Chapter Text
On any normal day, Thor would dress quickly, not especially worried about which clothes he ended up wearing – because, without any particular arrogance, he knew that he could make anything he owned look good. He might spend slightly longer on his hair, but in general, he was pretty efficient.
But this morning had not been a normal one. Thor had spent over an hour putting together the perfect outfit – one that brought out his blue eyes, and made his hair seem even more golden than normal. Red was highlighted with silver and gold, and a deep blue cravat and summer coat set off the whole ensemble. His hair was brushed until it shone, and he'd even tied it back neatly, because he'd been told once that it brought out his cheekbones.
Nevertheless, right now, hovering outside the door of the Laufeysons' home and bouncing on the balls of his feet, Thor feels like all the nice clothes in the world couldn't keep Loki from throwing him out the house once he hears what Thor has to say.
Somehow, though, Thor finds the courage to knock, plants his feet wide and sets his shoulders, feeling more like he is about to go into battle rather than pay a visit to a man he can now happily call friend.
The maid – the only staff Loki appears to have brought with him from Jotunheim – answers the door, blushes, and drops a curtsey. “Mr Odinson,” she mutters, head bowed, before scuttling off to find her master.
Waiting in the hallway, peering curiously at the various knick-knacks displayed on various surfaces (particularly the strange blue stone, carved into a cube and filled with tiny tracks of white that look like lightning across a summer sky), Thor listens intently, waiting for the sharp, clipped footsteps that are so distinctively those of Mr Loki Laufeyson.
And then Loki arrives, and Thor has to remember to breathe. He's so focused on his own purpose – the reason for this morning's visit – that he fails to notice the tenseness around Loki's eyes, the hard set of his mouth, the way his fingers are constantly twisting, moving.
“Mr Odinson,” Loki greets, holding his hand out to be shaken and giving a small but welcoming smile, “I was not expecting you this morning. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Thor grips Loki's hand tight, and fears his own expression may be overly bright; he feels on edge, too sharp and keen, like something's wrong, wrong, wrong. “Mr Laufeyson. Loki. I will not lie to you. I am here for-- for a purpose, and it is one that is quite terrifying to me.”
Loki frowns, and he seems like he's suddenly less distant as he leans in, places a slim hand on the bulk of Thor's arm. “Thor, what is it? Do you have a problem? I will help in any way I can, of course, but since you will not let me assist you with the mill--”
“I do not want your money!” Thor exclaims, and then feels sheepish. “Sorry, I-- I feel strange, and I must speak my mind to you. Might we move to another room, my friend?”
Still obviously troubled, but acquiescing, Loki leads Thor through to a sunny, cozy little room, elegantly, if a little eclectically, furnished. There are a couple of cracks in the ceiling, and a bucket is stood underneath the one that runs right into the far corner of the room, but it seems the Laufeysons have been busy making the run-down old house habitable again. Thor grins. The not-quite-perfect room is sort of the opposite to what he would expect from Loki – and yes, Loki's nose wrinkles slightly, just the way his daughter's does, as he looks around.
“Have a seat, Thor. They may be horribly out of fashion, but they're clean and functional,” he adds, gesturing at the rather imposing armchairs tucked in by the fireplace.
“No matter, it is a very pleasant room. Homey.” He only says it to see Loki's face, and yes, there is a flicker of disgust as he gingerly sits down opposite Thor, apparently not even very willing to touch the furniture that so offends his sensibilities.
There is a pause, and then of course, they pass the usual and socially necessary pleasantries. Thor turns down the offer of a drink, and Loki is dismissive of the early summer weather they've been having this past week. Thor inquires after Síf, and Loki's expression turns positively doting when he tells him that she is so much better, and currently visiting the Carters – with the express order to stay bundled up and away from any large expanses of water. Then, inevitably, the conversation works its way back round to Thor and his reasons for visiting, and suddenly they're sitting there in silence again while Thor desperately tries to come up with something to say while willing down the blush he can feel creeping up the back of his neck.
“Uh, I have been thinking recently--”
“Did it hurt?” When Thor shoots him a look, Loki's face is so very innocent that Thor can't help but laugh, and all of a sudden the tension is seeping away. Loki seems pleased.
“No, now listen. I have been thinking recently about us, and about our friendship,” Thor begins, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, meeting Loki's bemused gaze with purpose.
“Yes?” Loki prompts, when Thor is silent too long. His heart leaps when Loki doesn't try to deny their bond.
He clears his throat. “I have been thinking that-- that I do not like us as we are now.”
