"It's a camera, Loki."

The patented 'you idiot' glare is strong today, shining out full force as Loki leans back against a stone archway. "I know what it is. I asked you what you were doing."

"I'm playing Tetris on it," Tony snaps back. "What the hell do you think I'm doing? It's a camera. I'm taking a picture. Quit messing around and just smile for me, will you?"

Loki smiles. A nasty, mocking smile. His top lip curls back in a horrible little goblin grin, but Tony's so done wasting time on this project he snaps the picture anyway. The best thing he can say about the resulting image is... well, it looks a lot like Loki. Asshole face and all.

"Why do you even want pictures?"

"Because," Tony answers. "It's what tourists do. They take dumb pictures of buildings and fountains and dogs and stuff to force their friends to look at when they get home. And I have a lot of friends back at S.H.I.E.L.D. that I would dearly love to subject to three thousand photos of Asgard. The more you're in, the better. Work with me here. Move over about ten feet to the left so I can get one of you with the palace in the background."

"We're supposed to be buying supplies," says Loki, but he still drags his feet over to the spot Tony pointed at and makes a half-assed effort at posing in a way that hides his chains under the weird poncho cape he insisted on wearing.

"We are. We're on our way. It's not my fault the road to supplies led through this nice park and it happens to be picture day. Now smile nicely this time."

"I have no interest in smiling to appeal to your ridiculous human conventions."

"Yeah well lah-di-dah," says Tony. "You're not doing this for my ridiculous human conventions. You're doing this to make Nick Fury very uncomfortable. Think of it that way. Say cheese."

"What?" Loki asks, and Tony manages to take a photo mid-word. Mouth open, stern eyebrows.

He'd erase it if it weren't one of only five he's taken so far. "Okay so we'll work on your modeling skills. Go stand by that fish statue under the trees. If you can't smile, at least try to look... not murderous."

This photo comes out decent. Actually, it's pretty nice. Maybe Loki looks a little bored, but the light filtering through the trees catches half his face with highlights of gold along his forehead and cheek, leaving the rest in soft shadow. It'll do. Tony shuts the camera off and slips it into his pocket. "Alright, we can try again later." Maybe once Loki has a better understanding of the crazy Earth custom that is candid snapshots. And maybe once Loki has those chains off, Tony has his suit fixed, and everybody's more in the mood for frivolous time wasting. "So, supplies?" he asks.

"Follow me," Loki answers with a nod.

The path through the park leads to an elaborate wrought iron (or wrought something) gate twisted into Celtic-looking knotwork, then onwards down a wide street lined with trees. A glimmer of an illusion settles down over Loki's face, changing his features just enough that he's not immediately recognizable. But he still pulls his hood up and keeps his head ducked down the moment they're in public view. Easier not to be noticed at all. Tony'd do the same, except there's so much stuff to see and a hood gets in the way. There's an impossibly tall and thin spire up ahead, obviously used for something more than decoration because its white-gold walls are interrupted every now and then by small windows. Overhead, a glassy, translucent bridge spans between two fortress-like turrets on either side of the road, letting pedestrians pass from one to the other. A plaza off to the right is capped with a deep blue dome that simulates twilight in the bright morning sun; it's full of robed men and women holding quiet but intense conversations.

The spacious avenue narrows down to a cramped corridor as they progress, and the concentration of people more than doubles. Lots of people. Laughing, shouting, and drinking. Especially drinking. (Is every business in this area some kind of ye olde Asgardian pub?) Thick crowds roll by on all sides, and Tony steps up closer behind Loki's back just to makes sure he doesn't lose him. Then Loki makes a sudden sharp turn and follows a winding alley that looks and feels like they're in the bottom of a sandstone gorge, the way the buildings loom up so close on either side with barely any room for two people to pass. It's hot in this part of the city, away from the sprawling, airy palace. There's a smell. Not necessarily a terrible smell, but not a pleasant one either. Like mud and old cooking with a hint of dog. A constant undertone of stale beer.

