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Chapter Text

Gold. 

There’s too much fucking gold. 

God, Tony’s only guess is that he's somehow on the sun . 

He can’t think through the shine invading his vision. 

Yea, screw that. 

He puts looking around on hold, deciding to first figure out if he is indeed alive. 

He feels alive - for the most part. Wait, can he even remember what living feels like? What were the requirements again? 

Breathing? Check. Heart beat? All he can hear. 

Proof of life. 

So why does he feel all… Fuzzy? It's like his body has been encased by a swarm of vibrations, (which makes no sense) Everything is buzzing, simultaneously numb and all too aware 

Maybe he is dead. Being in heaven would explain the excessive gold blaze. 

Nah, who's he kidding? Tony couldn't hope to qualify for a place among angels. Not that he'd want it. 

Alright, time for eye opening attempt number two. 

Yep, still bright. 

As painful as the glare is, Tony manages to pry his lids open, forcing his pupils into adjusting for the light. The weird sensation gradually subsides, chased away by a searing headache that replaces it. 

It registers that he's sprawled on a solid surface, sense of touch favouring a fashionably late appearance. He presses his palms flush against the floor, scraping enough for a reassuring sting. Tony needs to make sure he's grounded. 

Rough. Flat. Hard. Kinda painful to grate your skin against. Warm. Concrete? Yea, it's concrete. He should ask JARVIS. Actually, come to think of it, why has his AI been so quiet? 

And when did he let his eyelids off duty? 

Crap, now he has to start the process of prying them apart again. 

Breathe, feel the pavement, open. 

Ouch . 

Tony blinks away the dizziness, determined to see his surroundings this time round. The initial effect is a boost to his headaches power, but he stays strong, focusing as the world takes shape around him. 

Is that a building? No, actually, is that a castle? 

A fucking castle. 

A fucking castle made of gold.

Nothing like this exists, not that Tony is aware of. If it did, there's no doubt it would be a landmark of some kind. 

Impossible as it may be, it's there. Right there. Imposing beyond imagination and glistening under a blue sky. The top is merely a pin from this distance, and would be shrouded if the clouds hung low enough. 

So maybe he is dead. But this still can't be heaven. If it were, and he'd somehow slipped in, there would be alcohol. He also wouldn't be flat on his back with a searing headache. 

“JARVIS?” Tony croaks the first thing that comes to mind, praying for the smooth, informative answer which usually follows. “Please tell me I'm high and this is just a new feature at Disneyland.” 

No answer. 

Fuck . 

If he thinks about it rationally, the absence of his Iron Man suit should’ve tipped him off to the fact he's alone. To be fair, castle sunlight took most of his attention away from the missing weight. 

Great. Tony is isolated in what appears to be a fantasy land. If he meets a fairy godmother, he's quitting life. Actually, he's wishing for a bottle of whiskey, then quitting life. 

But for now, he should sit up. Laying on concrete with one leg bent out to the side is awful. 

Tony drags his arms up, cursing whoever replaced them with sandbags, and positioning them at a convenient angle for the impossible task of moving. Why are his limbs so fucking heavy?  

Shit, he has to shut his eyes again. 

You know what? Fuck whatever he drank, and fuck whoever gave it to him. 

The protest of his headache is sickening, and he’s beginning to think this is all the result of history's worst hangover. It’s not impossible, but that still doesn’t explain the lack of JARVIS.

He can barely hear himself think, (not that he can think much) over the roar of his heartbeat, faint sounds of chattering barely slip through. 

Wait, chattering? He can hear something external. Chattering means people, and people could mean answers. Hopefully they speak English. 

Tony ignores the possibility that opening his eyes will bring up lunch, (or whatever meal he last ate) and forces himself to endure. He’s greeted again by the impossible castle, and it's then he remembers his head can turn. So that's what he does, tilts his face as far to the left as possible, almost passing out at the pain. 

If the castle wasn't weird enough, (it was, and frankly still is) the gathering behind him should be. 

Where the hell is he, a damn cosplay event? 

From what he can see, there are around twenty people gawking at him, all of whom appear to think they’re living hundreds of years ago. Did he miss the dress code? Is that why they all seem to be so shocked he's not dressed like a seventeenth century peasant? 

He’d usually assume the reaction was prompted by recognition - Tony Stark flat on his back in public sure as hell makes good news. Yet, something about it feels off. No one has their phones out, no one is asking questions, no one is even shouting his name. No one seems to know him. It's the strangest, most wonderfully unsettling thing. 

OK, so new theory: he’s somehow stumbled upon a secret, disconnected civilisation with castles of gold and people who live as if electricity hasn't been thought of. Yep, totally believable. This could not get any weirder. 

“Uhh… does anyone happen to have aspirin on them?” The act of speaking feels more like regurgitating sand, but Tony thinks it’s understandable. 

He gives it a minute before concluding he won't be getting an answer, let alone any painkillers. Fuck, he’d do anything to be rid of this headache. 

“Halt!”

A loud bark stops Tony before he can ask where the hell he is, drawing his blotchy gaze to the right. He officially takes back his earlier statement, because things do indeed get weirder. 

Two, no, three nights in golden armour approach him, sunlight dancing over each groove in the plating. They all support menacing spears, pointed ends trained on Tony. 

What? Are his jeans some kind of offence? 

A particularly burly man grunts, jabbing his weapon a hair's breadth from Tony’s nose. 

“Woah there, careful with that. Your Mom never tell you to keep sharp things away from people's eyes?” He uses a finger to redirect the spear, but Lancelot shoves it right back. A near miss for Tony’s vision. “Alright, I get it. Don't mess with the spear.” 

He shifts round slightly, not enough to piss off sir pokes-a lot, but enough to free his leg from its awkward position. It has long been dead, and Tony misses having toes that aren't tingling. Every move he makes is followed, and he can't figure out why he's being treated as such a threat. 

The two men not invading his space close in, one at either side of Tony. If he weren't in such a state, making a break for it may be feasible, but his legs are currently on strike. The pair grab one arm each, tugging Tony to his feet with an unnecessary aggression. 

“Thanks for the help, but I can stand on my own.” (no he can't) “So, why doesn't everyone chill out, and we can have a nice chat about chivalry - “

The dipshit at his right elbows him in the ribs, and his guts almost make the trip up to say hi.

“Shit! What the hell is your problem?” 

“Quit your jabbering. Humans are not permitted within Asgard, and you are to be brought forth for judgement.”

Uhh… what? 

Loki hasn't had much in terms of entertainment today. 

Thor is out engaging in whatever reckless activity tickles his fancy, while his younger brother is sentenced to pointless reading. He doesn't have to, but flicking through whatever he may find is mildly amusing, and mild the best he can get. 

Perhaps he should locate a servant to torment - transforming unwitting waiters cutlery into snakes never gets old. 

No, he's not in the mood. Besides, his mother had been noticing his antics more recently, and he fears she's getting closer to saying something. So it's best to leave it a while, then start up again when her concern for their staff has calmed. 

But books still won't do, Loki has reread the same sentence three times, and he still hasn't an inkling of its contents. Lack of focus is to blame, and he's not bothered to fix it. 

He snaps the hefty volume shut in single swift movement, discarding it carelessly off to the side. 

Why must these slow afternoons be such a drag? 

A soft breeze caresses his cheeks, reminding him of the open window. To stare aimlessly through the glass serves even less purpose, but Loki isn't searching for productivity. 

He shifts his position, still draped over the plush window seat, and now at a convenient angle for idle gazing. His boot covered feet rest against the wall of his nook, heels propped on a pillow. 

The alcove is positioned in one of many libraries, his view of the city below provided by  a ceiling high window, gold engravings winding up its frame. Lush plants are positioned in various places around him, the only company he has, and requires. The walls are a faint eggshell, rather refreshing in contrast to the harsh gold of everywhere else. 

All in all, it's a pleasant escape from daily complexities, Loki is simply restless. 

People hundreds of floors below wander the streets, cobblestone paths providing direction. They seem so simple to him. It’s bewildering in his mind that people can be so content with such simplicity. Choices are made for them, laws set, and they follow along mindlessly, getting on with life. 

Citizens crave security, whether or not they realise is irrelevant. For them to indulge in their domestic ways of life, they need someone to handle everything. Maybe only people destined for more can comprehend the aspects of control, perhaps those are the only ones who deserve it. 

Thor will never grasp philosophy such as this, and Loki isn't sure he has anyone else willing to listen. Well, listen without being obligated to, that is. His mother would speak of their peoples beauty, and his father… 

Hm. 

Maybe he should go turn something to snakes. 

Loki turns again, arm flopping to cover his eyes. He decides it's just destined to be one of those days: slow and dull, a dreary hour of mindless daydreaming. 

“Silence mortal! You will be brought before King Odin for your crimes.” 

Or not. It seems something interesting is set to happen. 

Loki's ears prick up at the commotion, the bellow having come from the hall outside. He swings his legs to the floor and his arm from his face, promptly rising to his full height. He's always been warned not to interfere with guards and their jobs, but he's also never been one for mindless obeying. Besides, he only plans to follow along, he’ll even do them the favour of not being caught. 

The knights can do their work, and Loki can entertain himself. It's a win-win. 

He straightens his fine leather attire, careful to slip down the hall with muted footsteps. His pursuit was delayed, so the group he intends to follow is no longer in sight. No hindrance, it’s no issue to locate them with all the bickering. In no time at all, Loki can see the group, three guards, and an odd looking man. 

Once he’s closer, and the scene is clearer, the puzzle only gets further from solved. The three Asgardians pose no confusion, but the complaining man they’re tugging does. 

The first thing Loki notices are his garments, they certainly aren't normal. His pants seem to be of an odd, stiff texture, a dull blue in colour. The top half is covered in a simple shirt, plain black with bright splashes of colour across his back. 

Loki can't see his face at this angle, so he can't decide on an age yet. This man seems relatively well built, muscular arms on display by his strange top, tall enough to not disappear beside the gold clad men. Messy hair is sticking out at various different angles, brown strands obviously having been jostled about. 

He looks like a hooligan. 

And he sounds like one too. 

“What's with the nickname? I've come up with some shitty ones in my time, but ‘mortal’ really doesn't make much sense.” 

The man is clearly rambling, and with a strange accent too. Where is he from? It's highly unlikely he's from Asgard, he seems genuinely confused. 

Loki follows unnoticed, listening to the stream of nonsense spurted while the mortal is tugged along. There's no doubt they’re headed to the throne room, which means this situation is of utmost importance. 

It’s wonderfully interesting, because Loki finally has something to do. So, naturally, he doesn't want to lose it. The best option is to arrive at his father before them. It would be considered rude to barge in while important topics are being discussed, but if he's already present, it's likely he will be permitted to stay. 

Loki is holding all the cards. Not only are his opponents in this race ridiculously slow, (and unaware of the competition) but he has his ways when it comes to the art of slipperiness. 

Within a matter of seconds, he’s made a few alternate turns down familiar halls, arriving at extravagant doors. He wastes no time in his entrance, offering the guards a subtle nod. 

Once in, the doors click shut behind him, the sound echoing through the vast chamber.

Every inch is lathered in gold, so much so that one has to ponder its origin. The ceiling is at such a height it could count for three stories, and pillars line each wall.

You could fit hundreds of individuals inside, but it's built for the benefit of one.

The throne is the main spectacle, a symbol of superiority and power. It's strange that an object can radiate such intimidation, forbidden to near unless it's your purpose. There's an unspoken rule: a throne feels safe for nobody, you feel endangered in that spot if it's not publicly yours.

Occupying the throne puts onlookers in their place, makes them feel smaller, makes them feel weak . Loki thinks that's its true purpose, no matter what others may say. 

The man casting such an aura here is Loki’s father. It's taken him years not to feel insignificant in the Allfather’s presence, but he's learnt to cope. Mostly. 

“Loki, my son. What brings you before me?” 

Just as he planned, the entertainment arrives to interrupt his non-existent answer. 

The hefty doors swing open, hurried footsteps clattering in right after. 

“Your highness! We have an urgent matter!” 

Loki makes haste, slinking into the shadow of his fathers throne. It’s better to remain an afterthought, the more inconspicuous the better. 

From here, the brunette's face is on display. 

Huh, not what he expected. 

The face presented is that of a young man, presumably in the earlier years of existence. Precise numbers will depend on the species, but this man can't be much older than Loki. he has neatly groomed facial hair cut close to his flesh. His eyes are some kind of brown, although it's difficult to make out from this distance. 

The burliest of guards shoves him forwards, positioning a spear at the back of his neck. 

Loki casts a sideways glance up at his father, catching the narrow of his eye. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Odin’s command slices the disorder, bringing everyone to attention. Well, almost everyone. 

“Yeah, what Pirate Santa said. I wanna know-” The man is kicked to his knees before Loki can so much as guess what a ‘Santa’ is. He must be losing his grasp on consciousness, pale enough to blend in with snow. 

Yet, he doesn't seem intimidated in any way. Other than being on his knees, this man shows no display of fear. People tend to cower under Odin's scrutiny, reduced to a pathetic mass of trembling nerves.

This man is the opposite. His attitude is nothing but defiant, the senseless comments are enough proof he's not taking anything seriously. He’s either a complete idiot, or incredibly bold. Probably has no clue what’s going on either. 

“Stop with the shoving, would ya?” 

“Quiet, human.” 

All attention shifts to the Allfather, silence settling in. Loki ponders his fathers comment, realising this man originates from Midgard. A human on Asgard, intrigue is certainly warranted. 

“Ok, that's enough. What's with the weird ass names? It's bad that I'm the singular person noticing this, but we’re all people here.” The man rambles, lack of manners astonishing. 

Loki waits for his fathers wrath to rain down upon the human, only to be surprised at the smooth order that follows. 

“You may leave the human with me. Return to your posts.” 

The guards bow deeply, departing with a seamless obedience. Loki doesn't bother paying them any mind, his attention is reserved for the Mortal. This is new, and definitely worth being present for. The unexplained appearance of a human man is far more engaging than dust infused history books. 

“What is your name, human?”

The man clambers to his feet, movements uncoordinated and sloppy. He brushes at his clothes, such aggression unnecessary as the pristine floor can't have transferred a speck to him. The gaze he casts at Odin is sceptical, questions swarming beneath muddy irises. Loki is surprised to have gone unnoticed, but he is positioned to accomplish just that. 

“Tony. Not that I have to give you an answer, I'm just sick of the nicknames.” 

The human cards through his hair, answering in an impatient tone. Loki doesn't have to be familiar with deception to see through the facade, this man may be unbothered by stature, but is undoubtedly sick. Teetering sideways while gagging on words isn't behaviour of a healthy individual. 

“If it weren't for the poking of Lancelot back there, I'd put this shit up to a fever dream. So, Gangsta Grandpa, I'd appreciate the explanation.” 

Odin doesn't bristle. If he is annoyed, it's not on display. “Quit with your nonsense. How did you get here?” 

“Hold it right there, old timer. I've been asking that since I woke up! I’m getting an answer first. Ever heard of no cutsies?” 

Loki’s eyebrows shoot up. Tony has balls. Perhaps not brains, but definitely balls. He has never witnessed anyone behave so roguishly in the presence of his father. It's becoming apparent this man is incredibly immature. 

“Are you claiming not to know how you arrived here?” 

“Seriously? Did I not just make that clear?” 

He has snorted in amusement prior to deciding on it, only realising the expression of amusement originated from his person after all attention shifts. So much for being forgotten. 

The mortal looks at Loki for the first time. 

The mortal's eyes meet his. 

The mortal looks like he's seen a ghost. 

Loki hasn't moved an inch, doesn't dare to either. He has settled on playing the part of obedient, faithful prince, standing formally at his fathers side. As far as he’s concerned, nothing about his presence is particularly jarring. So why is this human looking at him like that? 

His attitude has transformed in an instant, snapping to attention. The man's biceps tense, bulging under his shirt as if protesting against their confines. Fists ball at his sides, the last drop of colour draining till he’s left to resemble a corpse. His eyes simmer with a cocktail of emotions, a mixture Loki can't pick apart. No, actually, he's familiar with a few. 

Hate.

Shock.

Fear . 

Loki has seen torment before. He's familiar with it. He's watched as primal, suffocating terror consumes a person, stealing their mind and soul. He's taken that twisted mentality, eradicated it, painting his hands red. He's done it for the sake of his people. He's done it to make his father proud . 

Any weak minded fool might let it bother them, taint their own sanity. Fortunately, Loki is no fool. Never has he killed an innocent man - wars are fought from two sides, each strives to slaughter the other. Does it put him at fault to be the one who comes out on top? 

No. 

But this man… his gaze is a wildfire, violent and uncontrollable, a force of nature set alight far easier than it could ever be stopped. Once it's extinguished there's nothing but destruction left to be salvaged. 

A look like that is personal. 

A look like that has reason behind it. 

So why is it pointed at Loki? Sure, it's interesting, but irritating all the same. 

“What the fuc-” The man doesn't finish, cut off by his own body. Loki grimaces as Tony offloads the contents of his intestines, joints losing integrity as he crumbles to all fours. A sloppy coating of vomit splatters onto the floor, vile brown in hue. 

The human possesses not a scrap of composure, even going as far as to spit in the pool of spew. 

“Loki,”

He turns to, expression neutral, fingers gliding idly down the hem of his shirt. The hairs on his neck stand at attention, prepared for what may follow. 

“Father?” Loki is hyper aware of Tony’s grunting, but attempts to retain focus on Odin. Vomiting fits aren't a particularly pretty sight any way. 

The Allfather bothers not to peer down at his son, instead observing the man as he spits repeatedly. Loki knows his importance is but a speck now, drifting further out to sea. 

It's not convenient, but it won't hinder him for an excessive period of time. Oceans have tides, and he'll be washed back to his father's island of focus soon enough. 

“You may take your leave now, I will deal with this myself.” 

Damn it. 

“Father, I really do think I'd-” 

Still not gracing the young god with a glance, he raises a hand, signalling the end of any discussion. 

Frustration threatens to reveal itself on Loki's cheeks, but a few calming breaths chase away the red. With each year he experiences, compliance settles at a higher discomfort to the last. It's gotten to the point where obedience has a grapple with impulse around every decision. 

How can he remain faithful if so much refuses to sit right with him? Everything used to be simple, agreeing with his father was second nature, but now he sees things for himself as well. He disagrees with Odin frequently, but knows nothing except how to nod along. 

The rational part of Loki is at odds with these new views, the ones he's beginning to form independently. 

He wants to say something, to free the complaints and objections itching his tongue, but he bites it all back. As unappealing as it is to swallow, Loki knows the alternative wouldn't prove as an improvement - he has a place, and was raised to remain in it. 

Thor could never understand this, he's never had the intellect to question their father, nor the rationality to keep quiet if he did. The god of thunder abides with a vigour Loki finds exhausting. His older brother is a cause for endless grievances. 

Loki smooths his composure, chasing away the conflict with deep intakes of oxygen. 

“As you wish.” He bows his head, heading for the exit at his dismissal. Each stride he takes is aggressive, boots hitting the floor with an unstable angst. 

It may not be the most effective way to hide agitation, but is better than outright voicing it, especially when it was a simple order that prompted Loki’s spiral. 

Whatever. It all just piles up. 

So, with one last peek at the kneeling mortal, Loki slips back out the way he came. 

Thor best be back soon, or loki's enchanting everything in that bearded buffoon's chambers. 

A snort draws his attention, and the gaze he catches stops time. Tony’s gut does a horrible twist, flipping in on itself to gnaw at his spine. 

Concealed under shadows cast by the throne, a face he'd thought gone from his life. 

Sharp features topped with jet black hair, neatly groomed in a backwards sweep. Squared shoulders and fine leather garments, neat and tailored to fit. Eyebrows perched high on his forehead, eyes wide with subtle surprise. 

No. 

No, no, no, no, no. 

Loki can't be here. He should be in Asgard where- 

Wait, had the old man said something about Asgard? Was that pang of familiarity at the name not an effect of his migraine? 

Oh. Oh. 

Asgard, Thor's home, the place Loki was escorted for his punishment. 

Right…  

This can not be happening. 

‘Oh, but it is,’ a sick chant in the back of Tony’s skull, one he had acquired after New York, ‘and look! You're completely powerless to it!’ 

The ‘voice’ is nothing more than an intrusive thought, so it can go eat shit. Fuck his own ruthless criticism for turning traitor. It's all fun and games to antagonise others, but it's just plain insulting to target yourself. 

This is beyond pathetic. 

Loki's cold, icy blue eyes do nothing but make Tony feel sick, and it's his own fault for not looking away. He can't, won't look away. Those eyes were the last Phil Coulson saw. There's no preventing the swarm of questions into his head, each demanding undivided attention at a pitch that drums his ears. 

It's all too much: the throbbing mass of confusion - the irritation of his migraine - the attack on Tony's sanity. 

He needs to be sick again, but fuck if he's gonna go without a fight. That's why he has to get some fucking words out his mouth. Any words. Any. 

“What the fuc-” His bowls cut the curse short while he doubles over yet again. 

The word ‘humiliating’ barely even scratches the surface. Ready to dig a hole, crawl in like an infant, have someone bury him, and then die, would be a better description. 

Water builds in his eyes, sour and merciless with the reminder he lacks any form of control. He can't stop the tears, he can't stop the vomit, he can't stop the panic. 

‘You're so weak.’

He spits on the floor. 

There's talking nearby, but it might as well be static because Tony can't tune in. Maybe someone says ‘leave,’ and then another says ‘father,’ but hell if he knows. Hell if he cares. 

His body convulses once more, leaving Tony to gag when there isn't really much left to get rid of. He just wants a second to breathe, but with all the shaking, it's likely he never will. 

For the love of everything he holds dear, please don't let his origins start coming up.

When there's a break in his retching, (finally) it’s enough to tell there's a break in the conversation too. He bites his tongue for a fear of choking on it, he's going to hear this. 

“As you wish.” The voice is cold, that of a young male, and laced with defeat. Even while missing the menace Tony came to know, it’s Loki, no doubt about it. 

He hates the familiarity. 

It's a fucking pain to lift his head, to force his neck into doing it’s job, (albeit a shitty one) and even when he does, he’s rewarded by a sucky view through hair and tears. 

The scene is a blurry mess, splotches of colour all he has to represent surrounding matter. This shit sucks on another level. Is it too much to ask for a smidgen of style? 

There's no guarantee he won't eat dirt - er, gold - if he lifts his hands. Not while he's relying on the grounding pressure to tame his shaking. 

So with his hands preoccupied, he can only blink to clear the damn blur. It's not effective, and the curtain of hair is a pain in the jacksy, but shapes are more defined, and he can differentiate people from furniture. 

Yippee.

The green and black blob is safe to assume as Loki, and is the first thing Tony zones in on. 

He's getting bigger? Shit, no, he's coming closer. 

Footsteps accompany the Loki blotches ‘growth’ and for a moment, Tony thinks he's being approached. But Loki strides right past and the door shuts behind him, a smell of something fresh left to dawdle in his wake. 

What is that, mint? No, softer than mint… 

He throws up more and is back to inhaling bile. 

Guess he’ll never identify the Loki smell. Not that he wants to. 

“Human.” 

Tony hears the call but can't reply - he hasn't stopped choking on bile yet and has concrete plans to curse every deity he can think of. It will be happening the moment he can speak again, and won't be postponed. To hell with any sort of hierarchy, this guy - what did they call him? Odin? - can wait. 

Tony spits once again, flexing his jaw then clenching it back into place. He executes a few tentative moves to shift from the all fours pose. No one needs to see him on his knees. Well, not in this situation at least. 

Now that’s out of the way, he can grant freedom to his stock of colourful language. Things like: fuck these crappy Norse gods, or: the fuck was Thor thinking? Then he shoves his hair back, which stays in place, not out of obedience, but from the sheer amount of sweat clinging to his brow, (and everywhere else.) Tony uses a fistful of shirt to scrub at his tongue - the tang of stomach acid should piss off. 

Once he's (partially) satisfied with his use of vulgar language, he finds it in himself to address the throne and its occupant. He doesn't like the downward tilt to the old mans head, an indication that Tony's literally beneath him. It’s tempting to stand but his damn knees won't handle it, and he’s not in the mood to impersonate Bambi. 

“How did you get here?” The demand is laced with a clear threat. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“How did you get into Asgard, Mortal?”

Tony blinks. Then blinks again. This guy can't be serious. 

He does look pretty serious. 

“Uh-uh. I'm pretty sure I dibsed that question.” The old man's eyebrows dip lower on his face. Tony realises the concept of ‘dibs’ may not be normal here, so he adds: “You know, as in I called it first so I get the right to ask.” 

“I don't have the time for your games, nor will I put up with your nonsense. Humans are not permitted here in Asgard. If you are truly ignorant as to how you got here, then I will have you escorted back to earth immediately.”

It takes a minute to process, and the seconds stall while his brain buffers. 

Once sorted out, this is the order Tony thinks in:

1. What happened to his eye? 
2. It's not nonsense, my fucking question needs answering. 
3. Ignorant my ass, he doesn't know how I got here either. 
4. He can send me back? Is it that easy? 
5. God, I want to get the fuck away from all this gold. 
6. Wait... Shit. 
7. Loki. 

How did he forget? He cleaned out his guts, not his brain cells. Loki. Fucking Loki was just here, and not in a cage. Preferably rotting. 

With a murmur of “Fuck this,” he shuns the persistent tremble, (things don't relent if they get a reaction) and rises with what he hopes can be grace. 

Well, If you call stumbling over non-existent hurdles and almost treading in your own sick ‘gracefulness,’ then he succeeds. If you don't, then take your opinion and shut up. 

“Ah, no. Wait up old man, you owe me some explanations.” He wobbles dangerously, still wiping vomit from the edge of his mouth. If JARVIS were connected right now he’d say sit down, rest. Tony would blatantly ignore because he refuses to play the part of a kindergartener. “What's with the prison protocols here? I mean, where I come from, we don't let murderers roam free.” 

“Yo-”

Tony cuts him off. “I don't have time for this. Why the hell is Loki not locked away?” 

“What?”

“Don’t bullshit me. Loki was meant to be taken back here for punishment. Or is attempted domination of a planet not cause for concern in your high and mighty palace of gold - which, by the way, is complete overkill, even for me.” Words pour out without the courtesy to ask permission, and now he's shaking for an entire new reason. 

“What did you do with the Tesseract? Chuck it on the nightstand after a good day of not giving any shits? No, let me guess, you're busy watching your gold be polished and have no time to worry about your son’s rampage on earth. Or does it not matter to you since he’s adopted? Now you have a human here, and-”

A sharp crack tears through Tony’s rant as Odin strikes the floor with his staff. All the man had done was lift it a measly few centimetres then bring it down again, but the noise it made was jarring. 

Oops, he’s hit a nerve, and he wasn't even trying this time. Not at all. Definitely. No guilt. No intentional rudeness… OK, maybe a little bit. It’s not his fault if a few unnecessary ‘observations’ slipped in there. 

“What did you just say?” Odin is no longer composed, in fact, he's far from it. For an old man, he manages an impressive height. His posture, the sheer aura of power, both compensate for such weepy flesh. Tony swears the geezer is staring right through him, somehow making an assessment of his intestines. He wouldn't be surprised if his goatee got singed by Odin's X-ray eyes. 

Only one, singular person can make Tony cower, (this person is Pepper and he's not afraid to admit it - that woman can be fucking terrifying) but a few have come close. Odin just made that list. 

Tony clears his throat. “Now you have a human-”

“No. Before that.”

“The part about how excessive all this gold is?” 

“About my son. About him being adopted. How did you know that?” 

What? He isn't gonna get all defensive about the insults? 

Tony squares his shoulders: he really can't afford to look nervous, even if he is shaking like a leaf. A pale one, at that. 

‘How did I know that? Thor used it as a defence for why Loki’s brain is fucked.” 

“Thor, does not know that Loki is adopted.” Odin growls, rising to his feet. “No one does, only me and my wife.” 

“All due respect, your highness, you could not be more wrong.” 

It's a standoff now, and looks don't need the ability to kill for theirs to do just that. This old King may literally have the high ground, but that's never stopped Tony before. 

“I have no idea what you’re rambling on about, but I've humoured you long enough. Who is your informant? How do you know something about Loki that he doesn't know himself?” 

“Hold up, are you senile?” Tony asks, actually half genuine. “That can't be allowed for a king.” 

“Loki has never been to earth, let alone waged a war on it.” 

What the fuck is going on? Thor assured them that both Loki and the tesseract were in good hands, that it would be dealt with. So why is he being told it never happened? 

“Yes, he did. He brought an army of aliens through a massive wormhole - which, by the way, I almost died in - and decimated a good half of New York.”

“You’re unstable.” 

“Yeah, but I'm not wrong!” 

Having to explain this: hurts. 

Remembering the lives Loki took: hurts. 

The responsibility Tony feels for all those deaths: hurts.  

Fuck, it's getting harder to breathe. 

He can't hold his legs together any longer. The JARVIS in his mind was right yet again, even if he isn't actually here. Tony let's himself fall, the pain that shoots through his knees on impact is welcome. At least he has it to focus on, something that feels real. 

Inhaling is like sucking water through a towel: bits and pieces get in, but not enough in the right amount of time. The walls of his throat cling to the air with greedy little fingers of panic, and no matter how hard Tony begs them to share, he only gets their dregs. 

No, not now. He can't break down right now. Not in front of Odin. Not when he needs to make a point. His head just needs to stop spinning. He's not getting enough oxygen to think straight. He needs JARVIS. He needs pepper. Is she alright? Where is she? What if he never gets back? He needs his suit.

He needs air but he can't get any air and it's starting to fuck with his head but he can't think well enough to figure out what he should do and it's all to much and he might need to throw up again but he doesn't think he has anything left in his stomach a - 

“Anthony Stark.” 

He only notices the word is spinning when it stops. Tony finds the old man with his stinging, leaking eyes. There's something… calmer, about him. 

“I didn't - ” Don't sniff. Don't sniff. Don't you dare sniff . “I didn't tell you my full name.” 

“I'm aware.” 

“Oh, well that explains it. Thanks for clearing things up.” His tears put a real damper on the sarcasm, but beggars can't be choosers. 

“You're certain what you say is true?”

“Yeah. Pretty fucking certain. Carrying a nuclear bomb into a portal isn't something you forget easily.” It's something you dream about for weeks after. Something you wake up in a pool of your own sweat over. “How do you not remember?” 

“It's never happened, not for me.” Odin lets out a sigh and lowers back into his throne. He actually looks old for the first time since Tony met him.

“What do you mean ‘not for you?’” 

The King of Asgard rubs the bridge of his nose, a weariness one might find in teachers. Ones with hyped up, sugar greedy, loud students. 

This is worse than the scary thing. 

“Well?” 

“Are you familiar with the idea of time travel?” 

Tony pauses, the weight of what this geezer is about to suggest squishing him beneath it's foot. “Fuck did you just say?” 

“Antony Stark, you are not in your own time. I strongly suggest you find it in yourself to believe me.”

“Oh… So you are senile.” 

He can't manage to say much more. He wants to. He wants to scream, actually. So. Fucking. Bad. 

Unfortunately, screaming won't help. Not when there's merit to Odin’s words. 

It’s Tony’s own fault for being so brilliant. 

If it were anyone else on the receiving end of this information, they probably wouldn't believe it. So is it stupid or extraordinary for Tony to consider it? 

Thing is, being a genius, the concept of time travel isn't something he’s ignored. Tony has actually done a great deal of thinking around it; the possibility, the implications, the theories. Just, not the kind of thinking he’d develop into anything. There's not much point in taking it too seriously. At least not until you wake up in a world where no one knows what you're talking about. 

“So, you're saying I've travelled through both time and space to get here?” Tony croaks, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re seriously skipping to the time travel conclusion? Not even gonna call me crazy?”

“I have lived many years, Stark. More than you could hope to imagine. With years come experience, and with that, knowledge.” 

“You have a habit of answering questions without the actual answer.” He grumbles, close to pouting like a child. 

“I am not ignorant enough to dismiss time travel.” Odin settles further into his chair, adjusting his cloak. “And labelling you as crazy would not explain your knowledge of my son’s origins.” 

“So you think me being from the future is more feasible than being a spy?” Yeah, that's it. Make him trust you even less. Idiot. “Or having an informant?” 

“It’s a possibility, but an unlikely one. No record has ever been made of Loki's adoption. Not only that, but you mentioned the Tesseract in your rambling.” 

Tony is only half listening. Most of his brain is working to unravel the validity of these hypotheses. 

Time travel as it's presented in sci-fi is not correct. If you go back in time, that ‘past’ is now your own present. You can’t alter your time by changing that new present, because by then, the present you came from is your past. Do whatever the hell you want there, you're stuck with the choices you've made. The only thing you're affecting is that new present. Once you go back to your own future, nothing has changed in your past. 

It's honestly not that hard to understand. 

“Yeah, I did. That cube caused me a lot of fucking problems. And so did your ‘son.’” Tony uses air quotes to emphasise that last bit, stretching his legs in front and leaning back on his arms. “Getting thrown through a window was the least of my problems.”

“Contrary to what you may have experienced, the Loki of this time has caused no unwarranted harm.” 

Tony scoffs. “So? He clearly has the drive and the ability to. How do you know he isn't scheming already?” 

“I can not prosecute him for something a man of the future has told me. As of today, he has done nothing to deserve any punishment, no matter what the future may hold for him.” Odin’s eyes are trained on Tony, but the look says he’s staring miles beyond. 

“So you’re just going to sit back and watch as he becomes a monster?” There has to be something he can do. If he really is in the past, there's a chance to stop the new york ordeal from ever happening. “It was -”

“I do not want to hear any more of what happens than I already have.” 

“Why the hell not?” The words are bitter on his tongue. 

“I don't want your experience to affect how I see my son. I can't afford to start treating him like a criminal when he isn't one.” The old man pauses, “At least, he isn't yet.” 

Most of him is set on addressing the wrongness in that ideal and changing this geezers mind. The other part, the selfish one, is yanking at the strings of control in his head. It's a vicious grapple, despite it not lasting long, and ends in Tony blurting: “Can you get me home?” 

The silence is all he needs to realise. Funny how his heart still ventures south when Odin says: “No.” 

Well, that's it then. What's left is to process as fast as possible. Come to terms with everything right now. Tony will do it, because it's better in the long run. 

Nah, who's he kidding? He’ll shove it under the heap of crap labelled as, ‘i'll deal with this later,’ then leave it to stew and get a whole lot worse. Feed the intrusive thoughts. Let the problem grow. Perfect. 

‘Coward.’  

“I figured.” Good, that came out without any utter despair. One for Tony and zero for crippling self hatred. 

“You are to stay here in the meantime.” 

“Eh?” 

The old man straightens his posture. “You are to stay here in the castle where I can keep an eye on you. Mortal or not, your presence here is an anomaly, Stark, one I intend to monitor.” 

“Doesn't that break the whole ‘no human’ rule?” 

“Sometimes exceptions must be made.” 

Well, looks like he’s accepted. And at a freakish speed, so… go him, or whatever. 

Fuck, as unfortunate as this shit it, there is hope tangled within. 

He can save them, all those people. Even if he failed in his own time, he can be better for this one. He has the chance to win. 

Tony has to avoid letting the problem develop all together, remove the car battery instead of attempting to hold it still. If a problem is dealt with at the source, the repercussions caused by halting it can be prevented. 

That's the plan. Do whatever it takes to save New York, then build something to travel home. 

What’s the idea for the first part? Watch Loki, figure out if he’s crazy yet (it’s hard to believe he won't be) if not, then fix him. Helping mentally fucked gods see the positives is not one of Tony’s strong suits, so figuring that one out would be an… interesting experience. 

If he is crazy, past the point of return, kill him. Tony fully expects that decision to end with him dead too. Small price to pay in the grand scheme of things. 

Right?

Chapter Text

The human is staying. 

That news was delivered by an especially bemused messenger. 

The human is staying . 

Loki's arms pillow the back of his head, his body draped over a backless lounge. He’s lost for things to do, both productive and pointless, so he's settled for lazing around on a balcony. 

“It’s unlike father to make exceptions such as this.” 

With company. 

Loki waves a hand at his older brother. “He always has his reasons, we just don't get the privilege of hearing them.” The bitter tone slips out by mistake, but he doubts it will be noticed. 

“One thing’s for sure,” Thor sets his hammer down to take a seat on the balcony railing. “That human must be something special for father to pay him any mind.” 

“Perhaps.” 

“It can't be because he poses any threat. He’s only a Midgardian.”

Loki considers his brother's words. The statement isn’t without reason, (humans are weaker beings) but it also doesn't quite fit. That man, Tony, didn't seem the least bit intimidated by Odin. It could be put down to foolishness, but… 

“I would not underestimate him, brother.”

Thor pauses, scooping up his hammer to twirl round by the strap. “Ha! Do tell me, brother, why should we be so weary of this human?” 

The blonde has never been one to heed warnings, no matter how logical. Loki has long stopped the pointless endeavours to try and warn Thor out of his arrogance. 

“I never said we should be weary,” he sighs, contemplating how to string this sentence together. “I said do not underestimate him.”

Thor laughs again, one of those deep, rumbling sounds that reminds everyone he's a man. “And yet you still have not told me why.” 

Loki pauses. “He seems to be a strange character.” 

“You were in his presence for mere minutes, brother.” 

“I'm well aware of that.” A breeze wafts over Loki’s hair to fiddle with a few strands. “And I stand by my statement.” 

The God of thunder kicks his feet up on the stone table. Loki might point out it's a precautions seating arrangement for a balcony railing, but he knows his brother. Not only would he laugh and brush off any concern, - ‘a little drop couldn't hope to deter me, brother,’ - but it’d be amusing to watch him fall. His hammer’s there anyway. 

Loki follows the path of cracks winding along the bannister, mind straying to ponder their origin. 

All things have a cause, but only some have meaning. Those splits in the structure will have cause, but any meaning they provide is bound to be insignificant. The mortal being in Asgard is sure to be one of those things with purpose. To figure it out, knowing the cause is helpful. 

“Do you not find his presence here at least a little puzzling?” The answer should be yes. His older brother may be impulsive, hot headed, and rather arrogant, but he's not without intelligence. 

“How could I possibly not? A Midgardian shows up without explanation and you expect me to have no questions?” He gives a broad grin and sets Mjölnir on the ground. “You give me too little credit, Loki.” 

“The amount of credit I give you is based on our previous experiences.” 

There's a pause in talk, one where the older of the two gives the younger an inspection. Based on the slight furrow of his brow, the blonde is picking up on Loki’s stress. 

Thor dons a serious expression. “I understand your unease, brother. I would be cautious too, but seeing as father is content to have this man stay, I doubt he’s of any risk. Besides, even if he did turn on us, he's merely a human. No match for a pair of gods like us.” 

Loki digests the words of comfort. Then he corrects them silently. 

‘Unease’ isn't quite the word for what he feels. No, he may not match his brother's arrogance, but it’s no secret a mortal couldn't face up to him. 

There's no fear towards the Midgardian. Loki may avoid admitting it outloud for the purpose of humility, (and in the rare case he could be proven wrong,) but humans are inferior beings. Their lives are but a passing moment compared to what Loki will live, and they deserve just as little regard. It’s a simple fact, nothing more, nothing less. 

Normalities for the people of Asgard have those of earth admiring them as gods. This alone speaks for their lack of strength. 

That's where this case differs. That's where this mortal has earned Loki’s attention.

He defies the qualities he should possess. He didn’t have respect or fear towards Odin. 

If anything, the appropriate definition for Loki’s attitude towards Tony would be fascination. 

“I say we speak with this man the first chance we get.” Thor snaps the train of thought with the suggestion. 

Speak to him? Is that really the best idea? Loki is definitely itching to dig deeper and figure it out for himself, but is there a better way to approach it? 

There might not be, if you consider their options. The person who knows the situation best will be Tony - failing that, Odin himself. Their father has not yet shared any information, and if experience counts for anything, he won't any time soon. The allfather tends to be deliberate with what he shares and when. 

‘There's a purpose to everything I do, my sons.’ 

Yeah, sure there is. 

Loki cards through his hair to avoid another father-related breakdown. 

Focus on something else. 

Continuing the original train of thought, yes, Tony’s the best source they have at hand. 

Thor is not the best one to talk to him. Not if they want any important information. 

Still, he doesn't have to know that. Whatever the situation, Thor can be an invaluable asset. Loki knows exactly how to trick his dear brother into unwittingly aiding his schemes. 

“You know,” Loki swings his legs over the edge of the sofa and sits up. “You may have actually just had a good idea there, brother.”

“Ha, don't sound so surprised. I am not the fool you take me for.” 

Loki smirks. “Apologies, but you can not blame me for a lack of seeing anything else.” 

Thor stands up and stretches as Loki adjusts his clothes. The two have always made an interesting pair: Light and dark, loud and reserved, impulsive and cunning. Nevertheless, it’s a close partnership, even considering the constant turbulence. 

Thor has always said they'll fight side by side forever. Loki doesn't doubt that his brother believes it. 

Tony has been standing still for hours.

How does he know that? He doesn't. It's more likely been three minutes. But for the sake of emphasis, yeah, it's been hours. 

Hours of mindless, shirtless, goggling at his reflection in a full length mirror. 

There he is: Tony Stark. Pale skin and toned build. Goatee that, to be honest, needs a trim. Arc reactor smack bang in the middle of his chest, skin melted to the edges. 

He's still him, (whatever the hell that means) but this is not the face of a forty one year old man. 

No, this is the face of a kid trying to fill his dead fathers shoes. In his mid twenties . 

This can not be happening part two: Tony has aged backwards. 

Majority of wear and tear is gone from his body. Scars have taken a vacation and left his skin with a smooth texture. Any wrinkles have been ironed out so his face is blank for new ones to be crafted. All invading grey speckles of hair are chased away by a rich coffee brown he’d almost forgotten. He’s a tad leaner, and his muscles are certainly not as impressive as they’ve been in recent years. It makes him look inexperienced. Green. Naive. He feels naive. 

A reset to his younger years? No, the arc reactor is wedged in his chest. That was a ‘trophy’ he'd acquired long after his thirtieth - his twenty year old body could never anticipate the shit he'd go through for it. 

Fuck, his body’s convinced it’s at the age for partying and one night stands (not that he really stopped as he got older) but the stubborn, pulsing light has stuck around, twisted in the flesh of his chest as a reminder of everything he's failed. 

That also raises the question: If his physical attributes have reverted, is his chest still pumped full of shrapnel? 

‘Don’t get your hopes up. It won't fix anything.’ 

Probably best not to think about it. He’s getting the occasional sharp pain in there anyway. 

Tony tugs his shirt on. 

He can't really believe any of this is happening. 

Asgard. He's in Asgard. He's living in Asgard. Living in Asgard with gods. 

Nope, still feels wrong. 

The old man had given him a briefing. Pretty much just a lengthened version of: ‘don't cause trouble and don't tell anyone you're a time traveller.’

A sigh escapes his lips, one that's been sitting on his chest so long it's gone stale. The bed is beyond tempting: silken sheets topped with a white duvet that could pass as a cloud. 

All things considered, his room isn't bad. It was a pleasant surprise to be greeted by grey walls. The gentle hue soothes his headache. (He's inclined to blame the palace decor for half of his pain.)

The space itself must be around fifteen square feet. One of four walls is half window and has a couch built in. Tony hasn't had the heart to gaze out yet, so its display is a blur in the back of his mind. Teasing him from the corner is a wooden cupboard for belongings he doesn't possess. There's two doors; one entrance and the one he assumes is a bathroom. Both are engraved with symbols he can't understand. 

It's a nice space. It's his space. Come to think of it, other than the clothes on his back and the tech in his chest, it's the only thing he can call his in this world. 

Well that’s depressing. 

“Fuck.” He gives in to the pull and lets himself be enveloped by silk. Who gives a shit anyway? There's nothing important to address except the weight of exhaustion dragging him down. The arc reactor feels like a ton of bricks cemented to his rib cage, it wasn't long before he toppled over. Where better to do it than a bed? 

He's not bothered to slip under the covers, and sprawling himself on top is a fine substitute. 

He heaves onto his side in an attempt to relieve the downward pressure. How long has it been since he last got some shut eye? Two, three days? Tony can’t seem to dig out the memories of what happened before he woke up here. They’re hiding away in some corner of his mind, playing the most aggravating game of hide and seek to ever exist. He’s this close to smashing his forehead against a wall until the little buggers show themselves. 

Damn, he really does run on sheer refusal to relent. 

Tony needs sleep. He’ll burn out otherwise. 

But that's the thing, he’s aware of the facts, but there's a part of him that chooses to ignore. It’s the part that knows if his eyes shut, even for a second, he’ll dream of all the shit he’s trying so hard to suppress. He’ll twist himself into a mass of knots, only to wake up in a pool of sweat and regrets. 

Working through the night is out of the question, and that's his one escape. 

Too late anyway, sleep has him by the throat, icy fingers trailing along his cheeks, leaving tingles of dread in their wake. The world of consciousness dissipates as Tony is dragged down, left with the hunch tonight nightmares will be Loki themed. 

He is right. 

Tony can see the glare of sun through his eyelids. He rolls onto his back and pulls a pillow with him to smother his face, chasing the cool relief of darkness. 

Did he not close the blinds last night? Shit. Crappy planning. 

He pushes himself up with a dramatised groan only to flinch at the light like one would a gunshot. The sheet is more of a boa constrictor around his limbs, and he has to forcefully wrestle it off. When his feet meet the floor it's a short lived victory - his face has no patience and seems to think hitting the ground is a mighty fine idea. 

In other words, he tumbles out of bed and does a nose dive. 

Tony squints past the globs of sleep clinging to his eyelashes and uses what he can of the bedframe to scramble up. 

When he reaches the bloody drapes, it is with an enormous grudge that he yanks them shut. 

Tony rakes a hand through his tousled hair and doesn't bother to survey the route back to bed; precisely why he flops right past the mattress and onto the rug. 

He stays there for about half an hour. Apparently time travel takes a lot out of you. 

Still, he finds the motivation to sort his shit out. 

The effort it takes to collect himself and actually get out the door is tremendous. 

Tony heads off down the hall. He has no idea how he’ll find his way back, and marking his way with breadcrumbs seems a tad immature. A lack of Asgardian castle knowledge wont stop him though, returning can be an issue for future Tony. 

Down is the direction he settles on. 

Hey, it may be simple, but down leads to out, right? And boy does he need a hit of fresh air. 

He walks past a guard here and there and gives one or two, (particularly the ones that give him odd looks) a mock salute. The architecture surpassess impressive without question. High ceilings and imposing columns, plants and elaborate carvings. Staircases wind at a leisurely pace, their bannisters so delicately engraved it feels wrong to seek support from them. Even the brash gold is becoming manageable. 

Tony passes gaping windows that grant views of the city. He finds himself stopped in front of one just to stare. Structures stretch out into the distance, villages and markets bustling with people. The sun peeks over the horizon to test the day and cast a glow over an already golden atmosphere. Houses scatter the land in generous amounts, mixed in alongside trees and cobblestone streets. 

To one side of the civilisation is a range of mountains while the other leads out to an ocean. An ocean that Tony is going to pretend doesn't drop off the edge of the world. (If he does acknowledge it he’ll have to walk all the way down there and have a poke around. He can't afford the hike as his legs still feel - for a lack of better words - fucking off.)

A raven almost flies right into the goddamn window and snaps Tony from the trance. He tears his gaze from the scenery and continues his expedition through the labyrinth that is this castle. 

By some miracle, he makes it to the ground floor. 

It’s not too hard to find an exit from there, considering the sheer size of it. 

Geeze, what do they need to move through this place? Trucks? 

After heading out into a courtyard of some kind, his instincts take over and he wanders meaninglessly on auto drive. 

The fresh air is nice, but he really just wanted the space to think. 

Properly think, not the spirally, anxiety induced shit he’s been doing for the past twenty four hours. 

This wacko second chance is full of shit. 

Hell, if JARVIS were here he’d be getting the full blown rant. 

Tony kicks a pebble ahead of him on the path. He sends it bouncing forward again when he catches up to where it lands. 

Mr high and mighty King of Asgard had gone on and on about the importance of viewing Loki as innocent. At least for the time being. Fucking easy for Odin to say, he didn't come from a place where that psycho ripped a hole in the sky to unleash an alien army. For Tony, viewing the god of mischief as anything other than the bastard who chucked him through a window is proving difficult. 

Even if he can file away his instinctive hostility towards him, how will he figure out what's festering in Loki’s brian? Tony is great at a shit load of things, (that totally is not a brag,) but rooting around in a god's brain to unravel and then hopefully solve mania isn't one of them. 

Hell, he has an army of his own deep seeded issues. No way can he play the part of therapist. 

“Crap.” The stone bounces off the path on the third kick so Tony finds another to give the same treatment. Childish or not, it’s entertaining. 

Even if he manages to crack the realm of Loki’s consciousness, what then? If he's a good guy at the moment, maybe Tony’s best shot is to solve what future event pushes him over the edge.

Then there's also the morbid problem of what to do if Tony is forced to kill Loki. 

Actually, that one’s rather simple. 

Cap was right: Tony’s not the guy to lay down on the wire and let the other cross. It's in his nature to look for a way around. If there isn't one, then he makes it. 

But now is different. 

Now, just like it was in New York, there isn’t any other choice. 

He can’t live while knowing he lost for a second time. It will eat him from the inside out. 

He’d rather die trying. 

That’s what makes it so simple. 

If Tony has no way to fix this, no clever solution, no method to prevent Loki from his massacre, he’ll go for the kill. 

If it works, Odin or Thor will kill him. 

If he fails, Loki will probably kill him. 

Either way, Tony no longer has to live with the weight of his guilt. His only regret would be never getting to say goodbye to those few people he left behind. But it’s not like any of them couldn’t live without him. They’ll get by. They’ll do well. 

Tony comes to a stop by a body of water and kicks the pebble in. His reflection looks no better off than he feels.

Fuck. It is not like him to accept shit like this. Usually he avoids defeat like the plague it is till he’s pinned down and forced to look. He’d put it down to maturity if he were not literally younger. 

This sucks. This all sucks. He has to get all serious about things, there’s no one to hang around, and JARVIS isn’t here either. 

His stomach lets out a needy growl.  

Tony would really like a cheeseburger right about now. 

The brothers postpone their investigation to the following day out of consideration for the mortal.  

Oh, and they'd forgotten the very important detail of, ‘they were not told where Tony is staying.’ 

Instead of scouring hundreds of rooms in the hopes of stumbling upon the singular one they were searching for, the two retire to their own quarters. 

He is graced with an enthused waking from his sibling, jolted from slumber by a chant of, ‘ Brother, I've found where the mortal -’  Loki had shut the door in his face without leaving bed. Or lifting his head from deep within the pillow. Thor had let out a hearty laugh before speaking though the closed door. He might have said, ‘meet you in the courtyard,’ but it also could have been, ‘beetroot in the count hard.’ 

Shame the words were muffled by the door. He’ll assume it was the first one and head down as soon as he can muster strength to heave the blankets off. 

Loki isn’t usually this ill tempered in the mornings. Rising for the day has always come somewhat easy. Then again, things have been changing for him recently, and he has a sneaking suspicion it's to do with these new internal struggles. 

Is it wrong to disagree with so much he used to believe in? Did he ever believe it in the first place? Is he misguided? 

It's keeping him up at night and chipping away at his tolerance. 

Loki makes it down to the courtyard fifteen minutes later to find his brother isn't present. 

Maybe he did say something about beetroot.

Loki pockets his hands to roll a loose thread between his fingers. 

There is far more than one courtyard around the palace, but ‘the courtyard,’ (dubbed as such by the oh-so creative brothers in their pre-teen years) is settled in close at the west end, a few steps down from a castle entranceway. This has long been established as a meeting place for the two. 

A concrete path lines the nurtured garden, one he remembers fooling Thor into uprooting during their younger years. He'd been especially bored that day and took a great amount of pleasure from telling his brother he'd seen snakes living amongst the lavender. 

Three hours later and a mud coated blonde had emerged with, (surprise surprise) no snakes. He did, however, collect a generous amount of scrapes from the thorns he'd pushed through. Boy did Loki run when he saw the look on Thor’s face. It was one that said, ‘I know what you did, and I don't intend to have mercy.’ 

Both adolescents received a scolding from their mother, and had to re-plant an entire flower bed the following day. During this activity, Loki had turned a stick to a snake and sent Thor running into the pond after it. 

He never got blamed for that one, but judging by the look he got from his mother, she knew it was him. Loki was probably let off because Thor had needed the bath. 

A chuckle leaves him as he reminisces. 

Where is that gullible buffoon? 

Loki scuffs his heel along the concrete and pushes a loose pebble into the water. It sinks below the surface with a plop. 

“Oh screw it. If thor wants to find me he’ll just have to - “

Is that the human? 

Across from where he stands is a brunette in strange garments. Loki instantly recognises the shirt's colourful swirl. The man strolls along with thumbs hooked into his belt, head twisting every few seconds to view a different angle. It’s a surprise he’s permitted to wander without supervision, not even a guard to ensure he doesn't get lost or cause trouble. 

All thoughts of his older sibling are forgotten as Loki falls into step behind the mortal, making sure to keep a generous distance between them. He should avoid being spotted. That look the man had given him yesterday was… something. Something not friendly. 

Tony is taking his sweet time to journey a few steps, so Loki skips past him, splitting off round a tree. He settles for leaning against the trunk idly while shredding a leaf with his nails. This spot is a good couple metres ahead of where the human is dawdling, so it provides a suitable vantage point. 

Now that the human isn't being shoved to the ground or regurgitating his lunch, Loki has the opportunity to survey him better. 

His skin is pale but with a healthy pigment, and his hair is a rich brown. The fluffy strands stick out at different angles, none seeming to stay in line. He’s quite tall and clearly works out, despite his build being on the leaner side. Tony holds himself in an odd way, like he's meant to be relaxed but can't quite say still. For example, he keeps doing this thing where he’ll open his mouth then abruptly snap it shut. Kind of like he’s about to say something, but then remembers there's no one around to listen. 

Loki would likely be a bit younger than this mortal in human years. He thinks a midgardian life span is around a century, so this one must be between twenty and thirty. 

In the middle of his chest: a blue glow. 

How did Loki not notice that before? 

Is it an amulet? Do Midgardians use those? 

He is about to try for a closer look but is abruptly cut off. 

“Human!” The loud bellow destroys any serenity the courtyard had. A blonde with more muscle than modesty strides over, making a direct beeline for Tony. 

The mortal’s head snaps up, muscles squirming against the fabric of his shirt. Loki reads this reaction as discomfort upon seeing Thor, and is forced to rub the bridge of his nose as a release for exasperation. 

What did Thor not understand about the downsides of diving in head first? 

Fuck. 

Tony hadn’t really thought about facing Thor. The possibility of running into his future teammate did surface somewhere in this chaos, but he avoided considering how it may go. 

Welp, that was smart of him. Now he’s a deer stuck in the headlights that are Thor’s magnificent hair. 

This is gonna be fucking weird, right? Thor was his friend last time they spoke, yet technically for the blonde, they haven’t met. 

It may hurt. Just a tad. 

Tony shoves his hands deep in his pockets. Bubbles are churning in his chest. Each time one hits another, they both explode and release a swarm of new ones. 

Is this what being nervous feels like? Fuck, it’s ridiculous. 

Just look casual. Just look casual. Just look casual. 

‘You look about as casual as a clown in a business meeting.’ 

Fuck off. 

Thor eats up the distance between them at an alarming speed for a person who's merely walking. He’s dressed in silver plated armour, similar to the one he wore on earth during the Loki fiasco. A ridiculous red cape flaps along behind him, (has anyone ever grabbed him by it during a fight? It seriously can't be practical) and his hair billows in a similar fashion. 

He still has his hammer. 

Not much is different. That is, until you lay eyes on his face. 

Tony can tell, just as with himself, that the god of thunder is younger - about five years less than what he did in 2012. 

Mid twenties?

That would make sense had Tony not travelled hundreds of years back. Curse this age crap. Tony is still sorting out a god-to-human life expectancy ratio. 

Before he knows it, Thor is positioned directly in front of him, a smile on his face. 

“Greetings, human.” He rests his hammer beside a booted foot. “I am Thor Odinson, God of thunder and prince of Asgard.” 