Loki's eyes widen in astonishment. “You... You came here to inform me that you want to go back to bickering like children whenever we bump into each other?”
Thor blinks, thinks it through, then laughs. “Ah, no, my apologies. I have been unclear. I meant that I wished for our relationship to move the other way. To become ...more intimate.”
He cannot stop the quaver of uncertainty in his voice as he explains himself. He has no idea how you are meant to go about this – no doubt Clint would laugh in his face if he saw the mess he was making.
Loki, on the other hand, looks gobsmacked. His jaw drops and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, knuckles turning white where he grips the armrests.
“You wish-- Thor-- let me get this straight, Mr Odinson,” Loki stammers, sounding ever so slightly hysterical. “You wish for us to no longer be friends, but to be more than that?”
Thor nods vigorously.
“You wish to-- are you propositioning me?” Loki exclaims, voice deeper than normal. He coughs awkwardly into his hand, avoiding Thor's eyes, and there is a pale pink blossoming across his angular cheekbones.
Thor flushes, waves his hands as though to bat away the insinuations. “No, I did not mean--! I would not-- I meant only to state my intention to--” he lets his voice fade, because he is completely at a loss as to how to continue.
Loki's laugh is high-pitched and jarring. “Your intention to what? Woo me?!”
Thor shifts, sits back again, and folds one leg over the other, trying to convince himself not to answer. Unfortunately, he had always been rather impulsive. “Yes, Loki, I want to state my intention to woo you. We have become good friends, and I find myself wanting to spend more time with you. I-- your company is exceedingly pleasing, you have a sharp wit, and you are most elegant to look upon.”
Loki makes a choked sound, apparently unable to reply.
“Do you not return my interest?” Thor frowns. He had not considered such an outcome, had assumed that he could not be alone in this. But before he could work out what he should do under such conditions, Loki was abruptly standing, arms going around himself.
“Whether or not I share your interest is not important, Mr Odinson. Thor. What matters is that you cannot-- you cannot woo me. It is not-- it would not-- we can't.”
His voice is a little frantic, and without stopping to think, Thor jumps to his feet, lays a hand on his back. But Loki flinches away from the comfort, and there is an ache in Thor's chest.
“Loki, I do not know whether things are done differently in Jotunheim, but there is no law against--”
“No!” Loki exclaims, and he is facing Thor, and his eyes are wide, almost insane, his grin terrifying. “You do not understand, Thor. We cannot. I cannot. These are circumstances beyond your control, and yet I cannot explain them.”
Thor feels the beginnings of anger stir in the pit of his stomach. He growls. “This matter is purely between the two of us. I know I cannot have imagined the feelings behind your words in the past days, the looks you have sent me. You want me as I want you!”
Loki glares, furious at Thor's bumbling earnestness. “I refuse your suit,” he bites out, vicious, and suddenly wanting nothing more than to hurt Thor, drive him away.
Thor opens his mouth, is about to snap back a retort, force Loki round to his point of view, when a cough from the doorway interrupts him.
Loki's glare moves to the maid, and Thor steps to the side.
“I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, I tried to stop them, but they wouldn't take no for an answer.”
Loki's face pales dramatically, and Thor's confusion doubles when Loki's nervous – fearful? – gaze flickers from the maid to him.
“No, you cannot mean-- not now.”
The maid looks so apologetic, and Thor must be missing something.
But then a large man in military dress, dark-skinned and powerfully built, shoulders past the maid and gets right up into Loki's face. Thor is about to leap in, offended on Loki's behalf, but Loki himself holds up a hand, murmurs “Please, Thor,” and so he stands still, watches.
“What the hell were you doing?” snaps the stranger, all but shouting. “Do you have any idea-- what right did you have--”
“Rhodes,” admonishes another new voice, this time belonging to a woman. She's tall, willowy, her fiery orange hair tucked back into an intricate set of clips and decorations. A smattering of freckles sets her apart from most noble women though, as does the business-like way she is standing, hands on hips and eyebrows raised.
Loki smiles, wry and – unless Thor is much mistaken – not at all happy.
“Lady Potts, what a pleasure this is. And Colonel Rhodes.” He nods to each of them curtly, then gestures to Thor. “My other guest, Mr Odinson.”
Thor is surprised to find himself the subject of two very sharp glares. The emphasis on his introduction feels like a distraction, some reminder that they are not alone, but he cannot understand why such a thing would be necessary.
