Chapter Text
1
There's sand, everywhere. It shouldn't be possible, the suit is hermetically sealed, Tony knows that, he designed it himself, just to prevent this exact fucking thing. Tony hates sand. Hates, hates, hates it, because it's coarse and rough, and Afgha--
Thing is, it isn't fucking possible for those small, rough grains to get in, Tony made this suit. Nothing gets out, nothing can come in unless Tony wants it to. Which is never, unless he happens to give himself an accidental Dutch oven—and isn't he hilarious, wow, good on you, Tony. But back to the task at hand, back to the freaking sand. Inside. His suit.
Fuck.
It shouldn't be-- Isn't-- defies all laws of--
“FRIDAY,” he croaks, but the HUD is black and his girl is silent and Tony's a freaking mess. Literally. Freaking out, right now, in this very second. Because there's sand in his suit, he's on his back, and he can't move more than wriggle pathetically around in this god-damned death trap of a gold titanium alloy suit. He's a sitting duck, a turtle on its shell, trying to turn around, but he can't, the suit's too heavy without the reactor. And how the fuck did she manage that?! How did she know--
Breathe, Tony.
No, fuck, no, please, no.
There's sand everywhere, just like back then in. In. In.
In his clothes, rubbing against his skin when he moves, feels like someone put a grinder to him. If he doesn't get out of this thing soon, he's gonna be rubbed raw, he'll look just like he feels, and he can't have that. No. Nope. Not Tony Stark. A Stark always looks his best. That's what Daddy always said.
Focus!
Breathing, breathing sounds good. He should work on that, he's breathing too fast, it's too loud inside the suit, there's only his breathing, no FRIDAY, no one telling him, 'your HR is approaching worrying levels, boss.'
There's only Tony, and the darkness, and the sand.
He squeezes his eyes shut, holds his breath. Hermetically sealed, remember? Don't want to go running out of air too quickly. Pepper always told him Iron Man would be the death of him, and god, was she right. Tony'd like to tell her that, but she's too far away, completely out of reach. Even Stark Tech can't get reception where he is right now. Not that it matters, Pepper wouldn't pick up anyway.
Tony licks his lips. They're dry and cracked. There's sand between his teeth, he can taste it, can feel it grinding between his molars. It's everywhere; in his mouth, his throat, his ears, every orifice, itchy, dry and coarse. It clogs his throat, clings to his mucosae. He wants to retch, but he can't. He's back there. He never left. The sand is everywhere, right around his sternum, a dark red sludge clinging to his skin, black beneath his nails, in every wrinkle of his fingers, the fingers wrapped tight around the battery, the thin cables connected to his chest, vanishing beneath his skin, so fragile, those cables. One wrong move and they're gone. No, don't touch him. Let him go, no, please, don't--
There's pain, his head feels like it's getting squeezed into mush by a hydraulic press, pressure on both sides of his head, something's pulling on his ears, his head, it's going to be ripped off, they're going to rip his head off--
Air.
Tony sucks it down greedily, coughs and splutters. He feels dizzy, but the sand is gone and there's only air. Wind tugging on his hair. Light on the other side of his closed eyelids. Groaning, he lets his head fall back and takes his time to breathe, counts down from fifty until his heart rate has reached some semblance of normal again.
It's fine.
The darkness is gone, the helmet is off, he's not going to die a horrific death in his hermetically sealed, yet somehow fucking sand-filled suit, isn't going to choke on finely granulated rock and mineral particles.
He's still alive, he's not in the cave. It's fine.
“I'm fine,” he says, drags his voice over the shards and barbed wires and through the desert in his throat.
“Are you truly?” Thor asks and Tony cracks one eye open. Finds him kneeling next to him, Tony's helmet cradled in his giant paws, like some futuristic skull, its eye slits black and lifeless.
“To be or not to be,” Tony murmurs and chortles. Coughs. He can still taste the sand, but when he drags his tongue over his teeth, there's nothing.
Thor drops the helmet carelessly and Tony really should say something about that. He would, if he still gave a shit and wasn't riding the high of not-dying.
“You speak in riddles, Stark,” Thor tells him, eyebrows furrowed as he leans in, thick fingers dragging over the sleek plating of Tony's suit in search for the emergency release. Tony tries to shrug, but his shoulders move barely half an inch before the inside of the suit brings them to a sudden stop.
“Yeah,” he says. “Never heard that one before. There should be a, bit more to the left, behind the-- thanks.”
