Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The smell of burnt plastic and copper clung to the wool of her collar, heavy and sour.

Natasha Romanoff stepped through the shattered frame of the penthouse terrace, her boots catching on loose plaster dust. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were already moving through the debris, and Avengers were all there.

Two logistics officers met her near the threshold. Without speaking, Natasha unclipped the case containing the Tesseract and slid it into the primary agent’s hands. With her left, she extended the elongated metal chassis of the scepter, its casing scorched black from the terminal's discharge. The agent took both, turning back toward the service elevator without a word.

Finding it in Spider-Man’s warehouse—or home, by the look of it— wasn’t much of a surprise as it could have been.

Natasha had questions.

Spider-Man had earned a measure of trust today. He had risked his life to close the portal when no one else could, and whatever had happened on that rooftop had convinced her that there was far more to Loki than the monster everyone believed him to be.

But trust wasn't certainty.

Spider-Man was still a masked teenager carrying enough secrets that his face wasn’t even the biggest of them. Whatever game he was playing, whatever he knew about Loki, Natasha wasn't ready to leave something as dangerous as the scepter in his hands simply because he'd done the right thing once.

So she bandaged the kid who had done the impossible, took the scepter, crossed the fourth of May off the calendar hanging in his warehouse, and quietly filed away the fact that it had been marked with a single line of red ink.

Natasha wiped a streak of gray soot from her forehead with the back of her wrist, her eyes scanning the room.

Clint sat on the low edge of a broken marble pillar, his fingers working with a slow, mechanical rhythm to untie the lace of his left boot. Hulk was pacing around, his feet shaking the floor with every other step. Steve Rogers stood near the center bar, his shield resting against his thigh, his posture straight but his shoulders slightly curved.

Tony Stark saw her first. He was already on his feet before she cleared the threshold, his unarmored frame tense under a layer of dried sweat and a little blood.

Romanoff, Tony said.

She looked up.

Spider-Man.

Natasha was surprised at the level of care Tony Stark showed to this kid. He invited him to Avengers, he defended him on the Helicarrier and he showed his worry for the kid openly. She wondered if it was because he knew who and exactly how young Spider-Man was.

After all, she herself wasn’t really over how little he actually was. He couldn’t be a day older than 17.

He’s alive, Natasha responded after a beat.

Tony’s chest dropped an inch, a long breath slipping past his teeth. He let his eyes close for a moment before he looked at her again. Where?

Somewhere safe, she replied. He requested the location stay between us. I’m honoring that.

Tony’s jaw tightened. His fingers twitched against the armrest, but his gaze drifted toward the shattered skyline outside the window. The argument died before it reached his tongue. He simply nodded once and looked away.

Nick Fury stepped out from the shadow of the central structural column. Maria Hill followed two paces behind, a digital tablet balanced on her forearm.

Agent Romanoff, Fury said, his single eye fixing on her face. We’re clearing the airspace in twenty minutes. I need the rooftop summary before the World Council locks the secure line.

Natasha let her hands fall naturally to her sides, her focus narrowing. Her eyes drifted across the lounge, pausing for a fraction of a second on the far corner of the ruined bar.

Loki was sitting on the floor, his back braced against the reinforced gold railing. Heavy restraints were locked around his wrists, the central chain looped twice through the structural iron of the pillar behind him. His golden chest plates were dull, his green cape torn, and his fingers rested loose against his knees. His eyes—pale gray-greens—were fixed on her face. He didn't offer a smirk. He didn't move.

Natasha looked back at Fury.

Spider-Man closed the portal, Natasha said, her tone dry and professional. He collapsed immediately after it. His condition was critical, with extensive burns and injuries consistent with prolonged exposure to the portal's energy.

She paused, ensuring Fury’s eye remained anchored on her delivery.

Loki came onto the rooftop afterward, she continued. He used his own hand to touch the injuries. The tissue began to knit back together. Spider-Man accepted the treatment, and then he requested extraction to a private location. I performed the transport.

The room went completely still.

The only sound for several seconds was the faint click of Clint’s boot lace hitting the marble floor. He looked up, his brow furrowed.

