A/N: I watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and my stupid shit brain went 'make it gay. so here we are.
(although the only thing this story and the movie have in common is drugs and las vegas. *nervous chuckling* im already fucking it up)


Tony had been told in the past about the fear of Las Vegas— that this city will swallow you and spit you out along with its plastic-faced-neon-light backwash into the street with nothing but the desert pressing in from all sides and the fear.

"What, you folding big guy? Shame, I had a real good one right here. Would've knocked your socks off. Blow you away. What I mean is I had garbage. What's the matter darling? Learn to keep a straight face next time."

If Tony is feeling the fear then he's already drunk enough to drown it.

He throws his horrible hand back at the dealer and drags his chips in. No one looks happy at his winnings, neither the sweaty pink man who's balding way too early for his age or the skinny crack-addict who's lost her hair all together.

He's slumming it, for sure. This casino doesn't even have a pool. But, when you're in the middle of disappearing for a week you have to stay somewhat low. No matter how many sunshine-stained sunglasses or floral print shirts he wears, he's still Tony Fucking Stark.

He does this from time to time. Tells Pepper that it's all getting to him and that he's going to have an episode if he doesn't get away. So Pepper wrangles together a fake schedule so busy and so thick that no-one could get a hold of him. Then she'll book him a flight, burn the computer that paid for it and voilà, Tony Stark is working in California while polishing casino chip in Vegas.

Tony tries himself a little Blackjack. He counts the cards lazily and is kicked out within the hour for his trouble. They take his winnings and discard him onto the street like a dog.

Tony shakes off the humiliation cooly and walks almost immediately into a new joint, one with a pool. And would you look at the crowd! Red-faced fat men in suits and every colour of cheap blonde imaginable, all trying to look as noble as you can in a three star Vegas casino at two in the morning. For once in a very long time Tony is the most underdressed without being completely bare.

Blackjack goes much smoother here and by consequence gets boring much quicker. He takes his chances at the Roulette wheel instead, and that's where he meets the most interesting creature.

He's wearing sunglasses as well, only instead of Tony's orange lenses his are pitch black with no hope of seeing through them. His hair is swept back down to his shoulders where it sits in black, oily waves and his suit is cheaply made. Strangely beautiful and definitely up to something, with the way his fingers keep tapping against his thigh.

Tony can't resist. He saunters up to the Roulette table and watches the mans' ball spin around and around until it lands on unlucky number 13. The man hisses something under his breath and when he sees the hostess drag his chips away his hand trembles.

Tony slaps down a twenty. "Let's make it evens, yeah?" The hostess nods, converts his money and spins. Tony looks at the pale man standing next to him and tries a wink, but he's too focused on the spinning reds and blacks to pay any attention. When the wheel finally stops to give Tony a win, the man gives up altogether and storms off.

"What, not having fun anymore?" Tony calls after him. He watches him disappear into the crowd.

When Tony searches for a drink he finds the strange character again. He's slumped over the cherry red bar with a glass of vodka tonic with a single sad looking olive.

Tony slides up to him and calls for a champagne, not in the mood for hard liquor. His eyes slink up and down his neighbour. He's definitely gotten more pale—his skin now has a sickly gleam to it. That little tick hasn't gone away either—he's tapping the side of his glass like it'll summon him that luck he just hasn't gotten tonight.

"Rough night?"

The man flinches and looks up. He's lost his sunglasses and Tony's met with the most starling shade of green. "By god, it has eyes!" Maybe the man's had more than one glass already or just didn't find Tony funny (unlikely), but the only reaction he gets is a perturbed frown and the cold shoulder. Ouch. "That's okay, I haven't had my finest hour either. Last time I was in Las Vegas I got banned from pretty much all of Paradise, though, so this is a win in comparison."

"Stop…..talking to me," the man says quietly, staring at his drink. The olive bobbles, lonely.

"But you're such a stimulating conversationalist. Also, I'm buying you a drink. Don't want you losing any more of that three dollars you have left."

The man snarls something under his breath but doesn't move when another vodka tonic is placed in front of him. Tony takes a sip of his own drink. "Where you from? You're far too pale for Nevada. Northerner? Hmm…Maine? No? Illinois?"

The man straightens up. Maybe he's figured out that he can't just wish Tony away. "Do you take pride in being this irritating?"

Tony grins. "Well, it's not my worst trait."

"I can imagine."

He tilts his head. "You gotta name?"

"Yes."

"No need to be twisty."

The man takes a long drink. His expression varies between irritation, confusion and something darker, a terror in his eyes, a burden. Maybe he's getting the fear. The silence continues until he releases a breath and leans down again, running both hands through his hair. "Fuck. Fuck…."

Tony quirks a brow. "Mm. One of those nights?"

So quietly that he's not sure if he hears it next to him or in his own head, "If you knew you would be dead tomorrow what would you do?"

Tony frowns. The conversation he was driving so smoothly has suddenly been hijacked. "First off, I would order something much harder than vodka tonic. Why? You in trouble?"

The man rises and looks at him. "I'm Loki."

"Loki….." Tony tastes it in his mouth. "Perfect."

Loki frowns again. "You're famous."

Ah. A bit of the game is up.

He shrugs. "Not right now, not especially. Tony Stark." The more Loki stares the less annoyed he looks.

"Tony Stark…." he echoes.

"Hm? You a fan?"

"I could be."

Even if the guy is only interested now because of his status, it's the first time Loki's flirted back and that means one more step towards getting him into his hotel room.

"That so?" They stare off until Tony finally sees arousal slip into the dizzying green and dread of his eyes. He nods to Loki's drinks. "Finish those—I'm getting you something stronger."

