"Alright, so, you're gonna have to lose the knives, buddy," Tony tells the god as he pulls the knife from his own sleeve. And, yeah, he's been carrying it pretty much since he got it—it proved useful in a pinch, after all.

It's with great, visible regret that Loki starts collecting the shining steel blades that line his clothing.

"And the one in your boot," he prompts.

The god huffs in annoyance and forfeits that one as well.

"Any more?"

"No."

"Are you being honest right now? Because I'm not taking them because I want to—they've got metal detectors, body scanners, and if they think there's something fishy, they'll pat you down. They might anyway, since you're half robot now."

"I am not half robot, you idiot," he says with a scowl, but pulls another knife from under his pant leg. "Satisfied?"

"Yes, thank you." There's no effort made on Loki's part to hide the fact that he's unhappy with the situation as Tony packs his blades carefully into the black leather bag he'd brought from the tower. "Look, I know you don't like wandering around without a weapon, but nobody is allowed to have anything past security. Except for the, y'know, security, but try to have a little faith in the system since we don't really have a choice."

"I still don't like it."

"Dude. I'd rate you as a million times more dangerous than some terrorist with a bomb any day; you are a fucking weapon. Once we're over the Russian border, you get them back. Okay?"

Loki doesn't reply, opting instead to tuck his cane under his arm and sling the carry-on bag Tony had grabbed at the gas station over his shoulder.

Tony ruffles the god's hair (which is still ridiculously soft, it's like touching fucking cashmere or something) reassuringly before offering his arm. "Try to chill, everything's going to be fine. We're in the home stretch and I'm not going to let anything happen to you, okay?"

The god looks towards him for a moment, confusion swirling in his storm-grey eyes, but eventually gives a small, slightly sad smile and an almost imperceptible nod as he slips the gas-station sunglasses on.

"I know it's not easy for you, and I get that—it's not for me either—but try to trust me, okay? I know everything that's happened with SHIELD has you spooked, even if you won't admit it outright, and I'm not going to think badly of you. It would have freaked me out too, because they really pulled some fucked-up shit. And I don't know what happened with Thor either," he says, and the god flinches, "but you know I'll listen if you ever want to talk about it."

"Try as I might, Stark, I cannot even begin to comprehend your mind."

"Which is why you can stand living with me, let's face it; you'd get bored and fed up with someone who made total sense all the time."

Loki takes his arm (thankfully a bit more gentle this time, because Tony's pretty sure he's got bruises from their little jailbreak maneuver) and he starts walking to the entrance of the airport. It's irritatingly busy, because naturally school is just getting out, and within a minute or two the god looks absolutely bewildered from the cacophony that surrounds them.

"Welcome to the airport, a.k.a. the most ridiculous, chaotic mayhem that has ever been mayhemed."

"I don't like it."

"Is there anything you like?"

He thinks for a moment. "Killing people."

Holy shit, the look on the god's face is way too calm to be saying that. Please dear lord say that's a joke.

"Right, um, file that under things not to say at an airport. Along with anything else related to murder or terrorism, I'm being totally serious here. That's like the number one way to end up surrounded by very unhappy TSA agents, and potentially in handcuffs."

"Mortals," Loki says derisively. "So overly concerned with their perceived value of life."

"Asgard is one freaky-ass place, and your thoughts on offing people are just plain scary. Here, you're going to need these–" He pulls out a passport, visa, and ticket with fake names on them, handing them to the god and giving a brief rundown of their use while walking to the baggage check station. Loki nods, still a bit distracted by the commotion, and jumps when someone brushes past him.

"I hate lines," the god complains not long after they join the queue.

Tony raises an eyebrow. "Wow, whiny much? You'd better get used to it, because we're in for a lot of them."

He huffs. "We don't use such silly things on Asgard, and I'm not used to having to wait on people. Being prince usually means getting to skip ahead of the commoners and court."

"Well, welcome to the human world. We like life, lines, and long walks on the beach at sunset."

That earns a chuckle from the god, and Tony smiles.