“Don't play coy, Loki. Get Síf – and you'd better hope that girl is well, or heaven help me, I will--”
Lady Potts is the one who steps in, lays a hand on the colonel's arm, and smiles silkily at Loki. “Loki, dear, we've played by the rules of your little game. It's time for you to come home and sort this out properly.”
“I do believe,” Loki answers, with the air of a man who knows he's going to lose but isn't going down without a fight, “that the 'rules of the game' said that it was Tony who had to find me, not his friends.”
The smirk he shoots them is downright cruel, but Thor doesn't think he is fooling himself when he sees the hurt swirling underneath it.
“Your husband is bedridden!” Rhodes bursts out, and suddenly there is silence.
Husband.
Loki looks stricken – although for what reason, Thor no longer knows – and his gaze is darting between the three of them. Rhodes is angry, glaring at anyone and anything and breathing hard. Potts looks sharply between Loki and Thor, and there might be pity in her eyes when she looks at him, but Thor is rather too occupied with his own emotions to care what she thinks she knows.
Husband.
The word echoes around his head, and unwillingly he's going back over everything he knows about Loki from the day they met and slotting it in, and everything's fitting better than ever, and it hurts. Thor wants to do nothing more than rage, but he's empty apart from the pain – the anger is draining out in favour of nausea and horror and he doesn't know what to do.
This is worse than the day he realised that he couldn't fix the mill's finances. It's worse than the disappointment on his father's face were he able to see him now.
Husband.
“Thor, I--” Loki chokes out, hurriedly, taking a step towards him and holding out his hands.
But Thor doesn't want his words, his lies, and he doesn't want that silver tongue to weave another spell of trust and friendship.
Without a word to anyone, Thor grabs up his cane from where it rested against his chair, and storms out the door.
*
When the door to his bedroom creaks open for the fifth time that day, Tony groans and rolls over, wanting nothing more than to be left alone to smother himself in the bedcovers. He hates being ill, detests it, and so he feels no guilt about burying his face in the pillow that stinks of his own sweat, and snapping viciously with the little voice he has left.
“Get the hell out, won't you? Can't you leave me to die in peace?”
There's a pause, and then an overly pleasant voice is replying, words razor-sharp in the dim room.
“Now, is that any way to talk when your friends went to so much trouble to find us and bring us back?”
Tony freezes, and then all in one motion rolls over and sits up, leaving himself dizzy and swaying in his bed. “Loki?” he croaks, not quite believing his eyes.
His husband cocks his hip and raises a sardonic eyebrow.
“Tony. Really, dying now would just be excessive. All I want is a divorce, dear.”
He's angry, Tony realises with a shock. Loki's angry. That's a rare thing, always has been – he can be a vengeful cad, but everything Loki does is tinged with a wicked mischievousness. Genuine anger is so far from the norm that Tony doesn't quite know what to do with it. His head's too full of fluff to work it out.
“Loki, what-- so you were in Midgard then? Bruce said-- Síf! Bruce said Síf was sick. Is she all right? Where is she? I can--” he's struggling to get up, to unwrap himself from the blankets that are weighing him down, but suddenly there are cool hands on his bare chest, firm pressure pushing him back into the pillows.
Loki's suddenly much closer than he was, but the room is spinning and Tony can't keep up. “Loki, no, Síf--” he manages to mutter, but Loki shakes his head.
“Tony, Tony, it's all right, Síf is perfectly well. She fell asleep on the way home, but someone will bring her to see you as soon as she wakes.”
He takes a second to breathe, to let his panic slip away. It's strange having Loki so close after so long – and he's not just talking about the time Loki's been hiding. Tony's not sure quite how many months must have passed since he and Loki sat and talked, touched each other more than in passing.
“What was--” he coughs, tries to speak again. “What was wro--”
Loki takes pity on him, sits on the edge of the bed, strokes two fingers soothingly over his throat as his other hand covers his eyes and forehead. Loki always was incredibly cool, and Tony arches into the touches before he remembers that it probably won't be welcomed. But Loki just laughs. He always was unpredictable.
“It seems that Síf has inherited her father's weakness to infections of the lungs. It was a cold originally, but the doctor said it became bronchitis. He thinks she may have asthma. I said that once I was sure she was better, I would look into getting her to see a lung specialist.”
Tony nods, trying not to fall asleep. “Mmm, good,” he mutters, not really awake any more.
There is a shifting of the bed under him as Loki stands, a last caress over his face before he moves away. The last thing Tony manages to get out before sleep has pulled him under is a hoarse “Loki-- 'm sorry.”