"I'm feeling a little claustrophobic," Tony mutters as somebody shoves past him, knocking his shoulder.

"In here?" Loki asks. "Already?"

What does he mean, 'already'? Tony looks up, but the sky's turned into nothing more than a distant ribbon overhead, choked out by continuous walls that have to be close to twenty stories tall. "Yeah, I'm not a huge fan of being trapped in tight corridors or... anything that resembles a cave."

"I'm sorry," says Loki, sounding not the least bit sorry at all. "But you'll have to live with it. This way."

Turns out 'this way' involves turning down an even narrower alley. Then... "Is that a staircase?"

"You might want to put your hood up," Loki replies in a stunning feat of avoiding the question.

Yeah, it's a staircase. Dusty stone and well worn, it descends into a dimly lit market that Tony would have to say is underground in both senses of the word. He counts over two hundred and forty steps before they finally reach the bottom. And this part resembles a cave. It really, really resembles a cave. Probably because it is a cave. An impossibly vast, sprawling cave lit by dim orange lamps, and it must stretch for miles beneath the city. Some pillars and sections of wall are finished, smooth and painted or even covered in tile like an overgrown subway station. Others are rough, untouched rock that lend to the whole cave experience. Well, isn't this the bee's knees.

Just a market, Tony tells himself as he follows along and sticks to Loki's ass like a shadow. Just your average, everyday, sketchy market full of...

A butcher hacking away at the enormous carcass of a mystery animal. Dozens of knives and swords hanging from chains, watched by a man with a face like a Saint Bernard. A wild-eyed woman screaming obscenities at a man who's desperately searching his pockets for money to pay for the pancake sticking out of his mouth. A pen of barking dogs happily chiming in with their addition to the cacophony. Displays of spices and produce and weird glowing crystals. Tables of all kinds of crap, clothing and dishes and books and jewelry and weird metal things Tony can't even begin to identify. A lot of it looks used. A lot of it looks like it was probably stolen by the shifty-looking characters selling it.

"Is this place legal?" he ask Loki, voice low.

"Of course it's legal. Something this size, do you think it would be able to hide from the law?"

Oh. Right.

"This is the unregulated market," Loki adds, and he pauses to frown at an old crone squatting down to urinate behind a stall that looks like it might just be selling hair. "Yes, it may be a little... ah... rougher than the clean and friendly open-air shopping streets, but you'll find more variety down here. Also some, shall we say, difficult to find items. Things the more reputable vendors might hesitate to stock."

"What the hell's so disreputable about wire and rivets?"

Loki shrugs. "Nothing. But I have a few other purchases I need to make."

"That doesn't sound at all shady and villainous," Tony mutters. And in some small way, he's glad the screaming pancake woman drowns out his words so Loki doesn't overhear.

They buy the wire first, in an overcrowded little sub-cave full of tools, scrap metal, and broken gadgets. It's hot from the blaze of a nearby forge, and dimly lit, and everything's dirty, but even bad conditions can't stop Tony from poking around while Loki tells the stall owner what they're looking for. The pile of wheels against the cave wall is nothing new, but the table covered in neatly arranged little items grabs his eye and pulls him in. He picks up a grimy, blackened tube, presses his thumb into a depression, and nearly drops the damn thing in surprise when a white-hot flame shoots out the end.

"Tony Stark..." Loki warns, not even bothering to turn around to see what happened.

"I think I need this," Tony answers back.

"You don't even know what it is. Stop touching things."

"As if you can stop me from touching things," Tony says under his breath, and this time, he's kind of hoping Loki overhears. He'll touch whatever he feels like. That's what he does. He touches things. He explores things. He screws around with things and, yes, occasionally almost sets himself on fire when he misjudges exactly where that screwing around might lead him. But it's all part of his completely valid scientific process.