With a hiss, the suit releases and falls away in its many, many different parts and Tony feels suddenly weightless, like he wouldn't need a suit to fly, like the next gust of wind will pick him up and carry him away from here. He rolls his shoulders, moves his fingers and toes, takes a deep breath and feels his rib cage expand wider than the suit would allow. Then he takes the offered hand and lets Thor pull him back to his feet. He doesn't stumble because his knees feel like jelly, but if he did, neither of them comment on it. Thor's hand around his elbow is just a gesture of friendly support.
“Are you fine?” Thor repeats after a moment, eyes intent and unblinking and so terribly earnest that Tony is about to forget his aversion to sand and imitate an ostrich just to not have to look at that face any longer. Instead he uses another survival tactic, one that's been handed down his family line for generations; he grins and winks, because Tony Stark doesn't need an arc reactor, he could illuminate an entire city with his Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist smile if he just wanted to.
“Yeah, sure. I'm fine. Better than fine,” he declares and pats Thor's shoulder, pulls his hand back as if burned when he notices it's still trembling. Quickly, he bends over and pats down his legs to get the sand off his jeans. Fucking sand.“Don't worry that pretty head of yours. I'm enjoying myself, haven't had that much fun in ages.” He stops and then straightens, cocking one brow at Thor. “Say, if you're Hamlet, does that make me Horatio? I sure as hell hope so, cause that means I'll at least survive this shithole.”
The furrow between Thor's brows returns. “You are avoiding answering my question.”
“A-yup,” Tony says and then turns away, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks over their surroundings. “So, where are we going? I see dunes, dunes and even more dunes. This place is in desperate need of a re-design. Unending deserts of doom and desperation are so 2008.”
When Thor doesn't react, Tony turns back to him and finds himself at the receiving end of a scrutinizing stare. And Tony hates it, this feeling like Thor's looking right through his empty patter and sarcasm, prodding at the masks and walls and billion megawatt smiles with his genuine concern for a comrade. Hates it because he thinks he can't take much more of it before all these defenses Tony's built over decades will come down and tear him open and everything that's been so carefully locked away will pour out. It will just spill out of Tony and into the space between them, words and tears and screams, and he will never be able to put them back behind his barriers, it will be out there and he can't take it back and Thor will finally know who he really is. He will know that Tony Stark is a pathetic, worthless puddle of neuroses and issues, barely held together by the desperate need to redeem himself, and the handful of good things that have happened to him.
After a second or maybe an eternity, Thor sighs and finally looks away, gaze searching the horizon for something, anything but the sand all around them.
“It does not matter which direction we choose,” he tells Tony then. “This realm knows no laws but the will of its Queen.”
“Well, that's reassuring.”
“It truly is not.”
Tony heaves a sigh and crouches down beside the suit to take one of the gauntlets and pick at its parts. “All right, Mr Optimism. Just give me a moment to see if I can salvage anything from this steaming pile of useless crap and we can be on our merry way.”
0.1
Thor appears out of thin air four months after the whole Sokovia Accords disaster. One moment there's nothing and the next the perimeter alarms go off all at once and start blaring, making Tony jump and knock his head against the inside of the sixth version of an exoskeleton he's welding together for Rhodey.
He startles a second time when Vision's head appears right between his feet, causing him to stumble back and over the cable of his dropped soldering iron. He ends up sprawled on the ground with Vision hovering awkwardly over him and the alarm announcing 'intruder alert' on an endless loop.
“Fuck, shit. FRIDAY, will you turn that stupid thing off,” Tony yells while he climbs to his feet, rubbing his ass. “And bring up the camera feed.”
The alarms are muted immediately and FRIDAY minimizes the blueprints and data spreadsheets that had been open on every available screen to make room for the video feed.
“My apologies. It's,” Vision begins but is promptly cut off by Tony.
“Well, fuck me sideways, now he's showing up? Now that everything's over and done?”
The gaudy red cape and the gleaming armor may have been swapped for a set of simple leather clothes in earth tones, but there's no way Tony wouldn't recognize the ten feet tall surfer god. “FRIDAY, call Peter back, I don't want to have to explain to May why her nephew is sporting a bruise the size and form of Mjölnir when he's supposed to be going on coffee runs like any good intern.”
“Yes, boss.”
