fossilised | werewolves

werewolves

Pumpkin Spice.

It hits the shelves the moment the temperature dips below eighty, before the summer officially ends and the leaves give hint at changing color. It's become an American way of life. Lattes might claim it to be proof of their success and staying power but it's expanded into hand soap and e-cigarettes now. You can't find anything, really, that hasn't been pumpkin spiced these days. Pumpkin pie is too humble to try and reclaim it anyway, and has quietly retreated to Thanksgiving where it waits to mark the end of the most beloved season in New York among straight white girls.

Steve Rogers, while neither straight nor a girl, has whole heartedly embraced the trend and the moment Starbucks announced that it had come back out for a Limited Time Only, Steve had rummaged in his sock drawer for a gift card he was sure had money left on it and stood in line with the masses to claim his holy grail.

It's a comfort. It's a promise that there's going to be something else to look forward to in the coming months when holidays rear their ugly and beautiful heads to remind you that your family is dead and most of the kids you lived with in foster care and group homes have disappeared out of your life. It makes Steve's day and he's already day dreaming about boots and puffy vests the moment he takes his first, iced sip. Steve isn't really a day dreamer, but his head can get stuck in the clouds on the best days and distraction comes easily in a city where you're never and always alone at the same time.

There's charcoal under his nails and a moment of joy in his heart from the iced latte he grasps so fiercely the day he sees Bucky across the street. He'd know him anywhere, even with that long fringe of hair he hasn't seen since before he went off to basic training. The light to cross the street between them is red but Steve ignores the risks. There are two lanes each direction, and all four are packed with yellow cabs and black Uber cars. No one can go fast enough to do him any damage.

The latte gets dropped along the way and Steve doesn't care. It's been over a year and a half since he's seen Bucky. It's been six months since he last heard anything from him actually. He hadn't even gotten a birthday card this year.

"Buck!" Steve is just a skinny guy, five foot four, maybe 100 pounds if he's got art supplies and an easel on him. He has fallen arches and a heart arrhythmia, but they aren't keeping him from shimmying between cars and nearly getting run over. He's out of breath when he makes it across the street and though he's lost his drink, he needs to bend over and cup his hands on his knees to steady himself anyway so it all works out. "Hey." It's smooth and followed by a smile. Something bright and cheery and all too Steve Rogers hopped up on artificial sugar and flavorings.

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He acts like a guy half his size, shoulders hunched down, staring into massive hands whose fingers have laced together. He makes for such a lovely profile now, masculine but with long lashes and clear, smooth skin. Greco-Roman sculptors would have vied for the chance to commit him to history in marble if they could have.

It takes a moment but eventually, a half smile comes over Steve’s lips and he turns his head just enough to look at Bucky when he speaks.

“I’ve been attracted to you since before I knew what that meant. I know you’re straight,” he follows with quickly, rolling back his shoulders as the confession gives him confidence. “So I let it go. But whatever is in me now is just making it hard for me to keep doing that. It’s nothing you did or are doing. It’s my messed up brain giving me signals I’m trying to stop.”

"Oh."

For a long time that's the only noise out of his mouth, lips seemingly frozen in that little O shape as surprise spreads across his face. But inside, things are far from frozen. Aside from the shock, there also seems to be a fireworks display going off in his stomach, swooping and blossoming in delight, though it's tinged with a small amount of annoyance.

Eventually he shakes himself out of it and reaches out to slap Steve across the back of the head, like Sarah used to do to her son and to Bucky when they were being naughty.

"What the hell? Why didn't you tell me? You're such a goddamn asshole."

He cut off his own anger by leaning in and following up that slap with a sudden and brief kiss to the lips, reckless in abandon now that he knows the truth.

"I've loved you since the moment I met you, but you never said anything when you came out so I figured you didn't like me."

Steve hasn’t moved. He’s got that romantic comedy look on his face, where everything has frozen but his eyes have popped wide. He’s had innumerable dreams about Bucky kissing him but none has involved sitting on a bench in an alien garden while he’s barely wearing anything and looking like he traded bodies with a hockey player. That’s probably a good thing, because his mind is on shut down and reboot mode now and he wouldn’t want to miss the next few moments for anything.

When he can move again, it’s just to wet his lips and straighten up. Looking down at Bucky is strange but exciting. He furrows his perfectly arched and groomed brows and drops an elbow on the back of the bench.

“It took me two months to come out to you because I needed to wait until you were in a relationship so you wouldn’t think I was coming into you—“ it’s harder now to concentrate around Bucky. It makes his nose twitch when the wind brings in his scent, driving his senses up a wall with desire. “Which uh... You figured I didn’t— Buck, everyone has a thing for you. Everyone. You’ve only ever had girlfriends. You can’t just say that you loved me— You... you can’t blame me either for..”

