A ray of light poked through heavy lids. A delicate thumping began in a groggy brain, begging the body for some water, anything that would relieve the lack of liquids and get the membranes back in their usual position. Expensive sheets slid off a slight frame as a hand shot up to one shoulder. Not feeling another presence at that spot, it slithered down to a slender waist, wishing and hoping a dark hand would be there to meet his own. Yet the sinewy fingers met nothing but his own flesh, soft and tender. A small groan left thin, bow-shaped lips, expressing simultaneously pain at bodily discomfort and disappointment at being alone. Begging his body to cooperate, the god's lids fluttered open cautiously, letting ray after ray of light hit his retinas and adjust slowly. Then began the even slower process of lifting himself off the bed and moving towards the only window in his room, overlooking Stark mansion's front yard.

He stared out at the green lawn, seeing but not perceiving anything as he mulled over the night's events. The last thing he could actively remember was hitting his head with extraordinary force against the coffee table in the living room and being accompanied by Stark to his room. He was aware of a conversation, and vaguely remembered some key moments (had he really told the engineer about saving Asgard? Had he told him how he had done it?). Yet one specific moment was all he could think about, hazy as it was in the shadows of his memory.

The heat was really the main event, he supposed. He had always had a temperature that ran slightly lower than other Asgardians, but he had not expected the difference to be so much more perceivable with a mortal. He expected his own human shape to adjust to standard expectations such as body temperature, but apparently some things not even Odin could glamour. Or was it Anthony Stark specifically who ran a few degrees above the rest? In any case, it burnt. The touch and caress Stark had languorously left on his thigh had consumed its way through skin, muscle, bones and imprinted itself on his very core. The consequence was a permanent searing sensation around the area, making the god shift his weight uncomfortably, as though trying to shake an actual hand off his body. Yet it persisted. And why did the rest of his body also burn with such a dull consistency? What ungodly feeling kept pulling at the pit of his stomach and why, upon waking up, had he felt the need to feel the other man's presence next to him?

The purely liquid contents in his body gargled, breaking his disturbing chain of thought. Any further attempt at understanding the evening's adventures would have to wait until after his bodily discomfort was through. Loki walked into the bathroom, meaning to search for some water, but his eyes froze on an odd round object, which his brain slowly remembered was called a coconut, two white pills and a note.

'Get yourself presentable. We have things to do. - T.'

The god picked up the fruit, and sniffed gently at the white skin exposed around the broken jagged edges. A humid musty scent filled his head and made his mouth water, and he gladly filled a cup with the water that streamed out of the hole. The sweet refreshment of the beverage revived his senses slowly, his very cells seeming relieved at the salt replacement they so direly craved. Within minutes he was feeling human, though he snarled at the thought, making the small amount of magic he had recuperated crackle down his spine in protest. A shower was an obligation, he realized seeing the slight shimmer of sweat that enveloped his body in the mirror. 'Get yourself presentable.' The words swirled around in his mind, making him feel giddy.

They were dominating, something no one had dared be towards the god besides his own adoptive father and, even then, in vain. It was the fact that Stark had used the words as an invitation more than a command that got the trickster to act so quickly. An invitation was something the god was not used to getting, specially in the past centuries. During his shower he tried to recall the last banquet he had been voluntarily invited to, not just for the fact of being royalty. The numbers took him back over half a millennium. His lips curled into a grimace.

He slipped on a pair of pants and a black t-shirt over a still humid body, fabric clinging to his sinewy limbs. Straightening himself up, he looked over the reflection in the full-length mirror before him. His hair had gotten so much longer since he had arrived, dropping well past his shoulders. A long finger lifted to caress his slender neck as he considered himself. The god came to the conclusion that he had looked much worse. Exercise on a human body showed itself in ways immortal bodies would never reflect. The shirt he wore now clung to muscles instead of drooping limply over his chest and as he stretched his endless arms over his head, tendons and veins were apparent amidst muscle fibers. But that hair... It simply wouldn't do anymore.

The magician in him fluttered his lashes closed, concentrating a small viridian orb of energy on the tip of each finger. He ran his hands slowly through his raven mane and its tips fell like feathers in slow motion to the floor, where they disintegrated as they hit the cold marble. As his eyes opened, a shudder ran through his body signaling that the small amount of magic he had was now unavailable to him. At least until he rested again. His stock of energy really was ridiculous, he thought to himself. 'We must compensate,' a malicious whisper ran through his mind and a malicious grin worked its way onto his lips as he thought of the engineer. Yet as soon as his wanderings fell on the image of the smaller, tanned man, an unexpected warmth surged through his body. His snarl-grin melted from madness to softness, from survival to living. And he was shocked at the change.

"Mr Laufeyson," Jarvis' voice resounded throughout the room, bring Loki's thoughts back to the present. He jumped at the sound, being the first time he heard the AI in his room, never mind addressing him directly and even less using the name he had chosen for himself.

