A/N: Trigger warning for this chapter. Discusses a suicide attempt, and suicidal themes. Read cautiously if these are dangerous topics for you.
Loki is gone a lot after that, but nobody dies and he comes back to "make reparations" twice a week like clockwork so Tony figures it's not the worst thing he's ever done. Granted, that's a pretty high bar. When you've murdered your unkillable brother, led massacres on two planets, and broken the universe's only functional Einstein-Rosen bridge, impersonating a monarch is kind of small potatoes.
Not to mention ruling Asgard is tedious. They don't waste much time talking about it, but Tony knows enough to determine that Loki is very much paying penance for his actions. And not with blood, jail time, or insincere apologies like he usually does, but with boring, bureaucratic, deeply frustrating community service. Tony laughs about it loudly, and often, because it's so fucking classic that Loki ensnared himself in a trap of his own making. A trap so expertly crafted that now he can't get out without revealing the whole ruse. If their lives were a book, critics would call it literature.
None of that makes him feel differently. Maybe it should. No previous experiences or outside comparisons exist for dating someone like Loki, and so he has no idea how he should be reacting to all this. Occasionally he thinks it would be nice for some fairy godfather in a banana hammock to appear on his shoulder and tell him what to do. When he pictures his imaginary advice pixie, they looks suspiciously like Mike The Situation but gayer—like, oh my gawd Tony, you are too good for him—and Tony tries not to analyze what that says about him.
Fantasies aside, he hasn't been gifted with a magical mascot to decode his feelings, so he oscillates all over the place. Most days Tony thinks he's earned a little wrath. He can barely be in the same room as Loki without picking some kind of fight, and Loki can only restrain himself for so long without returning fire. Everything makes sense when Loki is solid, alive, and safe in the penthouse, when he's right there for Tony to hate. It's when he leaves that life turns sideways, and his rage seems to teleport with it's target. After Loki leaves a room it's like he leaves a hole in a balloon behind him and Tony just stands there listening to the air gradually hiss out. That's how he is now, poking his Lucky Charms and watching Fen and Jori wrestle on the carpet where Loki turned to mist ten minutes ago.
The fight keeps repeating in his mind on a loop. The way Loki sneered that line about Tony's ridiculous need to control every situation and the awful, stupid barb Tony shot back, the one about how Loki obviously can't control himself without the Alldaddy watching. The thought hadn't even been a thought, it just appeared on his mouth and then it was hanging in the air. He feels like he's sharing his body with a rioting lunatic.
Something shifted after the apple, or really after he realized Loki would have forced him to eat it, and now he just wants to fight. It's like a sovereign entity, his anger, and it takes him over when Loki is around. Every insult feeds it and makes it a fatter, hungrier beast.
The problem is, the rage creature is right. Loki really doesn't tell him anything. He jokes and snarks and demands silk sheets, but when it matters his lips are sealed. Tony can't make him admit anything. He just has to watch Loki whisper his name in a sweet voice and spread his legs, has to watch Loki break him down until Tony cracks and tells Loki what he wants him to want. They always had an accord because Loki never committed to anything until he had all the cards in his hand, until he knew what Tony desired and made himself into it. Obliged him. And when Tony dug his fingers into Loki's mind and told him he wanted him forever, Loki made himself the giver of forever. Whether or not Tony actually asked for it. Whether or not it was worth the price Loki paid.
Even rescuing the godlings was his idea, Tony realizes. Loki brought them up in passing with a sad, far away expression, sure, but it was Tony that pumped him for information. It was Tony who read all the legends and came up with the plan. It was Tony that built all the equipment they would need, and it was him that brushed Loki's hair while he sat on the floor between Tony's legs and promised him they wouldn't fail.
Of course Loki can't explain what he was thinking, or even feel bad about it, because that would also make him responsible for it. And Loki can't seem to handle that. He would rather play the coy temptress, would rather pretend to oblige Tony while he runs in circles trying to parse out what Loki wants.
After he and Loki scream themselves hoarse, that tangle of anger floods him with cruel satisfaction at the look of loss on his boyfriend's face. Tony Stark doesn't do cold wars anymore, so when they fight it's fire and brimstone. When they fight it escalates, and round and round they go.
So here he is, sitting at the table with embers turning into ash in the absence of Loki to fuel them. The atmosphere in the tower is oppressive. The kids have been stuck in the apartment for months, and it's starting to drive everyone mad. Tony gets them out as much as he can but it's a risk every time. They can't leave private property, so the best he can do is drive-in movies and long scenic cruising. Now that he and Loki fight every waking minute there haven't been many of those either. Consequently the boy's wrestling takes on a level of aggression that's probably not okay, but Tony doesn't break it up. Better that they tear each other up than the rest of the building. They're young gods, they can walk it off.
