"I was wondering where you'd wandered off to," the mortal comments as Loki drops a couple inches onto the landing pad.

"Out."

"Thanks for that incredibly informative explanation. I couldn't have figured that out on my own." His voice is practically dripping with sarcasm.

"I decided to rob a bank. Lots of screaming and running around, followed by everyone cowering in the corner. Fantastic chaos."

"Wait, you did what?"

"For Valhalla's sake, Stark, that was a joke. Although it does sound like quite good fun… Maybe another day." Loki steps down into the disassembly unit, rolling his shoulders and stretching once it finishes.

"Um, yeah, how about no?"

"How about you're no fun?"

"But I'm also not doing the Cellblock Tango, am I?"

He smirks. "Rules are meant to be broken."

"Didn't your mom ever tell you that stealing is bad?"

"Of course. I was never very good at listening to silly things like that, though, not when the alternative provided so much entertainment." Loki meanders inside, the mortal's steps following after.

"Where you goin' now?"

"Are you really this bored?"

"Ah… yeah. Pretty much."

He sighs. "I'm going to go change into something more suited to it, and then go down to the workshop to finish what I started day before yesterday."

"I wanna see!"

"Oh for the love of– fine." It's a descriptor he's used before, but really the best one when it comes to Stark—the mortal is downright insufferable. With an irritated glance, Loki goes to change into jeans and whatever shirt happens to be on top in his dresser. He pushes up the sleeves so they'll be out of the way, and instead straps on a pair of simple leather bracers he'd made back when he'd first started doing anything physical rather than computer-based in the workshop, partly to hide the scars on his arms, but largely because while he may be more resilient than a human, he learned as a child that sparks and sharp edges do still hurt. The god grabs a pair of leather gloves as well, but he relies on touch enough that he'll likely only use them briefly.

When he returns to the common room, pulling his hair back to keep it from getting singed or in the way, Stark is waiting impatiently.

"Finally. I thought you'd decided to take a nap or something."

Loki doesn't grace that with a response, instead heading downstairs with the mortal close on his heels.

"I'm not doing anything that exciting, you do realize."

"Oh, come on. I've barely watched you work because I've been doing other shit; I'm curious. Wait, since when do we have a forge in here?"

He raises an eyebrow as he lights a bit of kindling with a match and eases coal in until he has a decent flame.

"Coal? Really? Gas is so much easier."

"Coal is quieter, more efficient, and burns hotter. So yes, I prefer coal. Considering I'm the one using it and not you, I do believe that it's my preferences which matter more."

Ignoring the following one-sided debate he rifles through a pile of metal to find the piece he'd been working with before. He'd not gotten very far, seeing as he'd started later in the day and gone to visit the mortal that evening, but he's been looking forward to finishing it. While it may be significantly more difficult to do blind, this is something he's familiar with and has always enjoyed doing.

He can't tell when the metal is glowing brightly enough, so he has to guess based on the heat and the time passed. Once Loki feels it has (Stark is the sort to calculate everything in his head, but personally, he finds metalwork to be an art rather than a science), he removes it from the forge and sets to work, replacing it in the flame when it starts to cool in order to keep it malleable.

"So… what'cha makin'?"

Loki laughs. "You call yourself a genius—figure it out for yourself."

Some time passes, in which the gloves find their use as he tests the shape of the piece, then the mortal finally seems to get it.

"Wait a sec, are you making weapons in my house?"

Loki smirks. "Technically so do you, considering your suit and the explosives and lasers contained therein."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Not unless you plan to threaten me," he replies with a shrug. "The only knives I currently own were purchased, and while they are acceptable, I don't have a full set. I prefer to forge my own, anyway. I'm picky when it comes to shape and balance, and trust my own work more than that of others."

"Now you just sound like me."

Having finished forging the blade, Loki cuts the other end of the metal down and starts working out the tang. "Yes, I've started to see that. It is a pity you don't use knives; they're far superior to your suit in many ways."

"Did you just say that a little scrap of metal is better than my brilliant feat of engineering?"

"Can you keep your suit hidden under your clothing, so that at any unforeseen threat you can defend yourself? Or carry it in any way discreetly, for that matter? What about cutting down enemies silently, from nearby or at a distance? Your suit may have its benefits, but a blade is far more practical."