Loki stops, hand on the door handle, and looks back over his shoulder at Tony, tangled in sheets and splayed out across most of the huge bed. His smile is rather fonder than he wants it to be, but then, there's no one there to see.
“Thank you, Tony.”
*
Back at his rooms in Midgard, several days after the 'revelation' at the Laufeysons – assuming that is even the man's name, Thor thinks, angry and uncharitable – Thor is still stomping around, vacillating wildly between a red rage and a depressed lassitude. He can barely focus on the mill and the finances and everything he should be doing, and Coulson is getting more and more frustrated, but it doesn't make a difference. Betrayal, being played with, it's got his emotions in such a state that Thor can't even tell how he feels towards Loki at any given time; he should be angry, and a lot of the time he is, but there's so much regret, longing, mixed in that he cannot even honestly say that he doesn't want the blasted man to come back.
“Mr Odinson, I really do need you to look through these papers. I've tried to highlight the avenues most likely to yield a solution, but-- but you're not even listening to me, are you, sir?”
Coulson sounds irritated, and Thor is sorry, wants to tell him so – but he's so confused and riled up that he can't see straight, can't concentrate at all. He's going to lose the mill, but even the pain of ruining everything his father had worked for is insignificant compared to this maelstrom inside him.
A few minutes later, Coulson leaves again, and Thor is left to brood alone – at least until his brother returns from wherever he is during the day, he acknowledges sourly.
Clint has spent every moment he can hovering, hedging his way around the topic of Loki's guilt, trying to offer condolences, comfort him, and still tell him that maybe he should give Loki another chance – all at once. Thor doesn't quite know what to make of that, isn't sure why his brother – who seemed fairly indifferent to Laufeyson until recently – is suddenly the man's biggest supporter. If he's honest, it rather makes the hurting worse, not even being able to count on the unquestioning support of the brother to whom he has always been so close.
Thor has been thrown sideways by this news, and cannot quite get back on his feet. He can't work out whether the fact that he cannot stop wishing Loki would come home is a result or a cause of this knock to his equilibrium.
*
“Mr Laufeyson, Mr Stark, thank you very much for putting me up in such grand fashion.” Steve bows slightly, feels silly doing it, but his mother raised him to be polite. Then something occurs to him, and his face falls. “Oh, wait, should I have said 'Misters Stark-Laufeyson'? You are still married--”
“Mr Rogers, it's fine. You are here to work out a divorce for us, after all. And that counts for both the name and the accommodation.” Loki rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of what might be a smile around his mouth, and his eyes sparkle with mirth. When no one's watching him, he looks so incredibly sad, and his hands won't stop moving – tapping, twisting, clenching – like he's uncomfortable, like there's some other thing he wants to be doing. Steve is sympathetic; he watched Thor and Loki dancing around one another, saw the look on Loki's face when he'd come by to pick him up before they returned to Jotunheim, Rhodes and Lady Potts sitting in the carriage behind him.
But right now, the best thing he can do to help him – to help the pair of them – is to broker an amicable divorce between Loki and his current husband.
“Yes, Steve, don't worry about it. We mostly only used the name for official purposes anyway, and so we wouldn't have to argue over which one of us should give their name to Síf. All our business holdings are still run in our own names, and most friends still use them. 'Stark-Laufeyson' is just a bit clunky, don't you think?” And Tony is grinning brightly at Steve, his brown eyes still a little red-rimmed from illness, but as oddly comfortable with Steve as he has been ever since they were introduced.
It's bizarre, how quickly he took to a newcomer – a newcomer here to end his marriage, no less. But maybe it was just Tony enjoying throwing Steve off; when Loki had introduced him as “Mr Rogers,” Tony had stared at him for a moment, raised a teasing eyebrow, and asked for his first name.
The three of them are seated in a comfortable room something between a study and a drawing room. It's smaller than most anywhere else in this house – palace, Steve thinks sardonically, inwardly rolling his eyes at both Tony and Loki's flair for dramatics – but still horribly large and opulent, tastefully decorated with a mixture of old and new so that it appears virtually timeless. Steve has the relevant papers on the coffee table in front of him, and today they are going to be signed.
“Well, at any rate, thank you. Now, on to business.”
They discuss the contract, go through it one last time. They've been in Jotunheim over a fortnight – first waiting for Tony to recover, and then working through the details of a divorce with Steve.
Thank goodness Loki had explained the situation to him before they'd even needed to leave Midgard, back on that day he'd bought Peggy a book on the flags of the world. If he hadn't, Steve really would have been quite lost.