Tony contemplates introducing himself as ‘Antony Howardson,’ but decides the only person that would hinder is himself. Best to settle with: “I am Tony Stark, I have no fancy shmancy status.” Not the entire truth, but oh well. 

“Well, Tony of Midgard, what brings you here?” Thor crosses his arms and gives his head a downward tilt. Is the bastard trying to make a point of being taller? 

“To the courtyard?” He plays dumb. “Fresh air and vitamin D.” 

“To Asgard.” 

“Oh, well…” your father specifically instructed me not to tell you that because of the crushing complications. “I’m a tourist.”

The blonde lifts an eyebrow. 

It’s clear they don’t take foreigners so lightly here, but Tony couldn't resist saying it. 

“Or would you believe I'm a time traveller who got spat out in front of your massive castle?” 

That too. 

It’s not like he’ll be taken seriously, and it may be the most efficient way to lessen suspicion. Suggesting something that absurd outright will hopefully land as a joke. 

The god of thunder digests his two options for a minute. Tony is trying to pinpoint the difference in vibe he gets from this younger Thor compared to the future one. That is, until he bursts out laughing. 

A large hand claps Tony on the back and almost drives his feet into the ground like tent pegs. “You mortals are such amusing little creatures!” 

What must have been meant as a friendly gesture has knocked Tony of all his air. He would argue on the ‘little creatures’ comment, but knows exactly how he looks next to Thor. 

“So, what is your area of expertise, human?”

He has to catch his breath before he can reply.  

“I build things.” Tony rolls his shoulders back to loosen the tension coiled in his joints. “Weaponry.” 

‘I see. So you are a blacksmith?”

“Ahh… Yeah. Sure, why not? I’m a blacksmith.” 

Thor nods in approval. “Tell me, Tony, how well do you handle your liquor?” 

His ears literally perk up at that. Re-befriending the blonde is starting to look very, very appealing. 

“Well. Very well.” 

“Perfect.” He tugs Tony along with an apparent obliviousness to their difference in strength. “It would be my pleasure to give you a tour of our taverns.” 

He decides it's best to shelve any questions around whether it's too early to be drinking because, let's face it, he doesn’t care. 

Thor walks with a palm between Tony’s shoulder blades. He comes across as boisterous, missing the hardened edge that comes from exposure to harsh realities. This young Thor is much like Tony was before Afghanistan - living under the delusion he’s invincible. 

"Uh… thanks for the help, but I can follow you without the assistance.” 

The god drops his hand and gives Tony a head pat. “I like you, human. You’ve got spirit. A spirited man is always the kind man you want fighting alongside you. Or in this case, drinking.”

He almost laughs out loud. Perhaps they were destined to be teammates. (Not that Tony buys into the ‘destiny,’ mumbo jumbo.) 

“I can’t wait to introduce you to my brother.” 

His heart drops into the pits of his stomach. 

Playing dumb is not a tactic Tony loves to rely on; he usually goes for the rich genius who knows everything. It’s funny what desperation will do to you. “You have a brother?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re close?”

Thor leads them away from the courtyard and along down a street. “Ha! One might call it that.” 

This could be a good opportunity to get an insight on Loki’s current state of mind. Even just as it is through the eyes of his older sibling. 

“Is he…” Crazy? Sadistic? Likely to start a war? “Much like you?” 

“Quite the opposite. Loki and I have always been rather different.” Thor chuckles. “What about you, friend? Do you have a brother?”

“Nah. I’m the one and only Stark.” 

“The only? Meaning you are the last of your family line?”

He ignores the bitter taste on his tongue. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”  

“Never matter, tiny human,” The blonde rests a palm on Tony’s shoulder. “Family isn’t always a matter of blood.” 

Huh. That attitude would have been useful upon discovering your brother is adopted. Come to think of it, the blonde had been protective of Loki, even while watching the chaos he brung. It’s clear that in Thor’s mind, Loki is nothing but his brother. 

Tony can't understand it, what with the whole betrayal thing, but it's good to know where everyone’s at. 

He pats Thor on his huge bicep. “Thanks for the wisdom, Point Break.” 

“You are very welcome, Stark.” He clearly misses the sarcasm. 

Tony doesn't pay attention to his surroundings as they pass by. It’s all a blur of tall structures and bustling markets, people getting on with their day. He can't remember the last time he was able to go out in public without facing the wrath of recognition. 

Not that he's ever really minded the attention, (some would say he basks in it,) but this? This peace? Being able to mind his own business? It's… Nice? 

He's not Iron man. He's not a billionaire. He's not a guy who built high grade weaponry for the military. He's just… Tony. 

Fuck, what's wrong with him? 

He really needs that drink. 

The bar they end up in is chock full and practically a hive of drunks. Tony can smell the alcohol before he sees any, and it's a mission just to squeeze past people and reach the counter. Since the dim lantern light doesn't help with not tripping on an unconscious bastard, he does exactly that. Twice. If it weren't for the blonde by his side, Tony would have no hope of even knowing what to order. 

Fucking Asgardian alphabet. 

He wedges himself between the wall and his companion, perched on a seat that screeches so loud you can hear it over the chatter. 

A few massive tankards later and Tony is seeing double. Whatever the hell these gods do to their liquor fucking works. 

“Only those who are worthy may wield the hammer.” Thor's weapon is propped up on the bar while the two men observe it like the meaning of life is engraved on the side. 

“Pffwa! What a load of crap!” 

“I am serious, mortal. Only those deemed worthy may wield Mjölnir.” Thor downs what must be his hundredth drink. Tony wants to know where the hell he's keeping all that liquid. “And I, my friend, am worthy. Hence I can lift it.” 

“Yeah, you're having me on, right?” 

“Why of course not. Your puny human mind simply can't fathom the complexities of my world.”

Big talk for someone who can't keep their face in focus. Wait, maybe that's Tony's fault. How is Thor still speaking clearly? 

Fucking gods. 

“Alright, Rapunzel,” Thor raises an eyebrow at the nickname but Tony barrels on. “Let me give it a go.”

“By all means.” The god of thunder waves a hand at his hammer, an invitation for Tony to proceed. 

He gets to his feet and rolls up his sleeves. “When I lift this, I expect a full apology for your doubt.” 

Thor nods along as Tony clambers onto the bar. A few people turn their heads in interest, but the spotlight has never been a bother for Iron Man. 

“Of course.”

“I mean it. I want the whole ‘remorseful performance.’” He positions his feet on either side of the weapon before bending down to get a good grip. “Are you ready for your humiliation?” 

“Certainly. Give it your best, mortal.” 

Tony encases the leather wrapped handle with his fist. This should not be too difficult. Sure, he's not as strong as he was in 2012, but he's not exactly weak either. 

Once satisfied he's established a suitable grip, he attempts to lift. 

The hammer doesn't budge. Wow. Shooting Thor that smug grin was a mistake. 

Right. This is bullshit. 

No matter. He wasn't really trying that time. So, attempt two - 

What the fuck? Is this thing melded to the table? 

Tony has forgotten about his audience by now and is frowning down at the hammer like it's personally offended him. Which it has. 

“Just give me a…” He murmurs more to himself than anyone else. He loops his hand through the strap and pulls again, making use of his leg muscles this time round. 

The stubborn hunk of metal, (or whatever the hell it's made of) doesn't budge. 

Tony lets out a stream of curses and pulls so hard he thinks a vein bursts in his forehead.

“Nope.” He lets go and hops down off the counter, wanting to slug Thor for laughing. “It's a trick. I don't know what you've done, but this sword and the stone crap is a hoax.” 

“Or,” The blonde leans over to scoop his hammer up with an effortless flourish. “you're not worthy.”

Tony wants to eat his own goatee. 

“And you are?” 

Thor holds up the weapon as if to make some kind of point. “This not proof enough?” 

“You can't call that proof.” 

“I think I just did.” 

Tony pauses. “More drinks?”

First time Thor has a conversation with the mortal and where does he take him? A bar. 

Loki shouldn't be surprised. He shouldn't even be mildly taken aback. 

“Do you remember anything about your interactions last night?” 

“There were drinks, that's for sure.” 

His eyes are at great risk of rolling all the way back. “Why must you have no self control?” 

His older brother chuckles. “Lighten up, brother. He's a good man.” 

Loki pinches the bridge of his nose and leans back in his chair. The comfort of the library does nothing to aid his threatening headache. It’s not entirely Thor’s doing; if Loki had got any sleep the previous night he might not be so on edge. 

“Is there any merit in reminding you not to make snap judgments?” 

“Hardly. I can tell a reliable person when I see one.” 

He scrubs a palm over his face. “Then why do you insist on hanging around me?” 

“Ha! Trickster you may be,” A hand covers Loki’s shoulder. “But you are my brother, and I know I can rely on you.” 

Loki sighs. “Yes. Yes of course.” He lets his hand slide to his lap. 

Can he? Can Thor really rely on Loki? Can Loki even rely on himself? 

He cracks a grin and meets his brother's eyes, mostly just to free himself from dangerous thoughts. “Surely you recall a few things?” 

Thor returns the smile. “Have you no faith, brother?” 

“I, unlike some people , learn from my experiences.” He watches his older sibling cross booted feet on the table. 

“Does that mean you don't want to hear what I've learnt?” 

“Certainly not. Don’t you dare keep it to yourself.” 

Thor takes a moment. Whether it's for emphasis or simply because he's having to sort through liquor dulled memories isn't clear. “From what I can remember, his name is Tony Stark, and he’s a blacksmith.” 

“A blacksmith?”

“He said he makes weapons.” 

Huh. That's… unexpected. 

Not that Loki really knew what to expect. 

“Did he say what kind of weapons?”

Thor shakes his head. “Not that I can recall.” 

It’s unlikely Loki will get any more information out of his brother. He leans back against the rest of the chair, letting the polished wood edge cut into his neck. He wants to consult the human himself. And as much as he hates to admit it, Thor’s method of jumping in without a plan seems to have worked. Maybe that's the way to go about things when it comes to Stark? 

Loki gets to his feet without a word. He can't sit here a moment longer. His body needs to move before his mind renders him incapable of anything other than sulking. 

“Where are you heading out to?” 

He looks at his brother, a hint of the earlier smile lingering on his lips. It's forced but does just fine. “I thought my boring studies were of no interest to you?” 

The blonde huffs and chucks his hammer across the room. It narrowly avoids a bookcase. “Correct. I have no interest in your witchcraft.” 

Loki rolls his eyes, they've had this conversation far too often. “It’s not witchcraft.” 

“Whatever you say, brother.” Mjölnir returns to Thor's open palm like a raven to its master. 

There’s no point in having this argument again, so he turns on his heel and makes for the door. Just as he thinks he’s home free, hand on the doorknob and everything, Thor calls out after him. 

“Oh, and the mortal is on the fifteenth floor. Third room from the stairwell.” Loki turns around at a humiliatingly sheepish pace, finding his brother to be shooting him a knowing look. “You know, just to save you the trouble of hunting around the entire palace.” 

Loki just frowns. Mostly because he can't think of a comeback. 

“I know you are too protective of your dignity to ask me, brother. You may think you’re sly, but I am aware of where you plan to go.” 

This smug bastard. 

The blonde best be careful, Loki is not above stabbing him again . It has been a while since he last did that. 

Although it might not be the best idea to arrive at the human’s door covered in blood. 

He presses hold on the murderous intentions and saves them for another day. At least that way he can make an experience out of it. 

“Assume what you want.” Loki pulls the door open with a little too much force to pass as unbothered. “Try not to break anything while I’m gone.” 

Thor’s laugh chases him out into the hall. It doesn’t relent till he rounds the corner and heads up the staircase. 

It’s tempting to head straight for the human’s room without a care, but Loki has the self control to consult his father first. Not that he always operates as is expected of him. 

When he arrives, the guards at the door step aside without hesitation. Their compliance is a tribute to Loki’s position as prince. The weary looks they cast him is tribute to his infamous habit of tormenting the staff. 

He strides past them and into the throne room, the door is shut with care behind him. 

His father is where one would expect: seated in his throne. Or, to name it more accurately, the chair of intimidation. 

Loki heads forward and speaks before Odin can open his mouth. “Father, I wish to speak with you regarding the mortal.” 

The Allfather’s one working eye narrows ever so slightly. “He is simply staying for the time being.” 

“Why?” 

“It is nothing you need to concern yourself with.” 

No. He wont take that for an answer. “With all due respect, father,” he keeps his voice as steady as his lack of patience will allow. “I think Thor and I deserve to know.”

“I will tell you what I see fit.”

“I can handle-”

Odin bashes the bottom of his staff against the floor. The sharp crack is enough to drive Loki a few steps back. 

“I will not tolerate your disobedience.” The look in his eye sends Loki’s heart into a frenzy. “You are to stay away from Tony Stark.” 

“I-”

“That’s enough.” Odin’s tone is final. There’s no arguing. 

Loki is left to stand there and blink, frozen before his father. There are too many things he wants to do right now. Yell is definitely one of them. Swearing is up there too. Still, he settles for turning to leave. Obeying . 

He feels sick. 

Odin’s eyes burn into Loki’s back as he storms from the room. 

The moment he is out the door, passing the guards with a glare that makes them grimace, he can feel his composure starting to crack. Horrid emotions pulse in his heart while his control falters. As it fails . 

The dismissal from his father is familiar, but it still tastes like shit. Fucking shit. 

His surroundings are a blur, an afterthought compared to his all consuming frustration. He can’t focus enough to tell where he is, but he knows where he’s going. 

The fifteenth floor. 

Loki takes each step with an impatience that grows each time his foot hits the ground. It’s doing a great job of hustling crowds of thoughts to the forefront of his mind. 

Where is the human from?

Why won't father tell them about it?

Does father even know?

Why did the mortal look at Loki with something he's pretty sure was hate?

Does anything he has to say matter?

What does Loki even want? 

Where are all these thoughts coming from?

Why is he getting so wound up all of a sudden? 

Why does everything seem so wrong recently?

Why does he get so mad?

Is anything making sense anymore? 

Loki can feel something tingling in the tips of his fingers. It seeps into every pore of his skin to contaminate his blood. It’s swept through his body and squirms against his veins with such violence they want to burst. 

He’s tried so hard to be happy for his brother. He’s also tired so hard to make their father proud. He’s sat by and watched without question as things happen. 

He's so sick of being overlooked. So tired of being second to his brother. His brother who thinks they are equals when Loki has always been less. It's exhausting that his father never hears him out -  won't even allow a second to listen because he can't see that he could be wrong. But he can see so many ways to do it better . If only someone would just let him speak. He is not a kid. 

He’s tired because he hasn't slept in days, and he’s tired because he feels so out of place. He’s thinking things he’s never considered before, and it’s scaring him. But he can't be scared. It’s weak. It’s even weaker that he can't pinpoint what he’s scared of. 

He doesn't even know why he’s so angry right now. He was fine , he was doing fine. This is all so out of the blue and he didn’t have the time to prepare for it. 

What is wrong with him?

What is wrong with him?

What is wrong - 

Loki doesn't see the person in front of him. At least until he walks right into them. He was so lost in his fuming it didn’t register that he was headed straight for someone's back. 

Still acting entirely on impulse, Loki snatches the man's arm before he can fall over. 

The awkward situation comes into focus after a few breaths of air. 

He keeps his grip tight as the man steadies himself, then they both hold unnaturally still. If anyone happened to walk by and witness this, they’d think the pair were standing on thin ice, unable to move without falling through. 

“You know, it’s not safe to walk with your eyes closed.” 

It takes Loki a moment to realise he’s being talked to. Then another to frown at the words. He understands the comment was sarcastic, but still wants to point out that since they haven't looked eye to eye yet, this man can’t have known whether his eyes were shut or not. 

“I am aware.” He releases his hold abruptly. It may have paid to give some warning in advance, the man stumbles forward a number of steps before straightening up. 

An apology is hanging from the tip of Loki’s tongue when he notices the shirt. 

Oh dear. 

“Then why are-” the mortal’s jaw snaps shut the second he turns around. All colour drains from Stark’s face as if the presence behind him had pulled a plug. His eyes say far more than Loki has the time to decipher, so he averts his gaze, brushing any meanings aside. The human does the same. 

“Apologies, I wasn't paying attention.” 

The mortal pockets his hands, looking anywhere but straight. “No shit.” 

There’s no correct thing to do at this point, so Loki extends a hand. “I’m Loki, my brother says you met him yesterday.”  

The mortal gulps down what can only be bitter tasting words as he stares at the offered hand. The muscles under his clothes are tense, his expression changing so frequently Loki can’t grasp a single one. It’s like he’s fighting for control over his own body. 

Then, after an eternity, he takes Loki’s hand, shaking it with a firm grip. 

“I’m Tony.”

Chapter Text

Tony is shaking Loki’s hand. 

He is full on, shaking his hand. 

He’s shaking his hand, and the world hasn't ended. 

It’s a good start. Things are going better than expected. Although, he’s pretty sure his brain short circuited when he saw the god. 

Tony is religiously avoiding meeting Loki’s eyes, kinda like a medusa situation. It’s easier not to look up if he pretends the end result would be turning to stone. The best thing to do here is not overthink. 

Even so, he’s hyper aware of the hand clasped around his. 

Loki’s palm is incredibly soft. 

From the moment Tony fit his hand against the other, he hasn't been able to get over how fucking soft his skin is. Is it a God thing? Is their skin just naturally the texture of silk? Fuck, if it werent so inhumane, he’d love a god skin cloak. 

Yep, that's the weirdest thought he's ever had. What the hell is this place doing to him?

He ends the handshake and pockets his own for good measure. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

Wow. Talk about manners. Where were those when he was crashing parties to drill out people's eyes? 

“Ditto.” Tony nods his head once and pays a little too much attention to a wall tapestry. He’s not scared or anything, and he’d usually stare anyone straight in the eye without care, it’s just that he can’t predict what his face will give away if he does. 

There’s one of those drawn out pauses that’s so awkward he wants to shoot himself. The plus side is it gives him time for a pep talk. 

This may seem impossible, he may want to fight, there may be a little part of him that wants to run, but he has to make it work. He needs to pretend he’s never met Loki before. He needs to fucking get over it. Be normal . 

Shit, if he wants to act casual, it’s time to look up. He can’t adapt to treating Loki as an innocent without getting used to his face. 

When he does turn his head he finds that, as expected, Loki is younger than when they last met. But shit, the difference is far more dramatic than with either Thor or Tony himself. He couldn’t see a great deal from where he was that first night, so this is his first proper look. 

He’s healthy. 

Holy shit. That's the big difference. 

Tony hadn’t noticed it back then. If he did, it wasn't something he paid any mind to. 

In 2012, Loki looked like he was having a shit time in terms of well being. He had huge bags under his eyes, to such an extent it was a surprise they weren't weighing him down. His skin was far too pale to have been exposed to any kind of sunlight for weeks, and his hair was wildly unkempt.

This Loki, on the other hand, is the definition of put together. Neat, impeccable posture, skin still pale but with a healthy tint. His eyes are different too. Actually, they're the biggest difference. 

They have life in them. Tony isn't sure what the fuck that means, but it seems to fit. Loki has life in his eyes. All they had in them during the New York ordeal was mania. A calculating, sick joy upon hurting others. Cold indifference. There wasn't a person in there, just a fucking psychopath. 

Seeing what he used to be like really puts it in perspective, makes Tony realise how sick he must have been. What the fuck had to happen for him to go from this, to that? 

God, is Tony feeling pity for Loki? 

“How are you finding your stay so far?” Tony very nearly jumps at the question. He was probably staring into Loki’s eyes for far too long. 

He gets his shit together and answers with haste. “S’all right. You’re Thor’s brother?” Thor seems to be a safe topic, one they’re both familiar with. 

“Unfortunately so.” Loki rolls his eyes, but there's something akin to affection underneath. Strange. “You have my sympathy for getting dragged into a night with him.” 

Tony gathers his sarcastic, confident exterior. He’s not unfamiliar with faking it till he makes it, and wit is his natural defence. “You know, it almost sounds like you think it was a bad thing.”

“I grew up with the man, I am far too familiar with what he can be like.” Loki’s voice is smoother than his hands. Its fucking unsettling. “He is a lot to take, especially for a mortal.” 

“Uhh, I take offence to that.” Tony raises a hand to accompany his sarcastic comment. 

“No offence intended. Humans are simply of a different build.” 

“You mean weaker?”

“I never said that.”

Tony regards him for a moment. This bastard is cheeky. “Yeah, I’d go ahead and try to prove you wrong on that, but I haven't eaten in two days. See, I’ve started doing this new thing. It’s called ‘paying attention to my limits.’” Pepper would be so proud. Well, if you skip over the part where he hasn’t eaten. 

Loki’s eyebrows shoot up. “You haven’t had a meal in that long?” 

"You'd think someone would have told me where I could eat, wouldn't you.” 

They laps into another silence. 

Shit, this is going better than expected. Not that he knew what to anticipate, but it definitely wasn’t this. Not this polite, put together, witty young man. Not a person he’d find any amusement in talking to. Not a person that would have fondness in his eyes while discussing his brother. 

"There are dining halls in the castle.” Loki says. “You’re bound to find one if you look.” 

“Not really my style.” Eating in the castle at a pretentious gold table doesn't really appeal. The plan was to find somewhere in the village he could frequent, but he wouldn't know where to start. 

No, but Loki would. 

He considers it for a moment. 

Hey, it’s not the worst idea. He needs to hang around the god of mischief regardless, it can’t hurt to make the best of it. 

Tony starts off down the hall, giving Loki a backhanded pat on the arm as he passes. “Let’s go, Rock of Ages.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

He doesn't slow down to bask in the startled question. “I have an empty stomach and no sense of direction.” 

“I don't see how that concerns me.” Loki says before following along anyway. 

Tony adjusts his pace to match the man beside him. “I need a guide.” 

“You intend on using me to find a dining hall?” 

He shakes his head. “Nope. I intend on using you to find a place to eat in the village.” And maybe observe you for a while to decide if you’re insane or not. 

They make it to the village without the need for Loki to point the way. Tony is surprised the young god was so compliant, he didn’t even express distaste for being a GPS. 

Once they walk down the same street Thor had taken yesterday, he stops. “Right, this is where you come in.” 

Loki raises an eyebrow, all the while looking at Tony like he’s nothing short of confusing. “You expect me to lead you from here?”

“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’ “Preferably somewhere they serve meat.” 

“You do realise I am not a tour guide, human.” 

“Not with that attitude you aren't.” He grins at the mildly disgruntled prince. It’s fucking odd how amusing that face is, what with the way his forehead creases and his lips purse. Not to mention how easy Tony’s finding it to get on with being himself. 

“How about this,” Loki steps to the side of the path to let two civilians pass. “I lead you to a place you can eat, and in exchange, you answer some of my questions.”  

Tony’s stomach does a defensive twist at the prospect of a bargain. ‘Never make a deal with the devil,’ that's the first thing that comes to his mind. 

‘There's something fishy going on, don't fucking do it you imbecile.’ 

But, answering a few of the god’s questions can’t do too much damage, can it? If anything, it could prove beneficial for him as well. Conversation is the best method he has for learning more about Loki, and even his queries could have some indications. It’s not serious either, merely an exchange of directions for truths. 

“You’re a sly one…” Tony heaves a drawn out sigh then shrugs. “But alright, I can do that much. You’ve got yourself a deal.” 

A small smile appears on Loki’s face. “Alright then, mortal, follow me.” 

Loki takes Tony to an acceptable restaurant near the castle. It serves decent meals, and is close enough the mortal won't get lost during trips to and from. It also isn't the hardest journey to make while drunk. He gets the feeling Stark may be that type of man. 

The building itself is no spectacle - a one story wooden structure with handwritten menus in the window - but Loki has dined there on multiple occasions, and found it to be a tolerable experience. 

He finds himself fixated on Stark's expression when they enter, but quickly corrects it the moment he's aware. There's no need for the mortal to think Loki cares how his decision is received, because he doesn't. At least, he doesn't see why he should. 

They head across to a table set in the corner, nestled in by the window and lit by two lanterns. The walls are hung with simple works of art, mainly paintings depicting different parts of Asgard. 

“Nice pick, I'd give you a tip, but I don't have my wallet on me.” Stark pulls out a chair and takes a seat, gesturing for Loki to sit across from him. 

“The answers you promised will do just fine, mortal.” He settles down opposite the human.  

Stark rolls his eyes - an attitude few would use around a Prince. It's rather amusing, interacting with him, nothing like Loki could have anticipated. He could hold quite the grudge towards his father for trying to deny him this fun. 

“I did tell you my name, didn't I? There's no need for calling me ‘mortal’ all the goddamn time.” 

“Well, you are a mortal, aren't you? I see no reason you should be offended.” He restrains a smirk. It's rather difficult, his lips are desperate to tilt up, and they know exactly what he's doing. 

“Yeah, but reminding me of it all the time gets old fast.” Stark leans an elbow on the table, flapping a hand in the air. 

“So it bothers you.”

“Don't put words in my mouth, brat.” 

Loki's eyebrows leap up at that. Never in his life has he been called brat by anyone other than Thor. The nerve on this Midgardian just keeps surpassing what he  thought possible every second. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Tony shoots him a look of false innocence. “What? I'm just following your example, addressing you by what you are.”

“Do not forget, I am a Prince.”

“Oh so is that how you'd like me to address you? Prince?” Stark asks while flagging down a waiter. 

“Not in the slightest.” Loki responds, trying to snuff out the title before it sticks. 

The waiter heads over to them and takes his place next to their table. “Good evening, what would you like to order?” 

“Yeah, me and the prince here are open for suggestions. What's the most popular thing on the menu?” 

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

The mortal handles their order and they end up with two plates of steak. The moment their food is delivered, Stark digs in. Loki takes more time on his, picking at the hunk of meat with far less enthusiasm. 

“So, ‘bout those questions,” The human says between mouthfuls. “What exactly does your highness want to know?” 

Loki takes a sip of water. His father clearly has a reason for keeping information on this mortal scarce, so precision in wording is key. He can't afford to scare Stark away, or even raise suspicion, so he'll stick to questions the man is likely suspecting. Usually he'd take a subtle approach, coaxing the information out in parts to then piece together, but seeing as a majority of things he wants to ask are completely expected in a situation like this, he can get away with asking outright. 

“I already know the answer to this one, but just to clarify, you are from Mudguard, correct?” Loki starts with an easy one. 

The human takes a sip from his own drink. “If that's your word for Earth, then yeah.” 

“Midgard is indeed the Asgardian term for your, ‘Earth.’” Loki pauses to impale a sad looking bean with his fork. “What is your area of expertise?” 

“Is that just a really complicated way of asking what my job is?” The human snorts. “I'm… a blacksmith.” 

Loki picks up on a note of hesitation. “Really? You sound unsure.” 

“I don't think so.”

“You hesitated.”

“What is this, an interrogation?” Stark wipes at the corner of his mouth before pointing a right at Loki. “Are you psychoanalysing me?” 

The tone insinuates he's joking around, but it also feels like a deflection. Never matter, Loki will circle back to it later. He proceeds with: “What brings you to Asgard?” 

“Would you believe I'm a tourist?”

“Not one bit.” 

Stark lets out a chuckle, swallowing yet another bite of food. “You know, I couldn't decide whether your brother bought that one or not.” He shakes his head, chest still shaking with amusement. 

The laughter is nothing special, and Loki was going to comment on Thor's unfortunate gullibility, but a pulsing blue light catches his eye. He'd noticed it yesterday, but it had since slipped his mind. Stark has a glow filtering through the fabric of his shirt, a beacon right on his chest. 

Before he can filter his words, Loki does something that has a humiliating similarity to what his brother would do. 

“What's that?” Loki points to the middle of the human's ribs. A few seconds later and he's mentally cursing himself for such impulsiveness. 

Stark's eyes fall to his own chest, surprise flickering across his face for a moment. It disappears the instant he raises his head back up. “It keeps me alive.”

Well, that’s not something he ever would have guessed. 

“What?”

“I had a little incident a few years back, a couple of terrorists and some high grade explosives. Long story short, I ended up with shrapnel in my chest. This thing is what keeps me alive.” Stark taps the light with a finger. 

Loki doesn't know where to start with that. Several important parts of that story must have been skipped right over. 

“You mean to tell me you were in an explosion and that night light under your shirt saved you?” 

The mortal opens his mouth to speak but leaves it as such for a few beats before actually talking. “No, not exactly. It didn't save me from the explosion, it - I built it to deal with the shit left behind.”  

“There is still debris left inside of you?” 

“Pretty much.” 

Loki is outright staring at him now, unsure of the proper manner in which he should react. “And the light…”

“Prevents it from reaching my heart.” The mortal finishes. 

“If it did?”

“Well, that would be the end of Tony Stark.” He shrugs, a little too casual about this whole thing. “But, seeing as it isn't the way I wanna go out, I decided not to let it get to that.” 

Loki had been right in his original assessment, there is far, far more to this man than meets the eye. It’s rather exciting. The god of mischief isn't dining with just any other mortal, he’s dining with an onion. It sounds weird, but the metaphor fits. 

An onion is constructed of many different layers, each needing to be peeled off before you can reach the centre. Loki definitely plans to unravel the mystery that is Tony Stark. 

“How does it function?” 

“To put it simply, it removes electrons from Hydrogen atoms to generate the energy for powering an electromagnet.” 

Loki blinks. He’s pretty sure all that information just passed through his ears without bothering to take a seat and explain themselves. He doesn't see how that's putting it simply. “I didn't realise Midgardians were that advanced.”

The mortal has another drink, looking rather pleased with himself. “Correct. They aren’t. I am.” 

Loki snorts. “For a being with such a limited life span, you sure are arrogant.” 

“Hey, respect your elders.” 

“I’ve lived far longer than you, mortal.” Loki sips his own drink, taking a turn at being the pleased one. 

Stark picks up his fork, gesturing with it as he speaks. “Woah there, don't get ahead of yourself. Can't compare apples to oranges, I'm talking about maturity here.”  

Loki can't help but smirk. Just a little. It’s fun talking to someone with this much wit, even more so when that person possibly holds so many secrets. It’s a welcome break from his recent stress and boredom. 

“It’s unwise to lecture others on something you do not have.” 

“Careful, I'll get you for that one.” Stark warns. “But I’m definitely older than you in human years.” 

The conversation sort of… flows, from there on. It’s so oddly simple, so enjoyable, that Loki does something entirely unexpected: He completely forgets to ask his lengthy list of questions. 

Now, his justification is that the mortal’s banter and confusing nicknames are at fault. But there's a little part of him, a traitorous, tiny little part, that suggests it may be about the fact he’s never had such an engaging conversation. 

There are a limited number of people available for Loki to talk to, and most aren't overly appealing. When you exclude the many servants and guards constantly surrounding him, you're left with his friends, his parents, and his brother. 

Looking at it like that, you wouldn't view it as all that bad. 

But then again, his four friends are shared with Thor, and they all match that vibe. As much as Loki does enjoy their company, they tease him more than they actually care to listen. Time spent with that group often just ends up as time spent stuck between rowdy idiots. 

Thor is the person Loki spends most time with, which is a hard reality to face, and as eventful as it can be, one needs more in terms of companions than their own sibling. Same with his mother, even worse with his father. He’d rather not think about that. 

Loki hadn’t realised the pathetic truth until now, but he really does lack a means for good conversion. 

Talking to this mortal is so vastly different to anything he’s ever experienced. He’s interesting, rather witty, he doesn't see or treat Loki as royalty, nor does he belittle him. This human intrigues him, offers a brand new realm of information to uncover. Of course, it's not like they’re familiar with each other, and Stark does occasionally have an anxious twitch or a strange look in his eye, but he possesses a confidence that entirely overshadows it. 

Some of that confidence is dangerously close to Thor's, mainly the vivid arrogance it holds, but it’s not a headache in the way his brother can be. There's a definite intelligence behind everything else, and that's in addition to the intelligence so generously on display. 

He’s still suspicious, and his guard is far from down, but this is the most entertained the god of mischief has been in a long time. 

Shortly after considering this possibility, Loki decides he must take action to snuff out that little part of him suggesting it. He can not allow it to lounge around his mind and force him to think stuff like this. That little part just chants something which sounds a lot like ‘denial.’ 

They finish eating and he pays. Something about the human’s behaviour around being paid for tells Loki he is not accustomed to the concept. 

The journey back to the palace is accompanied by the stars and moon. It’s a clear night, the clouds having graciously vacated their earlier position to allow a view of the worlds beyond. Loki has always felt he is looking upon countless other lives while gazing up at constellations. Each cluster of light represents another unknown, a realm they have no connection to, but exists all the same. The thought is both wonderful and unsettling. There was a time it was solely wonderful. 

“I had no idea the stars could look like that.” 

Loki turns his gaze back to earth, focusing instead on the man at his side. “Are you telling me you’ve never been out at night?”

“Hell no,” Stark shoves his hands into the depths of his pants pockets. “Quite the opposite, to be completely honest. I’m out past midnight so much my assistant’s hair is probably greying. We just have too much artificial light and pollution on Earth for everything up there to properly stand out.” 

“That sounds rather self destructive.” Loki muses after travelling a number of steps in silence.  

“The star thing, or my unhealthy habit of neglecting sleep?” 

“I was referring to the star issue, but the latter is just as true.” 

The pair are venturing back up the stairs to the castle shortly after that, falling silent to match the atmosphere. The presence of quiet does that, has such a bold yet delicate nature that you’re afraid to break it. Fire dances on the wick of every lantern lining these halls, casting a glow of light that ripples across gold surfaces. The cool glow cast by Stark's chest beacon is a sharp contrast to the warm atmosphere. It’s similar to the mortal himself - different to everything around him, but refreshing in a way one struggles to grasp. 

“Thanks for the meal, your highness.” The Midgardian quips the instant they arrive outside his door, casting a brief glance Loki’s way then reaching for the handle. “See ya’ round.”

“I never got to ask all my questions. You still owe me, human.” 

Stark waves a hand over his shoulder and steps into his quarters. “Guess I'm in debt then.” A pause. “Shit, that's weird as hell to say.” 

Loki takes his leave as the door clicks shut. 

Tony collapses onto his bed the moment he’s checked the door is shut and Loki is gone. 

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. Fuck. 

That was absolutely, no doubt, definitely the weirdest dinner he’s ever had. Tony was freaking out the entire time, but he did a pretty fucking supurb job of hiding it. 

He stares up at the ceiling, hoping to dear god it might have the answers, because he sure doesn't. Hell, he’d get down on his knees and beg if it meant someone would tell him what the fuck is going on. What happened to a time where at least some aspects of life made any goddamn sense. The whole dinner has blurred into one mass of confusion, and the only thing he can make out is that he had fun. 

He had fun.

He, Tony Stark, had fun talking to Loki. 

What sorcery is this?

Why was it so easy? It should not have been so easy. It’s just wrong for a conversation with someone he hates so much it physically hurts to actually wind up as an enjoyable experience. It was a given that this Loki may not be much like the future one yet, but Tony just had his fucking mind blown with how different the bastard is. 

He’s just a young man. 

Well, he could still be hiding a psychopath underneath, and that’s kinda hard to forget, but he seemed so normal. Which was also fucking creepy. Things are bad when regularity becomes an object of fear. 

It sounds horrible, but if Tony lets himself believe that Loki was at one point, a normal guy, it almost makes it worse. If he accepts it, he will be forced to imagine what could have possibly turned the prince into a monster. A change that drastic doesn't happen overnight, something has to prompt it. 

For a genuinely good person to gain the will to end lives, seriously fucked up things have to happen. Only a monster could create another, and Tony doesn't want to ever meet whoever made 2012 Loki. 

Selfish as it is, Tony is scared the god of mischief may not have been born bad. It will make hating him so much harder. Everything will become so much more complicated if he starts to feel sympathy, if he starts to empathise . 

Then again, he also hopes Loki isn’t naturally evil so he can stop it. It would be the best outcome, no one dies and no family gets torn apart. If this young man Tony had dinner with tonight is more than a facade, he should be saved. He deserves it. 

What if he is sane, and Tony has the chance to fix him, and then he fails? Shit, he didn't think this through when he first decided to solve things, the situation is far more tangled than he’d anticipated. 

Why does it all so suddenly seem like too much? He got through the dinner fine, it shouldn't prompt this. Tony has kept his cool while enduring shit leaps and bounds worse than this. There's no need to be so weak right now. He’s being weak. He’s going to fail again. 

Tony’s heart picks up on his thoughts and is set off. His lungs also seem to think it’s a good idea to limit themselves to sharp little gasps of air in the place of steady inhales. 

He’s no longer thinking clearly. 

“Get a hold of yourself.” He grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face. “This is not something to freak out about, you're fine.” 

‘You’re going crazy.’ 

“Shove off. I am not.” He realises that he literally just spoke to himself. “Oh my fucking god.” 

Sometimes he detests being stuck with himself. 

Tony sits up and decides it best to wash before this can escalate any further. Maybe the conflict can be washed away. 

He strips off his clothes, making a mental note to track down some others and a place to wash these ones, then heads into the bathroom. Tony doesn't quite know why he’s surprised to be greeted with a shower, but the reaction can’t be denied. He’s not disappointed, (it’s actually a great relief to have a shower) but this place seems to have a strict ancient theme. Come to think of it, he’d be very interested to learn about Asgardian plumbing. 

Tony is tempted to set the water on warm, but the fucking voice in his head needs freezing out. He switches the water as cold as it can go, and steps under before he has the time to change his mind. It hits his body in a stream of frigid bullets, eliciting a gasp that sounds a little too wimpy for his liking. He only manages to withstand it for a few minutes, but instead of allowing himself any warmth, he turns it off altogether and grabs a towel. He wraps the fabric around his waist and heads back to his bed, not bothered over the trail of wet footprints he leaves. 

Now that he’s thinking a tad clearer, he sits back down and gradually sorts through tonight's events. Tony is not going to focus on the shit from before, he’s going to look at it rationally and stay calm. 

Ok, so, young Loki isn’t a total ass yet, and he’s alright to talk to. 

Evil Loki wanted everyone to know he was above them. He wanted people to literally kneel. This Loki, while showing a hint of brattiness, was miles more reserved. It’s not enough proof to say he’s sane, it shouldn't even be enough to say he’s probably sane, but Tony can’t shake the feeling he’s… alright? 

Hey, it’s not to say Tony is a great judge of character, because he isn’t always, (Obadiah helped bring that to light with his betrayal) but he still has an idea of how to read people. Loki was collected, polite, able to keep Tony interested, and he gave him food. There is the matter of the deal to consider, but so far it isn’t malicious, and the couple questions he’d asked were understandable. 

No matter how he may feel, Loki being good is what he needs to aim for.  Maybe he does have a chance to prevent New York’s destruction without killing a god. Maybe all he has to do is stop Thor’s little brother from whatever downward spiral leads to him believing he deserves some kind of throne. 

‘Don’t be foolish.’ 

Right. A much as that voice deserves a good fucking pummelling, it has a point. Things might not be as they seem, Tony should not be swayed into discarding his hate and suspicion with such ease. He needs to be sure first. No, scratch that, he needs to be one hundred percent certain. That’s gonna mean hanging around the god. He wonders how many more meals mooch off that guy before he gets fed up. 

Tony takes off the towel and chucks it on the floor. He then forces his body to cooperate long enough for him to stand up and pull on his boxers. The act of crawling under the blankets is a similar feeling to that of receiving a warm hug. Whatever they use to wash the sheets here is legendary. 

He's tired. 

Tony shoves his face deep in a pillow, a pathetic attempt to block out everything. 

He’s so tired. 

Unfortunately most of what he wants to escape from resides in his own skull, so hiding won’t solve shit.

He’s exhausted. 

Everything's weighing him down. 

He’s lonely. 

How can thoughts be so heavy? 

He’s lost. 

His last thought before he slips into a restless sleep is one that lingers, sticking around for a long while after. 

‘Never make a deal with the devil.’ 

But what if Loki isn’t the devil just yet?

Chapter Text

Loki avoids his father like the plague for the next three days. 

To be honest, it isn't the hardest thing to do. The Alfather is a busy man, and doesn't have ample time to seek out his son’s. It’s generally up to the brothers to initiate interactions. So all Loki has to do is not pursue any kind of conversation. 

It’s unlikely Odin is aware of Loki’s dinner with Stark, but he doesn't want to be caught in his sheepishness. 

He’s also still peeved off. 

Loki doesn't see the mortal for the next three days either. That one is only partly his fault - Stark doesn’t look for him either. 

He has not lost interest in the human, (his fascination only grows as time passes) but with the risk of his fathers fury hanging overhead, it’s best to keep meetings scarce. He’d taken action to influence it by having a bag of money delivered to Stark's room. It means he can pay for food himself. There's a chance it came across as, ‘I’m doing this so I don't have to put up with going along again,’ but that works in Loki’s favour too. Hopefully he can be the one to decide on their next encounter, pick a time that suits him best. 

It was looking good, too. Everything was going according to plan. 

Key word being was . 

Loki enters the library in an absentminded manner, brain occupied with things other than his location. He isn't expecting to find a certain human settled on the window seat, much less with his legs up on the pillow and a book in his lap. 

He stops in his tracks, the previous train of thought completely forgotten. He wanted to seek the human out on his terms, at a time Odin would be less likely to discover, and in a way that could pass as accidental. This is… inconvenient. Should he make a break for it? If he’s found out… 

Heavens, his father just won't get out of his head. The influence is not welcome. 

“What are you, a wax figure? Or are we playing musical statues and I just didn't get the memo?” 

Damn you, Tony Stark. 

The internal struggle over whether or not to stay is rendered moot with but a few words from a cocky midgardian. 

Loki adjusts his posture and smooths imaginary creases from his shirt, then he clears his throat of any lingering awkwardness. “No.” 

Stark raises an eyebrow and props his cheek on a fist, the other hand still supporting the novel. “Then what's with the statue impersonation?” 

“I wasn’t doing anything of the sort.”

“Tell that to your body, prince.” Stark goes back to his book. 

That was nothing short of humiliating. 

Leaving is no longer an option - it would send all kinds of messages that might mess things up. So instead, he strolls to the nearest bookcase.

Loki runs his fingertips over the worn spine of a novel, not paying attention to the text it supports. What did he come in here for again? Was there something in particular he wanted? Or did he simply need to fill in time? 

“D’ya know what you’re looking for, or did you just come here to stroke the books?” 

Loki freezes, his muscles irritated with the mouth on this guy. He doesn't bother to look over, he can feel the eyes on him without. “It’s called browsing, human. Are you unfamiliar with the concept?”

Stark chuckles. “Can’t blame me for thinking you look a little lost.” 

“I live here. If anyone is bound to get lost,” He plucks a random novel and turns to the mortal. “It’s you.” 

“Trust me, that’s not news. This place is built like a labyrinth.” Stark turns multiple pages at the same time. “I keep finding all sorts of shit on accident. Did you know there's a balcony with no railing? Whoever designed that needs firing.” 

“That's on the twentieth floor.” Loki responds, getting sucked into another conversation. “What were you doing up there?”  

The mortal shrugs. “You tell me. I thought I was heading down.” 

He finds his legs have started to work without permission, carrying him over to stand beside Stark. The man is basically layed down and taking up all sitting space on the couch, so Loki just leans up against the wall. 

“How could you possibly have mistaken walking up flights of stairs for going down them?” 

“That was my question.” The brunette lifts his gaze to meet Loki’s. A moment of awkward staring passes before he lifts an eyebrow. “Did you wanna sit?” 

“There’s no room.”

“Oh my god - I’m asking if you want me to move so there is.” He gestures to his legs. 

Loki allows a moment to consider the pros and cons. To be honest, now that he’s here, this isn't a terrible time to get in some more questions. It was a literal accident, so any potential accusations of disobedience will have valid defences. 

“I’d appreciate it, yes.” 

Stark readjusts himself, swinging his legs over the side and sitting up. He also cards through his hair, something that shouldn’t catch Loki’s attention. It looks incredibly fluffy. Would it feel like it appears?

He settles on the vacant end of the window seat. “Thank you, Mortal.” 

“No problem, prince.” 

Loki brushes past the nickname. Perhaps if he refuses Stark a reaction, he’ll eventually stop. 

The man goes back to the novel in his lap. Loki can’t see the cover at this angle, therefore can’t tell what it is. The fingers secured around its edges are restless, tapping over the worn pages and occasionally flicking past a few. 

“What are you reading?”

Stark snaps the book shut then tosses it without warning to Loki, who catches it despite the lack of heads up. When he flips it over and reads the title, he finds that it’s a guide on Asgardian sea life. 

He casts the human a quizzical look. “What business do you have reading this?” 

The brunette huffs. “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea.”

“Pardon?”

“You know, it’s blowing my mind how polite you are.” He makes a gesture near the side of his skull. 

“My manners have nothing to do with this.” Loki opens the book to have a lazy skim of the index. “Are you going to answer? Or am I to assume you are avoiding the question?” 

Stark rolls his eyes. It's becoming apparent he does that on a regular basis. “No, I'm not avoiding the question.” 

“Then why have you still not answered it?” 

The midgardian throws his head back in a dramatic manner. It’s definitely way over the top. “I can't understand any of this shit.” 

Loki lifts his head. “So you were sitting here staring at something you don't know how to read?” 

“Technically there were some pictures in there too.” His Adam's apple bobs as he speaks, rather defined due to the bend in his neck. “What the hell is that thing about?”

“Fish.” 

“Perfect, exactly what I need.” Sarcasm drips from his words, thick and sour in the air. “Why do you speak English but not write in it? That’s fucking misleading.” 

“We don’t speak English, we possess something called Allspeak.” He leaves it at that, hoping the clear name is enough to explain it. 

“Of course you do.” Stark scrubs a hand over his face, letting the other flop over the couches edge. “So… what? You can magically speak any language?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I shouldn't, but I've seen far weirder. It takes a lot more to surprise me these days.” The sentence is lathered in a coating of self pity. 

He’s so grumpy. Seriously, this human has gone from casual to childish in the span of about three minutes. 

Loki can’t fend off the urge to tease. He gets a similar desire around his brother, but there's something foreign mixed in. The mature thing to do would push that impulse aside and stick to sensible things, like asking some more questions, but it’s too perfect to pass up. There's a certain quality to Stark that has the god of mischief thinking he’ll be great to antagonise, even considering the confidence he gives off. 

Loki shuts the book and sets it on the couch. “I didn’t expect you to be so moody.” 

The mortal brings his head back up, eyes narrowing. “Did I hear you right?” 

“How am I to know?” 

Stark blinks away the irritation. “You just said it.”

“I don’t know what you heard.” 

“Has anyone ever told you how much of a brat you are?”

Loki musters the smoothest tone possible while holding back a smirk. “Not explicitly, no.” 

He can feel the smile creeping onto his face. He really did try his best to not let it, but this mortal is far too entertaining. 

“Yeah, for that you can buy me dinner again tonight.”

Loki very nearly agrees, but his fathers voice echoes through the back of his mind. He desperately needs to learn how to block it out. “I gave you enough money to cover a month's worth of meals, I’m sure you can handle yourself.”

“Correction, that money only covered two meals.” Stark holds up his index and middle finger to accompany his point. 

Loki ponders that one for a second. There’s no way two meals for one could cost that much, so unless he was taken advantage of as a foreigner, he’d done something else with it. 

“What did you do? Buy everything on the menu?” 

“Nope. Just two meals for one.” Stark shifts in his seat, slinging an arm up on the windowsill. “Oh, and some new clothes, seeing as I can’t just wear this all the time.” 

Loki finds his attention stray to the clothes in question. The shirt is the strangest aspect in his opinion, both the fabric and colourful patterns cause confusion. It hangs a tad loose around Stark's biceps, a possible indication of being made for a larger person. It isn’t to say the mortal is skinny - he’s without a doubt in good shape - but he’s too lean to fill out the top. 

Now that Loki’s paying attention, the man's youth is more visible as well. The goatee casts an impression of maturity, especially from a distance, but with their current proximity one can tell he isn’t anything more than early years of adulthood. 

“Hey, googly eyes.” Stark snaps his fingers in front of Loki's face. 

He jolts at the sudden action and tumbles back to reality. Did he seriously just zone out? “Pardon?” 

“You know what, for staring like that, you now owe me two meals.’

“What? I wasn't-'' Loki catches the look he receives from the brunette and cuts off. Heavens, there’s no denying it, his staring was excessive. 

A lengthy sigh is granted exit as its creator tries not to rub the bridge of his nose. He’s playing right into this mortal's game and can’t seem to plot a way out. “Why?”

“Because I said so. And frankly, I need the food.” 

“I don't see why laying my eyes on you warrants any such penalty.” Loki argues, making a point to maintain eye contact with his opposition. 

The human scoffs. “Hey, you stared for a long time, buddy. My sense of fashion isn’t that bad.” 

“You must understand why it could be a little perplexing.” He offers. 

“Right, that's three meals, brat.” He holds up three fingers like it’s some kind of trump card. Which it isn't, just to be clear. 

“Who makes the rules on what means a meal is owed?” 

Stark points to himself. “I do.”

“Under whose authority?” Loki retorts, having completely forgotten any self made rules around not getting too comfortable around this man. Not that he is, just that he catches himself enjoying the company. 

“My own.” 

This man's logic is ludicrous. “That doesn't sound very official.” 

“Yes it does.” Stark says. 

“I beg to differ.”

“Too bad.” 

Loki crosses his arms, “I am not, under any circumstances, buying you another meal.” 

Stark plants both palms on his own knees and pushes up to his feet. “One meal, and you be my personal translator for a while.” 

Loki is about to dismiss the offer, about to tell the man once more that he has no way to enforce these penalties. He is about to, then he catches the way Stark’s eyes glimmer when he glances at the shelved knowledge. It shares a resemblance to the enthusiasm one might see in a child let loose within a toy store, but in this case, that kid has the toys all set out with no means to use them. They are close enough to touch, but out of reach all the same.

The god of mischief isn't well versed in sympathy, but he finds his treacherous mind straying to all the times he’s felt helpless. All the occasions his father has prevented him from accomplishing that which he desires. All the times he’s been left to wonder, left to drive himself mad, left to lay awake agonising over things he can’t quite answer. It's excruciating. 

“Alright.” Loki sighs and gets to his feet, holding out a hand just like they’d done a few days prior. “I suppose we have another deal, human.” 

A fleeting surprise may flicker across Stark's face, though it just as likely could have been a trick of the light. 

A hand fits in against Loki’s. The firmness is familiar. “I guess we do.” 

They should pull away now, make a move to find a book. It would be the appropriate action to take. It would be weird to stand here with their hands interlocked and the air charged with questions so complicated there's no hope of expressing them in words. So weird. And frankly, entirely unnecessary. 

Why is it that they end up doing the latter?

Still, those deep pools of brown wield the power to freeze time, to keep Loki held tight in their grasp. What would he find if he stayed and stared? What more would be revealed if he - 

“Brother!?” 

He jumps a foot backward and yanks his hand back as if burnt. Fortunately for him, Thor is only just making his entrance, so missed the frantic display of fright. 

“Loki?” The blonde calls out. 

He clears his throat to direct Thor’s attention. 

The blonde notices the two men standing by the window and his face lights up with a grin. “Ah, I thought I might find you here. Although I would not have placed any money on you having company.” 

Oh dear. This could either be interesting, or utterly disastrous. Mixing Tony with Thor has a good chance to be an occurrence he’d rather be absent for. 

“What do you want, brother?”

“Ha! You almost sound disappointed to see me.” He waves hand, probably referring to the sour tone the younger had not effectively masked. 

“Do you plan on getting to the point? Or am I to stand here while you figure one out?” Loki doesn't know where this annoyance has so suddenly come from, but his brother has ignited a definite irritation with his sudden appearance. 

Thor chuckles again, always a natural at brushing off his younger siblings' distaste. “I’ve merely come to request you accompany me for a friendly spar.” 

“I’d like a ticket to that please.” Stark pipes up, sticking a hand in the air. 

Loki shoots him a searching look, puzzled at this sudden eagerness. He seems almost… excited? 

“Why of course, my mortal friend.” Thor answers before Loki can even agree to sparing in the first place. 

“Hold on, I didn't even say that I-” 

The brunette cuts him off. “Nope. This is a non-optional event. All persons are required to attend.” 

Alright, he’s definitely excited.

The trio head down to the training yard. Loki can't help but suffer that nagging reluctance he often feels around things his brother drags him into. 

Thor leads them to their favoured training location: an octagonal space with racks of weaponry stored on the sides. The floor here is sandstone, and rougher than the rest of the palace. That particular feature is intentional, done to provide stability for those who train upon it. There’s a polished wood bench positioned along one of the eight sides with multiple large dents in its surface. 

During the brothers' early teen years, shortly after Thor had acquired his hammer, the two had taken a liking to ‘friendly sparing.’ The word friendly is being used loosely in this circumstance as things often got extreme. While it was good practice, and allowed both boys to make drastic improvements in their combat skills, there were also a few instances neither will ever forget. 

The one that comes to mind in this moment was the worst for Loki. 

Thor had been winning their battle that day, (as he often did) and the younger boy had grown sick of the endless boasting. Long story short, his solution was to target something held dear to the god of thunder. That thing just so happened to be his hair. It was a brilliant manoeuvre on Loki’s part, managing to slice off a decent chunk while dodging a swing. 

Thor had not been pleased. He expressed this anger by dumping Mjölnir square on Loki’s chest. Not only that, but he left the younger boy to struggle for three hours beneath something he wishes he could lift. 

They'd both been punished for that one. 

This visit to the duelling spot is different. Loki’s attention is not hyper fixed on the blonde preparing to beat him up, instead it’s centred around the mortal tagging along. He’d usually be analysing every aspect of his opponent in search of a weakness he can exploit. Since he knows his brother so well, there are certain tells he always looks for. It changes depending on the day, but he usually finds at least one advantage. 

Right now he couldn't pinpoint a weakness if Thor walked in missing a leg. He’s trying to set his mental sights on the task at hand, but the ever rampant intrusive thoughts won't seem to get over Stark. 

It’s becoming concerning. Loki had known his curiosity over the mortal was rather excessive, but he’s only just becoming aware of its extent. He can understand the fixation when there's nothing else to occupy him, especially considering the endless mysteries surrounding the mortal. The difference here is that he’s getting ready for a duel. Nothing impairs his ability to be on guard when faced with a fight, sparing or not, and it’s incredibly uncomfortable to find he’s lost concentration. Every attempt he makes at assessing his opponent's condition is set wildly off course by the presence of a brunette. 

Now that there's an issue, reality can’t avoid being brought to light. It can no longer go unnoticed, or even be denied. 

Apart from matters involving his father, Loki has never experienced this severe of a distraction. He can’t form a tactic, a plan . 

He, the god of mischief , has been rendered unable to plot. 

It’s pathetic how close he is to muttering the words: ‘It’s not fair.’ 

This borders on infuriating. 

He blames the mortal for his infuriatingly casual reactions. Loki can not shake the feeling that there’s something off - or at least a little wrong - about his eagerness to witness the duel. The worst part is that he can not seem to put a label on what his own feelings are. He has been careful to describe his interest as ‘curiosity,’ but does it really fit that definition? Seriously, this man has only been a factor of Loki’s life for a few days, an insignificant amount of time. 

Heavens, this is so unlike him. It’s so unlike him, that he's getting frustrated with himself. 

Get it together, you’re better than this. 

“Brother, is everything alright?”

Loki blinks out of his internal crisis, (not that it lessens in any shape or form) and realises he’d spaced out during the act of removing his coat. Disappearing into his own sea of thoughts is not an uncommon experience for him, but doing so at a time like this is. 

He shrugs off his coat and drapes it over the bench. “Of course.” 

“Are you sure? You’re being odd. ”Thor leans in ever-so-slightly to get a not-so-subtle look at his younger brother. “Well, more odd than normal.” 

“You’re one to talk.” 

The blonde claps Loki on the back with a cackle. It nearly sends him tumbling forward. “In that case, let us begin.”  

As much as it pains him to admit, Loki looks over at Stark. The man has gotten comfortable under a nearby tree. To the gods dismay, the brunette catches his gaze the moment he glances over, what’s worse is those deep pools of brown won't let go. 

They're pretty. 

Heavens, thoughts like that are dangerous.

Has he ever looked at someone and thought that before?  