So this isn’t working. Not with Bucky still leaning in towards him, almost inviting, and saying words he’d always wanted to hear. Steve’s hand finds the dimpled chin of his scruffy best friend and pulls him in. A peck on the lips won’t do, not now that Steve has a taste for him.

Bucky could just about punch Steve. He had deliberately waited until Bucky had a girlfriend before he came out to him, so of course Bucky couldn't say anything then, he wasn't the sort of jerk to mess anyone about, even if he would rather have been with Steve than whatever girl it had been back then.

Idiot.

He wants to say as much, but he finds himself being kissed rather thoroughly and that stops him pretty damn effectively. He lets the kiss linger this time, tasting the unique taste of Steve Rogers, only pulling back when he needs breath and even then he bites him gently on the lower lip as he lets go.

"I've never been with any other guys, because I've never been in love with any other guys. Idiot. Jesus, Steve, I've loved you since we were little kids, before I even knew what love was."

“That doesn’t— What does that have to do with anything? I’ve been with a lot of guys—“ Well, three, “And I’ve loved you before I even met you.” Why Steve feels the sudden need to one up each other probably has to do with the fact that no matter what happens between them, or to either of them, they’re still best friends.

Maybe they need to stop referring to each other as brothers though...

The blond rubs his thumb at the back of Bucky’s neck where his spine and skull connect, but he doesn’t try to kiss him again. That might be a disaster. He’s not sure his hormone levels can take it.

At least he doesn’t feel like they’ve wasted time on this. Their time together has and will always be precious to him. They’re great as friends. They’ll be better as mates.

Steve’s certain of it.

Bucky doesn't exactly feel like their time has been wasted, but he is mad at how much time they could have had before everything went to shit. Maybe he wouldn't have wanted to go overseas to earn money if he and Steve had been serious with one another, he might have found another less risky way, and then he wouldn't be the broken mess that he is these days.

And maybe then Steve wouldn't have been bitten by some weird supernatural wolf creature and become half... whatever the hell these things really were.

"...shit timing, Steve."

Just saying.

"Usually is with me," Steve agrees, letting his hand fall from the back of Bucky's neck with entirely too much effort. He's trying not to fall right into it here and now. Bucky can't physically take the intensity that Steve is gunning for, that's the trouble here. He remembers all too well what it had been like for Bucky to literally fight him off.

There can't be more of a buzz kill like that, first of all. And he really, really doesn't want their relationship to dissolve to that level. Steve's not a monster. He might end up being one if he's not careful but for right now, he's not.

"But it's not too late. We're both still here. And I finally don't look like a piece of Dali's art."

"Shut up, Steve."

That was said with more emotion than he's let slip so far, a sharp snap that's accompanied by an expression that Steve might know well. It was the scowl that Bucky always wore when he heard anyone being an asshole about Steve's looks back in the day, usually right before he went over and gave them a piece of his mind.

"You looked amazing then, and you look good now, so don't you dare make out that you weren't."

He loved Steve for who he was, skinny or tall.

For a guy to look the way that Bucky does to love someone for being a little shit, skinny and twisted, has to be some sort of statement to the fact that all of humanity is not as terrible as most people would think.

Steve isn't surprised to hear the sentiment coming from Bucky's mouth but hearing it alone is enough to lead him to smiles.

"Guess I can't fault you for having no taste. Not everyone can pull off a color palette that consists of more than just gray scales." All Steve wants to do is lean in and kiss Bucky again, but considering how bad of an idea that will be, he stands up somewhat reluctantly and offers the other man his hand.

"Speaking of... Want to come in and steal some clothing with me? I can't meet royalty in tatters."

"Pretty sure you're gonna be some kind of royalty soon, aren't you? Your weird blue grandmother thing is marrying the prince of this place, or did I get that totally wrong?"

He'd understand it if he did get it wrong, because this was a whole lot of madness to take in, and god only knew that he had no idea what was going on for most of that conversation, still half drugged and driven only by a desire to protect Steve from whatever the hell was going on.

But he stood up all the same, and started following Steve towards the amazing golden palace stretching out in front of them.

“Something like that. I’ve got to be honest with you though, I’m not following a whole lot of it myself,” Steve says, giving the air of the palace a slight sniff as they step from the sunlight to the darkness. He can smell where everyone is, though Bucky’s scent is almost overwhelming. It’s difficult to push that to the back of his senses as he hunts out a good room to sneak into to take something that won’t cause every breeze to expose him. Winding hallways and staircases and rooms that open to incredible treasures do make it a little easier to stay on mark, though.

Steve’s Brain has been altered, his body has been altered, but you can’t just rub out an artist at heart, or a prankster by nature. Adventure, in a body that can actually sustain adventure, is almost too good to pass up.

