PRICE OF FREEDOM.

Loki hesitates, the uncertainty visible in the set of his face and the distant shine in his blue eyes, but then he sets himself steadfast and puts his hand out, clasping Rogers’ own in the way TYPICAL of the Midgardians - a ghost of the true expression, wherein one would clearly show one had no blade hidden within one’s sleeve. Loki’s hand is cold to the touch, and hard, unyielding, as if he himself is crafted of marble, but his touch is delicate. 

The fact that Rogers is smiling - that is good. Loki feels glad, to have provoked so positive a reaction, but no smile comes to his own thin lips: they remain held in a neutral line, and he is quick to retract his hand once more, folding it neatly with his other. Readying himself to turn away, to swiftly retire to his own quarters or to one of the lesser-used laboratories, he freezes at the question, his head tilting slightly to the side. 

“No,” Loki says quietly. “Not birthdays. We have name days - we celebrate all of those with particular names, ordinarily those named after great figures of history, or gods, like Thor and I.” He does smile, now, but it is nothing more than a small quirk of lips, a shining distance showing in his eyes as he thinks back. “Very few AEsir mothers would name their children Loki, of course: to name them thus would be a condemnation. Children named after me inevitably are hated by Asgard, and hate it in turn: ordinarily, they flee to Alfheim, or perhaps to Nidavellir, in the end. I’ve sponsored half a dozen in this endeavour, letting them escape where I could not. A handful are born and named, perhaps one or two every few generations of AEsir peasantry.”

It occurs to him that he has revealed too much, that he has said too much, and he feels a vague nausea in the back of his throat, feeling t r a p p e d, as ever he does, here on Midgard, and so he sets a more DECEVING smile on his mouth, showing his curved lips and forcing light into his eyes. 

                       “Of course, what care you for such things                                                  - the strange doings of an alien planet, why,               quite irrelevant to us both now, wouldn’t you say? Asgard was always an ugly realm.                                      Better that you concentrate on this one instead.”

     Handshake accepted. That’s good. Progress. Steve won’t read too much into it, but he’s pleased. Gives his head a little inclination, as their grips come apart, his smile something of a tacit thank you to the god for humoring the maybe very Human gesture.

     He takes a second to stow the coin back into its box. Safer, there, than tangled up in his fingers.  ( He’s collected a fair bit of stuff over the past few years; but he’ll be lying if he says he won’t be finding a good place to keep this, among all of it. Might even wear it, sometime, if the fancy strikes him. )  Hands settling together at his waist with the box cradled between them, weight easing back on his heels, he’s no less intent on Loki’s explanation.

     “Name days,”  he echoes --- a way of confirming what he’s heard, so he’ll remember it --- but that’s all he says until Loki’s done. 

     Steve knows a little history and myth, mostly Irish heritage from his mother, and Jewish from Bucky and his family, but Norse is something well outside his field of expertise. Which maybe makes him all the more eager to learn  ( straight from the horse’s mouth, in a manner of speaking )  with Thor and Loki, who’ve both been there and, in a sense, are it.

     His brow furrows, a little, as he weighs the idea.  “Seems tough. Getting named and punished for something you didn’t do, before you’ve had a chance to do much of anything but be born.”  The tidbit that Loki’s helped people doesn’t escape Steve, but the opportunity to remark on it, unfortunately, does.

     Seems like maybe he’s wandered too close to a sore spot, with what he thought --- and obviously didn’t think about enough, considering all that’s happened; smooth, Rogers --- was a casual curiosity. He regrets that. But figures he might just cause more offense attempting an apology. Still ---

     “Ugly or not, it was somebody’s home, once.”  He almost says ‘your home’, but thinks better of it right before it slips out. There’s no edge to his tone. Just honesty as broad and steady as his shoulders.  “Wouldn’t’ve asked if I didn’t care. Much as I’d care about where I came from. If somebody asked.”  Which wasn’t, and isn’t, perfect, by any stretch of the imagination. But is also in a way just as gone as Asgard.  

|| @heroshouldered!

  Human men are exhausting.

  They’re not exactly unique in the universe for it. But they do have a particular talent for making the Argo question why in the multiverse she spends so much time here when she could be anywhere else. 

