Ok, definitely got a bit overexcited about this and wrote a 4000 word long Chapter 2, which was just ridiculous – so I chopped it into two parts, hence why this update might seem a little short/a little bit of a 'filler'! On the plus side though, I'm working on editing the remainder right now, so the second part – which is now Chapter 3 – should also be posted very very soon!

I'm seriously overwhelmed with the responses so far, thank you SO MUCH for reading/favouriting/commenting, and I hope you continue to enjoy it! It might seem a bit slow going, but that's probably because it's taking me a while to find my writing feet and map out a plot, and I'm trying to put of any terrifying slash/semi slash as long as I can! =P

Any suggestions welcome!

Chapter 2. Egos and Icicles

Tony could see only black. Everything was black. Everything felt sort of…fuzzy, as if the black stuff was pressing into his head, his eyes, his ears, his insides. His throat felt like it had some of the black fuzzy thing stuffed down it, and his neck pulsated as if it had its own heartbeat. Tony had the vaguest sensation of being horizontal, before he realised that thinking this and feeling this meant he could think and feel, he was alive, he was conscious.

And he had his eyes shut.

Ah. That explained the black.

Keeping still, he slowly prised one eye open, allowing the daylight fanning round his penthouse suite of Stark Tower to hit him with the force of a laser beam. Squeezing his eyes shut again before blinking a dozen times, he finally opened them both, raising himself to a sitting position. (Ah. He was in fact horizontal, then.)

Attempting a raw sort of cough which needled painfully at his throat, he drew his hand up to his neck to inspect the source of the throbbing. Immediately, his mind flashed with his last memories before losing conciousness – there was himself, a hand around his neck, a cold, vice like hand, an angry whisper in his ear and an even angrier face only inches from his own.

Loki.

Tony sat up properly then, alert, spinning round in his seat to locate the God of Mischief. Before he had chance to focus his eyes, he felt that same vice like hand clamp around his shoulder and pull him 180', so he was once again face to face with his adversary. Well, face to stomach to be more accurate, given that Loki was standing directly behind the sofa Tony was now twisted onto.

'Weak mortal' Loki hissed, spinning Tony's torso round entirely and grabbing his other shoulder just as tightly in his remaining hand, 'You are nothing without your suit of iron, the mere strength in my hand was able to overcome your pathetic body'.

'Less of the pathetic, if you'd be so kind – it takes hard work to reach this physique' Tony croaked hoarsely, before remembering what exactly had brought his choking punishment upon him, and immediately regretting his choice of tone. Thankfully this time however, Loki merely sneered, and threw Tony away from him so he crash landed off the sofa and onto the floor.

'Oh? Does the infamous Tony Stark, the – what was it, 'genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist' take offence at my words?' Tony had no idea how Loki had heard his boast in Banners laboratory on the helicarrier, and the words sounded ridiculous coming from his mouth – ridiculous and almost painful, for meant in partial jest even as they were, Loki managed to reduce them to nothing more than cringe-worthy. He cast around his mind for a comeback, his mouth working furiously but silently - something, anything – Jesus, what was wrong with him, he was usually the sharpest tool in the box, with the quickest and most impressive vernacular.

'Pathetic' sneered Loki again, coming around the back of the sofa and standing over Tony. He'd picked up his sceptre, and the glowing blue ball of energy at the tip reflected in his already too-blue eyes, investing them with a terrifying and mesmerizing glitter. An flame of ice, thought Tony, the embodiment of Loki himself. Icy in nature and temperament; like fire in terms of danger and unpredictability. Both powerful, both untameable, opposing elements – and both beautiful.

Then - Fuck, thought Tony as he realised what he'd just thought. Ice? Fire? BEAUTIFUL? What the fuck was his brain playing at?

'Stark, you're going to have to remember how to talk. I want answers, and I'm not about to wait till you've finished pretending to be a goldfish to get them'. Loki's voice was dangerously quiet, smooth and silky, leaving Tony in no doubt that he was pissed off. Very pissed off. In a major way.

Tony thought he could do with some answers himself. Like why he wasn't dead, why he wasn't at least semi-fatally injured, why Loki was still in here with him instead of out there ripping the shit out Earth with his disgusting armoured minions, why the fuck he'd just compared Loki to an attractive icicle –

'STARK.'

Loki had balanced the pointy end of the sceptre at the base of Tony's throat, and was looking thunderous. Tony dragged his mind back from its 90 mile an hour confused wanderings and attempted a placid grin, one intended to infuriate the God of Mischief even more.

'I don't think things worked out too well the last time you tried to wave your magic wand at me' he said conversationally, wriggling out from under the sceptre and shuffling himself into a standing position. With a screech of pure rage, Loki started towards him again, but Tony neatly sidestepped the god and held his hands up in mock surrender.

'Woah there, reindeer games. You want answers, you gotta ask me questions. We gotta have a conversation. And last time I checked, the dead weren't all that up for dinner party style schmoozing'.

Tony's confidence was returning at breakneck speed; from the little Loki had said and the hazy memory that had returned to him, he knew Loki wasn't about to attempt a homicide right there and then, at least not until he had interrogated him. Choosing not to think of the many ways in which Loki could do this, most of which involved some form of torture, Tony fully intended to be his usual narcissistic, audacious, brilliant self. Loki was now the one at a disadvantage, Loki now wanted answers, because Loki had indentified a weakness in himself, in his magic, in his plan.

Loki, impossibly powerful God of Mischief. Loki, hell bent on the destruction of the entire world. Loki, pacing around Tony's penthouse suite like a power crazed hungry animal. Loki, all the way from who the hell knows what godforsaken corner of the universe – Loki, who now had a defect.

And that defect, thought Tony, is me. My genius. My technology. My science, outwitting centuries – millennia – of ancient magic. It was dizzying.

And, of course, entirely unsurprising. If there was ever a man who didn't need an ego boost, it was Tony Stark – and Loki had just given him the biggest one imaginable.

Tony tried only to think of the advantage this surge of confidence would bring to him; how he could manipulate this situation, how he was now in charge, how he could outwit Loki and stay alive long enough to escape without having to tell him a single thing, how he could get into his suit without Loki suspecting any foul play, how he could alert the rest of the Avengers.

How he appeared to be the only person they had – save for Thor and Dr Banner – that was a match for Loki, a true match. How exactly his arc reactor and Loki's magic were related.

Watching Loki shake with the effort of restraining himself from murdering Tony on the spot, he tried to ignore that tiny, almost imperceptible frisson running around his whole body that had accompanied that last train of thought.