.”
All attention shifts to the Allfather, silence settling in. Loki ponders his fathers comment, realising this man originates from Midgard. A human on Asgard, intrigue is certainly warranted.
“Ok, that's enough. What's with the weird ass names? It's bad that I'm the singular person noticing this, but we’re all people here.” The man rambles, lack of manners astonishing.
Loki waits for his fathers wrath to rain down upon the human, only to be surprised at the smooth order that follows.
“You may leave the human with me. Return to your posts.”
The guards bow deeply, departing with a seamless obedience. Loki doesn't bother paying them any mind, his attention is reserved for the Mortal. This is new, and definitely worth being present for. The unexplained appearance of a human man is far more engaging than dust infused history books.
“What is your name, human?”
The man clambers to his feet, movements uncoordinated and sloppy. He brushes at his clothes, such aggression unnecessary as the pristine floor can't have transferred a speck to him. The gaze he casts at Odin is sceptical, questions swarming beneath muddy irises. Loki is surprised to have gone unnoticed, but he is positioned to accomplish just that.
“Tony. Not that I have to give you an answer, I'm just sick of the nicknames.”
The human cards through his hair, answering in an impatient tone. Loki doesn't have to be familiar with deception to see through the facade, this man may be unbothered by stature, but is undoubtedly sick. Teetering sideways while gagging on words isn't behaviour of a healthy individual.
“If it weren't for the poking of Lancelot back there, I'd put this shit up to a fever dream. So, Gangsta Grandpa, I'd appreciate the explanation.”
Odin doesn't bristle. If he is annoyed, it's not on display. “Quit with your nonsense. How did you get here?”
“Hold it right there, old timer. I've been asking that since I woke up! I’m getting an answer first. Ever heard of no cutsies?”
Loki’s eyebrows shoot up. Tony has balls. Perhaps not brains, but definitely balls. He has never witnessed anyone behave so roguishly in the presence of his father. It's becoming apparent this man is incredibly immature.
“Are you claiming not to know how you arrived here?”
“Seriously? Did I not just make that clear?”
He has snorted in amusement prior to deciding on it, only realising the expression of amusement originated from his person after all attention shifts. So much for being forgotten.
The mortal looks at Loki for the first time.
The mortal's eyes meet his.
The mortal looks like he's seen a ghost.
Loki hasn't moved an inch, doesn't dare to either. He has settled on playing the part of obedient, faithful prince, standing formally at his fathers side. As far as he’s concerned, nothing about his presence is particularly jarring. So why is this human looking at him like that?
His attitude has transformed in an instant, snapping to attention. The man's biceps tense, bulging under his shirt as if protesting against their confines. Fists ball at his sides, the last drop of colour draining till he’s left to resemble a corpse. His eyes simmer with a cocktail of emotions, a mixture Loki can't pick apart. No, actually, he's familiar with a few.
Hate.
Shock.
Fear .
Loki has seen torment before. He's familiar with it. He's watched as primal, suffocating terror consumes a person, stealing their mind and soul. He's taken that twisted mentality, eradicated it, painting his hands red. He's done it for the sake of his people. He's done it to make his father proud .
Any weak minded fool might let it bother them, taint their own sanity. Fortunately, Loki is no fool. Never has he killed an innocent man - wars are fought from two sides, each strives to slaughter the other. Does it put him at fault to be the one who comes out on top?
No.
But this man… his gaze is a wildfire, violent and uncontrollable, a force of nature set alight far easier than it could ever be stopped. Once it's extinguished there's nothing but destruction left to be salvaged.
A look like that is personal.
A look like that has reason behind it.
So why is it pointed at Loki? Sure, it's interesting, but irritating all the same.
“What the fuc-” The man doesn't finish, cut off by his own body. Loki grimaces as Tony offloads the contents of his intestines, joints losing integrity as he crumbles to all fours. A sloppy coating of vomit splatters onto the floor, vile brown in hue.
The human possesses not a scrap of composure, even going as far as to spit in the pool of spew.
“Loki,”
He turns to, expression neutral, fingers gliding idly down the hem of his shirt. The hairs on his neck stand at attention, prepared for what may follow.
“Father?” Loki is hyper aware of Tony’s grunting, but attempts to retain focus on Odin. Vomiting fits aren't a particularly pretty sight any way.
The Allfather bothers not to peer down at his son, instead observing the man as he spits repeatedly. Loki knows his importance is but a speck now, drifting further out to sea.
It's not convenient, but it won't hinder him for an excessive period of time. Oceans have tides, and he'll be washed back to his father's island of focus soon enough.
“You may take your leave now, I will deal with this myself.”
