A/N: You guys are just so awesome. Took a little longer than I expected, but it was fun to write. :) I hope you enjoy! Please R/R. 3

"Do you ever look at them?"

His voice was soft again. It had been days since he'd last spoken, and the son of Odin had not pursued him further for words. But the trickster's throat sounded as a long unused instrument.

Today, he could not bear to speak or even look at his brother until then, but had decided to eat with him. Then the words came out, so soft and edged with the emptiness that had been growing on his voice. Thor had long convinced himself it was only his brother's fountained hatred for him, and not the slow and agonizing torture he faced each time the prison closed and sealed him.

"At what?"

"The stars." His pale eyes flickered, glancing up, though he would see no stars even past the ceiling of this place. "I imagine you do. I imagine you find them wonderful."

Thor watched him carefully. "I do. Though…I cannot say I have paid them mind, of late."

"Perhaps that's best," Loki uttered softly, after some time. His eyes roamed toward the ceiling again, and his brother followed that gaze. "Countless suns of countless worlds across the universe…so marvelous, but—we forget that sometimes we see only the marvel. We forget that many of them have been gone for such a long time and all we see is what we wish to see."

When Thor looked upon him again, Loki was watching him instead, rain colored eyes peering in a silent desperation, another round of putting him at unrest. His great shoulders stiffened, and his face forced to harden. The words that slipped out were contemptuous at best.

Perhaps he had finally learned to hate him.

"Why do you always speak in riddles, even now? Why can you not just speak your heart?"

Something stirred. The dark-haired trickster licked his lips, and pressed them tight together so they were pale and trembling. "I'm afraid to do so." He said slowly—in a way that made the hair on Thor's arms prickle all the way up to the back of his neck.

"What have you to fear?"

"Of what might happen." A smile broke out upon his lips, teeth glinting in the pale light. "Of all the things that will happen if I speak about myself. Myself…"

Thor's retort died in his throat in place of blooming confusion. The words Loki spoke dragged of finality, in a way they never had before, when they once slipped from his tongue like silver drops.

And they remained with him even as he left that awful place to seek the ear of his mother. She had to listen, to speak to the Allfather. Thor had to be allowed to stop this.

Loki was slowly being driven insane.

"I should probably drag myself downstairs. If Miss Potts comes home and sees us like this, I can't imagine she'll be too happy."

Tony exhaled loudly through his nose, leaning back into the couch they had ended up on, sitting side by side watching the sun go down on the city. It wasn't on purpose. The past few hours had drifted away in small talk that turned to discussion. Bruce got up at one point to put his glass on the counter, and the subtle dance began; he made a few steps toward the elevator, Tony found a new way to distract him, whether it be picking his brain about particle accelerators or talking about high school sports. The engineer would take a few steps to let him go, and Bruce would find something else he wanted to say. Eventually it just made sense to refill their glasses with all the talking they were doing, with more brandy than coffee this time; they tired of standing and pacing, so they sat. Though Bruce was only finishing nursing his first after the coffee cup; Tony was on his fourth belt, ice already drained clear.

"With the week we've had, she'd probably just join in. Besides, if she doesn't like it, she's got her own place to sleep. Relax."

Doe brown eyes shifted to seek out syrup dark ones. It took Bruce only a moment longer to realize Pepper hadn't come up in conversation yet. "Oh. I thought you two…?"

Tony came to that realization a little late, as well. Turning the condensation-speckled glass in his hand, he shook his head. "Nah."

"Not even…?" He asked half of it, but Tony repeated himself. "Oh." With that in mind, he looked out onto the darkening city, thoughtful. Small bits and pieces of that night with Pepper in the hotel room—it was a hotel room, right?—flickered into the forefront of his mind. He hadn't really seen her since that time, just remembered her hair and the way her hands felt, covered in soap.

I used to be his Betty.

"What happened?" He asked anyway, after a moment. The gaiety between them didn't end, but it toned down, the way crickets settle when they're not sure of their safety. And there didn't seem to be anything to be worried about; Tony's mouth dragged down in indifference, he rolled his shoulders in a shrug. And he didn't seem incredibly worked up about it, not really.

"She couldn't handle the hardware," he answered.

"Oh. Well…" Bruce shrugged as well. "Didn't sound like the type to dwell over that kind of stuff."

Tony looked at him, half serious. "What do you mean?"

Bruce returned the look. Those crickets went dead silent. "What do you mean…'what do you mean'?"

"The type to dwell over what?"

"Hardware?"

"Which is…?"

"What."

"What do you think I mean when I said hardware, Bruce?"

"Uhh…"

"It's my arc reactor."

"Right. That's what I meant."

"It's not the size of my dick."

Bruce stared at him for several long moments. He attempted to put together a response, and just bent over, burst out into laughter. He leaned toward the arm of the couch, grinning face in palm.

