Out of a largely dreamless sleep, a soft voice calling his name slowly eases him back to awareness. It takes a few minutes to resolve the quiet hum of engines outside the window and muted chatter of passengers nearby, because he's ridiculously comfortable and waking up is for losers. The cabin climate has tended toward the slightly higher end of the temperature scale, and Tony is appreciative of the cool body against his that's serving as a quite wonderful pillow. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he's met with a silver gaze through the gap in Loki's sunglasses.

"If you find it necessary to fall asleep on someone in the future," the god notes drily, "I think you'll find it polite to do so in such a fashion that is comfortable for both parties."

After over a day and a half without sleep, less than two hours of light rest has really only added to the weights that seem so determined to keep his eyelids firmly shut. "Sorry, not sorry," he manages to mutter, quickly reaching the conclusion that he's not fighting this hard for something as pointless as being awake.

Loki's sigh isn't audible, but the rise and fall of his chest under Tony's temple serves as a decent enough messenger. "We are going to be landing in just a few minutes; you may find some merit in becoming at least slightly conscious before that time."

It's only with a great deal of grudging effort that Tony manages to pull away from the friendly thrum of the arc reactor and slow, steady beat of the god's heart—a rhythm he's never going to take for granted after what went down in Arizona with SHIELD. The very thought of the fucking government shitheads kindles the flame of rage that's been burning for almost two months now, and it takes a forced reminder that they'll get what's coming to them in time to keep Tony from doing something stupid right then and there.

Killing is bad, Tony, remember?

Yeah. Bad.

Right…

Using the suit so much has, for the most part, desensitized him to descents (save for those when he's completely out of control, in which case he just flips the fuck out), but it's easy enough to tell they're landing. Loki makes a face when the landing gear touches down and the plane jolts slightly, with a muttered comment about harsh landings and stupid mortal aircraft designs which Tony ignores. He's too tired to deal with pissy gods.

The layover becomes a pain in the ass, because Terminal 4 isn't connected to Bradley International and they have to go back through security. Once again they're pulled aside for a more private screening, and Tony may or may not end up in a heated argument with the TSA agent (who is a bit more skeptical than the one at SLC). Loki quickly intervenes with a surprisingly patient diplomacy and manipulation, and plays the guy like a fiddle (sometimes it's kind of scary how smart Loki is. Tony's not used to being around other geniuses, but he's got mixed feelings about it). After that they're through in a matter of minutes.

Between the lines and the people, they don't end up with all that much time before they're boarding their connecting flight—although neither he nor Loki is particularly upset about the fact, because their seats on the plane to Seoul are significantly more comfortable than either those at the airport or in American Airlines' first class.

Tony tries to convince Loki to sleep, considering the fact that he's still recovering and shouldn't have been running around already, but the god refuses to do so. Instead Loki insists that he himself sleep, which, as much as he wants to argue, he's tired as fuck.

By the time the plane leaves the runway, he's out cold.

"Stark…" A voice like gentle velvet caresses his thoughts in the midst of the chaos, a noise so different from the cacophony of shouts and screams that it pulls him back from the edge of the yawning precipice.

"Stark." It's not enough, though, not really—not when the white-hot sun is searing his back and guns follow his every movement, or when it all fades to something worse than darkness because there's nothing. Nothing and everything, at the same time, and it's so wrong–!

Everything's burning, breaking, shattering and throwing distortions like a prism as he falls through the plate glass windows into oblivion. Freezing, burning, blurring, tendrils of nothingness braiding themselves around his neck and tightening in a chokehold that squeezes ever tighter and won't let go–

He bolts upright with a gasp, clawing at his throat in an effort to chase away the ghosts of the strangling mass. As his vision clears, Tony is met with the sight of a raven-haired man kneeling beside his seat, cool hands enveloping his own in a silent show of support.

"Anthony, it's alright, you're safe. This isn't Afghanistan—we're on a plane from Seoul to Khabarovsk, it's May of 2014… You know who I am?"

It takes a few moments for the haze to lift enough from his mind to give the words meaning, but when he manages he nods. "L-Loki."