  The answer is always, at least partially, the dancing. They’re enthusiastic, humans, and that suits her very well indeed. And if someone gets a little grabby, she can usually extract herself at the end of the dance. But this guy doesn’t seem to know how to take the music’s end for an answer.

     “Hey, slow down!”   What’s his name. Ascot? Ashton? Something that sounds like asshole. He’s dogging her as she tries to glide away.   “I thought we were having a good time.”   He catches onto her shoulder, spinning her around toward him.

  Something flares hot inside her. He’ll start to feel uncomfortably warm, if he doesn’t let go. In another minute — 

     Her voice is uncharacteristically colorless.   “You’re not too bright. Don’t make me burn you.”

     There’s a number of things in the world that look a lot different, since they pulled him out of the ice. Dancing is one of those things. Everyone  ( Natasha, especially )  is always telling him he needs to get out more. But half the time when he tries to, he ends up like this: standing, watching, feeling a little too much like the man out of time he keeps trying to prove he’s not.

     One thing that hasn’t changed, is the look of what he sees going on at the other side of the room. Chasing. Grabbing. Refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer. ...And that’s enough of that. Steve Rogers may not be able to dance the way everyone does these days --- but there’s something he learned a long time ago that’s no less useful today than it was seventy years in the past. And that’s how to take out the trash.

     He cuts through the crowd a lot more smoothly than might be expected of a man of his size, and his eyes and jaw are both rock-hard by the time he gets where he’s going.

     “Listen, pal --- ”  A big hand clamps down on the shorter man’s shoulder. Right at the base of his neck. Steve squeezes. The man’s grip on the woman pops free --- maybe because he doesn’t have any choice but to gasp and let go. 

     ( And if Steve’s fingers leave a bruise or two...? Well then that’s just too damn bad. )

     Nearly dragging him bodily, Steve swaps their places. Now he’s between the woman and this nuisance, and can look him in the eye.  “She shouldn’t have to tell you twice.”  A little tilt of his head adds emphasis.  “I’m not going to.”  His hand snaps open like a bear trap, and the man’s knees buckle, a little. Steve gestures with his chin.  “Beat it.”

     The very picture of the tail between his legs metaphor, the ill-mannered kid obeys.

fighting. | accepting !

     A hard breath exits between his bloodied teeth, as he watches a helicopter full of classified ordnance growing ever smaller in the gray sky above Lake Michigan. Not too long and it’d be into Canada, on the ground somewhere, and gone.  ( If he weren’t so winded, Rogers would be using the kind of language that could make a sailor blush. )  The pursuit into Chicago had been headlong enough, neither he or SHIELD had had time to scramble support in the event the chase became airborne.

     He’s grounded. Out of options.

     Except for the one with wings standing right in front of him, looking a bit too small and a bit too girl-shaped for him to be completely comfortable with having her in combat at his side. But she’s proved herself, purple insect armor and all. Had saved him and his people an injury or two, he’d wager — whoever she is.

     But can he send her? Can he bring himself to send what looks like a kid after a bunch of murderous missile thieves?

     He’d have gone — he reminds himself — if he could have, at a size and apparent ability considerably less than hers.

     The thought doesn’t help.

Acts of Kindness//Closed

It was a beautiful day out, but Clara wasn’t focused on the weather. She peered out from behind the wall she was leaning against, eyes scanning for Robert. Her student was an absolute star, but lately he’d been having trouble. It wasn’t like him, and the longer it went on the more she worried. It was a little creepy, but she’d followed Robert after school a few times, trying to make sure that at the least, he had somewhere to go home to.

As it turned out, he did, but he spent a lot of time at a local community center. Once she’d learned that, she worried that there was something going on at home that made him not want to be there. She watched him go inside and made a snap decision to follow him inside.

She made it relatively far into the community center, ducking behind potted plants and walls and things before realizing that even if she did successfully hide from Robert, it wouldn’t matter - if she was going to come back, he’d see her eventually. With that thought in mind, she spun around, planning to head towards the front desk to volunteer and - promptly ran face first into someone.

“I’m so sorry, oh my god, I -“

It didn’t take long for her to realize that he was looking at her weird, which meant that he’d seen her sneaking around.

“This isn’t what it looks like, I swear.”