Jori is a hundred years younger, and about four inches shorter, but that doesn't matter so much when he's an eighteen foot constrictor in a stranglehold. Fen's pretty massive too, as a full size wolf, so when he shakes his back it's probably pretty hard to hold on. Jori sinks his teeth in to stay aboard, and Fen rolls into a transformation. Tony winces when Jori lands in a heap on the floor, but apparently the fight isn't over. A naked blue Fen squeezes out from the massive coil of snake and bolts for the kitchen.
It's pretty amusing, all things considered, until Jori mimics the morph and tackles his brother from behind, both of them slamming hard into the concrete floor. Tony's debating whether or not to step in when he notices Fenrir bleeding, and that's all the warning he gets before the kid grows dagger sharp claws and turns on Jori. He's out of his chair like a jilted husband on Maury, but it's not fast enough. Jori screams as his brother claws him across the chest, and then Tony's yelling too.
"Hey, hey that's enough." he shouts, clutching Fenrir by the arms and throwing him off. Jesus, it's a fucking live production of Carrie. Three deep gashes rend Jori's torso, but luckily stop before his guts or they would be calling an ambulance, alien healing factor notwithstanding. Even Fen looks shocked when he sees what he did.
"He bit me." Fen protests, but he's looking at his bloody fingers in horror. "He started it."
"Yeah, well, I'd say you finished it, Champ." Tony says, "Get a towel."
Jori's crying now, and his hands are crimson, clutching his chest.
"Shh, shh it's ok. You're ok." Tony babbles, adding his own hands to the mess until Fen runs back with the towel and the first aid kit. Well, at least he's observant. He feels like he's doing five things at once, and before he knows it he has the towel on Jori's chest to stop the bleeding, a wound kit ready, and his phone on the floor running the awful Norse translator he's been coding. He also has a four foot pre-teen Jotun breathing down his neck.
"Hit the showers, Fen." he says, then thinks better of it. "Wait, you're not bleeding are you?"
The phone dutifully repeats the most literal and probably inaccurate translation of what Tony said and Fen tilts his head for Tony to see. He has a row of puncture wounds on his neck, which Tony knows hurt like hell because he's had more than a few. Jori can't help himself when he's a spooked snake, it's instinct. They are small bites though, and they close on their own. Fen's are already scabbed over and swollen.
"Ok, go clean up. Your teacher's gonna be here any minute." Tony says and turns back to Jori, thinking that's that.
"Tony always pick Jori." Fen yells in English. His fingers are blunt again, but he's curling them into fists. This is the part about raising gods that makes Tony want Xanax. It's less tense now that Tony's about as durable as they are, but still. Kids shouldn't be stronger than adults.
The translator really must be garbage, because Fen never uses it back. Of course, he probably has just as much trouble with Asgardian as English. Neither he nor Jori had much stimulation or company in their prisons, and seem just as stilted when Loki speaks to them. Fuck, don't think about Loki.
"Tony pick Fen if Fen do good." Tony says calmly, feeling like the Hulk. Whatever, the kid needs to understand. "Fen shower now. School soon."
"Sorry." Fen says, and grabs one of Jori's hands. "Sorry."
"Fen shower now." Tony repeats, a little edgier, and the kid retreats. Poor Jori is still bawling on the floor. Once he can see them, the cuts don't look as bad as he thought. They are long, and definitely deep, but they don't go past the skin. He has Jarvis pull up a shiny hologram and distract him while Tony wraps him up. His body is so tiny in Tony's hands, it makes him feel like the giant. He thinks Jori is about two hundred, but those ages don't mean anything to him. He looks five, to Tony. He's skinny and small. Tony has wrenches with thicker arms than him.
Wailing Asgardian forms the soundtrack for Tony's work. At first it's just noise that washes over his focus, but when he secures the end of the bandage with an aluminum clip he hears the translator robotically begging daddy daddy i want daddy where is daddy.
"Shh, shh, little bit." Tony says, picking him up as carefully as he can. "I'm not your dad but I'm here."
The crying continues, but he closes the app. It's depressing.
