At some point in the hours since the battle, the Asgardians replaced the Chitauri crew. The Aesir's love of order and literal speech makes them pretty ideal for piloting a ship of this size, so it didn't take long to get up and running. The Sokovians are going to arrest him, as soon as they land on Earth, so his fate is sealed. He might get a few hours of peace while the governments squabble over jurisdiction and fax papers back and forth, but ultimately he's going to stand trial.
That's how Loki finds him—thoughtful, stargazing. It only takes a minute for him to start rocking on his heels. Tony soaks up the restless energy and doesn't acknowledge him. They have time for games, just now. Not very long, not nearly enough, but some. So he makes Loki wait.
"What are you looking at?" Loki asks.
"Space." he says, feigning ignorance. "Sorry, did you want something?"
An invisible hand smacks him in the ass. He doesn't make a noise, because they're on a platform in front of a hundred stodgy Asgardians and he still has his pride. But he does jump a bit and that's not cool.
"Did you just slap my ass?"
"Who, me?" Loki asks, affronted. Stone faced, but his punch line indicator goes off. A kind of tilt to his mouth that he either doesn't know about or can't suppress. It only comes out when he's fucking with someone. "Heavens, is there a molester on the loose? Someone ought to stop them."
Somehow, Loki does it again without even moving. And this time it stings. He makes a pointed scan of the roomful of Asgardians.
"We're in public, Slugger. You better check your attitude."
A cut-glass grin spreads over Loki's face. "Make me."
The instant he decides to play along, Loki bolts.
The bridge crew sends them scathing looks as they run through bays of workstations, laughing in Loki's case and apologizing in Tony's after they knock a pile of drives from a navigator's station. Angry voices call after them, and he finds he doesn't really care.
Loki's face is bold and elated as he tumbles down staircases and leaps from floating platforms with Tony hot on his heels. He almost falls to his death when he dives for Loki and passes right through an illusion. Fortunately a platform catches him a few feet below, but it's a near thing. Twisting down corridors and along curved transparent tubes, he chases Loki's elusive shadow. As he skids around one corner he nearly knocks down a cluster of Asgardian women and sends their skirts billowing.
"Pardon me, ladies. Sorry, excuse me-" he says, and when he comes out the otherside Loki's gone. Looking around, he spots the women again and his eyes catch a glimpse of dark hair.
"Nice try, princess!" he calls, sprinting toward the group and Loki looks over her shoulder in surprise.
Eventually he corners her in a dead end, and she darts through the only door in the hall. He expects a utility closet, but the room is more like a high end loft. An illusion dissipates just as he opens the door, leaving the real Loki sitting in his underwear beside a big, fancy chair.
"Welcome home, Mister Stark." he says, thumbs circling around each other. Eyeing the muted grey furnishings and onyx floors, he steps inside.
Geometric designs adorn the ceilings, and a large crimson-sheeted bed extends from one wall. Trust Loki to find a luxury apartment on a warship. Coming to a stop at Loki's side, he pets his hair and finds it damp, his skin warm from a bath.
"What is this?" he asks, charmed by this view of Loki; prim and proper on his little cushion. Not kneeling, because apparently there are things he doesn't need to be told twice.
"How was work?" Loki deflects, and isn't that a trip. Playing house? Something like that.
He points at the throne-like chair. "I take it that's for me?"
"If you wish."
If he wishes. Isn't that nice. Half the people in the world would smell a rat if Loki crawled up to them and said that. And they'd be right. He sits.
Loki shuffles to sit at his feet, long fingers running up his legs and down to untie his shoes. The heavy soles land with a clop, right then left. Loki even sets them parallel and tucks in the laces like a shoe store clerk. Next, he pulls down his socks, pausing after each one to massage his sore feet, and Tony decides he's on board with whatever this is. It's nice just to rest.
"Work sucked." he says, honestly. Loki hums his agreement.
Opening a magic pocket between his hands, he reaches through. Something moves in the corner of Tony's eye. He looks just in time to see a bowl and several bottles disappear from a side table and fall into Loki's hands.
"Fancy."
"I've acquired a few new tricks." Loki says. He holds the bowl, concentrating, and his fingertips glow orange like flaring embers. The water steams, and he fishes out a pair of washcloths.
"Let's see if we can make your day better." Loki murmurs, wringing out the cloths and laying them over Tony's feet. The heat and the pressure feels divine, more so when Loki's hands return to rub at his arches.
"You're the best." he groans, sinking into the chair. A complacent smirk is the only answer he gets as Loki focuses, hands stroking over his heels and up the bottoms of his legs. The brush of fingers under his knees is disarming, stunningly intimate. Loki's thumbs play at the wrinkled fabric of his pants, and he grips the arms of the chair, unsure what to do. Shouldn't he be reciprocating somehow?
Loki smiles that strange, un-fussy grin and asks, "Is this alright, sir?"
He doesn't feel like he can say no. When was the last time Loki initiated? Not counting the helicarrier, because he refuses to include that. Loki's idea of seduction ranges from vague suggestions to jumping him in the shower and shoving a boner in his back until he does something about it, so it's hard to guess where this is going.
"You're doin' good." he says, noncommittal.
Loki doesn't catch his reservations. The press of strong thumbs down the tight muscles of his legs and feet coaxes out an indecent moan. He kisses Tony's knee and his heart stutters.
Receiving this kind of attention usually happens in the company of paid professionals. Doing it with a lover feels too close. Despite his newly minted status as an insatiable cuddle slut, this isn't something he's imagined. He didn't think Loki would be into it.
"What were you doing on the bridge?" Loki asks, unaware of his internal panic.
"I could ask you the same thing."
Loki tilts his head, knowing. Tony huffs.
"Shuttles." they both say.