He’ll find something suitable to wear before too long, braided leather pants and a long coat that leaves him more bare than he would like at his chest, but with a somewhat musty smell that tells him no one will mind him taking the garments. Shirt or not, he’ll live.

It just looks a little funny on him with Bucky’s too tight tennis shoes.

“I feel like I’m that baseball player that goes back in time to King Arthur, yanno?”

Bucky had never really had the artistic flair, and so he didn't appreciate the palace for the wonder of architecture and style that it was. He was only awed at the opulence on show here, more so than any royal could ever have gathered on earth, and at how much of a tactical nightmare it was for him because he didn't know the layout at all.

He fell silent as they walked along in an attempt to find something for Steve to wear, growing ever more tense until his friend finally had other clothes (though they didn't help, as they only made him look ever more alien), and tried to break the tension.

"Huh? You mean that stupid movie, Kid in King Arthur's Court? I was kind of trying to pretend that didn't exist, why'd you have to bring it up?"

Joking is fine, right? He can get through this with joking.

"Besides, King Arthur and his knights weren't all eight feet tall and covered in muscles."

“And didn’t have giant wolf kids,” Steve points out. His grin is still there, drawn on more perfectly now and with a stronger chin, but it’s still Steve. Clothing aside. Muscles aside. Incredible washboard abs aside.

Now that the rush to be clothed is over, Steve can take his time. He smells the apprehension on Bucky, though, and his hand reaches out to lightly press against the small of his back, to hold him up a second. Light flickers from unseen sources on the gilt walls and bounces off of his friend’s features. Bucky has always been incredibly handsome, no one would deny him that, but this lighting, those dark eyes, and the love confession gives Steve all the leave he feels he needs to drop his head down to kiss Bucky.

He’s conscious enough to be slow about it, though. He remembers well what happened the last time he’d ended up on top of him. The soldier in his friend (Maybe boyfriend?) needs to have the ability to escape.

Steve just hopes he doesn’t want to.

Bucky does tense up when Steve comes in at him, but he doesn't duck away, and after a second or two of the kiss then he relaxes into it with a tiny smile that Steve can probably feel against his lips.

He can't help but be a little afraid that this is just another dream that his mind has cooked up in captivity to help him from going insane. It's nuts enough, with Norse gods and other worlds, and having his best friend love him back. He really fucking hopes it's not a dream, and Steve's lips feel awfully real against his.

"Since when did you get so bold?"

It's said with a proper smile when the kiss breaks.

"Not complaining, just asking."

“Always. How do you think I used to get dates? Sheer persistence.” Steve’s always been that guy. He’s just never been that guy around Bucky because Steve’s conquests, pale and paltry that they are, have usually happened when Bucky’s not been around.

Steve’s knuckles drag against Bucky’s cheek and his fingers lightly curl in the wisps of hair around his cheekbones and over his ears.

“You have to be bold if you want someone to take notice.” Especially when you’re four foot eleven and weigh less than most ten year olds. It’s nice to have a body to go with his personality now, loud and defiant that he’s always been. “Or do you just mean with you? Well you can’t blame a guy with a decade of pent up tension whose suddenly been given an outlet.”

"Steve, anyone who needed you to be bold to take notice was a blind moron, and never deserved you anyway."

It's not that he has Steve on a pedestal, he knows full well that his friend has a lot of flaws, it's that he knows that the good things about him more than balance those flaws out. He's the sort of guy who only comes along once in a hundred years, a true hero in the heart of him, regardless of what his body might have said.

Bucky's always known it, it's why he's always followed him and why he always will.

"Now, c'mon, before I get arrested for kidnapping a new wolf royal or something."

It’s the last thing Steve wants to do, really. There’s been several perfectly good, soft surfaces to nest in with Bucky, and there’s always the wall or floor to brace them— He’s never had a huge sex drive before but right now it’s a little haywire. He knows, he really does know, that this isn’t the smartest thing to do, delaying their moments spent alone. It makes it harder to get the scent out of his nose.

“Yeah. I hear that’s a bad one to try and get off of your record,” Steve murmurs, but ultimately starts back down the hallway.

It’s probably a wonder that they don’t come across Tony Stark’s body along the way, considering how like glue he’s stuck to Loki this whole time. He’s almost like a little yappy dog with his questions.

Loki had spent his time ignoring the mortal as best as he could. He was well used to annoying creatures who would not leave him alone, Thor was one of the best examples of that, and he had come to love the oaf. But there was something more irritating about the human, perhaps simply because he was human, and by the time they reached the feasting halls he had grown weary of the chatter.

"Silence," he said, the first words he had deigned to actually speak back. "You may ask me one question while we bathe, and after that you will hold your tongue."

