If 'walk through Atlantic City in a suit of armor with a Norse god carrying his unconscious adopted brother' were on Tony's bucket list, he'd now be entitled to cross it off. It's after three a.m. by the time they finally trudge up the steps and he punches the key code into the front door. It takes four tries. His brain is officially dead for the night, which nicely matches how his body feels. All he wants to do is take a hot shower and fall into bed.
"Is this your residence?" asks Thor.
"Technically speaking, yes. It is a residence, and I paid for it. But I don't live here." He fumbles around on the wall trying to remember where the light switch is in this place. Robotic fingers lacking the sense of touch don't help. "A couple years back when I first landed on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar, they had this bad habit of showing up at my door every so often with inventive new ways to intrude on my privacy. To get some peace and quiet, I did what any reasonable billionaire would do." Now there's the switch. "I bought low-profile houses in six different states using the names of trusted employees and relatives in transactions that couldn't be directly traced back to me. Then whenever I saw Coulson's truly original black sedan roll up the drive, I could escape here or Miami or Phoenix... It's a handy backup plan. This place technically belongs to my cousin Katie, but she only uses it a few weekends out of the year."
One by one, Tony flips the switches through the front entry, into the living room, over to the kitchen, and down the hall that leads to the bedrooms. "Sleeping beauty still down for the count?"
"Loki is still unconscious if that is what you mean to ask," Thor replies.
"Yes, that is what I mean to ask. You can bring him in here."
The ice sure did a number on Loki's clothes. Everything that froze and cracked back on the beach is now in shreds, and he looks like some tattered, Dickensian orphan in gray rags as Thor sets him on the bed. The minute he's down he groans and rolls onto his side with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms protectively masking his face.
"You awake, buddy?" asks Tony. When Loki doesn't answer, he turns to Thor with a shrug. "Well, I say we call it a night. Let Loki get some rest. He's in no state to do anything but pass out, and honestly, I'm feeling the same. You okay to stand on guard duty for a while? I just need a shower and a couple hours sleep and I can relieve you."
"That won't be necessary." Thor unclips something from the back of his waistband. At first Tony thinks it's a belt, but it uncoils into... a chain? Yes, that's a length of chain, with a manacle on either end. Thor fastens one on Loki's ankle and clamps the other securely onto the handle of his hammer. "Go rest, Tony Stark. Regain your strength for tomorrow. This will hold him." He sets the hammer on the floor next to the bed.
Is he serious? "Uh... yeah, sorry, but that looks kind of easy to escape."
"This chain was forged in Asgard for the purpose of containing Loki. Its links are infused with protective magic that will allow him to neither break them nor slip their grasp."
"I meant the part where the other end of the chain is attached to your hammer, which he can just pick up and-"
What the hell?
The hammer won't budge. Tony can try with all his strength, increased exponentially through the suit's robotics, but he can't lift that hammer. He can't slide it, he can't shift it, he can't move it at all. He can't even wiggle it. That thing might as well be a monolith of solid steel embedded straight down into the Earth's core; it's not going anywhere.
"Are you kidding me? What's this made of, dark matter?!"
"Mjölnir answers only to me and can be lifted by no other."
The hammer has a name? "...It has a name?"
Thor just frowns and doesn't answer.
"Okay then," says Tony. "I guess if Loki can't move the hammer, and as long as your magical chain of holding stays intact, we've got ourselves a prisoner." It isn't the most solid of ideas, trapping Loki with a magic chain and an object that defies the laws of physics. But then, the whole night so far hasn't exactly been full of rational plans and sensible logic. It's been more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of adventure. Maybe this is just the crowning jewel on a whole heap of crazy.
And with that in mind, shower and bed are looking better than ever. "I'll see you in the morning," he tells Thor. "Feel free to help yourself to whatever clothes you find in the dresser if you get tired of wearing..." He makes a vague gesture at Thor's armor; "all that. There's probably granola bars or crackers in the kitchen if you're hungry. And bathroom's at the end of the hall. Have a good night."
"Good night, Tony Stark."
ooo
The dream is a good one. Tony's back at home in Malibu, lazing in the sun by the pool with a cold beer in his hand. Pepper, looking pretty damn fine in a hot pink bikini, stands by the diving board as she tries to coax him into the water.
This is life, he thinks to himself. This is ideal. Why the hell do I focus so much on that saving-the-world bullshit when I could be doing this instead?
If only it could last forever. But then Agent Coulson is there, gliding in like a black cloud to blot out the sun. And the beer in Tony's hand has turned into the Tesseract, and his lounge chair is wrapping itself around his body, becoming the suit.
"We need you back at base, Mr. Stark," says Coulson.
"Do I have to go now?"
