7

Introducing Loki to earth is like trying to impress a cat with a ball of yarn – a jungle cat, that is. You draw as close as you dare and spin out your yarn, carefully gauging the bright cat eyes and deceptive pose that give nothing away of its true feelings - and tell yourself you're fast enough to draw your hand away if it tries to bite you.

The problem is you never really know, can't really tell if said cat is going to find your ball of yarn as engaging from one day to the next. You'll never know if it seeks you out because it enjoys your company, or out of boredom, or simply to bid it's time to remove an eyeball so it could play with that instead.

Turns out he's a cat person. How 'bout that.

But then Tony's favourite breed of dog has always been Rottweiler.

~o0o0o~

'-because I still prefer the purple, and it does not taste the same.'

'You just want them to be different. All dragonfruit taste the same regardless of colour: they taste bland.'

'Your taste buds are a thing of tragedy, Man of Iron.'

'I have a name you know, and it's a lot easier to say than Man of Iron,' Tony grumbles at his houseguest over the sizzling of the grill.

'I shall call you what I deem suitable when I deem suitable.'

'I'm slaving over a hot stove for you here.'

'Considering that my preferred choice is 'squirming mortal worm-'

'Shucks, I bet you say that to all the pretty girls.'

'-one might say you'd already raised a sight higher in my regard than the vast majority of your species.'

'What's wrong wit-'

Loki waves a negligent hand, cutting him off. 'I shall tolerate your impatience this time, short-lived migardian, but let things take their course. We shall see what I call you when the time comes.'

'I think you brother said the same thing,' Tony smugly informs him, 'which makes you more alike in deed and stubbornness than you'd care to admit.'

Loki looks at him with dangerous eyes. 'I do not smite you where you stand, Tony Stark, only because you are presently engaged in the service of cooking me a cheeseburger.'

'Saved by the salami,' Tony grins.

'You are infantile,' Loki grouses, 'and far too enamoured of yourself.'

'Hullo, Kettle, nice to meet you too. And I happen to have the perfect excuse for my self-confidence, let me tell you; it's all becaus-'

'Because of you're surrounded by sycophants? '

'Because I'm Tonk Stark, and I'm masterful at this,' Tony crows as he tips patty over bun and hustles up the remaining condiments. 'Make way for my masterpiece: one cheeseburger a 'la Tony with the works.'

With a florish, the billionaire pushes the plate on which his juicy, perfect creation sat to the god of mischief. 'I tripled the cheese and onions in your honour m'lord. Dig in whilst its hot.'

'Hmm.'

His euphoria quickly dissipates when Loki continues to stare at it.

'Well?'

A knot makes its way onto the god's smooth forehead. 'It has an evil scent.'

'An evil what?'

Loki's expression as he regards the cheeseburger can only be interpreted as hostile.

'It looks like a dish made for revenge. '

'Cheeseburgers look evil? Oh. That's rich, Rudolph, considering the kind of gear you tote.'

'This is the appropriate look of something I would watch mine enemies eat when I force the charred flesh of their loved ones down their throats. I shall keep this idea for the future, Stark. You have my gratitude.'

Loki must be joking. Of course he's joking. Right? Right?

'Soooo, maybe a slightly less disgusting topic for the table- '

'Only the very base would fall with vigour upon the carcasses of dead animals and call it a feast,' Loki says fastidiously. 'Buffoons such as mine brother, for instance.'

Thus did Tony Stark come to discovers that the god of mischief is not overly found of meat because his brother loves it. Colour him surprised.

'Gwash, Reindeer Games, could you take that sibling rivalry any further?'

'Be careful there, Stark.'

Tony clears his throat. Alcohol. How could he forget that twelve o'clock is the perfect time for Olive Martinis – if only he - where did he last see that jar of olives?

'Could have told me earlier that your inclination leaned towards goat-feed, oh devious one.'

'The senses on your tongue will not sharpen on a piece of dead flesh, Man of Iron.'

'Gross, Silvertongue, I'll have you know that this is 100% kobe beef steak.'

'You just want them to be different. All dead flesh taste the same; of putrefaction.'

'Oh clever, right back at me. I think my eyebrows just got singed off. You know we have a saying here; don't bite the hand that feeds you, cos the hand that feeds you hangs on to the Olive Martinis-'

'Feeds-' Loki's face grow from outrage to all-out crazed and it occurs to Tony that maybe he could have phrased it better. 'You dare infer- youcondescend to put me in the same-'

'Now, Reindeer Games, you do know I meant that in the best sense.'

'I would do more than bite such a hand, Man of Iron, I would pulverise it, I would subject each exposed nerve to the most exquisite levels ofpain-'

'Classy. Do you people really speak like that on to each other on Asguard?'

