A/N: Holy shit you guys have said such nice things about this story I love you so much there's just so much love

So this took ages but good news! Chap 4 is already written so hopefully I can post that pretty quickly. I have 2 weeks left of TAFE before I'm officially free of education for 3-4 months, so guess who'll have a lot of time to do nothing but eat and write gay fanfic? this pickle


3) Koi Fish

The first thing Loki thinks when he wakes up is this is not my bed. The second is what army of wasps have made their way into my brain.

He thinks about getting up. The bed he's in is incredibly soft, like sleeping in a silk cocoon, with plump pillows and a mattress that has the perfect amount of stiffness to it. But he knows he has to get up. He comes to the realization with a whine. This is not his bed and this is not his house and he should at least check to see if he's got clothes on.

Loki doesn't do hangovers. He has minimal experience with them and hasn't had the time to read any manuals on the matter. He's seen other people hungover. That's when he usually decides he is above dragging himself inch by inch like a pathetic worm on the floor.

Alas, his head feels like it's being drilled into with a blunt spoon.

He whines again and decides to do it like a band aid, just jump out of bed and race to the bathroom. He throws the beautiful quilt off him and stands up.

He awakes maybe a few seconds after, collapsed on the floor. Fuck me.

Attempt two is somewhat handled with more care. He slowly lifts himself off the carpet, shaking, when he suddenly feels a rush of nausea shoot straight up his throat. Immediately he ditches the slow and steady plan in favour of making a mad sprint to what he hopes is an ensuite, collapsing on the toilet bowel and throwing up last night's regrets.

After worshiping the porcelain for a good few minutes and feeling his head clear somewhat, Loki starts pulling his clothes off and stumbles into a gloriously big shower, avoiding the mirror. He turns knobs this way and that until a pleasant pressure of warm water is spraying on his head.

When he steps out, dripping from head to toe, his head is still swimming in biohazardous waste, but at least he can think straight. He dries and redresses himself into his green V-neck and greasy work jeans and walks out into the longue room, still with a slight stumble.

Tony Stark is sleeping on the couch, drool leaking from his mouth.

Oh. Right. The job.

Tony Stark is an interesting character, to say the least. Johnny Depp looking. At first Loki thought he was an idiot but he was blatantly corrected last evening— Stark is an idiot genius. Stark Industries was everywhere when Loki was young, in daily conversation, news reports and radio, all talking about the constant controversy that was Howard Stark. Then Howard Stark had a kid, and then all they could talk about was him, about how he created his first engine at four or graduated high school at twelve. Needless to say, Loki had heard of Tony Stark.

The news and paparazzi has died down since Tony grew up started joining colleges, but that doesn't matter. Stark is a certified celebrity and just what Loki needs. Sure, he can't exactly have a reference letter from Mr Stark after this particular job, but imagine if some paparazzi showed up when they were out in the open together. Loki would suddenly be upgraded from 'disgraced acting student nobody' to 'that somebody that showed up with Tony Stark that one time at that one place who might be banging him according to that one article'.

Street cred.

But when you remove all of that, Tony Stark isn't as insufferable as Loki had feared him to be, with his dark sunglasses and heated tiles in the bathroom. He is strange and insecure and doing all of this because he hates his father. That, he at least finds a kindred spirit in.

But the unprofessionalism is uneasy. Loki gets the feeling Tony is used to mixing business with pleasure, and even though this job is undercover and beyond even the subtle concept of normal, he doesn't appreciate the nauseous drilling in his head.

Five thousand dollars, Loki.

He lets Stark sleep and wanders over to the messenger bag left on the armchair, trying to ignore the empty bottles of gin and vodka on the table. He slips his phone out of the front pocket and checks it. 10AM. November 25th. Four messages.

He drops the device on the pillows and stumbles into the sleek white kitchen. An island stands proud in the middle of the square formation, counters all the same polished sand-stone. A high-end coffee maker is already brewing a specifically expensive brand of coffee beans. Loki grinds his teeth together, realizes it makes the headache worse, and stops with a sigh. He will not be jealous of Stark. He will not look at all these things and think of home. He will not be petty.