Said god grants him just the barest hint of a smile. "Very good. Try to slow your breathing, and focus on me, alright?"

Without a better option, Tony complies. His heart pounds in his ribcage like it's trying to make a jailbreak, and his mind is caught between the nightmare and the waking world. Fuck, he wants to be back at the tower right now, because if he has to flip a shit like this, doing it over the Pacific surrounded by strangers isn't exactly his preferred method.

A hand rests over his chest, fingers splayed across his sternum, and the slight pressure acts as a grounding sensation that he latches onto like a life ring.

Loki. Focus on Loki.

A breathy laugh appears unexpectedly, and Tony breaks down into slightly off-balanced giggles. The god leans back slightly, something wary flitting across his face.

"…Stark?" he asks in what could almost pass for concern.

He jabs a finger at Loki's shoulder while he laughs, nearly doubling over in desperate laughter. "You," he manages to choke out between breaths, "have a really funny name."

"You have actually gone insane," the god declares, eyes going so wide that it's comical, which only sets off another bout of laughter.

To be completely honest, it's really not that humorous—it just feels like it right now because he's so fucking scared after the dream—so the guy's got a decent reason to be concerned, but laughing seems like a lot better option than, say, crying. Tony doesn't really do crying. Like ever, if he can help it.

Loki says his name again, and before his brain can really process the movement amongst the jumble of thoughts and impulses, he's wrapping his arms around the god's neck and burying his face in his shoulder. For a moment Loki stiffens and Tony worries he's going to pull back, but he hasn't even finished the thought when strong arms wrap around his waist in a surprisingly tender embrace.

"Shh…" the god soothes quietly, raising a hand to run fingers through Tony's hair.

A fragment of his mind makes the connection between the way he's helped Loki cope with high emotion in the past and how Loki is acting toward him right now, almost like reciting a lesson. Wherever the god learned it, it works—the contact forms a perfect ground, and Tony slowly manages to shove the worst of the panic back into the mental hard drive where he stores it.

"What were you dreaming about?"

"I–" He shakes his head, not entirely sure if he wants to talk about it.

Loki tips his head enough that he can look in his general direction. "Do you trust me?" he asks, a note of reservation in his voice as though as much as he wants the answer to be positive, he doesn't really believe it will. He's wrong.

"Yes," Tony replies without hesitation.

The god lets out a shocked laugh at his response, and raises an eyebrow incredulously. "You are an utter fool, you idiot mortal."

"Probably, yeah, but you say that like a compliment."

"I suppose I do," he admits. "If you are fool enough to trust me, Stark, then trust that speaking of it will help. Alright?"

Tony sighs, fiddling with the fabric of the god's jacket. "It was… I dreamed that I was back in the cave again, that the Ten Rings had caught me. They were kind'a pissed that I lied to them and blew all their shit up, so they tortured me…. Raza shot Bakaar, then Pepper and Yinsen, then he tried to shoot you–" he cuts off, not really wanting to continue.

Loki chuckles quietly. "It is a bit more difficult to kill me than that, in case you haven't been able to see by now. I could snap his neck with barely a second thought."

A shudder wracks his body as the rest of the details flash before his eyes. "Yeah, well, the bastard didn't make it."

The god stills, just long enough for it to be noticeable before he recovers. "I was an antagonist in this imagining?"

Tony nods.

"And yet you do not balk from my presence."

"When we started running into each other, I had to draw a line between the bag-of-cats psycho killer and the depressed, fiddle-playing geek. I still see both of 'em when I look at you, which I've learned to deal with, but I can make the distinction."

"I see."

"For the record, you still scare the ever-living shit out of me on a daily basis."

"Good. Fear is healthy—it keeps you alive."

That isn't entirely true, and Tony's pretty sure that Loki realizes that. There are times when he looks up, but instead of seeing the guy he's become friends with, he sees the supervillain who tried to kill him more than once; chances are, he'll keeps seeing that version for a long, long time, especially after the events leading up to their time with SHIELD. The ice-cold edge of a blade drawing a thin string of rubies from one's throat isn't the sort of thing that just gets forgotten, nor is a familiar voice hissing terrifying threats in your ear, which is precisely why he has to trust the god—there's enough shit between them that there's no other way for this to work. They both have to be a little stupid and hope for the best.