The line moves slowly (as lines always seem to), which means Loki grows more and more antsy, so he starts telling stories of crazy college escapades. In return he hears of an incident involving four goats, a cask of ale, and a virgin maiden. They're both laughing so hard they're practically in tears by the time they reach the counter and Loki's decided that lines aren't quite as bad as he'd originally deemed them to be. The lady in a blue vest who's taking their bag looks at them a little funny, but Tony doesn't care. He's used to weird looks.

"C'mon, Comet, time to introduce you to the insanity of security."

"Oh, Norns…"

*'*'*

He really doesn't like this place. It's too loud, throwing off his sense of direction, and people keep half running into him. The second line is far longer and slower than the first, filled with crying babies and unshowered college students, and he wants to punch something. Or someone—that's even better. Maybe the woman behind them with the obnoxious voice who keeps yelling at her boyfriend through her cell phone about not getting her the right brand of boots, because she's really starting to get on his nerves. Stark seems to sense this, though, and rests a hand over his on his arm.

"Easy there, your Majesty. Play nice."

Loki looks over at him, a smug smile creeping across his features. "I could get used to you calling me that. It's certainly better than the reindeer names."

"Ooh, kinky."

"You are absolutely insufferable, you idiot fool."

"Hey, you started it. Are you sure you don't have some deep, dark, repressed sexual deviancy going on? Because that seemed awfully like a Freudian slip to me…"

He rolls his eyes. "I am fairly certain, Stark. I simply enjoy being afforded the respect my status deserves."

"I'm not buying it, sorry. Say what you want, I know the truth." Tony can't help but laugh at the god's expression, because it's freaking hilarious. Like, somehow he's managed to mix concern, repulsion, and exasperation into one.

"All things considered, from what I've heard, you're the deviant one here. Promiscuity of my youth aside, I've heard far worse stories about you."

"Ooh, see, this is a story I need to hear."

"What, my adolescent escapades?"

There's a pause.

"Are you doing it again?"

"Doing what?"

"Giving me a look instead of an answer. In case you've forgotten, you look rather black to me. Along with everything else." Loki's lip curls up into a smirk.

"Oh, shut up. And yes, I'm talking about your crazy teenage years, now spill."

He snickers. "I may have a bit of a, ah, reputation on Asgard."

"What, were you like the palace slut or something?"

"You could say that. I may or may not have had something to prove, and wanted to outdo Thor at something… mother was less than thrilled, and father was incessantly angry because he feared the possibility of bastard children, but Thor was jealous. Consider it my teenage rebellion phase."

The mortal doubles over laughing. "Yeah, because that's the most rebellious thing you've ever done."

"Well, I mean," he looks over sheepishly, "I may have been known for essentially grabbing whoever was on hand and dragging them back to my room. Or out into the gardens. Or into a dark corner… I wasn't very discriminatory. It was only a few years of that, just long enough to rub it in that I was a better lover than Thor, but the reputation stuck for centuries afterwards. Admittedly not my most proud memories, but nonetheless."

Stark is still cackling. Really? It's not that amusing. He tells the mortal as much.

"No, no, but it is though! Because wild, party kid Lo–" The man catches himself, remembering that they're using false names for the time being. "–Lachlan, I mean, oh my god! The fact that I can imagine that probably isn't a good sign. On a scale from one to ten, how drunk did you get?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Which time? Honestly, with the availability of wine, mead, and ale… enough to figure out a hangover-remedy potion. Like I said, though, it was only a few years. Maybe a decade, two at most. I've grown to appreciate moderation now—it's been a long time since I was properly drunk. Thor, however, never seemed to learn his lesson. You'd be surprised how much he's willing to promise in exchange for a sip of that potion."

"You are awesome, have I ever told you that?"

"Repeatedly, although I still think you're delusional. Must you really keep laughing?"

"Dude, you were me. I love it."

Loki just rolls his eyes. It's not like it should really be that surprising, all things considered, although he'd done it more to irritate Thor than anything. The sex was fine, but nothing to write home about. It was mainly for appearances. "Your sense of humor is abysmal."

"I know, but it's still funny. See, those stories are way funnier than the 'we rode forth into a glorious battle and conquered a species' things."

"Yes, they're funnier, but those are quite good too. I have fought many a great war and led many a charge."

"Wait, you guys throw royalty onto the front line?"