(He will ignore that stupid voice in the back of his head that thinks how absurd he is to take this job, how it's not street cred but more like whoring himself out for money, how stupid he is for moving out, for ruining Christmas and ever thinking he could ever make it as a stupid actor.)

(He ignores the part that wants his Mum.)

A hot mug of the best coffee he's ever tasted is half finished when Stark walks in. Loki can see from his seat at the kitchen island the way he drags himself off the couch as if it were fused into him and slowly make his way to the coffee machine. His legs are far sturdier than Loki's were first thing out of bed and Loki puts it down to experience, not talent.

"Good morning," Loki says, a bit awkwardly, as Tony pours himself a cup. He doesn't reply, doesn't seem to be coherent. Loki won't be surprised if Stark has forgotten most of last night, or even that Loki is here at all.

But no, Stark finally mumbles a response after a while and sits down across from him. It's then Loki sees the angry bruise on the side of Tony's jaw, a disturbing shade of purple. His eyes fly open.

"What happened to your face?"

Stark raises his head, slowly. He stares at Loki. "What happened?" he repeats. He points a finger to his chin. "You fucking happened."

"What?"

"You fucking punched me in the mouth."

They stare at each other in silence.

"I did not."

"Uh, yes you did."

"Why would I punch you?"

This time Tony's face goes a little green, which is what Loki expected in the first place from a man with an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's on his table. He scrubs his face over with a hand.

"Because I'm me," he says in defeat. "I'm sorry, I'm fine, it doesn't hurt. Did you sleep well? Actually no, fuck you, that was my bed, I slept like shit. You want an Aspirin?"

This is not helping Loki's head. He nods at the Aspirin part and thankfully Stark obliges, standing up and opening cabinets. Loki sits stiffly. He wants to make conversation, but Tony has already covered the 'how did you sleep' category and he honestly can't think of much else. He considers bringing up money again, but decides against it. He has just learnt he's punched his current employer in the face, so he'll at least be coy.

"Do you think we're prepared for dinner tonight?" he asks instead.

A cabinet slams shut. "Fuck me. It is tonight, isn't it? Fuck." He slaps down two pills in front of Loki and checks the time on his gold Swiss watch. "And it's 10AM. Fuck. Ok, hurry up and take those, and have a shower—have you had a shower? You smell nice, you've had a shower—and get ready to go out."

"Out?" Loki asks, quickly throwing the pills down his throat.

"Yeah, I gotta get you some new clothes." Instead of taking a few pills himself, Tony reaches up into an overhead cabinet and takes out a large glass bottle of Whiskey. He pours himself a small amount into his coffee mug and downs it. Loki watches on, shocked. When Tony catches him staring he looks almost apologetic. "Can't waste time getting over the hangover. Besides, being tipsy for the day isn't a bad way to spend this one." He grabs his leather jacket off the counter and gives a big smile. "Ok? Ok! Let's go."

Once the headaches and the urges to puke pass, Loki finds himself back to his rightful mind set: be the best.

Stark has hurried him into one of his little town cars and they're currently speeding down the busy New York streets. Apparently Stark has gotten over his awkwardness and is now set on making Loki his perfect image boyfriend. Or really, the thing that will impress his parents most. Honestly, Loki is a little hurt that Tony would want to change anything about him (he has good style, his hair is well kept), but as he glances again at that purple mark just below Stark's lip he can agree to work on a few things.

If he was going to be Tony Stark's boyfriend, he was going to be the best boyfriend.

By the time they are dropped off at the biggest shopping district within the vicinity they're heads have both cleared enough for coherent speech. They both grab breakfast (MacDonald's hash browns) and walk straight to the cool palate of high-end clothes stores that make Loki feel like he's in a David Fincher film.

Loki smells in the scent of rich cotton and cashmere. It's been a while. He starts to feel self-conscious of the cheese stain on his jeans.

"No, but like, I'm just saying, having a Chihuahua would give you more character, that's all." Tony leans against a clothes rack filled with ridiculously expensive jackets and takes a bite of his hash brown, spilling golden crumbs everywhere.

"Sure, if the character you're building is 'distant aunty that fucks every guy under thirty at 50th birthday parties'."

Tony snorts and Loki continues flipping over shirt after shirt. He thinks Tony came here with the idea that he'd be telling Loki how to present himself, but Loki was swift to take over that compartment. If he is the character, he will choose the costume.