Damn it.
“Father, I really do think I'd-”
Still not gracing the young god with a glance, he raises a hand, signalling the end of any discussion.
Frustration threatens to reveal itself on Loki's cheeks, but a few calming breaths chase away the red. With each year he experiences, compliance settles at a higher discomfort to the last. It's gotten to the point where obedience has a grapple with impulse around every decision.
How can he remain faithful if so much refuses to sit right with him? Everything used to be simple, agreeing with his father was second nature, but now he sees things for himself as well. He disagrees with Odin frequently, but knows nothing except how to nod along.
The rational part of Loki is at odds with these new views, the ones he's beginning to form independently.
He wants to say something, to free the complaints and objections itching his tongue, but he bites it all back. As unappealing as it is to swallow, Loki knows the alternative wouldn't prove as an improvement - he has a place, and was raised to remain in it.
Thor could never understand this, he's never had the intellect to question their father, nor the rationality to keep quiet if he did. The god of thunder abides with a vigour Loki finds exhausting. His older brother is a cause for endless grievances.
Loki smooths his composure, chasing away the conflict with deep intakes of oxygen.
“As you wish.” He bows his head, heading for the exit at his dismissal. Each stride he takes is aggressive, boots hitting the floor with an unstable angst.
It may not be the most effective way to hide agitation, but is better than outright voicing it, especially when it was a simple order that prompted Loki’s spiral.
Whatever. It all just piles up.
So, with one last peek at the kneeling mortal, Loki slips back out the way he came.
Thor best be back soon, or loki's enchanting everything in that bearded buffoon's chambers.
A snort draws his attention, and the gaze he catches stops time. Tony’s gut does a horrible twist, flipping in on itself to gnaw at his spine.
Concealed under shadows cast by the throne, a face he'd thought gone from his life.
Sharp features topped with jet black hair, neatly groomed in a backwards sweep. Squared shoulders and fine leather garments, neat and tailored to fit. Eyebrows perched high on his forehead, eyes wide with subtle surprise.
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
Loki can't be here. He should be in Asgard where-
Wait, had the old man said something about Asgard? Was that pang of familiarity at the name not an effect of his migraine?
Oh. Oh.
Asgard, Thor's home, the place Loki was escorted for his punishment.
Right…
This can not be happening.
‘Oh, but it is,’ a sick chant in the back of Tony’s skull, one he had acquired after New York, ‘and look! You're completely powerless to it!’
The ‘voice’ is nothing more than an intrusive thought, so it can go eat shit. Fuck his own ruthless criticism for turning traitor. It's all fun and games to antagonise others, but it's just plain insulting to target yourself.
This is beyond pathetic.
Loki's cold, icy blue eyes do nothing but make Tony feel sick, and it's his own fault for not looking away. He can't, won't look away. Those eyes were the last Phil Coulson saw. There's no preventing the swarm of questions into his head, each demanding undivided attention at a pitch that drums his ears.
It's all too much: the throbbing mass of confusion - the irritation of his migraine - the attack on Tony's sanity.
He needs to be sick again, but fuck if he's gonna go without a fight. That's why he has to get some fucking words out his mouth. Any words. Any.
“What the fuc-” His bowls cut the curse short while he doubles over yet again.
The word ‘humiliating’ barely even scratches the surface. Ready to dig a hole, crawl in like an infant, have someone bury him, and then die, would be a better description.
Water builds in his eyes, sour and merciless with the reminder he lacks any form of control. He can't stop the tears, he can't stop the vomit, he can't stop the panic.
‘You're so weak.’
He spits on the floor.
There's talking nearby, but it might as well be static because Tony can't tune in. Maybe someone says ‘leave,’ and then another says ‘father,’ but hell if he knows. Hell if he cares.
His body convulses once more, leaving Tony to gag when there isn't really much left to get rid of. He just wants a second to breathe, but with all the shaking, it's likely he never will.
For the love of everything he holds dear, please don't let his origins start coming up.
When there's a break in his retching, (finally) it’s enough to tell there's a break in the conversation too. He bites his tongue for a fear of choking on it, he's going to hear this.
“As you wish.” The voice is cold, that of a young male, and laced with defeat. Even while missing the menace Tony came to know, it’s Loki, no doubt about it.
He hates the familiarity.
It's a fucking pain to lift his head, to force his neck into doing it’s job, (albeit a shitty one) and even when he does, he’s rewarded by a sucky view through hair and tears.
The scene is a blurry mess, splotches of colour all he has to represent surrounding matter. This shit sucks on another level. Is it too much to ask for a smidgen of style?
