Summary: When Loki dies, some will do anything to keep him dead. Other will do anything in their power to keep him is the story of how one rebirth changed the Realms for better. . .or worse. Warnings: MPreg and tough language.

Warnings for WHOLE story: Mpreg (don't like don't read); possible Man on Man action (don't like don't read); bad language (Fury and Tony); talks about abortion, death, etc.

Disclaimers: I can never own anything Marvel related. I only have rights to very small things I have changed in the story.

A/N: I have been wanting to do this for as long as I had read it long ago. But I finally got around to and here it is. Please read the original and giver her props. It is amazing in its own right. I have no qualms if you wish to do your own version just ask Aisling-Siobhan first! :)

A/N 2: Editing chapters to get back into the feel of things so expect these in chunks. Been bombarded with life, but I won't bore you with my troubles.

Thanks are given to (MOST of the story was made by/ based on): Aisling-Siobhan's "Birth"

A shiver racked a small thin frame outlined by the simple yarn blanket covering his body. A far cry from the multi threaded silk sheets he had at home with good lighting and a smell of lavender. The highly held inventor was smart enough to know that no matter what he did, things would not change. He wouldn't have a pillow to rest his head or even socks to cover his feet that sometimes threatened to turn blue in this cold. Mornings don't change down here. Just one after another; it bleeds into darker and darker days. Not that he knew either way. For all he had an idea, he knows fairly well that the King of Asgard could order the soldiers that guarded his door to say whatever they pleased. Even then, it wasn't as if the guards spoke to him anyways. He spoke no one who could speak back.

He had no windows to view light anyways. The only light he received was that tiny bit that reflected off the floor when they slid in his food in the special doggy door of sorts. It was worst when ladies came to bath his dirty body and suddenly any light damaged his eyes. So he kept them closed during those times. He hadn't seen colors in a long time other than the constant greyed blue of his reactor. When was the last time he had even seen another human being that touched him for reasons other to clean him or man handle him into listening? When was the last time he had seen anything other than blue tinted brick slimy walls, rats, roaches, impassive guards, or resigned servants? When was the last time he wore anything other than a pillowcase that resembled a coffee bean bag and flimsy underwear? Or noises other than his voice or the rattle or chains attached to his ankle. Five months. Or so he thought.

Thus, in a fit of hormone fused frustration one day last week, he had sketched a window. Complete with fake drapes and even the detailed skyline of his home. The very view from his home in the Avenger's Tower that allowed him to pretend he was somewhere else. It was made from metal he had scrapped and hidden to later use to escape his chains. The metal had bore marks and scars into his calloused hand. Not that anyone cared anymore in this tiny cell with its four walls, pot chamber, and tiny cot that was barely off the floor to keep the rats off. Who knew other Realms had rats. Pesky rodents. He learned quickly to sleep with his stored food so that they wouldn't eat it.

He spent his time musing out loud and making new inventions. Telling stories to his unmoving stomach or even sang lullabies his mother had sung to him, that of course went hand in hand with going over code or trying to take apart magic or make theories or whatever his fragile mind skipped to. Apart from the times his son's magic gave him someone to talk to.

That was a story for another time though.

By now he knew there was two hundred eleven bricks in the cell. Five holes in the cot. Four holes stitched together on the blanket. His goatee no longer existed and when it got an eighth of an inch long it wasn't long before his bath and a shave that removed personality from his face. Four three hour guard rounds meant food was to come. When water drips faster than half a second there is probably rain or increase in water which means he won't be able to walk on the floor due to the tiny amount of water that floods the place and that the next day he wouldn't be able to leave the bed due cuts to impact his feet and the cold that would bite. During those times he had to scramble to receive his food so the water wouldn't have a chance to get to it. As well as that, they usually bathed him every week or so, it must be about five months by now. He knew many things. Not that it changed a single thing because no one spoke a word to him other than "food", "bath", or "hmph".

From his bed the genius bent his bed backwards to the cell door. They stuck him in one that had no luxury of glass walls or such but one with a metal door directly from the medieval ages. The damn thing even had steel bars atop a giant metal sheet that weighed more than him and served as a door. Unable to bend them or blow them due to lack of supplies, he was stuck. Even had a lot to say that his condition wouldn't allow it. A six month old belly gave no room. Ah, yes. His big belly hidden by this flimsy yarn sack they called a blanket. The fact he wasn't gaining significant weight left him weak. It was barely enough to keep the child alive but it seemed his body like the baby very much and began sacrificing its own fat. Which sadly placed a burden on his already emancipated frame. Yup, this was how they treated an unattached mortal from Midgard. Let's throw him and his baby into a cell! Yay, rounds of mead for everyone.

Instead he had to be brought here out of fear and anger to the child he carried. The god that now resided in the flesh under his hand. Loki, the God of Mischief. The very one that treasoned against Asgard and invaded Earth. The very one that had every reason to be upset against his home, in Tony's opinion anyway. He made shapes with his hands against the light of his arch reactor. Before flopping them down. He needed to conserve his energy.

Tony stroked his small but bulging stomach. A very faint movement was made. One that made him smile. It seemed the baby knew that it had to conserve its own energy and the only he made, if any movement, was when Tony stroked in specific circles. Tony stopped and sat up slowly and kept the flimsy blanket around himself. He crossed his legs as his belly no longer permitted him to huddle into an upright fetal position that he had done for a long time.

He held back tears as he felt love for the small fetus. The small bundle of cells that was growing into a powerful baby. He had held hope that someone would rescue him and take him home. That he would be comfortable with a nagging team. Even with Fury yelling in his ear for something he may or may not have done. Or talking with his bots and discussing a nursing room for his son. He had long ago given up any thought of leaving. After four months of nothing. Not even the King came by. He had given up after his third visit to convince him to give up. He would give birth somehow in a dingy cell where he would probably get an infection and never see the little one he carried for so long.

His heart broke for the fact that if he did nothing the little babe would be execu-. No not on his watch. He reflected on that fateful day it all began. Something, he did regularly. The only he could do in this tiny cell. Reflect on the past and plan. Reflect on the past and plan. Reflect and plan. Things he could do best other than blow things up for fun.