As it was, the pair of them – Tony and Loki, that is – really did appear to still be good friends, although it was clear that Tony was making an effort to keep Loki smiling and comfortable. Steve could see how well they would have worked as a married couple, and couldn't help but feel sad that they'd lost that. Of course, he knows perfectly well that Loki has Thor back in Midgard (although in what sort of state, Steve cannot be sure), and Tony does not appear to be pining for his husband.
And a few days ago – when they were just starting to hammer out the basics of the divorce – both parents had taken Síf into the garden, everyone else keeping a respectful distance for hours, to explain the situation to her. There were a few tears, unsurprisingly, but apparently, once assured that she would still be able to see both of her fathers, that they would still be remaining friends, she didn't seem too concerned. She'd also seen fit to tell Tony all about Thor and how good a friend he'd been to Daddy, which had led to Tony shooting Loki inquisitive and sympathetic looks which Loki then did his best to avoid.
But now, finally--
“Is this really it?” Loki murmurs, and Steve isn't sure whether he's meant to answer.
He does anyway. “Yes, this is all it takes. It won't be official until I've sent them into the central offices in Asgard – they'll have to file them with the authorities and make sure everything goes through the system properly – and they've replied with a letter of confirmation. But on your end, this will be it.”
Loki's eyes are wide, and possibly a little wet, although Steve is doing his best not to notice anything of the sort.
Tony is quiet, slightly subdued as he signs his name – but he ends it with a flourish, and promptly turns to Loki with a grin.
“So, this is it, husband of mine.”
Loki matches his expression, sharp and delighted. “This is it,” he echoes, then holds out his hand. “Tony, it's been – mostly – a pleasure, my dear.”
Tony laughs, shakes his hand enthusiastically, and Steve feels like the pair of them have had a great weight lifted from their shoulders. He quietly and unobtrusively packs away his things, smiling softly to himself.
“All good things must come to an end, I suppose,” Tony shoots back at Loki, and maybe it means something to them – or maybe they're just that happy – because suddenly they're laughing, properly, doubling over and leaning on each other to avoid falling off the couch.
Not that, you know, Steve feels a bit awkward or anything right now.
He clears his throat, and slowly – very slowly, and with much wiping of eyes and slapping each other on the back – Loki and Tony compose themselves again.
“If I'm not being rude--” both Tony and Loki roll their eyes, nudge each other, “--I was wondering what you're planning to do now.”
For a moment, they look almost serious, glancing at each other. But then Tony breaks out into a broad grin.
“I do believe we're going to Midgard!” Steve blinks. Loki hides his face in his hands, sighs loudly and pointedly. Tony pastes on an expression of false sympathy, pats him on the back in an obnoxious fashion. “Yes, my dear, almost-divorced husband has some business to sort out there, I hear. Apparently, he upset some people? I don't know, I mean it's so out of character for him--” Loki doesn't raise his head, but whacks his thigh, hard. Tony sniggers. “And at any rate, I want to meet these people who were able to put up with him for so long.”
“Tony, you--” Suddenly, Loki pauses, raises his head. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, didn't I? Hah, you have to come back with me, if only I can introduce the pair of you and stand back and watch your faces.”
He cackles, and Tony shoots Steve a questioning look to which he can only shrug. He looks somewhat concerned, patting his – former? Steve isn't sure whether that counts at this point – husband on the back and raising his eyebrows.
“Loki, what on earth are you talking about? Who do you so desperately want to introduce me to?”
Loki's smirk is positively evil. “Well, now that would be telling, wouldn't it? Suffice to say, it is a reunion, of sorts, and I hereby reserve the best seats in the house for watching it happen.”
And with that he stands, striding out of the room and calling for his daughter, still chuckling lightly.
Tony and Steve look at each other.
“Uh...”
“Hmm, yes, sorry about him. He gets like that sometimes.” He still looks worried though, but in a sort of affectionate way. The pair of them do know each other rather excellently, Steve realises, and he finds that really quite adorable. “Anyway, we were planning to leave in a couple of days – but I suppose, if we're going back so that I can get my ex-husband married off to some bloke I've never met, we ought to wait for your confirmation letter?”
Steve smiles. “Actually, it shouldn't take long – the pair of you are high profile enough that the case will be dealt with as quickly as possible to avoid complaints. I can ask them to forward it to my address in Midgard if you prefer. Given how long the journey will take, that should be fine.”
Tony's grin is blinding, and he claps Steve on the shoulder as he stands. “Excellent! I'd better start thinking about what to pack!”
*