"You may call me Loki, machine," his voice hid any surprise behind a mask of regality.

"And you, sir, may call me Jarvis." The god suddenly understood the engineer's ramblings about having given his AI too much sentience. The tone, though neutral, had an underlining of cockiness that reflected its creator. "Mr Stark asks you to come down, if you're ready. He's been expecting you for a few hours now." The god's eyes widened. How long had he slept? "It's two o'clock in the afternoon, sir. You've slept for ten hours, quite a record considering your usual four."

"Yes, well... That's enough of that, Mr Jarvis." The god gave himself one last look in the mirror, straightening his shirt's collar and hem. A sigh escaped him. Magic would have given his skin a glow... But what did he care about that? He had no one to impress. Stepping out of his room, the trickster crashed into a bigger body than his own and, from the floor, noticed his burly brother's blonde hair over him. "Brother. To what do I owe this early pleasure?"

"Forgive me," large hands grasped at his shoulder and lifted him to his feet with ease. "I meant only to enquire of your wellbeing. Midgardian beverages made their impression on you last night, it would seem."

"Indeed," Loki couldn't deny that he had made a spectacle of himself. "Though one could barely call it a fair match, Odinson. Had your father not ripped me of my powers..."

"Brother... Let us not start the morn as such. The Man of Iron requests your presence." Loki's eyes widened in surprise. A note. Jarvis. His brother. How many invitations was he to receive in a day? From the same man, no less. "He was in the kitchen when I last laid eyes upon him. You'd do well to go to him, as I've never seen him in such a state." Seeing the spark of curiosity in his brother's eyes, Thor chuckled gently. "Do not fret. He is not angry, nor is he forlorn. He was... whistling." The god of mischief's eyes widened further. He quickly left his brother's presence, taking the stairs in bounds.

"Good morning, starshine!" Stark's sing-song voice came from behind the kitchen counter, where he was setting a mug of coffee. "If I knew how to cook, or at least how to make anything without taking two hours, I'd have made you real breakfast. Consider yourself lucky, this is more than any of my one-night stands ever got." Though his voice continued cheery, the engineer could no longer hide the shadow of shame that flitted across his face at the mention of his conquests.

The god approached the counter cautiously, unsure of how to address the man before him. His memories of the night before were still unsure, though he was certain they had, somehow, fallen asleep together. Was it just sleep? "I thank you, Mr Stark."

"Oh." The mortal's eyes dropped to the mug he held. "Back to this, huh?" He shrugged. "Look, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about yesterday. Getting you drunk probably wasn't the-"

"I beg your pardon?" Loki interrupted Stark, voice stinging. "Getting me inebriated? If I remember correctly, your state couldn't exactly be considered sober, Anthony."

The smaller man gave him a sheepish grin and nodded towards the refrigerator. Another shrug. "I may have... how to put this nicely? I wasn't completely honest with you all last night." The god opened the cooler's door, and stared at a half-empty bottle of organic apple juice. The look on Tony's face was devilish; on Loki's, murderous.

"You consumed apple juice throughout the whole night? You feigned a drinking match to loosen my tongue?" At each sentence the god's voice became louder, his hair falling onto his face. "You tricked me?"

"Well... Can't say I'm not proud of tricking the trickster. Maybe you should get me a certificate of some sort, put it up in my workshop. Next to my heart." The refrigerator door slammed, making the glass bottles within it clinker in protest. "Woah, look, I'm sorry. I just figured it'd be the only way to get you to talk to me. Whenever I try you-"

"I have nothing left to say to you, Mr Stark," the tone was final, and cold. Picking up the steaming mug from the counter, Loki walked towards his corner next to the grand piano. He ran a hand through his hair, uncomfortable at how short it now felt against his neck. A part of him seemed to be missing, and he had woken up feeling so complete for once. The emptiness in his hand seemed to echo the one he felt in his gut, wrenching him down on the couch. Setting the mug on the floor, he stretched himself out on the whole length of the settee and closed his eyes tightly against the burning in his eyes.

Again he was being invited for other reasons, other than his presence. How had he been foolish enough to think that anyone wanted him there? How drunk had he been to believe that Anthony Stark, the man who literally lacked a heart, cared for him? He wanted knowledge, valor, honor. Like everyone else. Asgardiands, Midgardiands, there were no differences. He was the one who was different, tainted. No. Unique. Valiant. Daring. His jaw set tightly, determined. A long arm stretched towards the floor, looking for the book he knew he had left somewhere in that vicinity.

"You don't ever fucking get it, do you?" a deep voice resounded over his head, a shadow impeding light from crossing his lids and penetrating his retina. He felt the weight of a book fall on his stomach. "When you said we were alike, Loki... Way back then... You didn't know the half of it."

A flitting finger traced his cheek bone, a thumb rested gently on his lips. Opening his eyes, the touch was already gone. Stark's back turned as he moved away.