He gives the man a curious look. "Well, of course. Who else would lead?"

"Um, the slightly more expendables? I mean, that's kind of the most dangerous place to be—putting the rulers there is a little risky, isn't it?"

Mortals.

"Your kind do things so strangely. It is a king's or prince's duty to ride first, to protect their people and be honorable leaders, and a true warrior faces death with dignity. We fight with all we are, or die trying. The fact that your president and politicians hide behind other agents and soldiers is disgraceful through the eyes of my culture."

"Weird."

"Only as weird as you are to me."

The line moves forward, and Stark goes to talk to the man at the counter, or desk, or whatever it is they've been waiting for. After a moment the mortal reaches back and tugs on his sleeve, guiding him forward.

"Identification and boarding pass?" the man asks.

Stark indicates two of the documents in his hand. "Those ones."

He hands them over, pulling his attention away from the child a handful of people back who's throwing a fit about not being able to take all of her stuffed animals on the plane. There's a scratch of marker on paper, then Stark taps his fingers with the little book and he takes them back.

"Have a nice day."

From there it's right back into another line (and he makes his thoughts on that fact known).

"Alrighty, Donder. Ready for the fun part?"

Loki sighs. "Why do I have a sinking feeling that you don't mean fun at all?"

"Because it's airport security, and therefore one of the most irritatingly obnoxious things in the world." Since they're not moving, the mortal shrugs off his hand for a moment to do something or another. "Coat, shoes, and anything metal have to come off, and it's easier to do that now while we're waiting, trust me. Anything in your pockets comes out, too."

"This is absolutely ridiculous."

"Yep. And just to double-check, you're not carrying anything questionable, are you? Specifically your fancy forged shit, but really anything like that. Trust me, they've got the tech to know."

He sighs, distinctly unhappy with that specific requirement. "No, I am not." They move forward a bit before stopping and Loki kneels to unfasten his gaiters, running his fingers down the front to find the cool metal snaps. They come apart easily in his hands, and his boots don't take long to remove either. He's finished by the time the line resumes its movement. Stark helps him when they reach the front so that he isn't groping about for the plastic bins, which is nice of him.

"Belt and watch go in, cane too," the mortal prompts, and so with much irritation he complies.

There's a whir of rollers while Stark pushes the buckets to what he's told is a scanner of some sort, then after a moment's wait for the people in front of them pads forward.

There's a loud beeping, and a familiar sigh before he goes to speak with the woman who's working their line.

"Hey, Lachlan," he calls.

Loki glances up.

"Since neither of us are gonna get through the metal detector without setting it off, and you've got all sorts of wacky going on with your pacemaker, you mind doing a private pat-down?"

He laughs quietly, quirking an eyebrow. "Are you propositioning me?"

"You know it," the mortal responds sarcastically. When he hesitates, Stark fairly immediately understands. "I can still be your guide, you're allowed to bring someone."

As long as he doesn't have to follow around someone he's never met before he's fine with it, so he nods and reaches for the man's arm.

"He's got kind of a funky medical implant situation," Stark says to the new agent when they reach the room. "Lassie, he's not supposed to ask you to take off anything, but unbuttoning your shirt might make things easier."

Loki hums in acknowledgement and does as the mortal suggests, although he shoots him a questioning look for the nickname. He is admittedly a bit self-conscious about the entire thing, considering the circumstances, and can only imagine what the scars look like—let alone the device in his chest.

To his credit, he only blushes a little. He's always been rather vain.

"Miniaturized arc reactor," Loki explains when the agent doesn't say anything for a moment. "It's an experimental medical device, that works like a pacemaker except significantly stronger."

Another beat of silence.

"Do you have any way to prove that it's medical in nature?"

Stark tells the man he has a card from the surgeon, which the agent looks at, but doesn't seem entirely convinced by.

"Lassie, you trust me, right?"

"Yes," he answers honestly, only realizing after the fact how disconcerting it is that it's such an easy reply.

The air warms slightly in front of him when Stark approaches, and the TSA agent's footsteps follow his. There's a light pressure on his chest, which makes him wince, then a click. When he realizes what the mortal is doing, his breath catches in a moment of panic.