And batshit-crazy Loki, ever mercurial, changes gears as fast as Tony does, because he suddenly grins.

'You should meet the Allfather, to whom in such things I am but a lamb at his knee.'

'You're shitting me.'

'Is this yet another one of your senseless migardian expressions?'

'Yes, and the reply to this would be to say I shit you not.'

'Well then, Tony Stark. Loki Laufeyson shits you not.'

In response Tony waves a bottle of gin and a jar of olives at the god of mischief and grins.

'I hereby challenge you to the best daddy-o impersonations, Dancer. Best out of five wins.'

~o0o0o~

They ended up sharing the same cheeseburger from Loki's plate; or rather, Tony watches the god lifting tiny pieces of bun, onion and lettuces from the desecrated remains of Tony's work of art and leaving him to finish the meat, cheese and pickles.

Tony's not about to complain. In fact, he can barely keep from grinning.

Of course, he's also heroically not noticing certain things about the whole intimacy of their setting that normal Migardians would take as a sign of very bad things about to happen.

Because Loki is not Migardian. Yeah. So no need to read into anything. Nothing. Nada.

Zilch.

Loki eats with his fingers as if he's eating something exotic and sensory like sushi or rice pilaf, very slowly and with no embarrassment of his own deliberateness. Watching him Tony can easily imagine how his every mannerism must stand out in a 'dining hall' like Asgard because he's seen Thor eat, and Thor falls upon food like a starving wolf; and dinner with Thor consists of raised voices and slamming tankards on the table (he broke a dozen mugs alone in his first week in Stark Tower) and grabbing one's shield brothers for an affectionate pummelling.

Tony cannot imagine Loki ever subjecting himself to an affectionate pummelling.

Thor had preferred to use his fingers too (even for steaks and pasta, until a long-suffering Natasha finally took it upon herself to teach him mysterious ways of cutlery), but this is where their similarities end. Loki falls silent when eating, becoming almost unapproachable. If not for the countless martinis Tony has been quietly foisting upon him, conversation would have grounded to a halt.

But Tony thinks that he has a small insight now to the boy that Loki must have been, the prickly shell he must have found necessary to grow to protect him for the daily rituals of dinner.

And it is in this small surprising way that Loki reminds him of Bruce, though both would not be pleased at the comparison.

~o0o0o~

Loki's Olive Martinis had as much olives as gin. Maybe more.

'You finished my olives,' Tony said reproachfully with his hand around the empty jar.

'Imprecise humans. How do you call it an Olive Martini and put only one olive in?'

'That makes no sen- actually that does make sense. You know what? We should call up the American Bartending Association and register an official foul.'

'You do that, Man of Iron.'

'I shall. The justice of olives must be served!'

'But of course.'

~o0o0o~

Because Tony is so goddamn drunk, he doesn't mind being honest for once.

'So I had a good time today. Who'd thought cavorting with you would be so much fun, Jingles.'

'Imagine my utter delight,' Loki informs him with an almost perfectly straight face, 'to be the source of yours.'

Tony nods graciously, swaying a little. It was no secret his devilishly charming self is the scourge of east coast virgins and- other things.

'So, iF you're not torturing anyone or making things explode tomorrow, I happen to be in possession of a lot of ice cream from five o'clock onwards.'

Loki sniffs. 'Will there be watermelon?'

'Baby, there'll be three types of melon. At least. Its Cap's birthday, and he has an ice cream fetish he thinks we know nothing about. '

'I shall consider your invitation most thoroughly, Man of Iron.'

Tony frowns at this. What's there to consider? 'Alright, Dancer, I'll meet you at my manly hiding hole – at Calatrava Tower.'

Loki opens his mouth, ostensibly to protest, and after an interminable minute replies with a very polite, 'Very well, Stark.'

'Ok. Good.'

'Yes.'

He's staring, he knows. And Loki is staring right back.

'Excellent.'

'Yes.'

Aaaaand Tony is experiencing his very first bout of Ackward 101 right now. Nice. Obviously the universe thinks he's finally ready to handle it, at the ripe old age of thirty eight.

'Soooo. I'll go now, before I'm dissed. Because I'm pissed. Before I'm missed.'

'Please don't let me hold you,' the god mummers modestly.

'Kaaay goodbyes.'

Door. Walk, Stark, don't stumble.

But he's Tony Stark, so he can't resist turning around at the door one last time. 'Tomorrow at sich. At six. Don't be late.'

And the billionaire almost but not quite misses Loki's near inaudible reply.

'Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world.'

~o0o0o~