Loki tears his eyes off Stark to turn and face his brother. His brain has gone to mush, so there really is no hope of coming up with any tactic. He'll just have to stick to the normal tricks and hope they'll be suitable for today. 

OK, so here's the thing: Tony may have been a tad over enthusiastic about the whole sparring thing. 

Hey, he can't be the only one who would find the idea amusing. It's not like he doesn't have a reasonable drive as well, seeing the brothers fight may be useful. Not only will he be able to check for any malice, he can also compare the skill of young, and evil Loki. 

The fact he'll be watching a good match is simply an added bonus. His excitement is certainly there, even if he doesn't know exactly where it's coming from. The best explanation is that he's just that type of friend. Not that Loki is his friend, but Thor definitely is. Or, at least he was… Will be? Fuck, this time travel never stops being so damned confusing. 

Tony sits under the protection of a tree, leaning against its bark while the gods prepare. Speaking of which, prepare must mean something entirely different on Asgard - Thor is fluffing around with his hair, and Loki is staring blankly into space. 

It's a bloody miracle either of them manage to cause such chaos. 

Loki doesn't want to talk about it. 

He refuses to even think about it. 

The god of mischief has never lost as badly as he is right now. 

And it’s in the presence of the mortal. 

Great. 

Why is he so distracted? 

Loki scrambles to his feet with a growl and flicks his hair out of the way. Blood is pumping so hard round his body that it might as well be pounding against the inside of his skill. 

Heavens, fighting with his brother hasn't gone this tragically since that time he’d had the flu. 

Thor is standing above him with Mjölnir in hand and a grin on his face. He grips his dagger, watching for any next move. “Careful with all that confidence, brother. Arrogance won't serve you well.” 

Thor replies with a laugh that makes Loki want to slice his tongue right out. He lunges forwards, making the hasty decision without any calculations. Thor hatches his wrist with ease, raising a leg to kick him square in the chest. He falls back with a grunt, pain rattling his rib cage like wind chimes in a hurricane. This lack of focus is infuriating, and the unfortunate thing is that frustration only worsens said effect.

Thor is already making his way over, and Loki has to roll away to avoid being stepped on. He ignores the protest in his muscles and is on his feet once more. No time is wasted in sending a dagger right at the blonde's abdomen. 

Fate must really hate him, because the only thing that ends up broken is the knife itself. 

Stupid brute and his stupid hammer. 

Thor swings his hammer dangerously close to the others skull, skimming his hair in a tease at how near it got. The only appropriate response is to kick out again, this time (thank whoever might be watching over him) he’s graced with the satisfaction of actually landing it. 

It’s the god of thunder’s turn to be sent back. He doesn't crash to the ground, but the few steps he stumbles are reward enough. 

The trick with Thor is to allow him little time to steady. The blonde is a dangerous man, adept at battle and keen with his hammer. He also has a knack for the task of winning. The best chances Loki ever has with him employs the assistance of trickery and mind games. Once you manage to set him off balance, attacks must be delivered at a swift pace to keep him as such. 

Loki kicks out again, getting in another decent hit before his brother catches him by the leg and swings him right onto his back. Dust kicked up by their scuffle makes its way into his mouth, insulting his tongue with its bitter dryness. 

With the amount of times Loki has cursed Thor today, you'd expect one of them to pan out. Just one. 

A dagger materialises in his palm and he flings it at the blonde. For a throw he put little aim into, it's not a terrible outcome. The blade skims a bearded cheek, giving the younger man a chance to haul himself up and lash out. 

He is about to congratulate himself for regaining a scrap of dignity when the man watching from the sidelines catches his eye. Again. 

All focus he may have regained shoots right out his ear, along with that tiny chance he had of winning. 

Stupid mortal for messing with his stupid head. 

Speaking of his stupid head, that's where Thor punches next. 

“You sure you’re good to do this now? Not that I'm complaining, this is great for me, just that you look exhausted.” 

“This is fine, human.” 

“Alright, just checking you aren't too tired.” 

Tony kicks his legs up on the coffee table and watches firelight crackle a few feet in front. The god next to him has waves of bitter attitude radiating off him, and it taints the library's relaxed mood. 

Loki scoops a novel from where it rests on the couch at his side. “We made an agreement, I intend to get this over with as soon as I am able.” 

“I’m not doubting your dedication to our deal, I’m doubting the able part.” 

The god turns his head to shoot Tony with a displeased glare. It’s so intense it almost stings. “I strongly suggest you shut your mouth and be grateful for my time.” 

“Woah, who’s the moody one now?” Tony sticks both hands in the air as a mock surrender. “Sorry for trying to be a gentleman, I’ll take this as a sign to stick with what I know and just be an ass.” 

“I do not need your concern.” 

“Clearly.” 

Tony folds his arms over his chest and leans his head back for comfort. The god of mischief had his ass served to him barely fifteen minutes ago. It was impressive, and fucking hilarious to watch, but Loki was blatantly distracted. Even Thor must have noticed, especially since he was the man winning. 

Obvious frustration, lack of focus, and exhaustion aside, Loki had gotten straight up after losing and dragged Tony off to the library. 

Loki sighs. “Do you want me to read this for you or not?” 

“By all means.” He gestures to the book. “What’d you pick?” 

“You were not specific about what you wanted to know, so I just grabbed a random volume.” 

“Alrighty.” 

Loki looks down at the book and his face does a weird thing. His forehead creases and his nose crinkles just enough to be considered cute. The reaction is wiped clean with haste, but not prior to Tony noticing it. “Perhaps we should read something else.”

The god flips over the novel, a meaningless action considering Tony can't read it, unless he's hiding it from his own view. Loki clears his throat and makes a very clear effort in playing it off as cool. It only makes the whole thing more enticing. 

“Hell no. We aren't changing after that reaction.” He sits up straighter. “What's it about?” 

“Nothing you'll find any interest in, mortal.” 

Tony scoffs. “Yeah, I can judge that for myself.”

“No need.” Loki discards the reading material by placing it beside him. “I'll find something more suitable for-” 

“Nope, I've decided this is what I want you to read. No backsies.” 

“I really don't think-” 

Tony cuts him off. “Maybe if you'd taken more care in what you chose, we wouldn't be in this situation.” 

The god crosses his arms. Blue eyes meet brown in a standoff, both denying the other of what is wanted. Loki is acting shady as hell, but not in a way that sets off any alarms in Tony's mind. He doesn't seem to be hiding anything malicious, it's almost like he's an embarrassed kid trying to cover up their diary. 

Again, just a young man with normal mannerisms. 

Fuck, if he thinks about it too much he'll have another full blown freakout, and he'd prefer to save that for later. If he powers through all these interactions, Tony can postpone the existential crisis till he's confined to a private environment. 

Focus on now. 

“Tell me what it's about.”

“Do not order me around, human.”

“So you're going back on our deal?” 

Loki huffs a short puff of air. It's strong enough to reach Tony's face. “No. There was never a rule regarding what the book had to be, just that I had to translate one.” 

If Loki thinks Tony will relent just like that, he's about to be very disappointed. This odd behaviour only boosts his interest. 

In a moment of very little planning and a complete disregard for sensibility, Tony leans right over the god’s lap to grasp at the book. 

In retrospect, he isn't too sure what he thought it would accomplish. Yeah, not one of his proudest moments. 

Loki's reflexes are godlike, (who the fuck would have guessed?) and he catches Tony's wrist just short of what he was aiming to snatch. 

“Give it up, mortal.”

“Yeah, we don't know each other very well, but you should be aware that I don't give up so easily.”

Tony uses his other arm to reach over, and the two men end up in a childlike grapple over a book. Every time he pulls a wrist free, Loki will grab it a few seconds later and they'll restart the process. It's incredibly awkward in the sense both are sitting side by side, the angle for this wrestle is all wrong. 

“Your immaturity is embarrassing.” the god grunts as he captures an intruding hand. 

“Says the man getting all precious over a fucking book.” 

“You can't not-” Tony yanks free and Loki pauses to bat his arm away. “You can not even read it.” 

“Then what's the fucking big deal if I grab it?” 

Loki freezes at that, apparently having a realisation. Now that he's not scrambling to reach over, Tony has time for a realisation of his own. 

His hand is being held. Oh, and it doesn't stop there, he's half laying across Loki’s lap. 

Yeah, this is fucking spectacular. 

The fingers of Tony's right hand are tangled up with the other man's, and his left is trapped by a hold around his forearm. 

“I… Uh… Suppose this has all been pointless, then.” Loki says. 

Tony clears his throat. Hard. The hope is it will scrape enough embarrassment from his vocal chords so he can force some coherent words out. 

“Yep.” 

The god releases his hold and Tony slips free, snagging the book while he's there. “As far as either of us are concerned, that never happened.”

“Agreed.” 

‘You are a walking disaster.’ 

Yeah, he fucking knows. 

Tony pretends there’s no lingering tingle on his skin, and flips over the now acquired book. The cover is inscribed with lettering completely foreign to him - he may as well be trying to understand a toddler's doodle - and the pages are bound between ageing leather. He flips it open and stares pointlessly at the index, silently praying the symbols will morph into something familiar. 

Maybe he should ask Loki to teach him asgardian. Nah, that's probably a tad too much. 

“Just to let you know,” Tony holds up the book. “There will be relentless nagging until you tell me what this is about.” 

“I grew up with Thor, I assure you I can handle it.” 

“For the love of god, just spit it out and I'll drop it.” 

Loki narrows his eyes down to little slits. It’s amusing how both men seem to take turns at being the teaser. 

Eventually, the god reaches up to rub the bridge of his nose. “It’s an introduction to Asgardian magic.” 

Well, that's not what he expected. It’s actually laughable when you consider how both men were acting over it. 

“Really? That's it? With the way you reacted I was thinking it might be a sex book or something.” 

Loki’s eyes widen, probably at Tony’s crude and completely unfiltered words, and what can only be a threatening blush is shoved behind a disapproving scowl. 

“You seriously think we would shelve that sort of thing here?” 

“Why not? It’s a natural part of life.” He gestures around them. “I bet you there is at least one book in here about how you Asgardians-” 

“That is enough.” Loki cuts him off with a rather hasty tone. “I do not wish to hear the rest of that sentence.” 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you're a prude.” 

“I am not a prude, I simply do not fancy having this conversation with you, mortal.” 

“You’re only raising more questions in my mind.” He taps the side of his head. 

“Fine, if it will shut you up, I'll translate that.” The god points to the novel in Tony's hand. “Deal?” 

As much as he is tempted to force this prince into reading him a text on coitus, learning about magic may be more important. 

He huffs a disappointed sigh and passes Loki the reading material. “Deal. But you owe me.” 

“I'm the one doing you a favour,” The prince opens it to the first chapter. “Your concept of what warrants repayment is truly misguided.” 

Loki stares down at the words with an expression one could only read as hesitant. Why the fuck is he so uncomfortable around sharing this? Is actually hiding something sinister and Tony has just misread this? 

“Why were you being so shady about it anyway?” 

“I…” He rubs the bridge of his nose again. Perhaps it’s a little release of frustration. “There’s no point in me denying anything at this point, is there?” 

“Nope.” 

“It’s a guide to the type of magic I am familiar with.” 

His heart skips a beat. This is fucking perfect for Tony. Information is power, and this is exactly the kind of knowledge he needs. Still, there's no reason he can fathom as to why Loki should be so weird about it. Evil Loki certainly had no problem with flaunting his abilities. Hell, he was like a peacock with his magic, showcasing it for everyone to see and fear.

“So… what? You're afraid to expose your wizard secrets?” Tony crosses one leg over the other. “I thought us mortals were too weak to pose any threat.” 

“You’re twisting my words, human.” The prince beside him still doesn’t allow the book a break from his unwavering gaze. “As for why I am reluctant to translate this for you…”

He trails off. 

“Does that sentence have an end to it?” Tony asks when the silence becomes too much. 

“I suppose it is to do with avoiding the insufferable requests for demonstrations.” 

If Tony hadn't jumped to his own offence, he may have noticed the subtle indications of Loki's lie. Maybe even the slight self consciousness hidden underneath.  

“You really don't know how to interact with people, do you? A bit of advice, steer clear of outright insults.” 

“You have three more words before I give up and read you nothing.” 

“Fine, go ahead.” He holds up three fingers to prove he stuck with the word limit. 

The god sighs in defeat and runs his slender fingers over the page, a delicate touch one would never expect from someone capable of mass murder. 

Tony had never paid attention to the finer details of this man in 2012. It's fucking hard to look past the vibrant insanity and notice shit like nice hands. Which he has, by the way. Very, very nice hands. The skin appears incredibly soft and is entirely unblemished. His nails are well cared for, and there's a grace to the way his fingertips smooth the paper. 

And no, he's not admiring Loki's hands, he's simply noticing them. There’s a difference. So fuck off with the intrusive thoughts. 

‘Liar, liar, pants on fire.’

“... Astral projection allows - are you listening?” 

“Eh?” 

Loki rolls his eyes. “You have to be kidding. All that fuss and you aren't even paying attention?” 

He can't believe it either. Tony has been itching to get his hands on even a scrap of information, and now that he's being given it, he zoned out over Loki's hands. 

Fuck. He needs to divert his treacherous mind away from this shit and put it to something else. 

“Maybe I do need a demonstration after all. You know, visual learner and whatnot.”

“You are insufferable.” 

“I believe you've mentioned.” Tony slings an arm over the back of the couch. “I’m not asking for much, just a little show of what you can do. For the sake of education.” And to preserve my own sanity. 

Loki shoots him a look. It’s very much like the one he gets from pepper right before she gives in. Exasperated, a tinge pissed off, but all in all too tired to argue any further. 

“What will you do for me in turn?” 

This man and his deals. Can he not do anything without the need to even out their score? 

“How about we just say you share stuff about your world, and I share about mine. If we have to keep arranging things for each and every scrap of information we share, this shit is going to get exhausting fast.” 

The god brings the book on his lap to a close, and Tony can't help but follow his fingers down the covered spine. He has to yank his gaze back up before he can laps into another bout of mindless staring. When he does, he catches the faintest of smirks playing on the other man's lips. 

“Bold of you to assume I don’t yet find this exhausting.” Loki sets a now forgotten novel down on the coffee table. 

“I offered you an out at the start, don't blame me for your own decisions.” Tony crosses his arms over his chest. “So you’re gonna put on a sparkly show of witchcraft now?” 

“One, it is not witchcraft. Two, in no way is my magic sparkly.” 

“Sorry for my assumption, I'll let you get on with whatever non-sparkly demonstration you please.” 

The god rolls his eyes. Apparently Tony is getting to him. It's kinda hilarious. 

Loki fist slackens and is held up between them. He's about to ask whether anything is meant to be happening yet, when the hand is withdrawn. 

Tony raises one eyebrow. “What's wrong? Performance issues?” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, shaking his head. “One in-” 

“I'm not struggling to perform anything. I'm debating what to show you.” 

Jesus, if he doesn't hurry the fuck up, Tony is bound to implode of sheer impatience. Hey, he's not always so restless, but in this particular case the anticipation is unbearable. 

“It's not rocket science, just whip out the first thing you can think of.” He waves a hand in the air to mimic how he thinks a flashy show of magic would be executed. 

One sigh later, Loki's hand is presented in front of Tony once more. 

Then, before any overthinking can be done, a light shoots out of his palm. It travels a few centimetres into the air, and then it explodes. Not a loud, offencive bang, tiny little crackle just above the gods palm - one that sprays light out in all directions. The sprinkles of broken colour flicker away as soon as they come, but are swiftly replaced by another. 

Fireworks. 

Loki's demonstration of magic is fireworks. 

It's… beautiful. Beautiful and fucking mesmerising. 

Well, if that's not another ground shaking revelation, then Tony doesn't know what is. Not because of the magic itself, but because of the realisation that something so dangerous can be so stunning. 

He's only ever looked at Loki's powers in the light of something to be feared. Something foreign and unknown that he had to beat. It was… shit, when they'd first faced it, the whole thing seemed impossible. That was the uncomfortable part for Tony: he was unfamiliar with it. He was facing something he couldn't apply logic to, couldn't harness for himself, and it drove him insane. He didn't have the time or resources to study it, he just had to accept there was shit out there he could never explain. Never prepare for. 

Loki's abilities have cost him so much sleep. But now, watching this mesmerising, innocent show of what he can do, Tony realises there's a whole another side to it. 

He's realising there's so much here you can classify as spectacular. Infuriating, yes, but spectacular all the same. 

God he hates himself. He hates himself because he just had to get tangled in this mess. Because he ever lost in the first place. Because now he has to figure out how to save this man, and he doesn't know if he can. Because he can't make sense of this. Because his fucking brain just can't keep to the normal things. 

To be fair, recent days have been prone to offering a lot less of those. 

The fireworks eventually stop, and the last spark fizzles out when Loki lowers his hand. Tony lags behind the present events, still fixated on the spot the god’s palm had been. 

Great, now he’s the wax figure. 

“I’ve stopped now, mortal.” Loki says. 

“No shit.” Tony looks up to meet the gods blue eyes. They somehow have a similar enchanting effect to those magic lights. 

“Then why are you remaining silent?” 

“What do you want, an applause?” 

The young god snorts. It’s not a very prince-like noise. “I was simply concerned. In the time I’ve been around you, there has been little quiet.” 

After all that's happened, Tony is learning that ‘brat’ is the best way to describe the god of mischief. 

“I’m not even gonna bother with correcting you.” He grumbles, sinking further back into the pillows. Truth be told, he’s more pissed with himself than anything else. 

A smirk begins to creep back onto Loki’s face. “Wise choice. Making an argument against something you know to be true is futile.” 

“Says the man who argued when I called his magic sparkly.” 

Loki’s tone takes a turn for the serious. “It isn't.” 

“Bullshit. Even strippers aren't that glittery.” 

One puzzled glance from his company and Tony is regretting the choice of metaphor. Fuck his life. Why did he have to get stuck somewhere no-one would understand any of his goddamn references? 

He dismisses the gods' question before it can be voiced. “Never mind." 

All Tony gets is a displeased glare. 

Loki doesn't end up leaving the library until… Well, it is far later than he intended. Judging by the moon glinting through the windows, almost midnight. That human has a talent for making Loki lose all focus. He’s learning that the hard way. The way that gets him beat up by his older brother. 

He heads through the now empty hallways, rounding corners at a leisurely pace. 

They ended up forgetting to read all together, instead engaging in banter and conversation for far longer than was needed. Loki has no clue as to what is happening to him - what this mortal is doing to him - but he has an unquenchable thirst to make sense of it. Tony Stark is the most complex puzzle he’s ever had the chance to solve. 

There’s distrust, caution, and secrets on both sides. Even if behind a veil. Loki wants access to everything, all of it. He wants to dig it up and indulge himself with answers. For once. He wants answers, at least just this one time. He wants to know what it feels like to have a mystery explained without being told it's nothing to concern himself with. Without being shut down. 

He wants a distraction from anything concerning his father. He wants something he doesn't have to share with Thor. He wants to be listened to. He wants to get stronger. He wants to understand himself. 

He wants to know why he's so drawn to this perplexing human. 

Curiosity. It's just curiosity. Curiosity . 

He reaches his own door, mind swirling with thoughts of Stark as he enters. 

Loki does not expect a good night's sleep.

Chapter Text

It’s been three days since Loki last spoke with the human. Three days since that night in the library. Three days since he showed Stark what magic is. 

It has also been three days of meaningless wondering when he might next be able to converse with him. 

This fixation is nothing but disgraceful.

More than half of his days are consumed with thoughts of that infuriating man, and the other half is wasted on pointless attempts to catch a decent night's sleep or stay awake through his own studies. 

Even when he does muster the energy to open a book, traitorous thoughts will tangle him up and drag him off course. Not just a slight detour, but so far off the intended path that Loki will go from reading about ancient relics, to wondering what a certain brunette is occupying himself with. 

How, out of everything the nine realms has to offer, did this mortal become the thing bound to distract the god of mischief? Sure, he showed up without explanation, has no fear of Odin, is almost too witty to keep up with, possesses the audacity to tease a prince, and is the most entertaining person Loki has ever encountered… but that doesn’t explain such an intense fixation. 

No, but the weird flutter that dares to irritate his chest upon mention of the mortal might. If only he had the faintest idea of what that meant. 

“Brother?” 

Drawn from his thoughts, Loki lifts his head, not recalling the point when any decision was made to let it rest on the wall beside him. 

“Hmm?” 

The god of thunder takes a seat on the stairs next to his younger brother, resting both elbows on his knees. “Something has been different with you recently.” 

Loki hadn't even noticed Thor approaching, and that itself is enough to shock some energy into him. The blonde effectively sneaking up on him is a harsh indicator that he’s lost his edge. 

“I don't know where you got such an idea,” He rubs his eyes, straightening his posture in an attempt to appear more alert. “But I am perfectly fine.” 

“You can not deceive me, brother.” 

He snorts, the absolute irony of that statement not lost on him, even in his tired state. “Actually, I've proven the exact opposite countless times.” 

“I know you enough to tell when your mind is elsewhere.” He nudges him in the side, clearly trying to prompt an explanation. 

Loki is surprised Thor even noticed, what with most of his attention expended on himself. One expects a person such as the god of thunder to overlook finer details of those around him, that including his own brothers lack of focus. 

“While I appreciate your concern - however misguided it may be - I believe it would be more beneficial for you to focus on your own issues.” He delivers a dismissive pat to Thor’s shoulder. “Besides, we can't afford to worry about such nonsense at a time like this. Our attention would be better off applied to the situation at hand.” 

The blonde shifts his weight and leans back on his arms. “The situation at hand?” 

Heavens, talking to this brute can be exhausting. 

“Yes, the matter of our abrupt summoning.” 

Barely fifteen minutes prior, a messenger had appeared halfway through breakfast to inform both princes that Odin had requested their presence. Apparently there was no need to supply a reason.  

It had given Loki a sickening case of deja vu, and taken him right back to his childhood. The entire circumstance shares a freakish resemblance to their younger years, exclusively what followed any form of trouble the pair used to stir up. They’d be called for without reason, and then two princes would walk sheepishly to their father with their tails between their legs. 

He hasn't felt that sense of dread in a good few decades, and feeling it bubble up inside him again was nothing short of horrible. 

Did Odin know of Loki’s interactions with Stark? Has he found out about the blatant disregard for his direct order? 

It wouldn't be a complete surprise. Then again, if that were the case, why is Thor here as well? It might be feasible that he is to be disciplined for the same thing, but the blonde had never been told to stay away. Not to his face, at least. 

Either way, the suspense is killing him. With each second that ticks by, the unease grows at an excruciating pace. It simmers beneath his skin, feeding off the apprehension it causes and multiplying at a rate he can not match. In a situation that stirs up so much from his childhood, Loki has also succumbed to a long retired habit of his. He repeatedly bites on the inside of his cheek, each sting brought forth only intensifying as the flesh becomes more raw. In no way is it constructive, but the jittery state of his mind neglects any care for the condition of his mouth. 

He shouldn't be this distraught in the first place. He should be long past the age where a fear of his father is called for. Unfortunately, a guilty man can’t help but fear consequences. 

To be fair, if the all-powerful Odin had mentioned why Loki was to keep a distance from the mortal, he might have been inclined to do so. 

“Perhaps we would be better off to just go in there now.” 

The god of mischief regards his older siblings' proposal, although not with much effort or care. 

“You know father,” Loki can feel the eyes on him, but fears that if he returns the gaze, he might inadvertently confirm Thor’s concerns . “If we have indeed done something wrong and simply can't identify it, I’d suggest we keep acts of defiance to a minimum.” 

The blonde chuckles. “You think too much, brother.” 

“Well, growing up around you has given me a prime example of what could happen if I thought too little. I do not want to go down that path.” 

“I think more than you realise, Loki.” Thor counters, although his tone is light. 

“Really? It doesn't show.” 

The blonde looks like he might actually have a comeback to that one, but Loki never gets to hear it. Before anything can be voiced, the throne room doors swing open, and a clatter of footsteps follows. 

“Your majesties, you may enter.” 

The brothers rise to their feet in unison, all humour having evaporated as the guard steps back for them to pass. 

Well, this is it. He just has to keep himself calm, and not let anything get to him. He can do that, he’s been doing it his entire life. 

He walks in with Thor at his side, attention drawn straight to the chair of worship. Odin is sat upon it, his one good eye trained on the men before him. It’s a picture of power, and the furrow of his brows accompanied by such a serious look means Loki must tread with care. 

“I do not see where the issue lies, Father. So what if our people know of Stark? None would dare hurt a man under our protection.” Thor gets his question in before Loki can voice any of his. As expected, it’s not a highly intelligent one. 

“I understand your doubt. But the matter remains that citizens have caught wind of our human guest, and that could very well cause trouble for us in the long run.” Odin rubs his temple. “People will start to question why we made this exception. Although there is nothing sinister about this circumstance, the minds of people can form all kinds of tales, and the risk of suspicion building to a dangerous level is…” 

Loki is having trouble with this particular predicament. First of all, he was beyond relieved to find that he hadn't been summoned for the purpose of decapitation. Then, once he’d had a minute for the relief to wash over him, the words had really started to sink in. 

Apparently, the common folk of Asgard have started to spread news of a human visitor within the palace. It’s entirely possible that a guard had let the information slip and the rumour proceeded to spread from there on, but the staff here are all of the most loyal type. The more likely theory, (and the one that Loki is praying Odin will never catch on to) is that while either one of the princes were out in public with Stark, their habit of referring to the brunette as ‘human’ was overheard. 

For a man who prides himself in considering each and every significant detail of a plan, Loki is kicking himself for this one. 

“It is not ideal, but I suppose it was inevitable.” 

“Are you suggesting that people might see the mortal as a threat?” Thor offers. 

Loki gives him a sideways glance. “That isn’t our problem, brother. There are indeed issues with how our own people will adjust to the idea of Stark, but my guess is that the true complications will come to light if word extends outside of Asgard.” 

“Precisely.” . 

Loki lifts his gaze back to his father, searching him for any sign of a further explanation. 

“If our enemies become aware we have made this exception, my prediction is that they will assume Stark to be something of an asset to us.” Odin clarifies. 

Thor huffs out a breath, the scepticism clear. “An asset? That’s ridiculous. What benefit could a mere mortal serve us?” 

The King shakes his head, dealing with the blonde's incompetence a lot better than the god of mischief does. “That is irrelevant, the point is that speculations will be made, and they might work against us.” 

Loki can see both flaws and merit in his fathers prediction. 

While it is almost a certainty that people will concoct wild, and somewhat far fetched stories, the actual impact is debatable. It could very well just pass around like any other rumour - eventually dwindling down to nothing as the excitement evaporates. Unfortunately, if knowledge does slip from the confines of their own home and into considerably more hostile hands, then the likelihood of an eventual belief that it was all fiction becomes steadily less possible. 

Loki suspects that their enemies would indeed jump to the conclusion Odin suggested. Whether they would demand answers, try to obtain Stark for themselves, or eradicate him… 

“What do you wish for Loki and I to do?” Thor breaks the silence. 

Odin looks upon his sons with something difficult to dissect. The youngest of the two finds it unsettling, but forces himself to maintain the eye contact he’s made. 

“I decided that a warning was due.” It’s subtle, but Loki swears this part is directed to him. “I need the both of you to tread carefully when it comes to our mortal guest, and to keep a lookout for any progression with this situation.” 

“With all due respect, Father,” Loki tries to muster as much of that so-called respect he can manage and put it into his tone. “Perhaps if you explained the what and why to us, then we could offer more in terms of-” 

“I have explained all that is necessary for you to know.” 

No. He won't let that be it. He won’t follow orders without knowing why. That's what pawns do. Pitiful guards and servants. Not the god of mischief. Not a son . 

A tingle sets in. The itch to scream. An impulse he can barely contain, one that makes him want to vomit the longer he holds it in. 

“Father,” His voice is low, strained to the brink of fracturing under the pressure it takes to hold steady. “I believe that Thor and I deserve to understand.” 

The blonde (god bless his stupid soul) pipes up. “I agree with Loki. I too have questions.” 

Odin grows silent. Loki swears the temperature in the room drops dramatically. The king is staring so hard at his boys, that even his covered eye can be felt searing their skin. 

“That is enough from the both of you. I have said it once, and I am disappointed that you are forcing me to repeat myself.” This time Loki knows the words are directed at him because the king blatantly meets his gaze. “I have told you all that is required.” 

And just like that, his day is ruined. 

Say what you want about how getting your laundry done for you is great. Tony would rather have to do it himself than wake up to find everything all neatly clean and folded on the end of his bed without recalling having done it himself. 

Seriously, how fucking creepy is that? He didn't order any room service. 

Last night he’d gone to bed without bothering to dress after his shower and left his clothes strewn across the room. It isn’t like he’s not used to having tidying done for him, but at least he fucking knows who the hell is doing it. When you're already in an unfamiliar place and wake up to find that your clothes are now washed and smell faintly of something sweet, it raises some questions. 

Like, why the hell has this not been happening the entire time? He's been here… what? Eight days now? No one has slipped their way into his room under the cover of darkness to clean so far. Well, at least that he knows of. 

Yeah, he gets that he should be grateful, and Yeah, he gets that his clothes were needing a clean. Does that mean he can't be petty about it? Fuck no. 

Still, he’s not gonna say no to wearing his own clothes. Especially because the alternative is putting on the ones he bought with Loki’s money, and he plans to hold out on that for as long as possible. 

He’s fucking groggy this morning, and his hair could effectively house a family of birds. He wouldn't even have the energy to shoo them away. It would be so easy to just sink back down onto the mattress and succumb to sleep. Alas, there are things he should do, and he knows that in about fifteen minutes, he’ll be itching to get up and away from his thoughts. Keep moving, keep busy, and keep from going crazy. 

‘What’s there to say you aren’t already crazy?’ 

Tony opens the door to an empty hall. He supposes it’s around mid morning, just going off what he can see through the window, so he’ll probably settle for wandering around till something catches his attention. He has been trying to get used to the castle layout. Unfortunately, all he’s managed to deduce is that it is indeed possible to find a room dedicated to paintings that look at you with so much disdain it’s impossible not to feel judged. He spent about three minutes there before making a rude hand gesture and walking right out. 

So, what is the plan for today? He has no fucking clue. 

Getting out of here for a while is the most likely, but that will only happen if he manages to reach the exit without being distracted. It’s a mission in itself, and one that he's frequently failing at. Which sucks, because Tony Stark doesn't fail. 

Fortunately, the door comes into his view before anything that would warrant a detour, so he can count this as a success. What he can't count as success is letting two burly guards and their sour faces near enough that pretending he can’t hear them isn't an option. 

“Antony Stark, the Allfather has requested for you to appear before him.” 

He swivels around on his heels, faced with a pair of men who don't look much like they excel at chit-chat. Who would want to make small talk with someone who has an expression that makes you think they’re constantly constipated? 

“Seriously? No ‘pretty please’ or anything like that?” They take a step closer, and it becomes very apparent that he’s picked the wrong crowd for this. Also, with their size and build, they do a great job of blocking out the light. 

“The king has made an order, this is non-negotiable.” 

Order? He was ordered to appear before Odin? What happened to nicely asking? Fuck if he’s gonna let that old fart push him around, and fuck if he’s gonna make this easy. 

"Yeah, I have this rule,” Tony points at both of them. “Don’t trust strangers. And, just unless you hadn't realised, I don't know either of you.” 

Yeah. So… that's how he ends up being literally pushed to the throne room. 

Again. 

“For future reference, I don’t do well with taking orders, so you might wanna be just a bit more clear with your invitations.” Tony shrugs off the hands lingering near his shoulders and gives the guards a scowl. “And by that I mean actually invite me. You know, prior notice and whatnot.” 

He’s been to this room twice now, and he still hasn’t walked in without being shoved. Lets see if he can get through this without painting the floor with his past few meals. 

“You are staying in our land, you must adjust to our customs.” Odin’s tone remains level as ever, but it's clear in his one-eyed gaze that he isn't impressed. 

Tony should probably take this seriously, especially considering this meeting is definitely not just for a friendly catch up over tea and biscuits. It’s just so hard to respect this man, and there's also the massive factor of ‘Tony doesn't want to.’  

He doesn't have a reason to either. 

“Hey, I never chose to be here. That decision was all yours.” The words aren't all that true. He understands that this is probably the best option, and not just for Odin either. 

“I have not summoned you here to have this debate, Stark.” The old man moves past the threatening argument with haste. “There is another matter I wish to discuss.” 

“Wait, let me guess.” He points at Odin. “You’ve decided to re-decorate?” 

He doesn't answer straight away, he just looks at Tony like he’s the cause for all exhaustion. “No.”

“Really? Because I really think this place is in need of a few chang-” 

“Silence. I do not have the time or mood for your nonsense.” 

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not nonsense, I'm making a serious suggestion here.” 

Tony realises that he's avoiding whatever the King has to tell him. He’s aware of that because his mouth is working of its own accord. He’s aware of it because he knows that he should stop and listen, because this is bound to be important, because he needs every scrap of understanding he can gather, but he can't manage to seal his own lips. 

He doesn't know why. 

He always needs to be in the know, and if people try to keep him out of it, he slips his way in of his own accord. Yet, there's something that has Tony not wanting to break the walls of secrecy, and instead bolt the fucking thing up even tighter. 

All the ‘what if?’ questions are swarming like wasps, each threatening to sting harder than the last. His irrational defence system suggests that if he never finds out which one is true, they'll all just go back to the hive and leave him alone. Or better yet, drop dead. 

‘You’re a coward.’ 

Cheers for the reminder, but it wasnt fucking necessary 

“May I proceed with what I must explain?” The words are disguised as a question, but are clearly just posing as such to remind Tony he’s here to listen. 

“Fine, go ahead.” He bites his tongue. Literally. It fucking hurts, but thats how much effort it’s taking him not to make another snarky comment. 

Dealing with royalty is a drag, especially this old geezer. 

Odin answers with a nod, and straightens his posture. “It has come to my attention that my subjects have become aware of your presence here, and I am concerned it may pose a threat to both Asgard’s wellbeing, and your own.” 

A strange sense of relief washes over Tony, purging his mind of the wasps and effectively drowning them. Fuck, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but something alot worse than that. Like, seriously, his concerns were closer to: ‘you're going to slowly rot due to being from hundreds of years in the future.’ You know, something he couldn't deal with. But this? Hate from the public? Pfft, that's child's play. He’s dealt with that his whole life.  

“Oh thank god.” He lets out a sigh and the words simply tumble out with it. So much for keeping a hold of his tongue. 

“I beg your pardon?” Odin narrows his eyes at Tony. “This is not something to be relieved over.” 

“Oh come on , you've never experienced a little backlash before? Where I come from, people get pissed about overstayers all the goddamn time. So what if they’re getting a little territorial? You’re the decision maker here, that's the beauty of Monarchy.” 

“Our problem is not about people rejecting you, it’s to do with the potential implications of what you represent.” 

“So you're telling me all you high and mighty gods are secretly racists? A little visit from someone beyond the stars and - hold on a second, am I technically an alien here?” 

Holy fuck. All these years of picturing little green men, and now he's the extraterrestrial being. 

“I’m an alien and a time traveller.”

“You’re straying from the matter at hand.” Odin rubs his temple. It does nothing to smooth the wrinkles there. “I require your attention.” 

This dynamic is bullshit. As far as he’s concerned, there's absolutely no reason that Mr ‘all-knowing’ should have any kind of authority over Tony. Hell, maybe he should be the one demanding attention like it’s supposed to be served to him on a silver platter. Although knowing this place, (which to be honest, he doesn't really) the platter in question would be gold. 

“Fine. Go ahead.” He relents, waving a hand in the air to give the all clear. “But if you bore me, I’m leaving.” 

“This is no matter of entertainment. It is important for both of our sakes.” 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Hey, if this lecture is gonna drag on, can I at least get somewhere to sit?” 

He gestures around him, indicating his lack of places to rest. 

He knows most people would see him as the rude one here, but expecting people to stand and listen while you sit comfortably on a throne? Pft, talk about entitled. 

“You know what? Nevermind.” Without hesitation, Tony lowers himself to the ground, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back on his elbows. “So what was it you wanted to say?” 

Odin’s self control must be made of vibranium or something, because the only tell of irritation he lets show is a huff of breath he expels before starting. 

“I want you to be cautious when leaving the castle.” 

Tony opens his mouth to protest, but the king holds up a hand to halt him. “I am not forbidding you from venturing out of the caste, and I am well aware you would not choose to follow that order. I am simply asking you to avoid standing out, and to draw as little attention to what you are as possible. That would mean dressing accordingly.” 

“Is all this fuss really necessary?” 

“I believe so.” Odin’s fingers twitch on his armrest. “My people are not commonly hostile towards humans, but as is expected from any mind, they will be curious of you, and word will spread. While that may not be too hard to handle in itself, I do not want this matter to become a complication involving those outside of my realm. I need you to cooperate.” 

Fuck. Tony hates getting told what to do. 

He scratches his beard, momentarily dwelling on his need for a shave. 

People have tried to control him in the past, and it’s never gone their way. But that was because Tony knew better than them. They were wrong, and he was right. 

It’s different here. This man, unlike most people in power, has made some… how does he put it? Decent points?  

So he hesitates. He delays the ‘no’ that wants to spring from him on impulse. Not because he’s learning to obey, (he’d rather die,) but because he understands . He sees that this is important, and he knows he can’t fuck it up. 

“Alright, old man. I'll see what I can do.” 

Blood. 

Tony can smell blood. 

Despite falling into dreamland without much trouble, Tony wakes up in pitch black, and a pool of his own sweat. His chest is heaving, straining against bindings that do not exist, and the sound of his pulse is dominating his ears. 

He needs air. He needs to fucking breathe . 

That's not happening here. Not while he's tangled in his sheets so tightly that he may as well have spun himself a cocoon. He's getting out of this room. It’s too small, and the walls are laughing at him. The bastards can see he’s trembling, and they’re cackling at his weakness. Well fuck them, he’s leaving. 

Tony moves to step out but with both legs trapped in the mess of fabric, his face meets the ground before his feet ever do. He doesn’t have the time to curse anything, he just needs to get the fuck out. 

He scrambles to his feet, wrestling the sheets off him as he goes. The night air is biting against his bare chest, but staying warm is the last thing on his mind. His shoulder makes contact with the closed door, and he forgets to take his weight off it before jostling the handle. It flies open without a care for the man supported by it, dumping him in the hallway. All Tony can do is make feeble attempts to suck in oxygen and bolt away from his door. 

He doesn't know where he’s going, and he couldn't care less. He just knows that he can't stop. The fear is suffocating him. It's got him by the throat and it wont let go. All tony can do is run, try to get himself far away from his own terror. Funny thing is, he just cant fucking shake it. Yeah, he can flee many things, but he can't escape himself. 

‘It’s all your fault’

He knows. 

‘You’re a fool if you think you can fix anything.’

Shut up. 

‘How will you feel when you fail again?’

Tony’s thoughts are moving too fast. Images he’s been unable to purge from his mind taunt him, rearing their ugly heads to prove he has no control. They make him feel sick. They make him want to reach down his own throat and grasp at his heart to stop it from beating so god damned fast. They make him hear things that aren't there - or at least things he thinks aren’t, because who the fuck knows anymore? 

He can't even let himself think of Pepper, of Rhodey, of his newly found team. He can't, and he's spent hours trying not to, but the uncertainty over where he’ll ever see any of them again just keeps pushing its way into his consciousness. 

He's drowning in a sea of his deepest regrets, and he's forgotten how to swim. 

Tony bursts through a door without considering where it might lead to, and almost topples over the railing of a balcony. The lack of walls and presence of fresh air is like a slap to the face. A welcome one. 

He grips the rail, letting his head fall to rest against it. The urge to run is still there, searing hot in his veins as his heart continues to have a tantrum, but he forces himself to stay put. 

“Fuck.” His curse comes out as a hiss and the words taste like ash on his tongue. 

He searches through all the shit bubbling up from the depth of his brain, trying to find something that might help him here. All he finds is a snippet of JARVIS telling him to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Simple. He’s been doing it his entire life. 

He inhales. It feels like someone is pinching his nose. Nothing gets past properly, and his lungs won't expand far enough before squeezing every morsel right back out. It would be so easy just to lapse right back into frenzied panting, but that’s just going to get him passed out on the floor. So he keeps going, each time managing to capture more air he can then release. It’s shaky, and in his opinion outright pathetic, but ideas are few and this is the best he has. 

Bit by bit, the words settle back into focus. Colours slow their frantic dancing, and sounds stop mixing into one clump of unidentifiable ruckus. 

A breeze wafts over his hair, doing a little to help pry the sweat soaked strands from his forehead. At least he can be a little thankful he ended up out here instead of someone’s room. Fuck, that would have been hard to explain. 

It’s nice, if he’s going to be honest with himself. Air is what he wanted, and being outside means it’s both fresh in his lungs, and on his skin. His arc reactor, along with the full moon, provides enough light to see in detail. When he has the strength to look around, he’ll be grateful. 

The scent of blood that woke him has dissipated, replaced by that of the open sky, and the faint scent of ocean from below. The metallic tang must have been nothing more than a figment of his imagination. He has no wounds, no red stain on his jeans or skin, and no sting anywhere but his lungs. 

It’s good, but far from a relief. 

Why the fuck is he put through this shit? He can’t even place what prompted this freak out. 

Sure, he hasn't always been the perfect person, but it isn't like he doesn't try. Hell, he’s done more for people than most can say. 

‘You've also blown hundreds and thousands to smithereens.’

He grips his hair with the hand not currently moulded around the railing. “What the hell am I doing?” 

“Funny, I was going to ask that myself.” 

His face drains of heat. Even his pulse stops to double check if this is about to happen. 

No. Nuh-uh. He refuses to look behind him. Not a fucking chance. Why does the universe have to be so cruel? It's sadistic at this stage. No doubt about it. 

Tony is entirely too shaken, and entirely too shirtless to deal with Loki right now. 

“Well, I'm seriously considering leaping right off this ledge.” He is not entirely joking. 

“I'd prefer it if you didn't.” Footsteps draw closer before stopping just behind him. “I still have a lot of questions.” 

“Not to point out the obvious, but there are a shit load of other balconies in this place.”

“I'm aware, but this is the only one that comes with a breathless mortal.” The comment is delivered with an amused snort. 

“I'm not breathless . I just… wanted to enjoy the view.” He lifts his head from the railing, grimacing as his muscles protest after being tense for so long. It’s very likey he has a big red mark on his forehead, but fuck if he’s got the energy to give a shit about that right now. 

“I saw you sprinting down the hall.” 

He frowns. “I really wanted to enjoy the view.” 

Loki smirks, and Tony ignores that little flippity thing it does to his stomach. He doesn't usually like to put things down to nerves, but desperate times call for desperate matters, and anxiety is a whole lot more appealing than the other option (whatever the fuck that might be.) 

“Well, then, If you are indeed just enjoying the view, then I suppose you won't mind if I join you.” 

“By all means.” He steps to the side, gesturing for the god to take the place next to him. 

The prince takes those few steps to arrive at his side. 

He expects Loki to initiate a conversation. Hell, he expects a full blown taunting session for this shit. Fortunately (or unfortunately, he hasn't decided yet) this is one of the very, very rare cases that Tony Stark is wrong. Instead of some smart ass comment being shot at either man, the balcony lapses into a strange kind of silence. Not one of those quiet spells that leaves you feeling so awkward you pray for the ground to swallow you whole, but… 

Fuck, he doesnt have the faintest clue what this should be called. 

He’s not itching to get away, even though he’s standing here with Loki. 

It isn't exactly the epitome of comfort either. 

“I spoke with your father today.” He says, surprising himself as the words leave him. When the hell did he decide to share that? 

“You did?” Comes the reply. 

He sighs. Welp, there's no going back now. Guess they’re discussing the juicy topic that is Odin. 

“Yep.”

“I did as well.” There's no enthusiasm in Loki’s tone. His conversation must have gone about as well as Tony’s. 

“Yeah, that checks out.” 

Odin hadn't exactly offered a pleasant conversation, but you’d have to assume it would be different for his own kids. Then again, Howard Stark wasn’t a pro when it came to fatherly duties, so the God of shiney castles might not be either. 

“What did he wish to tell you?” 

Tony risks a glance at the god, and spots a slight furrow in his brow. “Some shit about people finding out you have a human guest.” 

That definitely means something to Loki. His blue eyes twinkle brighter than what the moonlight could cause through reflection. It’s a clear sign of interest. 

“I wasn't sure whether he would choose to tell you that.” 

He lets out a chuckle, but the parched state of his throat has it sounding more like he's trying to cough up a furball. “It would be a dick move not to.” 

“You would be surprised how often my father sees it fit to withhold information.” 

Tony doesn't miss the bitterness in that statement. He knows that the ‘high-and-mighty’ king of asgard has a habit of concealing important shit, (for example the origin of a particular prince,) but maybe it would be worth considering how often Loki is blatantly denied answers. Hell, that might explain why he’s so bloody desperate to interrogate Tony. 

“I suppose it wouldn't matter. I’d find out on my own regardless.” Tony turns around to better face the god. It’s easier to pull off nonchalance now that his limbs have stopped their fucking shaking, so he can manage a little eye contact. “I have a knack for it.” 

Loki rolls his eyes. The movement catches the glow of Tony’s arc reactor, and causes the blue depths to shimmer. “I do not know what you have pulled off in the past, but obtaining knowledge Odin wishes to hide is not something that's often done. Especially by a mortal.” 

“Was that last part really necessary?”

The ghost of a smirk plays on the gods lips. “Absolutely.” 

There are too many different insults to choose from, so Tony settles with holding up his middle finger. 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Fuck this. Getting through conversations without the need to explain the simplest shit is impossible here. “Its a way of saying fuck you without actally saying it.” 

Loki crinkles his nose just a tad. “That seems rather juvenile.”

“Hey, you aren't exactly the poster boy for maturity either, prince.” 

The god pauses, lips parted as if he was about to speak, but the words snagged between his teeth. 

His gaze is fixed on Tony. 

Not on his eyes. Not even his fucking face. Nope, Loki’s attention has very clearly dropped to his bare chest. The blue gaze is intense enough to make Tony’s skin crawl.

“Uhh, I get that I’m sexy and all,” The sound of his voice does nothing to divert the stare. “And I'm not one to get self-conscious, but youre making me think there's something seriously wrong here.” 

“That thing in your chest…” Loki takes a sudden step forwards, and Tony is pretty sure his heart skips a beat. “I did not realise it was…” 

Tony looks down at his own chest. Yeah, it’s not that hard to figure out what the prince is referring to. 

There’s no great way to put it, but it ain’t a work of art. The actual tech isn’t too shabby, but seeing as it was melded to his ribcage in a dingy old shed while he was being held hostage….. hey, he thinks he did a pretty damn good job considering the circumstances. But that doesn't really change the fact that the thing is blatantly inserted into his chest. 

During the first few months of having it, there was a period of time where he could feel it a little too much. Every move he made was a reminder of the foreign object in his body, and the discomfort was hard to look past. Tony being Tony, he soldiered on regardless, and eventually got past the stage of adjusting to it. 

Now that he’s standing here, shirtless and on display for a man he’s forgetting how to hate, it’s starting to feel unnatural once more. 

“It’s a part of you.” 

Tony isn't sure whether or not the god is speaking to him. The words were not meant as a question, nor were they a statement of the truth. Their simplicity is all too confusing, in such a way that has him… well, confused.  

He gulps down a mouthful of bitter discomfort, suppressing an urge to rip the thing right out of him then and there. “Not exactly. I mean, I wasn't born with it.” 

The god steps closer, intruding on what used to be Tony’s personal space, but is now apparently a shared facility. You wouldn't expect a person's presence to be so electric that you could feel it sending little tingles to scurry up and down your back, but this man defies all of what Tony knows to be true. 

This whole situation is doing weird things to him, and they're too close. 

Too. Fucking. Close. 

He does try to remedy that, but his back hits the railing as he tries to put distance between them. 

“I did not realise,” Loki is still fixated on the glow, even as words spill forwarth. “That it was embedded in your chest.” 

“Well… Surprise, I guess.” Tony chuckles weakly. “Still, I don’t really-” 

Stop. Everything. 

Stop breathing. Stop thinking. Stop his fucking heart beating. 

Stop Loki from extending his hand to brush the pad of his finger along the rim of the reactor. Stop the curious look in his eyes, and the caution of his touch. Stop the shiver he knows isn't from the cold, and the fear that seeps into his bones without reason. 

Stop forcing Tony to look at any of this in a different light. 

Stop shattering my fucking will to hate you.  

The way he’s exploring… It's like he’s caressing the wing of a butterfly, being careful so as to not disturb the delicate fibres. It’s so hesitant, so tender, that Tony almost forgets those same hands will one day be stained red. That those eyes will one day shimmer with malice, and not a desire to understand. 

Loki's searching touch slips along the edge of the tech, the light casting a glow on his flesh. It almost looks natural, and in a strange way, the illusion of blue skin suits him. Tony's heart doesn't know whether to stop, or to work on overdrive, and ends up skipping over a beat or two each time it tries to make up its mind. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Not… anymore.” 

The prince raises his other hand. It doesn't go for the reactor itself, but rather hovers over the skin around it. 

“You sound…” He presses the pad of his index finger to Tony’s chest, right along the seam where it connects with the tech. “Unsure.”

Tony is now on such high alert, that he swears he can feel the individual ridges and loops of Loki’s fingerprint. 

“Maybe that's because I have a god poking and prodding at it.” A bead of sweat drips from his nose. 

“Maybe that god thinks you should just deal with it.” 

“Maybe that god is a fucking brat.” 

They both look up at the same time. 

Tony isn't sure whether he wants to speak first, or listen for what Loki will say. 

He settles with starting. Partly because of his own impatience, and partly because this tension is suffocating. 

“You weren't taught personal space?” 

Loki huffs. “I was, but sometimes I choose to ignore little things like that.” 

“Testing out a little rebellion, are we?” He snorts, leaning back against the rail in a way that’s supposed to look casual, but is actually an attempt for room to breathe. “Are you done stroking my life support system yet?” 

Loki’s hand stills. For a moment, a tiny, insignificant moment, his eyes drop to Tony’s mouth. Only a small amount of time passes before they shift away, so it’s easy to pretend it never happened. It’s easy to pretend it doesn't matter. 

“You still owe me answers, human.” His voice is softer than before, dripping from his lips like honey. 

“What? Do you think I have the memory of a goldfish? I’ll give them to you when you fucking get round to asking them.” 

Tony doesn’t get this man, and he doesn't want to. 

He doesn't want to understand him. 

He doesn’t. 

He also doesn't believe himself. 

“I have tried,” The gods hand retreats, stalling just a hair's breadth from Tony’s chest. “But I find you rather distracting.”

Chapter Text

‘I find you rather distracting.’

Loki can not believe that sentence actually came out of his mouth. Those few words, especially, and most importantly the last one, are something that he has very rarely admitted to. 

It's becoming apparent that Tony Stark is an unstoppable force. One that just won't give up on its infatuating mission to do Loki’s head in. 

On the way to his quarters, Loki had not expected to spot Stark scrambling down the hallway in the dead of night, nor did he predict the absolute state he’d be in. There are many clear indications of a troubled mind; shaking and hyperventilation are among the less subtle. 

So, upon seeing that the mortal could not keep his limbs from trembling, Loki had made the intelligent decision of ‘not poking fun.’ It was hard at first, given how easy it would have been to reference the absence of a shirt, or the way Stark's hair was plastered to his forehead, but regrettably faded given time for a closer inspection. 

The realisation that this man has a device inserted into his body is... 

Loki would like to say that he felt nothing more than clear minded curiosity towards the foreign object, but a bit of genuine concern that nags at the edge of his thoughts is the one thing preventing that from being a truth. 

Seeing as the hints of worry resemble mosquitoes - buzzing around his mind and irritating the living daylights out of him - it should only be fair that dealing with them be as simple as squishing real bugs. Unfortunately these insects are of the indestructible kind. 

It’s exhausting whenever he tries to make any sense of this, which is exactly why he hasn't yet pulled himself together. He barely allows time for indulging on his impulses, and right now the human is quite literally laid bare for him. Having been starved of this man any interesting conversation for days, the ability to hold back his own need for exploration has been compromised. 

From the wide eyed stare, and the pause in his breathing, Stark is having a tough time processing what the god has just admitted to. Loki has half the mind to step back and mirror that very look in response to his own words as well. 

Despite that part of him, his feet remain rooted in place, bindings of fascination keep a tight hold on his limbs. 

His eyes, or more specifically what they are glued to, may play a part in that matter.

To be clear, his attention was piqued by the technology. The steady glow of light was hard to ignore, and very fairly drew him in. Does that make it better that he is now fixated on Stark’s abs? Probably not. 

This behaviour is definitely not what should be expected of a prince. 

“I’m gonna need you to repeat that.” 

Begrudgingly, he tears his eyes off the bare skin to refocus on Stark’s. “Pardon?” 

The man huffs and rolls his eyes. “For fucks sake.” 

Judging by his tone and point of showing ‘exasperation,’ an effort is being made here to try and seem unbothered. In direct contrast to that, the midgardian’s knuckles have gone white around the balcony railing, his breathing is sharp, and his voice is strained. 

Loki is the one doing this to him. 

If Stark wasn't fascinating enough a second ago, he certainly is now. 

“I said you distract me,” He smirks and takes a step closer, a strange thrill running through him as he realises the power he holds in this moment. “Is that a problem?” 

The mortal is clearly struggling with something. By the look on his face, that thing may very well be his own tongue. “Only if you're looking for some kind of sympathy.” 

His smile takes on a menacing hint, and without warning, he brings his finger back up to probe Stark’s chest once more. “It was not my intention to fish for your consolation.” 

The jolt that runs through the mortal upon contact extends up through Loki’s arm as well. This opportunity has gone straight to his head, and he can't find a reason to halt his actions. 

“Right, yeah, that clears things up.” The sarcasm is something Loki has grown to expect of this man, and even prompts a chuckle. “Congratulations on making my already confusing life just that little bit more fucked.” 

“You certainly are a moody creature.” 

The brunette grunts - probably at being called a creature. “Do you plan on doing me the honour of sharing what the hell is going on in that royal head of yours?” 

“A very demanding , moody creature.” His chuckle is louder this time. 

The reality is Loki does not have the answer to that one. Not that he would ever admit it. So, to avoid Stark’s demanding stare, he traces the edge of the light source once more. 

It’s about as large as his fist, and has a hypnotic quality one can not ignore. The mortal said that he crafted it himself to deal with the remains of an attack, and Loki can’t resist wondering what the circumstances were. Was the attack aimed at Stark, or was he simply caught in the crossfire of something larger? Surely a blacksmith would not be of any concern to a powerful group. 

The irony of that thought wastes no time in surfacing, and he is reminded that one of the most powerful men in the nine realms does indeed have concern around this blacksmith. It is just that the reason as to why still remains out of reach. 

So perhaps he is a target. 

The idea provokes something in his blood, and it heats just enough to be noticeable. As he is standing in place and there are no physical factors that could contribute to such a reaction, there is only one thing he can hold responsible for this feeling: imagining that someone might purposely expose this human to danger is troubling him. 

No, that's preposterous. Why should the god of mischief find any kind of discomfort in the idea of a mere mortal being the target of a hostile force? Such a thing has no impact on him, doesn't affect him, so does not even deserve a place in his mind. 

Stak, apparently picking up on Loki’s return to the land of wondering, lets out an impatient sigh. 

“Fine then, don’t share it with me. It’s not like I’m on the receiving end of this shit.” The human makes a point of leaning further back, nearing the point he will be at risk of toppling right over the edge. “Quit toying with me. It's starting to get fucking cold out here.” 

Loki snorts. “I do not see how it’s my problem that you are unable to dress yourself.” 

It is true, the prince is not to blame for Stark's state of undress. On the other hand, he can be blamed for letting himself look at the goosebumps which have started to scatter themselves over the human’s flesh, also for feeling obligated to both make life harder, and help out a bit. 

“I knew you were a mortal, but this delicate?” He clicks his tongue, making sure to remember the sour look on Stark’s face. “I’m surprised you managed to make it past your childhood.”  

Stark opens his mouth to protest. It’s a good thing his tongue isn't between his teeth when Loki hands slide up over his shoulders, because he would have bitten it clean off when his jaw snapped shut. 

