fossilised | For Steve Rogers

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For Steve Rogers

Odin's wrath was a magnificent thing to witness.

Even when it had been directed fully in his direction, even knowing he might have died any second, the thrill from seeing the All-Father's power and fury unleashed and unfettered had been awe-inspiring. It had also been bitter, fractured, and furious. For how could any still think of Loki's rage as untamed, or his actions as crimes, when so ruthless a war-god sat upon the throne of Asgard? His actions had been that of a King. Had he not proven a wise and benevolent leader during his time upon the throne? Any who gainsaid that were fools, blinded by their petty prejudice.

He hated and loved Asgard with all his heart. He wanted to watch it burn and he wanted to rule it from on high, he wanted to see his family dead at his feet and yet always seemed to stay his hand when such an ending was within his grasp. It had been so again with Odin. He should have killed the old man when he had succeeded in spelling him into imprisonment, but he had not. For he had told himself that to keep the All-Father alive was wise, it allowed him to continue to tease out details from that ancient mind in order to keep his illusion believable to all.

It had proven his downfall.

For when Odin escaped, he had come with the force of a thousand suns for the man who sat atop his throne and wore his face falsely. Any love he had once felt for his younger son was gone now, and Frigga no longer there to stay his hand against execution. An execution he had determined to carry out with his own hand and with no further delay, to give Loki no quarter or mercy this time.

How long the battle had lasted, Loki did not know. He had not often battled to his full power, he preferred tricks and illusion to outsmart his enemy and his usual weapon was his silver tongue. He had no choice in this fight. He threw all his power at the All-Father, he used all his strength, all his tricks, all his magic. And somehow, impossible though it should have been, he survived long enough to slip through one of his hidden pathways.

Loki used the last of his remaining magic to cloak himself from Heimdall's all-seeing eyes so that he would not be easily found. To be so drained, so helpless, was not an experience he enjoyed at all. Blood stained his clothing from head to foot and he could feel the sticky clotting of it all over his body. He had taken great injury, and he knew he may not yet even survive the next few days in order to begin healing, but he would not give up. He would never lay down and wait for death. He was Loki of Asgard and he would never go snivelling to the gates of Hel.

With the remaining shreds of his energy, Loki staggered into the nearest building. His consciousness only vaguely registered that this was Midgard, a realisation that sent a thread of concern through his gut. An apartment door chosen at random, a hand slippery with blood on the handle. The lock yielded to him easily, he did not even need a trickle of seiðr for that, and he stumbled within. The Norns must have a sense of humour and wish for him to suffer, for he did not know even as he collapsed onto the couch that, out of all the billions of homes upon this wretched realm, he had found himself within that of Steve Rogers.

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Steve knows that this is weakness. He knows that caring about people like he does, his desire to always see the best in people is what people like Romanov see as his largest failing. Loki would not be the first person to tell him that such sentiment is weakness, but Steve can't help himself. Underneath all the muscle and super-soldier serum, he's still that same good-natured kid from Brooklyn. "This is," he offers softly, too earnest, too honest. But he means it.

He watches Loki, watches as he seems to struggle with the choice, what Steve is offering him. And then those thin-fingered hands are raising to unbuckle his armor and pull it away from his body. Steve watches as Loki's wounds are revealed to his blue eyes, and his brows pull together slightly, his forehead creasing slightly. He'd seen this kind of wounds before, back during the war. People with these kind of wounds normally didn't live through the night, but Loki wasn't mortal. He was hoping that much like his own body, that if he could get him to stop bleeding, wrap up his wounds, that his body would be able to heal itself.

Then Loki faints, and without those green eyes fixed on him Steve can't help the look of sympathy He checks his pulse, and then works fast. He fetches the first aid supplies he keeps stashed around the house, and he does his best to patch him up. He cleans his wounds, applies pressure and wraps them tight until the scent of blood becomes overtaken by antiseptics. There is, of course, that moment when he realizes that the only way to deal with the wound in Loki's thigh is to take his pants off. He is infinitely glad that the god isn't conscious to see him blush. Once he has the skin revealed, he can see just how ugly a wound it is. He cleans it as best as he can, and then covers both sides with gauze pads before wrapping it and hoping that the pressure will be enough to slow the bleeding.