The water from the kitchen faucet splashes down red when he puts Jori's feet in there and washes both of their hands. The kid tries to squirm away but he's crashing from adrenaline and trapped between Tony's arms, so after a minute he gives in and bears it. The bandage helps. He doesn't seem to feel the cuts under it. He holds Jori's hand in his and kicks his phone into selfie mode.
"Check it out, Blueberry, you got a cool shirt now." he lies, forces a smile. "It's a special shirt only warriors wear."
Jori doesn't seem to get it, which is awesome, because Tony feels idiotic the minute he says it. He scruffs the kid's hair and Jori grabs his forearm. Holds it there and plasters his back against Tony. Yeah, he remembers that part of being a lonely kid. Shit, this day is just a parade of childhood trauma coming to ask how he's been. He snaps a photo once Jori looks less distressed. He'll need something to show Loki when he comes back and finds his youngest kid maimed.
He carries Jori across the living room to the hall, rushing when he sees the mid-morning light on the skyline. He wasn't lying earlier, the teacher they loaned from Xavier really is supposed to be here any minute. One topic, amid literally dozens of bitch sessions, that had actually gone well was he and Loki's discussion of education. Not that there were an incredible number of options, but still. Any port in a storm.
It's while he's half jogging to the boy's bedroom that he notices something out of the corner of his eye. The observation doesn't warrant investigation just then. He's in too much of a hurry working out what else he's supposed to do today while simultaneously pulling up Jori's pants and checking the bathroom to make sure Fenrir is really getting ready and not just poking at his horns in the mirror again. But he does notice something out of place through the open door to his own bedroom, and he makes a note to check on it later.
Back in the living room, Douglas Ramsey leans on the kitchen counter waiting. Eyes the blood with his mild airhead smile and takes in the undoubtedly shameful spectacle of Tony herding his rumpled entourage. Forget the sex tapes, if a photographer broke in right now, then today would be by far the most embarrassing tabloid cover of his life.
"Rough morning?" he asks like the smooth, impeccably dressed millennial he is.
"You have no idea." Tony says, even though he knows that within moments Cipher's mutant language mojo will neatly unpack all the subtext in that statement and give him actually a very good idea.
Ramsey's uncanny mutation makes Tony uncomfortable. Really anybody that can't be confused or stalled by fast talking and obscure references makes Tony uncomfortable, but needs must. At the moment, Cipher is the only person on the planet that can fluently communicate with his hellions, so Tony lets him in the building every weekday to tutor his kids into functioning members of society.
"Should I come back?" Ramsey asks with genuine concern, and ain't that just a peach.
"God no." Tony says.
Ramsey doesn't really react to that, but only because Jori and Fen start blabbering animatedly at him and pointing to their battle wounds. Apparently, they've decided they are proud of nearly giving him a heart attack.
"In fact, today would be a great time to talk about excessive force." Tony adds.
"I will pencil it in between ABCs and days of the week." Cipher assures, and leads the blue man group to the converted guest room that now houses a state of the art classroom. No kid of his is writing on a fucking stone age chalkboard.
Hela looks like she would rather eat a boot than spend another day tracing letters on dotted paper, but she goes quietly when she meets Tony's gaze. God, he must look pathetic. Hela only cooperates when she feels sorry for him.
A weight lifts from his shoulders now that no one is watching, but that just leaves him with his soggy breakfast and a pool of blood creeping towards the carpet. It's while he is elbow deep in a really disgusting bucket of bloody soap water with neon pink rubber gloves flapping at his forearms that he remembers the thing on his dresser. A few minutes later he dumps the bucket and all the towels into the hazardous waste shoot and makes for his bedroom.
The room hasn't changed since this morning. Sparse, too large, curtains drawn, green satin sheets rumpled. Clothes everywhere. Loki is fastidiously neat, and perhaps Tony's gotten a little too accustomed to someone cleaning up after him. Or maybe the mess reassures him that this is how the room is supposed to be, that he's not missing anything. It's how his room always used to be without hired help.
Six years ago he would have called a maid service. Maybe thrown in a little extra for a blonde with a cute face. Now he's too paranoid, can't imagine letting a stranger in his house. Even the high security famous people maids could open a door and see a naked alien trying to kill an anaconda, or open a drawer and find an ancient space cube. Yeah, he'll have to make a bot.
Amendment. The room hasn't changed except the dresser. What a doozie of a change that one is though. For a hot second he thinks Loki misunderstood him eating the apple as a sign that grand larceny is the way back into his good graces, because the thing sitting on his dresser looks exactly like a Faberge egg. Not a souvenir shop knock off, or a highly authentic replica, but a real one. He knows the difference because he's seen most of them at auctions and high society gallery shows. When he approaches it rotates serenely around the gold three claw base, the jewel encrusted latticework gleaming over a glossy emerald egg. There's no sound of gears turning or stutter of servo motors, it's captivating. It's also clearly a bribe.