To say that Loki had been an antagonist would be the understatement of the century. The things he'd done in the dream? He wouldn't wish them on Raza. Or anyone. It had been slow, and calculated, and the sheer amount of blood, bones, gore, and screaming have done something bad to his psyche.

If that's what his imagination can come up with, he really doesn't want to know what a three-thousand-year-old, warrior-reared god's can.

"I hold no ill will toward your people or realm, Stark. You should know that."

He laughs darkly. "No, this time it's my turn. Fuck SHIELD and all they stand for—how'd you like to have a little villainous reprise and take out the World Security Council with me?"

"World Security Council?"

"Oh, right, didn't tell you the details," Tony remembers, glancing around to make sure no flight crew or passengers are within earshot who might call them out on talking about somewhat questionable subject matter. "They're the ones who decided to nuke the city during the invasion."

"That wouldn't have done them any good. All that would have happened is they would have killed your team, and therefore the only ones with any real hope of slowing the chitauri. One of their pathetic little bombs on their own populace would never put a decent enough dent in their army to do you any good."

"Yeah, hence my vendetta against them. I can't easily go after them right now, unfortunately, but trust me—when I can, I am. I just need to work out how to replace them with a group that's a little less fucked-up before I do, because I'm not quite stupid enough to wipe out the biggest global organization that's paying attention to shit outside our atmosphere. The Avengers won't bite the bait and help me out, which means I have to do things a bit of a roundabout way. You're welcome to join in, of course, when I do finally get revenge. It's gonna be so fucking sweet, man. So. Fucking. Sweet."

"I suppose it does sound like good fun."

"Oh, trust me—it will be."

Unfortunately, as much as he wants to just nuke the assholes and call it a day, thinking about it doesn't really help the lingering panic. Council means abyss, and abyss means… well, there aren't words. He shivers again just thinking about it.

"Do you have a pen?" the god asks him.

"In my bag, I think, yeah."

Loki looks at him like he's crazy, at which point he remembers that the guy doesn't know where said bag is, so he breaks away from the comforting hug to find the pen and hand it to him. Without any real warning, the god shoves him over a bit and sits cross-legged at the foot end of his seat where it's been folded flat.

"What do you know of runes?"

"Um… nothing, really. That Vikings carved them into stones and shit."

With a roll of his eyes, Loki finds his arm and pushes his sleeve up. "The Elk's-sedge," he recites, "has its home most oft in the fen." The pen scratches three cool marks across his wrist in what would resemble a Y whose stem continued to the top. "It waxes in water, wounds grimly. The blood burns of every man who makes any grasp at it." Loki sits back and caps the pen. "Algiz. Traditionally seen as Heimdall's rune."

"Algiz," he repeats.

"The rune of protection—and your introduction to the most basic forms of magic."

"Oh god, not magic…"

"Yes, I am a god, and what's wrong with magic?" the god asks, sounding rather affronted.

"Nothing! Except, y'know, breaking physics on a regular basis, giving a big fuck-you to reason, and generally being impossible."

Loki sighs. "You obviously do not understand it at all, then—magic could not be more logical. Complex, yes, and fluid, but it fits nearly perfectly with your view of Yggdrasil if you actually look. It is just learning to manipulate the underlying forces of the mother ash, or the universe, as you call Her, but if you do not believe then you cannot tap into them."

"Sounds like a cheesy episode of My Little Pony."

"Oh, for the love of Mímir's severed skull… it is not that She requires your faith, it is that if you do not truly believe it to be possible then your mind is not open in such a fashion that you'll be able to manage access. Will you try to at least attempt to accept that there are things you do not yet know?"

Tony scowls, but nods before remembering the god can't see him. "Fine."

"Thank you. Now, as I believe I told you when I was etching my knives, by themselves runes hold no power—it is your own will that gives it to them. You can consider them a vague form of capacitor, if you like, to store energy. The same force that gives you life is the power that connects all things, and thus you have an innate access to it—you can manipulate it with your will, because will is a version of that force."