"Okay, just wondering then, why the hell do you seem to always have one whenever you're spooked? Because that's a little scary, not gonna lie."

Setting down his work, he smiles, and lets the knife that he'd transferred earlier from his sleeve to his bracer slide down into his hand. Turning it handle-out, he offers it to the mortal.

"I am never completely defenseless."

"So, what, you always carry a knife? That's gotta be a pain getting through airport security," he comments, taking the blade.

"A knife? Stark, you are truly a fool if you think I only have one. Boots are quite fantastic places to carry them, up your sleeve like the one you hold was, tucked into your belt, on the inside of your coat, hanging from a cord around your neck hidden under your shirt, strapped onto your legs… the list goes on."

"Holy fuck. Now I'm kind'a terrified."

"And how do you carry your suit?"

"Shut up."

Turning back to finish the last few strokes of his work, he chuckles. "See? Knives have their advantages."

"Okay, fine, you have a point. No pun intended."

"I'm a god, Stark—I'm always right."

"Now you just sound like a thirteen-year-old. How do you even do that blind? Holy shit."

"Centuries of blade-forging tend to help."

With the first done he finds the next piece of metal—a little smaller than the first—and turns back to the forge. A stool with a missing foot scrapes across the concrete floor and the mortal hops up onto it, tilting it back and forth on its uneven legs and causing the metal to tap obnoxiously. Threatening to throw a piece of hot charcoal at him if he doesn't stop seems to do the trick, though.

Loki continues his work, chatting occasionally with Stark when the man isn't focused on whatever project he's working on, until all sixteen blades are forged and the edges ground down to smooth, deadly points. The mortal turns around a little while later to find him acid-etching them.

"Wait a sec, blindy, how the hell are you doing that?"

He glances up, one eyebrow quirked. "Can you write a word or two with your eyes closed?"

"Well, yeah."

"Exactly. I'm not going to attempt to engrave dragons or anything of the sort; it's just runes."

"Why are you doing it on the tang, though? It's just going to get covered when you finish the handle."

With a patronizing smile, Loki holds up one of the half-finished knives. "These are just steel, and thus relatively weak. However, as I am currently incapable of acquiring a better metal—adamantium or uru would be possibly the best options, although there are other satisfactory metals in the realms—I have to make do with what you keep here. The runes aren't decorative; they're to reinforce the strength and resistance of the blades."

"So, what, you just write on them and they're magically stronger?"

"Oh, Stark…" he says with a long-suffering sigh, "you are so human."

"Hey! Humans are awesome, don't bash us!"

"You are also remarkably narrow-minded. Runic inscriptions involve–" he casts about for the term. "Valkyries, there isn't a word for it in your language. It involves the base forces of Yggdrasil and the inherent power of properly written runes. Scribbling the shapes isn't enough; one must have the correct willpower to give them their strength."

There's silence, and mortal is probably using some expression or another that's supposed to mean something.

"Whatever face you're making, I regret to inform you that I am incapable of seeing it."

"Shut up, it's just habit. And you totally lost me there."

"Which is exactly why I called your kind narrow-minded. You need to learn to be more accepting of concepts you do not understand, for it is the only way to learn."

"Learn what?"

"If someone on the street told you that it was possible for them to will a sheet of paper into flames, what would you say?"

"That they were crazy."

"Precisely, yet there are those among you who can do that very thing. Only a handful, maybe seven or eight at most, and none in what would be seen by the masses as normal parts of first-world countries that I know of. They are shamans or sorcerers in cultures that believe in such things—faith is a strong force because it can tap into the mother ash. The few who have noticeable power grew up knowing the truth of the realms, their minds not molded by European skepticism. Humankind sabotaged themselves, when it comes down to it."

"Whoops."

He laughs. "Whoops indeed. It's not as though it could be suddenly reintroduced, though, because people inherently fear the unknown. A survival instinct, true, but detrimental in many ways. They're scared of anyone with strength they cannot understand." Finished with the acid on his fourth knife, he cleans the wax off and moves on to coating the next.

"Like the whole mutant thing, yeah."

"That is an intriguing evolutionary leap, I must say. It will be interesting to watch events play out and see which genes take hold and which don't."