He puts the mega-lighter tube aside and goes for a little apricot-sized sphere instead. This one doesn't have any buttons or thumb-grooves to push; the surface is smooth all over. Half of it's some kind of deep red glass, and the other's metal. The metal half has a little hole covered in clear glass, like an eyepiece. He peers inside, but it's too dark to see anything more than a few hazy shapes. Whatever this is, it's meant to be used in better lighting conditions. He sets it next to the lighter and picks up a wedge-shaped thing covered in rows of tiny slide-buttons. The narrow end is dangerously sharp. It seems like a good idea to probably not move any of those buttons just yet.

"What are you doing?" Loki asks. Suddenly he's standing there at Tony's shoulder, and he's carrying a spool of wire. That was quick.

"I need all these things."

"You don't even know what they are."

"Sorry, that's not a valid argument against my needing them."

"That is used to light a fireplace," says Loki, pointing to the tube. "That," he continues, pointing at the sphere, "is a novelty time-telling device for children. And the one you're holding is an adjustable knife for cutting leather. All of this is old and worthless. Hundreds of years out of date."

Tony nods. "Still not hearing any good reason why I don't need them."

"You have no use for any of these!"

"Yeah, I know. But I still need them."

So Loki buys all the stupid little things. The lighter tube. Actually, two lighter tubes. One to keep and one to take apart to see how it works. The sphere and the wedge. A few other neat-looking thingamadoos from the table. He grumps about it the whole time and pulls his customary act of this being a huge and embarrassing inconvenience, but in all fairness, Tony had to put up with him wearing a linen suit from the 60s when they were on earth. He can sure as hell put up with Tony buying mechanical novelty kitsch on Asgard.

Buying the rivets comes next, from an armorer, but this guy doesn't have anything out of the ordinary that really catches Tony's attention. Interlocking metal breastplates don't seem all that impressive when you're used to whole suits that can fly. Then it's on to even seedier corners of the cave as Loki searches out whatever mysterious things he needs. From what Tony can tell, eavesdropping on hushed interactions while playing with the new tube-lighter (turns out it has different settings), Loki's mainly interested in some tiny gems and bits of rare minerals. Not an eye of newt or vial of dragon blood to be seen, or whatever else evil sorcerers might visit the dark corners of an underground market for. What a disappointment.

"So what are you doing with all this stuff?" Tony asks when Loki emerges from yet another stall with a little bag of something hidden in his hand.

"I'll show you once we're back in your bedroom. It's too complicated to explain here."

Tony's pretty sure that translates as 'I'm brushing you off in the hope that by the time we get home you'll forget you asked'. He makes a mental note to ask again the second they're back. If Loki's up to his patented form of No Good, Tony needs to know about it. Risk of death now that he's responsible for Loki's actions and all that. "You need anything else?"

"No. This will be all for now. Let's go. It's becoming difficult for me to hold up even this simple illusion; the chains interfere too much. We should leave before we're recognized."

"Before we've even seen half the market?"

Loki turns to look at him, peering out from the shadows of his hood with illusion-cloaked eyes that are darker and narrower than what Tony's used to seeing. "I thought you said you hated tight corridors and anything resembling a cave." Even his illusion eyes seem to say, 'And this is clearly a cave'. (You idiot.)

"Yes," Tony counters, "but I am also a huge nerd. I am surrounded by all kinds of alien technology. Alien technology that is for sale. And I'm not in a dream for once. Now normally I hate shopping, and I'm no big fan of caves, but under these special circumstances you can see why we need to keep looking around. I didn't know the market sold all this cool stuff."

"What did you think it sold?" (You idiot.)

Shrugging, Tony glances around at the selection of stalls. "I don't know. Medieval stuff. Boots and flagons of mead and helmets with horns. I was expecting Ren Faire and instead everything in this section is Jawa Central."

"I'm returning home."