It’s only for a brief moment, but the prince finds himself disappearing into the sensation of touching the mortal this way. In the short distance between his chest and shoulders, Loki manages to feel so much. The slight roughness from how his body has reacted to the cold. The flutter of a heartbeat under his skin. The solid feel of his muscles. 

The human looks about ready to combust when a blanket materialises around his shoulders, draping his no longer bare torso in green fabric. It will do a reasonable job of keeping the man warm, so it would be ridiculous to get disappointed over no longer having a view of his chest. 

What in the nine realms is happening to him? 

There are obvious questions in the mortals' gaze, but he doesn't reject the offered warmth. He grabs the corners of the blanket and pulls it tighter around himself. Loki, no longer needing to hold anything in place, let's go with far more reluctance than he would like to admit. 

“Did you really have to stroke me to get that done?” Stark mutters. It’s delightful that he doesn't seem able to manage the normal bravado that generally accompanies his snarky comments. 

“Your lack of gratitude is astonishing.” 

“So is your fucking behaviour.” 

Funny that no matter how rude, he finds himself hanging onto every word that spills from the brunette's mouth. 

Loki snorts, letting his hands fall away from their perch near the mortal's warmth. “You are the perfect example of a hypocrite.” 

‘I don’t have the energy to deal with snooty royals right now.” The human, once again showing his dramatic side, hugs the blanket tighter around him and slides down to seat himself on the floor. 

Stark lets his head fall back against the rail, his body slouching into the support of the metal. It can not be comfortable. His legs are splayed out in front of him, pants crumbled from what Loki knows has been a restless night. The moon catches brown eyes at this angle, and casts a different light to what the blue one does. 

It's quite the vulnerable stance. One does not have to read minds to gather that this is the behaviour of an incredibly tired man. 

“Feeling sleepy?” 

Stark scoffs. “Oh, so now you care ?” 

Loki can practically feel how heavy the mortal's limbs are from looking at him, and no matter how hard he must have tried to hide it, he isn't fooling anyone with that sarcastic front of his. 

“That is not the word I would use,” he adjusts his cloak, bending down to settle himself on the floor at the brunette's side. “But feel free to assume what you wish.” 

The mortal’s eyes follow Loki as he lowers himself to the floor. “Can I call it annoying?” 

“Is that what you find it to be?” 

“Yep.” 

He huffs out a laugh. “Then go ahead.” 

The man at his side doesn't say anything in response. A yawn overtakes anything he may have wanted to communicate. 

It hasn't happened yet, but Loki is sure he will regret his actions tonight at some point. Specifically the part where he admitted that Stark distracts him. He was not meant to get this close. Not by his fathers orders, and not by the ones he forced upon himself. Yet, here he is, on a balcony with a human nodding off next to him. 

If his brother saw this he’d never hear the end of it, and Loki might finally have to admit he does indeed have a soft side. He doesn't, by the way. It would just be incredibly difficult to deny it to someone who witnessed this. 

“If you don't mind, I'm gonna go ahead and pass out right here.” 

“And in such a brilliant spot for it, too.” 

“I’m too fucking tired to move right now. Besides, I’ve slept on worse.” The brunette casts Loki a sideways glance. “And with worse.” 

Loki rolls his eyes, even though it’s likely too dim for Stark to catch. “I do not doubt it.” 

“Brat.” Is the last word murmured into the atmosphere before everything stills once more. 

Then, after a period of silence that seems packed with more meaning than any of the words they exchanged, something comes to rest on his shoulder. 

He does not have to look to realise that the human has fallen asleep. No, because he is certain that if that weren't the case, he would not have let his head fall against Loki. 

“Stark?” He whispers into the night, voice a little too gentle to rouse the mortal. 

Unless you count slouching further into his side as an answer, there is no reply. 

It is strange. Loki does not recall another time anyone has ever leaned against him like this, (other than Thor who was quickly sent off,) let alone felt relaxed enough to lose consciousness. If he’d asked himself what he would do in a situation like this a while ago, he would have thought he’d push anyone away. But now that he’s here with this man unconsciously trusting him, he realises his answer would still be the same, just with anyone other than Stark. He would shove anyone off him without a second thought, with the exception of Ton - er, Stark. 

If it weren't for his current inability to remove the mortal from him, he would never admit to that. 

So… he does not know where to proceed from now. Seeing as this position will likely be held for a while longer, and Loki has decided not to blow in Stark's ear, he may as well use this opportunity to… ponder something useful. 

Or, as the annoying part of him pesters, he could engage in the oh-so beneficial act of observing as a man sleeps. 

He tilts his head and lets his gaze drop to the sleeping figure. Stark is only a few inches shorter than Loki, so his head has managed to slot nicely into the crook of his neck. His limbs, previously stiff with tension, have gone slack. His breathing has evened out and gone from sharp rasps to a steady rhythm of rise and fall. 

The air that leaves the brunette would normally cause no issue, but with it being exhaled directly onto Loki’s throat… 

Each little puff tickles his flesh, warmth spreading further than what the used oxygen should be able to reach. Said heat also lingers longer than welcome, settling in for a while just to raise the hairs on his neck, and not bothering to pay any kind of compensation. Irritating might not be the right word. He would know, because living with a brute like Thor means having a very close relationship with that particular emotion, therefore he is an expert on its effects. 

Irritation does not cause your heat to stutter. 

Damn it all. Even in his sleep, this man is finding ways to set Loki off guard. 

Touch and sight are one thing, but his sense of smell decides that the already overwhelming combination needs just one more thing to be complete. 

Stark, even with sweat dried to his unfairly muscular torso, smells nice. 

If that thought does not make Loki want to bury his own head, he doesn't know what will. 

In their close proximity, the scent of this mortal has wasted no time in wafting upwards to show off. He has likely been close enough to catch hints of it before, but not while the brunette has been still and quiet. There is not one exact word he can think of to describe it, but something about it has piqued his ever greedy curiosity. 

He isn't sure if a smell can be warm, but the word seems to fit the bill. It is not overbearing, and is far from unpleasant, but remains odd all the same. Without realising it, his head has dipped just a bit, chasing the smell and bringing his nose closer to Stark's hair. 

There is a mix of different scents all playing a part in the overall product, and beneath it all, he catches a whiff of something… 

His train of thought is cut short, (probably for the best) when he realises the blanket has slipped off Stark's shoulders. The grip that had previously held it in place has now gone slack, allowing it to slide down the mortal's arms. 

Now, the current predicament offers two options, each with different outcomes. One: Loki could prove to himself, (and the universe,) that at least some of his principles remain intact, and haven't been entirely obliterated by a sassy midgardian. Two: he could give in and coddle this man even more, further shattering his own pride. 

Well, to him, there is one very clear and correct answer. Logically, one would choose the right one. So why, why in the name of anything that has ever made sense, does he choose the wrong one? 

Carefully, ever so excruciatingly carefully, he reaches over with the arm not currently being used as a pillow for a drooling mortal. He has to twist round and lean to reach the blankets corner, an action that has his nose brushing through Stark's hair. 

He’d known doing this would not lead anywhere good, but regrettably did not consider everything. 

The brown strands against his skin, though deceptively messy, are impossibly soft. It has his entire body going rigid, and he briefly considers leaning down just that bit more to and rub his cheek over the inviting locks. 

In reality, all he can do is sigh and snag the fabric, hastily pulling it back over Stark and tucking it in over his chest. 

The unconscious man, not even able to utter a thankyou, is blissfully unaware of the turmoil he’s causing. 

Loki wants to speak, wants to get something off his chest. More than anything, he wants to clear the clutter from his mind, and let it run rampant in the world instead of within his head. That's the thing with thoughts, they eventually go stale if kept for too long. No matter how damaging they may be if released and given free reign to affect the lives of others, they eventually make it out. The longer one lets the pressure build, the higher the risk of an explosive, and ungraceful spilling of secrets becomes. 

Right now, Loki’s threatening eruption is swirling over his tongue, forcing him to taste the meaning behind each word.  

‘Tony Stark, you have no idea the complexities you've caused. I can't even begin to explain this immature obsession I've formed, and it is all, entirely, your fault.‘ 

Spoken internally, Loki can only hope that he’ll manage to get a handle on himself before any of that can really slip though. The admission of distraction tonight was bad enough, anything more and he will permanently reserve his position as disgraceful. 

Perhaps pulling some kind of trick on the mortal would ease his suffering. If only this stupid man didn't look so peaceful at the moment, then the idea might actually have some real appeal, not the kind he's scrambling desperately to believe is there. 

What has he gotten himself into? What has this human forced him into? Is he going to remain here all night, trapped more by his own weakness than the resting man at his side? 

When his own eyelids begin to droop lower, and his cheek comes to a rest against the mortal's head, he realises that yes, yes he is. 

Tony doesn't know what to think when he wakes up nestled into the warmth of another person. Actually, scratch that, he knows exactly what to think, and it isn’t polite. 

What the fuck happened, and how did he get here? Also, why doesn’t he have a shirt on? 

As far as he can tell, his head is resting on someone's shoulder, and that person's head is resting on the top of his. For a guy who is not the biggest cuddler, this is surprisingly comfortable. He can feel breath brushing over his forehead, and instead of pissing him off, it has a soothing effect - one that encourages him to slip back towards dreamland. 

He’s far too groggy to process much, and the fog of sleep takes its sweet time in clearing from his consciousness. There are only a few things he can grasp at this point, one of which being the smell. It's definitely familiar, not quite minty, but something similar… 

A memory surfaces, and he skips a few steps in the waking up process when reality whacks him in the chest with a little too much force. The events of the night before replay and give him a brief recap of the horrifying situation he got himself into. This leads to the realisation of who the person at his side is. 

Haha, yeah, super funny. The whole, ‘you've woken up snuggling with a god,’ joke. Classic . 

There isn't much he can do at this point. If he moves, Loki will wake up. If he doesn't, the outcome will ultimately be the same. 

Fuck his life.

He opens his eyes, (as one generally does when waking up) and the first thing he sees is a blonde man leaning against the wall opposite him. Said man, standing in all his muscular glory, has a goofy smile plastered right over his bearded face. 

Seeing Thor here should give Tony a fright, and it normally would, but being both half asleep and already at his limit for disbelief, this barely fazes him. 

“Should I even bother asking?” His voice is far from clear since sleep still weighs heavy on him, but it’s loud enough for Thor to catch. 

The god of hammers chuckles, his playful expression growing brighter. “I did not mean to interrupt. Please, do continue, you look rather comfortable.” 

“You aren’t interrupting anything.” 

Thor does not look convinced. “So you mean to tell me that this is perfectly normal?” 

Tony pauses. No, that is not what he meant. And no, this is not ‘perfectly normal.’ Actually saying that won’t help protect his ego. He has no idea how this looks to Thor, but he has a sinking feeling it will not work in his favour. 

“Why are you even here?” He demands, still careful not to speak at a high enough volume to wake the man he’s tangled with. 

“It is not every day I see my brother napping on a balcony at mid morning,” he laughs again, “Let alone in the company of another man.” 

Yikes, now he does know how it looks. 

Tony sighs, his head already starting to hurt from dealing with this conversation. “Do me a favour, don't phrase it like that.” 

“Forgive me, I simply mean that I found this strange, and couldn't help my curiosity.” The blonde looks to be enjoying himself, which is more than can be said for anyone else here.

“Just to be clear, this isn’t a normal occurrence for me either.” He casts a glance at the unconscious Loki. “And I'm not exactly comfortable.” 

“I am surprised he let you get that close to him. You are lucky he did not shove you off.” 

Yeah right. If this is what luck looks like, then Tony doesn't want to continue living. 

“My brother must be comfortable around you.” 

“I highly doubt that.” 

“He is sleeping on you.” 

“Actually, he’s sleeping on the balcony.” 

Thor only chuckles again, the deep rumble quite similar to what might come from a lion. “Apologies, I must have been confused by all the leaning on each other.” 

Much to his dismay, Tony doesn't have a comeback for that one, so just rolls his eyes. He doubts there's much hope of him ever recovering from this. 

At this point, he really has to wonder what his life has come to. Seriously, what does a person have to do to go from being a billionaire superhero who just saved the world, to waking up shirtless and leaning against a god, while being watched by another? 

Hasn’t he been through enough shit already? 

As if on cue, a weight lifts from his head, and the person against him shifts into consciousness. 

Loki sits up, allowing Tony to finally, (thank fuck because his back was this close to spasiming) sit up straight. 

Now free, he wastes no time in shuffling over, ignoring Thor's cackle at his awkward, and somewhat frenzied movements. Playing it cool would have been the Tony Stark way to go about it, but he’s held still for too goddamn long already and needs to do something with himself. 

Now that he can breathe without worrying he might jostle a prince out of his slumber, his head starts to feel a lot clearer, and less like it's stuck in a clamp. 

Loki gets his bearings faster than Tony managed to, opening and closing his eyes a few times before looking around himself. 

Say something. Say anything, Act unbothered. 

His brain, unusually his most powerful asset, can only come up with: “Morning, sleeping beauty.” 

The younger prince barely reacts to the poor attempt at humour. The elder is another story entirely. 

“Funny, that's what I thought you were not too long ago.” 

He turns his head to shoot a glare at Thor. If only lazer eyes were something he could pull off. “I don't remember asking for your opinion.”  

The blonde, ever eager to make things worse, replies, “You obviously don't remember plenty of things. A shirt, for example.” 

Tony would throw something at the hammer-holding idiot, but his only current option is the blanket, and he needs that to preserve what little dignity he has left.  

“Surely you realise how ridiculous you both sound.” 

The god of mischeif is in the middle of straightening his hair when Tony looks over, and fuck if all thoughts of trying to pummel Thor, (which would only end in failure anyway) shoot right out his ear.

Damn, Loki looks… shit, there really aren’t any words for it. 

Black hair, normally swept back, has come loose from its placement. Loki’s bangs hang at a rest over his forehead, rumpled from a night at rest atop another man's skull. Stray locks stick out at any angle they please, leaping right back up even as slim fingers try to settle them back down. 

During this weird stay in hotel Shakespeare, he has not yet seen the young god as anything other than the perfect picture of a prince. (Unless you count that spar the brothers had, but that was a different circumstance.) Right now, Tony is watching him rub sleep from his eyes and mutter under his breath about it being too early for bickering. 

He’s found the words: Fucking adorable. 

“First of all, that’s ironic coming from you.” He pulls himself back to reality, deciding to tackle the current situation before dwelling on how cute the god of mischief is. “And second, I expect full compensation for suffering through a night of being your pillow.” 

The prince pauses, then turns to face Tony with a look that borders on outrage. “ You are the one who fell asleep on me .” 

“Do you have any proof to back up that statement?” He dons an innocent tone and pairs it with a matching expression. 

“How about the fact that I experienced it, and if you test me any further I might just turn that blanket into a snake and leave you to deal with it on your own.” He sounds dead serious. Tony hopes that it's just good showmanship, and not as real of a threat as it feels. 

He slips the blanket down to rest a little further from his neck. You know, just in case. “Wow, you really aren't a morning person.” 

“Well you aren't making it easy to see the bright side of things at the moment.” 

“Oh, so you do know what that i-” 

The forgotten third party cuts off any bickering between the two smaller men with a hearty laugh. The rich sound masks all tension woven into the atmosphere, replacing it with the kind of infectious joy that only comes from a truly genuine person. 

Both prince and human forget their petty argument, instead focusing on the blonde. 

“I must admit, brother.” He starts, first addressing Loki. “I am glad that I decided to stay for this. It is good to see you have found someone other than me to threaten.” 

Tony catches the glance Thor shoots at his younger sibling, but is at the wrong angle to fully dissect its meaning. The younger god, on the other hand, seems to understand it just fine. 

“Stark, kindly lend me that blanket so I can smother him myself.” Loki holds a hand out in Tony’s direction and beckons for his order to be obeyed. 

“You know what, to save you from the embarrassment of actually trying that, I’m just gonna hold onto it for a while.” 

Fuck, this is partly hilarious, while also a good deal concerning. The funny bit comes from watching the siblings bicker, and the concerning part is the annoyance in Loki’s glare. It’s a potential danger because while Tony knows looks can’t actually kill on earth, it might be a different story for gods. It sounds far fetched, but who the fuck knows with everything else going on in his life?  

“The mortal is right, brother.” Thor grins, looking mighty pleased with his current entertainment. “You would only harm yourself in trying to smother me with that piece of fabric. I am far too strong to be bested by something so regular.” 

Loki rounds on his brother once more, waves of shitty attitude radiating straight off his person. It should not be possible to pull off a threatening look while sitting on the ground, but this man somehow does exactly that. 

“What business do you even have in being here?”  

“I wanted to make sure I was not imagining things when I thought I spotted my brother cuddling with a human.” He shrugs. 

“I have an issue with your wording” Tony interjects. “There was no cuddling going on between us.” 

‘There definitely was.’ 

Fucking hell. Cuddling is one thing, dozing off in close quarters is another. Hey, he can't control the shit gravity does to his body when he has no awareness of it. So what if he slipped into Loki’s side, it’s really not that big of a deal. None of it is. Not the situation, not his bare chest, not the smell that lingers from a night against that god… 

Christ. 

“Very well.” The blonde looks between them again, then abruptly pushes himself off the wall and heads to the door. “I shall leave you be for now, then. Enjoy your day, mortal.” 

“Whatever.” 

He exits. Tony instantly regrets the loss. 

It’s not because he liked being teased, (because he didn’t) and it’s not because he liked the humiliation of being caught how he was, (because he didn't like that either.) It’s that no matter how much of a pain that blonde was being, his presence meant that Tony could avoid having that awkward talk you do when waking up next to someone. Especially because that person just so happens to be the god of fucking mischeif. 

Tony braces himself, and looks over at Loki. He almost chokes on his heart with how far it leaps into his throat. Why, you might ask? Because those blue eyes are already fixed on him. 

One of them is bound to say something eventually. 

Funny thing is, Tony’s life kinda depends on ‘eventually’ hurrying the fuck up and gettings it’s ass here quickly, because for a reason that he is unaware of, he’s decided to hold his breath until it does. 

“Are you feeling better?” The question sets him off guard, and it’s only after he breathes out that he can clarify it. 

“Huh?” 

The god lets out a heavy sigh and leans himself back against the railing. “Last night, something had obviously shaken you.” 

Oh, right. That. 

Tony clears his throat, shoving his heart back down where it belongs. “We've been over this, I was out there to enjoy the view.” 

“You don't seriously expect me to believe that, do you?” 

He stares right at Loki. This guy is crafty, he has to remember that. He’s crafty, and most of all, he isn’t fucking stupid. Tony never expected him to believe the ridiculous excuse for being half naked and on a balcony during the night, that wasn't the point of the shitty fib in the first place. It’s point was to send the message that he doesnt want to fucking discuss the real reason. 

Either Loki has not picked up on that, (in which case he must consider Tony stupid enough to think a lie like that would work,) Or, the more likely option, he does know that the truth is being avoided, but just doesn’t give a fuck. 

“Ok, you nosy brat, I couldn't give a shit about stargazing. Happy?” 

The prince doesn't miss a beat. “No. I’d be much better if you told me why you felt the need to sprint from your room without a shirt in the middle of the night, hyperventilate on a balcony, and drag me into a night of being your pillow.” 

Tony groans. “As much as I’d love to have that conversation, I’m gonna have to take a rain-check on that.” 

Avoidance. That's how to deal with things. Postpone them until the day they come back around to fuck you up at a later time. 

By the look on his face, Loki does not approve of having to wait for the information. “I plan to hold you to that, mortal.” 

“No shit.” 

Hours have dragged on for Loki, taking ample time to carry him through the day and deliver him at dinner with his brother. The only thing that has occupied his mental energy is the events of the previous night. 

Once he had extracted himself from Stark’s company, (shortly after the informal promise of an explanation to come later) everything had hit him. 

He had behaved so unlike himself. Last night was a prime example of the consequences change can have. For example, one can end up far too close to the bare chest of a human. 

After a day of moping in his room, he made the decision to behave as if nothing was bothering him. This led to accepting Thor's request to have dinner together. 

He greatly regrets it. 

They get through about fifteen minutes, (he's being rather generous with that estimate) of small talk before the conversation heads down a path Loki would rather not follow. 

Thor, ever wrecking things with his impulsive tendencies, shatters the peace with: “So, what is your deal with the human?”

Loki eyes his brother, stopping mid chew. “I beg your pardon?” 

“You have a thing for him, right?” 

He splutters, a chunk of food lodging itself in his throat as he tries to digest Thor's words. 

The blonde leans over to pat the younger man on the back, but he holds up a hand to prevent him from doing so. A gentle assist in clearing airways is one thing, but when it's coming from the god of thunder, one is likely to end up thrown face first into their dinner. 

“What?” He rasps once oxygen can reach his lungs once more. 

Thor raises an eyebrow, taking a large gulp from his tankard. “The mortal, you like him.” 

Of all the things his brother has suggested, all the ideas that have gone terribly wrong, this is the most surprising one yet. 

Loki shakes his head, willing his cheeks not to turn pink. “Listen, brother, I realise that you are missing a few things up here,” He taps the side of his own skull. “But I can not fathom where you would come up with something like that.” 

Thor ignores the insult and proceeds straight to the point. “Brother, as much as I know you hate to admit it, I do know you.” 

“If you really think I have any kind of… of feelings towards that man, then…” He scoffs, not sure what his next words should be. “Then you clearly do not know me.” 

“You fell asleep with him. Actually, you fell asleep on him.” 

Oh dear lord. Thor is never going to let Loki live this down. 

Loki, gripping his cutlery so tight it’s a wonder it has not bent, hisses, “As I have repeated far too many times already: That. Was. Not. Intentional.” 

“But it happened.” The blonde points at him like he’s just made some kind of brilliant argument. 

“That is - that's beside the point!” 

“But is it? Is it really?” 

Loki is this close to climbing across the table and ripping out a chunk of his brother's hair. 

“Listen, Loki.” Thor leans forward, placing his beer down on the table and looking the younger man in the eye. “All jokes aside - ”

“ - I highly doubt you are capable of doing that - ” 

“All jokes aside,” He continues, (It is no secret that the younger prince has a need to deflect in this situation and Thor knows to work around it.) “I have noticed that you have taken a liking to Stark.” 

If this keeps up any longer, Loki may have to resort to murder. 

He sighs, taking out his irritation on the chunk of steak he no longer has any motivation to eat by poking at it with his fork. “I have not taken a liking to him, he simply interests me.” 

That's not… entirely untrue. Loki is interested in that mortal, and curious about him to no end. 

He also fell asleep to the sound of his breathing last night so… There is also a little confusion around what he should be labelling his emotions as at this point in time. 

“In what way?” Thor asks. 

What way does he find Stark interesting? Well… 

He doesn't know. He can't know. He hasn't felt like this before, so he does not have the slightest idea. It drives him mad that he can't figure himself out. His mind should not go ahead and force feelings on him without bothering to explain what they are. He is being kept in the dark not only by his father, but now also by himself, and he despises the inability to understand. 

Loki is meant to be the one person that makes some kind of sense, and he’s losing that security. He’s losing the comfort of at least knowing he has a handle on his own mind. 

He can't tell his brother this. No, he can't tell anyone. It may not be the wise choice to bottle it all up, it may even be foolish of him, but he doesn't feel like any of the people around him would get it. Thor certainly wouldn't, especially not the concerns to do with their father. Being the golden child, the favourite, he would not be able to see anything wrong with Odin. 

Nevermatter, Loki is long used to dealing with those less comfortable thoughts independently. It works fine, and even if it did not, what’s the worst that could happen? 

Loki looks across at the god of thunder, who’s earnest gaze is eating away at his resolve. The brute does want to understand, but the hopes of that are unfortunately far too thin for it to be worth the risk. 

“Not in the way you are hinting at.” He forces himself to chew through a piece of broccoli and swallow. “Your imagination needs taming.” 

Thor laughs, patting his younger brother on the shoulder. “If you say so.” 

He takes a sip of water to wash down the sad little vegetable. “Why are we even on this topic?” 

“Because, while you only ever want to stab me for it,” Thor finishes the last bite of his own meal. “I am your brother, and I like to know what’s going on with you.” 

Curse it all. 

He finds the blondes eyes, searching them for any indication of what he might be thinking. It is not a necessary action, (Thor is the type of person who will tell Loki his thoughts with minimal hesitation,) but it is one that the god of mischief finds himself taking anyway. Maybe it is a comfort, maybe it is a result of his own unease. The reason is not of any importance. 

“I have no soft spot for Stark.” He finalises. “Sorry to disappoint, but you have misread the situation.” 

Thor shrugs and returns to his beer. The twinkle in his eye tells the younger man he has not yet given up on this suspicion. 

Loki can not catch a break. 

His brother's words play on repeat in his mind: ‘You have a thing for him.’ 

Preposterous. What is that even supposed to mean? 

It does not matter. Thor, as per usual, is being a buffoon. Loki need not waste any energy dwelling on it, nor can he afford to let the blonde think he’s gotten to him. 

He chews on the inside of his mouth, quickly irritating the sore spot he left yesterday while waiting to speak with his father. 

He can not think of anything he would hate more than asking Thor to clarify what he meant by ‘thing,’ Nothing, in this moment, would bring him more shame than to humour the older man's stupid ideas. 

But he really wants to know what he meant. 

No. he is not going to allow himself. He has more self control than that. A lot of it, actually. He knows how to control himsel-

‘What do you mean I have a thing for Stark?” He blurts with a glare in Thor's direction, his tongue acting completely of its own accord. 

Superb self control. 

He wants to kick himself. Regret swells within him, threatening to cause a migraine he will have no hope of avoiding. That dread only amplifies when the blonde looks at him with a triumphant expression that makes it painfully clear he was waiting for Loki to cave. 

“You know, you find him…” 

Thor better be very careful with his next words, because Loki has a steak knife in his hand, and a murderous intent that comes with an inability to deal with being embarrassed. 

“Attractive.” 

It takes a lot of that self control Loki was so sure he had to discard the knife, and fold his hands neatly in his lap. He mainly does so for the purpose of proving he does indeed have a handle on himself, not because he cares for his brother's well being. 

Attractive? What has gotten into Thor? Loki does not find that human attractive. How idiotic of him would that be? 

It is not to say that the mortal isn’t good looking. He does have… some appealing attributes. Like, the way his hair sits, or how he holds himself in that casual, yet somehow arrogant manor. The way he smells, something Loki learnt last night he could get lost in, (which he did,) and how fascinating that thing in his chest is. His eyes and their inconvenient ability to set the god of mischief completely off guard. The way he speaks, even when being sarcastic, and how his words manage to captivate Loki more than anyone else’s. 

Sweat dripping down his chest, tracing his muscles and glistening in the light of the moon. The shape of his abs, the bare skin of his back and the curve of his spine… 

“Brother?” 

Loki, without anything in his mouth, chokes yet again. 

He returns to reality with a harsh jolt to find Thor peering at him, the horror of where his mind went burning into his cheeks. “What?” 

“You have been quiet for the last three minutes.” He takes a large gulp of his now half empty glass of alcohol. 

“No I haven't.” 

“You have.” The blonde snorts. “Am I right to say you were thinking about something? Or should I say, someone?” 

“Shut up before I turn that beer into something less pleasant.” Loki means it, he would be glad to watch that idiot take a sip of urine.  

His brother complies, closing his mouth and returning them to silence. It is not a normal occurrence for Thor to drop something just like that, but Loki has a sneaking suspicion it’s because he feels content that he’s proved his point.

Chapter Text

Loki can no longer remember what he and Thor were headed out to accomplish. 

It was only moments ago they were discussing it, likely arguing over it, yet he can no longer care less. Morning plans have been squashed under the weight of what he's hearing. 

In fact, thoughts in general are the furthest thing from his mind. The current task of listening is requiring a little too much effort, and he can’t let himself go astray for a fear of missing something important. 

Childish or not, both princes pressed their ears to the throne room door the instant they'd heard the mortal's name, and are now waiting in bated breath for what might follow. 

“We are unsure of how this information was leaked, sir.” The voice, most likely belonging to a guard, has a nervous waver, one that usually accompanies the delivery of unfortunate news. 

The reply is that of the kings. “But you are certain that it has been?”

“That is correct.” 

“Have they made any demands?”

Loki has no time to question who ‘they’ might be, and can only hope that it will be revealed the longer they continue to eavesdrop. 

“No, they have simply let it be known that this situation has caught their attention. By the sound of things, they may want a further explanation - ” 

“No one is to tell them anything until I give the order.” 

Odin is sharp with his reply, voice sending a wave of dread to wash over Loki, who the command was not even directed at. He can only pity the man currently delivering such displeasing matters, because if tension can manage to squirm its way through a door, its direct forces must be suffocating. 

“Of course, my king.” The guard says. 

“Did they mention him by name?” 

“No, sir. Just that they knew we had a human residing within the palace.” 

The mention of Stark has a strange effect. The look Thor casts him is even worse. 

Loki wants to tell the blonde that no, he's not chewing on his lip because this is indeed about the mortal - and no, he also is not going to tolerate any more comments about how this has become an ‘obsession.’ Neither are true, and neither are pleasant to discuss. 

Alas, the brothers can not afford to draw so much as a loud breath, so he must simply endure the scrutiny of his older sibling. 

“The people of Jotunheim have no advantage over us at this time, so we are not currently at any risk for withholding information. What I wish to know is how they came into possession of such knowledge.” 

Jotunheim? The frost giants? How could they have possibly caught wind of this? 

“Sir, do you wish for me to alert the princes?” 

Another pause. 

“No,” Odin sounds far older than normal, and the bite in his tone has dissipated. You’d think his words were weighing down on him. “There is no need for them to become involved in this, it would only complicate things further. I will give this matter further thought, and in the meantime Anthony Stark will remain under Asgards protection.” 

“As you wish.” 

And there goes all hope for even a mildly enjoyable day. 

How long must he be kept in the dark? 

The surge of anger, of rage that hits Loki almost knocks him off his feet, and he realises that he is long beyond the point of feeling guilty for it. How can one possibly trust another enough to act on their orders when they are constantly lied to? 

The most surprising part is that when he finds the strength to regard his brother, he sees a similar frustration. 

The god of hammers has his brows furrowed, and his forehead wrinkled more than what his age should allow. It sparks something within the younger of them, forcing him to wonder whether Thor might feel more than just unconditional adoration for their father. He's always been capable of ignoring rules, but misguided impulsiveness is a far cry from the serious look of betrayal they share. 

Although, knowing how different they are, the reasoning behind it is no doubt vastly different. 

Loki sighs. The sound of footsteps approaching the exit signals the need for their departure. Without a word, the two defeated princes make haste, turning the corner just as the door clicks open, and a flustered guard scurries off down the other hall. 

“Are you prepared to talk about it?” 

Loki scoffs. “Discussing this matter will not change anything.” 

“It might help you stop sulking.” Thor mutters with an attitude that renders his comment as nothing but absolute hypocrisy. 

The younger simply glares, visualising what it would be like to rip the beard from his brother's face. “I do not sulk. ” 

“Tell that to your face.” 

They lapse into silence. It is not pleasant. 

Usually the pair have one optimistic outlook on things, (that being Thor), or at least a hint of positive energy, (that also being Thor), but with both in what can only be described as a foul mood, there isn't much hope for salvaging the atmosphere. 

Loki lets his head droop back to rest on a pillow, taking up an entire couch as he wallows in self pity. HIs eyes are fixed on the wall rather than the man across from him, and as frustration has strange effects, has resorted to counting off each dent or mark he spots. The current number is 37… 

Now it's 38. 

39. 

He’s not overly fond of having Thor in his quarters, but as it was the closest at the time, they’d end up here regardless. 

“I do not understand why father has decided not to tell us.” Thor doesn't bother trying to catch Loki's gaze because let's face it, he has a better chance of making eye contact with the shelves. “He must know we can help.” 

Loki snorts. Thor is many things, and one of those things is naive. Especially when it comes to the mighty king of asgard. 

“He isn't telling us a lot of things, brother.” The younger man pauses his counting to throw an arm over his eyes. “Unfortunately, the reason as to why is one of those things.” 

The response is no more than a muffled grunt. 

Loki almost pities his older sibling. The pity comes from a sense of empathy, one he hopes has an early and rather painful death. The ‘almost’ part comes from his need to squash said empathy down to no more than the pathetic pile of nonsense it really is. 

Truth be told, he takes a strange pleasure from seeing this golden child finally experience the disappointment that comes from being completely overlooked. It’s even slightly amusing watching Thor struggle over how best to deal with it. 

Should he feel like a terrible person? Maybe. But he's also committed far, far worse feats, so should he really bother to waste any time feeling guilt over this? Not in his opinion, no. 

Besides, the blonde should be back to prancing around with a hunger for glorious adventure soon enough. The hit to his precious ego will wear off, much like any normal injury heals and eventually fades away. If one has the luck, there won't even be a scar to remember it by.

Thor doesn't scar too easily. Loki is a different story. 

As if sensing he’s the topic of consideration, the blonde nudges Loki with his boot. The younger prince lacks the energy to scold, so merely elbows him away in a lousy attempt for peace. 

Not even a minute passes before his shoulder is being assaulted yet again, the taps becoming more insistent the longer they are ignored. It exceeds annoying - more the equivalent of a mosquito at night you just can’t squash. 

Loki sacrifices the shelter over his eyes to bat at Thor’s leg. “Do - you - mind ?” He snaps, propping himself up on his elbows. 

It’s only now that Thor’s foot retreats, seemingly satisfied with the attention it has managed to obtain. “In fact, I do mind, brother.” 

Of course he does, because nothing is ever easy. 

“Fine, what is it that you so desperately want?” 

“I want to know what you propose we do now.” 

Thor’s statement is left to hang in mid air, untouched as Loki takes a moment to gather himself at the stupidity of it all. He wants to laugh, but not any more than he wants to throw a tantrum. 

“What? You seriously think that there is anything we can do?” He’s being more hostile than is called for but has not the restraint to cool off. “If father doesn't want us to know, then we don't get to know.” 

“Then let us take the matter into our own hands. If Jotunheim wants to initiate war by stepping into lands they are not welcome, then we must take action. This can not go without consequence. If father won't do anything about this, then perhaps we should.” 

“ We? ” 

Thor sits up straighter, his sense of purpose rejuvenated. “Yes, we, brother. The two of us together. Let us prove to father that we are not liabilities, and that we can handle this ourselves.” 

“You're not serious.” Loki lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, all the while praying that Thor is only joking. He does not seem to be. “Please tell me that you are not serious.” 

The blonde, looking mighty pleased with himself, leans forwards and rests his elbows on his knees. “Yes, brother, I am. If Jotunheim knows of our mortal guest, that means that they have somehow managed to infiltrate asgard. If we put an end to this, then father will no longer be able to keep us in the dark.” 

Loki’s mouth falls open, a welcome entrance for any bugs that might fancy being digested. 

He has about a million things he wants to say. Most of them are in the form of outraged yells, a few include words not suitable for a prince. With all of it scrambling to try and get out first, there’s a jam and everything gets lodged at the back of his throat. All that manages to get free is a strangled wheeze. 

Thor, on the other and vastly more stupid hand, can not hold himself back. “Don’t you see? This is something we must do, for the sake of Asgard. What is there to lose?” 

“Oh, I don't know. How about our heads?!” He swings his legs over the couches side and gets up to pace, needing a way to work off some of the stress. 

“Please, Loki, do not be so dramatic.” 

“Dramatic?” He turns to face Thor with a laugh that contains no humour. “You want to go traipsing into Jotunheim against our fathers wishes at the influence of a conversation we overheard snippets of.” He growls in frustration and gestures at nothing in particular. “What do you expect to happen? You’ll brandish your hammer and they will all fall at your feet begging for mercy?” 

“Of course not.” Thor stands now, looking down at Loki from that height advantage the younger has always loathed. “I believe that we should at least try to protect our home, our people, and that human you have taken too. Besides, it is not like they would stand any chance against us.” 

“This is the absolute worst idea you've ever had. It’s devastating, really, that even you could stoop so low as to suggest this.” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands for something to feel other than overwhelming exasperation. “And yes, they would have more than a chance against us. Actually, what they would have is a feast on our frozen corpses.” 

“Oh come now, Loki. We can’t sit back and do nothing. Where is the honour in that?” 

“Honour? That's what you seek?” He steps closer, pointing a finger directly at the bearded man's chest. “If there’s honour in being dismembered for acting against the king's wishes, then be my guest. I do not wish to travel to Jotunheim, nor do I wish to dive headfirst into a situation we have limited understanding of.” 

Loki stalks to the opposite side of his room. The anger he feels towards this ridiculous proposition seems out of proportion, but a shelf can only hold so much before it gives out and everything comes tumbling down. 

He’s been told by his mother countless times to breathe deeply when everything becomes too much. She says to take a moment, and let the world simply exist around him while he focuses on the air that fills his lungs. He should supposedly let such a technique calm him, bring a sense of peace to his being, and settle everything back into place. 

He’s always been convinced it’s utter nonsense, that being instructed to do something so mundane as inhale deeper than necessary when he’s bordering on a fit only heightens his agitation. It’s times like this when he is reassured he’s right. Not because his mother is unwise, but because breathing will not solve his problems. It won’t give Thor those extra few brain cells he needs, and it certainly won’t stop his brain from dwelling on whether or not the blonde is correct to assume Loki has taken to the mortal when it should be set on helping shut the man up. 

“So you mean to tell me this does not interest you at all?” Thor closes the distance between them with a few long strides. “Because we both know that to be far from the truth, brother.” He says with a determination that most would cower from. 

But not Loki, no, because he’s not foolish enough to yield at a time like this. “Of course I'm interested, but not enough to follow you to our demise.” 

“We do not have to travel there asking for a fight, Loki. All I want is answers.” The blonde tries to rest a large hand on the younger man's shoulder but is shrugged off with a grunt. 

Loki takes a step back, creating enough distance to no longer be in range of any affectionate gestures. “Oh come of it, we both know you are incapable of handling things with any form of grace or self control.” 

Thor thinks for a moment before he cracks a goofy smile. “And that's precisely why I need my brilliant little brother to accompany me.” 

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” He sneers. 

“I am going whether you decide to join me or not.” 

The terrifying thing is that Loki knows this is no bluff. His ‘dear’ older brother is genuinely arrogant enough to barrel forwards with the belief that he is invincible. 

It will be a shock for him to find that he is not. 

Loki waves a hand in the air and turns away. “Then have fun with your untimely death, if not at the hands of the frost giants, then our own father.” 

He won't be swayed this time, he is absolutely certain of it. There is nothing in all of the nine realms that could ever convince him to go along with this, because there is nothing worse than the humiliation of involving himself with such an idiotic plan. 

Behind him, Thor sighs, a sound which fills the younger with hope that it’s a sign of admitted defeat. 

The sentence which follows abruptly blows that hope to smithereens. 

“I am sure the human would be interested to hear of this, likely thankful for our aid in relaying the information, too. I suppose if you are so against this, then I will have to tell him alone.” 

Fuck . 

Is it normal for crawling out of your own mind to sound so damn appealing? Forget for a moment that it’s not possible, and frankly rather horrifying - just focus on how fucking nice it would be to leave thoughts behind for a while. 

Yeah… 

What is Tony thinking about again? 

He rolls over in bed and presses his face into the merciful depths of his pillow. The brain is such a weird place. He lets his own have too much freedom in allowing it to wander off on wildly disturbing tangents. It might be beneficial to invest in something that’ll get a handle on it. Like a therapist. 

Or drugs. 

Not anything too bad, all he needs is to be knocked out for a few hours, and seeing as sleep, ever the evasive bastard, just won’t let Tony fucking catch it, drugging himself is starting to sound like the way to go. 

It's a vital part of living, (which is far from a walk in the park itself,) not to mention that having to run on an hour of shut eye every fucking day makes staying alive even harder. 

What makes it worse is that he slept great a few nights ago. Well, apart from the panic attack. The amazing sleep happened in the arms of a god who shall remain unnamed, because the moment Tony allows himself to dwell on those four letters, he knows his chance of sleep will dwindle from very unlikely, to downright impossible. At that point he may as well get up and have breakfast with the stars. 

It taunts him, the fact that with all his restless nights - waking up drenched in sweat, and even worse, his own fears - that the presence of a god managed to soothe him into calm. 

Bulshit, is what it is. Not because he wishes that none of it ever happened, and not because he's been religiously pretending that it never did. The bullshit part is that his insomnia has only gotten worse since the night on the balcony. He has caught a whopping tally of three hours rest over the past two days. The bags under his eyes have literally started to weigh him down, and he has taken on the appearance of a freakish looking bearded panda. 

As the time stretches on, he wonders whether Loki, (shit, there's the name,) really did help him relax, or if that was some kind of horrific fluke. You know, the kind that makes you want to try it out again to test if it really was a coincidence. 

Hah! Tony must really be losing his shit. He really needs to sort it out, because he can’t afford to lose what's left of his mind. Especially since it’s meant to be his greatest asset and the thing that makes him all his fucking money.  

Nothing is working out. 

He can blame different things all night long, place fault in stuff other than his own stupidity, but it won't help purge the truth from his consciousness. 

He can't focus. Which is devastating, because a genius billionaire does not have a fucking excuse for being distracted and getting all confused. 

The actual ‘can't’ part of ‘can’t focus’ is still to be proven, and could very likely be a matter of ‘won't’ instead. Maybe he doesn't want to face it all, and has subconsciously made the brilliant decision of avoiding what has to be done. 

If that is the case, his subconscious is a fucking traitor, and should be instantly fired before it can turn anything else to absolute shit. 

If it is ‘can't,’ then he really is losing his edge. 

With a sigh, he rolls over, kicking off the blankets which have stopped keeping him cosy, and are now drawing sweat from his skin and effectively transforming what he thought was a bed into a furnace. He misses air conditioning, and he misses JARVIS handling it for him. 

The curtains have been left open again, because while the blinding sunlight can be a bitch in the morning, he's generally awake by that time regardless, and the stars give him something to focus on. He finds himself wondering whether they are the same ones he can see from earth, and spends the torturous hours of unbearable silence trying to identify patterns and constellations he might recognise. 

The distraction only has a twenty percent success rate. He mostly just ends up dwelling on things that make him wish he hadn't made it out of that portal back in New York. 

‘Like how useless you are.’ 

He huffs. How pathetic is it that this relentless taunt in his mind is the only thing he has right now? If only you could hire pest control for things that exist in the subconscious. 

He has so much to sort out for himself, and here he is, trying to fix another man. 

Speaking of, Tony really needs to make some kind of progress on that front. 

Thing is, his whole plan to save NYC (also himself from crippling regret and a lack of will to get up in the morning) has not been progressing at the rate he would have liked. It wasn’t like he expected to make exceptional progress in a matter of days, but he’d like to at least be moving faster than a snail. 

What he didn’t expect was how much of a fucking nucance that prince would be. 

Loki is messing with Tony’s head. 

To be painfully, painfully, honest, he doesn't know what else he should have expected from the god of mischief, AKA the same man that quite literally brainwashed several people on earth. 

He is dangerous, and not just in the way Tony had originally thought. 

His danger comes in the way he can make Tony laugh, in the way that he isn't all that bad to talk to, and in the way he can lull him into a peaceful slumber. He’s dangerous because he really does just seem like a young man, and because over such a small span of time, he's managed to make it impossible for Tony not to question whether he really is evil to the bone. 

Loki has added one more person to the list of people Iron Man already needs to save. 

One that he might even - 

Hold up. What was that? 

He forces his thoughts to shut up for a second, and listens. 

Sure enough, there's a scuffling noise coming from just outside Tony’s door - which is strange because It can't be earlier than midnight. 

He sits up. The blankets pool around his waist.  

There's another few scrapes, and then the telltale sound of hushed voices. Whoever it is, they’re terrible at being quiet, and clearly have no idea how to whisper, because Tony is caching quite a bit of their conversation. 

He gets up and crosses the room, not bothering to put on a shirt before opening the door. 

Surprise surprise, standing outside his room are two princes, stopped like deers in the light of Tony’s arc reactor. The blonde looks rather pleased after a moment to compose himself, and the younger, sulkier one frowns like he'd rather be anywhere else. 

“What brings you here at this ungodly hour?" Tony says like he hasn't been lying awake for hours. It’s a little nippy standing here with all this skin on show, so when he crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe it’s not entirely for his casual front. “Didn't dear old dad ever teach you about bedtime?” 

Loki scoffs at the father comment, and Thor just pats his younger sibling on the shoulder. “We have come to invite you on a further tour of Asgards taverns.” 

“Is that a really weird way of saying we're going to get plastered?” His mood brightens by about ten times. “If it is, then your apology for waking me up is accepted.” 

Loki rolls his eyes. “We never said - “

“Too late, you're forgiven.” He dismisses the protest with a wave of his hand and looks at Thor. “Lead the way, point break.” 

“At least put on a shirt this time.” The younger prince mutters. 

Tony looks up in time to see blue eyes dart away. “What? You don't like looking at my bare chest?” 

He turns to snatch his top off the floor and tugs it over his bed hair. By the time he’s facing them again, Thor has clearly said something to get him punched. Loki has a dark look in his eyes, but his cheeks speak of an embarrassment he clearly does not know how to deal with. 

“So, what's the occasion?” He asks as they make their way down the hall. It’s clear there's an ulterior motive, but with the promise of alcohol and an activity to distract him from the crippling insomnia, Tony isn't bothered. 

“Oh, nothing much. We just thought it important to show you more of what Asgard has to offer.” Thor pats his brother on the back as they walk. “Isn’t that right, Loki?” 

“Your lying skills are absolutely abysmal.” 

Tony snorts into his hand as the blonde protests. Yep, he’s sure as eggs are eggs that thing one and two over here are up to something. 

He gets to listen in as the brothers bicker like cats and dogs, and makes good use of his breath by poking the bear every now and again. The walk isn't all that long, and taking on the role of an unhelpful antagonist does wonders in keeping him entertained. 

The tavern they wind up in is different to the one Thor first took Tony to, but has a relatively similar set up. The walls are adorned with lanterns, and catching sight of the floor is rare between the crowds of people all clustered into the small space. It smells of late nights and low inhibitions, perfect for chasing away the serious things in life. 

Loki is about as out of place as a polar bear in the jungle, while Thor looks like he’s returning to the factory he was made in. 

This is bound to be interesting. 

After enduring what can only be described as a hellish amount of his brother's alcohol induced antics, Loki retreats to a less crowded corner of the room and into an unoccupied booth. 

He does not dislike the occasional tavern visit, but circumstance is key. Right now the deafening clatter of glasses paired with the stench of sweat and beer does nothing for him, and all he can think of is how appealing the idea of sinking into his bed is. 

What has he become? A man of no self control? That’s meant to be Thor's forte. Loki always thought the day he started to act like his brother would be the day the universe imploded, but evidently it was the day they took a mortal out drinking. 

He intends to rip out his brother's beard the moment they get home. At least that might soften the blow of his principles all abandoning him. After all, some form of revenge is warranted for this. 

“Who died?”

Loki lifts his head from the depths of his hands to see a smirking brunette directly in front of him. “I beg your pardon?”

Stark flops down next to him without invitation. The restricted space has them in close quarters, meaning their arms are pressed together and their body heat transfers between them. “You’re clearly mourning someone. Either that or you're a five-year-old in time out.” 

This man has the strangest ways of communicating. It’s like he’s stuck permanently between extraordinary intelligence, and acting with the maturity of a toddler. The only upside is that it chases most self destructive impulses away for the moment. 

“I am not mourning anyone.” He shoots the mortal a glare, trying to communicate his distaste for the company without actually saying ‘get the hell away from me before I turn you into something gross.’ “And I am certainly not a child.” 

Stark does not take the hint, and makes the foolish decision to barrel on. “So explain the pouting.” 

“I do not pout, human.”

“Then why is your bottom lip sticking out further than your nose?” 

Loki leans forwards with a poorly disguised sigh, elbows on his knees and chin in hand. “Aren’t you supposed to be prancing around with my brother?” 

“Can't blame me for worrying you might have gotten lost and couldn't find your way home. Or, you know, all the negativity might have backfired and your magic sparkles lost control and disintegrated you.” A hand makes brief yet firm contact with his arm. “If you think about it, I'm being rather gracious here.” 

“That isn't how it works.” Loki grumbles, pressing the palm of his hand against his now aching forehead. The clatter around him offers nothing but worsen the effect. “And you are far from gracious.” 

“I can't see your eyes right now, but I'm pretty sure I just heard that eye roll.” 

“I’m glad.” He murmurs, his tone proving the exact opposite. 

“Alright, Eeyore,” Eeyore? What is an Eeyore? “How about you get off your sorry ass and come with me.” The mortal hops to his feet and points over his shoulder. “Blondie over there says we're here to discuss something important, and I get the feeling you might wanna be a part of that.” 

“Actually, you could not be further from the truth. I wanted nothing to do with this, and yet somehow I've allowed myself to be dragged into it.” 

“Great, then you’ll be used to this by now.” Without warning, Stark grabs Loki by the wrist and yanks him to his feet, movements steady for a man who supposedly came here to get intoxicated. The spot where skin meets skin burns, but not in the unpleasant way one would experience when getting a little too close to a fire. 

“Let go of me, you uncivilised human.” Loki snarls without making a move to pull himself free. 

The mortal leads him back to where Thor is sat, accompanied by enough drink to effectively serve about five more people. 

When the blonde sees them he laughs to himself and wipes at his chin. “I knew you would have better luck in retrieving him than I would, Tony Stark.” Thor then shoots Loki a teasing look. He has been doing it a lot more since that morning on the balcony, and the sickening feeling that accompanies rears its head too. 

They all seat themselves around the bench, the noise from the bar providing cover for any conversation they might engage in. Loki isn't sure whether or not Thor picked this location purposely in an attempt at keeping their little chat private, but if he did, then it was a smart move on his part. 

It’s only once downing a monstrous tankard of beer, does Thor relay the conversation they had the ‘fortune’ of overhearing. 

Stark, once having the full story asks: “What the hell is Jotunheim?” 

“It’s one of the nine realms. Just like asgard and earth, Jotunheim is a land with its own people.” Loki explains while fiddling absently with a napkin. “It is home to frost giants, and the relationship between our two worlds is not what one could call healthy.” 

“Frost giants? You mean to tell me a planet of building sized snowmen is asking about me?” 

Loki blinks a few times at Stark’s idea of what frost giants might be, and doesn't get the opportunity to point out how wrong he is before Thor cuts in. “Precisely.” 

“No, not precisely - “ 

“And that is why my brother and I plan to do something about it.” 

“ - Actually, this is entirely his foolish idea, I really - “ 

“Despite what our father may believe, we think that this matter must be dealt with by confronting the problem directly.” 

“ - You really need to stop saying we - “ 

“And it is only right to do you the courtesy of sharing this, tiny mortal.” 

Loki groans and lets his head fall to the table, not caring what gunk might find purchase on his forehead. “I need a drink.” 

Ok, so not only is Tony getting a distraction and his drinks paid for, but he’s also getting to witness a drunk god of mischief. 

Would it be over the top to say this is one of the most amusing things he's ever seen? 

Thor left shortly after the weird run down of their ‘situation,’ (which Tony has decided to get a better idea of once a sober Loki can give it to him because yeah, it sounds important,) claiming that he had ‘things to deal with early in the morning.’ Which, for someone who can handle what Tony observed to be five peoples worth of beer, is a strange reason to turn in. There's probably something else going on, maybe to do with that weird thumbs up he gave a particularly prickly Loki before making his exit, but who the hell knows with these two? 

Now that it’s the two of them, a pretend blacksmith and an adopted prince, Tony has indulged himself in discovering what drunk Loki has in store for him. 

So far he has sung two songs, managed to rope in a whole group of men at the bar into singing along with him, and smashed three glasses with a shout of ‘ Another! ’ 

Alcohol makes him a lot more sociable. A little bit more like his brother, too. 

After a particularly long few verses of an unfamiliar song, a dishevelled young man with black hair seats himself back down at Tony’s side. As fun as all this is, (and by fun he means fucking amazing,) he can smell exhaustion on the prince, even if behind a drunken energy. 

“Having fun there?” He sips his own drink with an astonishing amount of restraint. If it weren't for Loki he'd probably be drunk by now, but something about not being able to keep a sober eye on him doesn't sit right. “You know, I never expected you to have the heart of a singer.” 

The prince squints at him and Tony wonders whether he’s drunk enough to be seeing double. His eyes, usually piercing and terrifyingly perceptive, are unfocused, never staying on one thing for too long before darting off to the next. His posture has taken a hit too, muscles visibly less rigid and free of strain. In fact, his whole demeanour has loosened off, dropping away like his coat did after the third drink. 

“I do not have the heart of a singer . ” The god of grouchiness mutters into his glass. “I wouldn’t stoop so… so low .” 

Well, looks like it's time to be a gentleman and escort the prince home. 

“Right, come on then, it's time for us to make our grand exit.” He stands up and gestures for Loki to join him. 

“No need, human.” The god dismisses him with a wave of his perfect, (perfect?) hand. 

“Oh, I think there is need. A pretty big need.” He grabs the little rascal by the arm and pulls him to his feet. There's a moment where he thinks Loki might fight him off, but it never comes. “I wanna go, and I can't just leave you here for someone to snatch.” 

“Pffwa! No one would dare.” He slurs, leaning heavily into the grip on his bicep. 

Tony rolls his eyes and supports the wobbly legged trickster towards the door, receiving a few strange looks from the less intoxicated people around them. 

The cool air that washes over him is a blessing once outside, and it's a wonder what breathing oxygen that hasn't already been used by twenty other guys can do for you. 

They only make it a few paces down the street before Loki claims he needs to sit down, and Tony is rather thankful for it. He’s not wasted like princey here, but tipsy and tired definitely isn't a good mix when hauling another man along the road. 

The two find themselves sitting at the base of a tree not too far off from the castle. Street lamps illuminate the atmosphere around them, and the night sky is alive with stars that watch from above. 

The beauty of Asgard is either wonderful or absolutely terrifying: some of it just doesn't stick to the laws of physics. Oceans dropping off the side of the world, for instance. 

Scary as that is, fuck if Tony isn't drawn to it like a magnet. Hell, he could lose himself in trying to understand this place, and even then he'd probably only scratch the surface. 

One of the most complex puzzles he's been offered is actually the person beside him. Funny it's also the most scary. 

“My father… What do you think of him?” 

Surprise at the unexpected question aside, something about the innocent, slightly slurred tone makes his heart stutter. The way he asks has Tony wondering whether he’s trying to figure out how Tony feels, or trying to decide how to feel himself. 

“Well, he sits on a big chair and tries to tell me what to do… so naturally I don't love that...” He thinks for a second. “But he’s also given me free accommodation, so don't tell him I said that. I can't afford the life of a hobo - I’m stuck in my wealthy ways.” 

Loki tips his head to the side, flushed cheeks and messy hair all adding to the curious kitten look. “How can you be accustomed to a life of luxury as a mere blacksmith?” 

After deciding not to be offended, Tony replies with: “Ahh… well, let’s just say I’m pretty fucking spectacular at it. You know, to the point where I’m responsible for millions of deaths without ever swinging a sword.” He sighs, already regretting those words and not even sure why they came out in the first place. “I didn't have to start from nothing, either. My old man left me everything when he died, so I pretty much had all the money and resources I needed.”  

“Your father passed away?” Loki pulls one knee up to his chest and rests an arm on it, laying his cheek on top of that. 

“Yep.” 

“How… How old were you?” 

He pulls on the collar of his shirt, suddenly feeling a little too restricted. “Twenty one.” 

Loki thinks for a moment, (probably trying to figure out how much that would be in god terms,) before turning his searching gaze back to the man at his side. “So not all that long ago?” 

Tony opens his mouth to correct the prince, then remembers that he doesn't exactly look like the forty one year old he is. While he’s actually been fatherless for twenty years, his body only looks like it's been fatherless for about five. 

So he swallows the truth and nods. 

“Did you get along?” 

Tony runs his fingers through his hair with an empty chuckle. “What's with all the questions about my dad? Looking for something to make you feel better about yours?” 

There's a pause followed by a soft exhale. “Somethin’ like that...” 

He does struggle with his father, doesn't he? Tony never imagined that the god who killed Phil Coulson would have daddy issues. Thor doesn't seem to struggle with Odin, so Loki mustn't really have anyone to share it with… 

Sharing… Tony can do that. Sharing is fine. 