There's no guarantee he won't eat dirt - er, gold - if he lifts his hands. Not while he's relying on the grounding pressure to tame his shaking.
So with his hands preoccupied, he can only blink to clear the damn blur. It's not effective, and the curtain of hair is a pain in the jacksy, but shapes are more defined, and he can differentiate people from furniture.
Yippee.
The green and black blob is safe to assume as Loki, and is the first thing Tony zones in on.
He's getting bigger? Shit, no, he's coming closer.
Footsteps accompany the Loki blotches ‘growth’ and for a moment, Tony thinks he's being approached. But Loki strides right past and the door shuts behind him, a smell of something fresh left to dawdle in his wake.
What is that, mint? No, softer than mint…
He throws up more and is back to inhaling bile.
Guess he’ll never identify the Loki smell. Not that he wants to.
“Human.”
Tony hears the call but can't reply - he hasn't stopped choking on bile yet and has concrete plans to curse every deity he can think of. It will be happening the moment he can speak again, and won't be postponed. To hell with any sort of hierarchy, this guy - what did they call him? Odin? - can wait.
Tony spits once again, flexing his jaw then clenching it back into place. He executes a few tentative moves to shift from the all fours pose. No one needs to see him on his knees. Well, not in this situation at least.
Now that’s out of the way, he can grant freedom to his stock of colourful language. Things like: fuck these crappy Norse gods, or: the fuck was Thor thinking? Then he shoves his hair back, which stays in place, not out of obedience, but from the sheer amount of sweat clinging to his brow, (and everywhere else.) Tony uses a fistful of shirt to scrub at his tongue - the tang of stomach acid should piss off.
Once he's (partially) satisfied with his use of vulgar language, he finds it in himself to address the throne and its occupant. He doesn't like the downward tilt to the old mans head, an indication that Tony's literally beneath him. It’s tempting to stand but his damn knees won't handle it, and he’s not in the mood to impersonate Bambi.
“How did you get here?” The demand is laced with a clear threat.
“I beg your pardon?”
“How did you get into Asgard, Mortal?”
Tony blinks. Then blinks again. This guy can't be serious.
He does look pretty serious.
“Uh-uh. I'm pretty sure I dibsed that question.” The old man's eyebrows dip lower on his face. Tony realises the concept of ‘dibs’ may not be normal here, so he adds: “You know, as in I called it first so I get the right to ask.”
“I don't have the time for your games, nor will I put up with your nonsense. Humans are not permitted here in Asgard. If you are truly ignorant as to how you got here, then I will have you escorted back to earth immediately.”
It takes a minute to process, and the seconds stall while his brain buffers.
Once sorted out, this is the order Tony thinks in:
- What happened to his eye?
- It's not nonsense, my fucking question needs answering.
- Ignorant my ass, he doesn't know how I got here either.
- He can send me back? Is it that easy?
- God, I want to get the fuck away from all this gold.
- Wait... Shit.
- Loki.
How did he forget? He cleaned out his guts, not his brain cells. Loki. Fucking Loki was just here, and not in a cage. Preferably rotting.
With a murmur of “Fuck this,” he shuns the persistent tremble, (things don't relent if they get a reaction) and rises with what he hopes can be grace.
Well, If you call stumbling over non-existent hurdles and almost treading in your own sick ‘gracefulness,’ then he succeeds. If you don't, then take your opinion and shut up.
“Ah, no. Wait up old man, you owe me some explanations.” He wobbles dangerously, still wiping vomit from the edge of his mouth. If JARVIS were connected right now he’d say sit down, rest. Tony would blatantly ignore because he refuses to play the part of a kindergartener. “What's with the prison protocols here? I mean, where I come from, we don't let murderers roam free.”
“Yo-”
Tony cuts him off. “I don't have time for this. Why the hell is Loki not locked away?”
“What?”
“Don’t bullshit me. Loki was meant to be taken back here for punishment. Or is attempted domination of a planet not cause for concern in your high and mighty palace of gold - which, by the way, is complete overkill, even for me.” Words pour out without the courtesy to ask permission, and now he's shaking for an entire new reason.
“What did you do with the Tesseract? Chuck it on the nightstand after a good day of not giving any shits? No, let me guess, you're busy watching your gold be polished and have no time to worry about your son’s rampage on earth. Or does it not matter to you since he’s adopted? Now you have a human here, and-”
A sharp crack tears through Tony’s rant as Odin strikes the floor with his staff. All the man had done was lift it a measly few centimetres then bring it down again, but the noise it made was jarring.