"Well good, you can be a useful slave and take all that stuff back with you. I'm staying here until I find a lightsaber."

It's obvious Loki wants to say something. The way he opens his mouth, inhaling a preparatory breath. The way he leans forward. The way the words practically project themselves onto his illusion-face (which looks uncannily like In-The-Name-Of-The-Father-era Daniel Day Lewis, so Tony keeps trying not to look at it, because that's just weird). There's a warning in Loki's illusion-expression. Something he might want to say but at the same time doesn't want to bother, because they both know how this conversation balanced on the brink of an argument is going to end. It's all going to fall away, replaced by one contemptuous syllable.

"Fine."

"Exactly," Tony agrees.

"You actually have dreams about alien markets?"

"Well, it's usually more like an alien Best Buy, but yes. More than you might think."

Loki makes the smart move of not saying anything in reply to that. All he does is drop the money bag into Tony's hands. Then turns to leave with one last little smirk.

"I will find a lightsaber," Tony calls after him. "Or something equally awesome. I have a really good feeling about this."

He has a decidedly not-as-good feeling about his ability to navigate his way back to the palace without Loki's help, but that's a problem for Future Tony to deal with. For now, there's stuff to buy.

ooo

He ends up raising his hood. It just fits with the atmosphere and the idea of skulking in the shadows from one stall to the next, furtively searching for hidden treasures under the guise of browsing for tools. Hiding his true intent from the seedy (and bored-looking) vendors.

This is what an intergalactic rescue mission is really supposed to be like. Intrigue and concealed identities in the Mos Eisley fleamarket. Now what would make things even better is if Bruce were here. Or Rhodey. Or hell, even Agent Coulson, who probably knows how to unleash his inner fanboy when he's not on duty. Playing Star Wars by yourself feel a bit silly.

(Not that this is going to stop Tony at all.)

He makes his way methodically up and down each row and around the curves, doubling back where necessary to make sure he catches everything. Buys a few things here and there, like a dagger with a softly glowing blade that's sharp enough to shave hair from the back of his wrist despite looking and feeling like plastic. There's a lot to look at. A lot of it's crap, the same kind of stuff you find for sale probably anywhere in the universe (decorative spoons, cheap jewelry, and bad artwork), but there's the occasional gem amid the junk. One rule of thrift shopping is that you can't not buy a bronze ale mug shaped like a naked lawn gnome with a giant dong. Somebody's getting that for Christmas.

The stalls farthest towards the back of the cave sell less innocent wares. More weapons. Bigger weapons. Sadistic-looking weapons sold by the kind of guys who tend to be missing body parts and sporting gruesome scars. Things in weird bottles. Things with weird smells. Mysterious things entirely concealed inside boxes or behind curtains and shown by request only.

Some of the stalls are manned by bizarre humanoid creatures that Tony tries not to stare at. Tries. Fails. Settles for sneakily peering at from the secrecy of his hood. That one has ridges of horns all around his (her?) head like a crown. The one over there has skinny arms with too many elbows, ending in spidery, three-fingered hands. Tony quietly pulls the camera out of his pocket and takes a dark, blurry picture without the flash. It kind of shows skinny elbow arms, in a photo at least twenty percent better than that classic image of the Lock Ness Monster. Well done.

It's just that the longer he looks, the more something seems off. Only by a fraction, but off just the same. Everyone else ignores the aliens. Nobody looks at them and nobody talks to them. It's like they fade into the background, at least as much as aliens are able to fade. Horn Crown and his buddy White Lizard Skin look like they're the security detail on the weird smell booth, while a Morlock hefts up a couple sacks of something and carries them off, following a pair of tall Asgardians who don't even acknowledge his presence.