He gestured to where the baths were, a huge chamber with three pools. One with lukewarm water for sluicing, a super heated bath for soaking and cleaning, and a chill bath for the final rinse. Bathing was a communal affair in most of the civilised realms, and Loki did not intend to disrespect Asgard by showing up to the feast without preparing before in the appropriate way.

Bathe— Tony isn’t sure what to make of that. It could absolutely be a sort of come on, or it might be a way for Loki to go all Species on him and try to eat him. As far as ways to go, being eaten during sex probably ranks in the better than neutral category, but that doesn’t mean he really wants to experience it.

Still, he pulls his shirt over his head. He’s not attached. No one will ask questions. He’d be utterly insane not to bathe with an alien anyway. For science.

Humanity may well thank him.

Tony skirts around the hottest of the pools, he can feel the steam coming from the surface of the water already. His mind is more focused on watching anyway. And watching Loki move through steam makes the corner of his mouth draw up.

At least he’s being quiet.

Loki hadn't actually intended it as a sexual invitation, he really did intend just to bathe and prepare himself for the feast and it would make the most sense to do it in the company of the mortal, and the mortal's other companions if they ever caught up, for surely they would also wish to prepare to be received in state.

Once his clothes had been shed, it would be clear that Loki currently held a male form, and that the whorls and patterns that were visible on his face also covered the rest of his body. He completely avoided the heated pool and slid into the coldest of the pools, his very body making the already frigid water cool even further so that a thin film of ice began to form.

"You may wish to bathe in a pool more suitable for your species, mortal, I will still hear your question and I may even answer it, if it is interesting enough."

Being male itself is not a turn off for Tony but he’s glad that Loki doesn’t seem all that interested in mate-eating him either. The thin layer of ice beautifully tracing itself along the water’s surface is not at all inviting and so the human, once naked as well, and sporting that strange, pulsing blue amulet transfixed to his chest, chooses to soak in the Goldilocks pool. No need to be boiled or frozen alive, thanks. He isn’t sure how clean all of this is, but given his exposure already to alien microbes, he lays his muscular arms along the edge of the pool and leans back anyway, watching Loki across the room.

Tony’s question is simple enough. It’s the basis for most scientific research. Curiosity.

“I just want to know who you are. And what you are.” These aren’t questions. He’s hoping to save the actual asking for further clarification.

Loki is clever enough to see those as statements and not questions, and tickled enough by the distinction to humour the mortal for now. It seems he has some wits to him, more so than the simplicity of Thor who would have thought deeply and then asked as he was requested to do without trying to wiggle around the requirements.

"You know who I am, my name and title have been mentioned in your presence more than once. As for what I am, I am a Jotnar. A frost giant, in the tongue of you mortals. And the eldest child of Laufey-King of Jotunheim."

Though, as a fyri, not eligible to take that throne when Laufey died, that would go to the second son and heir, Helblindi.

There seems to Tony to be a whole lot of princes in one very small area, like Saudi Arabia. He isn’t sure how it all works out here but he’s determined to learn as much as possible. His brain can handle it. He’s a genius in more ways than just for engineering feats and physics models.

“I’m not curious about your name or your title,” Tony says easily. “I want to know who you are.” James Cameron would be having a field day to see his Fern Gully thriving movie might not have been so far off. “Unless you are just a name and a title. That would suck. I come all the way out here to hang out with interesting people and discover the most interesting one to be nothing but a sheet of paper with a heredity list on it? Not buying it.”

"I am many things, little mortal, far too many for you to comprehend, more than most may comprehend. Why would I waste my time describing those attributes in words that cannot do justice to truth? If you wish to know me, then observe me, for I am no list. Though you are foolish if you believe that title and race are nothing."

Title and race come with the intricacies of court life, the differences of species, culture and tradition. They do not exist in a vacuum. Or perhaps they do on Midgard, their leaders seem sanitised and deeply constricted, mostly ceremonial.

"For now, I am an honoured guest, but we shall see how the evening progresses."

Maybe Tony is hard wired to disagree. His face contorts briefly from the force of trying to police his tongue but in the end, it’s at least partially in vain. He feels comfortable with Loki, the way geniuses have always felt an unhealthy level of comfort around subjects they are trying to get to the bottom of. “I’ve spent a life time trying to get out of my dad’s shadow. You make your own name if you’re worth anything.”

He’s not trying to insult Loki. He doesn’t think he even can insult him. The creature is obviously old and perhaps even more obviously humoring him, but without knowing Loki can have a hairline trigger, he forged ahead the way he wants to. Not the way it would be safest for himself to do so.

He sets his cheek on his hand and grins. “But I don’t mind observing you.” At least he doesn’t whistle. “But I’ve got to tell you that I’ve been warned after getting myself out on another no entry list. I don’t think my lawyers can practice off Earth.” But the promise of mischief sounds whole heartedly amusing to him.

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