He bandages every wound he can find, wraps cracked ribs and the smaller cuts. His touches gentle but not faltering. He keeps checking to make sure that he's still breathing, even if it's shallow. Eventually, there's nothing more that he can do. Nothing except wait, and hope that he did enough that Loki's body can do the rest. He doesn't like the idea of leaving him on the couch, stewing in his own blood, so once he's done he gently moves him into Steve's own bed.

He pulls up a chair, sighing as the morning light starts to stream into the small room and he picks up the book off the side table and hopes that he'd been able to do enough.

Though he would have hated to see it if he were awake, Loki's body remained limp and vulnerable beneath the gentle care of Steve's hands. Even within his head all was silent and still for once. No terrified fractures of Odin or Thanos, no dreams of blood and death and pain. There was only darkness, healing and complete. A void into which he had no choice but to fall.

When he did wake it was sudden and complete, as though kindling being struck to immediate flame by the striking of a flint. Consciousness flooded him and, with it, came the return awareness of his injuries and all the incidents of the past few days that had led to him being here. He did not move. He carefully kept his eyes closed and his breathing regulated to mimic the sleep he had been in before. He would not face the waking world until he had fully regained control of himself and taken stock of the situation.

First, his body. He flexed his muscles in the most minute of ways so as not to be noticed, testing for the depth of wound and the feel of any bindings placed upon him. A mild tightness around varying parts of his body as he investigates suggest bandages, and the smell pervading his nose is familiar to that of the healing rooms in Asgard. Medicinal and sterile. So his wounds have indeed been dressed.

Second, his location. He felt no chains at his wrists or ankles, no hard surface beneath him. There is pliable comfort underneath him and the soft feel of sheets. So he is in a bed. There are no voices to be heard, only the soft hum of Midgardian traffic in the background. So he is not in a cell or secure facility if he can still hear the outside world. Could Rogers really have dressed his wounds and laid him to rest within his own bed? Surely he would not have been so foolish. Yet it would seem the evidence pointed that way.

Finally, he quested deep within himself in search of his magic and found almost nothing. He had depleted all his energy, even down to the last of his reserves, and there remained nothing to draw upon. It would be several days of rest before he had even the strength required to stand unaided, let alone teleport away from here and defend himself in a fight. It would seem he had no choice but to rely upon the good graces of his host; a thought that curdled in his mind as sour milk even as he thought it.

Assured that he had the measure of the situation and would not disgrace himself by any show of weakness now, Loki opened bright green eyes and focused at once on the man sat reading a book as if this whole situation were commonplace. His mouth was parched and dry, voice slightly hoarse, but words utterly controlled as ever.

"You are a fool, Captain. That I breathe at all to speak these words to you is proof enough of that, have you no sense of preservation?"

He read mostly to keep himself focused, his eyes frequently flicking to Loki, to the rise of his chest under the sheets. No one would understand why he was doing this. Why he wasn't calling for Stark and SHIELD and prisons and restraints. Steve wasn't sure he could entirely explain it himself. It wasn't that he was unaware that Loki was dangerous, that he thought that being injured had somehow reformed him and made him someone he could trust. It was simpler than that. It was just that Loki had been here, in need of help, and so Steve helped him to the best of his abilities.

He looks up when the man's voice spills into the silent air, his blue eyes meeting those greens, and there's a faint twitch of a smile at the corners of Steve's mouth. "You're not the first one to say as much," he comments lightly, shutting the book as he looks him over. He looks better, at least. His voice is rough and he makes a mental note to get him a glass of water, but for the moment he just looks into those green eyes.

"You needed help," he says, as if that's the sort of thing that offers all the explanation that could be needed. It takes him a moment to realize that it's probably not. "I don't believe in the greater good, that you can justify letting people die as some kind of equation if you save a few more. I believe that if you can save someone, if you can help them, you do it. Because it's the right thing to do. Because I don't like bullies, and I'm not the sort of person that's going to hurt someone bleeding in my living room. Not even you."