Oops, he’s hit a nerve, and he wasn't even trying this time. Not at all. Definitely. No guilt. No intentional rudeness… OK, maybe a little bit. It’s not his fault if a few unnecessary ‘observations’ slipped in there.
“What did you just say?” Odin is no longer composed, in fact, he's far from it. For an old man, he manages an impressive height. His posture, the sheer aura of power, both compensate for such weepy flesh. Tony swears the geezer is staring right through him, somehow making an assessment of his intestines. He wouldn't be surprised if his goatee got singed by Odin's X-ray eyes.
Only one, singular person can make Tony cower, (this person is Pepper and he's not afraid to admit it - that woman can be fucking terrifying) but a few have come close. Odin just made that list.
Tony clears his throat. “Now you have a human-”
“No. Before that.”
“The part about how excessive all this gold is?”
“About my son. About him being adopted. How did you know that?”
What? He isn't gonna get all defensive about the insults?
Tony squares his shoulders: he really can't afford to look nervous, even if he is shaking like a leaf. A pale one, at that.
‘How did I know that? Thor used it as a defence for why Loki’s brain is fucked.”
“Thor, does not know that Loki is adopted.” Odin growls, rising to his feet. “No one does, only me and my wife.”
“All due respect, your highness, you could not be more wrong.”
It's a standoff now, and looks don't need the ability to kill for theirs to do just that. This old King may literally have the high ground, but that's never stopped Tony before.
“I have no idea what you’re rambling on about, but I've humoured you long enough. Who is your informant? How do you know something about Loki that he doesn't know himself?”
“Hold up, are you senile?” Tony asks, actually half genuine. “That can't be allowed for a king.”
“Loki has never been to earth, let alone waged a war on it.”
What the fuck is going on? Thor assured them that both Loki and the tesseract were in good hands, that it would be dealt with. So why is he being told it never happened?
“Yes, he did. He brought an army of aliens through a massive wormhole - which, by the way, I almost died in - and decimated a good half of New York.”
“You’re unstable.”
“Yeah, but I'm not wrong!”
Having to explain this: hurts.
Remembering the lives Loki took: hurts.
The responsibility Tony feels for all those deaths: hurts.
Fuck, it's getting harder to breathe.
He can't hold his legs together any longer. The JARVIS in his mind was right yet again, even if he isn't actually here. Tony let's himself fall, the pain that shoots through his knees on impact is welcome. At least he has it to focus on, something that feels real.
Inhaling is like sucking water through a towel: bits and pieces get in, but not enough in the right amount of time. The walls of his throat cling to the air with greedy little fingers of panic, and no matter how hard Tony begs them to share, he only gets their dregs.
No, not now. He can't break down right now. Not in front of Odin. Not when he needs to make a point. His head just needs to stop spinning. He's not getting enough oxygen to think straight. He needs JARVIS. He needs pepper. Is she alright? Where is she? What if he never gets back? He needs his suit.
He needs air but he can't get any air and it's starting to fuck with his head but he can't think well enough to figure out what he should do and it's all to much and he might need to throw up again but he doesn't think he has anything left in his stomach a -
“Anthony Stark.”
He only notices the word is spinning when it stops. Tony finds the old man with his stinging, leaking eyes. There's something… calmer, about him.
“I didn't - ” Don't sniff. Don't sniff. Don't you dare sniff . “I didn't tell you my full name.”
“I'm aware.”
“Oh, well that explains it. Thanks for clearing things up.” His tears put a real damper on the sarcasm, but beggars can't be choosers.
“You're certain what you say is true?”
“Yeah. Pretty fucking certain. Carrying a nuclear bomb into a portal isn't something you forget easily.” It's something you dream about for weeks after. Something you wake up in a pool of your own sweat over. “How do you not remember?”
“It's never happened, not for me.” Odin lets out a sigh and lowers back into his throne. He actually looks old for the first time since Tony met him.
“What do you mean ‘not for you?’”
The King of Asgard rubs the bridge of his nose, a weariness one might find in teachers. Ones with hyped up, sugar greedy, loud students.
This is worse than the scary thing.
“Well?”
“Are you familiar with the idea of time travel?”
Tony pauses, the weight of what this geezer is about to suggest squishing him beneath it's foot. “Fuck did you just say?”
“Antony Stark, you are not in your own time. I strongly suggest you find it in yourself to believe me.”
“Oh… So you are senile.”
He can't manage to say much more. He wants to. He wants to scream, actually. So. Fucking. Bad.
Unfortunately, screaming won't help. Not when there's merit to Odin’s words.
It’s Tony’s own fault for being so brilliant.
If it were anyone else on the receiving end of this information, they probably wouldn't believe it. So is it stupid or extraordinary for Tony to consider it?