Tony, you narcissistic son of a bitch—"

"I'm just saying," he blathered on, turning in the seat with drink in one hand. "I'm just saying, Bruce, that I would rather not be disinterpreted." This sent Bruce gasping so hard he couldn't speak. "There is nothing wrong with that hardware, you'll be happy to know. So if, so if that happened to be one of your deductions—"

"It wasn't."

"—It was a very broad term, I'll give you that. It could mean anything. I'm just saying. It could mean…my computers. Jarvis." He began counting on his fingers, with the ones not clutching his glass.

"Dear Christ." This was almost too much to bear. He couldn't even look at the engineer. For one, his face was beet red. And second, he would just lose it again if he looked at him.

"It could mean arc reactor, or my suits, or…or the size of my junk. I realize that now." He tried his damndest to sound serious.

"Good to know you're growing from this, Tony." A snicker escaped his lips.

"Dirty mind, Dr. Banner."

"Whatever." He caught his breath. "So, the arc?"

"Well, it was a lot of reasons…" he reflected, waving his hand dismissively as he got up and swiveled around the couch, snatching Bruce's empty glass from his hand. The physicist glanced back to see him going to the counter, but only for a moment. "But—yeah. She couldn't sleep, with it shining in her eyes. Even when I covered it up. And when you're not sleeping, you're thinking about things and you learn about yourself. Sometimes it happens like that." He gave another bit of a shrug. "And there was the whole reaching into my chest and poking around thing that I think put her off, too. It's understandable."

"So that…didn't upset you?" he asked as the playboy came back around the couch, handing him a fresh glass with mostly ice and a little brandy.

"Well—that's the thing. The thinking, the not sleeping, it goes both ways. Went both ways. No, the first one." He swung back down onto the seat with more gravity than grace, even though his body spoke of grace; the action was lost in translation. As he paused to toast him, and he obliged the billionaire, it occurred to Bruce just how much he'd imbibed. He felt at ease, tipsy at best; it had been a while since he touched alcohol, but he'd had his over the course of a while. "And I'd been thinking. When I saved New York? I called her on the HUD, and she didn't pick up."

Almost instantly he sensed Bruce's concerned look, and waved his hand. "Oh no, I know. That's not even it. She was watching me on the TV. Of course she wasn't looking at her phone. Never fault her for that." He cleared his throat. "I didn't have a lot of time to think about it then, but after, I um, I realized she's…great. She's my go-to, and wonderful, and someone I never have to doubt about trusting."

"And?"

He pressed his lips together, itched beneath his nose. "And even though I called her, because I always do, she wasn't who I was worried about when everything went black. She's not the one who I was thinking about."

And then it happened again. That moment when Bruce could feel the low heat of his eyes against the side of his face, and their eyes met because he knew when he was being stared at. He meant to only glance to acknowledge the words, but he was held fast suddenly by Tony's expression, completely neutral from the alcohol, his dark, dark eyes dewy in the fading light, his hair almost black; wicked, and a five o' clock shadow at almost nine at night. The drunk man was trying to read him, he knew it, and he wondered if he'd gotten through. Bruce was suddenly only too aware of the smell of his clothes and the not-quite-yet staleness of the drink on his breath, and the fact that the cushion was warm because Tony was sitting next to him and their heat was seeping into the fabric and mingling indiscriminately.

Then he realized Tony was looking right at him. Not quite directing the words—but trying to be meaningful. And it was like being hit by a car, and it was like bringing air into a stuffy room. The doctor in his senses alerted him of all the warnings—the dilation in his own pupils and the quickening of his pulse, and the faint memory of how this shirt had smelled and felt when he put it on this morning, and how it must smell now that he'd been wearing it all day, and how close he was and—

Tony shifted slowly to sit sideways again and god, how he wanted that, how he wanted that so badly. That look and everything it implied. Anything it implied. Comfort and safety and affection and touch and—no.

Bruce seemed to jerk awake, setting both feet on the floor and bringing his hand to the back of his head, scratching.

He was dimly aware of how Tony's hand was now resting where his had been.

"Well, that's good," Bruce managed to get out. "Those kind of realizations are good for you." He stood up carefully.

He could feel the energy drain from the man, who didn't move. "And Betty?"

"I don't have to be worried about Betty. I haven't for a while. It's different…look, I'm feeling a little drunk. I'm going to get to bed." He cast him a not-smile, and started making for the elevator. Tony didn't get up. He imagined he would probably fall over if he did a second time. "I'm kinda tired of feeling drugged up lately, come to think of it—kind of a bad idea."

"Um, how about you just stay up here? Plenty of room. You know?"

"I know." He drained his glass—because he never liked to waste anything, and Tony could count on it—and set it on the counter, making for the elevator. "Night, Tony."

"Night," he called back dimly out of reflex, just as the elevator doors closed on the man's back. When he heard the machinery whirring, he sagged against the less comfortable frame of the sofa and sighed, a whiny growl coming from his throat.

God fucking damnit.