"It's so weird every time I remember that you live for like, ever, and can see that stuff happen over time."

"Hardly. I'll be killed eventually; I am not invincible. Such is the way of otherwise immortal warriors."

"That's depressing."

"Not really. It's far less so than your limited lifespan."

"Shut up."

"It's true, though. In comparison to those of the other realms, your kind practically die as infants."

"Okay, now definitely shut up. A hundred years is a damn long time."

He gazes in the mortal's direction, just thinking for a minute, then goes back to etching. "I suppose your mortality does have its benefits, though. Your culture changes at a lightning pace. It is impressive."

"Ha! That's better. Bathe in our awesome glory and be jealous."

"Whatever you say… Are those runes even?" Loki holds one of the knives out to the man. "They feel it, but it's hard to tell."

"Yep, look good."

"My thanks." He picks up eight of them, weighing each now-cooled blade to ensure the balance is correct, and smiles. "I've missed these."

"Care to share with the class?"

"Stark, are you admitting that you are but a student? I am impressed."

There's a pause. "I'm sticking my tongue out at you, Loki."

"How mature—thank you for proving my point." With an short clank he sets those in his hand down, then offers a different blade. It's perfectly symmetrical, ground to the sharpest point Loki's learned to make in a couple thousand years of practice, and once the handle is wrapped it will be the weight and balance he's found to be his favorite. He's rather proud of it, actually, because it took a bit longer to make with a lot of trial and error, but even blind he managed to do a decent job. The runes are etched deeply into the steel—thurisaz first and foremost, along with sowilo, algiz, mannaz, inguz… the list goes on. He managed a few strengthening symbols as well, although most of them are too complex to do blindly. They would make beautifully intricate designs if he were able, but alas. No longer can he engrave dragons and wolves into his blades, nor horses, serpents, and phoenixes into his armor. 'Tis a pity.

But this blade is well-crafted and will suit his purposes nicely.

The mortal lifts it, and he can only assume the man is inspecting the craftsmanship. "Not bad. Need to harden it, though."

"Oh for the love of– I know how to harden and temper metal, idiot mortal, I just haven't gotten that far yet."

"Gotcha, sorry—I'm not used to dealing with people who can keep up. Stop being smart, dammit, you're throwing off my groove."

"You're very welcome."

He begins to build something to heat the blades in for hardening them, and Stark watches.

"That is… not how I'd do it. Interesting, though."

"It's more effective than human methods—your kind is so obsessed with innovation that you lose the instinctual side of things."

"Fair enough, I guess. Although I still hold to the fact that math is awesome."

He laughs and shoves the man lightly. "Narrow-minded peon."

"Stupid asshole."

*'*'*

Stark reappears again to find Loki sprawled out on the couch with the dagger blade between his knees, a leather cord in each hand, and a third held between his teeth, wrapping an intricate pattern to form the hilt.

"Holy shit, overkill enough?"

Loki tries to tell him to hang on, but it comes out a bit unfortunately with the cord in his mouth. A couple minutes later he's wrapping the ending tails back in, and can speak intelligibly. "Trust me, there are more complicated methods. My primary set of knives on Asgard that I carried most of the time were better, generally engraved and either embedded or inlaid with a few jewels, and a more sparing leather wrap for grip, but I'm not able to do that sightlessly. This is comfortable, though, and looks nice for those of you who can still see, so it will do." He tosses the dagger in the air and catches it after a flip, nodding approvingly.

"How does that even work? It's fucking insane. I'm a genius and I don't get how it wraps like that."

With a smile, Loki offers him one of the mid-sized knives and a roll of cord. "I'll show you a slightly easier one, if you like."

It's not like he's going to say no to learning shit from a god, especially since he doesn't offer very often. Tony sits down beside him, taking the leather and blade.

"This is going to be a bit interesting to show you blind," the god says, taking another blade to use as an example, "but I'll do my best to explain."

Loki is actually a pretty good teacher, although as he said, things are a little difficult since he can't see what Tony is or isn't doing right. In the end they figure it out, though, and he's pretty proud of himself. It's definitely not the sort of thing he specializes in (and still feels kind of World of Warcraft or some shit), but it's kind of cool. He offers the knife back to the god and tells him as much, and he smiles again.