Tony almost rolls his eyes like Hela, because please. Materialism, he will freely admit, is a weakness of his. Tony loves pretty stuff. He loves making it, buying it, collecting it, the whole shebang. You don't end up with a black book like his without a weakness for the finer things. But a bribe is a bribe.
By the time he's standing in front of the egg, he's almost managed to harden his heart to whatever appeal it is supposed to have. Loki isn't getting out of this with gold and gem-relds. Tony resolves to make him sorry, and then make him apologize. Nothing short of complete understanding is enough. But then the egg splits open, glowing internally as three equal shards bloom outward and continue spinning below a delicate pedestal holding a gold pendant atop a handwritten note on honest-to-god parchment.
The locket is pretty old school. It's kind of off-putting, because it reeks of chaste Victorian courtship and wood paneled drawing rooms. Tony almost chucks it, but Loki sent it. He took time to pick it out and acquire this device to send it to him, so Tony might as well crack it open. The clasp is finicky, really small and clumsy to operate in his big machinist hands, but he gets it open. He's half expecting trite black and white lithographs or whatever passes for art on Asgard, but it's not like that at all. Actually, what he sees inside is kind of confusing.
It's just a dial with a bunch of numbers on it. Very, very large numbers, in a three column grid. He has no idea what they mean until he shifts from foot to foot, and the numbers change. Huh. Some kind of locator then, relative to a second point in space. Oh, ok then, that is… thoughtful. What blows his mind more than the archaic GPS locket are the stones set in it. Tear drop shaped, dark brown, and not at all crystalline. It isn't until he pries the glass face off with his thumb and they fall into his palm that he realizes they are seeds. Apple seeds. Fuck. Fuck that bastard, that's a cheap shot.
Tony groans and puts the thing back together. Clasps it around his neck like some doting 1850s war bride. It looks okay in the mirror. Unassuming chain, long enough to tuck under his band shirt, or lay on top if he wants. Plain gold and very flat, passably masculine enough not to attract comments.
Shit, ok. Maybe a few more gifts like this wouldn't be amiss.
The note however. Well.
Anthony,
It brings me such anguish to speak to you in a letter, knowing that the ink of my quill has more esteem with you than my own person. However upon reflection of our interactions this past fortnight, I must conclude that we have forgotten how to be near one another, and that letters may be the only method by which I may restore our sacred bond.
I confess I am perplexed by your scorn. You have always professed to enjoy my duplicity and "sass" and frequently praise others for pursuing their goals regardless of moral ambiguity. That you would disapprove of my risk taking I had no doubt, but I do not understand why you view this as a violation of our trust, when in fact it is the most indemnifying validation I can conceive of.
My wretched heart insists that you would not accept my apple in malice, with a knowing desire to live half my life apart from me. But in my mind I know there are no limits to the pain one can inflict when the flames of affection snuff. Will you tell me if there is no way for me to restore what was broken? Are my efforts in vain or is there yet hope?
-Loki
P.S. This device functions similarly to your fax machines, although unlike that technology its use fully transports the object in question to it's matching pair in my study on Asgard. If you should require anything of me, at any time, you may use it by placing a size appropriate object on the plate and closing the shell.
He signed it in rune, which Tony chocks up to Asgardian formality, until he runs his finger over it and it morphs into a glowing blue script over top of the ink. This letter is true it says. Curious, Tony looks around for a pen, and in the end he has to run up to the home office. When he gets up the stairs he skids into a rolling chair at the conference table and writes:
My dick is a three inch micropenis.
Then he runs his finger over Loki's name, and blue magic letters inform him this letter is false.
Well how about that. He reads the letter again with a slightly more open mind. Then again because it hurts in a way that he desperately doesn't want to stop feeling. It's the incisors of hope digging into him while his brain reminds him that Loki doesn't get it. That gods don't learn lessons easily. That they have nothing but time now, and just like Interview with a Vampire, that blissful eternity of love could just as easily be an interminable curse of perpetual pain and discord.
But fuck, the hope is there. He didn't feel it rotting away until Loki's words revived it. Now it's agony. No words seem to describe it until he reads the letter again and finds Loki already has. There are no limits to the pain one can inflict when the flames of affection snuff. Yes, yes Tony knows that well. Every childhood memory is part of the secret timeline of his parents slowly imploding and inverting into hateful enemies that slept side by side. Maybe he doesn't know how, but he and Loki aren't doing that. No way.
