“Show me your hands. Do they have scars from giving? Show me your feet. Are they
wounded in service? Show me your heart. Have you left a place for divine love?”
-Fulton J. Sheen
It started with the ending of a world.
Not all worlds; just one.
Just earth.
Midgard, everyone called it now; even the scientists who had never called it anything else.
Even Tony.
As it was, there hadn’t been too many human survivors; those who had survived had been welcomed into Asgard with open arms (ever since Thor had become King, Asgard had become a more open-minded place and the new King prided himself on it; he used to gloat to Tony, and Tony would laugh along as he heard stories of how close-minded and harshly opinionated the Aesier had been) and given the option of immortality; the option to live forever, as if it were such a simple choice to make.
Only one person said no, because apparently it was that simple a choice to make.
That idiot (genius) was Tony.
He’d watched everyone (almost everyone) he loved (or could ever love) die, because he had been the genius (idiot) who hadn’t been able to save them.
Because he’d blown up all his suits (damn Clean Slate protocol) to make one person happy, and she wasn’t even here anymore.
The bottle became his best friend (had been for years now). It was the only place he could find solace.
The only thing that could offer it.
He lived by himself in a lonely cabin in the woods (heh) where no one would bother him; became the big bad wolf of the century; no one dared visit him in fear that the crazy old (young) drunk would blow them to bits or maybe stab them with a rusty fork.
That was alright (totally, completely alright; solitude had become as much of a friend as alcohol).
It was one of those days (he’d had too many) where breathing (living) hurt more than dying ever could and alcohol was a safe haven he could drown himself in (had debated doing many times over).
Then again, life really seemed to hate him.
While he was getting up close and personal with his friend solitude and his best friend Asgardian mead, a single knock on his door startled him so badly he almost fell from his chair.
He stared at the door in hopes that whoever was at the door would just go away, but no such luck.
The knock came again, this time louder; more demanding, and if it got any more demanding Tony would be more than happy to blow them to bits.
And then again and Tony was plotting just how slowly and painfully he could kill someone and get away with it as he opened the door.
And abruptly froze upon seeing who it was.
Emerald eyes appraised him, moving down his body and back up as slowly as they possibly could, scoffing as they saw he wore nothing but sweats and was still damp from his shower (his evening run had lasted at least a half hour longer than usual, as he had been more conflicted than usual that evening; he’d had a sense of foreboding and dammit, now he knew why).
He took a drink from the bottle held carelessly (carefully) in his hand; met those emerald eyes head on, and promptly said “fuck off” and went to close the door.
He expected (hoped) it would work and he would just be on his merry way.
Tony was sorely mistaken.
Loki simply pushed the door open and stepped inside, sharp eyes moving from the bottle in Tony’s hand, to the half finished projects scattered carefully (carelessly) around the room, before his eyes settled on Tony’s once more.
“It’s quite rude to shut the door in the face of a guest, Stark,” the god said calmly, eyes boring into his searchingly (as if there was more to Tony than just his drinking).
“Not when said guest was never- and will never be- invited,” Tony said with a careless shrug, voice colder than his eyes ever could be.
Loki snorted, eyes alight with amusement. “Seems you haven’t lost your wit, I see.”
“Well, I aim to please,” Tony drawled.
“That, Stark, begs another question; why hide yourself here? People seem to think you’ll end up brutally murdering them if they even think of coming near you; I believe the current rumor is that you will have one of your suits of armor rip them limb from limb. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe you have any suits of armor…not anymore, do you, Stark? Not after you destroyed them for your woman, as Thor told me you did so bravely, in fear of losing her. Isn’t that right? Love is a terrible thing, Stark.”
Tony’s fingers had gradually tightened around the neck of the bottle as he listened; he hadn’t realized the glass had cracked until it shattered completely, and pain exploded throughout his hand; sharp and welcoming, reminding him he wasn’t completely gone yet.
“Get out,” Tony growled lowly, fingers curling automatically to protect his throbbing hand from further injury.
Loki tutted at him, not seeming to mind his outburst in the least. “Oh dear,” the god said, head tilted to the side as he took Tony’s arm and lead him to the couch like he couldn’t fucking walk on his own.
“What do you want, Loki?”
“I was just curious; I wished to see just how far the precious Man of Iron had fallen-”
“Enough!” Tony screeched, yanking his arm from Loki’s grip. “Enough with the games, drop the act and tell me what I want to hear! The truth, Loki.”
“That’s a dangerous thing to ask, Stark; the truth from the God of Lies.” Loki was watching him coolly, eyes sharp, as if he was still searching for whatever it is he thought Tony had.
“Did it ever occur to you, Loki, that I just don’t care anymore?”
The god’s eyes hardened at that, but Tony pretended he didn’t see it.
“Would you believe,” Loki said softly. “That I was worried?”
“Depends,” Tony replied, eyes narrowed slightly at the god. “Are you capable of worrying?”
“I am not as bad as you seem to think me, Stark,” Loki said, but his voice remained soft.
“Coming from the guy who attempted to take over the world.”
Loki ignored this and said instead, “You’ve been living alone for six years, Stark; none have seen or heard from you; rumors of you range from your highly exaggerated death to your spiral into madness. And you do not seem to care.” The frown was back, but Tony was used to making that look appear on people’s faces.