There's more to it, of course. There's that fact that he's always been a fool. Getting himself in fights to protect others when he was nothing, just a sickly slip of a boy. But he always thought that the bruises were worth it if he was helping someone else. Maybe even some subconscious fact that this is how he'd want someone to treat Bucky.

His smile widens and he looks at Loki with a tilt of his head. "I don't think you'll have the same reservations," he admits. That doesn't seem like it bothers him as much as it should, admittedly. Maybe Loki's right and he's a little lacking when it comes to preservation of himself. He slips to his feet with that sort of agile grace that he has about him, and he sets his book down.

"You look a little better," he comments. Which means that this is going to start shifting toward the part where he has to make a decision about what to do with him, which he's admittedly not looking forward to. Captivity almost certainly means putting Loki somewhere Stark will want to talk to him, and he saw what happened when Tony just had his scepter. Asgard apparently wants to execute him. And if he just lets him go, how much damage will be on his shoulders?

"Do you want some water?" Stick to the easy questions.

The words coming from Steve Rogers may as well have been an alien language for all that Loki comprehended them. He was a creature of suspicion and distrust, all tangled pride and schemes, he could never perform an act of true altruism. He did not think such a thing possible within his nature. He could be kind, had been frequently in the past, but usually it was to further his agenda in some way.

Even the scant few people he had truly cared for in the past had not been free of his machinations. Thor, whom he had honestly loved once upon a time, had been his most frequent puppet and he had felt no guilt for it. Now those lies were past, and any soft edges that may have remained were gone. Loki no longer had even one person that he cared for enough to factor their well-being into his own plans.

Loki considered each and every word to be a badge of weakness, and that was writ clear upon his face. Derision and scorn, painted in a mocking smile. Even though this sentiment was being directed at him, for his benefit, he still could not help despising the weakness that it espoused. He would not, could never, look deeper into himself at the threads of desperation that accompanied the mockery, for that might force him to confront things about himself that he would never be prepared to.

"I do not thirst." This was a lie, plain and simple. But he could not bring himself to accept charity from this mortal as if he were so pitiful that he could not even fend for himself. That he could not was irrelevant. He would not be seen that way. "Tell me, have you thought beyond such noble intentions?"

He would be interested to know what the Captain's morals told him to do with Loki once he had healed and could be discharged with a clear conscience. Would it be to Asgard to face Odin's wrath? To Thor so that the decision would be taken from his shoulders and placed on another's? To some mortal agency so that Midgard could exact its own revenge?

Loki asks that question that Steve is still struggling with -- of course he does. Steve sighs, a shake of his head, feeling almost like he's somehow caught in the midst of something, like the question itself is a trap. Maybe it's just the fact that dealing with Loki gives that impression almost no matter the circumstances. His injuries may be fairly grave, but pain certainly doesn't seem to have dulled his mind.

"I've.. thought about it, yes. I haven't made a decision," he admits with a shrug of those broad shoulders. "If I believe your words, Asgard would just sentence you to execution. If I give you up to my government, I expect there would be little practical difference. Any attempt at limiting your ability to hurt innocent people would mean involving the Avengers.... let's just say that none of the options look particularly great."

His lips thin and he shakes his head with a sigh. "But if I don't pick one, you'll make me regret it, and I'll have to be the one to stop you." There are no good options, nothing easy, nothing that feels noble or even like the Right Choice. So he's not rushing to make any decisions. He knows he can't put it off for too long, but he can put it off for now, at least. He slips from the room for only a moment, returns with a glass of water he places on the side table by the bed. He wont force him, but he's hoping eventually necessity will win out over pride.

He knows that Romanoff, Barton, Banner, probably even Sam and Wanda would disagree with his kindness. That it's not kindness if other people end up paying for his sympathy. Stark would no doubt have something unpleasant to say, but that seems to be how they work these days. Conflicted friends, different ideals on how to protect the world. Every time someone tries to stop a war before it starts innocent people die, and even after Ultron, Steve still isn't sure Tony grasps the problem. He wonders sometimes if Wanda was right that for all his genius he can't tell the difference between saving the world and ruining it.