"Woah, hey, Rudolph—not gonna hurt you. It's okay."

Metal slides on metal as the reactor disengages from its casing, and Loki takes a breath to reorder his mind. At least the room is quiet. That helps a little. Besides, the only two present are Stark and the agent who, judging by the sound of his footsteps, is a bit out-of-shape. Stark won't hurt him, and the other man will be easy enough to take out in the case of a threat. Slowly, he forces his body to relax.

It's not long before he can feel the device being slotted back into place, and it locks with a snick.

"Good?" Stark asks the agent, and he's guessing he nods from the fact that there's no continuation of the explanation. "Cool."

The mortal starts buttoning his shirt for him, which is completely unnecessary, so he swats his hands away and does it himself.

"Alright, buddy, have fun feeling me up," Stark exclaims. "I mean, him too, but I'm obviously the sexier of us."

Apparently the other man either doesn't have a sense of humor or doesn't find the comment in good taste, because it largely goes ignored in favor of a slightly too tactile inspection of Loki's person. Are mortals truly so concerned with people taking things onto their flying contraptions? From Stark's brief overview of the terrorists they're trying to stop, this is hardly going to be effective against anyone relatively intelligent, not to mention that there are far, far easier and effective ways to take down a plane without a bomb if you have even a little bit of imagination.

Granted, he probably fits into their description of a terrorist, but he isn't planning to blow anything up or start killing anyone in any fashion for the time being.

Finally the man finishes with both he and Stark, and they are allowed to return to their things. The mortal leads him to a worn metal bench so he can pull his boots and coat back on, and does the same beside him.

"Hey, give me your arm for a sec?"

"I thought I was the one supposed to be collecting limbs for my lair, not you," he replies with a chuckle while he finishes fastening his gaiter.

"Oh, shut up, if I want an evil lair then I can have one too."

Loki relents and holds his arm out towards Stark, and the man snaps something cool and metal around his wrist.

"Medical ID bracelet, in case something happens. Not that I'm expecting anything to, but if for some reason we ever get separated and you're unconscious or speaking Asgardian, I don't want people fucking with the arc reactor. It's got my, Pepper's, Rhodey's, and the doctor at SHIELD's numbers on the back as contacts, since we're the four who know how it works and how to get the plans for it, and also the only people I trust to be working with it. I'd say Bruce, too, but right now he doesn't have the access codes. Also says to avoid morphine if possible, and not to give blood transfusions."

"Who are you, my mother?"

"Good god I hope not. You're kind of a walking train wreck right now, though, no offense, and I'd prefer you don't end up dead because some idiot decided to give you human blood." The man offers his arm again when Loki stands, and they make their way further into the (obnoxiously loud and busy) building. "Honestly, Thor's was risky enough, and I'm surprised it worked. Thankful, but surprised."

He freezes mid-step, almost getting pulled off-balance when Stark doesn't stop as suddenly. "What?"

The mortal has the grace to sound at least a little bit sheepish. "Oh, right, I thought I'd mentioned it—you might be slightly more family with Thor now, although your body seemed to be burning through his stuff pretty quickly, so I'm not sure how much stuck."

"You–?" Cue a bit of an overload of emotions, because that's probably worse than the arc reactor. Anger swells in his chest, but so do memories of pain and abandonment that he's been desperately trying to push to the back of his mind.

Stark turns to face him, voice serious. "Loki. You were dying, and there wasn't time to try to track down someone who we knew for sure would have compatible blood. Thor's was a shot in the dark, but he agreed to let us use it, and it worked. Trust me, I knew it wouldn't be your first pick, but I was kind of desperate and out of options. You were too far gone to wait." There's a note of desperation there, like he was actually scared, and Loki's not entirely sure what to make of that. As many times as the mortal insists otherwise, people don't go out of their way to help him. People don't care about his well-being. People fear him, not his passing.

"You utter anomaly," he spits, crossing arms in front of his chest and glaring like it will somehow help make sense of things. Stark consistently defies all understanding, breaking what he's come to accept as laws of Yggdrasil like it's the most normal thing in the realms. His words, his actions, his emotions… they're illogical, and he hates that. Loki is good at reading people—it's always been a gift of his and the reason he is so good at manipulation—but the fool makes him feel illiterate. He hates that.