The god offers the pen, so he takes it.

"Your turn."

"What?"

"Your turn," Loki repeats slowly as though he's speaking to a slow child, and holds his hand out, palm-down. "Draw the rune."

All things considered, it's a way to get his mind off shit, and he's got time to kill. Why not draw crazy Asgardian shit, right? He takes the god's hand and starts to sketch the thing, but is immediately swatted away.

"Not like that, you fool!"

"What?" Tony demands. "I was writing exactly what you were!"

With a sigh, Loki rubs the ink off his hand and holds it out again. "Yes, you were, but lines do not a rune make. Letter, yes. Symbol of power, no."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do, wish upon a star?"

"No, you imbecile, you're supposed to will it. All the fear right now, from your dream? Use it. Take everything that haunts you, and then imagine all your suits, and weapons, and allies. Channel your pain, your anger, and your determination into a singular force that overpowers your worry, and keep focused on that while you write—force the emotion into your action, and the two will start to bleed together."

"That doesn't make–"

Loki cuts him off in exasperation. "Stop overthinking everything and just do, mortal fool."

"Okay, okay, god, fine." Stupid asshole.

With some serious mixed feelings about the whole apparently-magic shit, Tony pulls everything he felt when Loki had first pulled the knife on himself back to the surface and focuses on that (it's a little too soon, he thinks, to think about the nightmare too hard).

But seriously, that had scared the shit out of him. The fucking look on Loki's face as he'd laid dying… just, never again. So fuck no, he doesn't really think there's that much to the whole magic-runes crap, but he's definitely been through enough with the god to have a bit to pull from. The more he thinks on it, the more worrying that is, actually—he's always been pretty damn selfish and not put too much trust in anyone, but the god's made him do some pretty crazy stuff without even trying.

Again: stupid asshole.

"Not bad," Loki tells him when he's drawn the character. "You need practice to refine the raw power and channel it properly, but it's a functioning ward as-is if a bit crude."

"Right… so, if that's Heimdall's, what's yours?"

"Which rune, you mean?"

Tony nods, spinning the ballpoint pen between his fingers absentmindedly.

"Ansuz, reversed, has been associated with me on more than one occasion." Loki's expression splits into a grin. "Trickery and subterfuge—my favorite things."

"Oh, god, just what I need in my life—more chaos."

"It's what I need in mine, so feel free to share any that you happen to obtain."

It's not something that he's thought about that much in all the mayhem, but now that he looks, Loki looks significantly better than he did in the weeks before his meltdown—no longer are his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, or is his voice half-absent, as though his mind is a few galaxies down the street. Now he sits peacefully with that stupid smirk that seems to be his trademark painted onto his face like he was born with it (and all things considered, it's completely possible he was). Sure, the aftereffects of his suicide attempt and the following surgeries still linger, but he still looks a thousand times healthier. The difference is staggering, now that he looks for it.

"Well, tell you what: you and I are going to figure out a way for you to get your daily dose of mayhem that doesn't involve blowing up everything in sight." Easier said than done, of course, especially considering the fact that he doesn't understand the mechanics of the god's dependence, but fuck if he's going to sit back and watch this all happen again. "You are such a piece of fucking work, you asshole."

"Mmm," Loki affirms with a slight nod, "I do try. It's a talent of mine, I think you'll grow to find."

"Great. How's the reactor, by the way?"

That earns him a scowl. "I assume something is shorting out, from the feel of it—not enough so as to impair its function, but enough to give a bit of a shock every little while. Nothing I can't handle, but it's uncomfortable."

Tony runs through the designs in his head looking for faults that could be causing that sort of problem. The reactor the god wears is a prototype, really, because he hadn't finished development on the slim version but wasn't going to give him the full-sized older version when there was an alternative. There's still work to be done to perfect it.

"It might be in the connection between the vibranium and the main base. I'd take a look, but screwing around with that right now will probably end with someone thinking we're planning the next 9/11 or some shit. Plus I don't have any tools… when we land in Khabarovsk and get out of the airport I'll see what I can do."