Coulson nods. "Now. Thor's about to burn down the kitchen."
ooo
Tony snaps awake to the piercing wail of a smoke alarm and the smell of burnt something. It's six-thirty in the morning, he's had less than three hours of sleep, and his head is pounding.
"Shit," he growls as he rolls out of bed. It's going to be an awesome day.
By the time he staggers into the kitchen, Thor's managed to silence the alarm by pulling it off the wall and chucking it out the patio door. If Tony were less groggy he might care, but he's not, so it's a good enough solution for now. At least there's coffee waiting.
Thor, with a painful-looking red mark stretching across three of his fingers, gestures to a crispy mess that probably used to be frozen hash browns. "Good morning, Tony Stark. I made breakfast."
"So I heard," says Tony. He can't help but wonder: what kind of kitchen gadgets exist in Asgard if Thor can figure out how to work a fancy-ass computerized coffee machine but screws up with a basic Teflon frying pan?
Also, more important: what the hell is the dress code of Asgard if Thor thinks wearing nothing but a towel is acceptable breakfast attire?
"So," Tony says after downing his first mug of caffeine. "You may not have heard me last night when I mentioned this, but feel free to help yourself to any of the clothes in your bedroom."
"Yes, I recall you said that. Thank you."
"Right. Hmm." How to put this politely? "See, the thing is," he continues, pouring another cup of coffee, "men in America tend to wear pants."
Thor nods.
"All the time."
Again, Thor nods.
"You get out of bed in the morning, you put on pants. Those pants stay on all day until you go back to bed. The only time the pants come off is when you're in the shower or changing into a different pair of pants. Or maybe shorts. Maybe."
"Understood," says Thor.
"Good. Now that brings us to the question of why you are not wearing pants."
Frowning, Thor glances down at his towel. "I plan to dress when it's time to leave this residence."
"I think you missed a crucial part of my message just now about getting out of bed and immediately putting on pants."
"And I would do so, were we entertaining guests or were there ladies present. But as we are here alone, you and I and Loki, I see no reason to trouble myself with clothing."
"Ah." The super rescue team is less than a day old, and already they're arguing about the uniform. Too bad it's not open for discussion. "How about this. New house rule: pants are non-negotiable. Unless you're in your bedroom, or in the bathroom, you wear pants. Capiche?"
Thor looks ready to counter with some Asgardian illogic, but Tony beats him to the punch. "My house, my rules. If we ever go to your place I'll be sure to make myself at home and hang around your kitchen wearing a glorified loincloth, but here on Earth we wear pants. Suit up, bro."
And that's that. Thor isn't happy about it, but as long as he agrees to get dressed Tony can deal with a bit of sulking. Especially if he sulks off down the hall and takes his towel with him.
"And before I see anything that can't be unseen," Tony calls after him, "the pants rule applies to Loki too."
ooo
This is the plan: after breakfast, Tony heads out to pick up some necessary supplies. He's wearing a cowboy hat and aviator sunglasses, and driving the Mitsubishi Lancer somebody left in the garage, so that should be enough to convince the general public he's a giant d-bag who should be neither talked to nor looked at. The best of disguises. Meanwhile, Thor stays at home to work on prying any info he can get out of Loki. They're now in direct competition with S.H.I.E.L.D. in the race to track down the Tesseract. And while S.H.I.E.L.D. might have access to a lot more resources for the time being, at least Tony and Thor have the guy who actually knows where the damn thing is. If only he'll talk.
"Okay," says Tony, dumping an armload of plastic bags on the kitchen counter. "Food. You know how to cook?"
Thor shoots the stove a glare of disapproval. "Um. No. You?"
"I've been known to throw together a sandwich or microwave the occasional Hot Pocket. Anyway, I stocked up on bachelor chow. You know, stuff you can just heat up or even eat right out of the package. Got some frozen pizza, Chef Boyardee, baked beans, peanut butter, bread, a pack of ham, and my personal favorite-" he pauses to hold up the box: "Cinnamon Toast Crunch. You have to try this."
"Why do the little toast squares have faces?" asks Thor.
"That, my friend, is one of the great mysteries of the universe," says Tony. "Unfortunately, it'll have to wait for another day because right now we have bigger problems on the table."
"The Tesseract."
"Bingo. Did Loki talk?"
"No." Shaking his head, Thor looks briefly in the direction of the living room. A wall blocks everything from view, but Tony can hear the faint babbling noise of the TV in the background. Loki's apparently in there, and he's watching something that sounds like daytime soaps. "Loki will not speak to me. Not a word."
"You want me to have a go at him?" Tony asks. Oh please let me have a go at him. I spent the whole morning driving around like some blue-collar asshole, listening to screaming children at the supermarket, and I'd really love to do some screaming of my own.
"I cannot say what luck you will have, but you are welcome to try."