“Well, not that it’ll make any kind of sense to your mediaeval mind, but I'm pretty sure he preferred a lab experiment over me.” This time when Tony laughs it holds actual humour, but only because he thinks of Cap's face when he’d first called him that. “It was great always hearing about how much he adored that weaponised man.” 

“I do not think I’m in the right state of mind to try and understand that one.” The tipsy royal yawns, and it’s one of the cutest god damned things Tony has ever personally witnessed. Lucky he’s got enough of a buzz to ignore it for the moment. 

“Yeah, well the silver lining of that is I don't have to explain it.” 

He leans his head back against the tree and lets the bark dig into his scalp. If he lets himself think about how he fought Loki as a means to save Earth, the world starts to spin a little too fast and his stomach disagrees with the food he’s digested. How can chatting with a man who’s thrown you through a window be so fucking easy? How can he sit here with someone he thought he hated and compare shitty fathers? 

Would it be enough to say that life’s just strange like that? 

Loki pats him on the shoulder. “I heard my father refer to you as An… An… Anthony Stark. It was my understanding that your name is Tony .” 

Tony raises an eyebrow at the weird question. “It is, but if you really wanna be that particular about things, then I guess it’s just a shortening of the full thing.” 

“So your name is really Anthony?” 

“What, do you not like it?” There's something weird about hearing that name drip from Loki’s tongue. Maybe it's the accent, or maybe it's because he says it like he’s trying out each syllable and figuring out if it’s a pleasant taste. 

“Not at all, I simply wanted to make sure. I suppose… it came as a surprise.” He picks at a strand of grass. “But no, I do not dislike your name.” 

“Yeah… Why are we talking about this again?” 

“Is it a sore spot for you?” 

“What? No, of course not. It’s just not something I expected you to be so interested in.” And it’s fucked how much I like hearing you say it.  

“ You interest me, Stark.” Loki frowns at his own words. “ Everything about you does, and I suspect you aren’t even aware of it.” 

Wait, what is he saying? Drunk or not, that's… a lot to swallow. 

Loki pokes him in the cheek when he doesn’t get an answer. Tony only slightly flinches. “You have a lot of secrets, mortal. I want… I wanna know them all .” 

All? All of his secrets? 

Tony imagines trying to explain them to Loki: The panic attacks, all the people he blew to smithereens, the guilt he pretends he doesn't feel, the fact he isn't really a blacksmith… Yinsen… the fucking time travel. 

On top of that, he has to wonder what forces are at work for him to consider sharing any of it. Not just with Loki, but to anyone with their own fucking opinion. 

Yeah, it’s a bit too much. Even for the Shakespearean space god who lives in a castle of gold. 

So instead of lifting any such weight from his shoulders, he once again neglects the growing pile of clutter, and shoves it further into that dark corner of his mind. It’s going to come back around and bite him in the ass one day, which will probably be when he finally snaps and goes absolutely mental, there's no doubt about it. 

“Don’t get too greedy there. If I tell you everything in one go you'll get bored of me. Then I’ll really have to step up my game if I wanna keep getting free stuff.” 

Loki laughs, a genuine cackle that sends a shiver down Tony's spine. “I highly doubt that I'll lose interest.” 

He tilts his head to regard the stars yet again, the moon has travelled a great distance from when they left for the bar. “I think it's time to go back, any longer and we’ll end up watching the sunrise.” Tony stands up and the world only spins slightly. “And, you know, we should call it quits before anyone says anything else that can’t be taken back. I already have too much on my plate without these revelations.” 

Loki, ever the graceful one, clings to the tree in an attempt to haul himself up. He does manage to get upright, Tony has to give him that, but he promptly topples forward when the poor little low hanging branch he’d gasped onto gives out. 

When Tony made the decision to catch the prince is a fucking mystery - all he knows is that one moment he’s watching from a safe, comfortable distance, and the next he's got Loki by the waist right up against his side. 

All he gets as a thanks is a mumbled: “Whoops.” 

“Yeah, whoops my ass.” Tony grumbles. It's always best to focus on the negative, especially when you're trying to ignore how another man's muscles feel under your palm. 

It takes a bit of effort, but they end up with Loki’s arm slung around Tony’s shoulders, being kept steady with a hand on his hip. They hobble towards the castle at a shockingly painful pace of one mile an hour. Iron man has never missed his suit more. 

“Do I really have to do everything around here?” He can’t help but complain after five minutes of excruciating silence. “I mean seriously, I’m on an alien planet and I’m still supporting everyone around me.” 

“I can handle myself just fine, Anthony.” 

Tony almost drops him right there. Partly to prove a point, and partly because the unexpected use of his full first name sets his skin alight with goosebumps and catches him entirely off guard. 

He coughs in a way that he hopes is casual. It's not, but he needs something to clear out the shock. “So we’re on a first name basis now?” 

The god leans into him further. “No. I was just… just trying it out.” 

“And how’d that go for you?” 

Loki angles his head so as to peer at Tony, not achieving much in terms of seriousness while slouching all over him. “Dunno yet.” 

They head through the entryway. Stairs taunt him from up ahead, and his calves ache from knowing what's to come. Oh well, it's not like he hasn’t been through worse, there's a trophy in his chest to prove it. 

The journey upstairs is a hike, and Tony's legs are three steps away from going on strike by the time they reach the prince's quarters. Stiff joints aside, things are going great: His shirt is soaked with sweat, and he has more than just giant ice men to dwell on after making this delivery. 

Especially because the package happens to be a future maniac with a cute little pout at being unable to support his own weight. Is it bad that Tony just wants to pinch his cheeks? 

Once safely within his room, Loki mutters a thank you and wobbles over his bed. It’s only once Tony watches him make it without vomiting that he closes the door. 

All he can do is stand there, back against the wall as he lets the night wash over him. His options are to laugh or cry. Either would be better than standing there like a statue moulded into a permanent state of shock. 

With one last look over his shoulder at the surface that separates him, a few words slip free from his mouth. 

“How can I hate you?” 

No one is there to hear his whisper, but he hopes he’ll one day get an answer.

Chapter Text

Thor can't help but grin as Loki drags himself out onto the training grounds, scowling that little bit deeper than usual. Heh, seeing Loki hungover is a rare treat, and letting this opportunity go to waste would be - well, precisely that: a waste. 

“Loki! How gracious of you to join me. I was beginning to expect tonight's moon would greet the world before you did.” He waves with the hand not supporting Mjollnir. Loki’s response is a glare that could cause flowers to wither, yet it only adds strength to the force of Thor's grin. 

He sets himself down on a bench and waves a careless hand in the air as if it might make all inconveniences scurry off for the time being. 

“I am not in the mood for your nonsense.” 

“Hah, you wound me.” Thor strides over and seats himself where he belongs: at his brother's side. “So, how did it go with that mortal last night?” 

The scowl that earns him is enough for the sun retreat behind what little cloud coverage there is. “You left me in his company on purpose.” 

“Did I?” 

The younger snarls. “Yes, yes you did. I can only hope that I did not make a fool of myself.” He leans his head back and pinches the bride of his nose. Thor knows all too well his brother is completely fed up. “Is that what you were intending to accomplish?” 

Thor scoffs. “Don’t be absurd, of course not. I would never intentionally embarrass you.” He slings an arm round the smaller man's shoulder, basking in the contact only one of them enjoys. “I was simply hopeful that you might get the push you needed to make a move.” 

Loki chokes and sits up straight. His face twists in disgust. “I beg your pardon?” 

Oops. That's his ‘I plan to stab you’ expression. 

Thor extracts his arms from around Loki and leans away that little bit - just enough to avoid the heat radiating from his younger sibling. “I thought you might benefit from a nudge in the right direction.” 

“And what direction might that be?” His tone has dropped from tired to deadly. 

Thor grins. He’s long used to his brother's distaste for nearly everything he says, so the promise of pain and suffering in his gaze is far from offputting. 

Mostly. 

“Any place Stark was, really.” He shrugs. “But I must admit, I was hopeful fate may lead you in the direction of his sleeping quarters.” 

Loki's jaw drops. Thor wonders whether there is any danger of him literally exploding. One would usually conclude that no, that is not possible, but with how red the man's face has become… 

Well, one can never be too sure. 

“Have you lost what little mind you had?” Loki croaks out, any composure he managed to construct for the morning completely shattered. 

Thor smiles. “It is clear that you fancy the man, brother. And seeing as your skills in this particular area are…” He trails off, not too sure how he really wants to finish that train of thought. It’s probably best to just abandon it, what with the growing displeasure on Loki’s face. “ - Anyway, I decided that since you’re clearly too much of a coward to take any action yourself, that I should offer some assistance.” 

“ Fancy ?” Loki's all but hisses, his left eye twitching. Thor must have caused something to malfunction in his brain. 

“Exactly. Fancy. You know, as in you would like to have - “ 

The younger man claps a hand over Thors mouth and only releases him once satisfied the sentence will not be continued. “I do not, in any way , fancy that man.” Loki shifts on the seat. “I do not know what has led you to be so certain of this, but it has to stop.” 

The blonde is not satisfied. He's seen the way the so-called uninterested god of mischief gazes at Stark, and he's seen the way his ears prick up at the mere mention of him. 

He’s also seen them cuddle. 

“If you say so, brother.” Thor rests his hand on the smaller man's shoulder. “But it's not often I see you this smitten, so forgive me for getting a little excited.” 

Loki brushes Thor's hand away and slumps further into the bench, shooting a distasteful glare at the world around him. “If you truly believe that I am in any way smitten , then you truly are a lost cause.” 

“I do not appreciate the harsh words.” Thor places Mjollnir at his feet. 

It seems that Loki is determined to deny his feelings. Thor would not be opposed to putting up with the lies, simply for the reward of opportunities to tease, but he also wants nothing more than to see his brother happy. 

The god of mischief has never seemed so interested in anybody before. 

Loki isn't exactly inexperienced when it comes to relationships and attraction, (it would be difficult to live hundreds of years and remain ignorant to it,) but he is without a doubt floundering for what to do when it comes to Tony Stark. 

Thor knows that with how stubborn the younger prince can be, that this precious chance for joy may never grow into something permanent. Not only that, but when it comes down to it, an outright refusal to admit when he’s feeling vulnerable will be the cause. 

So from his expert observations and extensive knowledge in this field, Thor concludes that Loki will ultimately fail to grasp at whatever he’s feeling and turn it into a real thing. Seeing as this situation is rather dire, a little… meddling, must be accepted. Brotherly support, if you will. 

Thor will not let his brother lose this chance. 

“Then tell me this,” Loki looks up at him and Thor takes the opportunity to continue. “Why are you so invested in him?” 

“Because he's interesting, brother. A human in Asgard.” 

“So you haven't felt even the slightest bit of attraction towards him.” 

“Of course not.” 

Thor snorts. “Right, so the fact that you followed me out drinking last night despite all of your complaints had absolutely nothing to do with that man.” 

“Correct.” 

“Because you didn't care about his presence at all.” 

“Right again.” 

“Your infatuation did not play apart in that decision at all.” 

“Exact - wait a moment, what did you just say? ”  

Thor dons his most innocent expression, hiding the smugness that so badly wants to seep through. “You should probably learn to control your cheeks. A colour that vibrant does nothing to plead your case.” 

Loki glares. “Refrain yourself from meddling in my affairs.” 

Thor sighs. From what he has observed, both mortal and god seek out the presence of one and other, and are better off for it. They have fun.  

It's nice to see Loki get along with somebody new. Even more impressive than that, tease someone new. The normally tense God of mischief would never usually allow himself to sleep against another man, and somehow that mortal managed to steal a night of his company. Rare as his actual presence in Asgard is, the effect he has on Loki is one thousand times more so. 

So no, Loki, your older brother does not plan to let this go. 

Even so, he sees the opportunity and says: “If you are so resistant to discuss this matter, then perhaps we should move on to more serious things. Conveniently for you, it just so happens that I have decided to inform Lady Sif and the warriors three of our plans to travel to Jotunheim.” He grins. “Let's discuss that, shall we?” 

“If you refer to this as ‘ our plan’ one more time, I swear - “ 

“Brother.” He drops the playfulness all together, his overall vibe taking a darker turn. “We can not sit by and do nothing as our enemies destroy the fragile stability of our people and our home.” 

Loki glares at the grass and spits out his next few words. “So you’ve said.” 

“I am serious.” 

“As serious as betraying the throne and waltzing into a planet that has long hated our very existence?” 

Thor sighs. He can see where Loki is coming from - he really can - but the risk is a worthy one. He needs to prove to his father that he’s capable of making tough decisions, that keeping this matter a secret was the wrong choice. 

“Brother,” He places his hand on Loki’s shoulder. The grip this time round is firmer, a silent plea for him not to be rejected. “You know that I trust father, and I have nothing but respect for him. But this time, I genuinely think that he has made the wrong decision.” 

Loki's eyes widen ever so slightly, and the light catches something in those blue depths: an emotion far beyond any simple understanding. It’s erased with a simple blink, but the weight of it lingers, nagging at Thor's instincts and hissing at his subconscious that something is being concealed. 

His chance to ask passes within a second, and the younger prince answers with haste. “Is this entire operation an attempt to heal your injured pride?” 

Thor huffs. “No, brother. I have nothing but good intentions at heart.” 

Loki stands, brushing what seems to be non-existent dirt from his shirt. “Very well, then. If you can convince both Sif and the Warriors Three that this plan of yours is in any way an intelligent idea, then I will accompany you to Jotunheim.” Thor's heart leaps in victory, and he is about to embrace his little brother in thanks, when a pale hand is held up. “But, you will be in my debt if I do this, brother. I expect compensation.” 

The blonde grins, brushing past the sign for him to stay back and wrapping an arm around Loki’s neck and crushing him against his side. “Of course! You will not regret this, brother.” 

Loki gives him a look. Thor takes it to mean that he highly doubts there will be no consequences for this one. 

Breath fanning over his neck… 

Blue eyes brimming with an intense curiosity, one that only Tony can satisfy… 

The soft muttering of his full name in a foreign accent… 

A magic so beautiful that it’s terrifying… 

The sinking feeling that this strange sense of something good is destined to slip through his fingers and out of reach before he can manage to save it… 

Pale fingers drifting over his bare chest and making his heart - 

Tony jolts awake, met with the glare of sun shining directly through his open drapes. 

The first thing he realises is that his blankets have been kicked off and are laying in a crumpled heap on the floor. The next is a jumbled mess of fragmented moments and emotions - the same ones that plagued his sleep. 

“Fuck.” He buries his face in his hands and rubs at his eyes. It’s way too early for that much sunlight all at once. 

Was he seriously dreaming about Loki? Like, actually dreaming about him? 

His hands fall back to rest on the mattress and he blinks till the light no longer sends needles right through his eyeballs. 

What is it they say about dreams? That they reflect desires and fears or some shit? 

Yeah… 

Tony’s just gonna tell himself he remembered that one wrong and not dwell on it. 

He gets out of bed and almost trips over the discarded bedding. 

Hey, look on the bright side of things; thanks to a drunk Loki and a Thor who left them alone together, he has way less of a hangover than his drinking trips regularly result in. So, why not put that clear head to good use and find something to chase away the despair that comes with remembering how much he wants to hear his name said with an Asgardian accent again. 

So, Tony thinks, what the hell? He needs some fresh air and hasn't exercised in god knows how long, why not take a jog? 

He can't really wear jeans for a run, so he’s forced to put on some of the clothes he’d purchased with Loki’s money. The weird beige fabric isn't the best for exercise, and the shirt feels more like a pillowcase, but it’s better than the alternative. 

It takes him an hour to reach the waters edge, and all he can think about the entire way there is the night before. He realises a few things - ones that he really should have noticed before - one being that if a planet supposedly shut off from Asgards little inner circle of secrets knows about him, then Thor may be right about the seriousness of this situation. 

The other thing is that Tony does not want to face up against ice monsters without his suit. 

By the time he reaches his destination, sweat has soaked through his shirt and he's feeling a little too puffed for his ego to remain unharmed. He’s inclined to blame it on his younger body not being as accustomed to exercise, but the more likely explanation is that he hasn't been active over the past couple weeks. 

It feels good though; the heightened speed of his pulse and the slight burn in his muscles. Nothing can compare with the rush he gets from flying, but running isn't so bad either. His reward is a spectacular view: clam water that stretches out in front of him, light dancing from ripple to ripple as the sun climbs higher in the sky. The water itself is substantially clearer than anything you'd see back on good ol’ earth, to the extent where he could sit here and count each pebble on the seafloor. The air carries that fresh ocean smell you don't get in the city, and fuck he needs to come down here more often, because if anything is going to clear his head this is it. 

It’s incredible what the absence of pollution will do for an environment. 

With a long exhale, Tony lowers himself to the floor. 

Earth. Fuck, he really has managed to surpress that place and its people better than he’d thought. Thinking about it eventually has to be unavoidable. He has tried, (give credit where credit is owed,) but when Peppers smile or Rhodey’s face squirm up into the front of his mind, he wants to be sick with how much he regrets leaving them. Fuck, he hates that feeling - knowing that no matter how much he fucking wants to see them, those people are out of reach, and probably doing fine without him. 

Pepper is strong and so is Rhodey. The Avengers, (as much as it pains him to admit,) are equipped enough to thrive without him, even though they may surfer some budget cuts. Everything will be fine for them, and fuck if Tony isnt clinging onto that belief for dear life. It’s one of the only things keeping him from curling up and resigning life, because he knows that the people he cares for will be fine, and that’s all that matters. He can make it up to them by fixing things here. 

He spots a fish swimming in circles in the water just below his feet. Its scales are a faded green, and he swears the little shit shoots him a judging look. 

Alright then, that’s enough of Tony Stark's sentimental episode. If this paranoia has escalated to the point where judgemental sealife is a possibility in his mind, then he may as well just embrace it and start running naked through the streets shouting that the world is about to end. 

On another and less dramatic note, he’d rather eat his helmet than be caught weeping, (ok, that wasn't exactly less dramatic,) so there's at least one rational reason to stop dwelling on his shitty circumstances. 

On the topic of his helmet, Tony would sell his soul and cut off his right leg to have something to tinker with again. Fuck, he misses making things almost as much as he misses the internet, and he’s about this close to going into withdrawal over it. 

The fish does a little hop out of the water. 

The light catches on its scales, and for a moment they flash a brilliant emerald. It disappears the moment it resubmerges, returning to a dull green. 

“Impressive.” He says to the fish. “Bit of a show off, but who am I to talk?” 

As if reacting to his tease, the fish leaps out again, spraying droplets in Tony’s direction and sparkling in the light once more. 

“Dick.” He mutters and wipes water from his jaw. The fish does a few little loops under the surface. 

It’s rather ironic, he thinks, that the environment something grows up in can suppress its natural beauty. Yeah, the water does nourish the finned bastard, but the light just doesn’t reflect off its scales as remarkably while it’s under. You can’t know it looks so brilliant until that fish makes its own choice and leaps free - right out of where it knows it can breathe. 

Why does that feel so familiar? 

He groans and leans his head back to stare at the clouds. Judging by the sun, (and his stomach,) it's almost time for lunch. Which means that it’s also time to go find a grouchy and probably hungover young prince and demand money because Tony has officially run out once more. Christ, he never imagined there would be a day he had to rely on others for funds. It’s surprisingly humbling - in a mild enough way that it doesn't affect his overall attitude at all. 

“Right,” He gets to his feet and looks down at the fish. “I’d say goodbye, but… well, you're a fish.” 

It does one last little circle before darting away. 

Tony gets lost a shocking, (and rather humiliating,) total of five times on his return journey. His attention was otherwise occupied on the way down, so excuse him for missing a turn or two. When he finally reaches those stupid stairs back up to the palace entrance, he both curses and thanks them for what they represent. 

He should not have done this on an empty stomach. 

Things are out of hand. 

Loki stares blankly at the room around him. A large table of food is set in the centre, and one of the walls opens up to the outside, offering a stunning view of the realm below. Pillars line that same side of the space, stretching from ground to ceiling with an imposing beauty. 

He could not care less. 

When Thor had dragged him to convince their friends that a trip to Jotunheim was something of a necessity, the hope was that they'd all see how absolutely disastrous such an expedition would be. Loki had in no way, not even in the slightest, tiniest little bit ever anticipated that the result would be anything other than downright refusal. If he’d suspected there was even a one percent chance of actual agreement, he never in a million years would have made that deal with thor. He only ever suggested it in the first place to shut the man up. 

Apparently he vastly overestimated his friend's ability to rationalise. 

Here's a brief summary of how things went: 

One, Thor presented both the situation, and his plan. 

Now, at this point, things were looking alright for Loki. Sif had made the brilliant point of it being forbidden, and the rest had made similar protests. For once, he had considered the idea that maybe he wasn't always the odd one out in this group. 

The second event was less in Loki’s favour. 

Thor, ever the buffoon, made a speech about all the great feats he had helped them accomplish. To Loki, it sounded a lot like: Blah blah blah, self absorbed hogwash, blah blah blah. So, he still wasn't all too concerned at this point either. 

Three, everything fell apart and Loki was forced to reconsider his ability to read a situation. 

Somehow, through what can only be a true miracle, Thor’s ridiculous speech had an inspirational effect, and the four people all proceeded to courageously declare they would follow the god of thunder to Jotunheinm. 

And people call what Loki can do sorcery. 

He has to lower himself to the seat as reality sets in. What has he done? 

The rest of the conversation around him fades, and he slumps against one of the pillars. If it can support the ceiling, surely it can handle the weight of Loki’s utter despair. 

He has now officially surpassed rock bottom. Rock bottom was several unfortunate events ago. He actually misses rock bottom. 

Loki lets out a silent prayer for something, anything , to save him at this moment. 

The universe, ever teasing him, sends quite the opposite of a heavenly solution. 

“Sorry to interrupt, but I need money and I’ve never been that great with patience.” 

Loki looks over and sees that Stark is standing at the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. It’s an unexpected sight - even more so because his shirt is soaked through with sweat, and his normal attire has been abandoned for something he must have purchased from an Asgardian store. 

He’s staring right at Loki. 

All of the room's occupants turn to face the new addition, one with a friendly grin, three with confusion, the female with scepticism, and another with an eye roll and concealed embarrassment related to events from the night before. 

Loki lets out a sigh and addresses Stark before Thor can get to it. “Could demanding more of my money not wait a few minutes for the sake of respect?” 

“Yeah, I've never been great with that either.” He uses the front of his shirt to wipe sweat from his brow. It exposes his - er - torso to the room. Loki has to tear his eyes away before can start to reminisce on how those parts of him felt. “What's with the serious faces? Have I crashed a secret club meeting? Is that what this is?” 

Loki scoffs away any stray thoughts. “You don't seriously think that we would partake in something so juvenile - “  

“Sure you wouldn’t. Is anyone planning on eating that?” The brunette points at the large table of food. “I’ve just been for a run and haven't eaten since last night.” 

Loki is about to relent and tell the mortal to take what he pleases when someone else cuts in line. 

“And who might you be?” 

Tony turns to Sif as she speaks, raising an eyebrow as he looks her over. “A woman? You guys don’t have electricity yet but you beat us to having females in the army?” 

Said woman narrows her eyes at the rambling human, who quickly raises his hands in surrender. “Not judging. I’ve had enough chicks beat my ass to know I shouldn’t mess with one that’s wearing armour.” 

“Who is this…” She gives Stark a once over, evidently searching for a suitable word. “...strange man? What purpose does he have within the castle walls?” 

Thor steps in now, bounding right up to Stark and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “This, my dear friends, is the human guest I spoke of.” 

The mortal squirms slightly in the larger man's grasp, probably adjusting to having the air squeezed out of him. Thor doesn't seem to notice. “Stark, these are my most trusted allies: Fandral the dashing,” He points at Fandral who nods slightly in greeting. “Hogun the grim,” Again, Thor gestures to the man he’s naming who gives a curt nod hello. “Volstagg the enormous,” Starks eyes definitely widen slightly at that one. “And lady Sif.” 

The human waves. “And I am Tony the hungry.” He looks up at Thor. “Seriously, would anyone care if I had some of this? I’m fucking starved.” 

The blonde nods and all but drags Stark to the enormous platters of food presented before them. 

“So it’s true, then.” Sif asks, turning to Loki. Thor is currently occupied with showing a rather bemused human the dining options laid out before them, so this will be his opportunity to get a word in. “There is indeed a midgardian permitted to stay within our walls?” 

Loki nods. “That is the case, yes.” He rubs a hand over his face and watches as Volstagg joins in on the food talk, pointing Stark towards the best delicacies available. “Father has a reason for keeping him around.” 

“And that reason is?” Fandral asks. 

“For the answer to that, you would need to question the king himself. Apparently my brother and I were not worthy of such information. 

Sif shifts slightly. “Can we trust him?” 

“Does it matter?” Hogun asks. “Putting our trust in him is almost no different than putting our trust in the Allfathers decision. If he has reason to keep a human within Asgard, we must have faith that the choice was not made without careful consideration.” 

They all nod, and Loki has to force himself to join in. 

“You’ve become acquainted with this man?” Sif questions, casting a weary look over her shoulder. Loki follows the gaze and sees that Stark has been given a variety of different things to eat while both his and Volstagg’s ears are talked off by Thor. 

“Er…” Memories of banter and strange conversations flicker through his mind and he clears his throat. “In a way, yes.” 

Fandral casts him a curious look. “What do you think of him, Loki?” 

“He’s…” Potential ways to finish that sentence swarm to the front of his mind, and it takes a few seconds longer than the point of casual to select one. “Interesting.” 

It's the truth, but perhaps not everything there is to it. That word does not begin to explain the vast complexities that mortal represents - hundreds of different mysteries Loki wants all to himself. 

The sound of footsteps stills their conversation as the three other men join - the smallest of them with a handful of grapes. “So, what did I interrupt?” 

The collective attention turns to Antho - no, Stark, who pops one of the small fruits into his mouth, looking at the people around him with an expectant expression.  

“Do you recall the matter we informed you of last night?” Thor asks. 

Stark snaps his fingers. “The giant ice men?” 

“Precisely.” 

Loki pinches the bride of his nose. Sif and the warriors three cast confused glances at one and other. 

“Well,” Thor explains. “My friends and I plan to venture into Jotunheim for answers.” 

For no apparent reason, the first person Stark looks to upon hearing the news is… 

Loki. 

Their eyes lock, and for two men who haven't known each other all that long, a lot of emotion is passed between them. Those brown eyes survey Loki with a seriousness he does not recall ever having seen on the human, and his heart stumbles over itself in surprise. 

Is he… worried ? 

Stark breaks eye contact to gesture around at the others. “And you're all a part of this?” 

Fandral nods. “That is correct.” 

“Cool. I want in.” Loki starts to protest but the mortal, that fucking mortal, cuts him off. “Actually, scratch that. I am in.” 

Thor laughs. “You can not be serious. While I admire your bravery, human, this is no journey suited for a mere mortal.” 

“So? I'm bored. And frankly, I really need something to focus on before I start talking to fish again - don't ask.” He holds a hand up as Loki opens his mouth in confusion. “Also, this is my fucking problem too. Anyone have a problem with that?” 

Six hands raise into the air. 

“Oh come on,” The brunette rolls his eyes and finishes off his grapes. “It’s not like I’m asking to go with you.” 

Sif turns on him. “Then what, pray tell, are you asking for?” 

“A little involvement. Seriously, is that really too much to ask?” 

Loki looks at his brother who shrugs in a way that says, ‘it’s up to you.’  “We… that could be arranged.” 

The mortal claps once. “Awesome. So, what's the plan?” 

Thor steps in, sensing that his time to shine has arrived. 

“Well, my dear friends, this is how it’s going to go…” 

“So… how bad is it?” 

Loki looks up as Stark takes a seat on the floor beside him. He’d retreated to the balcony after a majority of planning was complete, suffering a headache he blames entirely on the sound of his brother's voice.  “Pardon?” 

“The situation.” The mortal runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a dry chuckle. “Hey, I may not specialise in reading people, but it’s fucking clear as day that you arent happy with this whole thing.” 

Loki groans, letting his head fall forwards to rest in his hands. “We are all going to suffer excruciating deaths for this.” 

“Wow. Those grouchy icicles are really that bad?” 

“Not them.” Loki rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m talking about what my father will do to us when we return.” 

The silence that follows is suffocating. 

“You’re exaggerating… right?” The brunette kicks his legs out and crosses one over the other. 

Loki leans back and looks up. The sky is stained a stunning shade of orange, colour seeping into the clouds as the sun bids this day farewell. “For the sake of my own neck, I do hope so.” 

There is a lot of blame to be dished out. A great deal is to Thor for being an utter buffoon, and some is reserved for Odin and his secrets. There's also a portion for the frost giants, and more for Loki’s friends because they agreed to go along with all this. 

A large chunk belongs to Loki for allowing himself to get sucked in. Then, there's that little piece with Stark's name on it, simply because his title is at the root, and he wont stop being so infuriatingly distracting.  

“How long do you think you'll be gone for?” 

“What?” Loki tilts his head to smirk at Stark. “Are you going to miss me?” 

The man snorts. “Do you want me to?” 

There's a retort on the tip of Loki’s tongue when the question really sinks in. He falters. 

Does he want Stark to miss him? No, such a thing would be foolish. 

That isn’t to say that he would be opposed to the man noticing his absence, but to consciously wish for it… 

“Do what you please.” He shrugs. The waver in his tone simply can not be helped. “Just do not expect me to miss you in return, because I won’t.” 

Stark sniggers. “Really? You sound unsure.” He attempts to mimic Loki’s accent and fails miserably. 

Loki can not help the amusement that builds in his chest at the reminder of their first proper conversation. There was a lot more scepticism at play. 

“Do I?” He turns to face Stark, and the word around fades. The moment they lock eyes, Loki’s common sense drops away, replaced with a dreamy wondering of what possibilities are just beyond his reach. 

They say the eyes are the window to the soul. He wants nothing more than to shatter the glass of Anthony's and give himself a way to access all that he is separated from. 

Loki is unsure of a number of things. He’s unsure of Thor’s plan, he’s unsure of where he belongs, and he’s unsure of what this fluttering in his stomach is. He’s unsure of his own beliefs, he’s unsure because this almost friendship is confusing him, and he’s unsure of what he wants. He’s unsure, he’s unsure, he’s unsure. 

He wants to say all this. He wants to say it because he can’t stand keeping it all in, but he’s unsure of how people will react. 

“Yeah, you do.” 

Loki vaguely registers the response. It seems to have such little importance while he’s noticing that when the mortal blinks, light catches on his eyelashes and highlights each strand of hair. How can something so unremarkable be so mesmerising? 

A breeze brushes over the two men, ruffling their hair in a playful dance that puts things a little further out of place. That same wind picks up the scent of Stark and carries it up Loki’s nose. It has him wondering what that smell is, and if he might possibly find it anywhere else. If he can’t, and if Stark is indeed the only source in existence of that particular aroma, then he never wants to let him go. 

His eyes then drop to the blue glow emanating from just beneath Stark's shirt. It beckons him closer, plagues him with an urge to lean in and inspect further. He finds himself wanting to see the technology once more. To feel it again. To learn more of how it got there. 

It would be so easy. Far, far too easy to reach out, to make contact with the line of his jaw, or the flesh of his neck. The movement would be nothing more than the simplest action, a minuscule gesture, but the meaning behind it would undo any insignificance. 

It would just be too damn much. 

“Well I’m not.” Loki shakes off the distant nagging for him to lean closer and instead makes a point of doing the exact opposite. “I won’t miss you, human.” 

“Then I guess we're in agreement.” 

“It would seem that way, yes.” 

If the presence of a singular person can affect him in this way, how can he ever be expected to function as a proper being? Stark has no business messing with him like this, and deserves more than a scolding for the suffering his existence has caused Loki. 

He’s barely hanging on by a thread. The hope is that being in an entirely different realm to Stark will allow him a few moments of focus. If separation doesn't work to regain his mental powers, then facing frost giants will be all the more devastating. 

“So…” The brunette looks out at the view. “We just have to convince this gatekeeper guy to let you go?” 

Loki fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “You make it sound so simple when you phrase it like that.” 

“Umm… one problem…” 

Thor turns to Tony. “What might that be, mortal?” 

“I don't know how to ride a horse.” 

The blonde's eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion. “They didn’t teach you during your years of education?” 

“I skipped that day.” 

Thor scoffs. “One does not learn to ride in a singular day.” 

“Ok, then, I skipped those days. ” 

Tony glances around at the courtyard. 

Are you kidding? He's expected to hop on like a cowboy and gallop down leprechaun bridge with them? Fuck no. Tony may excel at many things, but horse whispering sure as hell isn't one of them. 

The rest of the men, (and women, he reminds himself with a wary glance at the scary lady,) are already getting comfortable on their transport, while Tony stands awkwardly next to the one Thor has so graciously assigned him. For one, it's ginormous, and another, it keeps looking at him like it might bite. 

He has enough to deal with without a horse taking a chunk out of his arm. 

“So you are unable to ride alone?” Thor grabs the reins and ties Tony’s horse to a bench where it has access to the grass. 

“Depends what we're talking about. A bike? Sure. That thing?” He gestures to the animal with its chops full of greenery. “Not a chance.” 

The blonde thinks for a moment then chuckles to himself. Tony is left to wonder what the hell is so amusing as Thor moves over to his brother. 

He doesn't get the chance to try and listen in, because a tap on his shoulder has him turning around. 

Standing behind him with the reins of her horse in hand is, as Thor put it, Lady Sif. 

“What can I do for you?” He crosses his arms and leans against the brick wall. 

She raises an eyebrow at him. Tony doest know what it is about this lady, but he gets the feeling that messing with her is something he doesn't want to do. Well, unless he fancies living without his testicles. 

“I do not know why you are here, or what you want from our realm, but I trust in our king, and therefore I respect his decision to allow you to stay here.” 

Tony, slightly bewildered, nods. “Thank-” 

“But,” She cuts him off with a stern look. “If you betray us, or hurt either of the princes in any way, I will kill you.” 

Welp, that’s one way to make friends. A shiver of dread slinks down his spine, and he has to grit his teeth to restrain from covering his throat. 

“Gotcha. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

She nods and holds her hand out towards him. After taking a moment to hesitate, he reaches out and shakes it. She has a very firm grip. 

Tony watches in bemusement as she retreats. He can't help but think she’d get along just swell with a certain redhead. 

“Ahh, I see Lady Sif properly introduced herself.” Thor shows up at Tonys side again. 

“Yeah… she seems absolutely lovely . Seriously, a real delight.” He fidgets with the hem of his shirt before adding: “Should I invest in something to protect my dick?” 

Thor laughs. “Unless you cut a chunk out of her hair, I assure you, you have nothing to worry about.” 

“Speaking from experience?” He watches the woman mount her horse. 

“Yes, but not my own. That, my friend, was Loki’s mistake.” The blonde looks over at his younger brother who - hey, why does he look so grumpy? 

“Speaking of whom…” A large hand comes to rest on Tony’s back and he almost stumbles right over when it starts to push him forwards. 

“Wai - shit - “ He takes a few hasty steps to steady himself. “So we’re going over here now? Great, that’s great. You know you could have just told m - ” 

“Brother!” 

Tony’s complaints are shut down at the yell and he settles for rubbing the side of his head. Fuck, he’s pretty sure his ears a ringing after that one. 

God of thunder. Yeah, that’s an accurate name. 

Loki’s eyes narrow at his older brother when they stop in front of him. He doesn’t spare Tony a glance, though. No, if anything, he seems to be avoiding it. 

“I fail to see why I am the best choice for this task.” He fiddles with a strap on the saddle. It doesn't look to be accomplishing anything in particular. Yeah, this is definitely an uncomfortable man. 

Thor’s palm drops away from Tony as he shifts to stand at Loki’s side. He wraps an arm around the smaller god’s shoulder, who in turn tenses so greatly it’s a fucking wonder he doesn't snap. 

“Well, brother, I think that this is the best option we have. The human does not possess the ability to ride, and you - who are rather skilled in that field - just happen to be here.” 

Tony realises what this whole thing is about and almost laughs. 

Hah! Loki’s getting all shitty over not wanting to share his - 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Wait, this isn't that great for Tony either, is it? 

Loki lets out a controlled sigh. “I do not see why you can’t do it yourself.” 

“Well, I’m a bigger person than you. There would be less room.” 

“Why are you splitting hairs over what can not be anything more than a fifteen minute journey?” 

“I might ask you the same thing, brother.” 

“This is your plan, wouldn't it only be fitting that you take responsibility?“ 

They laps into another round of arguing. 

For fucks sake. It’s times like this he really is grateful to be an only child. 

“Hey, you two? Yeah, the bickering children,” Both men turn his way. “Am I some kind of chore neither of you want to be stuck with? I thought we had somewhere important to be.” 

There's a moment of silence where both princes process that they're being scolded by a mortal, then Thor nods, expression darkening to something serious. “He’s right, brother. We should not be acting so immature.” 

The younger man lets out a breath. “Agreed.” 

The blonde grins brighter than the sun and slaps both Tony and Loki on the back. “Great! Have fun, you two.” 

Then he walks off. 

Perfect, this is just perfect. You know what's even more perfect? While they’re pressed against each other, he can think about how the last time that happened he lost the ability to form a coherent thought. 

Tony swallows the flutter of nerves, (or… excitement? No, that can’t be right,) that squirms up his oesophagus. It’s with a herculean effort that he glances at his riding buddy. 

Clearly battling some issues of his own, the god of mischief returns his gaze. There's a moment of awkward staring in which Tony forgets what breathing is, and it only passes when Loki’s lips curl into what’s clearly a forced smirk. 

“If you get scared, don't expect me to slow down.” 

Tony mimics the false smile and shoves his hands into his pockets simply for something to do with them other than fidget. “Don’t take me for a wimp.” 

“So you’ll be fine, then?” 

“Oh, absolutely.” 

“Alright then.” The prince gestures to the steed. A glint of mischief sparks in those blue eyes, and although some of the awkwardness still lingers, it morphs into something lighter. “After you, mortal.” 

The first thing Tony notices once they are both seated, is that horses don't allow for a lot of personal space. 

All he can think is: Close close close - too fucking close. 

The next thing is that… Well, stability is a luxury he apparently is not allowed. 

“Oh my god.” He can't keep his mouth shut as the animal starts into a trot. “Yep, this is a lot worse than -” shit, he probably shouldn't say flying. “ - nevermind, but it’s definitely bad.” 

Is the air thinner up here? People certainly seem a lot smaller. 

While Tony’s eyes dart around to soak in everything that's happening around him, the others have already sped off down the road in a gallop. 

Loki adjusts his grip on the reins and straightens his posture. “You may want to hold on.” 

“You know what? I’m perfectly fine without clinging to you like a damsel in dis - fuck! ” The steed lunges forward and Tony immediately regrets his words. Without even realising, his arms are around the waist of the man in front of him, and he’s holding on for the sake of protecting his fucked up life. 

He did not know horses could go this damn fast. 

All he can really focus on at this point is how harsh the wind is on his face. It whips at his flesh, taking bites out of him each time it lashes out and stinging his eyes. Unsteady doesn't even begin to explain how he feels, and the smoothness of driving is but a distant memory. 

Pride can suck his dick at this point because he’s absolutely certain if he lets go for even a second he’ll fly right off. Death by horse riding incident is definitely not the epic way he wants to go. 

“Fucking hell.” He hisses. 

It’s hard to hear over the deafening sound of hooves on cobblestone, but he swears he catches the faintest hint of a snigger. 

“You rotten menace of a prince.” He grumbles into said menace’s back, voice muffled by leather. “You did that on purpose.” 

He can feel it as Loki’s body shakes with laughter, his stomach moving under Tony’s palms, and he holds him tighter just for good measure. 

“Are you attempting to squeeze the life out of me?” The god turns his head to look briefly over his shoulder and Tony wants to slap him for that cute little smirk. At least it’s a real smirk this time. 

“If you pull any more of that shit, then yeah. Yeah I am.” 

It takes a good few fucking minutes to adjust, but once he gets used to being jostled around on an animals back, he can relax a bit. It’s nice, being able to breathe again. What isn't nice is that now he can actually think straight, he’s become hyper aware that he is indeed pressed right up against the god of mischief. 

The man responsible for steering them down the road is very much in his arms. Warm, breathing, and all Tony can think of. 

He can feel that Loki, even though he’s kinda slim, does have muscle. 

Actually, he can kinda feel his abs through - 

Nope, not going there. 

Tony loosens his grip - you know, despite what all his instincts say - and repositions his hands to instead settle at Loki’s waist. It was either that or start to absentmindedly feel up the god’s torso, so he’s pretty sure this is the right choice. 

But god, even the fucking scent of Loki alone is driving him absolutely insane. Part of him wants to hold his breath and block it out, but the rest of him wants to bury his nose deep in the gods neck and inhale until he can be sure the aroma will never leave him. 

Yeah… he'd like to go back to pant wetting fear now. Can that please be arranged? 

“How are you coping back there, Stark?” Loki’s voice is slightly distorted by the rush of air around them. “Or should I say, damsel in distress ?” 

Tony would have pushed him off right there had Sif’s threat not been fresh in his mind. 

“Expect my revenge for this, you mischievous bastard.”  

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” 

The ride is only about fifteen minutes, but that’s still fourteen too long. By the time they dismount, his hair is sticking up every which way, and he feels somewhat like a startled porcupine. 

Hell, he could barely process the shiny rainbow bridge they crossed to get here. Which, by the way, is fucking amazing. He’d literally sell Happy for the chance to know what this is made of. (Not seriously, but it would be funny to see the look on his face if Tony tried.) 

Tony can see from where they are now that the whole ocean-drops-off-the-edge-of-the-world look was not an illusion. The night sky stretches out in front, and it’s the weirdest thing to peer off a bridge and watch as water drips into it. There’s no explanation in his mind as to how this might work - not a thing. He’s not used to just accepting things and observing like a simpleton. Then again, it can’t be avoided here in Asgard. 

It’s stunning, though. The stars dance in their reflection on the water, such a calm surface allowing them some time on a world they can only look on from above. Parts of the ocean are constantly slipping into the dark abyss, and it’s tempting to dive in and discover where it goes. 

This is his idea of a fairytale land, alright. 

He’s still somewhat dazed as their little group approaches the golden dome, and he barely registers the man dressed in similar coloured armour striding out towards them. 

But wow, that haze does not last long because this dude is holding a huge sword and heck Tony really wants to get a closer look. 

The seven of them stop just in front of the man Tony assumes is Heimdall. 

Loki is the first to step forward with a murmur of, ‘leave this to me.’ 

“Good Heimdall - “

“You’re not dressed warmly enough.” The gatekeeper cuts in. 

The others tense, but all Tony can think is that wow, his voice is fucking deep. 

“I’m sorry?” Loki questions. 

“Do you think that you can deceive me?” 

The prince lets out an awkward chuckle. “You must be mistaken, w - “ 

“Enough.” Thor strides right past to position himself beside the now silent god of mischief. Fuck, the poor thing is so tense Tony almost wants to comfort him. “Heimdall, may we pass?” 

Heimdall’s gaze is cold as his eyes run over all of them. Tony stills as they land on him - a remarkable gold that burns unease into his flesh. 

“Never, has anything ever slipped from Asgard without my noticing.” He turns back to Thor. “I wish to know how this was leaked.” 

“Then tell no one where we’ve gone until we return.” The blonde is serious now, his tone commanding in a way that reminds Tony of the god he knew from his own time. “Understand?” 

The group begin to walk past at Heimdall’s nod, but they freeze when he speaks yet again. 

“Are you certain that taking this mortal with you is the best idea?” He looks at Tony once more. The sensation that he’s seeing a lot more than what’s on the surface returns. It’s unnerving, and doesn’t help that his eyes glow. They actually fucking glow . 

“Oh, no. I’m not going. I’ll stay and keep you company.” The gatekeeper raises an eyebrow as Tony edges closer. “Could I pretty please hold the sword?” 

A hand reaches out and snags Tony by the sleeve, yanking him back a few steps. “Could you please restrain yourself for the better part of a conversation?” Loki hisses in his ear. 

“What? I’ll have to do something while you guys are off in winter wonderland.” 

“I assure you, Jotunheim is no wonderland. Just… stay put until I - until we return.” Loki guides him inside, crossing the threshold to an adventure that could potentially go tragically wrong. 

Tony wanst really listening, because holy shit, the inside of this thing is fucking remarkable. The walls are adorned with large circular patterns carved into the gold, and in the middle of the room is a raised golden stand. 

Heimdall approaches the middle of the room, climbs the steps and takes his place atop the platform, holding his sword firmly in place. 

The rest of the group stands in front of him, looking outward. 

He isn't really too sure what he’s supposed to be doing at this point, so sucks it up and heads over to Loki. 

The young god turns his head as Tony plants a hand on his shoulder. “You may want to stand behind Heimdall for this next part - ” 

“Don’t die.” He blurts, staring at Loki with a little too much genuine concern. 

Fuck. The request had just broken free before he could sensor anything. It had only been a passing thought, but apparently the idea had sparked something that cancelled out the filtering process entirely and had the near plea springing free before he could have any say. 

Loki blinks in surprise before cracking a smile. “Are you worried for me?” 

Tony snorts. “When did I say that?” 

The prince rolls his eyes. “Just get over there before you end up getting sent there with us. It really would be inconvenient.” 

He lets his jaw drop in mock offence as he starts to retreat. “Wow. That’s all I get for a heartfelt goodbye? Gee, thanks. I hope your nuts freeze off.” 

“You’re only further proving your absolute lack of class.” 

“Yeah, I love you too, prince.” 

He turns and positions himself behind the towering figure that is Heimdall. He slowly starts to lower the sword into a slot in the stand, and with the metallic sound it makes comes the first flash of lightning. 

Tony flinches as the room comes to life with bolts of light. They flicker and jump around, stemming from the sword and connecting with the walls around them. The light dances over each groove in the golden walls, twinkling happily as the atmosphere is charged with an electric energy. It's chaos and order all at once, because while there doesn't seem to be a pattern in how they flicker around him, not a single bolt comes close to harming any of them. 

It's stunning in a terrified-for-his-life kinda way, and he can’t help but marvel as a storm quite literally brews around him. 

The sword is pushed further, and a deafening clunk rings out from beneath them. Tony can feel the floor jolt beneath his feet as it happens, and on top of the crazy lightshow, a loud whirring fills his ears - like something spinning is gradually gaining in speed. 

Then, because why not just add to this already insane experience, a tunnel of light opens in front of them. Colours swim and blend together to form yet another rainbow bridge; it's just that this time the connection is not between structures, but between actual worlds. 

He has to get one for the Avengers tower. 

“Be warned,” Tony’s plans to install a bifrost on earth are interrupted as Heimdall’s voice rings through the dome. “I will honour my sword oath to protect this realm as its gatekeeper. If your return threatens the safety of Asgard, the bifrost will remain closed, and you will be left to die in the cold waste of Jotunheim.” 

They all look at eachother. The already nervous mood drops substantially. 

“Couldn't you just leave the bridge open for us?” Volstagg suggests with a hopeful tone Tony knows is about to get shot down. When is anything ever that easy? 

“To leave the bridge open would unleash the full power of the bifrost and destroy Jotunheim with you upon it.” 

Yep. See? He has a knack for knowing when things are about to get worse.  

“I have no plans to die today.” Thor announces from his place at the front. 

“Yeah, nobody does.” Tony calls out. 

Thor chuckles and Loki rolls his eyes. 

Then, with a turn of the sword, the light reaches out and sucks the six brave Asgardians into it. 

Tony has to blink a few times for the world to settle down. When his eyes adjust once more, the lightning is gone and he and Heimdall are alone. 

“So…” Tony starts. The man looks down at him, golden eyes peering straight into his soul. “Can I hold the sword?”

Chapter Text

Loki allows himself a second to shake off the disorientating effects of a trip in the bifrost. One second. Enough to take a breath and realise just how cold the air is. Enough for the people at his side to start forward. Enough to wonder what lays ahead. 

When he takes in his surroundings, he has to wonder how any being - conditioned to these temperatures or not - could ever hope to call Jotunheim a home. Every time he inhales it feels as if someone has taken a blade and run it though his lungs. His cheeks are sliced at by a hostile wind, and he can't help but wonder if such weather is a hint for what awaits him in the near future. 

Nothing should be able to survive here. Nothing should, and yet it does. 

Loki can not imagine having the misfortune to be born here. 

They walk in silence, following Thor as he leads them further into the icy depths of what Loki can only see as many, many bad decisions. 

It’s a wasteland. The towering spires of ice that line the path are dusted with snow, and not the kind that beckons children to frolic and play in. Each step one dares to take is unsure, a question of whether their fate is to become a meal for the planet should the ice underfoot fracture and break. 

Everything is dim. The world is not without light, but a clear source of it remains unannounced. The sky is a possessive blanket of storm, leaving day and night to blend together, and Loki to rely on what faint glow might manage to squirm past. 

The walk, (though marginally short due to Heimdall's placing of the bifrost,) is a battle against howling winds. It shoves at the unwelcome party of Asgardians, ushering them backwards and away from Thor’s chosen direction. Loki takes it as a warning from the environment itself. Born from a place of pity for the misled souls, the natural forces are telling them to turn away. 

Oh, how Loki desperately wants to listen. 

The towering structure ahead does not look friendly, and is unlikely to hold anything of the sort. Sharp spires stretch high above them, mingling with the clouds and stabbing at the sky. Inside is no better, and Loki takes concern from the fact they were permitted to simply wander in. 

The space around is large, uneven stone walls built up with a throne in the far side. There seems to be a cliff that drops right off to the right of them, (which can not be in any way safe, but then again none of this is,) and there's a statue of a large beast off to the side. Inside is not warmer than out. A shiver creeps down the back of Loki’s neck, and it’s all the warning he needs to know multiple prying eyes are on them. 

What lies ahead of them - ironically, - reminds Loki of his fathers throne room. The seat is placed high above anyone that may appear before it, establishing an immediate sense of authority. It has him feeling small, powerless, inconvenient . Status is forced in one's face instantly, and whether it’s known or not, a sense of nerves will always set in. 

Asgard is built around the idea of peace and order; that the people’s importance is one in the same to those who rule above them. Yet here he is, standing before their enemy, and he can perceive no difference between the manner in which their leaders present themselves. 

Despite the atmosphere - perhaps even illusion - of light and prosperity Odin has created, he shares a tactic of intimidation with a people painted as monsters among his land. 

The throne, the status, the constant reminder that you are indeed worth less . 

“You’ve come a long way to die, Asgardians.” A voice rings out across the wasteland. It’s deep, cold in a way that mirrors the environment around them. It comes directly from the throne. 

Laufey . The king of Jotunheim. 

Seeing a frost giant in person is a far cry from those illustrations the brothers grew up seeing. 

They are indeed tall. Even sitting, Loki can tell that this royal figure towers over him. Laufey’s skin has a striking resemblance to the ice around him, blue and seemingly tough in texture. His chest is bare, (Loki’s joints grow stiffer at just the thought of how cold that would be,) and golden plates of armour adorn his shoulders, while smaller parts of the same material sit embedded into his chest. His body is covered in grooves and indents, deep lines carved into his chin and along his arms and torso. He wears something of a crown; three pieces of gold that stretch from the back of his skull and over to his forehead. 

Eyes, piercing and blood red, could rival even Odin’s with the sheer amount of danger they wield. It’s a stare designed especially for those who cause great displeasure, and Laufey intends to use it for murder. 

Thor leads them into the centre of the room, stopping in front of the throne. 

“I am Thor Odinson.” The blonde announces, his voice carrying that loud confidence Loki knows will only add fuel to the fire. 

“We know who you are.” Up high in his Throne, Laufey looks upon his guests. He’s surveying them, Loki reaslises, possibly searching for a weak point, or something to exploit. 

“How did your people come to know of Tony Stark? That information was never meant for your ears.” 

Each deep, rattling breath Laufey draws echoes around them, bouncing off the walls and magnifying tenfold. It’s unsettling, only adding to the already consuming chill. “The house of Odin is full of traitors.” 

“Do not dishonour my fathers name with your lies!” The blonde yells, outrage clear in his tone. 

Laufey rises from his chair in an instant. “Your father is a murderer and a thief.” 

The accusation does not lack truth. The Allfather has murdered and stolen from these people, but not without cause. Loki knows how these people must see Odin - as the man who took everything from them, left them alone on this dark hunk of rock and ice. They suffer here, and Loki can not find it in himself to care. 

One should not expect mercy after tearing apart worlds and massacring thousands without care. These beings deserve nothing - they’re monsters , after all. What type of person could feel sympathy for a race like this? Could even consider helping someone who's brought hundreds of people pain and suffering. 

Although, to say he supports his father entirely brings a bitter taste to his mouth. 

“And why have you come here?” The giant king continues. “To make peace? You long for battle. You crave it. You’re nothing but a boy, trying to prove himself a man.” 

The sound of footsteps alerts him to the crowd gradually closing in around them. As if appearing from the shadows, countless frost giants start to edge closer, and Loki realises just how dreadfully outnumbered they really are. 

“Well, this ‘boy’ has grown tired of your mockery.” Thor ignores the figures surrounding them and instead jumps to protect his ego. 

Loki is very much aware of it when spikes of ice begin to form around the fists of several frost giants, (ones that he most definitely does not want lodged in his side,) and takes it as his sign to step in. 

He grabs his older brother by the shoulder, leaning in close to mutter in his ear. “Thor, stop and think . Look around you, we’re outnumbered.” 

“Know your place, brother.” He shrugs the hand away, an unstoppable force of anger issues and appalling stupidity. 

Loki lets his hand fall back to his side. He doesn't plan to dwell on the sting left by Thor's words, nor does he want to think of what his ‘place’ may be. In his brother's mind, at least, it seems to be beneath him.

“You know not what your actions would unleash. I do.” Loki looks up as Laufey speaks. The words are heavy, bearing a weight that comes with dark pasts and haunting losses. “Go now, while I still allow it.” 

One of them steps forwards, approaching the brothers. All Loki can think as he tips his head further and further back to maintain eye contact is that he never wants to be this close to a frost giant again. 

This situation has simply gone far enough. They are surrounded, cold, and have achieved nothing but the betrayal of their father. An opportunity to return without trouble? That, in Loki’s mind, is the most precious treasure he could imagine. 

“We will accept your most gracious offer.” Loki bows his head in feigned respect. The blonde glares down at him - something he pays no mind to, because screw Thor and his honour, they leave now . “Come on, brother.” 

Thor is visibly torn. Huffing a harsh breath through his nose, and looking between the two options. There's a terrifying moment when Loki thinks his older brother will attack, so the relief he feels when it doesn't happen is enough for him to mumble a quiet thankyou under his breath. Not loud enough for anyone to hear, but simply because it needed to be said. 

They nearly do it, too. All six of them turn to make their departure and begin to head for the door. That is, until a raspy voice rings out from behind them. 

“Run back home, little princess.” 

Loki stops in his tracks. “Damn.” 

It happens in an instant. They all stop - far too familiar with the god of thunder to not anticipate the following events - swivelling around in time to watch as he hits the frost giant square in the jaw. It sends him flying backwards, directly into the wall where a dent will surely be left. 

Shit. They were this close. 

“Next?” Thor asks the room. 

That’s when all hell breaks loose. 

“So you can see everything?” 

“In a way, yes.” 

“So if someone on Earth was hopping out of the shower right now, you could see that?” 

“I could, but I would not do so unless I thought it necessary.” 

Tony sighs. Waiting for a gang of gods to return from winter wonderland has not turned out to be the exciting experience he’d hoped for. Better than lazing around in his room until he dozes off? Sure, but so far not action packed. 

He has no idea how long they've been gone for, but after the initial light show and being told fifteen times that no, he can not have a turn operating the bifrost, things have become painfully dull. There's only so many times he can pace around a room before he gets both dizzy and tired of it, but he can’t seem to sit still. 

It may have something to do with the fucking army of hyperactive butterflies that recently moved into his stomach. Yeah, they’re a real fun bunch. 

“So, if you don't use your all seeing abilities to sneak peaks, what do you do with them?” He asks, because what else is he supposed to do right now? 

“My duty is to serve and protect Asgard.” The man answers, never once breaking his calm demeanour. “I use my abilities accordingly.” 