To his eternal surprise, Loki doesn't offer a snide remark on the offer to help, and opts instead for gazing toward him for a moment before nodding and giving a slight, grateful smile. "My thanks."

"That's what friends are for. Well, that and breaking your sorry ass out of supermax-security secret government facilities, sneaking you into foreign countries, and betraying their planet in the process."

The smirk makes its return, possibly even more so than before. "I'm a fantastic role model, what can I say?"

"You're a complete asshole is what you are."

"I am truly disappointed in the regression to childish, simplistic insults you seem to have suffered whilst I was bedridden—we were making such progress. Must you honestly be back to your disturbing fascination with my anatomy? I'm far too good-looking for you, I thought we'd already established that fact."

"You're the one whose mind's stuck in the gutter and always takes shit like that. And, um, excuse me, have you seen this face? I'm fucking gorgeous."

Loki chuckles. "I feel incredibly sorry for Gorgeous, then, but in answer to your question? No, I can't say I have, unless you've turned svartálfr and grown to a truly monstrous size… which I suppose is possible considering the slop your species considers to be edible food. If that is the case, would you mind moving out of my field of vision, please? You're blocking the view."

Fuck, he's missed this—the stupid, joking arguments and the way the god's smile lights his face when the bastard's feeling clever. It's a weird bit of normalcy (or what could pass as normalcy in lives as bizarre as theirs) after what have literally been months now of genuine fear and frustration. Loki's laugh helps ease the painful bite of the nightmares more than he'd care to admit.

Friendship, caring about people… it's dangerous. That's been made abundantly clear to him time and again as he's abandoned or had people used against him, but at the same time there's shit like this where he honestly doesn't know how he'd make it if he were still as cut-off from people as he had been a few years back. Thank whatever powers be for skinny, storm-eyed god-shaped miracles.

Okay, the fact that he just considered the asshole—and his mind was not taking it that way until Loki said that, for the record—a miracle is just the tiniest bit concerning, especially taking into consideration all the definitely questionably-moral (a.k.a. not really at all) shit that's going down, but good things don't happen to Tony Stark. There's always a catch, and he guesses he's found it.

Hey—could be worse, right?

Probably.

Maybe.

Okay, this whole situation is pretty bad, but still. It's not like dealing with Loki was ever going to be easy.

"You're awfully quiet. Did I offend you?" the god asks with more sarcasm dripping from his voice than Tony knew possible, before switching to a distinctly more mocking, faux-effeminate demeanor. "Oh, dear, are you dead?"

"Eind blesa halfviti," he retorts.

Unfortunately, that doesn't quite earn him the reaction he was going for, because Loki looks at him blankly for a minute, then breaks down into laughter hard enough that Tony thinks he might actually be tearing up behind his sunglasses. It's hard enough to hurt, at least, and after a few seconds the god winces and holds a hand against the arc reactor while he forces himself to calm.

"Next time you attempt to speak my language, Stark," he manages between stifled snickers, "you may wish to check your pronunciation."

"Wait, what?"

"'Particle blaze half-know,' really? If you were trying to say 'duck-faced moron,' which I'm assuming was your intent, then it's 'önd blasa hálfviti.' Do try to pay attention to your vowels next time, because that is just painful."

"Hey! It seemed to be fine when you were freaking the fuck out and yelling at me." Granted, at that point he'd just come off of a week or so of cramming info into his head, and had memorized a couple phrases that seemed like they'd probably be useful, so… yeah, his pronunciation probably isn't great. Especially when you add in the fact that the Asgardian dialects aren't the same as the Icelandic-ish mishmash he's been using.

"Yes, well, I was rather delirious. Your butchering of my beautiful native tongue was not the first thing on my mind, as I was rather more concerned with why I was alive with an arc reactor in my chest."

"Fair point."

"I know. I do appreciate the effort, though, I suppose. It's not an easy language to learn, especially not for a mortal."

He scoffs in what doesn't really count as affrontedness anymore, given how often Loki says things like that. "Quit insulting the awesomeness that is the human race! We're fucking fantastic."

"And again, I extend my condolences to Fantastic for that unfortunate circumstance."