Yes. Yes, he will try. Because this whole damn rescue mission will have been for nothing if they can't get Loki to spill the beans. "I'll see what I can do," he tells Thor. "Meanwhile, I nominate you for kitchen duty today, so make me a ham sandwich. Light on the mayo. Lots of mustard."
"But I've never made-" Thor starts.
"And I've never interrogated a bad guy," Tony cuts him off. "It'll be a day for branching out and trying new things. Just use your imagination, champ. And by the way," he adds, giving Thor a thumbs up, "I like the new outfit. That's a good look on you: pants. Stick with it."
They must have sarcasm on Asgard, because Thor knots his eyebrows like he's trying to figure out whether or not Tony's serious. He shoots a quick look down at his clothes - gray sweats that are at least six inches too short and a tight, faded Lakers shirt - and blinks. "...Thanks?"
ooo
Loki's on the couch in the living room just like Tony guessed. He's in the same position as the night before, curled up like a cat with his arms wrapped around his head, facing away from whatever crap's playing on TV. And he's wearing... a towel. Son of a bitch, what's with these Asgardians? A pair of gray sweats that match Thor's have been carefully draped across his legs, along with a Nagano '98 t-shirt over his shoulders, but underneath that it's just the goddamn towel. His hair is damp and clinging to the back of his neck. He looks a lot like somebody who was probably dumped in the shower against his will.
All in all, Tony's glad he was out of the house for that scene.
"I think you missed the conversation about the house pants rule," he says, taking a seat on the recliner next to Loki's couch. Just outside of arm's reach because, well, he's kind of fond of being alive at the moment and there's no telling what Loki might try. "I'm going to have to ask you to get dressed now."
"Please feel free to go kill yourself, Tony Stark," Loki growls.
"Hey, you can talk!" Not the words Tony wants to hear, but did he expect anything better? No, not really. It's still a start. "That's great. I'm really proud of you. This is a big step on the road to recovery."
"Recovery," says Loki, and he sounds like he's sneering.
"Yeah. In case you don't remember, you almost died last night. I pretty much saved your ass. Actually, I saved it twice, since first I sprung you from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s prison, then I Frankensteined you back from near death. Out of the goodness of my heart, I might add, and at great personal risk. Now common decency dictates that you owe me one. A big one. But I'm willing to wipe the slate clean and call it even if you just tell me where you hid the Tesseract."
"Oh, of course," says Loki. "That would be the least I can do to repay you for your valiant deeds."
This is the point at which Tony knows beyond a doubt that they have sarcasm on Asgard.
Slowly, Loki begins to unfold his body from its cramped and huddled position. It's a long, awkward process, and his movements are jerky. Stiff. Like every single little motion of every single little muscle causes him pain. Inch by inch, he pulls himself into a sitting position, shrugging off the shirt and sweats and kicking aside the chain that's still attached to his ankle. Once up, he sits with his shoulders hunched forward and his arms crossed over his chest like armor.
It's not enough to hide the tell-tale signs of damage done. The whole expanse of his skin from shoulders down to hips is a mess of scars, only they don't look like any scars Tony's ever seen in his life. These markings are completely alien: shimmering, pearly white in chaotic patterns of blotches like spattered paint, tinged with purple and blue. Some of them are whorled with deep-cut lines where Loki's skin has simply... disappeared. Whatever caused this didn't originate with S.H.I.E.L.D. or Nick Fury. Hell, it didn't even originate on Earth. Whatever caused this is strong enough to wreak havoc on an immortal and is beyond anything Tony's ever experienced first-hand.
He's pretty sure he can guess exactly what that 'whatever' is, but jumping to conclusions isn't an exercise he wants to do just yet.
"What did they do to you?" he asks Loki. The words come out shakier than he intended. Too guilt-ridden. Too invested.
"Why do you care?" Loki counters.
"Because I just risked a whole hell of a lot to save you. The least you can do is tell me what I saved you from."
"That's not what I asked, Tony Stark. I asked you why you care. Why did you bother to 'save' me? Why did you think you needed to do so?"
"I didn't agree with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s methodology."
A thin smile begins to play across Loki's lips. "Still not what I asked."
"And you still haven't answered my original question about where you hid the Tesseract."
Loki says nothing more. The thin smile stays right in place, maybe even sliding into a smirk. Tony leans back in the recliner and folds his hands across his chest, his eyes stuck on Loki's. Is this going to turn into a staring contest? Okay then. Tony can do staring contests. Just shove all those inconvenient feelings of pity and shame down out of the way, bury them in the dark corners of his heart where he puts stuff he wants to forget about (there are a lot of dark corners), and try to concentrate instead on how much he'd like to punch that smug, towel-wearing bastard in the face.