On impulse, he scribbles a reply on a yellow post-it note, hard enough to leave an indented version of the message on the rest of the pad.
APOLOGIZE.
THAT'S ALL I
WANT. JUST
SAY IT AND
MEAN IT.
And he struts back into the master bedroom like he stormed out of the cave; sweaty, terrified, and desperate to stay alive. This time it is not a physical death he's afraid of. Half the human race couldn't kill him now. No, he's terrified of what happens when he succumbs to the depression. What happens to him, but even more, what happens to Loki. That bag of cats nearly ended the world while Tony loved him, he doesn't want to wake up after another few years of vacant despair and find his ex gleefully crushing humanity under his Cole Haans. Because Loki would, he would and it would bring him genuine satisfaction.
Tony slams the sticky note on the pedestal and the petals close as though sensing his urgency. Suddenly he is awake for the first time in two months and he wants someone to explain where the fuck the time went. There has to be some explanation for how the hell he, the guy with the Energizer bunny in his brain, laid around on the couch and moped for forty five days. He taps his hands on his chest for a minute, and that's as long as he can manage. He's off.
The cube comes out of the drawer, and the damned sweatpants come off. Twenty minutes has him showered, shat, and shaved. Jarvis has a shake ready by the time he steps out of the elevator on the top security floor, and he grabs it without deviating from a straight line to the lab. Then he stops, just for an instant.
The home lab looks so unfamiliar. He hasn't come down here once since they left on their space quest, not even to move his basics up to the penthouse. He had people for that. But seriously, what the fuck. This is the room that makes the tower home, this is literally where the magic happens. Maybe he was brainwashed after all. Not like the Avengers kept accusing Loki, no. This mind control he did to himself.
Pft, he thinks, sentiment, ew, and makes himself take ownership of the space. This is his shit, all this exists to facilitate his genius. Without the genius it is just an expensive room. Take off the suit, who is he? A depressed alcoholic with a fatal attraction to pretty liars. Time to do something about that.
The Tesseract goes in the apparatus that used to hold the arc reactors while he worked. It's kind of disturbing that it fits like a glove. The scanners don't know what it is. No shit, neither does he. The blue glow seems like a clue. He stares at it and realizes he has it all wrong. There's cobwebs on the memories of New York, but he's edietic. They're still there.
Nobody questioned how Loki controlled people during the invasion. Tony knows it wasn't the cube, because he knows Loki was being controlled too. No matter how powerful, Loki wouldn't have used the cube again if it carried a risk of further mind jacking. Certainly, he wouldn't have put it in their bedroom.
Selvig managed to make a portal with it, so Tony assumes it's something to do with physical distance. Wormholes, that kind of thing. Obviously Loki can open and use it, since Tony saw him do so several times during their whirlwind trip across the universe's scummy underbelly, but Tony isn't magic so that is kind of irrelevant to him.
He remembers Stuttgart, and the brick of iridium Selvig needed to activate the cube, and that's not really what he's after either. Tony figured out how the cube worked before he even set foot on the helicarrier. What seems more relevant now is what the cube actually is. What is it made of, why is it a cube and not some other shape, and how can it be replicated? That's the stuff he needs to know in order to apply the technology to other uses, and that's where he gets stuck.
He chews on that mystery for a few hours while he messes with his cars. He can wait for a breakthrough. Eventually Jarvis cuts his tunes and tells him school is finished.
The kids seem good, all very relieved to be done with class and also worn out from what was apparently a very intense lesson. The boys are already asleep on the couch, snoring in counterpoint like an internal combustion engine, and this day just gets better and better.
"Damn." Tony says approvingly, "I'm a fan of your work."
"You seem better too, Mr. Stark. I'll see you tomorrow." Ramsey says, eyeing the locket Tony realizes is openly on display, gleaming in sharp contrast to his faded Metallica tee. Self consciousness almost makes him tuck it away, but that's a tell.
"Done deal." Tony says, tapping a screwdriver on his open palm as the man lets himself out. Hela's the only other person conscious, curled up in Loki's recliner.
"You good, Split Screen?"
Hela takes out an ear bud and tilts her head, trying to look surly while enjoying Avalon High. Clearly she's fine, so he gives her the thumbs up and she goes back to it. With that seamless transition to nap time complete he makes for the master bedroom. The dirty secret of the century is that he sleeps more during nap time than any of the mini gods. Sometimes more than he sleeps at night, actually. He's kicking off his Converse to do just that when the egg starts spinning.