Coming out of the ice after seven decades, a lot of people got the impression he was out of date. And maybe he was. But just because he was a little disoriented and had some catching up to do, to understand how things worked now, didn’t necessarily mean he couldn’t function like a grown human being.

A fact which seemed, whether intentionally or not, to persistently escape one Tony Stark. Who was --- along with a bet --- the reason Steve Rogers wound up attending a class bent on reviewing some of the most influential American cultural movements of the past fifty years or so. Steve himself was hell-bent on having perfect attendance for all ten weeks, and therefore winning Stark’s bet that he ‘couldn’t hack it.’

What he didn’t bet on, his second week in, was to discover some sort of mystery in the community center. Specifically, some small woman creeping around the halls, on the tail of a younger boy. She tracked his movements like a bloodhound, and Steve might’ve been impressed by her dedication if not for the concern of just what the hell she thought she was doing.

He followed her, of course. Though in a far less clandestine fashion. Blatantly enough that they inevitably ran into each other. Literally.

Instinct was to reach out and steady her. Steve refrained. Settled his hands on his hips, instead, and stared down at her. Stark had also mocked him, more than once, about that stance and expression, and how it looked like he was trying to be ‘Stern Dad’.

Well if he was stern dad, then so be it. This was something, and he couldn’t ignore it.

“Guess that depends on your perspective of what it looks like,”  he answered. Calm, but serious enough to let her know he meant business.  “To me --- looks like you’re following someone. A kid. And you don’t wanna be seen doing it.”  His shoulders squared a little more than they already were.  “Which maybe means you’re planning some sort of surprise, or you’re up to no good.”

Loki is visibly stiff, and he swallows, adjusting the set of his shoulders. Midgard is… Uncomfortable. For the majority of his time here, he avoids the field entirely, removing himself to support and to healing on the ground - once or twice only has Stark pulled him into the fray, ordinarily when another agent is down. They don’t trust him - they oughtn’t. They don’t like him - they oughtn’t.

He hesitates, and then he holds out the box. It is small indeed, resting in the palm of his hand, white card marked with black ribbon. Within rests a pendant made of a silver dime, fashioned after the mint of 1918 - not true currency, of course, but something Loki had crafted himself, and the new silver shines. 

            “A friend on– A man I knew on Asgard was always something of a patriot himself,                                                                                                   and I thought…                              You will forgive, I hope, the sentimentality in the gift. 

             Birthdays seem to be a time for sentiment here.”

     Steve supposes, as he takes the box carefully with his big hands, that it’s a good thing he’d held off on having any expectations about the gift. Any guesses he might’ve made would’ve ended up badly off-base.

                                                                Which is to say --- he’s impressed.

     He’s careful, too, as he winds the chain around some of his fingers, so he can get a better look at the coin which hangs from it. The face of Liberty --- and her winged cap --- gleams brightly as the coin spins, and there’s no hiding the answering shine of appreciation in Rogers’s eyes.

     “That’s... Well goddamn.”  At something of a loss for words, the captain looks back to Loki. With other men he knows, in a situation like this, Steve might reach out. A friendly clasp on the shoulder. A hug, even, if it were family, like Buck. But for the trickster god he’s only newly adjusting to seeing as an ally...?

     A hand extends. Offered for a shake, if that’s acceptable. And there’s a genuine warmth in Steve’s expression that wasn’t there a minute ago.  “Thank you, Loki. Consider it a gift much appreciated. Sentimentality and all.”

    He seemed much larger in person than she expected, but perhaps his height felt exaggerated because of her recent personal downsizing. She smiled back up at him and gave a small nod. “I suppose I am. I have some business in town this week, but I’ve heard the fireworks show is not to be missed, so here I am.”

     “Yeah?”  He inclined his head, still smiling a little.  “Me too. The business part, anyway. Though the fireworks are somethin’ else.”  His blue eyes took on something of a conspiratorial twinkle as he confessed:  “Little loud, for me, to be honest.”  Bit too much like bombs bursting in air, pardon the pun. And he knew --- a lot thanks to one Samuel Wilson --- that he wasn’t the only veteran who experienced it.

     “Gotta admit, though --- the things they can do with colors and shapes these days. Makes it a sight to see.”  Much as he didn’t like the noise, his artist’s eye wouldn’t let him alone about the spectacle of them. The colors, in particular. Had been years since the serum, but the awe of something like not being colorblind anymore... Well, it didn’t go away easy.

fighting.