If there had ever been a good moment to take in Loki, it certainly wasn't now. They're all still working together, but there's a certain tension. Moments when jokes go flat and tempers flare.

That Rogers had thought over the potential outcomes of this and seen no way that sheltering him could lead to anything but sorrow and battle made this all the more baffling. True altruism was not a part of his psyche; it never had been, and it likely never would be.

He was no hero, and he had often thought that true heroes simply didn't exist. So many lauded his brother as one. The Mighty Thor. The perfect golden warrior of Asgard, future King and beloved by all. Seen as worthy, proven as such by the hammer Mjolnir which yielded to his grip. Loki did not see it. He saw only arrogance and foolishness, along with a sentimental weakness that gaped like a chasm, as if an invite for an enemy's dagger. That was not heroism, it was stupidity.

Apparently, Steve Rogers had the same issue.

If he must rest here - and he must, for he has not the energy or health to transport himself to any other location - then it would at least offset the irritation of being seen in a weakened state to watch the moral dilemma tear this self-professed protector apart. Perhaps he would even leave the Captain alive when he left this place, all the better to compound his destruction when the corpses of his loved ones began to pile up around him.

"Then it appears we must cede a temporary truce until such time as a decision is made." He offered this as if he were the one doing a favour for Steve, rather than because he was so weak that if the other decided to hand him over then he could do nothing short of allow it. "Does it not?"

Of course, Loki was not known as the Liesmith for nothing. Such a truce meant less than nothing to him, and he would not hesitate to break his word if it served him well to do so. But that would be a lesson for Rogers to learn for himself. It would be a sharp lesson, a bladed lesson.

Steve knows, objectively, that he's in over his head. He might not be as book smart as Tony is, but he knows strategy. He knows it well enough to know that there really isn't a winning strategy here. He has no way to even clearly know when Loki is well enough to force the issue, that point where he must make a choice. It could be days or hours for all that he knows. He knows how quickly Thor bounces back from injury, although he has also never seen him this kind of injured, either. He was hoping he'd have long enough to figure out a way to keep him from stabbing him in the back.

It was a plan in progress.

"Sure seems that way," he offered with easy agreement. He can hear in the tone, the way that Loki offers that truce as if he is the one offering mercy, but Steve's more than willing to let the man have his pride. He has his own, but it's not in the sharp, obvious ways that it is with Loki. "A truce, then."

He knows it's naive, but he wants to trust him, wishes there was some way where all the death and the demands for subservience melted away and he didn't have to make a choice and fear for the consequences. He knows that this doesn't end well for him, but he can't look at Loki and not want to help him. Of course, Loki's not the first person to tell him that such an urge was going to get him in trouble some day.

"I suppose you wont tell me what happened. But are there people still after you?" He questions, figuring it's a safety concern aside from everything else. He can't help looking at him over. Noting how somehow, even injured and laid in Steve's bed like this, there's still something regal about him. A look in his green eyes that reminds him of the commanding man that forced him to his knees in Germany. He knows this is a bad idea, it just doesn't make it so he can help making it.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" He offers with a faint touch of a smile.

Though Loki hungered so much that his stomach felt as though it may as well be concave, he would not bend his pride enough to ask for food. He may have demanded Rogers fetch him some in another few moments, but now he could not for it would be a request, or an acceptance of an offer, rather than an order. It was for the same reason that he would not touch the water yet, though it tempted him more each second for his throat rasped with dryness.

His pride was an all-consuming beast. It ruled his life, and had since even before he had found out the truth of his heritage. It had been why it was so impossible for him to accept that he could be a stolen monster rather than the prince he felt he should be. He had been raised to a throne, with all the arrogance and self assured confidence of a prince, and that remained in his bones even to this day.

"To list all those who wish me dead would take far greater time than to list those who do not." Loki smiled, a wry twist of his lips. He waved a hand, though the motion sent a wave of stiff pain through his shoulder. "Currently, it is the All-Father who wishes my head, he took some offence to my sitting upon his throne and wearing his face."