If great minds think alike, then bad minds think exactly the same. They both already considered the options; pick up the boys and go back to Earth, or select a galaxy at random and run. Loki will want to run, obviously.
"Can I change your mind?" Loki asks, and again Tony's struck by how well they know each other. Inside out, warts and all.
You can certainly try is on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it.
False hope is a cruelty, not a kindness.
"No."
Loki's face tightens, but he doesn't pause in his strokes. Unfurling his fingers from the rounded edge of the armrest, Loki takes his hand and runs long, slow caresses from elbow to fingertip. Calloused pads graze his palm and he chokes around a surge of emotion he can't understand, let alone identify.
"What is this?" he asks again.
"You have needs I've neglected."
"We've talked about this-"
Loki kisses his knuckle, squeezing with both hands. "If you won't reconsider, then I will send you off whole and content."
Sincerity makes it that much harder. This isn't what he had in mind when he chased him down here. He rubs his temples. There's a burning behind his eyes that he can't blink away. The press of a familiar body straddling his hips makes it worse. He doesn't want to feel this, and he certainly doesn't want Loki to see it.
His partner washes his face with a clean cloth. It's kind, giving him an out. An excuse to have water dripping down the crease of his nose and shining on the corners of his eyes.
"There will be photographers, no doubt." Loki says thickly, "You need a shave."
"Are you offering?" he sniffs, rubbing at his eyes.
"If I didn't care as much for your opinion, I would insist."
He pokes Loki's scratchy cheek and smiles tightly. "You too."
"A trade, then." Loki agrees, wiping away each escaped tear without comment.
Holding the steaming towel over his beard, Loki reaches for the bottles he summoned earlier and uncorks one with his teeth. He holds it out for Tony to sample, and the hard to define scent of curtains and firewood graces his senses. Loki pours two drops on his hand and performs some kind of spell that makes the liquid bubble and expand.
The shift to more familiar ground helps. Still close, but with enough distance that he can save face a bit.
"What kind is that?" he asks, and feels silly when the towel turns his voice fuzzy and muffled.
Loki's expression softens as he works the foam into a lather. "Elderwood. My mother used it. Fortunately she was born of Vanaheim, or I would have to adapt myself to another fragrance."
"Lucky."
"You like it?"
He shrugs, pulling off the cooling cloth. "Smells like you."
Loki's ears go pink as he dabs cream over Tony's face. The light scrape of nails through his beard is refreshing, the scent bringing up pleasant memories of movie nights and puzzles on the dining table. That sort of stuff bored him until they came packaged with Loki, quiet and content in stretchy pants. His eyes close of their own volition.
"Relax." Loki says softly, tilting his head to the side and pinching the skin taut. The blade tingles, sweeping over delicate skin with confident skill. Deft passes lull him into a pleasant trance as Loki's strokes peel stress from his skin along with bristly whiskers. He feels entirely supported in those capable hands, laying still and turning his head in the direction his lover guides. Both cheeks come away clean and unmarred, and then Loki sets a hand to his chin.
"Time for your neck."
Tony blinks, confused by the interruption.
"Do you trust me?" Loki asks. What a silly question.
He bares his throat, closing his eyes and trying to slip back into that dreamy half-sleep. Loki doesn't continue.
Tony breathes. "Go on. Aren't you gonna make me pretty?"
Loki stares, eyes intense. Blank faced and hungry.
"I may just do that someday. You'd be appealing in eyeliner."
There are a dozen perfect comebacks to that, but the knife over his Adam's apple keeps him quiet. Hypnotic scrapes mark a steady rhythm, the lingering question giving the moment undo significance. Because he does trust Loki. He trusts him with a knife at his throat, but more than that he trusts Loki's words to create instead of destroy, and his hands to hold instead of squeeze. He knows those fingers could shatter bones and bleed fire, and he welcomes their touch all the same. What he has for this man-woman-Jotun-person-god transcends trust. It's faith. Pure, baseless belief that in the middle of his tempest of constant change, this person will always be Loki and Tony will always be safe because Loki loving Tony is now a fundamental state of the universe.
The last of the cream comes away with a schick, and Loki lowers the blade. Tony smiles, loopy and flush with affection.
"I'm gonna be inconsolable if my lines are crooked." he jokes, knowing sight unseen that it's good. Perfectionist doesn't even begin to describe Loki. Rubbing oil on the shaved skin, Loki combs his fingers through the newly sharp goatee.
"Then you are in for a rude awakening. The only razors in prison are single blade disposables."
"Are you trying to make me cry? Cause it's working. Look, I'm tearing up."
Loki snorts, whipping up another batch of foam and flicking a blob on Tony's nose.
"Hey-" he squirms, and Loki laughs, putting another dot on his cheek. They fumble around, foam flying all over them and the floor, until eventually he catches both Loki's wrists and pulls them together into one hand. Scraping up what's left of the cream on Loki's palm, he smears it on his face with a wet slap.
Those green eyes turn molten as he pulls half-heartedly at the grasp, and a flush creeps up his neck.
"That wasn't very nice." Tony says, low and teasing.
"Do you disapprove, Mister Stark?"
It's like their arms complete a circuit, energy passing between them from Loki's heated gaze to Tony's hammering pulse and back.
"I would approve of you putting these behind your back." he says, releasing Loki's hands and grabbing his hair instead. The answering whine is pretty gratifying, the hasty obedience even more so. He runs a hand up Loki's stomach, as fond as ever of his long, narrow happy trail and the dips between his ribs.
"Like this?" Loki asks, so low he's almost groaning.
"Arch your back more. Fuck, that's it. Pretty fucking boy."
"For you, sir." Loki breathes, grinding down. His chest curves out, putting those pert little nipples on display. Glassy eyes watch him line up the edge, so he figures he's doing something right. Loki's hips stutter, rubbing their lengths together in a way that's pleasant and far too distracting. He slaps him on the thigh.