"Who says I want something stronger?"

"Everyone. It tends to be the natural goal of man. And aren't you going to be dead tomorrow? Surely you have some sort of bucket list that involves devilishly handsome men in Vegas casinos."

Loki smiles. It curls across his face in the most attractive way and Tony has to clear his throat before he summons the bartender.

They talk about nothing for the next hour. It isn't so much a conversation then it is a competition, constantly trying to outwit and out-charm each other and Tony must admit, Loki was a formidable opponent, something he feels he hasn't had for a long time.

He never lets up, not even when Tony brings him back to his hotel room and has a fistful of his hair and a mouth on his throat. He grips those skinny hips until he's sure he sees bruises bloom and bites down until he hears the most delightful kittenish gasps and moans. In the end, for all it's worth, he's glad Loki lost at that Roulette wheel. He can taste the desperation on him.

When Tony wakes it's to the pleasant rumble and vibration of a car motor. At first he thinks he's in his garage in Malibu, but then he quickly catches up to his own memories.

Vegas, Blackjack, spinning reds and blacks and greens and purples upon pales

He keeps his eyes closed.

He wriggles his hands. They're bound. He wriggles his feet. Same story.

He presses his face down into the car seat and breaths in. Leather. He can feel the desert sun beating down on him through the window.

He takes a gamble and opens his eyes to a slit. It's mostly blur, but there's no mistaking that black hair and white and purple hands gripping the wheel.

Fucking prick. Fucking asshole.

Fucking idiot.

His brain clicks into survival mode. There's a gun on the passenger seat. He closes his eyes.

His hands are zip-tied. He doesn't worry about his feet for now. He knows how to break a zip-tie. Unfortunately the bitch has tied them behind his back. Breaking zip-ties from the rear is far more complicated and would cause too much attention. He needs to keep quiet. If Loki finds out he's awake it's over.

He feels the heat of the sun. Would it be hot enough? He's already sweating from being in this car for god knows how long. No, he decides. Melting a zip-tie is a loose theory at best and he needs to move fast.

He's going to have to slip out of them. Dislocating his thumb is something he can do, it all depends on how stupid Loki really is.

He tugs his hands. They're tied crossed over each other, tightly. Fuck. He starts by quietly manoeuvring them so they're pressed firmly together. Even this takes some time. Then he flexes.

For the next half-hour Tony remains docile, not making a sound, regulating his breathing as he flexes his wrists every two seconds. Finally, finally, he created enough room for one hand to slide out, but not without more work. Twisting and pulling his hand without grunting or even elevating his breathing is a challenge.

After another few minutes, at last, his hands are free.

Planning his next move proves troublesome. His feet are still bound, which limits both speed and movement. He could attack Loki head on, but the bastard still has the upper hand and could easily thwart him. He could go for the gun, but he doesn't trust his alcohol ridden heart and tied feet to move fast enough.

He finds a different target, and acts.

In one swift movement he springboards up from the back seat and hurls towards the gear stick. Ha! That'll teach Pepper the next time she calls him an old man. Loki barely has time to react before Tony's grabbing the gear stick, hoping to god that this car is an automatic, and pushes it as far as it will go.

The next few minutes are a blur. Tony hears the sickening crunch of his nose breaking on the dashboard and the pop of the airbags and the squeal of the car tires as the world spins and spins around him.

Somehow, Tony finds his mind quick enough to reach down and grab the gun. There's dust everywhere, billowing around the car and making it impossible to see. Suddenly there's an arm around his throat and Loki's ragged breathing in his ear. They struggle like this, both grunting and squirming until Tony bites down on his forearm and Loki releases him with a shout.

Tony gasps and wriggles out of the car and into the dust. He falls to the ground like a pathetic worm, and turns onto his back just in time to catch an armful of Loki tumbling after him.

"You fuck!" Loki snarls, and gets one punch to the face in before Tony swings the gun around to rest on Loki's forehead. The fighting stops.

Tony tastes the blood running down from his nose. It's takes him a long time to catch his breath and when he does he's still trembling.

"Get off me."

Loki looks at them with those mournful green eyes, alive with fury beyond comprehension. There's a gash on his forehead, finger-width, oozing red. Slowly, he slides off of him. Tony gestures to his feet. "Now untie me." Loki does so, in the same slow, simmering fashion.

Tony gets up and resists the urge to stretch. He keeps the gun to Loki's forehead and looks around.

The car has gone off road but not by much. There's an ugly black stain on the road where the tar has melted from the friction. Speaking of:

"This is a fucking ugly car."

Loki obviously wasn't expecting that. But it's true. It's an older build, 1990s maybe, and it is the most hideous shade of green imaginable. Not caring to await Loki's opinion, Tony presses the gun deeper into his skin. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Loki breathes and glares, nothing else. Tony's fine with that. He'll talk his fucking ear off. "Cos whatever it is you're doing a fucking bad job of it. Kidnapping? Really? Are you an idiot? Do you know who I fucking am?"

The silent game continues.

"You know what? I don't want you looking at me. Sit down, over there." He gestures vaguely to the north of the car. Loki turns slowly until the gun is at the back of his head, walks over and sits down. "If you even think of moving I'll know about it. I'm not in the mood to murder anyone today but I'll shoot a bitch in the leg."

Loki looks down at his forearm, decorated with the indents of Tony's teeth. "You bit me."

"Yeah well you didn't fucking complain last night!"

Still shaking with adrenalin, Tony searches the car. No water. No food. His phone was left in the hotel room and he can't find another one here. When he checks the boot he finds a gym bag full of drugs.

He looks at Loki squatting in the dirt, looks around at the desert stretching out in every which way, and then he feels the fear.