“Well, Loki, that’s probably because,” Tony said, grabbing the glass he’d poured himself before deciding the bottle would be better. “I don’t care.”
“Solitude is not good for a man, Stark. You’ve not even your Jarvis or your robots to talk to.”
Tony pretended not to feel how his chest and throat tightened to the point that speaking (and breathing) became difficult.
“Thanks for reminding me.” His voice was much rougher than he’d intended it to be.
He downed the glass in one go, set it down and pressed his thumb to a flat piece of glass embedded in his palm, taking in the renewed stab of pain.
“If you wish me to stop my games,” Loki said softly (caringly), “Then you will have to stop yours as well.” The hand Tony had been using to press the glass into his palm was gently taken in Loki’s and settled at his side, while the god took his injured one and carefully plucked the shards of glass from his skin.
“God, Loki, why do you even care?” No, caring wasn’t good; caring meant it was likely Loki wouldn’t leave before Tony broke down in tears; he could already feel them prickling hotly behind his eyes.
“You are not the only one who has lost something, Stark…” The god seemed just as mesmerized as Tony at the crimson pooling in his palm; at the bloodied shards being pulled deftly from Tony’s hand; at the way amber droplets of whiskey still clung to Tony’s fingers.
“I didn’t lose something, Loki,” Tony said, voice now just as soft, drawing the god’s attention. “I lost everything.” And he had.
Everything and everyone who had ever cared, he’d lost when the tower crashed to the ground around him and the earth quakes started.
He’d been testing out a new suit; the Mark 43, and was protected (mostly) from the tons of concrete.
Every Avenger aside from Thor had been in the tower that day. Pepper had been in a meeting on floor three.
Rhodey had been coming up in the elevator to see his new suit because Tony was a god damn show off.
He’d brought Dummy, Butterfingers and U from his Malibu home when he’d realize that the tower was his new home.
He’d switched Jarvis’s database from Malibu to the tower.
Everything had fallen.
Even Tony.
Tony didn’t notice the hitch to his breathing or the tremble in his hands, but Loki did.
Loki did and he pressed one palm to Tony’s chest, took Tony’s uninjured hand and splayed it against his own so Tony could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart.
And then Tony felt it; the blind panic rising in his chest, closing his throat and suddenly he couldn’t breathe because dammit this was Loki, the guy he still had nightmares about and they were holding hands and Loki was comforting him like he had every right to be; like he hadn’t cause Tony’s anxiety in the first place; like he understood but god knows he could never understand what it’s like to have everything ripped out from beneath you and forcing you to live in an entirely new world that you’d never bothered to believe in and then-
and then there was nothing but cold and comfort and the smell of dying leaves and winter and snow and he was held against something solid and protective and there and he could breathe again.
And when he breathed, he breathed in Loki and dammit, that was all it took to force the tears down his cheeks and deep, shaking sobs to wrack his form (he hadn’t shed a tear for six years; this was long overdue).
And Loki- dammit, the god sat there and held him.
He just- he held Tony and he held him close.
And Tony let him because what else could he do?
God, it felt so good; he didn’t have to be strong for once; he didn’t have to hold anyone else up; he didn’t have to be Tony Stark. He could just give up and give in and let everything he’d ever felt take him until he couldn’t feel anything else.
An hour later, and his hand was bandaged.
His cries had subsided into hiccupping tears, and then disappeared all together.
It was dark out now, and they had all the lights off; the only thing to chase away he dark being the fire they’d built in the fireplace and the silver-blue light of the arc reactor.
They both had a drink now (Tony owed the god one anyways), because it seemed Tony couldn’t go more than an hour without one anymore. Loki didn’t say a word about it. Tony pretended he didn’t know he wanted to.
They stared at the fire in silence, Loki sitting on the couch and Tony on the ground leaning against the god’s legs, pretending this didn’t feel as intimate as it really was.
Tony passed the bottle to Loki and the god took a long, slow drink before handing it back and Tony followed suit, keeping the bottle to himself when he felt the god’s hands on his shoulders slowly begin to knead away the tension that had spent six years in the making.
He finished the bottle in one long swallow and set it down on the floor, deciding against getting another.
Loki kept massaging, and Tony found himself drifting, his mind quieting wonderfully until he was thinking nothing at all.
He didn’t realize he was almost asleep until he sagged back against Loki.
Loki didn’t say anything; instead, he bent down and lifted Tony, one arm behind his back and the other beneath his knees; cradling him like he was some precious little thing.
He was laid down in bed, the blankets pulled to his waist, the soft glow of the reactor illuminating the room.
As Loki stood to leave, Tony reached out and fisted his fingers in the god’s shirt; Loki froze, eyes moving down to meet Tony’s barely open ones.
“Stay,” Tony mumbled tiredly.
Loki gazed at him for a moment before nodding, gently prying Tony’s fingers from his shirt and sitting beside him on the bed, carding his fingers through Tony’s hair.
Tony let his eyes fall closed again.
“I will stay, Anthony, I promise. Sleep.” The voice was so gentle, the hand running through his hair so soft that he couldn’t help but listen.
He drifted off to the feeling of someone pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.
It was only upon waking and finding an arm wound around his waist did Tony realize that the God of Lies had kept his promise.
And when he found the golden apple sitting on his nightstand?
Well, what else was there for him to do?
He took a bite.