"Hold still." he says.
The blade glides smoothly, making soft scruffing noises in the quiet room. Loki is a puddle by the end, body relaxed. Mimicking what was done to him, he soothes the irritated skin with drops of oil and admires the baby smooth skin.
"Good as new."
Loki nuzzles his hand like a cat, and he traces his neck to knead at stiff shoulders. Eventually he travels further down and pinches absently at his nipples until sitting still becomes a real challenge.
He could sit there feeling Loki breathe for hours, he really could. His partner humors him, even when his dick stiffens enough to tent his briefs. It becomes a game, Loki holding his elbows behind his back in a white knuckled grip and moaning at the increasingly firm slaps Tony gives him every time he loses control and thrusts.
Raking his nails down that muscular chest, Tony decides he's done messing around. He pulls down the elastic of Loki's underwear and and rubs at his-
Woah.
"You filthy little-"
Loki grins, cheeks flushed and eyes glinting.
"Where the hell did you get a butt plug in a spaceship?"
"I said I had things to pick up on Asgard." Loki says, faux innocent. So fucking proud of himself.
"You did not-"
"I have a special and intimate relationship with that prostate massager you could not possibly understand." Loki says indignantly, although he drops the act and grins when Tony throws his head back, cackling. Only Loki would stop in the middle of an apocalypse to fetch his sex toys.
"I can't believe you."
Loki doesn't respond to that, but his lips are louder than words anyway. He pulls Tony's shirt off with renewed enthusiasm and peppers his chest with kisses. The cool air gives him goosebumps, but Loki's attention is warm. He wishes they could sink into the ground and stay this way forever. It won't be long enough, nine hundred thousands sunrises or however many they have left.
Loki kisses a trail down his stomach until he's back on the floor and undoing Tony's fly. Conflicted pangs of desire and apprehension overtake him as he lifts his hips and allows him to rip his pants and underwear off.
Nails dance over his hips and thighs, and he tries not to look too hopeful. It's Loki's prerogative to say no, or at least that's what he repeats to himself over and over as his mind unhelpfully supplies drunken memories of the Last Blowjob. Capitalized like a book title because he genuinely believed there wouldn't be another one as long as he lived. Yet here he is, riding the wave of Loki's new devil-may-care outlook and trying not to stare as he wets his lips and pours oil on his hands.
"Last chance, Bambi." Tony murmurs, running a thumb over Loki's bottom lip. It's those damn lips that got him in this situation in the first place. So fucking pretty. "You're allowed to say no."
"I want it, sir."
He presses his thumb inside and Loki's eyes shutter closed. Images race through his mind, a mix of fantasy and anticipation as Loki bears down and sucks. Replacing his thumb with two fingers, he delves deeper, forcing Loki's mouth all the way open and admiring the hollow line of his cheeks as he pulls away. Fuck, he could cut himself slapping that face, all those sharp angles and sass.
Loki licks a slow trail up his leg, and he realizes someone has to be the adult here.
"What can I not do?" he asks, shaky around the tremors of sparkly-good feelings that threaten to override his rational mind.
Loki sighs, running a hand through his hair, "Don't move too much. And don't touch my head."
If he's anywhere near as good as Tony remembers, that will be a tough request. He sits on his hands just in case, willing to look ridiculous in the name of not ruining this.
"What if I-" he clears his throat, "Where do you, uh, want it?"
Loki sniffs, nostrils flaring. "I swallow under exactly two circumstances, Stark. Your birthday or a death in the family."
"Pearl necklace, got it."
"Although it is nearly Christmas…" Loki says, and smirks when Tony's dick jumps. "I suppose I will make an exception."
The slide of his mouth is, indeed, exceptional. Hot and teasing as he kisses up the shaft and gets everything slick with his oily hands. His tongue is a thing of genius, licking mesmerizing circles while his hands twist and stroke. Not going deep, but making up for it with sheer technique. Loki's eyes flick up to meet his, lips stretched and swollen and completely evil. The image might be burned into his retinas, so sinfully hot that he can picture horns growing out of Loki's forehead. Piercing and elongating until he looks like the twisted little devil he is, sucking and moaning like Tony's cock is fucking ambrosia.
He's on the edge in a matter of minutes, hips twitching and fingers clenched into the tufted fabric of the chair. Loki pulls away, hands stroking slowly. Fuck, he's so close, fucking damn it.
"Good, sir?" Loki asks, as if it isn't fucking obvious. As if he could possibly string together a response with Loki's fingers doing that.
"Uh huh." he pants, intelligently. "You?"
"Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"I am thinking." Loki says, sitting back on his heels.
"Now?" Tony asks, nearly laughing in the middle of groaning. Loki bites his hip.
"This used to be a chore, with Angr."
That sobers his humor much more than the bite. His expression must be pitiful, because Loki huffs and continues jacking him off like a shake weight. The gasp is not very dignified, but it does seem to calm Loki's irritation, so he'll call that a net positive.
"H-How-" fuck that's nice, shit, fucking "How so?"
Licking him base to tip, Loki sucks him down and pulls off with a pop. He must decide he likes that, because then he does it again and Tony sees stars.
"They disliked 'topping', as you would say. I had to earn it. At first it was fun. A challenge. Occasionally a fight, if that's what it took. But in time… I hated it."
"Is now really the time for this?" Tony winces, apologetic but also entirely serious.
Loki gives him a particularly good stroke. "But you're already so close, darling. We'll have to wait anyway."
"I'm never gonna calm down if you keep-" oh shit, don't come, don't come, don't fucking-
Loki eases off all the way this time, rubbing up his hips and down his legs in soothing loops while he gasps and his dick leaks precome. It's fantastic, overwhelming, and also unmitigated torture. Of course Loki would have a talent for this, it's everything good and bad he can do to a man in one act. He rests his head on Tony's knee and gazes up at him, lips tinged pink and eyes vague.