He did what? Clint asked, his voice rough from smoke.

Near the window, Thor shifted his weight, his knuckles whitening slightly around the leather handle of Mjolnir as he looked from Natasha to his brother on the floor. Every other Avenger—except Hulk who was still pacing restlessly— had a frown on their face.

Fury didn't blink. You're telling me the genocidal god who tried to invade Earth turned around and tried to save the vigilante who closed the wormhole?

That’s what I saw, Natasha said. She didn't offer an explanation. She let the facts exist exactly as she had reported them— well, not exactly but close enough.

Steve Rogers took two steps forward, his boots heavy on the loose drywall. Natasha. What happened between them up there? Before you reached the console.

I don't know, she said. I heard fragments of the exchange afterward, but I don't have the context, and I’m not going to speculate on it.

Fury turned his head slowly, his gaze shifting from Natasha to the corner of the bar. He walked over until he was standing directly over the restrained god, his shadow falling across Loki’s knees.

Why help him? Fury asked.

Loki didn't look up immediately. He let the silence stretch until the low-frequency hum of a S.H.I.E.L.D. transport helicopter vibrated through the floor plates from the lower deck. When he finally lifted his chin, his green eyes were perfectly steady.

He gave me a reason, Loki murmured. His voice was raspy against the quiet. That’s all.

Fury’s jaw clenched, his eye narrowing. What reason?

Loki simply looked at him, his face completely unreadable. Then, he smiled. Nothing I say would satisfy you, Director.

Tony’s fingers tapped an irregular, frustrated rhythm against his knee. Clint looked back down at his boots, his jaw set in a hard line. Steve lowered his shield slightly, his brow furrowed.

...I don't understand, Steve said softly.

Nobody spoke. Even Clint had stopped pretending to untie his boot. Thor stared openly at his brother. Tony's eyes never left Loki.

Fury let the silence stretch one last second. Then he looked away.

We'll continue this when Spider-Man is here, Fury said. He turned toward the room. Everyone else, back to work. And someone get Loki out of here.

Gwen (11:14 AM):
Still on for later?

Peter (11:15 AM):
Yeah. Same place outside the low-rise stacks?

Gwen (11:15 AM):
Make it six o'clock. My dad's letting me use the car. And Peter?

Peter (11:16 AM):
Yeah?

Gwen (11:16 AM):
You owe me about a hundred answers. Don't be late.

Peter (11:17 AM):
I won't. See you at six.

Peter closed the window, his thumb lingering on the screen for a second before he swiped back to the main menu. Beneath her name, the thread from Mr. Stark sat at the very top of his inbox.

MR. STARK!! (1:05 PM):
Running late. S.H.I.E.L.D. logistics brought three more reams of custody forms. Paperwork is trying to kill me. Instructing JARVIS to lock the forge if you touch the high-frequency dampeners without me.

MR. STARK!! (1:07 PM):
Banner is here now. Sub-floor four. Don't go down there, he's twitchy. Loki somehow chose to stay in the Tower instead of the birdcage in Asgard. Don't ask me why. I will be there in thirty. Eat something.

Peter let out a small breath, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before he slid the phone back into his pocket. He hadn’t seen the man since… everything—he had to take a week off to be able to raise his fingers again— but Mr. Stark was still the same. Still the same old sarcastic busy man.

And Peter was grateful for that. Seeing him fly into that wormhole really made Peter appreciate every little thing the man did. Even telling him to eat something was just—

Peter really, really wanted to just hug Tony.

He stood up, his right arm hanging slightly loose against his ribs.

The workshop was quiet—the kind of massive, echoing quiet that only existed in a space built for twenty people when only one was left inside. Outside the glass, the midtown skyline was still jagged, punctuated by the yellow arms of heavy construction cranes clearing the lower avenues. The workspace had changed over the last months. The tools were Tony’s, but the layout was slowly becoming an amalgamation of them both. Peter reached out with his left hand, picking up a heavy torque wrench left near the primary hydraulic press, and slid it back into its usual place on the magnetic wall board. He did it without thinking—the small act of tidying up behind Mr. Stark.

