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shieldborneIt’s dusk; damp, cool, blue spring twilight, and the crickets and frogs are making noise in the undergrowth at the back of the clubhouse. Steve is making a last trip around the periphery, checking the locks on the windows, checking the newly-repaired roof for leaks, checking, looking, listening for things that aren’t there and never will be again.
The Peter Parker he knew is dead. Too young to be a soldier, died like an Avenger, millions of miles from home, and all that’s left is a mask and a text on Miles’ PINpoint. These things shouldn’t happen. The world shouldn’t allow them to happen. And Steve always knew the world was viciously unfair, but he used to think he could, if not fix it, at least create some kind of counterweight against the worst of it.
Now he’s starting to learn different. Bad things happen. Good people are lost. It can’t be stopped, the pain can’t be mitigated or healed. It has to be enough, to stand up for good in a world where goodness is, to all appearances, meaningless, just for the sake of standing up. I can do this all day, and if I’m only a tiny spark to be swallowed by darkness and forgotten, I will still do this all day, until I am extinguished.
If nothing else, it’s a promise fulfilled: not a perfect soldier, but a good man. He’s going home to try. He has no clear idea what to do, whether he can make the outcome in his world any different than that in his alternate's, but if he fails and half of creation dissolves into dust, he’ll keep standing, for the sake of the fallen.
“You look like you’re ready to face a firing squad,” a low, unpleasantly familiar voice tells him.
He turns and sees none other than Loki standing there, just outside the magical warding he asked Horvath to construct to protect the place. And Steve isn’t afraid of being attacked here, not even by the god of mischief, but it’s nice to see the magic works. Or at least that Loki’s willing to humor it.
He takes a few slow steps toward him, quiet and un-aggressive, but uninterested in banter. “What are you doing here?”
“Damned if I know,” Loki says, and sits heavily on the wall at the edge of the yard. “You’re the last I know of waiting for the axe to fall. I thought a last-ditch attempt to stack the deck in your favor wouldn’t be a bad idea, but I have no more hidden secrets to tell.”
“That’s almost tragic, coming from you,” Steve says, and comes over to sit next to him.
“Isn’t it, though? Do you have a plan, yourself?”
“To save the universe?” Steve rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, drooping like he’s exhausted. “Kind of above my pay grade.”
There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Loki asks, “Is it true? About Peter?”
The catch in Steve’s breath, the broken look in his eyes, gives him the answer he asked for, and did not want to hear. Loki buries his face in his hands.
“I didn’t know you knew him,” Steve says, wonders if he should comfort him, and concludes he has no idea how.
“He was kind to me,” Loki says, voice trembling. “And he brought chocolate covered pretzels to the Yule Party.”
Steve gives a breathy sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Yeah. He made me cookies.”
A moment later he realizes Loki is actually crying, and it’s the weirdest thing he’s ever seen. He can’t bring himself to touch. He’s not even entirely sure whether his hand might pass right through him. After a moment, though, he pats his pocket until he comes up with a handkerchief. Plain white, clean, with the initials S.G.R. embroidered in the corner in blue thread. Loki hesitates but takes it and more or less hides his face in it for the space of several minutes.
Steve thought he had cried himself out at this point, but finds he has a couple silent tears left.
“There’s still a chance for the version in my world,” he says at last, uncertainly.
“I’m going to bake some Norns-damned cookies,” Loki tells him savagely.
It’s such a non-sequitur, so passionately uttered that Steve just stares at him for a second, and then he stands and offers him a hand up. “I got a little while before I have to go.”
This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid. Natasha would have a stroke. His alternate would probably have a stroke. Bucky’s eyes would roll so far back in his head they’d never find them again.
Peter would probably think it was nice, though.
Loki looks lost for a split second, then takes the Captain’s hand. Accompanied by the master of the place, the wards permit him to enter, and the next forty five minutes are taken up by the scent of butter and vanilla, clouds of flower, piles of chocolate chips and toasted coconut. They’re quiet, speaking almost not at all to one another, but the motion, the rote responses to the recipe and the oven timer, and the heat of the kitchen are calming.
Steve will share his half of the spoils with Miles. Loki will share his with Thor and the children of Asgard.
At the edge of the wards once more, the god pauses to look back at Steve with lips pressed into a thin line. It’s such an intense look, Rogers almost steps back to brace for a fight, but he needn’t have bothered.
“This may be worthless,” Loki tells him, and then reaches into the pocket dimension where he keeps so many of his most valuable baubles. “But take it, in case it’s not.”
He pulls out the Casket of Ancient Winters. “It may slow him, or some of his army, at least. Open it, and all the bitterness of a Jotunheim winter will descend upon your enemy.”
Steve hesitates. “With what kind of chance for collateral damage?”
“You’re unlikely to have full control at first use. If I were you, I would save it for dire straits, or have it tested and studied before you use it.” There’s a glimmer of red behind his pupils. “And if it survives, I expect it back.”
He shouldn’t take it. An untested magical weapon? That’s insane.
But, fuck it, what do they have to lose? Steve gives a slow nod and accepts the casket carefully. “Thanks. I think.”
Loki chuckles without humor and nods. “Then I think you are welcome. Best of luck, Captain.”
The weight of the Casket is strange in Steve’s hands. It hums. He swallows hard, then nods and meets Loki’s eyes. “Yeah. Gonna need it.”