He had no need to hide what he had done. Odin would no doubt tell Thor, or may already have done, and Thor would shout it in his booming voice to all his petty mortal allies, so it would remain secret for not much longer even if he had not given it voice.

He shakes his head at the admittance that there were more people who wished him dead than those that did not. He couldn't argue it, really. Most of the Avengers, what was left of SHIELD, and that was just what Steve knew of, the people in his direct sphere of influence. And discounting the thousands that had lost people in the Battle for New York who no doubt would have wished him dead if they had the means to do so. Steve didn't want him dead.

He blinks however at the revelation of the one that was after him, and what it was that Loki had done to earn such enmity. "You were ruling Asgard?" There's a slight pause, a frown that curves his lips. "Do you think he'll come after you here?" Which brings up another unpleasant choice; the one where he decides if he defends Loki if this gets out. If people show up demanding Loki, does he fight to protect him? He knows the answer, he just doesn't necessarily like it.

Steve might be virtuous, but it's in such a way that it can get him into trouble. And what of when he's back amoung the Avengers, and Thor is loudly speaking of his brother's further crimes against Asgard, and Steve does his best to pretend to be oblivious? Protecting Loki is turning out to be a far more complex subject than it had seemed. He was bleeding, he'd needed help, so Steve helped him. He'd yet to outright threaten him again, at least. Maybe that counted for something? Steve wasn't holding his breath.

He wanted to ask how long he thought it would take him to recover, but the truth was that he couldn't trust Loki to give him an honest answer. It would be better if he trusted his own senses, rather than debating the honesty in any answer Loki might give to the question. Figure out how long he had to make a choice before Loki slipped away like smoke and illusions and every torment he laid upon the world was one that Steve would charge himself personally responsible for stopping.

Steve would be wise not to trust a word out of Loki's mouth. He had earned the reputation as Liesmith and Silvertongue over his life for good reason, and both truth and lie could drop from his lips with equal amounts of conviction and be as convincing as one another. He would use whatever best suited his machinations at any given time, like a master weaver creating a tapestry of his own design.

"Why should I not have ruled Asgard?" It was a bitter question, accompanied by a raising of his chin. A subconsciously royal demeanour, something not even Odin could take from him. "A throne is my birthright, and I ruled with a just hand."

That, at least, was true.

If he had been ruling with his own face then perhaps things would have been different, he would have made different judgements and spoke out on different things. But he had been forced to issue his decrees as Odin Borson, and that had tied his hands to actions that would suit the disguise lest any see through it.

"They will come for me. I have no doubt that the armies are even now being rallied, and that Thor will call upon your aid as protectors of Midgard. Shall you give it to him?"

It strikes Steve, in small moments like this one, like when Loki speaks of the throne as his birthright, how even like this, there's something about Loki that seems like royalty. It's a demeanor he's never noticed from Thor, even in his most authoritative moments. He wonders if it's something about his features, the lines of his high cheekbones and the curve of his mouth. He shakes his head and resolves to not concern himself with that particular line of thought.

His lips thin at the admittance that there were likely to be armies rallied in Asgard, and that Thor would call upon the Avengers in pursuit of Loki. There were too many choices here, and none of them were easy. It would be one thing if he could believe that he would not still walk old paths, that he wouldn't soon be trying to stand above everyone again.

He knows that he's going to put not just himself but potentially innocent people in danger, but looking at Loki lying there, the air still heavy with disinfectant and the other man's blood under his nails, it's difficult to not want to believe there's another choice. He sighs, reaching up and curling fingers at the back of his neck. "Not if you give me a reason not to." He answers with a sigh. He'd like to believe that people get second chances, even if they have blood on their hands. But Loki... he wanted to rule the world, and Steve wasn't quite naive enough to believe that dying had taught him any better.

But to listen to Thor, Loki hadn't always been this way. Maybe it made Steve a bit more permissive than he ought to be.

Now that is intriguing.