"I understand that I have no obligation to do this." Loki's brows lower as he fumbles for the right words. "I always thought there was something very wrong with me for… for wanting what I do."
Tony sits up. Loki stops him with a look.
"What I'm trying to say is that I'm grateful, sir. All my life I've been the person I needed to be, and you make me someone else. I don't know who that is, I don't know why I want these things, but sitting here, doing this… I feel I can find out."
He's speechless. Completely stunned.
Of all things, the helicarrier comes to mind. Not the one in Sokovia, the original. Loki in a cell and Romanov telling him love is for children. At the time it struck him as a good line, sitting on the lab table poking the Hulk and munching on blueberries like he owns the world. Like he isn't about to see destruction on an unprecedented scale.
Love is for children, what a fucking lie. Children are greedy, self-centered little monsters. They take and take and take until they don't need you anymore, and that's good. That's how helpless things survive. Love is the opposite. It captures every moment of weakness, every thoughtless word, and beats you over the head with them until you grow up and get over yourself. Until you're up at four in the morning staring at the city through the window and wondering why did I say that, why didn't I do something, why why why.
Love isn't for children, because it fucking hurts. It doesn't tolerate excuses, and it doesn't accept second place. It makes you hope and dream and wonder why you can't ever be good enough. Until one day you are, and you have this complicated, confusing, deeply fucked up person begging to suck your dick because words aren't enough. Because you're everything to each other, and at the same time you're two different people who can't ever seem to sync up.
He pulls Loki into his lap, and answers with a kiss that could raise the dead. He so full of sensations that don't have words attached to them, and for once he knows Loki is just the same. They have it in common, this need to pass feelings directly, skin to skin. Emotional osmosis, the natural transmission of molecules until a solution reaches equilibrium.
He throws Loki's underwear so hard that they might achieve zero G before landing on a lampshade. His partner snickers into his shoulder, until he starts playing with the plug and the chuckles turn into gasps.
"Had this all planned out didn't you, Slugger?" he growls, easing the plug out and letting it drop back in.
Loki's breath catches. "For you, sir."
All for him. Ain't that a fucking peach. The plug comes all the way out this time, immediately replaced by two fingers. Loki's loose, already slicked up and ready to go. Filthy, gorgeous boy. He goes ham with the oil, just fucking slathers it everywhere. There's no such thing as too much. He lines himself up, pressing at Loki's crease for the tease.
"How long until we leave for Jotunheim, pretty boy?" he asks, kneading Loki's ass and practically gushing precome.
"T-two hours, thereabouts." Loki pants.
He slides in, gripping Loki's hips hard and trembling from the effort to not go too fast.
"And-" shit, fuck, jesus fucking "H-how long do we need to steal a shuttle?"
Loki trembles, sinking down. "Twenty minutes."
Sliding his hands up his lover's back, he gets one in his hair and kneads his ass with the other.
"So the question is-" He pulls Loki down until he's buried deep. "How many times do you think you can come in an hour and a half?"
Loki bites his lip and smiles with all his teeth.
The new record is twelve, but Loki insists it's twenty, because each Jotun-gasm counts for two. Frankly, that's just needlessly inflating the numbers. Who cares if it's inside and outside at the same time, it still only counts as one.
Tony's laying on singed sheets. Euphoric, sweaty, and really craving a scotch. Some things don't change, apparently.
Loki is sprawled out under him, blowing smoke rings out his mouth like a madman. A heads-up about the fire thing would have been nice. Then again it was pretty goddamn metal, fucking a guy so good he started sparking like a Zippo.
The brand around his wrist hurts like a bitch, even after Loki healed it, but the half circle of runes makes him feel whole. It's a part of his body now, like the suit's implants, and the scars that remind him of all the hard lessons he's learned. They can take his clothes, his weapons, and the ring he plans to buy later today, but the prison can't take this.
Lacing their fingers, he rests his head on Loki's chest and admires how his lover's band of 'Tony Stark' completes the circle. So sappy, what the hell happened to them? They used to be so edgy and cool.
Pointed nails run through his hair and he gets tingles all down his back.
"Hypothetically-" he says, trailing off.
Loki blinks down at him, lip quirked in a dopey sex-hazed leer.
"Yes, love?"
"If you had one day of freedom left, and you'd already fucked a super sexy demigod, what would you do?"
Loki cocks his head. "Well, to start, I would call Fury from an untraceable number and ask which fetish site supplied his wardrobe."
They start, like any self-respecting rebels, with dessert. Peach cobbler and apple pie, funnel cakes and milkshakes. Churros from the sidewalk and eclairs from the Michelin star patissier that cost fourteen dollars each. Tony's jaw is so sore he has to pass on the fudge, and Loki apologizes with donuts in the shape of Stark Tower. It's a fitting beginning to the end, because the brats don't even realize what an indulgence it is. They've never walked a sidewalk before, or felt the breeze kick up from passing taxis. Every little thing is a first time, and he counts each wide eyed stare as a victory.
Clothes shopping is less fun, but mostly because Hela's offended by the gender divide. Dodging the security cameras is pretty tedious until Loki solves both problems at once by turning Tony into a lady. Stilettos are not nearly as sexy when they're cutting off his pinky toes and threatening to topple him like a tower of Jenga blocks. He buys a very comfortable pair of boots instead and has to check his privilege when the cashier hands Loki the receipt. Maybe Hela has a point.
