Notes: Okay so. There are a couple specific warnings attached to this chapter, but for reasons of spoilers, I'm sticking them down at the bottom of the page. If you like to know in advance what you're getting into, please scroll down to the notes below.

If you're the kind of person who's okay with any and all crazy plot twists, go ahead and read on. This is something that was vaguely alluded to earlier, so I'm hoping it doesn't come totally out of left field.

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The first time Tony's key card doesn't work is because he's trying to open room 107. The second time (after drunkenly squinting at the dirty plastic number 108 on the door long enough to convince himself that, yes, this is his room), it's because the key he's using is actually a Starbucks card he found in his pants, and no matter how many times he swipes that thing down a groove alongside the deadbolt plate, nothing's going to happen.

The colors on the card swim through his blurred vision, all fine detail drowning in a current of booze. "Oh right." It's starting to come back to him. This door has an old school metal key chained to a big wood chip, which Thor took because... Yeah, now he remembers. They went to buy booze after getting tacos. And Thor said they couldn't go back to the room to eat and drink because Loki needed to stay alone, and Tony said, 'Okay, whatever,' just to get him to shut up and stop talking about magic in front of the cashier. Then Thor insisted on taking the key to stop Tony from sneaking back to the motel later. Which would be exactly what he's trying to do now. Funny how these things work out.

Closing his eyes, he leans against the door, its smooth, painted metal pleasantly cool against his face. Maybe he could sleep leaning here, except gravity. "Loki!" he yells at the peep-hole, and thumps his hand once. "Lemme in, your damn brother stole the key!"

No answer. No sound from the other side.

"Loki! I know you're magic-drunk but I'm drink-drunk and probably more drunk than you right now so get up and Gandalf this door open already. The elvish word for friend is mellon."

And nothing again.

"Don't make me beg, you asshole. Because I won't. I'll pass out first. Then you'll feel bad for making me sleep outside." He listens against the door. Then bangs his fist, hard, twice. "Loki? Did you die in there? If you died, I'm gonna be real pissed off."

Nope, not dead. There's a sound in the door exactly like a deadbolt sliding back, and then a chain jangling down. The door creaks open like something out of a cheesy haunted house, pulled by unseen hands.

Tony grins. "Thanks," he says as he stumbles inside to collapse across the end of the unoccupied bed. The cheap, nylon bedspread crinkles under his weight and sticks to his sweat-damp skin like plastic film, but it'll do. He's slept on worse. "Night, man."

In his peripheral vision, just before he closes his eyes, he catches Loki's waving hand gesture. "Tony Stark," says... No, wait, that doesn't sound like Loki.

He lifts his head, peeling his cheek from the bedspread. "What the..."

In all honesty, it's probably better that he's drunk and exhausted. If he were sober and alert, his mind would have the capacity to react properly to what he sees instead of just resignedly thinking, 'Oh... that's weird.' Loki's smiling at him. And Loki still looks like Loki, but only in the most rudimentary and generic way. The basics are all there. Face shape. Placement of features. Floppy black guinea pig curls. The fine details, though, have changed: shallower eyes, smaller nose, fuller lips. Softer and more delicate all around. He looks like...

With a yawn and a stretch, Loki rolls onto his back. Except it's more like her back.

Yeah, that's what Loki looks like now. A female version of himself.

Two weeks ago Tony would have attributed this kind of thing to the worst case of beer goggles in human history, but now he knows there's (unfortunately) a more likely explanation. "Did you randomly turn into a woman?"

Loki laughs in reply, a throaty, humming laugh through closed lips. He... um... she... seems very pleased with... herself. "It was not random. Sometimes the magic chooses what it wishes to be."

"I see," says Tony, nodding as if he understands, because why not? This makes at least as much sense as cross-country teleportation. "So the magic decided do a little switcheroo?"

"Do you like it?"

Tony swallows. "Um." There is probably no safe way to answer that question.

"I seem to recall something," she says slowly, raising one leg before crossing it over the other in a languorous motion. "Something you said yesterday evening about if I were a woman..."

"Yeah, well, I say a lot of things and, uh... That was one of those things that seemed like it would be really awesome at the time but now it's come true and isn't. Like you know, when you think it would be a good idea to stack a hamburger and a hotdog and a steak all in the same bun, or put the deck furniture in the pool so you can sit on it underwater? Or fly around in your Iron Man suit after eating a whole thing of sweet and sour pork from the 7-11? That one turned out real bad. So yeah." He nods again at Loki, because that's what you do when trying to make a point. Only... "Wait, what was I talking about?"

"Me," Loki answers with a silly smirk.