Tony makes to leave the lab, only hesitating for a moment when he walks past his repaired suit. For a second, he toys with the idea of donning it, but ultimately decides against it. He's punched enough Avengers to last him a lifetime,thank you, he doesn't need to add to the list. And while he wouldn't say no to having another go at Ste-- Rogers, that's a completely different thing and between the two of them. Nonetheless, he's glad Vision follows him out of the lab and outside onto the lawn where Thor's waiting patiently, hand resting loosely on the pommel of his hammer.
“Your Highness,” he drawls and is satisfied when he catches the corners of Thor's mouth twitch downwards. It might be petty, but Tony isn't up for pleasantries right now.
“Stark,” Thor greets carefully, inclining his head. “Vision. It is good to see you are well.”
“Good day, Thor,” Vision says with one of his almost-there smiles. “How are you?”
“Yes, well, he's doing fine, thanks. We're all doing fine,” Tony interrupts, waving one hand dismissively. “What brings you to the backwater planet of the galaxy? Just checking we haven't succeeded in killing each other, yet?”
Thor's frown deepens. “I was sad to hear my comrades were fighting one another, and believe me when I tell you that I would have come to all your aid, had I been able to,” he offers and somehow manages to sound genuinely hurt and sad, but also reproachful. “But my own people needed me—and still do.”
“We understand,” Vision assures. “There is no need for apologies.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tony mutters and clears his throat, pushing his hands into his pockets. Thor either didn't hear, or simply ignored him, for his face lights up a fraction with his smile. Tony's very proud he resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Fine, whatever.” He raises his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. “I guess this isn't a social visit. So how can we help you?”
The question wipes the smile off Thor's face and replaces it with the look of a kicked puppy, all sad eyes and frowny mouth. Sometimes, Tony's surprised at how good he is at finding exactly the right things to say to make people look like that.
“I propose we continue this conversation inside,” Thor says with all the gravity of someone announcing the immediate apocalypse. “My brother's machinations have cost my people and I fear he is not yet satisfied. Dire times are upon us, my friends.”
Great.
2
Tony's sweating buckets. He's thirsty and itching everywhere, and that dune over there looks worryingly familiar. Wonderful.
“Hey, big guy. You think we might be running in circles?” Thor opens his mouth but Tony shakes his head before he can say something. “Nah, don't answer that. I know, 'this realm knows no laws but yadda yadda.' Well, I know we're getting nowhere right now.”
Crossing the last steps between them, Tony comes to a halt next to Thor and bends over, propping his arms on his knees. “Gimme a minute.”
They've been running around for what, a day? Two? It's hard to tell with the way time stretches and bends here. There's a sun high up in the sky, but that means jack shit because the thing hasn't moved an inch since they stepped into this nightmare. With the way Tony's feeling, it might as well have been a week. While the endless crawling through sand is getting to Tony, Thor still looks about the same, if a bit sandy. Which shouldn't be a surprise, really, since Tony's only a measly mortal and Thor is an alien princeling revered as a god. It pisses him off to no end anyway.
By now, Tony is badly sunburnt and drenched in sweat. His skin is raw and red, as if he'd been rubbed down with sandpaper. His feet are blistered and his throat is as dry as this godforsaken desert. He's also pretty sure he reeks like the hobo that keeps going through the trash outside Tony's favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant. Thor on the other hand looks like he's on his way to a Dune-inspired Playgirl photo shoot. Fifteen feet of muscle wrapped in leather, he stands proud and peers towards the horizon, golden mane dancing softly in the breeze. He looks like the hero of an epic, while Tony only got the role of snarky dead weight sidekick, here to provide comic relief as the main guy saves the day.
“You know what,” Tony spits and plops down on the sand, “screw this. I'm done playing hide and seek. I'm not taking another step. If she wants to kill us, I'll be right here.”
Beneath Thor's irritated grimace, Tony feels like a petulant child. Whatever, he's fucking done. Screw Thor and his fucked up family. Tony's got enough to do trying to solve his own problems, he has neither the time nor the energy to go on wrestling anybody else's monsters, thanks.
“You are right.”
“What?”
Thor smiles, but it's kind of strained. No matter, Tony will take what he can get. “Could you repeat that? I think there's sand in my ears. I thought I just heard you say I was right.”
The right corner of Thor's mouth twitches even when he cocks one brow at Tony. Thor sinks to the ground next to him, his movements more fluid and graceful than Tony could ever hope to achieve. Bastard.