Once everyone is decked out in new duds, Tony realizes it's fucking Christmas Eve and he has three kids. They hit F. A. O. Schwartz like the criminals they are—with diligence and decadence. Top floor to bottom, with a long break at the giant piano because he had to know if Jori could play every note at once in his snake form. He totally can, although it might have scarred the other children. He owns a quarter of the store by the time they leave, but the kids are elated, even Hela. Tony's card is frozen when they get to the cashier, so Loki pays with gold bricks and dumps a handful of rings in the charity box.
Now firmly in the holiday mood, he drags them all to the big Christmas tree, and makes them talk to Santa Claus in Macy's. Fenrir pulls the poor bastard's fake beard off and tells him he wants a cat for Christmas. The cheeky wolfling watches cat videos like normal people watch food porn, so Tony counts it a lucky break when the fat man doesn't notice Fenrir licking his chops. On the way out, he swears they're being followed, but he can't pick out any particular suspects. The uneasy feeling doesn't abate, even when they teleport all the way to Brooklyn.
After all that excitement Loki is done with crowds and noise. He's been pretty tolerant of Tony's festive spirit, so he opts for a more introvert friendly destination. The Chinese Garden is peaceful, and frigid, which makes it the perfect place for young Jotun to turn blue and scare the shit out of superstition spinsters. A bench sits beside the frozen pond, flanked by charming rock sculptures and perfectly maintained bushes. It reminds him of a different bench by a different pod, and he doesn't have the strength to argue when Loki says his butt hurts and sits down. Jori's asleep on his hip anyway. Might as well.
"You look cold." Tony says.
He adjusts Jori so he's laying across both their laps, and Loki covers him with the tail of his coat.
"We're in public." Loki replies, ears pink and nose dripping.
A couple of geezers in duckbill hats are feeding the fish. Other than that it's a ghost town.
He points. "Think we'll ever look like that?"
It's not the answer Loki was expecting. He leans over and looks, really obviously. One of the old farts notices and fucking smiles. Waves. Happy people confound him.
"At the present rate of catastrophe, it is statistically improbable."
Gloves make hand holding different. Squishy. He's never tried it. Nobody was allow to hold his hand in the past, thanks to the paparazzi and his own aversion to attachment. And of course Loki was busy being king when the first cold fronts blew through.
"I hope we do." Tony says.
"It will be a very, very long wait."
"That's okay too." he whispers. His nose is frozen, and so is Loki's when he pecks him on the cheek.
The old men stroll towards them, one looking concerned and the other looking vacant, maybe senile.
"'Scuse me, ma'am, I don't mean ta bother ya, but is that your kid in the lake?"
It takes a second to realize he's still female, and the man is talking to him. Then another one to look in the water and spot Fenrir chasing fish, blue as Picasso's period.
"Nope." he says, although Jori's asleep in his lap, also blue.
"Never seen him before." Loki agrees, and the old men have no choice but to go report a monster sighting to the staff.
Fenrir realizes he's too slow as a real boy and turns into a wolf. It's kind of funny, watching him bite the water over and over. Eventually Hela turns into a hawk and drops a porkulent koi at his feet with a proud squawk.
"Your kids are something else." he says. Loki turns blue and rolls up his pants.
"I've noticed they are only my children when they're misbehaving."
Dragging Fen out by the scruff seems pretty effective until Security calls the police. On the plus side, the kid eats the evidence while they're running. He cracks a dad joke about Chinese take out, and Loki rolls his eyes so hard he's afraid they might fall out.
This time, when he gets the being-watched feeling he's ready. Spinning on his heel, he gets a glimpse of a big dude in a ball cap. The next moment the bastard's gone. From then on he assumes they're being watched and tells Loki to drop the spell. Not much point parading around in a too-big suit if his cover's been blown anyway.
Google shows a row of mom and pop shops down the street, so Loki drags the soggy-shoed brats inside a pretentious looking boot boutique with remarkable dignity. Tony's kicking snow off his boots when a big man in a Dodgers cap walks past, close enough to brush his shoulder. He whips around, only to recognize the walk. Square shoulders and a confident stride. Big hands stuffed in the pockets of a bomber jacket.
Rogers glances over his shoulder, and steps into the shop next door. Two choices, the white door or the brown one. For all their beefs, he still doesn't know if Steve prefers mountains or beaches. A gold bell rings when he steps inside.
It's a hat shop. Dark wood with built-in displays like the bespoke suit parlors his Dad used to take him to. Now he has that shit delivered, but he's not immune to nostalgia. A well made hat is one of life's purest joys, even if he usually doesn't get to wear the ones he likes. Celebrities get baseball caps and wide brim panamas, not sharp side-eye worthy belfries.
Steve is trying on a fedora, of course. The shop attendant glances up from her magazine and Tony waves her off. He snags a grey trilby from a stand and holds it out.
"Trust me, you do not want to know what a fedora stands for these days." he says, "Not all classics age well."
Steve tips the brim of the fedora forward and meets Tony's eye in the mirror.
"Fashion's cyclical. It'll come around."
"You always did look good in an antique." Tony replies, slipping the trilby on himself and twisting his lip. "I dunno, is it me?"
"The brim's a little bent."
"That's the point, that's what makes it a… you know what, nevermind. Let's cut to the chase. I'm not planning on resisting arrest, or making a mess, or anything. I'm going in quietly, so you can tell that cute agent behind the counter and all her friends to put their guns away."
"Tony, this isn't what you think-"
"Listen, I get it. You're in a tough spot, politics are politics. It's not personal-"
"That's, uh, remarkably mature, but-"
"Can you listen? I'm kinda putting myself out here. I mean, really, I feel like we have this... animosity and, and, and tension, and I want you to know that I'm not offended-"
"I'm not here to arrest you." Steve interrupts, hasy and clearly confused.
Tony blinks. "Wait, what?"