But there are more. Not just aliens, who are easy enough to underthink and write off as something slightly more than animal but certainly less than person. The aliens are notable for their looks and not much else. But the others – the ones Tony originally failed to notice with his eyes occupied by extra joints and scaled faces – become a little less invisible when he takes the time to look. Men and women with normal skin tones, usual hair colors, and unremarkable bodies, who'd look at home anywhere on Earth or Asgard, also stand guard and carry wares and sweep up and do the dirty work.

Slaves. They're all slaves. They have to be. Maybe they're owned by the vendors or they're owned by the marketplace but the bottom line is they're owned by somebody. And it seems pretty likely that the row standing along the wall, heads trained down to apathetically stare at the floor, are for sale themselves.

"You have an interest?" an Asgardian voice asks from his right.

It jars him out of his thoughts. Me. The guy selling slaves is talking to me.

Trying to sell to him.

"These ones are well behaved. I can guarantee that. Suitable to work in the home."

And this guy isn't the only one. All along the wall, there are armed men watching over pockets of people on display. People in chains and people held in pens. All for sale. As easy to buy as a sword or a shield or a second-hand helmet. This is what Asgard has to offer in the darkest depths of its disreputable market: not righteousness and glory or whatever else Thor seems to think shines out the figurative asshole of his beloved golden realm. It's this. Callousness and cruelty. Pain and exploitation. Thousands of years of prestige, and this is at its core.

(And yes, Tony tries to tell himself, Loki did explain. Loki did explain that slavery was alive and well. Loki did that. But it's one thing to listen to distant theories and another to see it – to see it, blatantly and unapologetically – for oneself. Vague words are one thing. But the truth... the truth...)

The truth is, words can paint a gloss of normalcy over a thought. Make it seem acceptable for a minute or two, in the distance. Then you see it face to face and-

"I can give you a good price," says the Asgardian.

"No," Tony answers, shaking his head. "No, I, um..." Why the hell is he even trying to make an excuse? "No," he repeats. Firmly. Maybe rudely, but if anybody deserves a bit of rudeness in their day, it's slavers. "Not interested."

Never interested. Not in that. And, as he's starting to realize with a growing sense of unease... not in any way.

ooo

Tony can't say exactly how he left the market cave or which way he went or where he turned or even if he passed through the same park on the way back to the palace. Those bland details all fall by the wayside when he more important things to consider.

He left that morning with the uninspiring intention of buying supplies for his suit and maybe just getting out from under Odin's oppressive thumb for a couple hours, and now he returns with too many ideas layered in his head. Though tangled might be a better description to use. They snag on each other, vicious heads biting off indistinct tail ends before he can reason anything fully through, and the result is one big clusterfuck of half-formed thoughts. All of them orbiting two central themes. Loki. Slaves. Loki. Slaves. Loki and slaves. Loki-slave. Maybe that's one condensed theme. Still, too many variations to sort through. No idea where to start. Isn't this how it always goes?

Loki, to his relief, is lying quietly in bed. Eyes closed, but a deep inhalation of breath when the door swings shut lets Tony know he's not asleep. Resting only. And he looks pale. A touch of gray in his face; shadows in the sunken skin below his eyes.

"You look... magicky," Tony says for lack of any better word.

"I told you," Loki groans, still keeping his eyes closed. "The chains make even the simplest illusions difficult. I held that one far longer than I should have."

"Somebody needs a cuddle?"

"Oh, probably, but not until after you wash. Why do you smell of vomit?"

Setting the bundle of marketplace crap down on the end of the bed, Tony lifts his shirt to his nose. Nothing. Loki's sense of smell is truly a wonder. "Well, I may have found a market stall selling exotic booze. And someone near me may have had a few too many while I was paying for my drink. And he may have stumbled into me before security dragged him away."

"It sounds like you had a lovely time."

"Sure did." For a while, at least. "Want to see what I bought?"

"No."

Well, too bad. One round of show 'n' tell coming right up. "Here," Tony says, tossing over the gnome mug first, since that's the kind of thing that needs no explanation. Only after it rolls and hits Loki in the butt does he bother to raise his head, glaring first at the mug and then at Tony.