“You are right. We should rest and gather our strength.” Thor's smile turns apologetic. “Even after spending a lot of time in the company of the Avengers, at times I still forget that you do not posses an Asgardian's stamina.”
Tony snorts, somewhat bitter. “That's because most of the Avengers aren't puny mortals like myself, big guy. I mean, Rogers looks like he could be your long lost brother. Then there's an android, two top spies with a workout regime as mean as Fury's glower, two ex-military men, a witch that can throw around tanks with her mind, and the Hulk, which beat up both of the Asgardians he's met.” Tony shrugs and spreads his hands, palms up. “And then there's little old me. Sure, I've got the suit, but when I'm out of it, I can't keep up with you guys.”
And there's that intense stare again. Tony should've just kept his damn mouth shut. But he's tired and this goddamned desert puts him on edge with all the memories that keep on creeping up on him if he dares to let his mind wander even for a second. It makes him nervous, and Tony talks when he's nervous. To be fair, Tony always talks, he likes the sound of his voice, because—let's be real—it's a nice voice. But when he's nervous, he blabbers.
Thor's eyes are thoughtful as they trace his face until his gaze settles finally on Tony's eyes, and Tony would like nothing better than to look away, but he isn't a coward, no sir, not him.
“You are many things, Stark,” Thor says, always so fucking earnest, “but puny you are not.” He raises a hand to silence Tony when he opens his mouth to speak, smile softly amused. “Peace, friend. I will not lie to you and say that you are as strong as the Captain or as well-trained as the Widow and the Hawk. But you possess a mind worthy of Asgard's highest scholars. I have seldom seen its kind—if at all.”
Tony rubs a hand over his sternum, clearing his throat and looking away, somehow embarrassed by the praise. It's not that he's being praised for the first time—claiming that would be a lie of epic proportions and Tony is the last person alive to affect false modesty. He knows he's good—better than good, he's awesome. But Thor is. Thor is the prince of an alien race so advanced they use an Einstein-Rosen bridge for day trips. Tony's been hailed as one of the best before, but to hear the same sentiment from someone who's basically a God, well, that's new. Peering at Thor from the corners of his eyes, Tony checks his face for any traces of a lie or exaggeration. Yet there's nothing but sincerity and Tony wants to squirm like a twelve-year-old.
“Uh, naturally,” he drawls, and it isn't shaky, no it isn't. “I built the Iron Man suit in a cave from a pile of scraps, I'm amazing.”
Thor chuckles, eyes twinkling, and claps Tony on the shoulder with one of his giant paws. “That you are. Now, let us continue.” Rising to his feet, he offers Tony a hand, pulling him up like he weighs nothing at all.
“Thanks. Where to?” he prompts, not bothering to look around because he's already tired of seeing nothing but sand every which way.
There's a moment of hesitation before Thor speaks, and his voice is low and halting. “Perhaps we should enter the door that has just appeared behind you.”
“The what?” Tony twist around and there's indeed a door that definitely wasn't there before. A set of wide french doors, to be exact. In the middle of the desert, and no walls around them to hold them up. And they look oddly familiar. Huh.
Slowly, Tony walks up to the doors until he can make out a terrace and a sprawling, finely manicured lawn behind it. Yet, when he leans to the side to look around the wooden frame, there's only more sand behind the doors. Freaking magic.
Tony swallows, then looks over his shoulder at Thor. “You've got my back, right, big guy?”
Thor nods, face grim and right hand curling into a tight fist next to his hip.
“Let's get to it, then.” Taking a deep breath, Tony reaches out, shaky fingers wrapping around the doorknob. As soon as his skin touches the cool brass knob, a woman's voice can be heard from the other side of the doors, and Tony knows that voice, he knows it very well. It's in his nightmares and his memories, it's a voice that comes to haunt him when he's down, it's the voice of a ghost and it makes his heart drop like it weighs a ton.
“Tony,” the voice calls, “come here and show your father what you made!”
0.2
“So let me get this straight,” Tony says, “you let your brother—sorry, adopted brother—Loki, the same guy who opened a portal for an army of alien soldiers in the middle of Manhattan and tried to enslave humanity, the guy who has a history of betraying you and your family, the genocidal maniac Loki, out of the prison we helped you put him in because you needed help fighting space Elves?”