"I'm not. This whole situation makes me uncomfortable. The accident, the Accords." Steve shakes his head, working his jaw. "I think you got a real short straw, and I absolutely don't stand by this idea that an organization will make a better choice on the ground than you or I can."
"Hang on, are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"Not that you're right-"
Tony grins, "Oh, you definitely were."
Steve sighs. "I'm saying that I'm here to help you escape. Go to ground."
The news washes over him with a ripple of disbelief. He swaps the trilby for a fedora of his own, a nice black felt with a tapered front. Temptation eats at him as he checks himself out. If not for the faint bruise on his cheek and the heavy lines under his eyes, he'd look pretty much back to normal. Loki did a damn fine job.
"Are you actually offering to break a rule for me?" Tony asks, only partially joking.
"Respecting authority doesn't mean I can't tell when the authority's corrupt."
"I'm-" he searches for a word, and maybe it's a bad sign that he hears Loki in his voice when he answers, "Honored?"
"And for what it's worth, I'd do the same for Loki. I didn't realize you two were… close."
We're queer, Steve, he can't help but think. Just say it. It's not an airborne pathogen. He leaves it unsaid. If nothing else, Hela's well meaning but dogged pursuit of social justice instilled a healthy respect for tolerance. It's not like he knew any of this crap six months ago.
"I appreciate what you're trying to do." he says, and Steve meets his eye in the mirror again. He looks surprised, in a subdued always-on-the-job kind of way. Right, sincerity. He used to be allergic to that. Too late to take it back. "But I had a chance to run. Didn't take it."
"You didn't mean to hurt anybody. You saved Clint and Natasha, probably hundreds of civilians. There are dozens of cases against you. There's even talk of combining the claims into a war tribunal. Stark, we're talking about the rest of your life."
He rubs at his eyes, suddenly exhausted. "It doesn't matter. See, this is our problem, you and me, you're all about good intentions. It doesn't matter why I did it, people got hurt. I could have saved them from the other side of the shuttles. I didn't need to run in guns blazing."
"You couldn't have known." Steve argues, and Tony feels his energy slipping.
"Look, I get that you don't get it, but I got a lot on my conscience I can't erase. This I can."
Steve takes off his fedora, pinching the brim between his fingers. Tony follows suit, hanging his hat back on the rack.
"People died. Their families deserve to know why. And between you and me, I'm not gonna look a day older when I walk outta there."
Steve lowers his brows in a quizzical look. Tony smirks, edging on a shit-eating-grin. "Perks of sleeping with a god."
Steve shake his head, returning his hat to the shelf. "Deal with the devil and he'll burn you every time."
"Yeah, but he does this flicky thing with his tongue that is just mesmerizing."
"I… did not need to know that."
"Tell the Feds I'll meet 'em at Mac's Five & Diner. Nine sharp." Tony calls over his shoulder, the shop's bell ringing as a cold wind blows in from the street.
"You're a real son of a bitch, Stark."
"Thanks!" he calls with a jaunty wave, although his feet are heavy in his shoes.
Down the line of gleaming buildings and silhouetted street signs, the sun hangs low. The breeze chaps his face in seconds as he tips his head to check inside the neighboring shop. The kids are all trying on shoes, running between mirrors and tugging on Loki's sleeves. He looks stressed, drastically outnumbered and pulled eight different directions. At the same time there's a tranquil quality to his demeanor, a grace with which he handles the madness that Tony doesn't think he'll ever possess.
Pride wells up, and he figures Loki will have to get used to it anyway. In the meantime, he has one more stop to make before they sit the godlings down for their very own Last Supper. The jeweler seems to doubt his honesty at first, but when the gold rings come out he wraps up Tony's purchase real fast.
Money can't buy love, but it can buy a diner cleared of bystanders at what would normally be the dinner rush. It can buy a table for seven with one of those jukeboxes that play eight different versions of Blue Suede Shoes. It also buys everything on the menu, which is useful for feeding a herd of aliens with bottomless appetites.
Vinyl chairs and pink neon lights make the flickering overhead lights feel like a charming slice of Americana, but there's no excusing the Elvis statue or the buzzing flies. The pancakes are killer though, soaked in syrup and slathered in real, full fat, heart-clogging butter.
Between Thor and the eight legged horse, the far end of the table is fully occupied. They're plowing through a massive stack of pancakes each, leaving famine and decimation in their wake. The boys sit in the middle, getting eggs everywhere that Hela seems to think are hir job to clean up. Ze's projecting palpable disappointment, making frequent trips to the garbage, and apologizing to the staff for the broken plates.
Of course that leaves Loki snug by his side, picking at a chicken fried steak and sipping bitter Lipton tea like all the answers to life are written at the bottom of the mug. They're perilously low on time, the sky fully dark through the windows. Pedestrians on the sidewalk amble past, anonymous shadowy figures lit only by changing street lights and the blaring white of a laundromat across the street.
The ring box is burning a hole in his pocket, but the fries convince him to sit back in his chair and watch the family circus.
"It's eight thirty." Loki says, setting his fork on his plate and wringing a paper napkin under the table.
"Yeah." Tony replies, "I… This was a great day."
"It was."
Loki's stiff upper lip does things to him. It makes him really, really want to change his mind. His lover's hand twists and twists at the napkin, shredding it one revolution at a time, and he puts his hand on his knee.
"There will be more great days. Lots more."
"Not for a long time." Loki sighs, and he can't argue. It's true.
He stops Loki's rampant napkin destruction with a touch, and their eyes meet. "Those rules still apply, even if I'm not dead. I want you to stay busy. Live your life."
"You are my life. I'm not what I once was, I'm just… me. On Earth."
"Sounds like we need to get you a hobby."
"Oh yes, clearly what I am lacking is a fanatical obsession with cross-stitch."
"Or, you know, macrame-"
"My sole talents include biting insults and self fulfilling prophecies." Loki mutters.