"You're mean."

"I try."

Tony absentmindedly traces the unfamiliar character on his arm as he has a thought. "Wait a sec, though, back up like five minutes. You said don't have magic, but then you can do runes and shit?"

"Mortals," Loki scoffs again. "There are varying forms of magic—I lost my innate connection to Yggdrasil's power, which was my strongest source, but just because I myself do not act as part of the circuit does not mean that I cannot still manipulate the wires. The types of spellcrafting that involve the external use of power are still accessible to me. Things like seiðr, witchcraft, and technically sorcery as well… those I can use. I just prefer not to, for the most part. Runes are slightly different—something of a middle ground between externally- and internally-drawn power—and so while I prefer them to the other ways, mine are not as strong as they once could have been."

Huh. "That actually makes a surprising amount of sense, if you ignore the wavy hands and mystic power shit."

"One day I will convince you that magic is not so unscientific as you believe it to be, idiot fool."

"Is it going to involve diagrams like the quantum physics one? 'Cause, for the record, all that did was show me that you're batshit crazy and give me a killer headache."

"Oh, come now. Would you honestly like me if I wasn't a bit insane?"

"Fair point."

Loki chuckles, fingers drumming out a complex rhythm on his knee. "We still have a few more hours to go before we land. You should use what time there is to sleep, considering how little you have over the past few days."

"Aw, Scrooge, is that care in your voice?"

"Care that you don't get us lost in the airport, yes," Loki replies (and Tony would bet half his fortune that he's rolling his eyes right now).

"Asshole." He readjusts his blanket, though, and shoves at Loki's leg to get him to move off his seat so he can lay down.

It's not until he closes his eyes that Tony realizes how tired he still is and finds himself appreciating the hum of the engines in the background—silence is impossible to sleep in, and has been for a long time now. Loki says something quietly before returning to his own seat, but Tony doesn't try to translate. The pillow is pretty soft, after all.

"Ef ég gerði ekki sama hefði ég látið þig sofandi, þér kjánalegt fífl."

Not long before the plane lands, he's met with a rather rude awakening. No, seriously, Loki's crosslegged in his seat across the aisle tearing pages out of the in-flight magazine, balling them up, and throwing them at him. Not all of them have made their target, but still.

"Wha–? What time 's it?"

"About four, we're landing soon," he replies, throwing another page and almost hitting him in the face now that he has a better judge of where Tony is.

Tony just groans and drops his head back onto the pillow.

With a chuckle, Loki balls up the next piece of paper. "I can do this all day."

"Yeah, and keep missing, Nemeth. Way to hit the wall. People have to pick those up, y'know."

"Oh, stop being a hypocrite—if it were you, would you have any issue with it?"

God dammit. He hates when Loki's right.

"As I thought. Now, wake up."

"I'm awake, I'm awa–" he's interrupted by a yawn, but sits up despite how badly he just wants to sleep for the next seven thousand years.

On the plus side, they don't have to go through security again for this layover. On the somewhat downside, it's almost seven hours until their next flight leaves.

This trip is way too fucking long.

It's too early for the Asiana lounge to be open (which is stupid), and all the fancy sleeping chairs are taken (which is doubly stupid), so Tony ends up finding some semi-comfortable seats in the same area. He finally manages to convince Loki that some shut-eye is a good idea, considering it's been almost twenty hours since they got to the SLC airport and he hasn't slept since the car, although it takes an offhanded comment about staying up and watching the bags before he finally pulls his glasses off and lays down. Apparently the asshole's determined to get payback for Tony falling asleep on him earlier, because now the god's using his lap as a pillow, but he finds he doesn't really care that much. It's hardly the first time Loki's done it.

The airport is relatively quiet, given the time, although the first of the business travellers are starting to trickle in. It's definitely not the ugliest building he's been in, and if anything the clean, modern look of it suits his tastes well. The marble, stone, and glass could almost belong in the lobby of his tower or his Malibu place. Fuck, he's not really one to get homesick, but he's going to miss his houses. There's a reason Bruce is in Amursk, and it's not because it's full of diamond-dusted nightclubs and neon lights. The guy really needs to get a better taste in cities.