"Ok, what about a cat?" Tony goes on. "That's kinda sophisticated, isn't it? Like a…New York writer or something."

"I'm allergic to cats."

"Oh shit, really?"

No. But good character building requires flaws and not so attractive traits. Loki is no Mary-Sue.

"Hm. That sucks." He finishes off his breakfast and brushes the crumbs off his hands. "A fish, then."

"Is a fish worth mentioning?"

"Fish are great. Get a Japanese Carp or something."

"Those are a pest."

"See, you already know shit about fish."

Tony Stark, idiot genius.

"What about this?" Loki holds up a pale blue shirt. Tony scrunches up his face.

"No. Blue is not your colour."

Loki smiles and puts it back. That was a test. He passed.

His smirk must've been too noticeable because Stark suddenly blurts, "Was that a test?"

Loki looks up. "I just wanted to know if I was in good hands."

A small smile appears next to the dark bruise, and Tony leads the way to the next store.

They make their way through store after store, Loki taking the lead whilst Tony thinking that he was. Every now and then Tony takes out a silver flask from his pocket and sips a little, obviously trying to fight off the hangover that is teetering on his frontal lobe. Loki vaguely wonders if he always had the flask with him. He didn't see him pack it.

Eventually they stop in a formal wear store filled with grey, white and black suits and beautiful cocktail dresses that seemed to burst off the racks. Tony brings up the possibility of getting fitted, but Loki quickly shuts the offer down. Instead, they continue to sift through suit after suit, each costing more than half a year of Loki's rent.

Tony does most of the talking, voice bubbly and words rushed. He wonders when the last time Stark was truly sober. He shrugs to himself. Oh well. Not his problem. Stark could irresponsibly drink himself to death.

"You know what? Screw it. I'm getting one of these too," he hears Tony mumble from the other side of the rack. "I haven't bought a suit in a while. And we gonna look like some fancy ass motherfuckers. Do you think it'd be cute if we got matching breast pockets? Ha. Just kidding. Weird."

Loki listens, somewhat. His eyes have absently slid to the dresses next to him. A pretty pink one hangs alone, with coral coloured beads, facing him, provoking him. The skirt would flow just above his knees, he thinks, and feel so nice against his legs, and the pretty colour would make his white skin blush and his hair stand out and—

He closes his eyes and shakes his head twice, hard, as if it would rattle the thoughts from his brain.

Filthy, filthy, filthy.

"Hey, babe," Tony calls and Loki spins around. The billionaire is holding up two suits, one black and one grey. "Which one?"

"I thought I was in good hands," Loki challenges, though his voice lacks bite.

Tony smirks and holds out the black one.

They walk out of the store with their new clothes but Tony isn't done with Loki quite yet. Next they visit a hair dresser to get his hair trimmed and shiny, then to more stores to get some overly priced leather dress shoes and sunglasses, and when Tony runs out of ideas, Loki uses the pampering to his advantage and goes to a nail salon to get his ridges fined and glossy, just because he's always wanted to. He likes having money spent on him. He has to remind himself halfway through the manicure that Tony's playing the role of his boyfriend, not his sugar daddy.

He wonders if any paparazzi is around.

When they finally leave the shopping mall, it's almost five. After six hours of fluffing and puffing, Loki feels like a shiny new doll. He doesn't mind. In fact, he has a small bounce to his step. Just the smallest taste of the rich and famous lifestyle has his head spinning from the elation of it all.

Tony takes his phone out to call for his town car when he stops. "Shit."

Loki, who was definitely not looking at his reflection in a glass window, looks over to him. "Hmm?"

Tony's glaring at his phone.

"Fucking asshole. Fucking prick. Fuck."

"What? What is it?"

"Nothing," Stark hisses, straitening up. He starts stabbing at the device, aggressively typing a message. "Howard's decided to move the dinner from 7:30 to 5:30. Because 'it fits everyone's needs better'. You're the one who organized this in the first place you piece of—!" He cuts off, regains himself, and takes a deep breath. "That's fine. This is fine." He turns to Loki. "Are you fucking ready to be my boyfriend?"

Loki links their arms together, setting a determined stare on him. "I thought you'd never ask."