In his periphery, he can see Rhodey shift in his seat but ignores it as he continues, “you ask the guy as sane as Charles Mason and a sack full of cats instead of, I dunno, the Avengers for help and lo and behold! Loki betrays you, kills your father, takes his place, fucks shit up, and now you come to the Avengers, well,” Tony shrugs and makes a sweeping gesture around the room, “what's left of them, anyways—and ask us to clean up your mess?”
Tony doesn't recall getting up from the couch, but when he stops talking, there's only a couple feet of space left between him and Thor. Tony's chest is heaving after his outburst, and his eyes are boring into Thor's. He's waiting—demanding an answer, a reaction, but Thor's eyes betray nothing. They are clear, open and unyielding, aren't even narrowed in reaction to the words Tony hurled at him. All those well-placed barbs melting off him like mud off a lotus.
The silence is deafening. You could hear a needle—
Something clatters on the tile floor and they whirl around towards Peter, whose eyes are large and startled. The bowl of cereals in his left hand is slipping, milk sloshing over the rim.
“Oh, oh! Sorry, whoops,” Peter babbles and juggles the bowl, catches the milk in it before it can splatter to the ground. “Got it,” he announces with a bright smile when he straightens again, but it quickly dims when no one comes forth with praise. Tony cocks a brow at him and nods at the spoon still on the floor.
“Sorry,” Peter repeats and bends over to retrieve it. “My fault. Ignore that and, and feel free to continue.”
“Oh, I'm all done!” Tony says grandly and turns back towards Thor, stabbing a finger at his chest. “But if I wasn't clear enough, there's no way in hell, I'm going to--”
“Peace, Stark.” Thor's thick fingers wrap around Tony's hand, squeezing just enough to make it uncomfortable but not yet painful. “I would have peace.”
And there is the reaction Tony had been working so hard to get. Thor's eyes are narrowed and hard, his body is as taut as a bowstring, straining to conceal the hot-headed temper Tony knows so well. The phantom feel of those same fingers wrapped around his throat resurfaces and he swallows compulsively.
“But there will be none if my father's essence is not returned to his body,” Thor continues, voice low but somehow incredibly loud in the silence. “My brother has not yet won this war against my people, but we are faltering.” He lets go of Tony's hand and straightens, the lines of his face smoothing out. But there's still a fire burning in his eyes and Tony has to struggle to not look away even if he's getting burned. “Now, it is not a matter of if, but when he wins. And when he does, he will not be satisfied until all of Yggradsil bows down to him.”
A beat of silence after those ominous words.
And then: “I'll go.”
Tony whirls around. “No, you won't,” he says just as Thor adds, “nay.”
“Uncool,” Peter pouts and tries to cross his arms over his chest, only to be brought up short by his cereal bowl. He glares at it accusingly before he continues: “Why can't I go to Asgard and save the world? You don't want to go, Mr. Stark.”
“You can't go because you have homework, young man,” Tony says. “You're an intern, go and make coffee or photocopy something, because I'm not going to explain to your aunt that I sent you off-world to save the universe.”
“That's so unfair,” Peter says and Thor raises a hand to quiet him.
“Your courage is commendable, lad. But Hel is not to be trifled with. You are too young--”
“Alright, stop,” Tony says, putting a finger in his ear and wiggling it. “I have to clean my ears, because I think I just heard you say Hell is not to be trifled with, and that can't be right.”
Thor's smile is apologetic. “You have not misheard, Stark. To retrieve my father's spirit, we will have to enter Hel and face its queen.”
“O-kay,” Tony says and blinks. “FRIDAY?”
A hologram pops to life between Tony and Thor, two Wikipedia pages scrolling down. An image of a gray, barren land flits past.
“Keyword 'Hel' provided several search results,” FRIDAY intones. “Hel, location, underworld of the Norse mythology where those who did not die a heroic death reside, located in Niflheim, ruled by Hel, being, daughter of Loki, appointed ruler of Hel, location, by Odin All-Father. Her appearance is described as--”
“Okay. Good. Thank you, FRIDAY.” Tony sighs. Drags a hand through his hair. Again, both this time. He grunts. Nods. Rubs his eyes and then his mouth. “Okay.”
“Tony, are you--” Rhodey says and Tony barks a laugh. It sounds hysteric even to his own ears.
“No, I'm not having a crisis here. No. Just laughing at the irony of life and, well, Hell. Hel. Whatever.” He shakes his head. “You know what? I've said it before, I'll say it again, 'cause Thor's not the first to tell me to do it.
“I'm not going to Hell.”