In the grass nearby, the crickets sing their spring melodies, oblivious to the universe turning around them.
The Peter Parker he knew is dead. Too young to be a soldier, died like an Avenger, millions of miles from home, and all that’s left is a mask and a text on Miles’ PINpoint. These things shouldn’t happen. The world shouldn’t allow them to happen. And Steve always knew the world was viciously unfair, but he used to think he could, if not fix it, at least create some kind of counterweight against the worst of it.
Now he’s starting to learn different. Bad things happen. Good people are lost. It can’t be stopped, the pain can’t be mitigated or healed. It has to be enough, to stand up for good in a world where goodness is, to all appearances, meaningless, just for the sake of standing up. I can do this all day, and if I’m only a tiny spark to be swallowed by darkness and forgotten, I will still do this all day, until I am extinguished.
If nothing else, it’s a promise fulfilled: not a perfect soldier, but a good man. He’s going home to try. He has no clear idea what to do, whether he can make the outcome in his world any different than that in his alternate's, but if he fails and half of creation dissolves into dust, he’ll keep standing, for the sake of the fallen.
“You look like you’re ready to face a firing squad,” a low, unpleasantly familiar voice tells him.
He turns and sees none other than Loki standing there, just outside the magical warding he asked Horvath to construct to protect the place. And Steve isn’t afraid of being attacked here, not even by the god of mischief, but it’s nice to see the magic works. Or at least that Loki’s willing to humor it.
He takes a few slow steps toward him, quiet and un-aggressive, but uninterested in banter. “What are you doing here?”
“Damned if I know,” Loki says, and sits heavily on the wall at the edge of the yard. “You’re the last I know of waiting for the axe to fall. I thought a last-ditch attempt to stack the deck in your favor wouldn’t be a bad idea, but I have no more hidden secrets to tell.”
“That’s almost tragic, coming from you,” Steve says, and comes over to sit next to him.
“Isn’t it, though? Do you have a plan, yourself?”
“To save the universe?” Steve rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, drooping like he’s exhausted. “Kind of above my pay grade.”
There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Loki asks, “Is it true? About Peter?”
The catch in Steve’s breath, the broken look in his eyes, gives him the answer he asked for, and did not want to hear. Loki buries his face in his hands.
“I didn’t know you knew him,” Steve says, wonders if he should comfort him, and concludes he has no idea how.
“He was kind to me,” Loki says, voice trembling. “And he brought chocolate covered pretzels to the Yule Party.”
Steve gives a breathy sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Yeah. He made me cookies.”
A moment later he realizes Loki is actually crying, and it’s the weirdest thing he’s ever seen. He can’t bring himself to touch. He’s not even entirely sure whether his hand might pass right through him. After a moment, though, he pats his pocket until he comes up with a handkerchief. Plain white, clean, with the initials S.G.R. embroidered in the corner in blue thread. Loki hesitates but takes it and more or less hides his face in it for the space of several minutes.
Steve thought he had cried himself out at this point, but finds he has a couple silent tears left.
“There’s still a chance for the version in my world,” he says at last, uncertainly.
“I’m going to bake some Norns-damned cookies,” Loki tells him savagely.
It’s such a non-sequitur, so passionately uttered that Steve just stares at him for a second, and then he stands and offers him a hand up. “I got a little while before I have to go.”
This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid. Natasha would have a stroke. His alternate would probably have a stroke. Bucky’s eyes would roll so far back in his head they’d never find them again.
Peter would probably think it was nice, though.
Loki looks lost for a split second, then takes the Captain’s hand. Accompanied by the master of the place, the wards permit him to enter, and the next forty five minutes are taken up by the scent of butter and vanilla, clouds of flower, piles of chocolate chips and toasted coconut. They’re quiet, speaking almost not at all to one another, but the motion, the rote responses to the recipe and the oven timer, and the heat of the kitchen are calming.
Steve will share his half of the spoils with Miles. Loki will share his with Thor and the children of Asgard.
At the edge of the wards once more, the god pauses to look back at Steve with lips pressed into a thin line. It’s such an intense look, Rogers almost steps back to brace for a fight, but he needn’t have bothered.
“This may be worthless,” Loki tells him, and then reaches into the pocket dimension where he keeps so many of his most valuable baubles. “But take it, in case it’s not.”
He pulls out the Casket of Ancient Winters. “It may slow him, or some of his army, at least. Open it, and all the bitterness of a Jotunheim winter will descend upon your enemy.”
Steve hesitates. “With what kind of chance for collateral damage?”
“You’re unlikely to have full control at first use. If I were you, I would save it for dire straits, or have it tested and studied before you use it.” There’s a glimmer of red behind his pupils. “And if it survives, I expect it back.”
He shouldn’t take it. An untested magical weapon? That’s insane.
But, fuck it, what do they have to lose? Steve gives a slow nod and accepts the casket carefully. “Thanks. I think.”
Loki chuckles without humor and nods. “Then I think you are welcome. Best of luck, Captain.”
The weight of the Casket is strange in Steve’s hands. It hums. He swallows hard, then nods and meets Loki’s eyes. “Yeah. Gonna need it.”
In the grass nearby, the crickets sing their spring melodies, oblivious to the universe turning around them.