     Another detonation overhead interrupts Steve’s first answer. He ducks, shield up, and a twisted mass of I-beam from the ceiling makes the vibranium bellow like a struck gong. It’s not about to be the last to fall, either.

             “When I was your age, I couldn’t even walk yet.                                          You’re basically an infant.”

Loki keeps the thing in his hand neatly hidden behind his back however, and he presses his lips together. Being an Avenger, it is… Awkward. 

                     “It is customary to give gifts upon these BIRTHDAYS, is it not?”

     An infant. At 100. Must’ve been a hell of a childhood.                                                                           “Thanks.”

     He retracts the finger, and the challenge.  ( Not so sure it works, anyhow. Not sure you can not be friends with someone anymore if you’re not really friends with them to begin with. )  Steve folds his arms across his chest, weighs Loki with his gaze.

     There’s been a lot of adjustment, for everyone. A lot’s happened. And he’s Thor’s brother. Though they have sort of tried to kill each other once or twice. Steve’s not sure what to do with all that. It happens.

                  “it’s not that i can’t get ‘em out…” it’s that none of them would want to walk away even if they knew. and they would know. eliot wasn’t about to have the only people he’d started giving a shit about walk into something like that unaware. especially now that he knew they were in a little deeper than they bargained for. which meant that he’d have to be a little more aggressive than usual. he was pretty damn sure the world wouldn’t miss them if he did get a little hands on. they were hydra, after all. eliot found himself momentarily distracted by nate attempting to wrangle everyone else together.                       as he suspected, nate was bringing everyone back home so they could figure out how to proceed. there’d be no stopping him. “this project sorta means a lot t’ us.” they wouldn’t be backing down. hydra or no. eliot was just going to have to be a lot more on top of it. as if he wasn’t already. this time,  however, there was no room for failure.                       eliot inhaled slowly, fixing his eyes on the other with renewed  interest. “i’ve got some suspicions.” he wasn’t sure it mattered all that much in the long run. either way they were sort of in this together now. eliot wet his lips and stuck his hand out for introductions. the man was obviously a soldier. eliot wouldn’t be surprised if he was more than that. he carried himself in a way  that eliot had seen a million times. the same way he carried himself. “eliot spencer. i wanna say… captain, but…” he shrugged. he didn’t like assuming things unless there was little room for doubt. and here, there was plenty. “i figure if we’re gonna be workin’ together we better get’a know each other a little better.”

          much as he still didn’t know just what this crew could handle, steve nodded. he wasn’t surprised that they weren’t interested in giving up. as a kid from brooklyn who’d made something of a legend out of not backing down... he could respect that. but at least they were willing to reorient. adjust their tactics. that was just smart. and as much as a lot of people figured he was just a lot of lab-created muscle filling up a star-spangled suit and swinging a shield around --- steve rogers respected smart, too.

“like the way you figure, eliot spencer.”  the compliment was genuine, as he grabbed the other man’s hand in a firm grip and shake. spencer. felt like he knew the name. files from shield, probably. not all good ones, but from working with people like natasha, he wasn’t going to write the man off just because of what some pieces of paper said had happened in the past. good people could be more than that.  “rogers. steve.”  something of a lopsided smile pulled at the national icon’s lips, as he added,  “captain america --- but that mostly to the newspaper people. and kids, i guess. ...fans.”  having a following of enthusiasts was still more than a little strange, some days.

letting go of eliot’s hand, steve assumed something of a more relaxed posture. big shoulders a little less squared off. spine just a little less flagpole straight. he let his eyes ramble over the contents of the room a second time, but didn’t see much of anything that spoke to more than the obvious. he angled his head again, intuitively curious.  “this your base of operations?”  he wanted to think  not very secure,  but that seemed like an underestimation. more like a front. like a resistance rendezvous in france or italy during the war --- shop or cafe just off the street, plans to overthrow the oppression in the back.  “how many people in your organization?”

You got: Tyr, God of War

You have a strong sense of justice, and when things aren't right, you make sure to MAKE them right. So even though you're tough and can be serious or stern, people love and appreciate you for it.

tagged by:  @hittcr​