The peace of the room was almost thick enough to touch, but it didn't reach his knuckles.

His right hand was a mess. Underneath the tight white linen wrap, the skin across his knuckles was stiff and raw, the third-degree burns resisting every small movement with a dull, heavy ache. His healing factor was trying to work—he could feel that familiar, irritating itch deep in his palm—but it was dragging. It felt like the heat from the forcefield had sunk straight into the bone, leaving his fingers sluggish and weak whenever he tried to squeeze them into a fist.

He reached into his pocket with his left hand, pulling out a small tube of aloe vera gel he bought from a pharmacy. It did nothing as far as he could see, but perhaps from a placebo effect, he always felt a little better after he applied it.

He leaned his hip against the bench, his gaze drifting toward the darkened corner where the Mark VII chassis sat on its alignment rig.

Iron Man, Black Widow, and the Avengers… Peter wasn’t sure how he would show his face ever again. Yes, the day was saved at last, but…

Tony deserved better than the way I'd left things, Peter thought quietly. He deserved to know someone was actually on his side.

Instead, nobody even knew what he had been trying to do. The scepter was back in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hands anyway. He had spent months planning around that single outcome—risked everything trying to keep history from sliding back into place—and in the end it hadn't mattered.

In the end, history just repeated itself. He survived the New York battle only to get a barely-functioning hand and—

He blinked, his eyes shifting toward the floor plates beneath his feet.

Loki was down there. Somewhere in the residential suites below the main deck.

He still couldn't quite reconcile the image of the god kneeling in the ash, his translucent fingers cold against his shoulder, forcing the raw flesh back together while Natasha held a gun to his temple. It didn't fit. Yes, he broke the spell on him and was dying, and probably stopped him from being locked up for the rest of his immortal life… no, those all were pretty nice reasons to heal him.

Maybe it was just Peter who had to change his mind about the god.

JARVIS? Peter said aloud into the empty room.

The ceiling trim clicked, the low, British accent descending from the audio array near the monitors. Yes, Mister Parker?

What’s... what’s the status on the guest room downstairs? Peter asked. It had become a big conflict in the media for the past week. Letting the alien who tried to invade Earth stay in the tower, pending an oncoming trial. People argued that there was nothing to be argued, and they were right in their own ways. Because the government never explicitly explained what Loki’s situation was. They were probably waiting for Spider-Man before they decided to do anything.

Peter tried to stretch his right hand and hissed under his breath. Yeah, that was not happening any time soon.

If you are referring to the residential quarters assigned to the Prince of Asgard, he remains within the perimeter boundaries, JARVIS interrupted his thoughts. Technically speaking, he is not under legal arrest by S.H.I.E.L.D. standards. Director Fury has indicated that a formal sentence cannot be processed until the primary vigilante asset—Spider-Man—provides an official statement regarding the timeline of the rooftop interaction. Until that baseline is established, he is being held under domestic surveillance.

Yep, just like he thought.

Peter shifted his weight, his left hand tapping against his thigh. So... can I visit him?

No, JARVIS replied instantly.

Please?

No, the AI repeated, the tone flat. Mister Stark was exceptionally clear regarding the security protocols. You are to remain within the laboratory levels until his return.

I’m just going down a couple of floors, JARVIS. It’s not like I’m leaving the building.

The restriction applies to the residential decks as well, Peter. The variable is considered unpredictable.

Peter looked at the clock on the corner of the holographic display. It was nearly one-thirty. Has he eaten anything today?

A short pause followed. The dining facility records indicate that the automated tray delivered at eight-thirty AM remains untouched outside the primary threshold. He has not requested sustenance.

He hasn't eaten, Peter pointed out triumphantly.

The system went entirely silent for five long seconds.

That is emotionally manipulative, Peter, JARVIS murmured, the tone slightly dry. Then, the soft, pneumatic chime of the freight elevator signaled its arrival. Three minutes. Under full surveillance. Do not touch the gold trim.

Peter grinned widely and nodded as he entered the elevator.