“So you spy on people for the great and mighty king of eyepatches?” He fires, glancing at Heimdall with his brows raised. “You know, I feel like you’re giving me vague answers on purpose.” 

“You catch on quickly.” 

Tony sighs. Welp, looks like he’s not getting anything out of this guy. Seriously, how fucking hard can it be to give him a straight answer once in a while? 

With literally nothing better to do than stare at the wall, Tony does exactly that. Making use of his legs, he wanders over to the strange patterns that adorn the inside of the bifrost. They remind him of wheels from an old fashioned horse and cart, all different sizes and overlapping slightly at the edges. 

He recalls the lightning making direct contact with these things, and wonders whether they somehow contribute to the actual function of the bifrost. 

“Are you attempting to distract yourself from the nerves you are experiencing?” 

Tony bristles as his inspection is interrupted, turning his startled grunt into a snort. “Hey, I’m the one asking questions here.” 

“Worrying is nothing to be ashamed of, Stark.” 

“Awesome. Thanks. Really, that's great to know,” He spins on his heel, marching off to the other side of the room. “But I’m perfectly fine at the moment.” 

Not that he needs to tell Heimdall, but sure, he may be slightly on edge. This isn't exactly the most relaxing experience of his life. Then again, he’s also faced a lot worse, (including Pepper being mad at him,) so waiting around for a bit while the action happens elsewhere? Pretty much a vacation in his terms. 

“You care for the young prince, mortal, while he in turn is fascinated by you. One does not need abilities such as mine to see that.” 

He stops, turning to face the man clad in gold. “Now, how in hell did you come to that conclusion?” 

If the faintest of smiles flickers across Heimdells face, Tony doesn't notice it. “Loki is a strange character. He, unlike his brother, has never been one for letting down his guard. He keeps most at a distance, never softens for anyone, and is near impossible to fluster. You seem to be an exception.” 

Tony screws up his face. He honestly wishes the walls would start talking to him just so he can avoid this conversation. “I’m really not.” 

“If that’s what you wish to believe, then be my guest. I only offer what I think to be the truth.” 

He huffs. Talking to Heimdall is pointless. Does he get answers? No , he just gets uncomfortable opinions to deal with. It’s going to be a fucking party to wrap his head around that little observation later on. 

Would it matter to him if Loki died? Yeah, yeah it would. Not because he’s gotten sappy enough to care about the prince, but because… because… 

Look, the reason doesn't even matter, ok? The point is he’s perfectly aware of his own emotions and doesn’t need anyone questioning that. 

‘You care about him, you soft idiot.’ 

Tony mentally kicks himself. 

“I don't even get why he’s so interested in the first place.” He grumbles. 

“Because you are an anomaly.” 

Tony blinks dumbly. “I don’t follow.” 

Heimdell’s stony expression does not falter. Tony wonders whether he’s capable of emotions in general. “You do not belong here.” 

Tony splutters a surprised laugh. “I feel like I should be taking offence to that. Should I? I definitely should, right?” 

“No. My intentions were not to insult you.” 

“So… what?” 

“I can see ten trillion souls all across the nine realms,” His eyes land on Tony once more. “Yet for some reason, I can not place yours within this universe. Out of everything that I can sense, a mere mortal has evaded my watch.” 

He doesn't really know what to say to that. A speechless Tony Stark is almost impossible to come by, and Heimdall might just deserve some kind of esteemed reward for being the cause. 

“So… what are you saying?” He asks, getting closer to the man as if it might somehow make things clearer. “That I don't exist?” 

“In some ways, yes. It seems that you do not.” 

Tony tries to wrap his head around that one. A heavenly being with all seeing superpowers can’t sense him with said super abilities? 

“So I’m like… what? A glitch in the system?” He asks. 

Heimdall shakes his head. “I do not know. Much like you, I have yet to figure that out.” 

Tony sighs. It’s likely an effect of the time travel. He hasn’t actually been born or grown up in this timeline, so maybe it would make sense for the gatekeeper’s powers to falter when it comes to him. He has no place here, therefore isn’t included in the things he gets to watch over. 

Tony should be careful, though. If Heimdall gets suspicious enough to see him as a threat, the fact he can’t sense Tony may only add to the scepticism. 

But still, it’s good to know that time travel is his weakness. Just, not really one that’s easy to harness. Still, if anyone wants to slip past this guy, apparently all you need to do is come from the future. 

“In any case,” Heimdall cuts off Tony’s rambling thoughts. “The King must have his reasons to keep you here.” 

“I’m sorry, but do you just expect me to brush past that?” Tony gestures at nothing. Yeah, he may have come to his own little conclusion, but Heimdall doesn’t know that. “Seriously, you’re not gonna elaborate on this?” 

“It would serve no purpose, as I have not the answers you seek.” 

“Well, isn't that just a suburb? Really, thank you for everything . Things are just - they’re so much clearer in my mind now.” 

Heimdell, against what Tony had come to think was possible, snorts a quiet laugh. 

“What? Is my misery amusing to you?” He glares and crosses his arms. 

“No, it is simply a thought of my own.” Heimdall’s face returns to its cold composure. “Your snark is a result of your unease, is it not?” 

Tony huffs. Why is this guy so determined to tear the truth from him? 

“Look, I just - have a really bad feeling about this. Is that stupid? It’s not, right? This is not a good idea.” He stops with an exaggerated groan. “Are they going to be turned into ice lollies?” 

To be honest, he actually failed to learn much about this Jotunheim palace. His knowledge on it extends as far as giant icy people. So… not great. It didn't quite register with him how sketchy this whole thing was until they were gone and Tony realised that actually, he has absolutely no control over what happens. Which - hell, he isn't normally the type to suffer from FOMO, but right now he’s far too uncomfortable with not being able to influence the situation. 

It's one of those things that seems ok until you actually do it, and then really fucking isn’t. 

Heimdall frowns. “If you are trying to ask whether they are in danger, my answer will do nothing to ease your worry.” 

“Ok, if you're not going to stop saying I'm worried, you and I are going to have a problem here.” Tony puts on a face that shows he means business. “A problem that I wouldn’t be afraid to solve with my fists if you weren't wearing armour, and, well… a lot bigger than me.” 

“I do not doubt that, Stark.” 

Ton paces. He paces and he paces and he paces until he can pretend he’s sick from the constant walking in circles and not the worry. 

He wants to wait it out. He wants to have faith, to prove that he isn't nervous, and that Heimdall was wrong. Unfortunately he just can’t live with these fucking butterflies in his stomach for much longer. They refuse to get the fuck out until he listens to them and their warning that things are going horribly wrong, so his options come down to either finding a way to get the Asgardians back here, or steal the gatekeepers sword and cut the insects out of his gut. 

So, since he is definitely in favour of keeping his blood inside his body… 

“Look, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but,” Tony stops to breathe through the impulse to eat his own goatee. He really hates that he’s about to do this. “Is there any way you can alert the King?”

Loki flings a dagger at an approaching foe, not even watching as it tumbles to the ground; too busy preparing for the next. 

It’s chaos. 

Frost giants, as he is currently discovering, are exceptional fighters. Strong, large, and able to manipulate ice into whatever weapon they please. The cold does not make things easier, as since he’s used to warmer temperatures, it adds another obstacle to work around. 

Loki hates his brother. He hates him with every blow he dodges, and every enemy he defeats. Revenge will come later, that much is unavoidable. 

He can see his friends fighting but doesn’t waste too much time checking how they hold up. No, his attention is currently reserved for saving his own skin. 

A particularly large brute charges at Loki, who swiftly side steps and lodges a knife between its shoulder blades. It makes a horrible sound in the back of its throat, stumbling forwards only to be stabbed in the neck. There's no time to catch his breath, because in a second there's another one on him with a look of pure hatred in its eyes. 

Loki doesn't care as he strikes that one down, nor does it matter to him when he slaughters the next. Killing monsters means nothing - no different at all to simply exterminating a pest. 

Another dagger materialises in his palm and he uses it to shatter the ice built around his current opponent's fist. Still, it doesn't slow in its approach, and Loki takes a blow to the chest. He wheezes and stumbles a few steps, flicking his hair back to keep it from obstructing his view. 

The giant is on him again, reaching out to grasp at his arm. He ignores the wailing protest of his muscles and ducks into a roll, dodging not a moment too soon. Before the brute has any time to reposition itself, Loki is on his feet once more to stab it in the side. He removes his dagger and delivers a swift kick, watching as It topples backwards and right off the cliffside. 

He can hear it smash against the rock as it falls. 

Loki wants more than anything to simply take a moment to breathe - to think . His lungs ache from the cold, screaming at him to grant them a break as they threaten to split open. Unfortunately, stopping even for a mere second is not something he can afford. 

His body really does not agree with that decision. He's breathing in the cold hair so quickly that there's practically a cloud in front of his face, and his jaw is aching from how hard he has it clenched. The sound of his heartbeat is deafening, pounding in his ears so violently that he barely hears Volstagg’s cry. 

When he turns, he sees that one of the frost giants has captured Volstagg by the arm. This only confuses him, because other than that one point of contact, nothing should have warranted a cry of pain. Nevertheless, Loki watches as Volstagg headbuts the attacker, only taking a minute to growl in pain before yelling: “Don’t let them touch you!” 

Loki takes that into account, briefly stepping behind a large column of rock as he casts his magic. The spot grants him a nice view as another frost giant topples over the cliffside, right after launching itself at an illusion of Loki which, unfortunately for it, was not as real as it looked. 

He uses this opportunity to survey the battlefield from there. It only takes five seconds at the most, but he indulges that softer part of himself and checks just to see if his friends are holding up. 

Sif is battling with multiple at once, and Fandral and Hogun both have their own to deal with. Thor, on the other hand, absolutely demolishes opponent after opponent, even daring to taunt them with arrogant comments and confident smiles. He fights with a kind of deranged glee, one that has Loki seriously questioning his older siblings' idea of fun . 

It’s because of this distraction that Loki doesn’t notice the threat behind him until it has a hold of his arm. 

A firm hand captures his wrist and yanks him from his hiding spot. He whirls around only to come face to face with a red eyed giant. The being itself seems to radiate a freezing chill from its body - a sensation that is not in any way natural. Dark power is directly intertwined with the very matter of the giant, and that little part of Loki that’s always looking out for himself wonders if it could possibly be harnessed and put to use. 

A moment passes, and he realises why Volstagg was in pain. The gold of Loki’s vambrace shatters like glass, crumbling away from his flesh and leaving it exposed and vulnerable. If a simple touch has the power to destroy a precious metal, he can only imagine the effect it must have on bare flesh. 

He flinches when the giant's palm makes direct contact with his skin, and all he can do is wait for the pain that’s sure to follow. It should happen any second now, send searing tendrils of agony through his veins - 

Nothing. 

He feels nothing but the crushing grip, and a slight chill from the new exposure. 

Then it happens. 

A strange sensation sets in, almost as if something begins to seep from his bones. It feels unnatural, like there's a living thing between the layers of his skin, one that moves and squirms and leeks colour into the matter confining it, changing things with a desperation that comes from being restrained for too long. Then, all at once and entirely too sudden, the monster within starts to have a visual effect. 

Loki isn't prepared for the moment his arm starts to change colour. How could anyone be ready for such an occurrence? 

Needles of panic sink deep into the back of his neck. He needs to get away, and it needs to happen now . He needs to flee. He needs to kill this giant. He needs to tear away the blue and keep it from reaching any further up his arm. He needs to keep it from completing its infection, keep it from forcing him to realise what this might mean, keep anyone else from seeing it. 

But he can't move. He wants to, but his body betrays that need. It stays, perfectly still, frozen like the realm he stands within. With nothing to stop it, the blue crawls up his arm, staining his wrist, his palm, his hand, his knuckles, then his fingers. 

It takes every bit of will left in him to force his muscles into submission, managing a weak turn of his hand and flex of his fingers. 

Blue. 

So, so blue. 

Just like the one who holds him. 

It’s so absurd, even to the attacker, that they share a confused glance. 

He realises it in an instant, that now is his chance, and forcibly breaks free from the shock. There's a dagger in the frost giant's neck before it can do so much as blink. Loki’s hand falls away, and the moment contact is lost, the strange feeling retreats, and his skin fades back to its normal colour. 

He can’t - he can’t focus on that now. 

Shoving all shock and (extreme) panic under the rug, he turns just in time to avoid another attack. He fumbles his weapon and almost drops it. 

Too much is happening all at once. He’s overwhelmed by the jumble of sounds. They’re far too diverse to hear individually, so they simply clump together as a wall of noise - one that presses against his eardrums with an unforgiving fury. 

Although, one sound does fight its way to the top, loud enough to be heard above everything else. 

That sound is Fandral's yell of pain. 

Loki doesn’t see how it happens. He doesn’t see the jagged icicle form, and doesn't see as they pierce his friends chest. 

He does see the blood, and he does see the pain. He sees the disaster this has come too. 

More than anything else, he sees another excuse for them to go . 

He spins around and throws a dagger. It lands deep within the assaulters chest. 

Volstagg and Hogun are there in record time, each taking one of his arms and yanking him off the sharp ice. It’s hard to watch. Fandral makes a low, strained groan in pain, leaving the spike stained red with his lifeforce. 

Sif, who is now at Loki’s side, yells for the least responsible of their party. “Thor!” 

Thor doesn't seem to have noticed, and Loki wants to rip every single last strand of his golden hair from his scalp. 

“We must go!” He yells for his brother. This is the worst possible the older god could choose to ignore him. So, naturally, he picks now. 

Thor swings his hammer, knocking down attacker after attacker with an effortless flourish - one that makes this battle appear all too easy. It astonishes Loki how he can be so unaware of the people around him, falling instead into a victory hungry rampage. 

He’s one person, and he cuts through far too many opponents in a single throw of his hammer. Reckless, yes. Stupid? Oh, the height of it. 

But deadly? Yes. That too. 

Laufey seems to think so as well. 

After Thor takes down a solid fifteen at once, the king stands. With a sharp swing of his arm, the ice beneath his throne cracks, shaking the ground and causing pebbles to crumble from their placement in the walls and scatter away. Small things in the face of catastrophe, and all they can do is run. It sounds familiar. 

The fracture stretches out and runs along - glowing, somehow - to a large ice covered beast that Loki had assumed was a statue. As soon as it reaches the monster's foot, the ice containing it starts to shatter, small pieces falling away to reveal that rather than an inanimate object, beneath lies a very real threat. 

Once a good portion of restraints are gone, the beast's red eyes are on show and starting around with a murderous intent. It surges forward. Loki stumbles as it leaps onto the ground, both figuratively and literally shaken by the absurd strength in its mere footfall. 

It has to be at least thirty feet tall. There's not enough time to stop and soak in the potential cause of his death between panicking and turning to flee, but he does regester the sharp claws and jagged edges well enough that they stick around in his mind and urge him to run even faster. 

Five of them, just five, sprint over the uneven ground. It tries to trip him, this world does. It reaches up with its uneven chunks of ice and broken remains, grabbing at Loki's ankles and trying to make him fall. It wants to keep him, it wants him to stay. It wants him to falter, to trip , so that he can be brutally mauled and trapped here forever. 

So when he doesn't tumble, and when he doesn't succumb to the obstacles laid in his path, the planet is angered. It seems unhappy with his refusal to relent, and starts to break apart instead. So, in a flash of light and deafening crack that comes from behind him, (which logically he knows must be thor but really does feel like the planet it just trying to fucking ingest him,) the ground underfoot loses its composure and starts to crumble away. 

Everything is trembling - the floor, his limbs, his ability to reason . It's all giving in and falling apart and all he can do is run. Even while his muscles are pleading with him to stop, complaining that it’s too cold and they've done too much already and really, all he wants to do is curl up as small as he can and block everything out. But no, he can’t, because he has to run. 

Run from the monster. 

Run while sparing a glance to see Sif just barely dodge a massive claw. 

Run to escape a planet that doesn't want him to leave. 

Run and make sure to check that Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral are still just behind him. 

Run and look back to see that the ground has stopped falling away, but the beast is disappearing down the large hole. 

Run to get away from the blue skin and the red eyes and the truth and everything else because it just doesn't make sense and he doesn't want to face the possibility that he may be - 

A cliff. 

Of course there's going to be a cliff. 

Loki stops as fast as he can and flings his arms out to regain balance. Right there, where they could have continued to travel, the ground drops away. It leads to nothing but a long fall and shortly after, an inevitable death. 

Oh, they are so, so screwed. 

Loki looks around at his friends. 

Volstagg looks up at the sky and yells. “Open the bridge!” 

The slight chance they had of Heimdall deeming this a safe enough moment for them to return is shattered when a large claw reaches up from just under the cliff's edge, nails longer than Loki’s entire body sinking deep into the rock as if it were butter. 

He’s going to need a lot more daggers. 

The beast, which he had foolishly thought they’d lost, pulls all of its terrifying self up to stare at the five Asgardians. Or, to put it more accurately, it's next meal. 

Wonderful. So this is how he dies. 

There's not much point in doing so, but Loki feels better with a weapon between his fingers. So he summons yet another pair of daggers, (one for each hand,) and gives the monster the same glare he plans on giving Thor should he ever get the chance. It's one that says, ‘I want nothing more than to rip you apart in the most painful way I can manage.’ 

Its response is to let out a horrible growl, sounding as if there's something sharp stuck in the back of its throat, scraping at from within each time a noise escapes from between its fangs. 

It opens its mouth, gearing up to do god knows what, and Loki, in his moment of helplessness, just notices its eyes. And teeth. Oh, it has so many teeth. 

It’s then that something whooshes right over his head. Right over his head and into the beast's mouth. 

That something is Thor. The god of thunder, who flies right through and out the other side of the monster's head. He lands beside his brother as his most recent kill goes limp and slips right off the edge of the cliff. 

He wants to be relieved, but is instead too busy being angry with his brother. The ease in which he slaughtered that monster is infuriating. 

Thor turns around to flash his allies a triumphant grin, one that really winds Loki up. But, the blonde gaze instead lands on something behind them and the smile drops away. 

Loki swivels to find an army of frost giants approaching, Laufey in the lead. They walk slowly at first, testing the waters. Then, all at once, they break into a run, backing the six Asgardians right up until they can go no further without risking a fall off the cliff. 

He braces for impact, brain running a mile a minute as it tries desperately to concoct a way out of this. He hates the feeling of helplessness, almost more than anything else. He despises it with everything that he is, but that does nothing to prevent it from taking over. Because at this moment, with monsters charging at him from every direction, Loki can do nothing about it. 

It’s the exact moment he finds the strength to accept his fate that the sky fractures, opening to a light that shines down on them like a spotlight. A heavenly blessing or a gift from hell, he’ll never know. Or, he will know, but won’t be in any position to decide until they have returned and he can assess the intensity of his fathers rage. 

That single point of light reaches out and clutches at the ground around them, everyone backs away to make room. The bifrost, in a stream of light so full of colour you can barely see it at all, cuts through the dark atmosphere, depositing the king of Asgard. 

There, in all of his golden clad glory, is Odin. 

His horse takes a small step forward, and although it is nothing compared to the beasts of Jotunheim, a few of the frost giants step back. Although, come to think of it, it’s likely not the steed they fear. 

Loki has never before been so scared and yet so thankful to see his father. It’s a rather disorientating blend of emotions. 

Thor cracks yet another triumphant grin. “Father! We’ll finish them together!” 

Odin's one eyed gaze lands on his eldest son. Not with pride, not with love, but with an anger so sharp it sucks all glory from the god of thunder. “ Silence .” He hisses, turning instead to face the other king. 

Laufey has already risen to match Odin's height, facing him with a look of contempt. “Allfather. You look weary.” 

Loki can not say the monster's observation was wrong. His father does indeed look to lack energy, wrinkles appearing to have deepened into trenches of age. One has to wonder if such exhaustion can come from a single matter alone, or whether other events have contributed - just ones that Loki is unaware of. 

“Laufey,” Odin starts, his voice calm despite everything. “End this now.” 

Laufey growls.“Your boy sought this out.”  

“You’re right.” The Allfather casts a brief glance at his sons. “And these are the actions of a boy, treat them as such.” 

Loki feels the hurt radiate off Thor at the comment. If only he’d accept the truth, and take it as nothing more than an observation. Then, perhaps, his ego would not suffer so severely. 

“You and I can end this here and now, before there’s further bloodshed.” 

Laufey sneers. “We are beyond diplomacy now, Allfather.” His eyes drop to Thor. They promise feats worse than death, and nobody doubts his ability to deliver them. “He’ll get what he came for. War, and death.” 

Loki grits his teeth. For heaven's sake. They didn't actually come for war, they came for answers . And perhaps, if Odin had granted them that in the first place, none of this would have happened. 

“So be it.” 

The echo of Odin's words still has not faded before a dagger of ice has formed in Laufey's hand. He’s fast, one can not deny that, but he is far from matching the speed of the other king. 

 The Allfather raises his staff. With another blinding flash of light, Laufey is propelled backwards, and the familiar electric sensation of the bifrost envelopes Loki. He is whisked back to Asgard, where he expects to face a wrath more deadly than anything Jotunheim had to offer. 

It’s because of fear, that he momentarily forgets about the blue. 

Gold. 

That's the first thing Loki registers upon return. 

Gold, warm, and alive. 

For some reason, the words safety and home do not seem to resonate right now. 

His father is yelling before Loki has even steadied his footing, but as the words are not directed at him, he needn't worry about that now. 

Instead of listening to the hurried sentences or the rage within them, Loki just stands, rooted in place. He stands, and he grasps the bare skin where his vambrace had once been, watching mindlessly as Fandral is carried out of the room by Hogun and Volstagg. Watching as Sif hurries along behind them. Watching as Heimdall follows too. 

He finds himself running his fingers over the skin repeatedly. Testing over and over and over again for that disgusting thing which slunk around beneath his flesh. He wants to rub until the friction starts to burn, until he starts to bleed, until his skin peels away and he can check for himself that there really isn't anything there. There can't be. He doesn’t… there's just… what would he do if there was ? What would that mean he is?  

Thor is yelling now, he realises. That’s definitely the sound of his voice. Just… its hazy and muffled, inaccessible by Loki’s ears. 

He wants to look at his arm. He wants to look. He wants to, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to look at his arm. 

He doesn't want to not look at his arm, but he also wants to not look at his arm. 

What if it's blue again? He must check - must make sure . But then, what if it is? What if the colour is all wrong and he sees it and the world simply falls apart? 

He has to see that it’s not, but can’t bear the thought that it could be. 

So, stuck in a state of indecision, Loki just uses his thumb to subtly rub. He rubs and rubs and rubs, feeling for something he wants to believe is not there, and never was. 

He rubs and rubs and rubs and rubs and - 

Is that Stark? 

Like a beacon leading him out of the fog, the sight of the mortal brings things back into focus. 

He’s standing off to the side, shirt slightly damp and hair in disarray, watching as Odin gives Thor the most violent scolding of his life. Loki notices instantly how tense the mortal is. None of the normal bravado is there in his gaze, or even his posture, and that in itself is a cause for concern. 

Even so, Stark’s presence seems to have acted like a wake up call, its effect similar to being doused in a bucket of freezing cold water. More and more words begin to filter in. 

“ - uld fear me, just as they once feared you.” 

“That’s pride and vanity talking, not leadership. You’ve forgotten everything I’ve taught you about a warrior's patience.” 

“Patience will do nothing for us when the people of Jotunheim decide to do more than simply spy. How can you be such a fool as to sit back and do nothing?!” Thor steps forward. “If you had not wished for us to act as we did, father, then maybe you shouldn’t have concealed such important matters to begin with.” 

“I will tell you what I see fit. It is not your place to defy my orders and take matters into your own hands.” 

“It is our business too!” 

It’s now that Loki finds himself able to move, propelled forward by a need to have his say. “Father, I - “ 

“Silence!” 

The force of his father’s growl sends Loki a few steps back, rattling his bones and trapping the rest of his sentence within his throat. It stole his breath, he realises. That command left him without the ability to breathe. 

The next thing that happens steals his breath as well, but for an entirely different reason. 

Stark steps between them, shielding Loki with his body before the last echo has faded. Out of all the insults and arguments Thor and Odin have exchanged, apparently Loki being yelled at is where this strange man draws the line. 

“Hey! Old man!” Stark yells, his voice neither as loud nor commanding as the person he addresses, but somehow just as captivating. “Look, you and I both know that things can and have gone wrong here, and this is not helping . So please, for the love of - well, you , apparently, - take a fucking breath, and shut up .” 

All three gods are equally as shocked, (which is why the two youngest miss the abnormal emphasis applied to a few certain words. Fortunately, Odin is the one they were meant for, and Odin understands.) Never, for as long as Loki can remember has anyone, (apart from Frigga,) ever dared to tell the Allfather to shut up. Surely such disrespect will result in a painful death. 

That’s a shame , Loki thinks, I’d grown quite fond of him.  

To his shock, Odin simply stares. His one eye is trained on the man acting as Loki’s personal shield, squinted with an intensity that would reduce most humans to a pile of smouldering dust. The god of mischief wonders whether he should take over as the one shielding Stark instead. 

“You are all to return to the palace with me now.” Odin turns abruptly, heading straight for the exit. “None of you are to leave the grounds unless I say. Get your rest, clean your wounds, I will deal with you in the morning.” 

Loki blinks. Then he blinks again. Then he wonders who the man impersonating his father is, because since when would the King of Asgard ever take advice from a mortal . 

“Fucking hell.” Stark runs a hand through his hair, further ruffling the brown locks. “You are in some deep shit.” 

Thor doesn't reply - apparently too pissed right now for anything other than following along behind Odin. 

Loki, on the other hand, stands perfectly still. The shock of his fathers growl has yet to wear off, and he’s returned to the act of feeling his arm. 

“Hey, prince, where the hell are you right now?” 

Loki sucks in a sharp breath as he realises Stark is now facing him, brows furrowed in concern. When he finally finds it in himself to meet his gaze, a surge of fear rises within him. It’s so strong, that he’s surprised the mortal is able to stay this close without being caught in the current of it. 

It knocks the air out of him. 

It's an instinct, really, to hide it. He doesn't want anyone to see that something is wrong. To see that he, the god of mischief, is scared . So, in response to his impulse, anger bubbles up within, crowding the fear so densely that he can ignore it for the time being. At least enough to keep from anyone else noticing. 

“Step aside, mortal.” He growls, pushing past the human. “I do not wish to listen to your rambling.” 

The ride back is not pleasant. 

Tony practically leaps off the horse the second they reach the castle, only stopping briefly to thank a moody blonde for the ride. 

Damn it. This is all bullshit. Why do gods have to be so fucking impossible to deal with? 

He really misses being the annoying one. 

Something is definitely off with the younger prince - who, by the way, practically fled the moment he dismounted his horse. 

Tony heads off down the hall after Loki. Every step the prince takes feels like it's ripping them further apart, and he knows their connection is far too fragile to suffer any kind of stress. 

He needs to fix this now. It can't be too hard, right? Fixing things is what he does - what he's always done. He’s good at it. Just… when it comes to mechanical components and explosives, not people and relationships. But this is fine, this will be fine. They’ll both be absolutely fine . 

“Loki!” The god doesnt slow down, and Tony has a hunch it’s not because he didn't hear the call. “Hey!” 

Tony doesn't stop; not until he can see the prince a few paces in front of him. Not until he can reach out and touch him. 

He grabs Loki’s arm and yanks him around. It brings them face to face, simultaneously gulping down each other's stale air and suffocating under the proximity. Tony has to fight against his every instinct, because he knows he can’t afford to step back now and brush this off as nothing. Not when this is something. Something big, and something that fucking matters . 

Loki looks wrong. The pulse is erratic under Tony's palm, jolting with each and every breath that rattles down his throat. His face is stuck between anger and an unidentifiable panic that could literally be anything but good, and his lips twitch with soundless words that send shivers down Tony’s spine all the same. 

The god tries to tug his arm free but Tony, not even close to being done here, only tightens his grip with a mutter of: “ Don’t .” 

The prince snarls. “Get your hands off me, Mortal.” 

The look in his eyes takes Tony straight back to Stark tower; straight back to cold threats and a death grip on his jaw. Right back to shattering glass and portals to an endless black. Back to a time when all he saw in Loki was a sadistic threat, an enemy, a monster. 

And you know what? Maybe a part of him does wish he still saw the ruthless villain, because that would make things so much easier. Perhaps he longs for a simpler route to take, but something in those blue depths has latched on, refusing to let him forget the young man he knows exists. He can’t fucking let go of this person - this prince who’s trying so desperately to shield himself with a wall of anger; one that exists solely to protect whatever shit he’s stowed away so carefully. 

Tony can not let go. It would drive him fucking insane, to a further extent than what he already is. 

“No can do.” 

Loki tries to free himself with a sharp tug. “Remove your hand before I do so myself.” 

The smart thing to do here might be to relent, but the Tony Stark thing to do would be knuckle down and refuse to admit defeat. So he yanks Loki closer to further prove his point. “I’d like to see you try.” 

Anger charges the atmosphere between them, each crackle sending a shot of adrenaline to Tony’s brian. Loki must feel it too, because instead of pulling away again he steps closer, staring down at the other man with a contempt that doesn't belong on his young face. 

“You are overstepping your bounds.” 

“I don’t care.” 

Loki snarls, his entire body bristling with an anger so intense that Tony is afraid to get burned. “I am not in the mood to speak with you.” 

“I don’t care about that either.” He growls, and it’s the fucking truth. He doesn't care what Loki is or isn’t in the mood for - this god is not a toddler and can suck it up. 

“Let me go.” 

“You can keep demanding that, but it won't do you any good. See, I’ve never been great at behaving .” 

“How about being threatened?” 

Tony grits his teeth so hard he can actually feel them struggle under the pressure. Loki is glaring at him like he is very seriously considering cutting Tony’s hand off, and with both of them being so stubborn it may actually come to that. “Why are you being such a dick?” 

“You are the insufferable one. Neither of us would be in this situation if you would simply back off.” 

“Not until you suck it up and explain.” 

“No.” 

“If you want me to stop then you’re gonna have to spit it out.” 

“ No .” 

“ Yes .” 

“Why must you act like such a child?!” Loki yells, his voice cracking around the words as they rip free from his lips. 

Tony doesn’t miss a beat, raising his volume to match the gods immediately. “I could ask you the same thing!” 

“You have no right to demand anything from me.” 

“Oh for fucks sake!” He waves his hands about to burn off his exasperation. “Get over yourself! Do you know how shit this is for me? You’re not the only one being kept in the dark here, kiddo, so do me a fucking favor and just tell me why yo - “ 

“Because I'm scared!” 

Tony stops short. The room falls dead silent, even the walls stopping to listen to the sound of their heavy breath. 

Scared. 

He’s scared . 

That’s far worse than angry. Far, far worse. Why? Because it's a million times harder to deal with. 

A strange cold works into his bloodstream, and with each beat of his heart, it reminds him just how lost he really is. Loki. Loki scared. Loki is scared, and Tony doesn't know if he can fix it. 

“Why… Why?” He gulps down the threatening waver in his tone. 

“I - “ Loki runs a shaking hand through his hair. It does absolutely nothing to mend his lost composure. “I don’t really understand it myself.” 

“Is it - “

“None of your concern? Correct.” 

Loki spits the words at Tony. They sting like the venom they are. 

Like hell this isn’t his concern. Actually, this is very much entirely something he should be concerned about. He knows better than anyone what’s at stake here - has experienced it - and isn't going to step away now. He couldn’t if he tried. 

Loki starts to walk away again, and fuck if Tony’s gonna let that happen, so he lunges forward and grabs the god once more. This time round there’s no room for patience, so within a second after the contact is made, Loki has moved in a blur of green and black to shove Tony back. 

They both fumble to restrain the other, pushing and pulling in an attempt to come out on top. It’s a mess of limbs and failed attempts to acquire a lasting hold, and fuck this was a bad idea because gods are strong and Tony is slimmer than he was the first time this happened. 

He realises he’s lost when his back hits the wall, all air leaving his lungs in a wheeze that’s lost in the chaos. Loki is stronger than he looks, that's for sure, and there's no way Tony is prying either of his hands free. 

“Do not - ” Loki breathes, face way to fucking close for comfort. “ - Touch me.” 

Alright, that's it. Now Tony's really pissed off. 

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it earlier - ” He tests the gods grip by trying to jimmy his hands free. It does absolutely fuck all, so he grunts and continues his sentence instead. “ - You know, when I was the one who didn’t get a say.” 

The twitch of Loki’s eye is all Tony needs to know he gets the reference. The night on the balcony.

A flicker of hesitation surfaces in the god's gaze, but it’s swiftly devoured by frustration. “That was different.” 

“Oh, because I was the one panicking and you got to demand answers?” He snaps, tipping his head to meet Loki’s gaze. “You’re no better than me, prince. Don’t you fucking dare pretend what you did was any different to this.” 

“You seem to have forgotten that situation was left unexplained.” 

He’s not going to say it. He isn’t. He does not owe Loki anything - 

“I was having a panic attack.” He hisses, finally giving this little shit what he wants because oh what the hell? “I was irrational, and I needed to run. Funny thing is, you can’t run from what’s in your head.” 

Tony isn't thinking anymore. He’s angry, and he’s desperate, and he’s scared, too, because this is the most Loki has ever acted like the man he is in the future, and that just can’t happen. 

“And you know what?” He barrels on, “I didn't want to tell you. Partly because of how complicated this all is, but mostly because I could barely wrap my own head around it.” The hold on his wrists falters, aggression threatening to melt. “It’s what I’ve always done. I don’t - I don’t share these things. And you know what? Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s stupid, but I let my pride get the better of me, and look what good that’s done.” 

The words taste like absolute shit as they leave his mouth. God, it makes him want to rip out his own tongue. Tony Stark doesn’t do vulnerable . Yet here he is, regurgitating all the crap that keeps him up at night. But as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures, and this may be the only way to get through to Loki - give this prick the answers he wants. 

Loki's eyebrows jump to greet his hairline, but are swiftly weighed right back down by the intensity they're both drowning in. His gaze then drops to the floor as his death grip on Tony’s wrists fades to a gentle hold. “Why… What happened for you to suffer such severe anxiety?” 

He snorts. The absolute nerve of this man is astonishing. “Seriously? I spill my guts and you’re asking for more? Aren’t I gonna get anything after that?” 

Loki bites his lip. Hangs his head a little. 

In an instant, the atmosphere changes and catches Tony off guard. One moment Loki is desperate to get away from him, (practically a living ball of anger,) and the next he’s lost that fire. It burned bright and dangerous for a short time, but apparently only had enough fuel for a brief survival. Now that it's gone he just… he sort of sags. All at once Loki becomes a heck of a lot tense, dulling to something rather depressed. It really is like the will and reason to be angry just up and left, leaving him with nothing but exhaustion. 

Tony scoffs softly and mutters, “Talk about greedy.” 

“Oh, I’m the greedy one in your mind?” Loki chuckles; a dry, sad sound that brushes against Tony’s mouth. “You are an incredibly unfair man.” 

The prince's head dips a little lower. Tony’s breath is stolen away with how close it brings them, and he no longer has the rush of frustration to mask how much it fucks with him. 

Due to the stupid trance he finds himself in, his brain loses sight of what’s important right now. Despite all of the things he should be focusing on, Tony really just cares that Loki won't look at him. 

It’s irrational, but he feels as if being able to assess Loki’s eyes might give him some fucking idea of what’s going on. It’s not like he could actually understand the man in one glance, but the compulsive need to try and forcibly drag the truth right out his skull is there. He just… he needs to see that the Loki he’s come to know is there, is breathing, and hasn’t died. 

“So I don’t get an explanation?” He asks, aware of how demanding he sounds. 

Loki peers up through his bangs, finally meeting Tony’s gaze. It’s not enough, though. No, because there's hair in the way and his view of that brilliant blue is obstructed. “I am not currently in the mood for that.” 

Tony doesn't know what he’s thinking - or more specifically what he isn’t thinking - all he’s sure of is that he needs to see those eyes. 

His left hand has slipped free before his brain can compute, Loki’s hair against his fingers as he sweeps it backwards and out of the way. “Yeah, I’m afraid that isn't gonna cut it.” 

For a man that has previously claimed he doesn’t pout, that cute little furrow of the eyebrows is fucking ironic. 

“Who are you to decide what I do and do not owe?” 

Tony smirks in an attempt to prompt some kind of reaction. This deflated Loki might be more of a concern than the angry one, and he desperately needs it to change. “A very persistent man.” 

“Do you plan to force an explanation out of me, then?” 

“Depends.” His hand lingers at the side of Loki’s head, a few soft strands still trapped between his fingers. He stares at them, trying to decide whether capturing more would be an intelligent idea. “Would it work?” 

“You’d be surprised.” Loki murmurs, absentmindedly catching his bottom lip between his teeth. 

Tony's heart flips. “That sounds promising…” 

Now, here's the thing - everything following this becomes a bit… Strange for Tony. The world around him loses all importance, and Loki’s lips become very… interesting. He’s never found another man’s mouth so enticing, but right now he’s stuck wondering what it would taste like if he just leant forwards and - 

Woah, that’s new. 

“Alright, I yield.” Loki’s head drops into the crook of Tony’s neck, breath tickling his flesh. Thankfully it cuts off the previous train of thought. “I am far too tired for this nonsense.” 

He hums. “I’ll take that to mean you surrender?” 

“Yes, that’s what ‘yield’ means, you bumbling idiot.” 

Tony chuckles as he slips his hand around to give Loki an awkward pat on the back. The warmth of skin pressed against skin is a little too much, but the thought of losing this contact is jarring, so he lets it slide for now. 

When did being this close to Loki become anything but a trigger for his anxiety? When did panic morph into warmth? When did the hatred turn into a hesitant affection? When did his heart stop faltering from the images of broken glass, blood soaked trading cards, and portals that rush into his mind at the mere mention of this man? Why does it instead falter at the sound of his voice, his touch, or even the way he fucking smells? 

When did Tony start wanting him to be ok? 

“Hey, you’re kinda freaking me out here.” Tony says to the man with his face squished against his shoulder. Isn’t this the same person who literally just demanded not to be touched? “Seriously, is something wrong? Are you dying?” 

“Yes. The sound of your incessant jabbering is killing me.” 

“Oh, haha, very funny.” He grumbles. The bastard chuckles right against his neck. Loki better tread carefully if he wants to stay there any longer. “Seriously, you’re a fucking comedian. Top tier.” 

“Worried for me?” 

Tony grunts. Yeah, actually, he was worried. Not that he’s comfortable with admitting it, but if he’s gotta describe that feeling as anything, concern definitely has to be it. 

“Not one bit.” 

Loki scoffs, nuzzling deeper into Tony’s shoulder - and shit, how could anyone stay mad at something that fucking cute? 

“You smell nice.” 

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Did you get hit on the head?” 

“No.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“No.” 

He chuckles softly. It’s an unstable sound, one that lacks his usual confidence. But fuck, how can he muster any bravado when his fingers are twitching with a want to be tangled deep within his once enemies' hair? One of Tony’s hands is still trapped between the wall and Loki’s palm, even though the grip has slackened. Underneath that hand, Tony’s skin prickles and sparks, sending a heat through his veins that rushes straight to his already stuttering heart. 

He can't remember the last time anyone ever lent on him like this - or even if they ever have. People don’t look to Tony for support, for intimacy. They look to him for the things he puts on show: money and power. You know what? He's fine with that. Absolutely fine with not being sought out as a shoulder to cry on, because, well, he literally can't think of anything worse. So why the fuck should this be any different? 

For one , (an unhelpful part of him offers,) Loki isn't crying. Second, this position is almost entirely my fault. 

“Anthony?” 

Tony draws in a sharp breath, his free hand stalling its movement on Loki’s back. 

“Yeah?” He rasps. 

The tension seeps further from Loki's muscles. “I’m exhausted.” 

Tony begins to rub circles on the prince's back once more, fingers edging dangerously close to the nape of his neck. “I know.” The world slows further as they stand there, stalling its normal flow to witness as these two lost souls find comfort in each other. “I am too.” 

The god’s free hand sneaks around to rest on Tony’s shoulder, nails digging lightly into his shirt. It feels heavier than it should, like a weight he has to carry. In a way, he does. He needs to carry this prince. If he doesn't, Loki will lose himself. He will lose himself, and so will Tony. 

He tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling for answers - maybe even a little assistance. It does nothing but stare down at him, a blank surface to mirror the amount of ideas he has of what to do in this moment. The answer: nothing. 

Whoevers up there, just know there will be hell to pay for this.  

“Well, as much as I appreciate the snuggling, I don't really want you falling asleep on my shoulder.” Tony glances back down at Loki. His chest has started to feel constricted, and a certain brat definitely has everything to do with it. “You know, just in case you start drooling all over me.” 

He scoffs. “It would only be fair, seeing as you once did exactly that.” 

Loki doesn't move. It’s inconvenient, because while Tony was managing the situation alright moments ago, he’s starting to find it rather suffocating. Every second that passes with the god's face pressed too far into the crook of Tonys neck, a little piece of his sanity slips into a dark abyss, lost forever. 

“I think you need - “ Tony pauses. Shit, he doesn't know what Loki needs. He doesn't even know what he needs. Well, apart from maybe some space and a long, cold shower. To clear his head, of course. So, with nothing else to settle on, he swallows hard and finishes with: “ - sleep.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Why the hell not?” 

“It’s… never mind.” 

“Do I need to tuck you in? Is that what it’s gonna take for you to get the hell off me and go to bed?” 

The prince sighs. Can an exhale sound sad? It’s just air, isn't it? How the fuck is that possible? “You are an impossible man, Anthony Stark.” 

“Is that so? Tell me, of the two of us, who right now is being more of a nuisance?” He raises an eyebrow. 

Loki, apparently too tired to fight back but also not in favour of moving, just grumbles unhappily in protest. “It would be impossible to prove that.” 

“Oh, contraire.” Despite his demands for Loki to remove himself, Tony finds that his hand, (entirely without permission,) gradually creeps back up to his shoulder, inches away from fiddling with his hair. “Just answer this: Which one of us is A - flopping all over the other like a deflated balloon, - and B - moping like a child.” 

“You are not making any sense.” Loki mutters. 

Tony doesn't have the heart to restrain his chuckle. “The correct answer is you , sweetheart.” 

There's a little pause where the prince tenses up, then: 

“Did you just call me sweetheart?” 

Tony snags a little piece of dark hair in what he hopes is a subtle movement. “Don’t dwell on it.” 

Loki, either not noticing or not caring that his hair is being played with, just protests further. “It would be hard not to.” 

“I’m sure you can manage, sweetheart.” 

The prince lifts his chin, and Tony takes the opportunity to breathe. He loses that chance when Loki looks up at him. 

Whatever just flipped over in Tony’s chest, do it again and you’re dead. 

“Stop teasing me.” Loki sighs, sounding fed up. 

“Yeah, see, I don't think you understand.” He lets go of the hair to flick Loki on the forehead. “I’m not going to do that.” 

The prince stares. He stares and he stares and he stares, and Tony needs a break because his eyes are roaming back down to the other man’s mouth which is devastatingly close right now. It’s just… look, say what you want about him, but Loki does have nice lips. And it's like - on one hand, there's the whole complicated situation and all that, - but then on the other hand, Tony is a weak, weak man who isn’t really thinking right now. Or, he is thinking, but none of it is particularly useful. 

Not that this means something. It just seems like such a waste not to do anything when his lips are literally right there . He's not the only one tempted either. No, because the god of mischief is also looking a few inches south of Tony’s eyes. 

If they get closer, it’s not on purpose. Actually, for the sake of not overthinking things, Tony’s just gonna say that none of this is being done on purpose. 

This is all just one big happy, (really? happy?) accident. 

So if maybe they were to lean in closer, that could be another one of those things that isn't really important, right? No one would have to think too much about it. 

His fingers twitch, still up close to Loki’s face from where he flicked him. They want to cup his cheek; to slip around and hold the back of his neck and tangle in his hair. It's - shit , it's getting harder and harder to dismiss that urge. Being an impulsive person doesn't really help with restraining his rogue limbs either. 

So, the pad of his thumb brushes over Loki’s jaw, careful enough to keep the contact short and soft. When the prince doesn't pull away, Tony’s fingers beg for the ability to dive in and swim around within those soft strands of hair. It sounds like a superb idea, but sorry he’s kinda stuck like this for now because moving too much could mean spooking either one of them. 

He compromises by running his thumb along that same spot again, completely transfixed by how smooth it is. The pink that appears on Loki’s cheeks makes it a whole lot better. 

The mouth so close to his beckons once again, and how could Tony possibly say no to an offer like that? 

He starts to move in closer, feeling it as their breath mingles. There's really nothing he can do at this point, because he’s completely lost himself in - 

Footsteps. 

The two men wrench themselves apart, Tony breathing a little too hard as he watches a guard turn the corner. 

Reality hits him in a cold blast of shock. 

He wasn’t really - he wasn’t actually just - he wasn’t seriously considering that, was he? 

He looks over at the prince. Loki is now standing a safe metre away, running a shaky hand through his hair as the intruder walks past. His cheeks are flushed, an enticing colour that Tony needs to get a closer look at because it should be illegal how much it suits him. The whole thing is just so unfair an - 

Holy fuck he was. He was actually just about to do that. 

Loki opens his mouth to speak as soon as the guard is out of sight, but the actual talking part never comes. Tony can’t think of much to say either, so he fakes a cough. 

It’s so awkward that he really wouldn't mind it if his arc reactor just stopped working. 

Finally, the prince clears his throat, straightening his shirt with a glare directed towards the poor, innocent floor. “Flick me again and I’ll remove your fingers.” 

Tony nods. “Duly noted.” 

He looks desperately around himself for something to take the focus away from what just happened, what he let happen, and the first thing he notices is Loki’s bare arm. 

“How’d you lose the vambrace?” He points at the spot previously clad in gold. 

Loki stiffens and looks down at his own wrist rather hurriedly. He visibly relaxes when he sees it, almost as if expecting to find it severed, and then immensely relieved to find that it’s there. “Pardon?” 

Tony rolls his eyes and grabs the arm, holding it up between them. He gives it a little shake. “You had two vambraces before.” 

“One of the frost giants grabbed me.” Loki snatches his hand back and - yeah, ok, maybe touching him wasn’t the best idea after what just happened. “It froze the gold off.” 

“Shit.” Tony murmurs. “You’re fucking lucky it didn't touch your skin.” 

Loki glances at his arm, rubbing his thumb in a small circle over the flesh. “Yes, I suppose that I am.” 

Chapter Text

Loki is not ok. 

He may have been, for a few brief seconds in Stark's arms, but the moment contact was lost, so was his momentary calm. 

Panic chokes him. It wraps around his throat and it squeezes. It squeezes until his eyes are pricking with tears and he’s shaking on his knees. It squeezes until he's gagging and gasping for air, all pride wrung from his limbs as he’s taken over by a desperate struggle for understanding. It squeezes until he’s clawing at his throat, begging for a relief he is unsure he will ever be granted. 

He feels like he should be doing all that, but in reality he just stands. He stands and he stares. He stares at his arm - at the spot where it turned - where it went - 

He forcibly grabs the thought and shoves it away, burying it in a dark corner of his mind, where he doesn't have to think about what it means. Where it doesn't have to be real . 

Loki will not accept this. 

He lets out a choked sob. It might not actually be a sob as there are no tears to prove he’s crying, but the sound is broken and uncontrollable, forcing its way from his throat with a desperation that has him shaking all over. It feels like a sob - or at least like it should be - but how can he be sure of anything anymore? 

Whatever it is keeps happening. He tries to draw in air, but it catches on the panic lodged in his throat. It gets tangled and he chokes around it, dealing with too much of something bad and too little of something he needs all at once. There's no grace in how it happens. Only harsh edges and painful rasps as he tries and tries and tries to remember how to breathe, or even how to have the slightest bit of control. 

His arm itches where he was touched. It itches because he knows something was there, and he’s scared it remains. 

It had been so cold, in the most awful, sickening way possible. 

It still feels frozen. 

He knows that it can’t be, but this part of him that refuses to listen to any reason is convinced. It won’t listen to logic, screaming in panic and causing Loki to doubt himself, to second guess everything and wonder if maybe it is right, and the cold hasn't gone away. And, he realises, he can't trust anything anymore. So what is there to say it isn't? 

The more he thinks about it, the more he swears that it is there. He can feel it, crawling beneath the skin of his arm, making that area as cold as ice. He can feel it growing by the second, trying to force him to admit what he knows it means. 

He refuses. He refuses to believe it possible. Refuses to believe it might be true.  

All reason has abandoned him, gone in the wind and leaving his instincts to take the wheel. 

They steer him into the bathroom. 

He doesn't recall taking off his shirt, nor does he remember stepping into the shower or turning it on. All he knows is scorching hot water, drenched pants, and limbs that shake and shake and shake until he has to plant his hands against the wall to stay upright. 

It stings. His flesh is angry and red in an instant, screaming for him to stop as heat continuously sinks its teeth in, gnawing and scratching and eating him alive. Even so, he ignores it. He denies the pitiful begging of his nerves, because as much as it hurts, this is far better than whatever else he’s feeling. 

This hurts less . 

It hurts less than the fear as it simmers in his blood, hot and wild yet somehow dead cold all the same. 

He wants to melt that feeling - force it to wither away just so that the ugly truth it represents disappears too. He wants it gone, needs it to leave him alone with a desperation so intense that he doesn’t think words could ever describe it - doesn't think anything more than strangled sounds and an ache so intense one loses who they really are could ever compare. 

He holds himself under the water until his eyes start to darken at the edges, threatening to swallow him alive without mercy. It's not until the world around him starts to spin and each breath he draws in is so clouded with steam he feels suffocated that he shuts off the tap and stumbles out. 

This is not how one should deal with anything. 

It’s self-destructive. It’s counterproductive. It’s foolish . 

Even so, he’s finding it difficult to care. 

Loki grips the doorframe halfway back into his room, taking a moment to struggle for breath. 

What was it Stark had been experiencing that night on the balcony? A panic attack? He hasn’t ever had one personally, but from what he knows and feels, this must be it. 

Loki searches his brain for something to do - for anything, really, to calm this jittery expectation that the world will fall apart. It’s proving to be difficult, because everything is falling apart. Anything that used to be put together in his mind has shattered, and all he has is pieces of previous truths to swim through, to scream at for help only to be told that all he’s ever believed in is useless. 

The one thing he can make out is a mortal - shaking and sweating and cursing at the world, all the while sucking in sharp breaths and forcing himself to slow down . A man that, despite his state of panic, seemed to stop and inhale properly, because it was important, because somehow he knew what to do. 

Loki thinks of this. He thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks. He thinks that Stark is stronger than Loki has previously given him credit for, because it is so very hard to force air past the panic lodged in his throat - so very hard to do what’s best . 

But if a mere human can manage it, so can he. If not, can he really call himself a god? 

Gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles go white, Loki grits his teeth and takes the deepest breath he can manage. 

His body instantly wants to reject it, spasming and squeezing his lungs to ensure nothing makes it in. He barely gets anything before he’s forced into a harsh exhale. Nevertheless, the stupid, infuriating midgardian reappears in his head once more, taunting him with comments on how he’d thought a god wouldn’t be bested by fear. 

So, with a determination powered by the voice of his imagination, Loki tries again. Then again. And then so many times after that, sucking in deep breaths that slice down his throat, trying not to release them in harsh rasps. 

Ever so slowly, the world stops spinning and comes back into focus. 

His grip on the door goes slack, his fingers ache from being tense for so long. He runs them through his still dripping hair despite the ache, distantly reminding himself that he should get it trimmed. The strands wind around his fingers, slipping over each knuckle and falling back to rest against his neck. 

There’s a red tinge to his flesh. It will fade by morning. 

Loki lets out the air he’d long forgotten was being held, shoulder sagging with it. The few steps it takes to reach his bed drain everything he had left, so when he collapses onto his sheets, he finds himself caring very little for the water clinging to him. 

“I despise that this actually worked.” He murmurs, thinking reluctantly of the brunet and his oh-so-smug smile. 

He doesn't bother with slipping under the blankets. He just lays there on his made bed, dampening the sheets with water from his shower. 

Loki feels a little better now that he can breathe, even if he’s still a tad shaky. It’s better, yes, but not good . 

It’s hard to believe anything will feel good again. 

Tony may or may not have been loitering outside the throne room on purpose. He may have known the brothers were in there with their father to have a less than jolly conversation about the events of last night, and maybe he wanted to catch them on their way out. 

He also may have wanted to eavesdrop just a little, but the guards outside, (who clearly have sticks lodged someplace unpleasant,) weren’t about to let that happen. 

It takes fucking forever. So long that he winds up sat on the floor, banging the back of his head against the wall for a lack of things to do. 

Every part of him aches to be in there right now. The sense of helplessness is killing him. Not being able to influence or even observe the situation is killing him harder. 

It’s not that he’s scared Odin might screw shit up, but the longer Tony stays here, the more he thinks that this man might have a little something to do with Loki’s descent into madness. And hey, he’s not about to blame the king entirely, but with the way he treats his sons it wouldn’t be a total surprise if something he does influences Loki. 

He saw it yesterday when Odin turned on Loki like he was a disobedient dog. Yeah, that's a real productive way to deal with your son. Who cares if he’s pushed to a place of hatred? Evil and bitter sure is a fun combination, so it’s worth it. 

To be honest, Tony wasn’t thinking of future issues at the time. He just kinda… acted. He saw the look on the prince's face, and a moment later he was there, protecting him with his own flimsy body. Then came the rationalisation that Loki, (being in a possibly unstable condition,) wasn’t up for being shouted at, but who’s really keeping track of what and when these things happen? 

The second he hears the door creak open, Tony scrambles to his feet in time to watch as two dejected brothers walk through. 

Loki spots him instantly, and even goes as far as to make direct eye contact. It has Tony genuinely wondering whether the prince had been expecting him to be there. 

Thor takes a second longer, too busy glaring holes in the floor to notice fidgety mortals tripping over their own feet to get closer. When he does spot Tony, he nods. That’s it. 

“What's wrong with you two?” Tony asks, falling into step between them. Loki struggles with his own neck, seemingly unsure of where to look. “Daddy just break the news that Santa isn’t real?” 

The youngest god runs a hand through his hair - a wasted action as there was nothing out of place to start with. Tony labels the movement as a nervous fidget. “I’m quite sure you’re aware of that meeting’s purpose, otherwise you wouldn’t have been hanging around outside with nothing to do but pester our staff.” 

“So… he wasn’t in there spoiling the magic of Christmas for you?” Tony heaves an exaggerated sigh as they turn a corner. He isn't concentrating on where they're going. “That’s surprising.” 

“I don’t have time for this.” Loki grumbles. 

“You never have time for this.” He points out, trying to sound a tad more casual than he feels. “By now it should be natural for you to accept that it’s going to happen anyway, and not waste energy whining about it.” 

“And you should accept that not everything revolves around you.” 

Tony snorts at the irony of that comment. “You can’t expect me to take that seriously when it’s coming from a prince.” 

On a more serious note, (one that he will not be voicing,) Loki looks good. And no, he isn't talking about his nice hands, pretty hair, or stunning eyes - Tony’s thinking more along the lines of: ‘he seems ok considering last night’s massive breakdown.’ 

It’s not like he has a vibe of sunshine and rainbows about him - and Tony gets the sense he’s holding a lot of it in - but compared to the man slumped against him last night, Loki might as well be a poster boy for ‘everything is fine, and I’m not at all as fucked up right now as I should be.’ One could argue about large bags under his eyes and the lack of life in his voice, but when it comes down to it, he’s still doing a better fucking job of acting normal than Tony is. 

If he lets his mind run astray for even a second it leaps right back to last night, dragging him along to relive the less than ideal experience of being intimately close with a person who invaded his planet and knocked the letters off his tower. It gets harder to come up for air each time he drowns in memories of what happened, and when he does manage to break the surface, he’s immediately abused by a chorus of ‘what were you thinking what where you thinking what the fuck were you thinking ?’ 

The most disturbing part of the ordeal is that it would have ended in a kiss if they hadn’t been interrupted. And yes, he has decided to admit it. 

Every time he tries to be grateful nothing happened, all he gets is regret and a wave of bitterness towards that guard for ruining the moment. It has to be one of the most absurd things he’s ever felt, because he never wanted to in the first place. 