"You could right horoscopes?"
Loki brushes off his hand and tosses the ruined napkin on his half-finished plate.
"I'm going to the bathroom."
He grabs him by the back of the shirt.
"Tony-"
"Stay." he says softly, "Come on, it's late."
"I'm sorry, is my distress inconvenient for you?" Loki snaps.
Tony sighs. "Let's not fight."
His lover slumps in his chair, a muscle working in his jaw.
"There aren't any people walking past the windows." Loki says.
He twists around to check. Across the four lane street the sidewalks are crowded, but not a soul passes the diner windows for as long as he looks.
"Setting up a perimeter." he agrees, reaching into his pocket. He grips the box, and still he can't find the words. Fucking language. "Come on, help me pick out a pie."
Loki obeys with a sour look, which he ignores. The stroll to the teal and magenta counter is measured, the diner unsettling with it's empty chairs and hastily reset tables. The kitchen clatters with the distant sounds of a busboy washing dishes. He leans into Loki's side and threads their fingers, momentarily hypnotized by the tower of pies, lit up like heaven and spinning around the display case like a carousel of diabetes.
Cherry red menus litter the counter beside a dimple-cheeked mascot girl, and it's all so fucking sad. An overdone theme park of a restaurant frozen forever in a bizarre imitation of an era that probably sucked for the people that lived it. A temple to backwards thinking, idolizing a 'simpler' time that was really just McCarthyist conformity taken to its logical extreme. His family would have been either a lab experiment or a story at pray-the-gay-away camp. Still could be, if they aren't careful.
He clutches the ring box in his pocket and wonders how stupid this will all seem in a few hundred years. So much worry and stress over such a simple thing. Two people drawn and repelled by each other like opposite poles of a magnet. Always pulled but never, ever in sync. He pries the box open and feels around until he thinks it's facing the right direction.
Loki turns to him, face drawn and serious.
"May I kneel, sir?" he asks, and Tony's brain does a hard reboot. The ring stays in his pocket.
He looks over his shoulder at the table full of aliens. "Here?"
"Nothing untoward." Loki promises, "May I?"
"Uh, sure."
Dropping to his knees with all the grace of a ballet dancer, Loki kisses his hand and does that wrist flick thing. A rumpled plastic wrapper crinkles in his hand and he rips it open. Smirking, he presents a shiny, red, razzleberry ring pop.
"Will you marry me, Mr. Stark?"
Tony laughs, too loud in the nearly abandoned restaurant.
"You're so fucking crazy." he snickers, and Loki blushes.
"Well?"
His fiance is nervous although he can't fathom why. There's only one answer.
"You're so damn lucky I already bought us real ones." he says, pulling the box out of his pocket. Loki admires the simple gold bands.
"I love you." he whispers. Tony's stomach is full of butterflies like a kid with a crush, it's ridiculous. He can't believe they are doing this in a diner under an honest-to-god crochet portrait of the Blues Brothers, but at the same time it's completely expected. They never do anything slow, or proper, or in clothes that aren't soggy and splattered with mud.
Accepting the candy ring, he smiles and slips it on his pinky. He can't even get it past his first knuckle, and that's kind of perfect.
A siren sounds on the empty street outside, and the room turns alternating shades of red and blue. He nudges Loki to his feet and holds the smaller of the two rings between his thumb and forefinger.
"Better hurry up." he says, turning his hand so they're palm to palm and Loki's fingers are hovering. His sleeve rides up from the motion and Tony can just make out his own name scabbed over his wrist.
"Quickly." Loki agrees, wiggling his fingers. The ring slides smoothly, resting handsomely between his knuckles. He'll probably need an enchantment for when he shifts. For now, he's proud of himself just for getting the size-of-the-day right.
Flipping their hands, Loki pulls out the other ring and slips it on Tony's finger. They aren't anything special, just plain traditional bands, but the sight of their hands bearing matching rings and matching marks is captivating all the same. Loki pulls him into a kiss, the ring a welcome spot of cold metal on the back of his neck. He slips the candy ring in Loki's pocket. He's not going to get a change to eat it.
The doors crash open behind his back, the room bathed in beaming searchlights as Rogers and Romanov burst in leading a team of agents. Tony raises his hands, although it takes Loki a long couple of seconds to separate.
"Don't forget to write." Tony says, as two armored Marshalls jerk his hands behind his back. "Hey, easy on the coat, this was a gift-"
"There's kids here." Rogers says, disapproving, and the men's grips loosen slightly. Not because the kids, he would bet. Because the order came from Rogers. That's why he has issues with authority, that shit right there.
Jori yells from across the room, and he's caught off-guard by a weight crashing into his leg. He expects the baby adder, but it's actually Fenrir looking fierce and unhappy. Loki tries to pull the kid away, and Tony leans forward. The Marshalls try to stop him, so he pulls them along like a dog on a leash.
"Why won't you stay?" Fen scowls, fighting his dad with real hurt on his face. At the table, Hela holds Jori in much the same way, and he feels like he's going through a meat grinder.
"Be good, kid. Be nice to Jori. Listen to your dad." he says, keeping it together by the skin of his teeth. His kids aren't going to see him break, he won't let them.
The Marshalls try to drag him, and he goes along with it. He doesn't want a charge of resisting arrest on top of everything else. Loki's face is pained as he holds Fenrir in his arms and watches them take him away.
"You too, Slugger." he shouts, heavy hands pushing him out into the cold. "You be good or I'll find out. I have ways."
Reporters crowd along the police barrier, a mass of bodies all scrambling for their big break. Fame's a funny thing. Being hated, being loved, in the end it's all the same. He's not a person once he's in the viewfinder, he's a commodity. Always has been.