He walked out of the lab, his shoes echoing down the short glass corridor toward the residential kitchen. It took less than two minutes to pull the bread from the pantry and find the cold cuts behind the milk. He worked entirely with his left hand, using his forearm to steady the plate while he slid the knife through the crust. It wasn't fancy. It was just a sandwich—the kind of thing May used to leave wrapped in foil on the counter when he came home past midnight.

He hesitated right before the room JARVIS said Loki was in. There wasn’t actually a reason to be here, was there? He could just… not… go inside. That way he also wouldn’t have to face Mr. Stark’s scolding later.

Oh well. He already prepared the sandwich.

He knocked with his foot and entered just a moment later.

The room smelled like old dust and cold iron.

The residential suites on the lower levels hadn't been fully finished before the invasion; the walls were bare gray drywall, the light fixtures simple utility bulbs hanging from temporary conduits. Loki was sitting in the far corner, his back braced against the reinforced gold railing of the low balcony. The heavy S.H.I.E.L.D. restraints were still locked around his wrists.

He looked smaller without the cape. His green tunic was dusty, his dark hair falling across his temples in greasy strands, but his chin lifted the second the door clicked. The pale gray eyes were completely level, holding the same sharp, defensive pride that Peter had seen in the Helicarrier cage.

Peter walked three steps into the room and placed the ceramic plate down on the small wooden packing crate near the bed.

Loki didn't look at the food. His eyes dropped instantly, tracking the white bandage covering Peter's right hand down to the wrist. His gaze lingered there, sharp and heavy, long enough for the space between them to tighten. Peter caught the look, shifting his weight uncomfortably, and instinctively slid his right hand behind his back, hiding the linen wrap from view. Only then did Loki’s eyes drift down to the ceramic plate.

What is this? Loki asked.

Peter shrugged, keeping his left hand in his pocket. You hadn't eaten. JARVIS said the morning tray was still outside.

Loki let out a short, dry breath through his nose. He didn't reach for the plate. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his left hand two inches from his knee, his index and middle fingers curling into the air.

A thin, pale gray mist flickered between his knuckles. It wasn't the heavy, emerald light of his illusions—it was a faint, localized shimmer that drifted upward toward the ceiling rafters. Peter watched it hit the small, red-tinted indicator light of the primary security camera. The lens went blurry, Peter was sure it was showing two different Loki and Peter.

Peter stared up at the lens, his jaw dropping slightly. Wait. You can still use magic?

Loki’s face crunched up. He looked almost offended. They put reinforced steel around my wrists, Parker. They are blacksmiths. They assume magic is a weapon one holds in one's palm like a sword. It is not something you switch off with a latch. Magic is not held in my hands. It is held in me.

Peter looked at the camera for one last time, wondering how Loki would show him exactly in his illusions, and accepted the explanation with a small nod, pulling his stool closer with his shoes. Makes sense, I guess. Energy is energy. You can't really lock a current unless you break the circuit.

Loki stared at him, his gray eyes narrowing. The casual acceptance seemed to throw him off more than a threat would have. He leaned back against the gold railing, the chain clinking against the iron.

How delightfully clinical, Loki murmured, his voice raspy and thin. When you said you were working here I didn’t think you would be important enough to be allowed here. In and out of the mask, always near Stark. Tell me, does he know you spend your afternoons delivering bread to the monster under the floorboards? Or are you simply naïve enough to believe a sandwich alters the terms of an invasion?

Peter let the sarcasm hit the room and dissolve. The person he talked to most in these past six months was Tony Stark. He knew what a voice sounded like when trying to force a distance.

He knows, Peter said quietly, his voice level. Or I think so. Either way, you don't have to do the prince thing. I thought we passed those things?

Loki’s jaw set, his fingers twitching against his knee. The 'prince thing' is my skin, boy.

Yeah, well, right now your skin looks like you haven't slept since Friday, Peter countered, his brown eyes remaining steady on the god’s pale face. Peter was beginning to suspect Loki had no defense against complete sincerity.Look, we both know those energy dampeners on your wrists don't work. You could leave right now. You could tear through the wall and vanish, and nobody here could stop you.