"I don't want to know why you purchased such a thing."

"Because it's hilarious," Tony answers. "Obviously. But ignore that, I just wanted to get your attention for... wait for it..." He dips his hand into the pile and pulls out the crown jewel of the collection: a slender metal cylinder that looks like a bigger version of the tube-lighter. One end solid, one end capped in mesh. And if he gives the solid end a little tap... "Look who fulfilled his solemn vow to bring home a lightsaber, your worshipfulness."

It's a lightsaber. No, really. Hit the solid end and out from the mesh end comes a rod of pure, glowing energy. Okay so it's a pale peachy color instead of blue or green or red, and it's only about ten inches long, but. But. A real, functioning lightsaber.

As usual, Loki looks less than awestruck. And might even be wearing an about-to-rain-on-your-parade expression. "That's a tool women use to curl their hair."

Yes. That does partially dampen parade festivities. But Tony still shakes his head. Also shakes the lightsaber. "No, I'm pretty sure it's a lightsaber. It looks exactly like a lightsaber. Well maybe not a lightsaber. It's a little short. Lightdagger?"

"No. It's a hair-curling wand."

"It is the elegant and deadly weapon of a very small Jedi knight. Like Yoda."

Loki sits up and extends his hand. Reluctantly, Tony hands over the lightsaber, because he's pretty sure whatever Loki's about to do will ruin his fun completely. And he's right. Once the wand is held close enough beside Loki's head, a thin lock of hair snakes out to wrap itself around the glowing blade. A perfectly formed ringlet stays in place when Loki pulls the wand away.

"It curls hair."

Parade unpleasantly soggy now. "Well it still looks like a lightsaber," Tony grumps. And if Loki thinks knowing it's a hair wand will stop Tony from brandishing it at every opportunity back on Earth... "You have to ruin everything, don't you? Suck all the fun out. You're a fun-sucker." He shuts off the lightsaber and chucks it back into the pile of stuff. "And that sounded really unintentionally dirty."

"Yes I am," Loki agrees. "And yes it did."

"I also bought you a present, but since you're being a fun-sucker, and not in a good way, I don't know if I should give it to you."

Immediately, Loki's snide smirk melts into a coquettish pout beneath wide blue eyes. "Ah, my Tony Stark, you know I would gladly suck anything in any way. You need only ask."

Right, so it turns out he's getting his present after all.

It takes only a moment to crawl up the bed and into Loki's chained half-embrace, all complaints of vomit smell apparently now forgotten or at least unimportant. Then the rush of inert magic fills his blood (so much stronger than it should be given the meager output of Loki's illusion, but he'll worry about that some other time) as Loki coaxes him down onto the mattress with a kiss and a playful bite at his lip. "You're so weird," Tony murmurs into Loki's mouth. "One of your most endearing-" He gasps as Loki's hips grind against his, sparking a surge of magic. "-qualities."

"I want my present," Loki replies.

Tony unclenches his hand and offers up a shallow little box, lid hinged with silver filigree. "It's nothing amazing," he says by way of disclaimer as Loki takes it. "I just thought of, you know..." Something stupid and sentimental. "Back on Earth you had this crazy – adorable – obsession with tropical scented stuff. But so far here I've noticed all the soap and shampoo have plain old soap scent, and you no longer smell like a piña colada. And that's not right. I really like tropical Loki. Anyway, I couldn't find coconut because I don't think you guys have coconuts on Asgard, and it's not soap, but that's the best I could do. Raspberry or whatever. The guy said it was-"

"Solid perfume oil," Loki says, opening the box lid and dipping one finger inside. He traces up one side of his throat and down the other, leaving a glistening line in the wake of his touch. "Very nice."

Exactly the words Tony would use. He reaches up to comb his fingers through Loki's hair, behind his ear, to the nape of his neck. (He's so goddamn beautiful.) "Very nice."