No… on second thought, wanting it is way more disturbing than it almost happening. 

It’s impossible to blame everything on the adrenaline when right now, at a time he isn't hopped up on panic, he has the overwhelming impulse to just grab Loki by the collar and figure out what it would’ve been like, even if only to shut up whatever part of him is so painfully curious. 

With nothing else to back him up, he just clings to the lame excuse of it being nothing more than  attraction. That he can cope with. That he has no problem admitting. It’s not a secret that Loki is good looking, and frankly, thinking otherwise should be a crime. 

A day ago he would never have accepted this twisted attraction to Loki, but seeing as the alternative is far, far harder to deal with, he’s beyond thankful for physical attraction, welcomes it, even. The fact that Loki’s a guy is the least of his concerns, and honestly with everything else going on, Tony hasn’t even bothered to untangle what that means regarding his… ‘preferences’. 

So all in all, he’s grateful to have desire as an explanation, (and something to support his denial,) because he can deal with it. Hell, he’s used to it. It’s natural . 

“Took you a while.” Tony glances over at the blonde before returning his attention to Loki. “It had to be something important.” 

“If you want to know what happened, just ask . It would certainly save me the headache.” 

“You know, I’m really grateful you thought of that, because I was about to list off every possibility that came to mind until I eventually found the right one.” He says, giving Loki a dumb look. 

The prince shoots him a glare that seems to mean this isn’t really the time for joking around. 

Pfft, like he didn't know that already. 

“Ok, fine.” He relents, throwing his hands up in mock surrender before returning them to his pockets. “What happened?” 

Loki’s expression darkens just enough for it to be noticeable. “I didn’t mean for you to ask me. I have… matters to attend to.” 

“Matters?” 

“Yes. Important ones.” Loki huffs, looking just about ready to claw out of his own skin just to get away. 

“Sorry, did you say Important?” He gestures to his ear. “It sounded a lot more like imaginary to me.” 

The prince grits his teeth and stalks off in the other direction, leaving Tony alone with Mr gloom and doom. 

Well, that was odd. 

He glances to his right at the blonde, rather depressed looking puppy dog at his side, admittedly concerned by the lack of sound exiting his mouth. No enthusiastic greeting, no arrogant remark or fond teasing of his brother, just a silence so angry that it’s uncomfortable to be near him. 

“So… penny for your thoughts?” 

“You do not understand, mortal.” Thor scrubs a hand over his face, and he looks more dejected than Tony’s ever seen him. “My father said he should have banished me for my actions. My mothers interference today was the only thing preventing him.” 

Tony whistles. “And here I thought being grounded was bad.” 

They ended up wandering around aimlessly after Loki split off, not really heading anywhere but moving for the sake of it. Tony isn't sure whether Thor has done it on a conscious level, but either way he’s led them as far from the castle as possible, all the way down through the various houses and markets, just to arrive at a walkway along the water’s edge. 

The fresh air is nice, and it has certainly seemed to tone down the otherwise scorching hot aura coming from Tony’s walking buddy. 

Thor sighs, kicking a loose rock on the pavement. It scurries away and leaps into the water. “I just don't understand how he can't see this was for the good of our people.” 

“Well… dads can be like that.” Tony frowns. “I mean, fuck, I never really got along with mine.” 

Thor looks up. “How so?” 

Tony pockets his hands and lifts his gaze to the sky. “Well, let's just say he didn't do well with not getting his way, and I don't really like being told what to do.” He turns his eyes back to the man at his side. “It wasn’t the best mix.” 

“There has always been the rare occasion that my father and I do not share the same views, but I know him to be a wise and fair ruler. I trust him, therefore I do what is needed. But with this… I do not agree with his decision.” 

Tony nods along as the god speaks. “Right… and that’s bad because…..?” 

“My father is wise beyond what your little human brain could comprehend.” Tony would object to that comment but holds his tongue due to the delicacy of the situation, “There has to be some reason for this choice, but I simply can not see it.” 

“And he probably can’t see the logic in your decision, either. That's the thing about perspective, it's basically just one big mindfuck.” He reaches up and taps the side of Thor’s head to emphasise the point. “I think one thing, you think another. Sometimes there’s no way to determine who’s right, and others you’re stuck arguing with some idiot over whether or not the world is flat, and they just use the concept to back their ridiculous claims.” 

Thor tips his head and gives a curious look. “But the world is flat.” 

Tony’s lips part slightly in protest before he literally shakes it off, turning his head sharply a few times to chase off his impulse to argue. “Not my point.” 

“Care to explain what is?” 

“You aren’t always going to agree with your old man. Don’t dwell on it too hard. I’m sure he didn’t really want to banish you. He’s probably just doing what he thinks is best.” 

Tony doesn’t know if any of that is really true, but he gets the idea it’s what Thor needs to hear. This family all needs to be in the best mood possible for the future to pan out alright. So whatever it takes to make that happen - even giving shitty advice that might do nothing to turn anything around. 

“I fear we may never get over this.” The blonde murmurs, hammer hanging lifelessly in his grip. 

“Look, don’t hold a grudge for too long. I’m not saying get over it immediately, because let's face it, no one is that good a person, but you’ll regret not letting it go eventually.” 

“Speaking from experience?” 

“I never… “ He swallows, not exactly ready to put that one into words. “Me and my dad didn’t end on great terms.” 

The blonde fiddles with the strap on his hammer. If any of this is getting through to him, Tony doesn’t have the faintest idea. Although, when Thor does lift his head, it’s with a somber frown. One that might be enough to give a little indication. “You have my condolences.” 

Tony nods. “Thanks, blondie.” 

He will never admit to wishing things ended differently. He’ll never, not even privately, waste time chastising himself for how it happened, because there's just no point. He gets nothing out of it except pain and regret, and there's already enough of that in his life. 

It doesn’t make it easy, either. 

‘Or true.’ 

“Anyways, I guess what I'm trying to say is that you shouldn't beat yourself up about it.” He leans back to rest against the wall. “Family fights, and then eventually you suck it up and get over it. Parents are - shit, they're people too. They make mistakes, and sometimes they don't handle things the best.” 

The god mulls it over. 

“You are a wise man, Stark.” Thor admits. Tony can’t help but smile. 

“And then there's inheritance you can always look forward to.” 

That finally has Thor cracking a grin. It’s satisfying and all, but not quite enough to have Tony all light and bubbly. He gets the feeling he’ll have to track down this one’s brother if that emotion is going to be coaxed out. 

“My brother seemed to leave in a hurry.” Thor says, kicking another pebble into the water. 

Tony looks up from the pavement, not catching himself before very blatantly showing a large interest at the mention of Loki. “So you noticed that too?” 

The blonde smirks. It’s almost… knowing. “Yes. It was odd because normally where you are involved, he can’t get enough.” 

He tries, but does not have a comeback for that one. All he can muster is genuine fucking concern. 

“Then what is it?” 

“My brother is a complicated man. If I knew what was bothering him, I’d be dealing with it myself.” Thor chuckles to himself, his expression fond. “He’ll be fine. Sometimes it’s like this, then he gets over it.” 

Tony looks out at the ocean. Strangely enough, he thinks of that fish. 

“I think there might be more to it.” 

Tony spends the next three hours relentlessly stalking Loki. 

Well, trying to stalk Loki. Seeing as most of his time was spent on locating the damn prince so that the following and hiding behind newspapers could begin, he never gets to play the part of a creepy perv. 

Instead, by the time he does catch sight of his target, he’s so fed up with the whole thing that he just calls out from down the hall. 

The prince doesn't even look over his shoulder. He just speeds up and turns the corner. 

Cursing under his breath, Tony jogs all the way down the hall, then the next, and another one after that, until he finally manages to corner Loki. The god apparently hadn't bothered to run due to his headstart, which is exactly why he’s caught just short of slipping through the half open door he’s holding. 

“You’re avoiding me.” Tony pants, skidding to a stop beside him. He skips over the part where he catches his breath, instead jumping straight to asking the question. 

Loki frowns and releases the doorknob. He takes a stiff step away from it, staring rather reluctantly ahead. “No, I’m not.” 

Tony laughs, although it sounds more like a wheeze, and leans up against the wall. He’s doing everything he can to avoid looking at Loki’s lips. It’s hard, because generally when there’s something really fucking appealing right in front of you, the natural reaction is to stare at it. “So just then - when you heard me coming and ran off - you expected me not to assume you were making a break for it?” 

“Correct.” 

He narrows his eyes at the prince who stares blankly in return. 

“Then what were you doing?” 

“Testing your willingness to chase me down the hall like an idiot.” Loki sneers. 

This man is unbelievable. 

“Oh yeah? How’d that turn out for you?” 

“Fine, seeing as my hypothesis was correct and you did chase me down like an idiot.” 

Tony doesn’t have enough middle fingers to get the point of how pissed he is across. “Can you talk to me for three seconds without being an ass?” 

Loki swallows something that makes his face screw up before answering. “I could.” 

Tony grunts, shoves his hands into his pockets too. It was either that or punch something, and seeing as the closest thing right now just so happens to be Loki, he didn't want to be at fault for slugging a prince in the jaw. 

Helping people is infuriating. If he’d known just how draining it could be to deal with a pompous brat, then maybe he would have cut Pepper a little more slack. That woman deserves a fucking medal for the shit she’s put up with. Rhodey, too. 

He does understand what they do isn’t just an obligation - it’s out of care, more than anything else. Whether that makes things easier or not isn’t clear, because in some ways helping people you love is nothing more than instinct, but seeing them suffer hurts a shit load more than if it were a complete stranger. 

Which, if you think about it, is a good way to test relationships. If someone is hurting and you don’t give a shit, then they probably don't matter. If they're hurting and you’re agonized for it, then they're your problem too. 

“Does your sulking require my presence, or can you manage on your own?” Loki asks, and Tony has to bite his tongue before it can get him in any trouble. 

This particular problem is being so fucking annoying. 

“Why are you in such a bad mood?” He picks at a thread in his pocket. “And why am I suffering for it?” 

“Because you insist on following me around.” Loki turns him the cold shoulder and continues to walk, not-so-subtly speeding up his pace. Tony does the same, sticking to his side like the unrelenting bother he is. “Have you ever considered the possibility that my mood is being influenced by your presence?” 

“Yep.” 

Loki raises an eyebrow. “And?” 

Tony chews on the inside of his cheek. Nervous energy is building up, that’s for sure, and he’s getting closer to doing something stupid with it every second. “And I’m choosing not to believe it.” 

The prince scoffs. “Leave me alone, Stark.” 

There’s something in his tone; something harsh and jagged that has a physical effect on Tony. That effect is for his legs to stop working, and it leaves him standing there staring at Loki’s back as he slowly gets smaller. 

Funny thing is, that wasn't anger. Tony knows anger. He knows it because he’s lived it, and it’s lived in him. That was a facade - a desperate attempt to cover whatever less appealing emotion he’s experiencing, in hopes that whoever asks is put off enough to give up. In hopes that he can trick himself into thinking the anger is real, and the fear is not. 

Tony knows that feeling too, although his cover generally involves a lot more booze, and a lot less hiding away. 

Which, unfortunately, leads to his next idea. 

“Let me take you for a drink.” He blurts. 

Loki stops, going visibly tense. Tony can’t help but be reminded of a cat on high alert. 

He holds his breath as the god turns around slowly, somehow feeling that one wrong movement would destroy this precarious moment. Loki takes a fucking century to digest the offer, during which Tony is left to resist his urge to fidget uncomfortably. 

“Who’s paying?” 

What the hell? He may as well run with it now. 

“Me.” He answers. Loki crosses his arms and gives Tony a sceptical look, so he just sighs and rolls his eyes. “With your money.” 

“I’m really not - “ 

“ - In the mood.” Tony finishes with an exaggerated sigh. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You don’t have the time, you’re not in the mood, sulking around your own quarters is way more appealing.” He takes a few steps closer and grabs Loki by the forearm, tugging him gently in the opposite direction. “Being a stick in the mud can wait. Just… come on .” 

The prince takes a moment to compute, visibly struggling with the physical contact Tony so easily initiated. “I said that I shouldn’t.” 

“And I’m saying come on.” He pulls again, his patience for soft coaxing running short. “I’d drink myself into a stupor alone, but I’m more likely to stumble into a bush and snuggle with a racoon for the night than find my way back.” 

“Is that really why you want me to come?” 

“No.” 

With the attitude of an interested, albeit hesitant man, Loki takes a singular step forwards. “Fine then.” 

Tony nods. When neither of them move, he realises that he’s still holding onto Loki’s arm and lets it go with a sheepish glance at the floor. “You can pick the tavern.” 

“Stop staring at me.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Yes, you are.” 

The human sips his drink. “So?” 

He sighs. “So either give me a reason for it, or stop.” 

Stark rests his cheek in hand, wasting a moment to tap a random tune against the table. Then, without any shame whatsoever, he says: “Because you’re pretty.” 

Loki almost chokes, which is barely less humiliating than the heat rising in his cheeks. 

“You cannot already be drunk.” He grumbles, turning to avoid Stark’s smirk - primarily because it only makes his blush brighter. 

“I’m not.” The man chuckles, tossing back the contents of his glass before ordering another. “Would you prefer it if I was?” 

Loki doesn’t need to think about that one to know that the answer is hell no . This man is unpredictable enough without being intoxicated, and seeing as he’s willing to blurt nonsense like, ‘you’re pretty,’ while sober, Loki isn’t at all interested in any statements that might come out of him if he’s not. 

“Do what you will.” He looks into his glass for help, hoping that the ice might offer him some sort of wisdom. “But I’m not carrying you back to the castle, either.” 

Not even a minute goes by in silence before the human is talking again. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s up yet? Or are we still a few drinks away from that happening?” 

“So that’s why you brought me here. To loosen my tongue.” 

Stark smiles, and fuck if that doesn't do something strange to Loki’s heart. “Either that or to get into your pants. Feel free to choose whichever makes you more comfortable.” 

Oh dear lord . 

“Just out of curiosity,” He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table. “What would happen if I did take you up on that offer?” 

Stark clearly wasn’t expecting that, which is precisely what Loki had been aiming for. The human's eyebrows shoot up, and his next gulp of drink is harsh and uneven compared to his previously smooth swallows. “That’s a dangerous bluff, Loki.” 

“Unless your plan is to call it, I suggest you get to the point.” 

The human runs a hand over his face. For the first time today, he looks tired. “Are you alright?” 

Loki blinks. Did he hear that right? 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Stark sets his glass down and turns his attention to Loki, who doesn’t want it in the least. Or, he doesn’t right now. “Don’t play dumb. You can’t cry into someone's shoulder and then pretend like it never happened.” 

Loki frowns. “I did not cry .” 

“If you say so.” 

He grinds his teeth. Of course that would come up again, because really, not much else was going to make him this uncomfortable. When was the last time anything went his way? When was the last time life let him relax, or even have the smallest breather? He has absolutely no desire to allow Stark access to his mind. Even the idea is enough to have him locking everything away even tighter, double checking the restraints just to ensure there’s no way anything unwanted will see the light of day. 

Loki is aware of his own hypocrisy. He knows that it’s unfair of him to dig around for Stark’s secrets and leave his own as such, but he never has been one for morally correct behaviour. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Yeah, and I can beat Thor in an arm wrestle.” 

Loki shoots him a distasteful look before averting his gaze. His plan is to shut the man out, try to ignore him until eventually he just gives up. 

That idea lasts even less than a minute. 

“Look, I suck at support, ok? Could you at least make some kind of effort to make this easier for me?” 

His heart twists violently, and his head turns without permission. “You’re trying to support me?” 

“I’m sure it wasn't obvious, but yeah.” Stark rubs the bride of his nose, releasing a small, self deprecating laugh. “God, I hate myself right now.” 

Loki looks down at his glass, running his finger around the rim and thinking that he shares the sentiment. He hates how disorienting this man is. He hates the random comments that so easily shake him, and he hates the endless jabbering that never stills. He hates the weird things Stark does to his stomach. He hates the constant pull towards him, making it impossible for Loki to stay away. He hates so much about this infuriating mortal. 

But when he glances to his left, when he sees the mortal’s face, he can only say one thing, because it’s the truth. 

“I don’t.” 

And he doesn't. He really, truly doesn’t. 

Loki hates so much of what makes up this man, but when it comes down to it, he knows that feeling is nothing more than his own frustration at not being able to get enough . He wants more, and he loathes what that does to him just as much as he can’t help seeking more of it. 

Stark’s eyes widen at Loki’s words. He swallows hard, shaking his head slightly. “You shouldn’t just say stuff like that.” 

“Why not?” 

“Admitting that without knowing a person well is stupid.” 

Feeling like there might be a reason for the advice, Loki asks: “Is there a reason for me to hate you?” 

Stark loses about twenty percent of his relaxed vibe in one exhale. “To be completely honest? Yeah, probably.” 

“It’s a shame you think that,” Loki finishes the last of his drink and sets the glass down. “But I’d like to decide for myself.” 

“Curiosity killed the cat.” 

“I am no cat, mortal.” 

After that they don’t say much. They drink in silence, occasionally engaging in mindless small talk until the point where they decide to leave. 

Abandoning their now empty glasses at the table, Loki starts the journey towards the exit, and Stark decides to walk just in front of him. For some odd reason he decides to walk backwards, probably to keep eye contact for his next comment. 

“You should really try doing some nice things now and again. You know, sprinkle them in there. Might do you some good.” 

Loki doesn't pay it much mind and settles on rolling his eyes. “I do plenty already, human.” 

Midway through a snarky comeback, Stark - who really can’t have been expecting much else while walking backwards - bumps right into a very large man. The multiple tankards of beer he’d had in hand, regrettably, are now on the floor. In pieces. 

At the sound of shattering glass and a harsh curse, the mortal spins around and does a double take when he has to tip his head right back to meet the stranger’s gaze. 

He does not look happy. 

“Holy shit.” Stark mumbles, then visibly catches onto the fact that there is a very unhappy man glaring down at him. “Sorry about that, big guy. You, ah - wow that’s a lot of glass.” 

Loki can’t help but snigger quietly at the tipsy mortal. The ‘big guy,’ on the other hand, doesn't seem at all amused. 

“What the fuck was that?” The stranger growls, wiping at his beer soaked shirt. 

Stark grimaces, and Loki takes great pleasure from witnessing it. He could step in here, but instead has chosen to stand off to the side and spectate comfortably. It’s far more enjoyable than getting his hands dirty. 

“Woah, calm down, Andre. I’ll pay for it.” He turns to Loki. “I need you to pay for this guy’s drinks.” 

Choosing to be an annoying, unhelpful spectator, Loki just shrugs. 

“Do you think this is a game?” The stranger steps into Stark’s space before he can start to complain. 

The mortal turns around with a sigh, not even the slightest bit fazed. Loki returns to one of his very first observations about Stark: that he has balls, but not brains. To be honest, after spending time with him, Loki has discovered that the human is actually quite intelligent. Although, that probably makes it worse when he does foolish and rather stupid things. 

Stark looks up at him for a second, blinks dumbly, and then opens his mouth again. “Pardon? I couldn’t hear over the stench of your breath.” 

“What did you just say?” 

“Oh come on, let it go, would you? You’re not meant to actually cry over spilt milk.” 

Loki bites back another smirk. This is thoroughly entertaining - a lot like watching a squirrel have a go at a bulldog. 

“Look, as much as I hate to point this out, you’re kinda blocking my way with your - “ Stark gestures to the vast expanse of this man, making it very clear what he means. “ - all this.” He drops his hands, slotting them neatly into his pockets. “Anyway, just let me pay, and then I’ll be off, alright?” 

The man grits his jaw, the vein in his forehead bulging. “I don’t like you.” 

“I can tell.” The mortal tires to slip past. “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.” 

Loki doesn’t notice it soon enough. He doesn’t spot the slight shift in stance, or the twitching fist. It even takes him a second to register it when that same fist raises, heading straight for the brunette. 

Luckily for all of them, Stark does notice. 

The ‘big guy’ takes a large swing right at the mortal's head - one that, if it had hit, would surely have knocked him flat out. But Stark ducks at the last second, leaving the wall to receive a blow instead. It literally splinters. Only a few people notice - the ones closest to them in the crowded space - and they have the good sense to back off. 

Loki’s heart is still recovering from the several beats it just missed when Stark straightens up, eyes wide in shock at the near miss. “Fuck. Well, now that's just an overreaction.” 

The stranger growls, and evidently not having learned any kind of lesson, has another go. 

He lunges forwards, this time catching the attention of more customers, some of whom let out startled sounds and begin to clear out. The drunker, less civilized ones crowd around, excited to see what plays out. 

This time Loki does try to step in, but is once again taken aback to see Stark duck and avoid the blow with ease . 

It was simple to assume the first dodge was luck. This time, with more chances to observe, Loki can tell that not only does this human know what he’s doing, he’s clearly done it before. He steps quickly - too quickly for a novice - with stance and precision one acquires from years of experience. His balance is exceptional for someone who’s been drinking, and he even seems to know how to predict his opponents next moves. 

The stranger swings again twice, missing both times and even almost tripping over a chair. 

Stark just stands there, watching the other man struggle with his balance. To an untrained gaze he must seem relaxed - almost unbothered - but Loki knows he’s on edge. For one, his hands have not yet returned to his pockets. 

“Tell me, how much does a guy of your stature have to drink to miss me three times in a row?” The human taunts. 

They really do have an audience now. People who, along with Loki, gasp as the much larger, drunk man lunges at the younger, smaller one, only to be sidestepped and left to crash right into a table. 

“Opps, you missed me.” 

“Fuck you.” The ‘big guy’ pants, this time grabbing hold of a half shattered tankard and swinging it right at Stark. 

Loki’s heart drops. Not because the glass lands its mark, (actually it was way off) but because of what happens when it heads for a young man in the crowd. 

Frankly, Loki couldn’t care less about the guy, but when Stark - who he would not have pegged as the self sacrificing type - lunges to the side, stupidly getting in the way, he does start to care. 

The human reaches out with his left hand, batting the broken segment away before it can meet the spectators face. It hits the floor and shatters. The unlucky part is that when the mortal made contact, the portion he slammed his hand onto just so happened to be the dangerous bit. 

He hisses and clutches his hand, blood already dripping from his fingers to join the shattered tankard at his feet. 

The other man, that filthy bastard , takes the moment of weakness to advance yet again. Loki doesn’t need another reason to interfere, and before his brain has even registered moving, there's a dagger through the attackers shirt and lodged in the wall. 

A few people look Loki’s way. The ‘big guy’ doesn't, missing the movement completely. He lets out a loud curse and glares at everyone around him, searching for the one who threw it. 

Stark is the only one who knows to look directly at the god of mischief. His eyes are wide and lips slightly parted, the wound forgotten as he gapes. A thousand questions are written in his expression, just in a language that Loki can’t quite understand. 

He ignores the odd feeling in his chest and makes his way over to stand beside his human, shooting the pathetic drunk a glare as he twists at an awkward angle to try and grasp at the knife. He does manage it, fumbling like it were covered in oil until eventually he rips it free. 

“Stay put, or the next one will be in your skull.” Loki snaps, not looking away until satisfied they won't be followed. 

He grabs Stark’s arm without a word, pulling him towards the door. The audience parts for them, all mumbling to each other as they pass by. 

The outside air is a blessing. He doesn’t slow until they are at least a block away from the tavern, even when the mortal starts to complain. It’s all just a little too much. 

He can feel rage, hot and restless, boiling up within him. It started in his stomach, but has now spread to every extremity, setting his nerves on fire. The idea that anyone would touch this man is infuriating. The idea that he let himself get hurt so easily is worse. 

Eventually the tugging and whining gets to a point where it slows him down, and Loki lets go, turns around, and glares at the other man. “This is a very good example of how being an obnoxious imbecile can get you into trouble.” 

“You’re blaming me here?” Stark laughs, although there's nothing to find funny. “How was I supposed to know he’d flip out and start throwing punches?” 

“You antagonized him, and you know it.” 

The human rolls his eyes and waves a dismissive hand. “Like he didn’t deserve it.” 

Loki, unable to argue otherwise, bites down on the inside of his cheek. The anger is irrational - at least the portion of it directed at Stark. Everything has been having this effect today. 

He looks down at the bleeding hand, left forgotten at the mortal's side. “You didn’t have to get hurt.” 

“What?” 

“That bottle wasn’t going to hit you.” He grumbles, feeling unhappy about the broken flesh in a manner that doesn’t make sense. “Not until you made sure it did.” 

“You’re mad at me for helping someone?” 

Loki hates how silly he sounds. “It was foolish.” 

“Better my hand than his face.” 

“Better him than you .” He snaps, still unsure of where the anger is even coming from. 

Oh . he realises after the words catch up with him. I’m mad because he got hurt . 

Stark looks just about as shocked as Loki feels. His eyes are wide, and this time close enough for the questions in them to make a little sense. 

The feeling is awful. It’s terrible. It’s weak. He’s gotten all worked up because a mortal is bleeding . He’s bleeding, and Loki wanted to sink a dagger deep into the man responsible. He still wants to. In fact, he’s aching to return to that bar and prove a point, to make sure that bastard learns his lesson. 

His anger is so fierce it’s becoming a living thing. 

“I’m fine, ok?” Stark holds up his hand, and instead of the smart ass comment Loki was expecting, he just continues in a soft voice. “Christ, I’m not made of glass. At least give me a little credit.” 

“Glass, perhaps not. But you are a human, and that is a fragile thing.” He starts to walk again, this time at a comfortable pace as he focuses on each individual step, trying to calm himself down. Anger will do no good here. 

Stark falls into step beside him. He must be satisfied with the amount of genuine care he’s shown, because the next thing he says is closer to his normal self. 

“Thanks for the help, by the way.” He says sarcastically, resting a hand on Loki’s shoulder as they walk, either not noticing or not caring about how tense he is. “I don’t know what I would have done there without you. Seriously, who knows what might have happened if you hadn't been there. I mean, god forbid someone get hurt.” 

“Shut up.” He grumbles, hiding the very faint amusement he feels. There's no need to show this man that his sarcasm is in any way having a positive effect. “Don’t forget that I saved your skin.” 

“Yeah, eventually . Nevermind the part where I almost got my head put through a wall.” 

By the time they reach the castle, the casual banter has slowed, and Stark is clearly struggling with his cut. He doesn't actually admit to it, but Loki can tell with how he keeps looking at it, wincing occasionally if he tries to move the hand. 

Loki really does try hard not to care. Alas, eventually he stops with a harsh breath. 

“Go to the infirmary and get it cleaned.” 

The mortal screws his nose up. “What? No, it’s nothing.” 

“Then why do you keep fussing over it?” 

“I’m not.” 

He grabs Stark by the wrist and holds his hand closer, inspecting the wound. Blood leaks from between the flesh at a lazy pace, evidently not in any kind of rush. But it’s deep, and Loki doesn’t like the idea of it getting worse. “If you are determined to avoid the infirmary, then at least allow me to deal with this.” 

“Oh, so you're a gentleman now?” The mortal grumbles, scowling like an underfed child. “Please, play nurse for me. This is exactly what I need for my pride - you taking it off life support.” 

Loki snorts. The complaints are humorous, especially while the supposedly frustrated man is making absolutely no move to pull away - even spreading his fingers out so Loki has better access to the cut. 

“Oh, really? Because If I recall correctly, you were the one who insisted I try doing some nicer things. I believe this falls under that category.” 

“Don’t you dare throw that back in my face.” 

“Hmm?” Loki looks up at him, a smug little smile breathing life back into his lips. “What’s this? I expected you to be pleased that I took your advice.” 

Stark frowns. Deeply. “Shut up and focus. I’m this close to wiping my blood on your shirt.” 

“Petty acts of rebellion will do nothing but further prove your inability to behave like an adult.” 

“You wanna talk about who’s acting like a kid? Answer me this: which one of us felt the need to clean the others boo-boo?” 

“The one who didn’t want to be held accountable for leaving a man-child to bleed on expensive upholstery.” Loki catches his lip between his teeth, unable to help from looking up to steal glances at the mortal every now and again. “I also couldn’t bear to deal with your whining any longer.” 

“What did you expect me to do?” Stark grumbles, still not confiscating his hand from Loki who has moved on to wiping away some of the blood with his thumb. “Whining is my substitute for painkillers. It lets off steam.” 

Loki rolls his eyes, taking a turn to pull the mortal along by the arm. “My room is the closest.” 

“You’re taking me back to your place?” Stark raises his eyebrows, all the stupid jokes practically bubbling out his ears. “Don’t tell me the blood is what’s doing it for you.” 

He tightens his grip, probably proving the wrong point, and casts a burning glare over his shoulder. “Don’t tempt me.” 

Stark chuckles, although Loki swears he caught a flash of something else hiding behind the grin. 

They walk in and take a seat on the couch, Stark craning his neck to take in every inch of the place while Loki focuses on the cut. 

“Would you stop squirming?” He asks with a sigh after the mortal shifts his hand for about the fifteenth time while trying to look around himself. 

“Do you even live here?” Stark screws his nose up and meets Loki’s gaze. “How can anyone be so neat?” 

Loki snorts. “We have servants.” 

“And this place ever needs them?” 

“Occasionally after Thor has been in here,” He stands up, walking towards the bathroom. “But otherwise, no.” 

Loki takes a small cloth from beside the shower and wets it. He could have just made one without moving, but for some reason using magic in front of the mortal right now isn’t all that appealing. 

When he walks back into the main room, Stark is no longer on the couch. Instead, he’s over at the bookcase, using his good hand to pick out the occasional volume and stare at the cover, keeping the other hand cradled against his stomach where it can’t drip on anything. 

“I stepped out for three seconds and you’re already rifling through my possessions.” He walks over and snatches the book from the human, who pouts dramatically and returns to the couch. “Your lack of manners is truly devastating.” 

“Can’t help it. Snooping is in my nature.” 

“Do both of us a favour and restrain yourself.” Loki retakes his place next to Stark, grabs his wrist and starts to clear away the blood. “This night has already been enough of a disaster.” 

The midgardian crosses one leg over the other and leans back. “Well, seeing as I’m in your room, would it be so silly of me to say the night didn't go that badly?” 

He shakes his head, ‘accidentally’ poking the tender flesh with his nail. The mortal hisses in pain but doesn’t comment any further. 

It confuses him. Jotunheim confuses him. Thor confuses him. His father confuses him. The blue confuses him. More than anything else, Stark confuses him. Which is odd, considering everything that’s just happened. But, that mortal is just… 

More . 

Loki can’t quite put a pin in it, and perhaps that’s because this man just is . He’s just so much more than anything else Loki has, which is why he lacks any kind of explanation. He just is , and that makes him so much more than anything else. 

He doesn't know why he got so close to Stark. He doesn’t know why Stark got so close to him. 

He doesn’t know why he wanted to be closer . 

“Humans are so fragile.” He muses aloud after a while. “Your physical strength is lousy at best, you heal slowly and get sick from even the slightest exposure, all the while your skin colors at the smallest bump.” Loki narrows his eyes at the broken flesh, mumbling the next part more to himself than anyone else. “It’s no wonder your life expectancy is so pathetic.” 

Stark snorts. “Are you insulting me or my species?” 

“It’s my understanding that the two aren't mutually exclusive.” 

The room is quiet for a minute while Stark sulks. Then, once he apparently could no longer hold back: “It isn’t pathetic .”  

“Stop complaining.” Loki glances at the frown on Stark's face. “I wasn’t calling you weak.” 

The mortal stares at him for a moment. “Do you seriously expect me to buy that?” 

“Of course not.” Loki bites his lip as it curls into a smirk. “I was being nice .” 

“Your idea of nice sounds a lot like my idea of bitchy.” 

Loki gets the cut clean and dressed in about ten minutes. It could have gone by a lot faster had the mortal not insisted on being difficult the entire time, but they do get there in the end. 

After that they just sit there, side by side, with a lack of words to say. 

The first thing which comes to mind is the matter of Stark and his attempt to support Loki. It means a few things, the most surprising being that the human noticed something was off. There's a part of him that thinks such a conclusion can’t have been that difficult to come to after what happened the night before, but even so, this man does seem to have a strange ability to pick up on things. 

It’s unsettling. 

It’s unsettling, but it does something to his stomach that makes it all squirmy. It has him feeling as if he needs to act, yet won't tell him what exactly he needs to act on. 

He glances to his side in time to catch Stark doing the same, and falters before he can fix the mistake.  

“Why must you continue to act like I’m not ok?” He asks, the words slipping out without him meaning them to. 

Stark doesn’t blink - doesn’t avert his gaze. “Why are you pretending to be?” 

His heart stutters. 

Damn Stark and his perceptiveness. 

Loki looks away, glaring down at the loose thread in his pants. He picks at it absently, the act of ignoring a gaze burning into the side of his face a lot easier with something to focus on. It also helps to hide the tremble in his hands. 

He knows this human is different, but what is the likelihood he’d ever accept something like this? That he could ever stand to be around something so… 

Loki can’t expect anything of anyone else, because he can barely stand being around himself . 

“I’m not pretending to be anything.” He mutters - Lies. “And I’m certainly not struggling.” 

Stark scoffs. “That pissy attitude of yours says otherwise.” 

Loki grits his teeth. 

The thing is, he does want to confide in someone. Just… he would also rather die than accept what the blue means, because that would make it true. Which it can’t be. If it is then everything will fall apart, because Loki won't be able to hold it together any longer. 

“I need you to go now.” He decides out loud, ducking his head to avoid the humans' scrutiny. 

“Are you serious?” He sits up a little straighter. “That was clearly a joke.“

“I am aware.” He sighs. “It’s… I’m tired, Stark.” 

“Yeah, so we’ve established.” He rolls his eyes, but Loki doesn’t miss the smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t seem to miss anything about this man anymore. 

Why is it that he feels guilt, of all things? 

Stark gets up and heads to the door, turning back to cast a concerned look at Loki. “Enjoy your beauty sleep, princess.”

Chapter Text

Loki dreams of ice. 

He dreams of storms. Of being small and powerless. Of being cast out. 

He dreams of something warm and gold. It chases away the fear. It chases away the frost on his skin. It offers him warmth. 

He dreams of a place he hates. He dreams of a time where it was all that existed to him. He dreams of leaving it. He dreams of finding a place to call home. 

He dreams until he wakes up, drenched in a cold sweat, trying to shake those lies from his head. Because they are. They’re all lies . 

He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up. 

“Human? What brings you here?” 

Tony has to blink a few times when the door opens to 190 cm of blonde hair and muscle, having been expecting quite the opposite.

He looks over his shoulder at the hall and then back at Thor, pointing between the two. “Did I take a wrong turn?” 

Thor shakes his head, leaning against the door frame. “I assume it’s my brother you seek?” 

“No, actually, I was looking for The Hulk.“ Tony says sarcastically, only briefly thinking of Banner. God, he really misses talking science with that man. “You seen him? Big guy, really great at rearranging the structure of buildings.” 

Thor snorts, shaking his head. “I am not sure who it is you speak of, mortal. But should it happen to be of any interest to you, Loki is in the shower.” His eyes dart to Tony’s jaw. “Nice haircut.” 

Tony bites his lip, reaching up to scratch at the newly bare flesh of his cheek. It’s been bothering him ever since he shaved it. 

He’s had the goatee for years now, so the sudden absence is equivalent to going without pants. Even so, he’d decided that it was getting a little ridiculous. He looks a good twenty years younger than he actually is, and the facial hair simply doesn’t do so well with his false youth. Call it a decision born from insomnia and a lack of things to do, but he thought he may as well just go all the way and finish off the look. 

He is now well and truly his younger self - all except for the arc reactor, which now more than ever is reminding him his past will always be melded to his person. 

“Great. Thanks.” He looks past Thor's shoulder to see into the room. The sight of the couch brings back memories from a few nights ago, and only briefly does he run his fingers over the scab on his palm. “What are you even doing here? Having a playdate with your little bro?” 

“No. We were having a…” Thor clears his throat, eyes darting to the bathroom door and narrowing slightly. “...chat.” 

“A chat?” He parrots, swearing up and down that the blonde looked grim for a moment. “Through the bathroom door?” 

“The chat took place before the shower.” Thor says with a chuckle. “He disappeared there after I pissed him off too much.” 

He snorts. “Yeah, I gathered as much.” 

Tony stares at the bathroom door for a moment. Behind that door is Loki… having a shower. He doesn’t quite know how to feel. The presence of Loki’s very strong older brother stops that train of thought before it can head anywhere uncomfortable. 

“So… “ He picks at a loose thread in his jeans, feigning nonchalance. “Loki’s been a little scarce recently, hasn’t he?” 

He’s pretty sure Thor's ears prick up. 

“You’ve been missing him?” The blonde grins, and it gives the smaller man a sick feeling that he’s getting the wrong idea. 

“Wha - “ Tony’s words fail him as he adjusts. “ That's what you took from it? I was just making conversation.” 

Thor goes quiet for a moment, staring so hard at Tony he’s almost worried the god is seeing into his soul. 

“Are you concerned for my brother?” 

“Oh for - Do you really need me to deny it again ?” 

“If you must. But it won’t convince me, human.” 

He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. It only makes him look more tired. Thor is the complete opposite, looking positively energized at the chance to pounce on the Loki topic Tony so foolishly offered up. 

“You can not deny that the two of you are close.” The blonde crosses his arms. 

“I barely know him.” 

Thor nods, hair falling around his face. He pushes it back. “My point exactly, human.” 

“I don't think you have a point, blondie.” Tony grumbles, scratching at his face again. “What you have is a painfully irritating notion that your brother and I are somehow involved.” 

“And you, my dear friend, are in denial.” He chuckles. “It’s unhealthy.” 

Tony rolls his eyes. Again. He can hear Pepper saying it’ll give him a headache and JARVIS actually giving him one by backing her up. 

He can also hear the part of him that sees rationality in anything he’d rather ignore, and can’t help but wonder if Thor might have a little, tiny bit of a point. Tony does spend an unhealthy amount of time thinking about Loki. He finds himself seeking out the prince, and loses sleep over that damn god’s mental health. 

But all of that can be justified. He has good fucking reason to be this involved. He’s doing it to save himself from another dose of crushing guilt and failure. If he just so happens to enjoy being around Loki… well, then maybe that’s the universe finally giving him the break he deserves. 

He sighs. “Yes, point break, I don’t necessarily hate being around your little brother.” Thor grins and Tony wants to hit him. “But nothing more.” 

“Oh, I think we both know that isn’t true.” Thor smirks, leaning in like he’s got a naughty secret to share. 

“Wipe that grin off your face before I deal with it myself.” 

Before Tony can do anything of the sort, the bathroom door swings open. Loki walks out in nothing but a pair of pants. 

Loki. No shirt. Damp from the shower. 

Thor ceases to exist. He’s just fucking gone from Tony’s realm of awareness the moment he lays eyes on Loki’s bare chest. 

This is revenge, all right. Revenge for that fucking night on the balcony. 

Tony has never ogled this hard in his life. Not at a woman, not at anyone. 

The prince is slim, sure. But he’s lean and fit and fucking perfect. His skin is still damp from the shower, a few stray drops running down from his hair and over the planes of his chest. They make Tony wish he were closer, because then he could brush them away - use the water as an excuse to make contact. 

His gaze drops lower, soaking in Loki’s abs and waist, trailing down his front to where his smooth skin disappears under the waistband of his pants. 

It’s not fair, really. No, it’s just plain diabolic. Never has Tony experienced something so torturous. His heart is having a full blown tantrum, turning his brain to mush over how devastating it is to see this without being able to reach out and touch . 

Oh god. He’s going insane. 

“You were saying, mortal?” Thor whispers in his ear. 

Tony swats him on the shoulder with a glare. “Shut up.” 

“Stark?” Comes the puzzled, and only partially flustered question from across the room. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

Tony’s neck almost snaps with how quickly he looks over at the younger god, who - yep, is still very shirtless. 

“Hello to you too.” He manages to keep the rasp out of his voice. Not that it would matter much at this point anyway. He hasn’t exactly been subtle. 

Loki’s gaze lingers on Tony’s clean face before he turns around to head for his draws. Tony breathes a sigh of relief at being able to think straight… for about three seconds before he discovers that the god’s back is just as attractive. 

Thor is the one to yank Tony back to reality with a mumble of ‘I’ll leave you two be,’ as he walks out the door. 

“I assume you want something?” Comes a muffled question from across the room. 

He gives up on keeping to the doorway and heads over, stopping behind the prince to peer over his shoulder at the neatly folded shirts within the open draw. He shoves his hands into his pockets, not at all certain they’ll stay there. “I could just be here to say hi.” And enjoy the view . 

Loki snorts. “I am not stupid, mortal.” 

Tony finds himself looking down at the small of Loki’s back, not catching himself soon enough to prevent it. “I never said you were stupid.” He murmurs, and okay, this time his voice was a little husky. 

Loki touched him when offered the chance, would it really be so bad for Tony to do the same? To run his fingers along the nape of his neck, between his shoulder blades and down along his spine. To place his hand at the small of Loki’s back, trace the tips of his fingers along the waistband of his pants, feeling him shiver at - 

“I can feel you staring, human.” 

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Loki turns around, bringing them a little too close for comfort. Tony looks up with an innocent expression, hoping his eyes don’t betray him. 

“Are all humans this terrible at subtlety?” 

He huffs. “Are all god's this narcissistic?” 

“I don’t need to be.” 

“But you are.” 

“And you’re not?” 

Tony grins, wanting the upper hand back. “Oh, no. I definitely am.” He brings a hand up to poke Loki square in the chest, and he swears to god that his heart has a fucking seizure. “You’re just better at it.” 

Loki frowns down at him, eyes capturing Tony’s and refusing to let go. He spares a little smirk at the knowledge he’s getting to the prince, forgetting to snatch his hand away from the other's chest. It lingers there, slipping under his radar while he’s preoccupied with being smug. 

It only lasts a few seconds. One moment he’s basking in Loki’s glare, the next he’s trying to remember where exactly he went wrong in life, and why he does this to himself. 

Tony almost chokes when Loki grabs him by the chin, forcefully turning his head to better observe. Slender fingers keep him trapped, and he can’t help but notice how the firmness of the grip belies their grace. They command his jaw to the side, better exposing the expanse of his freshly bared face. 

“Uhh… excuse me? Personal space?” 

“I do hope you realise how hypocritical it is of you to make that point.” Loki mumbles, tipping Tony’s head a little more to the right. 

Tony’’s eyebrows are hiding in his hairline, shocked there out of surprise. While he may look a little idiotic, the real problem here is his eyes, because they keep desperately trying to focus on the mouth across from them. Keeping them locked elsewhere is like wrestling an angry crocodile, except the result of failing this would be far more humiliating. 

Oh, he is so, so fucked. 

“Your shaving skills are awful.” 

“Thanks, I’m glad you noticed.” He grumbles with a pointed glare. “It looks fine.” 

“That may be, but you also have three cuts.” The god presses his thumb to a spot where the razor broke skin, and Tony swallows unevenly. “Clumsy fool.” 

There are a few options in his head of where to go next. 

One of them is to slap something - preferably the man evaluating his ability to shave. The next is to pull away and regain the ability to breathe properly. The last is to finish what they started a few nights ago, and discover what it would be like to close that infuriating little gap between them. 

He really hates that last one. 

As much as he tries to remind himself of the 2012 Loki, or even his objective to fix things, his mind - the stubborn piece of shit it’s proving to be - just convinces the rest of him that this is much better than the original thought. 

On top of that, the panic of being so undeniably attracted to a man is starting to catch up with him. It took a fucking while, hobbling along behind while the denial properly wore off, but now it’s hitting in full force. He can forget about never feeling this way for an enemy before, he’s never even felt this way towards another guy before. 

The confusion takes a physical toll, presenting clearly in his voice when he speaks. 

“Is this gonna last much longer?” He rasps. 

The prince is apparently too engrossed to answer. His pale features have pulled into a slight frown, while his fingers are gradually tightening their hold, thumb still pressed to the small scab. It's warm and cold at the same time, although Tony is pretty sure the former is his own fault. The god’s hands are unfairly cool, but they leave behind little sparks of heat to torment him. 

He jolts forwards when the hand abruptly retracts. 

Loki looks away just as quickly, consulting the fabric in his draw. “It would do you good to take more care.” 

A very dumbfounded Tony Stark rubs a hand over his own jaw, although none of that lingering spark seems to wipe away. “I’m sorry, but am I missing something here?” 

“Just be sure not to cut yourself like that in the future.” He grumbles as if the words bring him immense discomfort. Then, as if remembering something, he asks. “Why is it that you’re here?” 

“Well, I thought I was here to request a translator, but apparently I’m here to be insulted.” 

“You want me to translate something?” 

Tony nods, glancing around the room as Loki picks a shirt and tugs it on. “Yep.” 

The god looks over at him, raising an eyebrow. “And what, pray tell, might it be?” 

Loki sighs and turns his gaze to the open pages. Tony follows suit, finding that the odd symbols are easier to make sense of than his own emotions. 

“So… where should we start?” 

Tony might be regretting this decision. See, he’d set out this morning with the intention to learn about Jotunheim. It seemed like the logical plan of action. Everyone has been making such a fuss over the place, and he knows fuck all about it. The thing is, now that he’s settled on the library couch next to Loki, he’s realising that this may not have been thought through quite so well. 

He’d forgotten to consider his own new and bat-shit-crazy urges, which are currently making it very hard to sit still, and keep his hands to himself. 

Tony Stark isn’t a coward, but he sure as hell isn’t above making a last ditch attempt at escaping. 

“You know what?” He starts, chuckling nervously around his rushed words. “I really don't want to trouble you with this. Why don't we just do it another - “ 

“Are you avoiding me?” 

Tony stops short. It’s an unfortunate thing to do halfway through hauling himself off the couch, because his balance is thrown completely off and he has to catch himself on the coffee table to avoid eating carpet. 

“What?” 

“You asked me the same thing only a few days ago.” Loki grabs him by the back of his collar and pulls him back onto the couch. If Tony weren't busy freaking out over what to say, he probably would have commented. “Now I’m asking you.” 

He bats away the lingering hand and straightens his collar, albeit not very well. “What makes you think I’m avoiding you?” 

“You never seem to care about bothering me - just what works best for you. Hence my suspicion.” 

“Gee, I’m not that self centred. I have my moments.” 

Loki rolls his eyes, clearly dissatisfied with the answers he’s been given. “Then what, pray tell, is the issue with me reading this for you? Keeping in mind, you're the one who dragged me here.” 

Tony, who still doesn't have even the slightest hint of an excuse right now, scoffs. Then he clears his throat. Fuck, he’s stupid. 

“If you’re done sulking, I’d like to get this over with.” 

Tony glares at Loki for a good few seconds before crossing his arms and sinking back into the pillows. But, you know, just to make it clear he wasn’t being completely cooperative or anything, he mimics Loki’s last sentence in a high pitched voice. 

Some would say he’s childish. He likes to say he’s extremely immature. 

“Oh for heaven's sake,” Loki sighs, picking up the book again. “You can’t be this surly while literally getting your way.” 

“Well, have you considered that this may not be what I want?” 

“Then what do you want?” 

“ For things to go my way .” He groans, his annoyance only a little exaggerated. 

The god, looking somewhat amused, flips past the first couple of pages before stopping at a suitable point. Tony abandons his resolve to sulk for the next half hour, slides closer to get a look at the pages alongside the other man, being a total hypocrite and breaching any form of personal space. 

Loki tenses and pulls away slightly, scrunching his nose up at the brunette. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Trying to cop a feel.” He says dryly, grabbing Loki’s wrist and pulling both his hands and the book back into place. 

“You can not understand any of this.” The prince brushes over the sarcasm, although his neck looks a little pink and he’s impersonating a tetanus patient. “What’s the point of staring blankly?” 

“To feel like I’m actually doing something here.” Tony shrugs. “Besides, if I can follow along with your voice and the letters, I might be able to figure this out.” 

Loki sighs. “You are incredibly difficult.” 

“Yes, but people put up with me because I’m pretty and I can pay them.” 

“You’re not paying me.” 

“So I guess you’re here for the former.” 

Loki frowns and Tony gets a really weird urge to pinch his cheeks. 

“I’m here because we had a deal.” 

Tony taps the open book. “Get to it, then.” 

The god shoots him one last glare of disapproval and gets to it. 

He follows along as Loki reads aloud. Well, he’s trying to follow along - it’s a little complicated when he actually has no idea if he’s even looking in the correct place. 

After a while, he starts to notice himself losing focus on reading, and instead on the sound of the other man's voice. Clear and carefully paced, free of snark and sarcasm - or any actual emotion in general. Loki’s voice wraps around his head like a blanket, almost hypnotic in the way it draws him in. 

He speaks of blue skin and red eyes, of ice forming within the palm of one's hand, and of a species that many can only classify as monstrous. He speaks of a species hell bent on domination, of a power so unspeakable it wiped out thousands. 

Tony learns a shit load. Like, really, a lot. He sits there like the good student he's pretending to be, soaking in whatever information offered like a sponge. He categorises it in his head, filing away little bits of information he thinks might be relevant to different things. Almost all of it is worth remembering. 

It's a fucking wonder how far they get without a disruption. A solid fifteen minutes of uninterrupted reading passes without the atmosphere breaking. At what he assumes was the ten minute mark, Tony had picked up on the gradually increasing edge to Loki's tone, and is well prepared when the god finally slams the book down on his lap and turns to snap at him. 

“Oh, for the love of - would you stop that ?” 

Tony looks up, blinking innocently. “Stop what?” 

“ Breathing .” 

“You mean die?” 

“I’m sure that could be arranged, but in the meantime I request that you stop breathing on me .” 

Tony leans back a bit, narrowing his eyes. “I am not.” 

“Yes, you are.” Loki grumbles, turning the page with a little too much force and tearing the corner. “Because you insisted on sitting so close. It’s irritatingly loud.” 

“Oh, well if that's the case, let me just put it on pause.” 

The god glares, and Tony gets a shiver very similar to the one he did that time Sif threatened him. 

“It’s distracting.” He hisses. 

“So is your face, but you don’t hear me asking you to make it less pretty, do you?” Tony almost laughs at how Loki’s eyes widen that little bit, but it would ruin the whole frustrated act he’s got going on. 

“Just move, human.” 

He doesn't. He sits there, leaning a little closer just to let the god stew. He can’t help the heat stirring within him. He can't help the way it influences his actions. All he can do is deny the shit out of it meaning anything. 

Tony makes bad decisions sometimes. Really, really bad decisions. Leaning in close to Loki’s neck and blowing a hot breath of air directly across his skin… Well, that one comes with both pros and cons. 

The pro is the gods reaction, because really that shade of red is just down right delicious on him. The con is that Tony is a weak man, and he happens to love delicious things. So, what else is he supposed to feel than an overwhelming urge to sink his fucking teeth in? 

Loki doesn’t look like he’d be opposed to that right now. 

When Tony meets his eyes, the god of mischief looks like he’s either on the edge of committing murder, or doing something a little more intimate, but just as drastic. 

Oh, fuck. Tony wants the latter. He wants it so much that all thoughts of 2012 shoot right out the side of his head. They try waving at him, warning him that he’s being an idiot, but he can’t even see them at this point. He’s too far gone. Too far away. Too absolutely swept up in everything and anything that is Loki , that is this beautiful young man, that nothing of any rational origin exists in his desire addled brain. 

‘You want him.’

Tony can’t find it in himself to disagree. 

The mortal could not have picked a worse subject to question. 

Loki leaves the library that night feeling terrible. He doesn’t remember the walk back to his room. He’s on auto pilot when he opens the door, walks in, locking it behind himself. All he knows is a boiling fear in the pit of his stomach, a nausea that he can’t escape, and the overwhelming desire to disappear. 

It’s all fresh in his mind. The history, the crimes, the war. The monsters who committed feats so disgusting that they don't deserve a place within the nine realms. Claws and fangs and horns and teeth and ice and blood and his skin turning blue, blue, blue, and never going back. 

Stark left satisfied with his new knowledge. Loki felt no such emotion. 

That human has no idea. He has no idea what he was sitting with, what he was talking to, who he was looking at with such heat that Loki almost forgot about the cold. Almost forgot that he could never let himself - that he can’t - 

Loki stops, pinching the bridge of his nose and pressing his forehead to the wall. 

He remembers Jotunheim too clearly. That god forsaken trip, that stupid adventure Thor took them on, it ruined everything. It visits him in his dreams, taunts him from the back of his mind. He fears sleep. He resents the time where he must succumb to those images, the time he must submerge himself in fears he can not navigate. Yet he still does, every night. Because he has to. Because sleep is necessary. Because despite everything, he’s painfully, horribly curious. 

His grip on denial is slowly fading, he realises. He can not keep this charade up much longer. 

He thinks of them more and more. Wonders how they manage to live with themselves, since it is far beyond him. He couldn’t. It would destroy him. 

It is destroying him. 

‘I’m not one of them.” he tells himself, and it’s the first time he’s let that fear actually take the form of words, let it slip past the denial. “I am not one of them. I can’t be.” 

He looks down at his hands. He opens them. He closes them. He wonders if they’re his. He wonders, he wonders, he wonders. 

And then he realises. 

He has to know. He has to know before it kills him.

Frigga loves both her sons equally. 

She loves her husband too. 

But sometimes, all three of them can be incredibly foolish. 

It took a great amount of convincing to prevent Odin from brutally punishing their boys. While Frigga agrees that their actions were misguided, she also believes that they are young, and they are reckless, but that is a part of life. 

Banishing Thor at this point in time would do no good for anyone. 

The way she sees it, keeping the truth from two incredibly curious young men can only lead to disaster. She has stressed this point many times to Odin, but he never relents on the matter. Whether it’s because he wants to protect them, or because he’s afraid, she has yet to decide. All she can do is provide the voice of reason, and hope that he values her words. 

Another matter she feels must be paid great attention to is that of the young mortal, Anthony Stark. She has yet to meet him, but is aware that both her sons have taken a great liking to him. Although, she has a suspicion that as with most things, the way in which they feel towards him is vastly different. 

She wonders if Odin is aware of just how much time they’ve all been spending around one another. 

“So they have agreed to leave the matter be?” She questions, raising her head and returning from a place of deep thought. 

Odin nods, although his aura is far too grim for any of this to be good news. 

“There’s something I’m missing. An advantage they must possess.” 

“Or perhaps they are aware that their chances of beating Asgard in battle are far too slim to risk.” She offers, laying a gentle hand on his arm. 

“While that assumption holds truth, it does not sit right with me.” The allfather’s already creased forehead crumples in on itself even further. “It is unlike Laufey to let things slide.” 

Frigga nods her head. She hopes her hypothesis might prove to be correct, but she has known Odin for a very long time, and when it comes to matters such as this, he is very rarely wrong. 

“So what do you propose should be done?” 

He shakes his head. “It is unwise for me to make a decision without all the facts.” 

“Are we safe in the meantime?” She asks, and to her, it’s the most important question. Things are delicate, and war at this time would surely tear their family apart. 

“I believe so.” He turns his head to look at her. “Although, Heimdel will be keeping a close eye on the people of Jotunheim until I can be sure.” 

She nods, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek as she stands to leave him in peace. He has a lot of thinking to do, and her being here will only serve as a distraction. 

When she makes it to the door, she turns one last time to say: 

“Do not lose too much sleep over this. We still need you to think straight if this is all going to work out.” 

He doesn’t answer, but the slight nod of his head is enough for her to know that he will at least try. 

After leaving Odin, Frigga walks through the empty halls. She enjoys the peace of night time, especially with how it compares to the atmosphere of day. Of course, she loves both equally, (the life of Asguard and its people have always been something to treasure,) but at times, when things become stressful, she finds solace in the stillness offered by their moon. 

She, apparently, is not the only one to feel this way. 

Up ahead, on a balcony, she catches sight of a man sitting on the floor. He is dressed in strange garments, and seems to be grumbling at something in his lap. Hoping she isn’t interrupting anything private, she sticks her head through the door, observing quietly. 

Oh, she thinks, so this is Anthony Stark. 

Frigga clears her throat, and the young man jumps, hopping to his feet with the attitude of a startled deer. 

When his eyes meet hers he deflates, letting out a breath and running his fingers through tousled brown locks. 

“Jesus, lady. I almost jumped over the fucking rail.” He grumbles, bending down to pick up the thing previously in his lap, which turns out to be a book. 