It was obvious to Loki, and had become obvious during the times they had faced one another in battle, that this particular mortal was one of great morals and ethics. At least as humans defined those things. That he should willingly shelter someone who had proven not to share those ethics, simply because of injury, was laughable. It was also incredibly pleasing.

"Very well, you have my word. I shall not attempt harm to you or your property, and in return you shall not lead others to my location."

Naturally, this agreement would be null and void as soon as he was capable of leaving and fighting once more. A smile spread on his lips as he imagined sinking a dagger into the flesh of Rogers' throat, a final lesson not to make a deal with one named Liesmith.

Somehow, against all the odds, Captain America had gained a villain roommate.

Steve smiles at the offer that Loki makes. He doesn't quite trust him, even if there's a part of him that isn't quite callous enough to just hand him over for execution. "Alright. It's a deal," he agrees, looking down at the injured Asgardian. He's certain that this is one of those choices that isn't going to end well, but what's the alternative? Handing him over to Thor and letting the choice be someone else's problem? He can't help feeling like what he needs is a prison cell and maybe someone to talk to, but he knows that's naive.

There's something to Loki's smile that's decidedly chilling, the think as he looks over into his green eyes. He thinks about calling the Avengers to say that he wont be there, but given that Steve is punctual almost to a fault, it seems a double-edged sword. He knows, that if he asks anyone else, the answer will be hand him over and wash his hands of it. Which, of course, means that he wants to avoid the subject coming up.

People had always assumed, even as children, that because Bucky was taller, stronger, charming, that he must be the troublemaker. In truth, it was the opposite: Steve was the one that had an unreasonable attraction toward bad decisions. Picked fights without an exit strategy when he was too small to win them, when there was a bad idea on the air Steve was the first one to volunteer to do it. It was one thing when there were other people on the line; when he was saving people there was a necessary degree of pragmatism. But you put him alone in a room with a bad idea and Steve couldn't resist.

Maybe he couldn't give up Loki because he reeks of trouble.

Steve slips out of the room after a moment, returns after not too very long with some papers, and food: eggs and sausage and toast. He made enough for two, but this time he doesn't offer when he returns back to the room, just nibbles at his own plate. He's unsure if the man is trying to avoid seeming vulnerable in his presence, or if it's about accepting generosity, or something else entirely.

He'd noticed before he left that Loki still hadn't touched the water and was curious to see if there was some way to work around the mindfield here.

Loki took the opportunity of the Captain leaving the room to allow his body to give in to the pain he felt. Tremors rippled through him from head to foot, and he had to grit his teeth viciously in order to swallow the groans that wished to make their way out of his throat. Everything was agony and he knew it would take time for his body to heal, time he would be forced to spend here and adhere to this bizarre truce.

Trust was not a commodity he traded in. It was a weakness, a gap in the armour of the strongest warrior that could let a blade find flesh. Trust was a fool's last resort, but it seems he had need to be that fool now. He could not leave and so he must trust in this mortal to keep his side of the bargain. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

The moment that Loki heard the creak of footsteps approaching he forced his body back under control. His face was pale as a sheet and sweat glistened on his forehead, but he managed to give off the impression of a man reclining at rest rather than an invalid. Thankfully, he was not offered the food in the same way as the drink, and so he could keep his pride in tact by reaching for it of his own volition and starting to eat. All foods he recognised, more was the wonder.

"You cook for yourself? Do you not see shame in performing such womanly duties?"

Rather than scorn, Loki merely looked curious. He had long been derided for his own 'womanly' affectations, such as magic and fighting with smaller daggers rather than a more conventional warrior's weapon, and it surprised him to see such behaviour from one of Midgard's more lauded warriors.

Steve does his best to not smile obviously when Loki reaches for the food he brings, but he can't help being pleased, none the less. He was rather hoping there was some way around it, because he didn't want to watch the man starving himself out of pride. He could see the pain on his face; he'd been in a war, he knew the look of a man trying not to admit to his injuries, and the pallor of Loki's skin didn't give him much comfort, but he at least didn't look as badly as he had before.