"How about this," Loki finally says to break the silence, though he doesn't break eye contact. "I merely want to know why you care so much about my well-being. You've personally killed, what, dozens of people? Indirectly killed thousands? More? And yet you risk your life and livelihood to save me from those who profess to be on your side. In fact, if I recall, you were the one who took me to them in the first place. So why the change of heart, Tony Stark? After all the blood you've shed over the years, why the sudden adherence morality and altruistic mercy? Because I cannot believe that all of this is the result of one disagreement with 'S.H.I.E.L.D.'s methodology'."
Now it's Tony's turn to be the silent one, though he's not smiling. Loki's words are more than just words. They're barbs of malice that send a jolt of... something straight through his veins and down into all those dark corners. He can't quite place the feeling. Guilt? Fear? Anger? Panic? Hatred? All of the above, rolled up into one big ball of bad memories alongside a bit of humiliation for good measure? That might be it. And it's not something he can easily shrug off. It rolls around in the pit of his stomach, crashing through barriers and flattening all those shady crevices where secrets like to hide, dredging up all the things he doesn't want to think about. That he never wants to think about.
Carefully, he weaves his fingers together, drumming them against his hands. He whistles out a long breath between his teeth and tries to ignore the prickles of sweat forming on the back of his neck. Just keep up the façade of calm disinterest.
"Tell me why you care," Loki presses. "Tell me, and..." He pauses, probably for dramatic effect like the arrogant little prima donna he is; "I shall tell something about the Tesseract. Do we have a bargain?"
"Sorry. I don't think so. First you tell me about the Tesseract. Then I see if your information is worth a reward."
Loki laughs. "You do not trust me?"
"Not as far as I can throw you," says Tony. "And since you have a magic hammer made of dark matter chained to your ankle, that's not going to be very far at all."
"Then we are at an impasse."
"Yep." They were at an impasse.
"In that case, do you mind if I lie down again? As you may have noticed, I have quite a bit of damage to repair, and healing such injuries requires a vast investment of energy."
"Knock yourself out."
"Of course, we can still talk," Loki adds.
Oh goody.
Once again Loki begins the laborious process of changing position. It takes the same straining effort. The same stilted movements and little hisses of discomfort through a clenched jaw. He looks, Tony can't help but think, like an injured spider trying to cope with too many arms and legs when he only has the strength for one at a time. When he finally makes it down, he keeps his eyes closed for a minute and just breathes. He only opens them again once he's back in pill bug formation with his knees hugged to his chest.
This time he's facing towards the TV with his head tilted to look straight at Tony. It may or may not be an improvement.
"Perhaps if you tell me why you need the Tesseract, I may be more inclined to cooperate," says Loki.
It's an improvement. Now that Loki's grinning up at him like a jackass jackal, the conflicting storm of emotions in Tony's gut has all but disappeared. He's back to wanting to punch Loki in the face. "I dunno," he answers. "Maybe to stop you taking over the world? Just a guess."
"Ah, but you have stopped me. Here I am, entirely stopped. Chained up on your furniture and wearing naught but a towel."
Why does he have to draw Tony's attention back to that damn towel? "Am I supposed to believe your hired goons aren't out there right now working on your plan in your absence?"
"Oh, they likely are. But they won't execute the final stage until I give my orders. You need not worry so much. Your beloved Earth is safe. For now." He punctuates the last with a wide grin.
"For some strange reason I get the feeling you're just a huge asshole who likes wasting everyone's time," Tony mutters, mostly to himself.
Loki laughs. Then, abruptly, changes the topic. "How many days has it been since Stuttgart?"
"That was Saturday," says Tony. "Today's Thursday. You do the math."
Loki's smile falters just the smallest bit, and for a second Tony swears he can see a ripple of something other than imperious dickishness pass across his face. That something looks like it might be saying, 'Oh shit'. "I want to see Thor now," he snaps.
"I want you to tell me where the Tesseract is now," Tony replies.
"I need to see Thor now."
"And I need you to tell me where the Tesseract is. You tell me, you can see Thor. You can see him, talk to him, poke him with a stick, whatever you want."
The smile disappears completely, and Loki rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling.
"Aw, you don't like that? Is it silent treatment time?"
By the lack of answer, Tony is forced to accept that yes, it is. Sighing, he stands up. "Okay. Fine. You can see Thor. Maybe you can tell him where the Tesseract is."
Still no answer. Loki has turned into a petulant teenager. "Sit tight, big boy," says Tony. "I'll send your brother in, then I'll be back later for round two."
Tony leaves the living room with a couple more pieces of information than when he entered. The most important seems to be that Loki's not happy about today being Thursday. Did he lose track of time during all those hours of unconsciousness? Did he miss a deadline, or is something about to happen? Most intriguing: is it possible that he fucked up?
Now there are a few interesting things to mull over.