Tony glances around, checking for anyone looking a little too interested in them for their own good, but it's a wonder how much of a difference a hat and some plainer clothes can make when it comes to people recognizing one of the most prominent people in the world. That's one of the benefits of the media's depiction, he supposes—there's a very set-in-stone view of him, and people don't expect him to deviate from it. After all, why would Tony Stark be even remotely trying to hide his identity, or taking a commercial jet? The world is full of idiots who never look past the obvious pattern.

And then there's Loki, who's not only terrifyingly perceptive, but also refuses to follow any form of logic whatsoever.

He ends up with his tablet on the seat beside him, working on a bit of computer code to be implemented once he gets settled in at Bruce's place. Tony has plans, after all, and they're going to be big. Like, big doesn't even begin to cover them. The outcome is harder to judge, but it will be interesting, that's for sure. It would be nice to pull up holograms and just talk Jarvis through the more boring bits, but he's stuck working one-handed and not pulling out all the fancy add-ons specific to his personal series of tech thanks to the fact that he's trying to stay low-profile. Lame.

By eight thirty he's finished and lost interest in his tablet, and thankfully Loki wakes (albeit groggily) by eight forty-five.

"What in Freya's gardens are you doing, Stark?" he asks, words still a bit slurred with sleep.

"Turning you into a pretty princess."

Loki turns his head to gaze up toward him, one eyebrow raised, and runs a hand over his hair. "I didn't think that was in your skillset. Men here tend to crop their hair close to their head."

"Yeah, well, I've braided enough audio cable in my life to know how shit works, and your version of 'short' hair is still pretty long. I didn't have anything else to do; the internet got boring. You look absolutely resplendent with bedhead, by the way."

With a scoff Loki rolls his eyes and stretches, but doesn't object to Tony finishing the braid. Granted, Asgard doesn't seem to have the same braid-equals-girly connotation that the US does judging from how often Thor's shown up with them, but that's probably a product of them also seeming to have no concept of cutting hair.

"I smell food. Is it late enough for breakfast? I'm rather hungry."

"Yeah, we're pretty close to the snack bar thing. It's mid-morning, so if you want to we can go hunt down some grub and head up to the Asiana lounge—they've got comfy chairs and showers, which I'd kill for right now."

"That does sound nice…"

"It involves you moving your heavy-ass head, you know."

"This is precisely what summoning spells are for."

"Well, you're depowered and I don't have mystic voodoo powers, so you're shit outta luck. Gotta stand up."

Loki groans, and generally acts like a grumpy teenager for the next minute or so while he fully wakes and climbs to his feet. "Satisfied?"

"I mean, I've been travelling for like two days straight and still have five-ish hours to go, am on the run from the government, and am heading to a really shitty Russian town, but sure, you're not laying on top of me anymore—I'm just peachy."

They end up just ordering breakfast at the snack bar since it's so close, and wander around while they eat out of take-out bags to stretch their legs. When they finish, Tony makes a beeline to the Asiana showers (after showing Loki to one, of course, he's not that mean). The warm water is fucking heaven, and he may or may not spend a bit longer than strictly necessary under the warm cascade just trying to relax. He's got half a mind just to hit up the massages, but there's like a zero percent chance of Loki comfortably laying on his chest for any period of time even if the asshole would let his guard down for more than three seconds. The lounge will have to do.

As it so happens, the lounge has massage chairs. He's never been so happy in his life.

They're fucking incredible. Or maybe it's just the discomfort of travel speaking, but still.

*'*'*

His chest hurts. Badly.

Were it not for the fact that the mortal has been through the same thing himself, Loki would tear his throat out for doing such a thing to him, because it's completely unnatural and his entire body screams out against the foreign energy within his veins. Thankfully he still has a couple methadone pills in his bag, but he's almost out (the doctors wouldn't give him too many at a time, since apparently Stark told them about his previous overdose), but they take a little while to take effect and the constant ache is enough to drive him mad.