"Keep it."

"Wait, really?"

Loki shrugs. "I made more than I need, and you'd do well to keep a weapon on you more often. Give me your arm?"

"How many times do I have to remind you that I'm not a limb donor?"

"By Valhalla's mead…" the god says, laughing. "I'm not removing it. At least not if you cooperate."

"You freak me out sometimes, you know that?"

"It's a talent of mine." He reaches for a few strips of leather a bit wider than the cord and a couple inches long, cuts a handful of slits in each, then weaves cord through each individually and uses two more pieces that connect the four strips. "Okay, just hold your arm out? I'm not going to cut it off."

With a dramatic sigh, he agrees.

Loki ties the leather around his forearm, and loops the cord around once on each section.

"Hold the knife against the palm side of your forearm, facing downwards. Careful not to cut yourself—my blades are indiscriminate when it comes to drawing blood."

"Right…" He does as asked, though.

The god feels carefully for the position of the blade, holding the ends of the cord against Tony's wrist with his other hand to keep it from loosening. "This takes a little bit of practice to do effectively by yourself, but I'll try to break it down into steps…"

He shows him how to tie the knife down, using the loops of cord he'd already wrapped to keep the razor-sharp edge from cutting him by mistake, and wrap the remaining leather in a criss-crossed pattern back up to tie just under the outside of his elbow.

"It can be a little tricky at first to hold the knife and tie it at the same time, but you'll learn. Now, stand for a moment?"

Tony gets up, and Loki does as well.

"You can always tie it hilt-down on your left arm to pull out with your right hand, but that's both obvious in hostile situations and not always possible. Now, if you move your arm like this–" he gestures slightly, and the blade in his own sleeve slips down into his hand, "–it will dislodge the hilt from where it rests on the leather. The motion isn't one I can ever imagine you using by mistake, and in centuries I never have as it's rather precise, but be careful to keep your fingers out of the way until you're used to it and it becomes natural."

He tries it, being extremely careful not to get sliced (because he saw how easily one of Loki's knives could cut leather with hardly any pressure), and catches it which, while a little awkward the first few times, is actually surprisingly natural.

"Huh. That's actually kind of cool."

"It's come in handy on more than one occasion—the way it's tied is something I figured out over time, so very few realize that a blade can be hidden there and accessed so discreetly."

Wait, so, is this Loki's version of giving him a suit? Well fuck, that's a bit unexpected. Then again, Loki is sort of the king of never meeting expectations, so he probably shouldn't be surprised. The god shows him how to replace the knife without having to retie the leather, and has him try a few more times until he's convinced that he can effectively practice on his own.

"Very good. Especially for such a blinkered coxcomb such as yourself."

"See, I feel like that was supposed to be a compliment, but it kind of came off as an insult. You need to work on your people skills, Altair."

The god laughs, and redoes his ponytail since it had gotten a bit messed up during his time metalworking. "I am fantastic at diplomacy when I act as an envoy, I simply see no reason to do so at present."

"Thanks a ton."

"You're welcome," Loki replies with a cocky grin.

After a pause, he speaks. "Thank you though, seriously, for the knife. It's awesome."

"It does more good if you wear it consistently, as the entire point is to have a method of defense ready at all times. If you don't have long sleeves then it is not very effective as a hidden blade, but there are other ways to carry it concealed."

"You're kind of paranoid, you know."

"That 'paranoia' has saved my life on multiple occasions. I consider it simply staying prepared."

"Whatever you say, man."

Loki rolls his eyes and tries to shoo him off the couch where he's sat down again so the god can put his legs up. Tony's a bit lazy, though, and doesn't want to move (the sofa is plenty big for two people and can definitely fit at least four comfortably—Loki's just hogging the space), so the god apparently decides to ignore his presence and sprawls out on the couch again anyway, trapping Tony under his legs. When it becomes clear that Loki doesn't plan to shift anytime soon ,Tony leans back against the cushions with an irritated huff and stretches, closing his eyes. It's not really that late, but he slowly sinks into dreams while the asgardian hums quietly to himself in the background.

Author's Note: On the off-chance that you're curious, this is the hilt wrap that Loki teaches Tony (although he uses leather instead of paracord, since it's what he's familiar with having grown up on Asgard):
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