Loki didn't move, but his posture went entirely rigid, his gray eyes fixing onto Peter with a sudden intensity.

But if you run, Peter continued softly, you aren't really, truly free either. You'll just spend the rest of your life hiding in the dark, pretending to be something you're not. There's only one right way to do this, and it's to stay. This is your chance. Serve whatever sentence they give you, and when it's over... you're actually free.

Loki didn't answer. The venom died on his tongue, his head tilting slightly as he measured the kid before him. The silence stretched between them, heavy and filled with tension.

Peter took a slow breath.

We can't run away from everything.

Loki looked away first, his gaze drifting back down toward the shadow behind Peter's back.

Maybe, Loki whispered, his voice dropping into a tone that was almost soft before picking itself back just like how it was before. But throwing yourself into the path of a cosmic force field doesn't seem to yield particularly brilliant results either, does it? How is your arm, by the way? I can smell the old bandages from here.

Peter's face flushed hot, his focus snapping instantly. No you can't! I changed them this morning before breakfast!

He froze, the words hanging in the quiet room. He realized how ridiculous, how completely ordinary he sounded, arguing about hygiene with a god who had just tried to conquer the hemisphere.

Loki’s mouth twitched at the corner—not a smirk, but the smallest hint of amusement.

Peter let out a long, tired sigh, standing up from the stool. Okay... my three minutes are definitely up. Mr. Stark will probably break down the door in thirty seconds if I don’t leave right now.

He walked toward the door, his steps heavy on the gray concrete. Right at the threshold, his hand hovered over the latch. He didn't turn around. He just kept his back to the room, his voice low against the panel. Just... think about what I said. Please.

Loki watched him from the corner, the loose chains clinking against his boots. You still believe I deserve freedom, the god murmured.

Peter paused, his hand resting on the metal handle. He took a slow breath before answering.

You deserve justice, Peter said softly. I am not the one to decide what that is, but I also don't think New York was the only victim.

Loki didn’t answer for a long second. When he did, he was almost challenging. And if their justice is imprisonment until the end of my days?

Peter thought just for a second.Then I'll argue against it.

He clicked the latch open and stepped into the corridor, leaving the room before the silence could settle again. Loki just stared at the closed wood, his expression unreadable.

The pale mist stayed on the ceiling for ten seconds after the latch locked.

The room returned to its old, gray silence. Loki didn't move from the gold railing, his wrists resting against his knees, his eyes fixed on the blank steel of the door frame. The words stayed in the plaster—we can't run away from everything. It was a human phrase, small and simple, but it carried a strange, heavy weight that didn't belong in a mouth that young.

He looked down at the plate Peter left.

The sandwich was still there, the ceramic plate white against the rough grain of the pine. It honestly didn’t look all that appetizing.

Loki let out a slow, breathy sigh that rattled in his throat. He lifted his left hand, his fingers flickering once toward the ceiling.

The pale mist dissolved into nothing. Camera kept filming as if nothing ever happened.

Loki reached out, his chain clinking softly. He picked up the plate.

Might as well, he murmured as he took a bite out of the sandwich.

The latch clicked behind him, sealing the dark room away, but the cold weight of the silence followed Peter straight into the corridor.

He didn't get three paces down the hall before the elevator doors hummed open. Tony was already moving before the panels fully cleared each other, his shoes striking the floor with a fast rhythm that signaled pure adrenaline. He was wearing a suit that probably cost more than a house, and his face was set in the sharp, pinched line of a man who had spent four hours being chewed on by bureaucrats.

Parker, Tony started, his voice cutting through the narrow corridor before he even reached the light fixture. Do you have any actual concept of the word protocol? Because I’m pretty sure JARVIS speaks English, which means when he says—

Peter didn't hear the rest of the sentence.

The gray concrete of the hallway seemed to drop away, replaced by the violent, blinding violet flash of a sky tearing itself in half. For a single, terrifying second, the man marching toward him overlapped perfectly with the red-and-gold silhouette he had watched vanish into the mouth of a nuclear furnace. The smell of ozone hit his tongue again. His hand flared up again.

