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Tony tried to tell them that he didn’t like water.
It wasn’t that they didn’t listen—all of the Avengers had their fair share of traumas, and none of them would have pushed him if they thought he couldn’t handle it. And they didn’t. They just… ignored his attempts to stay in the workshop and dragged him out the same as they normally would. He complained the same as he normally would, dropping a couple hints here and there, saying he didn’t want to get his hair wet, didn’t like the feel of salt up his nose or sand between his toes. He said he didn’t want to go.
So, uh, yeah. Tony had tried to tell them he didn’t like water. He just… hadn’t tried very hard.
He told himself that it couldn’t be too bad. They were just hopping in the Quinjet for a short jump to the beach, just to go and have a little fun. They’d found out that Thor and Loki had never been to a Midgardian beach before – apparently, somehow, Asgardian ones didn’t have proper sand – and everyone else decided that it was high time the pair made their first sand castle. Tony figured he could just sit on the shore, watch everyone else muck around, and then go home when he was bored. Perhaps it might even head off another round of Steve complaining that Tony avoided so many of the team building activities.
And you know what? When they got there, it seemed fine. Steve and Natasha pulled out a ball, Thor dashed straight into the sea, and Tony settled on a large beach towel with Loki and Bruce on either side of him. When Clint announced the start of the sand castle competition, Tony obviously participated – because he’d be damned if he let any of them beat him in any kind of construction activity – and after that, he’d been covered in the itchy, grainy stuff, and it had just seemed the next natural thing to follow Loki into the water.
Loki had been enjoying himself, his grin stretched wider than Tony had seen it in a while. The salt had made his dark hair stick to his forehead, and his green eyes were bright with laughter as he helped Tony wash the sand from his skin. The water was cold, but the goosebumps on Tony’s arms only followed the trail of Loki’s fingers, up over his shoulder blades, down the length of his spine. Tony was smiling as his legs curled around Loki’s hips, and as their lips pressed together with nothing but a chuckle between them.
So. Yeah.
Despite his reservations, everything felt like it was going to be fine.
Normal.
Easy.
But, really. Tony should have known better.
Even though they had chosen a beach that was relatively secluded, it wasn’t empty, and even out of uniform the Avengers were rather recognisable. Wrapped up in Loki, Tony had missed the first couple of photos – Clint making peace signs with a few tourists, Natasha trying to chase away a gaggle of teenagers as if they were seagulls – but in the age of social media, a picture spreads faster than a rumour.
And Tony was caught entirely off guard.
He and Loki had pulled apart after Thor had splashed them with a torrent of water which would have made a monsoon jealous. Loki, of course, had retaliated, and Tony had watched with a laugh on the tip of his tongue, the water salty in his mouth as he was caught in the crossfire—
But as someone shouted a question accompanied by the flash of light reflecting on a camera lens, Tony felt like he’d been punched in the throat.
“Mr Stark! Can you comment on the nature of your relationship with Loki?”
“Thor, look over here—”
“Give us a smile, Agent Romanoff!”
The clicking of shutters, snapping of pictures, cameras being shone at him from every direction as the reporters swarmed the beach. The questions, the demands itched in his ears like buzzing gnats—and when Tony blinked the bright sunlight turned to something fluorescent, and the dark walls of the cave began to close in.
“Mr Stark!”
Tony gasped, his head pulling from the water as he stared at the cameras, the sounds of a language he didn’t understand ringing in his ears—
He didn't know the words, but he thought he knew what they were saying.
We have Tony Stark. Pay us or we’ll kill him.
Except, that was wrong, wasn’t it? They didn’t want him for his money.
Tony could barely breathe, the water running down his throat, sticking in his lungs, tearing apart his mind.
You will build the Jericho missile.
The sparks of electricity from the open wiring burnt against his skin, and Tony clawed at his chest with desperate fingers, nails digging into flesh, catching on metal. There were hands on him too, pulling at him as the water surged about across his skin, the sensations violently dancing to the tune of shouted arguments. For a moment, Tony thought he recognised some of the voices, thought some of them sounded like friends—but that was impossible. The only people here were monsters.
And the hands gripping his arms were trying to pull him into the dark.
No, no, no—
He didn’t want to give up, not without a fight. He didn’t want to give in, not when he’d seen the destruction wrought by his own weapons, not when he knew he was responsible for Yinsen’s family, for the Maximoffs, for so many deaths. It was his fault, his fault—
He would do anything for it to just stop.
“Anthony.”
Tony gasped, air entering his lungs but not—not helping, not feeling like it was actually doing what it was meant to do. He still felt like he was drowning, despite realising that the water was gone, he was dry, there was someone holding him.
Still, he tried. He gasped. He breathed.
And when he felt less like every breath was slipping through his fingers, he curled his fists tighter in the shirt of the person holding him and managed to force out a word.
“Loki?”
“Oh, thank the Norns.”
It took another few minutes for Tony to get a handle on that supposedly instinctive action, every inhale and exhale feeling like a battle he was too tired to fight. Using well-worn tactics, Tony kept his eyes closed and forced himself to focus, actively feeling the press of Loki’s arms against his back, the puff of breath over his hair, the slide of fabric over his skin. Huh. Loki must have dressed them, as well as moved them.
Because they weren’t in the water anymore, and Tony couldn’t hear any cameras.
“You’re in Avengers Tower,” Loki said softly. “I pulled you here with my seiðr. Rogers and Romanoff were dealing with the reporters when I left.”
“I’m sorry,” Tony said. “I’m sorry.”
Loki didn’t tell him to stop apologising. He didn’t ask Tony to be quiet, and he didn’t tell Tony that everything was going to be okay.
He just held him a little tighter, and he didn’t say anything.
Tony was grateful for the silence, just the same as he was grateful to Loki for teleporting them from that godforsaken beach. Because… see, logically, he knew that he was safe. He had dealt with his torturers himself, rather a long time ago. He had made sure that no one could hurt him like that again, had built a suit of armour to protect himself—and to protect the world from any other harm that he could possibly cause. He was home, and being held by someone who loved him. He was safe, and he knew that—but the knowledge did not stop the walls from closing in.
Yes, Tony was grateful for Loki’s silence, because he didn’t want to have to explain the truth. He didn’t want to have to admit that despite the intervening years, despite the work he had done and the strength he had gained…
He still could not escape the goddamn cave, and he didn’t think that he ever would.
But at least, as he clutched Loki closer and tried to hide from the past, Tony knew he no longer had to face it alone.