Thing is, being a genius, the concept of time travel isn't something he’s ignored. Tony has actually done a great deal of thinking around it; the possibility, the implications, the theories. Just, not the kind of thinking he’d develop into anything. There's not much point in taking it too seriously. At least not until you wake up in a world where no one knows what you're talking about.
“So, you're saying I've travelled through both time and space to get here?” Tony croaks, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re seriously skipping to the time travel conclusion? Not even gonna call me crazy?”
“I have lived many years, Stark. More than you could hope to imagine. With years come experience, and with that, knowledge.”
“You have a habit of answering questions without the actual answer.” He grumbles, close to pouting like a child.
“I am not ignorant enough to dismiss time travel.” Odin settles further into his chair, adjusting his cloak. “And labelling you as crazy would not explain your knowledge of my son’s origins.”
“So you think me being from the future is more feasible than being a spy?” Yeah, that's it. Make him trust you even less. Idiot. “Or having an informant?”
“It’s a possibility, but an unlikely one. No record has ever been made of Loki's adoption. Not only that, but you mentioned the Tesseract in your rambling.”
Tony is only half listening. Most of his brain is working to unravel the validity of these hypotheses.
Time travel as it's presented in sci-fi is not correct. If you go back in time, that ‘past’ is now your own present. You can’t alter your time by changing that new present, because by then, the present you came from is your past. Do whatever the hell you want there, you're stuck with the choices you've made. The only thing you're affecting is that new present. Once you go back to your own future, nothing has changed in your past.
It's honestly not that hard to understand.
“Yeah, I did. That cube caused me a lot of fucking problems. And so did your ‘son.’” Tony uses air quotes to emphasise that last bit, stretching his legs in front and leaning back on his arms. “Getting thrown through a window was the least of my problems.”
“Contrary to what you may have experienced, the Loki of this time has caused no unwarranted harm.”
Tony scoffs. “So? He clearly has the drive and the ability to. How do you know he isn't scheming already?”
“I can not prosecute him for something a man of the future has told me. As of today, he has done nothing to deserve any punishment, no matter what the future may hold for him.” Odin’s eyes are trained on Tony, but the look says he’s staring miles beyond.
“So you’re just going to sit back and watch as he becomes a monster?” There has to be something he can do. If he really is in the past, there's a chance to stop the new york ordeal from ever happening. “It was -”
“I do not want to hear any more of what happens than I already have.”
“Why the hell not?” The words are bitter on his tongue.
“I don't want your experience to affect how I see my son. I can't afford to start treating him like a criminal when he isn't one.” The old man pauses, “At least, he isn't yet.”
Most of him is set on addressing the wrongness in that ideal and changing this geezers mind. The other part, the selfish one, is yanking at the strings of control in his head. It's a vicious grapple, despite it not lasting long, and ends in Tony blurting: “Can you get me home?”
The silence is all he needs to realise. Funny how his heart still ventures south when Odin says: “No.”
Well, that's it then. What's left is to process as fast as possible. Come to terms with everything right now. Tony will do it, because it's better in the long run.
Nah, who's he kidding? He’ll shove it under the heap of crap labelled as, ‘i'll deal with this later,’ then leave it to stew and get a whole lot worse. Feed the intrusive thoughts. Let the problem grow. Perfect.
‘Coward.’
“I figured.” Good, that came out without any utter despair. One for Tony and zero for crippling self hatred.
“You are to stay here in the meantime.”
“Eh?”
The old man straightens his posture. “You are to stay here in the castle where I can keep an eye on you. Mortal or not, your presence here is an anomaly, Stark, one I intend to monitor.”
“Doesn't that break the whole ‘no human’ rule?”
“Sometimes exceptions must be made.”
Well, looks like he’s accepted. And at a freakish speed, so… go him, or whatever.
Fuck, as unfortunate as this shit it, there is hope tangled within.
He can save them, all those people. Even if he failed in his own time, he can be better for this one. He has the chance to win.
Tony has to avoid letting the problem develop all together, remove the car battery instead of attempting to hold it still. If a problem is dealt with at the source, the repercussions caused by halting it can be prevented.
That's the plan. Do whatever it takes to save New York, then build something to travel home.
What’s the idea for the first part? Watch Loki, figure out if he’s crazy yet (it’s hard to believe he won't be) if not, then fix him. Helping mentally fucked gods see the positives is not one of Tony’s strong suits, so figuring that one out would be an… interesting experience.
If he is crazy, past the point of return, kill him. Tony fully expects that decision to end with him dead too. Small price to pay in the grand scheme of things.
Right?