But at the question, Steve tenses, and there's a brief flicker of a look that's that mix of hurt and a bright refusal to let on that he cares, that way that his shoulders straighten, and his eyes sharpen a little until he catches the look on Loki's face and he sighs, relaxes a little. Because it's not scorn or insult, just curiosity, and he drags fingers through his short blond hair . Objectively, he's learned that what constitutes woman's work in this day and age has changed, but he still remembers the prejudices of the 1930s.

"So I guess it's even like that in Asgard?" It's only half a question, more a resigned sort of acceptance as he looks over at Loki. How many times had he heard those kinds of things? Growing up before the serum, in college, and even afterwards, standing on stage in front of the soldiers as Captain America and how they had jeered. He wonders, for half a moment, if Loki maybe knows what that's like.

"But, no, I don't see it that way." There's a pause and he shakes his head. "I mean, I used to be small and sickly, back before the war," he admitted. And sure, maybe someone would caution him against telling Loki anything, but they had an exhibit in the Smithsonian about him. It wasn't as if most of this was any secret. "I got a lot of that sort of thing back then. But, I lived with someone for a while when I was in art school, and turned out that cooking was the best way I could help out. So I learned."

There's a not-entirely-subtle distaste for that sort of style of judgement that carries in his tone. Too many insults, that way the other boys thought he was effete because of his size, how he looked, because he wasn't good at sports, because he liked drawing and listened to the Boswell Sisters and a dozen other things. Because of how Bucky was there to protect him, and because no one understood that when they hit him for the things he said it meant he'd won, that no matter how much they hit him if he didn't back down it wasn't losing.

Or maybe Bucky had never been wrong when he accused Steve of liking it.

Asgard was a society of punishing and rigid tradition. Change came slowly to a people who lived for thousands of years, when the ideals of one generation could not pass on for several millennia. A woman could become a warrior, as the Lady Sif had proven, but she had to work twice as hard and be twice as good as her male counterparts to be taken at all seriously on the battlefield.

For men, the standard to strive for was that of the perfect warrior. Someone like Thor. Golden and muscled and brave to the point of idiocy, who revelled in battle and thought nothing of facing down a hundred foes with only the strength of his arm and the might of his hammer. Those who fought from the shadows, who thought more in terms of tricks and strategy, they were cowards. Loki was one such creature. His favoured weapons had ever been his intellect, short daggers, and magic; three things that Asgard saw as embarrassingly womanish in a prince of the realm.

It was interesting to see that Midgard did not seem to hold to the same roles as Asgard. It was acceptable for this warrior of the people to be seen as an artist and for him to do his own cooking. Interesting indeed.

"Ah yes," he smiled when the war was brought up, sensing blood in the water and a way to shift the discussion away from any questions about Asgardian culture, not that he had answered the one posed already. "The man out of time, asleep since one of your many wars ended. Tell me, how does it feel to wake and find all you knew dead and decaying?"

It was perhaps more accurate to say that Steve's life had been such that he simply didn't agree with the general narrative of his time. It was certainly less constricting in modern days than it had been in his era, and yet the official story about him was always constructed in such a way as to present a certain image. A litany of facts that became less truth and more about the image of the perfect American Hero. And the truth was that Steve still saw himself mostly as that kid he'd once been, but with the power in his hands to actually protect people. It was a strange feelings, seeing the displays and stories, fragments of his life, but feeling like they somehow missed out on telling the whole thing.

He flinches a little at the question, that way his head drops and his breath sucks in as he pauses. "Of course it hurts," he admits, looking up and meeting his green eyes. He wasn't sure if there was more to lose from trying to dodge the subject, or admitting to what Loki had to already know. The question is so painfully obvious that he almost thinks that Loki wants him to deny it, or evade the answer. So he sticks with being genuine, although there's a sharpness to his blue eyes as he looks at him, because there is blood in the water with this particular subject. He wonders if Loki is just trying to hedge his vulnerability with any weakness he can find, or if there's something deeper going on here. It's a question Steve can't really get a read for however, though he tries.