“My apologies.” He bows her head, allowing herself to chuckle at his vocabulary. “It was not my intention to startle you.” 

He blinks a few times, clearly not too sure what to make of her. She finds it incredibly amusing, most treat her like royalty, whereas this man hasn't the faintest idea of her status. Although, according to her husband, him knowing she is a queen likely wouldn't change much of how he behaves. 

“Nah, that’s alright.” He scratches at his cheek, shooting a weary glance her way. “Am I not meant to be here or something? Because if that’s what you're gonna say, then ‘sure, I am so sorry about that, just give me a second and I’ll relocate. You just go on ahead.’” He says with a dismissive flap of his hand, making it clear he has no intention of doing any such thing. 

Frigga has to appreciate, just for a moment, how difficult Odin would find dealing with this man. Loyal as she is, it’s impossible not to find it amusing. 

She takes a step forward, taking a seat on the balcony chair. “I’m sure you would, but fortunately I’m not here to usher you away.” She watches intently as he shrugs and flicks through the book again. “You have been asked to move yourself before?” 

He looks up. “Yeah. By a few guards. Although it’s generally after I open my mouth.” He snickers. “Just think of it like having a stray cat. I go where I want, but I come back for the food.” 

And the company , she adds internally, suppressing a little smile. 

“May I ask what you’re doing?” Frigga folds her hands neatly on her lap. 

“Meditating.” Anthony says sarcastically, snapping the book shut. “It’s supposed to be good for you, or something.” He gestures to the side of his head, making a face that tells her very clearly what he actually thinks. 

“Oh? I wasn't aware that meditation involved having an argument with a book about Midguard.” 

Frigga points to the volume in his grip, and he follows her gaze. She assumes that his cursing was to do with not being able to decipher its contents, why he was persisting anyway is the confusing part. 

He huffs, looking at it like a safe he’s been denied access to. “Would you believe me if I said I was trying to figure out what year it is?” 

“I would, actually.” 

He gives her another odd look. “You - ahh, wouldn’t happen to know, would you?” 

She shakes her head. “Unfortunately I am unfamiliar with the Midguardian date.” 

His shoulders sag slightly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

Anthony sinks down into the chair beside her with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. The exhaustion seeping from his limbs is not one someone of his age should bear. She can not help but worry for the man, wondering what he’s seen, and why it still affects him. 

“What is troubling you, child?” 

He glances at her. Frigga can see he’s cautious, that he isn't used to opening up. 

“Just tonight? Because if you're asking for my daily list of hardships, then you’re in for a long ride.” 

She gives him a warm smile. “How about we start with the present?” 

He nods, looking out at the stars. Really looking. “Homesick, I guess.” 

She hums in understanding. “I can not imagine what it must be like, staying in a realm worlds away from your own.”

“Great. Thank you for summarising my pain.” Anthony grumbles, resting his cheek in hand, elbow lent on the armrest of the chair. 

His sulking is amusing. She understands why her sons are so fond of him. 

“Again, that was not my intention.” 

“No shi - “ He stops short, looking up at her with a little bit of sincerity before sighing. “Yeah, I know.” 

Frigga observes him for a moment, then she speaks once more. “Would you like to talk about it?” 

They lock eyes once again. He looks uncomfortable, and she expects him to say no. Which, she won’t mind. Loki is quite similar with his resistance to being vulnerable, and it’s only on very rare occasions that she can coax him into sharing those secret parts of his life with her. She makes sure never to take it personally, because these are young men, and of course they won't share everything with their mother, but she believes it to be incredibly important that she tries anyway, offers them the chance to vent. 

“Okay.” 

She does a silent double take, finding that the words did indeed come from young Stark, and he is there, waiting for her to reply. 

“I am listening.” 

It takes him a while to get going. At first most of what he says is sarcastic, lacking any kind of emotion. Frigga knows it to be a defence mechanism, a way to hide from the discomfort he finds in being unsure of how to string his emotions together as words. But eventually, the jokes become less frequent, and she finds herself listening to stories of the people he misses, most frequently a woman he claims owns his business, and a man he explains is his closest friend. He also speaks of a team, making it clear that while he is not the leader, he is indeed the one that makes them look cool. 

Half the time, she isn’t quite sure what he’s talking about. Even so, she lets him ramble, gradually feeling the atmosphere lighten as he offloads a portion of the weight he’s been carting around.

Chapter Text

“Brother?” 

“Thor, it is the middle of the night. There better be someone dying, because if there isn’t and you come in here, there will be.” Loki grumbles, the muffled words spoken into his pillow. 

Thor smiles to himself, shielded by the darkness he wears like a cloak. He likes visiting Loki at night, simply because the younger man lets him get away with more. 

All Thor can see of his surroundings are dark silhouettes. Shapes are perceived in their most basic form, edges softened by the fragile caress of moonlight. Although reality is solid around him, and when he stubs his toe on the corner of a table it still hurts like a bitch, everything seems less real. More detached. There is a certain illusion, one promising that anything said or done in this moment isn’t permanent. Not like it would be beneath the sun’s unforgiving gaze. 

Thor’s actions, the sounds that may fall from his lips, will only be swept away by the gentle current of the night. Everything is softer, because everything is at rest. The world has calmed, and with darkness comes a strange quiet that all are afraid to disrupt. It casts the illusion that consequences are fewer. 

Thor does not like it because he is afraid of regrets - he likes it because his brother is more willing to tolerate him. 

Loki’s sharp words and pointy edges are dulled at times such as this. That isn’t to say they disappear, just that when things seem a lot less real, it is easier for him to relax. He still hisses and spits out words custom crafted especially to sting, but doesn’t make moves to push Thor out. He has the bark, and lacks the bite. 

“Actually, someone is dying.” Thor whispers, approaching the bed despite Loki’s threat. 

The smaller man shifts instantly, spine snapping into a rod like consistency. Thor chuckles, and although he can not see his brother's face, he can picture it perfectly. 

“Well, not anyone we know,” He says, flopping down on the edge of the mattress without invitation. “But someone out there will be.” 

Loki’s groan is tired, rough with sleep and exasperation as he lays back down. “This is not the time.” 

“You have a better one in mind?” Thor asks, getting himself comfortable at the foot of the bed. 

“Never. Never is the better time.” 

He snorts and folds his arms behind his head. “Don’t be so impolite, brother. You should be more welcoming to your guests.” 

“If my guest wasn’t a mannerless brute then perhaps I might be more inclined to take that advice.” Loki snarls back, tugging the sheets until the older man lifts his head enough for them to be pulled up. “Especially when your visit is at such an unreasonable time.” 

Thor grins freely. “I had something to say.” 

“And it couldn’t possibly wait until morning?” 

“It could, but there is no time like the present.” 

“Based on that logic, I should stab you now instead of waiting for you to provoke me far enough.” 

He chuckles, sitting up and attempting to shuffle closer to the sheet draped lump of moodiness. He receives an unceremonious hand over his face, one that redirects him instead to land beside his little brother. 

“Absolutely not.” He hears the younger god mutter beside him. 

Thor laughs softly, remembering the days when Loki was but a child, and would seek him out on stormy nights. It might have been ironic - that the boy would hide from Thunder with the very person that embodied it - but neither child minded. Thor would hold him close, listening to the weak protests and stubborn denials of being scared. He did so without uttering a single teasing word, because he could feel it every time his brother flinched at a flash of lightning or deep rumble as it split open the sky. 

Now, it’s as if Loki doesn't need him at all. Thor wants to be close - has always needed to be - but in recent times, the unwanted space between them has grown. 

Thor has a few titles: God of Thunder, Prince of Asgard, Son of Odin. For him, the most important has always been ‘Brother.’ It’s the one that feels most real. He is a brother, no matter what might become of him. From the moment Loki was born, all the way past the end of time, Thor is, and always will be, his older brother. Nothing can change that. They may be very (times a hundred) different people, but nobody feels more like they belong at his side than Loki. He knows that through every bit of glory he’s destined for, Loki will be there with him. 

He will always be a brother, and he will always be endlessly proud of it. 

And as a brother, it is part of his duty to be nosy. It is also his job to worry when his already antisocial brother reaches a whole new level of avoidance - one he was previously unaware existed. 

It has been a week without Loki. A week. That’s seven days of no banter, and no poking fun. No bickering, or joking, or plotting, or reluctant smiles, and threats when Thor pushes him that little bit too far. No loitering around their little group, offering the occasional tease or exasperated comment. 

Just an unsettling absence. 

He has not been able to locate the god of Mischief in any of his usual spots. He even asked Stark, who had shrugged, informing him that he too was unsure. Although, the mortal did it with a concern that, in Thor’s eyes, definitely extends past platonic care. 

So, with no other leads to go on, this was his last resort. 

“Come on, brother.” Thor says, rolling over to face the smaller man’s back. “It is not like I have the plague.” 

“I’d rather you give me the plague than annoy me with your nonsensical chatter.” 

“This is neither nonsensical, nor a matter of simple chatter.” 

“Whatever it may be, it’s waking me up far too early, and you still have not told me why .” 

“I haven’t been able to find you during the daytime this past week.” Thor murmurs, grabbing one of the pillows and bringing it down to support his head. “This was my last resort.”  

They lapse into silence, a brief period Thor uses to count each of his brother’s breaths. 

“I know you have been avoiding me.” He speaks into the dark, hoping the words are delivered softly enough not to set Loki on guard. “You’ve been avoiding everyone.” 

Thor listens carefully for a response, only to realise that Loki is holding his breath. He finds himself waiting for the moment of relief with a similar tension. 

“Brother - “

“I have not been avoiding anyone.” 

Thor sighs, turning to lay on his back. He can not think of any reason for Loki to be so… off . As far as he knows, life is as it always has been. Nothing particularly burdensome has been happening as of late, and other than the Jotunheim incident, life has been rather dull. Loki has always been one to seek solitude every now and again, but this recent absence is excessive. 

Things are good. They always are when Thor has his little brother at his side. What could matter more than that? 

“Then why haven't I spoken to you in almost seven days?” He murmurs, voice taking on a steady tone as he attempts to guide them towards a more serious interaction. 

The bed shakes slightly as Loki shifts further away from him. The few centimetres are insignificant, but the distance Thor feels growing between them is jarring. 

“I have been busy.” 

“With?” 

“It has nothing to do with you.” 

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t tell me,” He mutters, wishing this was a problem he could solve with his fists. “Unless you have something to be ashamed of.” 

Loki shifts again, seeming more restless by the minute. “There is a little something called privacy. Acquaint yourself with it.” 

Thor loves Loki exactly as he is - would not change a thing about him. (Although, he wouldn’t necessarily complain if the man was less prone to stabbing him, but he supposes everyone has their flaws.) But in situations like this, Thor finds himself yearning for at least a little mercy. Because, despite what some may say, this is his version of making an effort. Things like this, pestering and barging in during the middle of the night, are how he shows his care. 

Unfortunately it isn’t getting him very far. 

Thor’s train of thought is cut off when he lets out a yawn. It doesn’t even bother to waste time creeping up on him, catching him by surprise as it takes over. 

“See? You too are tired.” Loki halfheartedly points out. “Get off my bed before you fall asleep, or I will be forced to cut off your hair while you are unconscious.” 

“But I am already comfortable here.” He shoots an innocent look at the back of his siblings head. “It would be rude of you to kick me out now.” 

“It was rude of you to enter in the first place.” 

Thor’s lips quirk upwards in a fond grin. He shuffles himself around once more, feeling more restless than usual at this time of night. “If you think about it, my being here is really your fault.” He pipes up. 

Loki responds with outrage almost instantly. “How, in all of the nine realms, is this my doing?” 

“Had you not avoided me, I would not have needed to disturb both of our slumbers in order to speak with you.” 

“That. Was. Your. Decision.” Loki bites out - and maybe it is time to go, Thor thinks, because as mentioned previously, this is a man who’s aptitude for stabbing his older sibling is well established. 

It may be a figment of imagination, but waves of tension are radiating off the smaller body. They collide with his skin, pushing and shoving in an attempt to move him off the bed. Usually he’d ignore it, brush them because they’re weak and he can , but tonight is different. Tonight he’s actually worried. 

He sighs, pushing himself into a sitting position. Moonlight trickles lazily through a gap in the curtains, reflecting off any reflective surface it meets. It isn’t enough to see the younger prince, not even when Thor turns his head and stares deeply into the dark, willing the dark shapes to morph into something his eyes can understand. Maybe even explain his brother. 

“Will you at least tell me what’s keeping you up?” Thor murmurs, his own bravado softened under the influence of peace. He is not immune to its effects.  

“Nothing.” Loki insists in a tone one might use on a very persistent five year old. “Now would you please get out ?” 

This time, he relents. Getting to his feet, giving Loki what he wants, Thor begins to head for the exit. When cold metal meets his skin, and the doorknob gives way beneath his palm, he stops. Feeling particularly reckless and unwilling to leave such a dark mood hanging over the place, Thor turns before reaching the door. Just one last shot. “Is it dreams of Stark?” 

“Out.” 

“What? There is nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“ Out .” 

“You are a grown man, brother. There’s no longer any need to be such a prude - “ 

Thor is cut off when the vengeant edge of a hardcover book hits him right between the eyes. He yelps in surprise as it drops to the floor, a grin spreading on his face despite the pain. 

“I warned you.” He hears Loki murmur from across the room, accompanied by the sound of sheets being yanked up. “Now leave. Unless you want to be here for when I get my hands on something pointier.” 

Deciding that indeed, he does not want to be present for that, Thor turns for the door. This time, he leaves. 

For everything Thor thinks he knows about his little brother, he misses what's most important. 

He doesn’t even realise it. 

Thor returns to Loki’s room in the morning. He pushes the door open and sticks his head inside, noticing instantly that the bed is empty. Stepping across the threshold, he looks around gingerly, announcing himself with a sheepish call of, “Brother?” 

Loki appears a second later, emerging from the bathroom fully clothed. Thor lets out a sigh of relief to see that his sibling is unarmed, but stays alert on account of the deadly glare that’s sent his way. 

“Haven’t you disturbed me enough recently?” He grumbles, heading over to the couch and taking a seat. “Or was costing me a night of sleep simply not sufficient?” 

Thor shakes his head and follows, planting himself out of arm’s reach. “Actually, I came to -” 

“Not a chance.” 

“But you have not even heard me out yet.” 

“And I do not plan to.” 

Thor huffs, setting his hammer down on the floor. “If it makes you feel any better, I am not here to propose one of my own Ideas.” 

Loki glares, crossing his arms. 

“Oh come now, do not look at me like that.” Thor pleads. “I only ever have good intentions at heart.” 

“What’s in your heart matters not. It’s what goes on in that messed up brain of yours that concerns me.” He turns away to shuffle around some loose trinkets on the coffee table. 

“I am here because a messenger arrived at my room this morning.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Father wants to speak with us.” 

“And why are you here telling me this, and not a messenger?” 

“I told him not to bother.” Thor grins, giving Loki’s shoulder a light nudge. “That way we can head there together.” 

Thor and Loki walk in silence. 

It doesn’t bother him that his little brother would prefer not to talk. In fact, it quite suits him at the moment. 

Thor loves the castle halls. He often walks through them when he can not find anything to occupy himself with - or when Loki is in a particularly foul mood and hanging around him becomes more of a hazard than it’s worth. 

The gold, which he knows Loki finds to be overbearing and painfully bright, Thor finds to be more on the warm side. Perhaps it is due to the difference in personality, or simply their opposite tastes, but the bright decor and intricately carved designs have always felt like home. The wide, open halls and the never ending staircases all feel perfect just as they are. If he was a book, asgard would be his select place on the shelf, the one where he fits right in. 

Although, when they do arrive at the large doors to the throne room, a sense of dread does seem to darken the atmosphere. But this he knows to be an effect of their circumstances, rather than the actual entrance itself. 

He discovers that being inside isn’t any better when the guards let them through, even with the high ceilings and the stunning carvings they wear. Nothing is bright enough to block out the sting of his fathers gaze. 

“My sons, you are late.” 

Neither prince answers, they simply cast each other a wary glance and take their places before the throne. 

When Thor looks up at the man before him, he doesn’t quite see his father. He sees a king, and he sees a man of power. 

“We have received word from Nidaviller,” He adjusts his posture, sitting up a little straighter, maintaining a tight grip on his staff. “Its people have requested I send forces to assist with a small group of raiders that have been troubling them periodically over the past few weeks.” He sighs. “I am temporarily revoking your confinement to Asgard, so that you may go and assist their people.” 

Upon getting the news that Odin was requesting their presence, a small flicker of hope had sparked within Thor, that perhaps their father had come around on the whole Jotunheim mishap. That hope just shriveled up and died. 

The next few minutes are a blur. Thor finds himself zoning out for a majority of the instructions they are given. It matters not. He can always count on Loki to be paying attention. It will cost him a harsh glare later, but he is going to have to rely on his younger brother to explain things afterwards. 

When the king finishes, Thor bows slightly, murmurs a robotic ‘yes, father,’ and turns on his heel to carry out the order. 

He was not expecting Loki to speak up. 

“Why?” 

Thor stops in his tracks and turns around, shooting his brother a sceptical look. It goes completely unnoticed. 

“Because I am telling you to.” 

There’s a moment where all is silent. Yet again, Loki is the one to disrupt it. 

“That’s it? You instruct us to do something and we should just obey like… like dogs?” Loki steps forwards, evidently not deterred by Odin’s steadily deepening displeasure. “We are your sons. We deserve to understand the reason behind the orders we carry out.” 

“Both of you betrayed me and committed an act of treason.” He growls, taking Thor right back to his childhood. “You have lost the privilege of having my trust.” 

Thor steps forwards, shoulder to shoulder with the younger prince. “Father, it was one mistake.” 

“A mistake which almost cost us the very peace that I have fought for years to bring us!” 

The blonde looks down, finding it easier to look at the floor - mostly because it doesn’t yell at him. 

He still finds it hard to deal with the disagreement between them. Thor is not used to being opposed to the Allfather’s decisions, but when it comes to how he dealt with Laufey and the Frost Giants… He has looked at it from a million different angles, and he can not seem to find a single one that allows him to agree. 

“How can you expect us to follow you blindly when you neglect to inform us as to why we must do so?”

Thor’s eyes almost bulge out of his head. He whips around to stare at his brother, requiring a moment to confirm that it is indeed Loki, and those words really came from his mouth. “Brother - “ 

“Shut up.” He hisses, turning on Thor with the speed of a viper. “I do not need you to mess things up any further than you already have.” 

Thor clenches his fists, refusing to show how much the accusation stings. “Mess things up? I haven’t done anything to hurt you.” 

“Of course that’s what you believe. Because the god of thunder is incapable of doing anything wrong.” 

“Do not put words in my mouth.” Thor growls, taking a threatening step forwards.

“Someone should. At least then you might manage to say something worthwhile.” Loki’s words drip with disdain. 

“You - “ 

“Enough!” 

Both boys stop, a lifetime of obedience tight around their necks. 

Odin stands, looking straight at Loki. 

Thor does not envy his little brother right now. 

“I am ashamed of you, Loki.” Odin spits, and being an older sibling, Thor does not miss Loki’s subtle flinch. “I am ashamed that you would speak out against me in such a childish way.” 

“You can not seriously - “ 

“I said enough .” 

Loki snaps his mouth shut. 

“Everything I do is for a reason, boy.” Odin’s voice is deadly. “You are not to question me.” 

Loki lets out a laugh. Not a lighthearted one, or even his signature cackle that follows a particularly successful prank. No, that… sound that just came out of his mouth, it was something else. It sends a chill right down Thor’s spine, spreading unease throughout his being, because this does not feel like his brother. 

“Contrary to what you may believe, father , I am not a tool that exists solely for your benefit.” The way Loki said father is all… it’s wrong. “As odd as it may sound to you, I do have my own opinion.” 

“It is not your place to voice it! As long as I am alive and breathing, you are to do as I say.” He snarls. If Thor didn’t have such an ironclad image of his father built from years of admiration, he’d register that this is the tone of a desperate man, not someone overcome with anger. “This behaviour will not be tolerated.” 

Loki scoffs, a deranged quality to the way he glares up at a person he is supposed to love. 

Then, without another word, he turns, leaving swiftly without so much as a glance in his older brother's direction. 

“Getting tired there, mortal?” 

“Nope.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“One hundred percent.” 

“Really? You look to be struggling.” 

“Does your mouth know how to stay closed?” 

Thor, the cheeky bastard he is, rests his chin comfortably on the hand not gripping Tony’s. “It does.” 

“You are dead meat. Smug - muscular - dead meat.” He grunts, the words strained with effort. Tony tries and fails again to move the blonde's hand. An inch. A single inch. That's all he's fucking asking for. 

The blonde shrugs, still not taking the victory he’s been entitled to since the moment they agreed on this stupid activity. 

Arm wrestling. What is wrong with Tony? He can not have been that bored. 

“Are you ready to yield?” 

“No need. I’ve got this.” 

“Sure looks like it.” 

“You are going down.” Tony promises, cursing the sweat beading at his brow. 

“If you say so.” Thor grins. “In the meantime, it's very amusing to watch you struggle.”

Tony is about to call Thor something no one else would dare to call someone of royalty. Before he can, Thor chuckles, pressing Tony's hand to the table and putting him out of his misery. 

“You just wasted a good portion of my life with that.” Tony grumbles, rubbing his wrist. Though his ego hurts more than anything else. 

“But it was such an enriching portion of mine.” The god says, leaning back in his chair with a stupid grin on his face. 

Tony drops both hands back on the table. “You owe me for that.”

“It is my understanding that the loser is usually the one indebted to the winner.”

“You lost those privileges the moment you decided to be a giant ass.”

Thor thinks for a moment, blatantly trying to come up with something clever. “I could give you tips on how to court my brother?” 

“And I could strip off all my clothes and do the macarena.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “There's a million different dumb things we could do. Lucky for the both of us, there's this little thing called common sense to put a stop to it.”

“So, you're not the least bit interested?” 

“Not even a little bit, cupid.” 

Thor looks down at Tony with a contemplative expression. “He could use some cheering up.”

“And why is that my responsibility?” The chair creeks as Tony rocks backwards, lifting the two front legs from the ground. “You’re his brother.” 

“Exactly.” Thor leans both elbows on the table. “You are far better suited for the task of lightening his mood. I only agitate him.” 

Tony sighs, hating that Thor has a point. So what if the task of cheering Loki up doesn’t sound in the least bit bad? That doesn’t mean shit. 

It certainly doesn’t mean what Mr. Matchmaker over here thinks it does. 

Yeah, because that would be too crazy. 

“So… why does he need cheering up?” Tony asks, trying his best to sound casual and not in the least bit obsessed. 

Thor raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it. “Our father is still displeased with us. Ever since the Jotunheim incident he… Well, he has been refusing to speak with Loki and I.” 

“Huh?” 

“We have not been allowed to appear before our father.” 

“So… what? He’s locked himself away in his throne room to sulk and polish all his gold.” 

“More like the last time we went to try and speak with him he told us it would be wise not to bother him. Well, at least until yesterday.” Thor’s gaze falls to the table, looking rather gloomy. “He… was particularly hard on Loki.” 

“How so?” 

“Yesterday, me and Loki were called to speak with our father.” Thor leans forward, his tone taking on a serious edge. “It was… less than successful.” 

Tony leans forward in his chair, deciding that now is a good time to take things seriously. 

“My brother has always been skilled at remaining calm in front of our father. It is sometimes unsettling how well he manages to trick his way out of things. But this time, he… he said some things that he should not have. It is unlike him to react in such a reckless manner, which is partly why I think Odin reacted so harshly.” 

“Tell me about it.” He requests, even as a hint of dread works its way into his system. 

Thor does. He speaks, and Tony listens, understanding more and more with each moment just how warranted that dread was. 

By the end of it, he’s seeing red, and just about ready to commit murder. 

Odin knows that Loki is fragile. He knows that things go downhill. So why is he so fucking determined to screw it up? 

Tony is frustrated, and nervous, and feeling particularly reckless. The feeling like something is about to go terribly, stupidly wrong has been eating away at him for days now, and to be really, completely honest, he just wants someone to yell at. 

Still, it isn’t like he has no reason. Tony has had enough of this shit. If Odin doesn’t want to hear about the future, then fine. But Tony is not about to stand by and watch as the King makes stupid mistakes. 

“I… I need to go, blondie.” Tony says, rubbing a hand over his face, already heading for the door. 

He doesn’t stop to listen to Thor’s questions. No, he just runs, right down the hall. He has a bone to pick, and he doesn’t care how many flights of stairs he has to sprint up, he’s not stopping until he gets it out. 

There’s a bird on the windowsill. 

It watches him with beady eyes, tracking each and every movement he makes. Every breath, every shift, every time so much as blinks. Such scrutiny is impolite, but how might one go about informing a raven of its breach in social cues? 

Loki decides to leave it, no matter how uncomfortable the feathered spectator might make him. He attempts to solve the problem by looking in another direction. 

He can still feel its gaze on him. 

The tired god lets out a sigh and leans his head back against the wall, sagging slightly. The weight of paranoia has sapped all his energy, leaving nothing but an overwhelming desire to slip down onto the floor and curl up into a ball of self pity. Yet, even in the solitude of this small room, he can’t bear the thought of being reduced to such a vulnerable position. 

Loki sighs, glancing around himself. He half hopes that the walls will suddenly develop eyes, as at least then he’d be able to explain the scratchy sensation at the back of his neck. They don’t - much to his dismay - which leaves the discomfort to simmer hotter beneath his skin. The lack of sleep doesn’t help, and he’s inclined to think that his exhaustion induced haze is half to blame for this twitchy mood. 

This theory, (rather unfortunately,) brings Loki to the unfortunate events of two nights ago. 

Thor hadn’t actually woken him up - in fact, he’d stumbled in on a silence so suffocating that Loki had been almost grateful for the distraction. In the end, the god of Thunder just filled the uncomfortable atmosphere with chatter and wildly inaccurate speculations. In a way, having that distraction was a comfort. It chased away everything else for a while, even if his response was to grumble and snap for the older man to leave. 

Of course he wasn’t about to give any answers, as the blonde would never understand. He’s the golden boy. He can’t even perceive a world where their father could willingly do any wrong. 

Loki is not going to waste his breath on fruitless explanations, not when there’s too much risk, not when Thor won’t get it . 

No. He’s fine. He can deal with this alone. 

He doesn’t need anyone. 

Loki looks back out the window and finds the bird is still there. It cocks its little head to the side in something comically akin to question, ruffling its feathers with the wind. He scoffs to himself, wondering what cruel part of the universe sent this dull creature to mock him. 

He chews on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood the moment his teeth sink in. The taste is foul and metallic, bitter on his tongue, but he savours the sting all the same. The flesh has been tender for days, raw from his constant gnawing. Call it a nervous tick, call it an outlet for his unease, he doesn’t care. All he knows is that it gives him something to focus on, something that isn’t the twitch in his fingers and the beats his heart has become so prone to skipping. It takes his mind off a feeling he’s reluctant to name - mostly because it doesn’t deserve one. Not when it is so pathetic. Not when a part of him insists that it’s fear. 

No. He isn’t scared. That’s not what this feeling is. A god shouldn’t get scared. He cannot be shaken so easily. Not by his stupid brother, or a sassy mortal. Not even by a planet of ice, or his own skin turning blue, or this godforsaken bird and its beady little eyes, and the way the walls won’t admit they’re watching him he knows they are . 

A shrill squawk cuts through the air, and Loki is ashamed that it makes him flinch. 

He glares out the window. “Don’t.” 

The pest just ruffles its feathers, blinks a few times, and then lets out another loud cry. 

“Shut up!” He hisses, banging his hand against the wall with a sudden burst of rage. It comes from nowhere, and before he realises it, there’s an all consuming urge to open the window and snap the damn things neck. 

Now that would be a satisfying sound. 

Loki shakes his head, pressing it against the wall as he tries to take a deep breath. 

This is driving him insane. 

Loki takes a step back from the window, his teeth clenched so hard he hears them creak. His fingers shake as he raises them to his hair, dragging them through the dark locks, tugging slightly on the strands. 

Living in the dark like this is killing him. 

Tony storms into the throne room with reckless abandon, his usual lack of regard for manners set firmly in place. The guards at the door didn’t even try to stop him this time - probably because by now, they're aware that beyond snarky comments and terrible language choices, he doesn’t pose much threat. 

Sir knows-it-all is sat up in his mighty chair, not looking the faintest bit pleased to see his mortal guest. Tony could give about a million reasons as to why it makes him proud to irritate this man, but all the fucking secrecy pretty much covers enough. 

“Stark? What is the meaning - “

“Shut up, old man. I’m doing the talking this time.” He snaps, barrelling on like a madman. Odin might have the fancy seat and the pointy stick, but Tony has a lack of sleep and a shitty sense of self preservation to propel him forwards. Beat that. 

The king's eyes widen, and Tony catches the way his fist tightens on the staff. If he plans to use it, the hope is that it won’t be in a manner that puts his talking out of commission. At this point nothing short of ripping his tongue out is gonna deter him. 

“Who out of us made the effort to storm in here, huh?” He jabs a finger at himself, trying not to choke each time he wheezes. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t you.” 

“I strongly advise that you calm down - “

“Oh, I’m calm!” Tony shouts, although he gets the feeling his crazed tone pretty much neutralised that claim. “I am perfect right now. You’re the one that needs to - the one that should take a chill pill right now, you old bastard.” 

The king frowns again, and if it weren’t for the sweat stinging his eyes, Tony might question whether that last comment was an intelligent decision. 

God, did exercise always hurt this much? 

He plants his hands on his thighs and leans over, panting hard. “Okay, yeah. Maybe - maybe I should sit down for a bit.” He flops to the ground, chest heaving with irritation after being forced to endure a sprint up god knows how many stairs. “But we are not finished here.” 

Odin’s sigh echoes through the room. “I assumed so.” 

He takes a minute to lay there on his back, counting the black spots that float into his vision. As he struggles to stop panting, he swears to whatever might be bothered to listen that after this he will start exercising properly again. He also curses his young body a little, just because he hates to take the full blame for anything. 

Once he can safely sit up without a fear of - well, dying, - he does. Then he drags himself to his feet. He isn’t surprised to find that Odin hasn’t moved one bit, but is a little disturbed by the dark look in his eyes. Yeesh, that had to have been tough to grow up with. 

“Explain yourself.” 

Tony takes a breath, his determination to not screw this up warring with his instinct to insult. When he lets himself hope for the latter, an entire separate war is waged over deciding which to root for. 

“I wanna know something, and you’re gonna tell me the truth.” 

Odin’s posture never wavers. “I owe you nothing, mortal. You are in no position to request anything from me.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did it sound like I was asking?” He snaps. 

“I suggest you hold your tongue.” 

“Hold my tongue?” He repeats. “ Hold my tongue ?” 

He feels like laughing. 

“There is clearly something going on with him.” Tony spits, furious beyond comprehension. He’s not even sure why. “I don’t know if you’re blind or just stupid, but this isn’t just something to ignore.” 

“You do not know him better than I, human. This is what’s best - “ 

“You said you didn’t want to hear about my future because it would change how you saw him, remember? You said that you didn’t want to treat him like he’d done something wrong until he had. So why are you being so hard on him?!” 

“Careful with your accusations. I am not the one going back on my original claims.” 

“I beg your privileged pardon?” 

“You were bitter, suspicious, and even had the nerve to suggest Loki might already have evil intentions. Now, you can’t seem to keep yourself away from him.” Odin narrows his eyes. “What changed, mortal? What has made you so protective?” 

Odin’s words hit the right spot, making Tony falter. 

He doesn’t want to show this man any weakness. Doesn't want to give him the chance to see inside. Doesn't want him to have a poke around at all the shit Tony hasn’t had time to sort out. 

He can’t afford anyone knowing just how much he does care. 

“Excuse me for trying to stop the creation of a mass murderer.” He spits, attempting to seal any breaches in his defence. “Here I was thinking it was a good thing.” 

“If preserving future lives is truly your top priority, then how could you be so foolish as to not inform me, not think it wise to seek guidance while mere boys were plotting an adventure to Jotunheim behind my back?” 

“Oh, so now this is my fault?” 

“You knew the consequences, yet you chose to - “ 

“Stop right there, old man. I didn’t choose to let anything happen. Do you seriously think I could have stopped them even if I’d wanted to?” He takes a step forward. “Hell, it seems like you can barely control those two.” 

“And you claim that you want to prevent your future, yet you stand by and watch as Loki ventures back into the very place I rescued him from.” 

Time stops. 

All sound retreats, leaving nothing but a dull static in Tony’s ears. Odin’s words echo within his skull. They play over and over again, taunting him with a truth so vile his spine wants to curl in on itself. 

Tony swallows, his hand frozen mid gesture. “I’m sorry, what ?” 

“If you truly desire to forge a better outcome for this time, then how could you possibly think it beneficial for Loki to be anywhere near that place? The risk of him finding out about his origins is far too great.” 

Tony’s jaw feels like it has dropped right off his face. 

“Loki’s from Jotunheim ?” 

Odin, for once, actually looks surprised. 

“You were not aware of this?” 

Tony doesn't even want to know how he should handle this situation. “Hell no!” 

Odin leans forward in his throne, almost as if he thinks getting a better look at Tony will make things less complicated. “You made it clear from the start that you were aware of his adoption.” 

“Yeah, but I didn't know he was a completely different species! I just thought it was some kind of Moses situation!” Tony scrambles for words. “Like, you found him on the street or something - not that you stole him from your enemy!” 

“I did not steal him.” He sags in his chair, running a hand over his face in defeat. “I found Loki in Jotunheim when he was an infant. Had I abandoned him, he would have died.” 

Tony stares at the old man, and sees a father who grieves, because he’s been forced to speak words that no parent wants to. Has just had to admit that his son is not his own. 

If he feels any sorrow for the king, Tony completely ignores it. Pity can come later, when he isn’t searching for the source of his unease. It’s a nice show, really. Bravo to the old man and all, but there’s something else. He knows because when it comes to information, especially information people don’t want him to have, a little alarm goes off in his head. Kinda like a metal detector. Or maybe he just has the gift of being able to sniff this shit out like a bloodhound. 

So he does what he can and thinks about it. 

This is a man who plans every action. He weighs every outcome, and considers every consequence. This king ponders any possibility he thinks might be remotely possible, and finds a way to ensure he chooses the one that benefits his cause. He is purposeful in everything he does. 

Tony knows people like this, and he knows that nothing they do is impulsive. There is always, always a reason. 

“No. There's something you're not telling me here.” He starts slowly, figuring this out aloud. “I’ve seen reality, and it’s shit. People don't just do things out of the kindness of their hearts, especially not when they’re in positions of power. You had a motive, you had a reason to keep him.” 

“Loki was a child. He was innocent. I had no reason to punish him for the actions of his parents - “ 

“But you did have a reason to keep him.” 

“Loki is my son, and I love him.” 

“I’m not saying you don’t care now !” Tony yells, barely able to catch his breath around his own desperation. “I’m saying that back then, when he was nothing more than a lump of flesh to you, there had to have been a reason you kept him. A reason that you would risk everything to have one of his kind under your own roof!”

“You have no right to insult me like this, mortal.” 

“And you have no right to lie to your son!” He gestures wildly. “Or boss me around, but we can circle back to that later.” 

Odin looks upon Tony like a bitter tasting meal he’s being forced to eat. “None of this has anything to do with you.” 

“Yes, it does. And you know why? Because your crappy parenting is going to be the reason hundreds of people die.” That was harsh and Tony knows it. Funny thing is, he doesnt fucking care. This bastard needs a reality check and he needs it now. “So if you don’t tell me right now why all of this shit started, I swear to god I am going to do something so stupid that actually saying something real is going to look pretty damn appealing in comparison.” 

Tony locks eyes with the other man. He meant every word he just said. At this point, with everything falling apart, he is just about ready to put it all on the line. Odin can see it. In those old, wise eyes, he recognises the behavior of a desperate man. Tony promises silently, to himself and to Loki, that he won’t stop until he fixes this. 

“Loki is the son of King Laufey.” Odin finally says, like this truth is something he never thought he’d admit. Tony can see that it pains him. “At the time, I thought that if it ever became necessary in the future, I could use Loki for bargaining, to join our two worlds. Perhaps even find peace.” He looks down, wearing an expression of shame you wouldn’t expect to find on a king. “But I moved on from that long ago. Loki is my son .” 

And there it is. 

“Fuck.” He breathes, running a hand through his hair and looking up at the heavens, asking what kind of fucked up plot twist he’s stumbled into. Really, he should be looking down, because let’s be honest here, this shit is straight out of hell. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” 

Odin nods, looking grim. 

The air leaves his chest like he’s been punched in the gut. 

It’s too much. He can’t - he doesn't know where he would even start with this. Loki’s a frost giant, and that’s the secret. That’s the big turning point, the event that drove him over the edge. 

He goes back a few days, thinking about how odd Loki has been since the Jotunheim trip. All those pesky little things that won’t quite form into something understandable, but have been hinting at something off all the same. 

Loki’s been isolating himself. He’s been hiding away, avoiding contact as much as he can. 

That first fight they had, right after Odin pulled the princes from the Bifrost, Loki was freaking out. Tony remembers every second of that interaction. Loki was irrational, and he was scared, and he was prepared to fight. 

He was also missing a vambrace. 

There was something about the way he’d looked at his own limb. 

Tony thought it was fear at the time. Looking back now, he realises how wrong he was. 

Loki was looking at his arm like he didn't recognise it. 

Like it was foreign. 

Like it wasn’t his. 

Feeling like he could be sick, Tony bolts from the room, not bothering to explain a thing. 

Each step he takes is an admission. 

Every tiny inch closer destroys a piece of his denial, because he can’t have this curiosity without question - without a reason to believe he must use it in the first place. He despises that this little spark of doubt has managed to defeat him. He should never have let it push him to this point. He should have been stronger. 

But he isn't, is he? He’s weak. He let his doubt take over, let this pathetic notion consume him. It has manipulated him from inside , where he can not reach to drag it out. His own thoughts have turned against him. They are uncaring in their betrayal, just is the very world that drove him to this point. 

Loki can not find a reason to stop, but his reason to continue is even further out of reach. Whether that makes it more enticing or not, he is unsure. In a world where he used to find endless amounts of certainty - where his father once shared stories of a race so violent, he finds doubt with every breath he takes. 

There was a time when he felt complete, and so sure of who he was, that the very question never so much as presented itself. Anything that came from his mouth had to be right - every word, every order, every tale. There was a time when he could trust his father, because all he could see when he looked up at the man was wisdom, warmth . It wrapped around him, vowing that as long as he was backed up by his father, he was in the right. 

Loki never knew what to call this sensation, but basked in it all the same. 

It was ignorance, Loki knows now. It was ignorance, and it was utter bliss. It was the most wonderful thing to be able to cling to every last thing his father said, believing it to be true. He had such faith, such adoration for the king, and he bet his life on it time and time again. He let himself be dangled over the edge with nothing but Odin’s promises as support, and he did so without fear. This was his father, who would never let his son fall. 

Now, Loki hangs with a tremble in his hands, as the carefully woven truths feel unsteady. He relies on them, puts so much on the line for them, but no longer has ignorance to shield him. He no longer feels safe with his life. Every time he is forced to act on his fathers wishes, he doubts. 

Loki, the fool who has never known any better, can only watch as his security breaks at the seams. The horror of it all is if they shatter, if they fall apart, he will too. Then he’ll know that his father, a man who should love him unconditionally, has abandoned him. 

He shudders, stalling. There it is. The casket. 

If he does this, it means betraying his father. Perhaps not in a straightforward sense, but to the King, and to Loki as well, this is an act against his will. He is taking something into his hands, something he has no right to touch, with the possibility to uncover something he was never intended to. 

He can’t help but feel bitter that to the Allfather, harbouring uncertainty is an act of treason. 

But how did Odin earn his trust? What has he ever done to prove himself? 

Loki has. His worth, his devotion has been proven time and time again. Yet Odin still hoards his secrets. It used to be enough that The Allfather was wise. Now he isn't so sure. 

The innocent admiration had masked everything else. 

It was precious. 

It was foolish. 

It no longer exists. 

The world around him matters not. He’s in a daze, further questioning his own identity with each shuddering breath, swearing that somehow, in some way, the air is getting colder. And it does, he knows it. The casket watches him, its gaze pricking his skin and pulling him closer, dragging him towards the ugly truth without ever needing the ability to move. 

Loki has done everything for his father. 

So, when his hands close around the artifact, when he makes contact with an object so evil it holds his full attention, he does it for himself. 

He does it because he hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in days. 

He does it because he keeps forgetting how to breathe. 

He does it because living in Thor’s shadow has worn him down. 

He does it because his father doesn’t love him like he once believed. 

He does it because he wants to know, after all these years, who he is. 

He does it because he has stupid, ridiculous feelings for a human. A man who, despite all his flaws, is someone that Loki could never hope to be worthy of. 

Worthy. 

He hates that word. 

That word hates him. 

Thoughts weigh heavy on his shoulders, tearing at the threads of his sanity with cold, dead hands. He lets it happen, doing nothing but watch as blue consumes his hands, crawls up his arms, corrupting what he thought was his body. But no - because that too, was just an illusion. 

It seeps into his skin, foreign and wrong and intrusive as it settles in. It seems to think it belongs there, seems to think it knows him. His blood turns to ice within his veins, attacking from the inside as it pumps though his body. The is inside, he thinks, where it can not be reached. It is inside him, where no matter what he does, how hard he tries to exterminate it, he can not. Because it’s a part of him. Because to destroy it would be to destroy him too. 

He feels the cold reach his face. It caresses his cheeks, bleeds into his eyes, tickles the back of his throat. It claims every inch of him that it can, eager to experience freedom after being so painfully starved of it. 

It flows to the very core of his existence, screaming and cackling and mocking him the whole way, giddy as it shreds the lies his entire life was built upon, leaving nothing but the ugly, rotten truth. 

Then, once the cold has had it’s full, he lets go. 

Loki stands there, empty and shivering. 

When he reaches up and swipes at his cheek, his fingers come away wet. 

He isn’t sure when he started crying. 

Tony’s entire body is on fire. His muscles protest with every step he takes, screaming for him to at least slow down. He doesn’t listen. He just keeps going, because right now, Loki matters a hell of a lot more than the ability to breathe. 

He rounds a corner at full speed and skids, almost ramming right into the wall. Tony manages to catch himself just short of a concussion, and doesn’t even wait for his balance to return before bolting down the next stretch of hallway. 

For once, fate must be on his side, because the next time he turns a corner he runs smack into the very person he’s looking for. 

“Loki,” He gasps, grabbing onto the taller man to prevent them both from taking a tumble. “Fuck. You - I just ran up a million flights of stairs.” 

A slender hand covers his, prying it away. It sends a shiver down his spine, because the touch is cold.

“Later, mortal.” Loki murmurs. 

Tony takes a step back, looking up to find Loki’s eyes disturbingly empty. He shakes his head, still panting hard. “Not an option.” 

The atmosphere darkens, the gods eyebrows drawing into a frown. “Get out of my way.” 

A chill runs down Tony’s spine, teasing his nerves with a cruel sting. Blue meets brown, hostility in the former prompting determination in the second. 

“No.” 

Loki’s jaw clenches as he takes a step forwards, intending to go past him and down the hall. Tony steps to the side and into his way, never once breaking eye contact. 

Something is really, really wrong. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him this, because he can see it written all over Loki’s face, and he can feel it in the repressed panic that flows off of him in waves. It’s all he needs to guess that whatever happened before he got here was not okay, and the thought turns his stomach inside out with discomfort. 

Tension is building with each passing second. Actually, it’s been brewing not only in the past few minutes, but over the last few weeks. It has been there, simmering and scorching, now ready to burst free and inflict absolute mayhem. 

Tony can barely breathe - which is inconvenient because to finally say all the shit clogged up in his throat, he first needs to suck air into his lungs. Especially when Loki turns around to try and walk the other way. 

“Stop. Just - “ He reaches out, fingers barely managing to hook themselves into Loki’s sleeve. They do, though, and once he's got that precious little grip he doesn’t intend to let go. 

He spins Loki back around to face him like they’re engaged in some sort of dance, albeit a very stiff one with sneers and growls rather than tender touches and music. There are no words for the prince’s eyes right now, instead an army of different emotions that all launch themselves right out of those blue depths. They stab into Tony's skin ruthlessly, tearing at the mortal flesh on his bones. 

It reminds him that he may very well be fighting a losing battle. 

Loki parts his lips to speak but Tony jumps to get there first, afraid of what might happen if he's not the one to lead. The sooner he lets the other man speak, the sooner he has to face whatever painful reality is currently twisted around that beautiful throat. 

“Don’t. Just - fuck, stop glaring at me and listen.” 

Loki does the opposite, his eyebrows meeting in the middle to push and shove at one another. “Listen?” He spits, “Who do you think you are to demand my attention?” 

Tony lets out a disbelieving huff. “Who do I think I am?” He steps closer, his fingers digging into the god’s forearm in a much stronger grip. It’s overkill and he knows it, but he’s scared - terrified, actually - that any moment, this young man might just be swallowed whole by the darkness lurking in wait for the moment he feels enough pain to let it in. 

The fear is crippling. A large parasite that clings to his very soul. It releases toxins into his mind, leaching energy off his desperate reactions and frantic attempts to keep Loki close . As if it will make any difference. As if him being near might actually offer comfort. As if he might be able to fend off the ever threatening promise of the man from 2012. Yeah, his emotionally awkward attempts are sure to work this out. 

Loki doesn't even flinch as nails dig into his forearm. In fact, he steps closer. He closes that maddening gap that’s been taunting Tony ever since he started to notice how appealing the god’s lips were, shrinking it down until the infuriating space is nothing more than a few centimetres. It's bittersweet, seeing as the infinitesimal space still does irreversible damage to his sanity. 

“Unhand me, Stark.” He hisses, and oh, it’s bad that such a murderous whisper turns him on. Therapy may have been worth the hassle when he had the chance. “Unhand me before I demonstrate just how weak you mortals really are.” 

In what way? He almost asks, because right now he’s ninety nine percent sure that he’d very literally drop to his knees if this man asked. Funny to think that when Loki did ask him to kneel, his reaction was one of disgust. 

Tony momentarily forgets how to work his tongue, wondering why English is so hard to execute under pressure. “Sure, knock yourself out.” He snaps, letting the anger take over simply because it masks his fear. “But it won’t change shit, because this conversation is happening . I don’t care if I have to do it with three extra holes in my body.” 

Breathing the same air as Loki burns. It actually, physically burns . The very force of his anger turns up the temperature of their surroundings, and Tony can feel his resolve threatening to cower and melt away. 

Shame he’s too stubborn to listen to every instinct he possesses, choosing instead to stay put. 

“You are a foolish man.” 

“Lucky for you, otherwise I might not still be here.” 

“This might come as a surprise to you, but I do not want you here.” Loki snarls. 

“That’s because you’re being stroppy , not because you’re being logical .” 

He frowns. “I am always logical.” 

Tony grips him tighter, and a shameful, desperate part of his brian urges him to squeeze tighter, all the way until he breaks that pale skin. To grasp until his fingers are embedded deep within Loki’s arm, because then he definitely wouldn’t be able to slip away and out of reach. 

Instead he just takes a deep breath, pushing past all of the intrusive thoughts and shutting them down with fresh air. “Loki, please just shut your mouth.” He rasps, which is big, because he barely ever associates himself with that word. 

The prince glares down at him. A cat ready to pounce. A man ready to fight. “Back off, Stark.” He hisses, spinning again to try and leave. 

“Not till you talk to me like a civilised person.” Tony insists, voice breaking and fuck fuck fuck, he’s falling apart. “I know you’re freaking out, okay? Believe me, I’ve been there. I’m there right now. This is shit, all of this is shit, but I need you to stop for just one fucking moment and listen .”  

Loki lets out a harsh cackle. “You are not worth listening to, mortal. So unless you fancy dying in the very near future, fuck off.” 

Tony spares a moment to register that this is the first time he’s ever heard Loki swear, before shaking his head. 

Apparently Loki was being very serious about the death threat, because all of a sudden there’s a knife in his hand, and that knife is at Tony’s throat. 

He lets go of the god instantly, stumbling back a few steps until the wall stops him. Then he’s stuck, trapped between a rock and a crazy man wielding a pointy object. His heart goes ballistic, pounding against his ribcage in the hopes to get his attention and stop him from doing anything that might result in a puncture wound. He attempts to control his breath, but his lungs don’t agree, and instead see it fit to shudder with each inhale. 

Tony lifts his hands in what he hopes is a calming gesture. 

Judging by the murder burning in Loki’s eyes, it was not. 

“I warned you, Stark.” He hisses, pressing the sharp edge harder against his skin. It serves as a reminder of what he’s capable of. 

Tony swallows hard. The movement of his adams apple against the blade is what draws a thin bead of blood. “Okay. Okay, I get it.” He blurts, struggling to talk without further cutting himself. “Could you please put the knife away? Some of us aren’t into this kind of thing.” 

Loki’s hold doesn’t waver in the slightest. Tony actually has to avert his gaze, because the blend of emotions swarming in the god’s is too much to bear. 

“You are a fool.” The prince growls. 

“And you aren’t?” Tony winces as a little more blood trickles down his throat. “Because from where I’m standing, it just looks like you’re a brat who can’t even shove down his pride long enough to talk to someone who cares.” 

“I could, but I simply don’t think you’re worth my time.” 

“Well too bad. Because you are worth mine .” He blurts, and god, what is wrong with him? Since when does Tony Stark say sappy shit like that? 

Loki pauses, his grip faltering slightly as he absorbs the words. Then, in a small and unexpected voice he breathes: “No, I am not.” 

The promise of death fades when slender fingers go slack and the dagger clatters to the floor. Tony takes a deep breath and brushes his thumb over the thin cut left behind. He looks briefly at the blood on his fingers before wiping it off on his shirt, glancing up to find that his attacker has backed a few steps away. He clears his throat and tugs on the hem of his shirt, less to straighten it out and more to occupy his hands with something other than trembling. 

After a moment to think, he lets his lips fall open in a murmur, speaking the words slowly, carefully, like they might break. “Yes. Yes you are.” 

Loki shoots him a glare, taking another measured step back. “Do not argue with me on this. You will not like the results.” 

“Oh, so now you get to decide what’s worth my attention?” Tony scoffs, running a hand through his hair and tugging helplessly at the strands. 

Loki’s gaze drops to the floor. “You might choose to ignore me, but it would be unwise.” 

“I know you think I’m an idiot, but I am capable of making my own judgments.“ 

The prince bristles. “Evidence would suggest otherwise.” 

“Don’t be such a brat about it.” 

Loki clamps his mouth shut and turns away, choosing to face the wall rather than the man across from him. 

There are a million things Tony could say right now. He could scream at the top of his lungs, make an absolute meal over how screwed up this is. He could also fall to his knees and beg for Loki to stay with him, to be here and be real and to calm down. He could leave, just run for the hills and never turn back, live with the guilt because maybe that would be better than living with this bottled up desire he harbours for a man so far beyond his reach. 

All of those options, and he simply lowers his head, clenching and unclenching his fists as he mumbles, “I don’t understand you.” 

Never would he have expected such an intense reaction. 

Loki spins back around with unprompted ferocity - as if Tony had just spat out the most vile of insults. His hair is wild, but nothing compared to the fire blazing in his eyes, a heat that is reflected in the flush of his cheeks. 

“Of course you don’t understand me - I don’t even understand myself!” He cries, the words ripping free from his throat so violently there can’t possibly be anything left. 

Tony is about to comment on the sudden outburst, but the air catches in his throat before the words can worm their way out. 

Why? Because that’s when he sees it. Tears, actual tears, shining in Loki’s eyes. They shimmer, teetering on the edge of his long lashes as they prepare to topple over the edge and slip down his cheeks. 

The sight does strange, devastating things to his heart. Things that, despite his best efforts, leak into his brain and wreak havoc, turning him into even more of a fool than he already is. 

He hates those tears. He hates them. He doesn’t want to see them drip down Loki’s cheeks, because then they really would be tears, and not just something that almost was. The moment they fall is the moment they become irreversible, and he needs to stop them before they do. 

He needs to stop them before they ruin everything. 

So, because he’s irrational, and because he’s desperate, and because nothing makes sense anymore, he grabs Loki by the collar and slams their lips together. 

There’s a moment, a split second when Loki goes completely rigid, and Tony expects to be shoved away. 

But then he’s kissing back, hands moving to clutch at Tony’s shoulders, pulling him close and destroying the last of his restraint. 

Tony groans, slipping his hands from Loki’s collar and into his hair. He grips at the soft strands, determined to mess the neatly brushed locks beyond repair. The prince responds with a small grunt, sweeping his tongue along Tony’s bottom lip before straight up pushing it in. 

The world spins and Tony stumbles back a few steps, suddenly unable to keep up with the other man. Tongues clash in a desperate, sloppy dance, attempting to taste more than possible in barely any time. It’s desperate, with frustration boiling in every touch and no room left for control. 

Loki’s hands are everywhere, grabbing and tugging and grasping at anything he can reach like his life depends on it, and fuck if that isn’t dangerous. He kisses like he’s dying. Like he’s desperate. Like somewhere in Tony’s mouth is the source of their shared longing, and reaching it with his tongue might relieve the pain. He surrenders gladly, ready and eager to relinquish whatever it is the god needs. 

Tingles of heat explode all over his body when he grips tighter, drawing a raspy noise from the prince that might just kill him. Nothing will ever be the same after this - he won’t ever be able to get over how devastatingly good Loki tastes. Exquisit and other worldly, a luxury that comes entirely from this man and this man alone. 

None of this is pretty. It’s a complete fucking mess - they are a complete fucking mess - and yet he’s high on the best fucking drug ever made. Only now does he realise that he’s addicted, because Loki’s the drug, and his lips are soft and pliant and warm. This stubborn, difficult, infuriating, beautiful, confused young man is breathing and he can feel it - right against his mouth as the god gasps. As he lets out a shuddering groan. 

It’s just about as good a sensation as he can get. 

Everything comes crashing back when the god moves to pull away, and Tony feels it like a punch to the gut. 

Oh no, not now. Not while he’s in control. 

“Don’t…” Tony trails off, letting his words hang in the air for a second while he adjusts his grip, getting one hand around to grip the back of Loki’s neck. “Don’t you dare.” He finishes, still close enough to swallow each breath that shudders from the other man’s mouth. 

Loki’s gaze meets his, and for a moment Tony worries he’s about to be shoved away. But then he sees the look in his eyes, sees the weight in them. He never thought blue could look so warm. 

Tony doesn’t need any more convincing. 

Using soft strands of black hair as leverage, he slots his lips back into place, right where they are begging to be. RIght where it feels like they belong. 

A broken noise breaks free from the other man’s lips, and in a moment of weakness, he melts. His fingers curl into Tony’s shirt like it’s the last thing keeping him tethered to reality, and he parts his lips willingly for the intrusion of a human tongue. 

Then, Tony dies. 

Either he has a seizure, or a stroke, or he just fucking ceases to exist - It doesn’t matter. All he knows is that something kills him, and then he’s dead. He’s gone from the world, lost and dying and dead and oh god , it feels amazing. 

His cause of death? The moment Loki parts his lips and lets a sinful whisper free, right against his mouth. 

“ Anthony .” 

He says it like a prayer. A prayer for death and a prayer for pleasure all at the same time. 

A prayer for Tony. A prayer for Tony and Tony alone. 

The words have the consistency of syrup - molten hot as they spill into Tony’s open mouth, slathering his tongue with a burning sweetness. 

He wants more. He wants so much more. 

Unfortunately, the universe says no. 

A sound rings out from down the hall. It’s probably an echo from far off - nothing that puts them in immediate danger of being caught, but it’s enough to snap both of them back to reality. 

Loki jolts back like he was burned. Cold air hits Tony in a wall, the sudden absence of a warm body pressed against his is absolutely jarring. 

For a few seconds, the god stands there, a look of panic and turmoil plastered on his face. 

Then Loki runs. 

He doesn’t stop him. 

Tony just stumbles in the other direction until his back hits the wall, breath still coming hard and fast. He sinks down to the floor, staring dumbly into the distance. 

“Fuck.”