It smells like raspberry and lemon and something else Tony can't quite place: an edge of enticing and unfamiliar spice as Loki leans in close. Lips finding the curve of Tony's ear, voice a thin whisper: "Thank you, Tony Stark."

Magic never fails to make Loki all snuggly and affectionate, and after everything Tony saw at the market, he's sure not above cashing in on a bit of that right now. He wraps his arms around Loki's back. Just to hold him close. Just to keep him near. Rolls over so that Loki can use his shoulder as a pillow and he can feel Loki's warm breath seeping through the fabric of his shirt. Magic flows so nicely between them in an infinite loop.

The only thing that could make the whole situation better is if Loki weren't in chains. If his shackled hands didn't have to rest awkwardly at Tony's waist. "You know," he says after a minute, "I was thinking about your chain problem on the walk back."

"And?"

"And..." He hesitates before diving into the next part. "Um. I don't think I'll ever be able to seriously accept the idea of you being my slave."

Loki reacts in exactly the way Tony imagined he would. Sits bolt upright, breaking the embrace, stares at Tony like he's suddenly grown a second head, and spits out a demand of, "What?" as if his mouth can't be rid of the word fast enough.

"Yeah yeah, I know what you're thinking," Tony cuts over him before he can say (shout) anything else. "Just calm down for a sec and let me finish. I didn't say that because I'm giving up. I only mean... Lie down again, will you?" he tries with a sigh. "I thought about this. I have an idea. Listen."

It's with doubt-filled slowness and a look of dire mistrust that Loki lies back down, but at least he does it, positioning himself a few inches away so he can keep his disapproving glare aimed at Tony's face. Once he's settled, Tony continues.

"I can't own a slave. I can't. End of story. Not going to happen. We can fool around and make jokes about it and play these kinky little bedroom games all we want, but me actually believing I own you isn't a serious option. But," he adds when Loki's glare sharpens into something even deadlier, "I don't think that's the only solution to this problem."

"You signed a contract of ownership. I fail to see any other possible solution."

"I signed a contract of responsibility," Tony corrects. "Loki, the word 'own' didn't appear in that contract in any form. Maybe that's due to whatever magic was on it that translated the writing into an alphabet I could read. And that could mean the translation was inexact, or that I read what I wanted to read. Maybe it even chose words for me based on what I would understand and accept. There was no mention of ownership or slavery or anything like that. It was all about care and control. What I read in it wasn't that I owned you, but that I was responsible for you. And that's why I think this isn't working. We have a fundamental misunderstanding of what it is I agreed to do."

"But you still need to believe you have the authority to remove the chains," says Loki. "Which, clearly, you do not."

Tony nods in agreement. "Right. What I said before is still true. I thought the contract was a lame formality and only signed it because I thought I had to. Here's the thing, though. Maybe I can't convince myself I'm your owner, but I think I probably have a pretty good shot at convincing myself it's my job to take care of you."

Both of Loki's eyebrows rise at that comment, and his mouth opens, though Tony's able to cut him off before he says anything. "Just hear me out, okay? Believe me, it's hard enough to say any of this potentially very embarrassing sappy bullshit. You giving me that bitchy look isn't going to help. Yes, I know the idea of me looking after you is pretty fucking laughable when you can probably kill me with one finger and right now without my suit I don't have a chance in hell of protecting you against anything Asgard might decide to throw at us. But this isn't just about physical stuff. It's not about fighting or..."

Fuck, why is it so hard to put stuff like this into actual, confident words? So he starts again. From the beginning. "I saw the slaves for sale at the market after you left," he says softly.

Loki offers no response. But he's also no longer glaring.