"It's crushing. Everyone I ever knew or cared for is dead with few exceptions. Those that are left hardly know who I am on the bad days." He sighs, his lips thinning. "But I choose to believe that I can still do some good here." And that was important to him. Maybe more important than learning to fit in and finding his place in the world, was still having a cause, still having something to fight for, a way that he could still try and save people, something to throw himself against so he didn't have to think about how much he'd lost. It was maybe part of why he so desperately wanted to find Bucky, reclaim a fragment of the life he'd once had, salvage that connection. Someone that understood him, even if it was in pieces.

"You didn't seem to like this place much last time you were here," he observed carefully. "What are you going to do if you can't go back to Asgard?" It was perhaps a bit more barbed than his usual tone of conversation, but Loki was asking for it.

There was no if surrounding that question, all avenues to Asgard were closed to him for the foreseeable future. He was injured, weakened, and had likely broken whatever last fragments of mercy Thor might have had for him by feigning his own death once more. Odin Allfather would have him executed on sight, and the only tempering force to that - Frigga - now lay far beyond such concerns.

That did not mean he had given up all hope for his birthright, he just had to regroup and begin to plan anew. It may take centuries, during which he would have to be cunning and hidden well, but he had centuries to burn. He was young yet, scarcely a few decades over his first millennium, he could afford patience.

The sting of being ousted from Asgard once more, however, was more than he wished to discuss with this mortal. And so he chose not to answer the question posed to him and instead continue his ruthless attack on Rogers' ideals.

"Then you place your belief in a lie. Nothing you do shall ever do good, your actions are as inconsequential and ephemeral as a guttering candle soon to be extinguished. You mortals, even with such enhancements, are transient creatures. You do not live long enough to create an impact or change the tide."

Loki waved a hand langurousdly as if he were explaining a rudimentary concept to a rather slow student.

"How many men have believed themselves doing good, and how long does their good last? Hours? Weeks? A few years at most before another comes to undo all they have done, to plunge your pathetic whimpering race back into perpetual conflict, and they are no longer around to protect their fragile ideal. What you quest after is an act of futility, Captain Rogers."

Loki doesn't answer the question, but Steve hadn't really particularly expected him to. He'd nothing a certain tendency toward asking questions without giving answers. It's slightly discouraging, but given the situation, he's not sure he blames him. In a certain light, he's getting more than name, rank, and serial number, or the Asgardian equivalents, and that's something, at least. Steve's not quite willing to call him on it, just yet -- their agreement had nothing to do with Loki being pleasant or cooperative. He wasn't that idealistic.

"I disagree," he says firmly, looking at Loki evenly. "The important thing is shaping the attitudes of other people, so there are those that can carry on the ideas of doing the right thing no matter how long we live for." He rakes a hand through his hair. "I don't believe that I'm the only person that wants to make to make things better. And even if we can't save everyone.. we can still make a difference." There's something a little strained about that sentiment, like he's reminding himself as much as he's trying to convince Loki. It's not a good bargaining position, but he can't help thinking of Sokovia as he talks.

"And what's the alternative? Accepting that nothing will last, so it's not worth trying? Attempting to enforce a world without conflict by having the biggest weapon? I'll stick with my futility." He sighs and shakes his head because he realizes suddenly, that Loki is getting to him more than he would like to admit to. But, this is what the man is good at, so he supposes it's not surprising.

"Such is why your species is not equipped to rule itself. You do not have the capacity for unity, it lies beyond the fragility of your life span. How can you be expected to change the world you live in when you have such a meagre time to do it?" These were the reasons he had given for his own rule of Midgard, and reasons that he at least semi-believed.

He would have ruled them well. They would have understood and unified under a single leader, and their petty need for war and destruction would have been challenged outwardly to foes they could stand against as one realm. But that would now never be, and his throne here had never come to pass.

Loki fell silent after that thought to concentrate on the food that he held cradled on his lap. It was hot and filling, both things he required in abundance right now, and he had no longer the strength of will to keep from wolfing it down. Yet despite the obvious ravenous hunger, Loki still ate with a certain decorum that Thor had never yet managed to learn himself.

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For Steve Rogers

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sorry for the wait

why look, I'm still alive!

welcome back :)

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