The need to add to his tally is strong—the tides of the urge have risen again, it would seem. He doesn't have a knife, though, so he settles for turning the water up higher than is comfortable and then standing in the near-burning spray as long as his body can stand it. It's still not enough, though, not after his dreams…

They weren't as bad as they could have been, and for that he's grateful. He didn't see Váli or Narfi, or any of his children, but enough memories of his family filtered through to strip down his emotions and leave him feeling like a husk of his past self. He can cover it with a snide remark or two, but that doesn't change the numbness that's set in.

Valkyries, just remind him for five minutes what feeling is like.

It's not the only reason he's picked up a blade over the past year and some—the main reason will always be his children—but it's certainly one of them. The more time passes, the more it happens. It's not even sorrow, just… nothingness. Like the void claimed his heart as well.

With his hair dripping on the counter, Loki digs around in his bag in hopes that maybe… aha. So he did bring a pencil sharpener.

Getting the thrice-cursed thing apart is a bit of a challenge, but nothing he's incapable of. One of the benefits of not fighting regularly for the time being is not having to keep his nails as short as possible, so with a bit of effort he works the screw loose until the blade falls into his waiting hand.

The slow drag of metal through his flesh is satisfying, almost. Another day; another tally. Another silent prayer to those who have died for his sins.

He doesn't stop there, can't stop there, because one tiny mark doesn't counter the emptiness. One tiny mark doesn't warm the frost in his mind. One tiny fucking mark doesn't bring them back.

So the dull blade digs into his hip, because isn't he already destined to be covered in shameful scars? He won't focus his body's limited healing powers on things he wants to hurt, anyway, so the reminders will be here for a long time to come. Keeping track of how many times the metal bites his skin doesn't cross his mind at the time, so long as he feels something, and it's not like he can see the marks to count later so he doesn't know how bad it is. Loki just wipes the blood away when the need lessens slightly and turns to his clothing so that he can finish getting ready for the day.

*'*'*

"Dude, take long enough?"

"The water was warm, and I was comfortable. It's not like there are circus performers out here to entertain me otherwise; you may have the natural talent but lack training."

"Hey!"

Loki laughs and finds the seat beside his by feel, and spends the next half hour driving him completely up the wall for the asshole's own entertainment.

The flight to Khabarovsk is fairly uneventful, considering that Loki gives in and tries to get some sleep (although Tony's a bit iffy on how long he's actually out and not just faking it) while he doodles designs for some suit upgrades he can't make abroad on the napkins from his in-flight meal. Getting through border control? That gets a little more interesting. They take the red line through, since they have to declare the nice array of weapons in their checked bag, and Tony gets into a rather interesting discussion with one of the men which Loki ends up diffusing in fluent Russian.

Because, yeah, apparently the god speaks Russian. Don't ask Tony, he has no idea when that happened.

For the next twenty minutes they shuffle around passports, visas, and too much paperwork for anyone's good—seriously, Tony hates having to act like a normal human being. Things are a lot easier when you're a world-famous superhero with a fuckton of money.

Loki just seems peeved by the entire affair and keeps muttering things about 'useless human customs' under his breath when there aren't any border control agents around.

"What, you guys just jump between worlds without making sure people are who they say they are?"

As it turns out, apparently they do.

Tony would really like to know how that works out, and if they can please implement the same strategy on Earth, please?

When they're finally through, he hefts his backpack onto one shoulder, grabs the rolling suitcase, and leads Loki out into the cool spring air to search for the currently-not-so-big-and-green version of his friend. It takes a few minutes, given the general confusing layout that all airports seem to have, but after a bit of unintentional exploring (and a lot of grumbling from Loki), he finally spots the familiar mess of wavy brown hair.

"Hey, Brucie!" Tony calls across the sidewalk with a grin. Damn, he's missed the guy—it's been since the whole thing with Killian last year that he saw him, and even then it was a short visit.

Bruce turns, a matching smile on his own face. "Tony! Long time no see. You said you were bringing a fr-"

He can see the exact moment when recognition sets in, and it's a little scary. Not, like, green-level scary, thank god for stellar self-control, but still pretty damn scary.

Loki offers a short, polite nod.

"Doctor Banner."