Loki flips him the bird with his ring finger, a spot of brilliant gold in the faux happiness of the diner, framed by grimy glass doors and neon lights. He rips the cuffs out of the officers hands and the crowd goes berserk, running away and running to.
He lifts them as high as he can behind his back and raises his own ring finger in return. Finally, they did it. They're a matched set. Partners in crime. His fiance smirks, laughing even as tears run down his cheeks, and that's the last thing he sees before he's blinded by flashbulbs.
Immortalized in half-tone grey, the newspapers flood the streets with his paper face, his finger raised proudly in protest of the world at large. Grim and defiant with a Mona Lisa quality to his eyes that the Times describes as 'beatific' and that style blogs call 'roguish.' He isn't either of those, of course. Real life isn't as poetic as people want it to be.
In reality he's cold. He's relieved, afraid, momentarily blind, and maybe when they shove him in the back of a police car with a metal cage in the middle it dawns on him just how dehumanizing prison is going to be. Ultimately, it doesn't matter because nobody cares. His face sells papers, and the good men of the law go home to tell their wives.
In the flash between one picture and the next they catch a frame that makes him look simultaneously handsome and pathetic. A hero and a sinner, and in that expression the readers see themselves.
Everybody forgets. Reporters find new philanthropists and politicians find new billionaires. Outside of retrospective features every five years or so, the name Tony Stark doesn't mean shit, and life moves on.
He tosses his battered copy of the article on the desk in the corner of the prison classroom and crosses his arms.
"...and that's how I saved the world, got arrested, came out of the closet, and announced my engagement in one day." he says, pausing for effect. "So to those of you who signed up for this class just to hear that story, the course withdrawal forms are on the back table, and exit surveys are on the right. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out."
Eighteen of the twenty-one inmates stand up, a couple of them shooting him glares that promise revenge. They can fucking try. He'll have them strung up by their proverbial pursestrings the next time they want so much as a Tic-Tac from the commissary. Twenty five years of favors and alliances make him pretty much untouchable.
The crowd filters out the steel reinforced door, leaving him with the three students who possess an actual desire to improve themselves. He's about to check their name tags against his enrollment sheet when a movement in the hallway draws his attention. A guard he doesn't recognise stops in the doorway, hands at his side and sharp eyes alert. Green. The ginger man quirks a crooked smile, continuing down the hall with a kind of ease no employee of the corrections system possesses.
His heart skips, and he nearly drops his papers. "Actually, that's all I've got for today. We'll start the course material tomorrow, same time. Class dismissed."
The men give him suspicious looks, slowly scraping their chairs back.
He waves them out. "Go on, scram. If anybody stops you, send 'em my way."
In the second floor hallway between the classrooms and the hair salon there's a utility closet conveniently located in a blind spot between security cameras. It's the only private space in the entire prison, christened "Little Heaven" by the Armenians, which is both revolting and completely accurate. He ducks in so eagerly that he almost knocks Loki into a shelf of cleaning products. The glamour drips off like water.
"Hey, stranger." he says, breathless, practically hopping on the balls of his feet.
"Hello, love."
"Tell me nobody died."
"Not this week." Loki says, which is depressingly specific. The fact is, at sixty-nine years young, Tony's friends and associates are looking pretty frail. Even Parker's got a pack of ankle biters these days, and that more than anything makes him feel ancient.
"Hela sneaking out again? I can call-"
Loki gives him a puzzled frown. "Have you mistaken the date?"
Actually, he has no clue. It all blends together in prison, more and more each year. Days and months don't mean much on an eighty year sentence. Or, okay, thirty-eight fourteen month sentences. His teaching schedule is the only reason he knows it's not Friday, and therefore not the usual time for a clandestine meeting.
Loki lays a hand on his wrist, and his touch is so soft and warm it blocks out all other thought. His skin aches after so many years in here, a seemingly unquenchable thirst for human contact. Haircuts are like massages used to be. Just holding Loki's hand feels like an overwhelming indulgence.
His fiance guides him to the filthy floor that stopped bothering them years ago, and he sets his briefcase flat, unclipping the latches. He lifts the lid toward himself so Tony can't see and waves his hand around inside it. Flickering light glows from within and he turns the case around.
Tony's breath hitches, his khaki scrubs glowing orange from the light of far too many candles. Stilted lettering is almost visible under the blazing inferno of melting wax, and the white icing is smeared on one side from obvious swipes of little fingers.
"Happy Birthday, Mr. Stark." Loki says, blinking back tears and spreading his lips in a self-effacing smile that's become more and more at home on his face.
"It can't be May already-"
Loki bites his lip, brows pinched. "You really ought to try and stay current. Do you even know what year it is?"
"2040." he says, immediately. Days and months don't mean anything, but years he tracks with absolute focus. Fifty-five left to go, eligible for parole in fifteen. Years are all that keep him going. Loki's eyes soften, and he blinks the moisture from his eyes.
"Go on, or we'll be eating wax instead of sugar."
There's more than just cake. The sides of the briefcase are lined with foil wrapped burritos, which he immediately recognizes from his favorite hole-in-the-wall establishment in L.A. Photos of the kids line the lid, each of them a little older and dressed a little weirder than the last time he saw them. There's an AARP card from Steve with a winky face and Welcome to the old man's club! written on the back. And a stack of Metamucil packets from Rhodey. An old fashioned Hallmark card has Bruce's increasingly shaky writing on the envelope, and there's a space next to it where Pepper's gift would be, if life was fair.
Loki wipes at Tony's cheek and he realizes he's leaking again, goddamnit.
"Make a wish, love."
He holds Loki's wrist, fingers grazing over the bumps of his own name.
"I can't think of anything." he says, losing himself in Loki's kind eyes and soft smile.
"Then wish for more of the same."
He closes his eyes, and blows.