"I just saw them for a minute and I didn't stick around to see what would happen because... I don't know. It scared me. You know why? Because it made me think about you. I saw all those people and this is selfish and small-minded, I know, because I should've maybe taken half a second to feel sorry for them, but all I could think about was what if it was you? What if something goes horribly wrong with this crazy plot, and Odin decides to just kill me and ship you off who knows where? Seeing what I saw there automatically sent my mind to the worst possible places, and that's what I thought. What if it was you. What if something happened. And fuck, it made me feel..." He stops. Closes his eyes for a moment. Takes a breath before continuing.

"I felt sick. I had to get out of there, but I realized halfway back that I wasn't running away from something I didn't want to see, I was running towards you. It wasn't I need to distance myself from this crazy shit but I need to get back to Loki. I had to make sure you were okay. It was dumb and irrational and halfway into panic territory, but I just needed to know you were safe. That you weren't – I don't know – being dragged back down to the dungeons where I'd never see you again. Somehow, for some insane reason that defies all sense and logic, you've become one of the most important people in my life. So much that the thought of losing you is... pretty damn terrifying. I guess I've known that for a while but today really drove it home. And I guess today also made me realize that I've probably been holding back a bit. Or a lot. You're so closed off and distant that I never know where you stand. Not that I'm any better. But I was hiding behind this lame justification that I shouldn't let you know how much I care about you because... I mean, not that I shouldn't care about you but that I shouldn't let you know, which is absurdly idiotic, but anyway that's beside the point."

"Tony Stark," Loki murmurs.

"I'm almost done. I promise. Just bear with me and my horrible interpersonal skills and let me say this last bit and then you can get back to your regularly scheduled being a dick to me. Because this is what I realized. If I step back and think about it and put everything in perspective, it shouldn't matter who says what first. This isn't a contest. I don't win anything by not being open with you. Actually I probably lose, since it's perpetuating that massive trust problem we have. Anyway, today I realized I need to – I want to – tell you the things I've been holding back. And they tie into the whole chain/contract business in a way I'm doing a really bad job of explaining, but bottom line is this. I really care about you, Loki. And contract or no contract, that means... I want to take care of you and protect you. Maybe you don't need it, but I still want to, and I'm still going to try. I want to make you happy. That might be the most important thing. I want you to be happy. With me. Even if you're being an insufferable goddamn fucking bastard. That doesn't matter. I still want to be with you. I still care about you. A lot. Way more than I should, considering... everything."

"Tony Stark," Loki repeats. He stares down at his hand, fingers twisting in a handful of Tony's shirt. No more eye contact.

"You don't have to say anything," Tony says, sliding his hands up Loki's spine and pulling him back in. Close again. So Loki's head is back on his shoulder, where it should be, and he can brush his lips over the edge of Loki's hairline as he speaks. "I didn't dump all that to guilt you into a quick 'me too'. I said it because I wanted you to know what I think and where I stand. Hopefully we're in the same place."

"I think so," is Loki's quiet reply, in a voice that sounds strikingly low on confidence for the God of Assholes.

"Yeah?"

"Mm."

And that's all Loki seems ready to give. At least for now. A hesitant, partial agreement. But then Loki's hand moves up, dragging its chain behind it, over Tony's chest and to his shoulder. To his neck. A small, one-handed embrace.

"Maybe..." Tony begins. "Maybe I can... try again with the chains."

"You think it will work now?"

"I think so." He has a good feeling about this. Like one of those stupid warm fuzzy feelings deep inside that overemotional people always talk about, except it's happening to him this time. His own stupid warm fuzzy feeling. "I know the contract's not only about ownership."

It's more than that. Fingertips skim along Loki's back and shoulder, following the path of his arm until it comes to his wrist.

"I don't want ownership. I don't want you to be my slave. I just want you to be my Loki."

Awkwardly, with his one hand, Tony grips the shackle on Loki's wrist to gives it a sharp tug. (My Loki. Mine. Those words seem right. Warm and fuzzy. Not Odin's prisoner any more. Just my Loki.)

And a hidden mechanism inside the band slides free with a quiet click.