FrostIron HeadCanon #209: Sometimes Tony and Loki just hold each other tightly while they lay down at bed at night. They both have their demons and their nightmares to fight and because they dislike talking about what keeps them up, the fact that there is comfort to be found in each other's arms with no words necessary is one of the many things they're thankful for, but would never admit to the other.
A/N: This drabble is short, almost painfully so, but I must admit I was rushed to get something out before November (and being sick on Halloween, what better time to publish another fic?). I'm participating in NaNoWriMo this year, so until 1 December, I will be focusing only on my own original fiction. To fyeahavengersandloki, I'm sorry I couldn't get your request out on time, I promise that it'll be the first thing I work on when NaNoWriMo ends.
He felt the knife dig into his flesh, carving the space for the magnet just above his heart. Almost breaking his ribs with the bolts. He tasted copper and salt, screaming in pain, praying to no one to save him, please let him live. He hurt, God he hurt. The unrelenting burning, and he just wanted it all to go away—
Tony awoke with a start, gasping for breath as he shot into a sitting position. For just a moment he thought he was back in that Godforsaken cave, forced to build his own weapons with scraps by the light of a weak fire and with only a week to live, carrying a salvaged car battery tucked underneath his arm. But then his mind registered the soft, silken sheets wrapped and tangled around his legs. A digital clock sat on his bedside table, broadcasting the time to close to seven in the morning; he remembered that hours before he'd asked JARVIS to tint the windows so he could sleep late.
And lying next to him, one hand wrapped gently around his wrist, was Loki. He didn't need the bright blue glow of his reactor to know he was staring at him in question, knowing from firsthand experience that asking Tony if he could help was a mistake. He also knew that Loki wasn't going to speak, wasn't going to ask him for a reason for his violent thrashing. Tony unwrapped the blankets from his legs and lay back down by Loki.
He didn't fight as he pulled him into a gentle embrace, tucking his head into his neck and being completely enfolded into the man's arms. Tony could feel sweat drying on his skin, his heart erratically beating. He sucked air into his lungs slowly and tried to calm his mind, to banish the adrenaline coursing through his body. Loki's hand moved slowly through his hair, the dark locks matted with sleep and sweat. He sighed and closed his eyes, placing a hand on the other man's ribs and persuading himself to fall asleep once more.
Loki didn't like to relive the months he was away from home. After falling into that black pit of the universe, he'd been through what humans only wish the word Hell fully described. No written word could encompass the tortures he'd experienced, how he'd been broken and remade, his mind twisted until even Thor's breathing somehow seemed insulting. Many nights, in dark silence, he heard his own screams, the memories of the pains inflicted upon him rising to attack his subconscious. He flailed and fought, trying to find a way out and beg for mercy.
And in these night terrors he heard a voice, shouting for him, telling him to wake up. It was Stark. It was always Stark, hands gripping his shoulders or arms or wrists glowing green with magic that he almost destroyed the roof with. The bright glowing blue of the reactor would blind him, and with the harsh headlight of his reality Loki could calm himself, the enchanted fire fading from his fingertips as Tony would move closer and pull him against his chest, always careful not to touch him with the cold metal in his skin, but Loki would remedy that anyway. He didn't cry (he was too proud), but he needed the other man's touch now. He refused to close his eyes again, afraid to see those horrid, gleaming mouths drooling with his blood. His vision was filled with bright blue, pulsating with the beating of his heart.
Tony's hand was rubbing slow, soothing circles between his shoulders. No words were spoken; no words were needed. Just that extreme warmth, the feeling of itchy calluses on his skin and the prickly stubble against his temple.