Tony didn't get to finish the lecture. Before he could clear the final three feet of distance, Peter stepped straight into his space, reached out with his left arm, and buried his face into the rough wool of Tony’s vest.

It wasn't a graceful movement and it was very uncomfortable because of his right arm screaming when he tried to wrap it around the man. But it was a hug, and that’s all Peter needed at the moment.

Tony froze instantly. His arms stayed suspended in the air, his fingers still hooked in the middle of a gesture, completely caught off guard by the impact. The sudden silence in the hallway was louder than the scolding had been.

Kid? Tony asked.

The word was small, stripped of the confidence he so easily carried. He didn't pull away, but his shoulders stayed rigid, his chest rising and falling in shallow, confused intervals against Peter's forehead.

Peter didn't loosen his grip. He squeezed his eyes shut against the dark fabric, his voice coming out muffled, rough, and trembling before his brain could build a wall to stop it.

I was terrified for you, Peter whispered.

The sentence landed heavily between them.. The rigid tension in Tony’s spine eased, the confusion draining out of his posture. It all suddenly made sense.

Peter swallowed down the dry ache in his throat, his fingers tightening against the back of Tony's shirt. I'm sorry I didn't answer your call.

Tony subtly flinched. His eyelids closed, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle along his cheek twitched into a white knot. He remembered the ringback tone, thinking the kid had been crushed under a concrete slab while he was busy looking at the stars.

That, Peter Parker, who promised he would answer his phone no matter what, couldn’t answer because he failed to save him.

Neither of them spoke for five long seconds. Then, slowly, the awkwardness left Tony’s hands. He brought his arms down, his long fingers wrapping firm and heavy around Peter’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug that made Peter feel entirely safe.

When they finally pulled apart, Peter kept his eyes lowered, he wasn’t sure if he could hold the tears back if he looked at the man’s eyes. Instead he chose to look at the sleeve of his suit, then up at the dark hollows just under the man's eyes.

Mr. Stark… really did deserve better than this.

He deserved more than the distance Peter had been keeping between them since the Helicarrier. He deserved to know that someone wasn't just using him as an anchor—that someone actually cared if he came back down from the sky.

Peter knew the boundary lines were still there. He couldn't drop the mask. He couldn't talk about the other timeline or the stones or the graveyard that was waiting for them in three years. But he could give him a piece of the floor.

He could—should give at least this much.

Peter took a slow breath, his left hand dropping back into his pocket. I'm sixteen, he said aloud.

Tony blinked. What?

I'm sixteen, Mr. Stark, Peter repeated, his voice level now, stripped of the panic. And I... I don't have an apartment. I’ve been living in an abandoned warehouse in Queens… for a while now. That's it. That's all of it.

Tony stared at him. For three long seconds, he looked like he was waiting for the punchline—the quick, sarcastic turn that Peter usually used to deflect when things got too heavy. But Peter stayed silent, too silent.

Tony’s face went completely vacant, until only determination remained.

You live where? Tony asked.

A warehouse. Peter hesitated. Queens, 4th street. It’s… okay.

…Okay, it is bad, but It' better than sleeping outside.

The joke, if it could even be called a joke, clearly didn’t land. Instead, Tony turned toward the elevator, his hand clamping hard around Peter's uninjured shoulder with a finality that didn't leave room for an argument.

You’re staying here, He declared.

Peter froze, his boots sticking to the concrete. Mr. Stark, wha—

Come on, Tony interrupted, his stride already pulling them both toward the open doors. We're getting your stuff.

Hey, Gwen… I think I won’t be able to come to park today.

Wait, why?

I… I think it would be better to tell you this face to face.

Tony called to Peter from where he was waiting nearby his car. “Kid, hurry up.

Coming!” Peter chuckled anxiously and turned to his phone. “Anyways… I’ll message you as soon as I am available, alright? Bye!

Pete—

Peter, I don’t have all day!

Peter hung up his phone and ran toward Tony’s car. “Okay, okay, jeez—"