A hand comes to rest on the small of his back, the mortal's body heat seeping through the flannel of his shirt and radiating across his skin. "You're making that face again, the one that means you're overthinking things."

"Your actions are completely nonsensical, and it is maddening. I cannot decipher your motivations."

There's a pause. "You really don't get it, do you?"

Don't get what?

"Loki, I've said it a thousand times before since you keep asking me why, but I honestly care about you, okay? I don't just go around breaking random people out of high-security government facilities or inviting drug addicts off the street to live with me. I don't know what sort of shit you've been through in the past, or how many people have fucked you over, but believe it or not there are people who do genuinely like you. Pepper is risking being accused of high treason to get you out of the country safely," Stark tells him, lowering his voice so passersby can't overhear. "And not because I made her; she volunteered. So at the very least, there are two of us who have seriously invested ourselves in your well-being because we want to. This isn't us trying to make you owe us a debt, because I don't expect anything, but because we fucking care, okay? You said you trust me, so trust me on that."

"I'm not a good person, Stark."

"Nope. You're not. But you're not a bad person either, and I fit the same description. I've seen how fucked up you are, all the cracks and the madness, and I like you anyway. So deal with it."

He's not really sure how to respond to that—as many times as the mortal has said that or something similar, he just can't understand what it means. "Caring is weakness," Loki eventually replies.

"Probably, yeah. I mean, I'm now most likely number two on SHIELD's most-wanted list, right behind you, but it doesn't mean I'm going to stop."

With a sigh, he turns to take the mortal's arm again. "Let's just go, okay? It would be detrimental if we were to miss the boarding of our plane."

Stark starts walking, his footsteps a quiet scuff of rubber on linoleum that he hones in on to block out some of the ambient mayhem. "What the hell happened to you, Loki?" the man asks softly, and he's not sure if it's meant to be answered or not.

*'*'*

Note to self: being nice to Loki cues an emotional meltdown and existential crisis.

He really should have learned this by now.

Thankfully they don't have far to go, but it's still an uncomfortably silent walk that's punctuated by the god jumping at random things he can't pick out among the din. Every time he does, Tony can see the frustration building on Loki's face and in the tension of his shoulders. The hand twitch has returned, he notices, likely because the entire situation has stressed the god out more than he tries to let on. It's probably a good sign that they've been living together for too long if he can pick up on the little changes in how Loki carries himself and reacts to things that mean he's scared or anxious, because he covers it well.

"Okay, so, we've got first-class the whole way, but we're stuck with two connecting flights and three different airlines. American's first-class is kind of dumb compared to the others, but it's only a two-hour flight down to Los Angeles. The layovers are going to be a bit of a bitch, but Incheon's not too bad… I've had way worse flights."

"How long until our flight leaves?"

"Two hours. We're a little early, because catching a flight from here to Khabarovsk isn't exactly a nonstop deal, but I ate up a bit of time on the road trying to make sure we lost SHIELD. According to Jarvis, they're nowhere near here—the whole flying-out-of-Vegas thing seems to have them occupied, which is really pretty stupid of them when you think about it."

"And which gate is ours?"

"We're almost there, it's the next one down. B10."

"I'll meet you back here in half an hour or so," the god tells him, unfolding his cane.

Wait, what? "Back up the truck a sec, there, Blitzen—one second you're freaking out and the next you're just wandering off?"

"I was not freaking out, you mortal imbecile, and I'm hungry. At three thousand and seventy-one of your mortal years, I believe I'm capable of finding my own food," he snaps back.

Okay, suddenly touchy. Fantastic. This bodes really well for a thirty-hour trip…

"Aw, can't I tag along?"

"I don't want your help, Stark! I'm not a child to be babied!"

Right… backing off now, then.

"Fine, Rudolph, fucking hell. Chill. I'll go find my own grub. You've got your cell on you if I need to get ahold of you though, right? I'll keep an eye on the departure board in case there's a delay or anything and letcha know."

Loki waves his phone briefly, exasperation written on every feature. "Yes, I have my phone. Now leave me alone."

And with that, the god is gone.