He's transfixed by it at first, because it really is a stunning piece of tech, then he is up and running. It's an uncoordinated tumble to the dresser, what with the long laces untied and whacking him in the shins.
This note is longer, and, he smirks, much less precise in the penmanship. Written in a hurry, then. His traitorous heart skips when he notices a tiny parcel under it, brown burlap wrapped in twine. He unfolds the long rectangle of parchment and reads.
Anthony,
Your reply sets my heart at rest, and I thank you for it. I do not expect you to always respond to my messages. You do not even have to read them. You are righteously upset with me, and I know that I am fortunate to have whatever you give.
You have asked me not to apologize unless there is regret in my heart, and so I cannot. I shall never regret what I have done, for it is my intention that we will find peace between us and stand side by side for as long as we both shall live. My desire and anticipation for that time is not regrettable, even if the method by which I achieved it displeases you.
I see from my own piece that you accept the locket. This makes me glad. Even though we struggle to love each other as we should, the proof that you are well and living eases my nightmares. Please accept this additional gift as an expression of my desire to care for you in a manner befitting a prince of Asgard. Should you find it in your heart to forgive me, I would have you draped in gold and rubies far grander than this, and shower you daily in the most sumptuous silks and leathers.
In your world you have made me an impenetrable fortress above the sky. In mine, I would make you a god of invention and cunning. You would be a creature so bright and so gilded that it would blind your lessers to look upon you. And, if I may be bold, when the sky grew dark at night and you could gleam no more, Anthony, I would secret you away to my chambers and worship you as a king does only to his consort. I must stop there before I carry myself away.
I should not say such things while we are in discord, but if I lie then I will have to start the letter all over again, and so I cannot erase what I have said. Please care for yourself while I am away. It should be obvious that harm to your person is harm to me. Remember to eat. And do attempt to sleep. I must stop, I'm being patronizing.
Gratefully yours,
Loki
Well. Silver tongue indeed. The truth seal checks out, and that's about all he can digest at the moment. The bit about the gold and jewels was… inventive. And, ok, his pants might be a little tight at the consort bit. Who could blame him? He signed up for Rock of Ages, and now he's getting One Thousand and One Nights with a side of gold nipple rings. Crossing his legs, he puts that bit of softcore porn to the side and unties the parcel. It's small, about the size of a dime bag, with a gold ring inside. Huh.
After the letter it's kind of underwhelming. The ring is nice. Solid. Nothing all that special by the look of it. But Tony doesn't take shit for what it seems anymore. It has runes etched around the inside that clearly mean something, but it's Greek to him. The outside is pristine and well formed, Tony would know, he's kind of an expert on gold alloys. He sets it on the dresser and debates whether or not to put it on. Lord of the Rings taught him well as a teenager. You don't just go around putting on enchanted rings sight unseen. But Loki gave it to him, so surely it couldn't be dangerous.
He slips it on. Fits perfectly, of course, because Loki only fucks up big. He can never make harmless mistakes like getting an obscure size estimation wrong. Tony waits, but nothing happens. Oh well. Apparently it is just an underwhelming present like it appears.
He goes back to the bed and does as Loki wishes, sleeping shallowly for the next hour while vague, impressionistic dreams lull him. They are just images flitting about as his brain processes the day, nothing solid. Jori flopping on the floor like a Looney Tunes sketch. Hela pulling out her earbud and putting it back in. The Tesseract pulsing from across the lab. Concubine Loki smirking at him in gold handcuffs. It all just sloshes around his tired brain until he wakes up, feeling about as manic as he did when he laid down.
When he sits up he finds his hand in a clammy fist. Unfolding his fingers, he glances down to discover three gold rings laying innocuously on his palm in addition to the one circling his finger. Then he barks out a laugh. Fucking ridiculous.
It's the actual ring from that stupid legend, the one where Loki tries to fuck with the dwarves and they don't give a shit. In fact they make Mjolnir and everyone thinks it's great. If he remembers correctly, the myth says that Draupnir generates eight rings every nine nights. Seems like the actual number is closer to three replications every two hours. If only the original duplicates, then Tony will be the proud owner of thirty seven gold rings by this time tomorrow. If all of them duplicate, his math brain supplies automatically, then it will be four thousand and ninety seven.
He puts all four rings in Loki's bedside drawer and lets that percolate for a couple days. For science.