"Right. Right. You and the thing I said. But what I meant was, this is weird. Definitely weird. Just when I was getting used to you as a guy, suddenly... all the extra complication. And while I've always been a fan of boobs, don't get me wrong, I think I'd be more comfortable if you changed back?"

With a little 'ngh' sound, Loki sticks out her bottom lip in a spectacular pout. The kind that would've had Howard Stark warning her that a rooster would come perch on it if she didn't smarten up. "You think I should change back? Really?"

"Yeah," says Tony. "Yeah, for the sake of a lot of things I really think you should change back right now."

"Ngh." Again. She makes a face and groans in disappointment, but nonetheless sits up in bed. "I can try. For you, my Tony Stark, I will try. But sometimes the magic makes up its own mind, and then it will not listen to me, no, no, no... But I can try."

And that's all Tony can ask for, right? The ol' college try. Loki, with eyes closed and fingers steepled, draws in one long, smooth breath after another. It looks like a promising sight, and for a second, Tony thinks it's going to work. The magic ripples over the surface of Loki's skin. She shudders as it rolls through her body, from head to toe, momentarily blurring her features. Eyes, nose, mouth, chin all inexact and clouded. Like Tony's looking at her through foggy glass.

But that's as far as it goes. Whatever magic Loki needs to transform back, she either can't summon it or can't hold it. The fog recedes. She opens her eyes, takes one look down at her unchanged body, and starts laughing in that same unhinged, maniacal way she (he?) did back in the desert when they first landed. "I can't," she gasps. "I... can't... I can't... can't change, can't shift form... magic doesn't want that."

"Your magic is a lamewad with a dumb sense of humor," says Tony.

His stupid comment only makes Loki laugh harder, falling back onto the bed and rolling over to bury her face in the pillow. Tony's mouth twitches in response. Just a smirk at first, but growing into a full-out grin as the contagion of laughter spreads through his booze-soaked body and pools in his stomach before pushing its way out. He laughs just to watch her laugh. The way her shoulders shake and she clenches her fingers and toes. He does the same; he can't help it. Monkey see, monkey do.

"So I guess you're stuck like this?"

"Until balance is restored," she answers through the mound of bedding that covers her face.

"Tomorrow after moonrise?"

She lifts her head. Bites down on the side of her thumb. Eyes unnaturally bright. "Or the other way."

"The other..."

"We were interrupted last night."

The laughter fades in Tony's throat, dwindling down to an awkward groan and sputtering out with a cough. "Oh... uh." The other way. Energy balance. Right. Right. Right...

"Mm." Slowly, Loki extends her hand to beckon him nearer. "Come over here, Tony Stark."

I guess I could do that, says one half of Tony's brain. The other half, the half that's usually a little more logical and better at thinking before acting, says... well, it's too fatigued to argue and also says, I guess I could do that. Why the hell not? If single women can go to Disneyland, single men can go over to Loki's strangely inviting bed in a shitty motel in Texas. He wobbles his way up onto his hands and knees, struggling to stay upright, and shakily stands. Loki's hand stretches out, luring him forward.

This isn't a terrible idea. Not at all.

Loki laughs her humming laugh as he approaches, licking her lips through a wicked smile and stretching her arms above her head to squirm and arch off the bed. She's wearing, he notices now, a leftover Stark Expo promotional t-shirt. The logo – his name – sits splashed across her chest like a gift tag.

Not a terrible idea, not a terrible idea, not a terrible idea, not a terrible idea...

One finger rises in a gesture for Tony to stop as he reaches her side. Her hand hovers inches from the button of his jeans.

Not a terrible idea...

She crooks her forward to close the gap and stroke down the length of his fly. It's hardly any contact at all, a light touch over layers of denim and zipper, but more than enough for the porn magic to flood Tony's nervous system, weakening every bone in his body and forcing a whimpering moan from his throat.

Not a terrible idea.

He tries to look like he's in control as he stands at the bedside. Tries to convince himself he's in control. Confident. Not staggeringly drunk. Not, in the back of his mind, wondering what the hell he's thinking and asking why – why – he's even considering doing what he wants to do with Loki.

From the bed, Loki smiles up at him. She pulls the finger that touched him back to her mouth and traces the outline of her lips before drawing it in with her tongue. Gently biting down.

"Right, that's why," Tony whispers to himself.

All she needs to do is hold up her hand in one inviting gesture, and Tony's pulled forward like a fish on a hook. He sinks down onto the bed at her side, anticipating the rush of magic through his blood even before her fingertips brush his cheek.

This may just be a terrible idea.

ooo

There could be worse ways for Tony to wake up than with one hand tucked under his pillow and the other resting between Loki's thighs. Objectively speaking. Subjectively speaking, as he blearily opens his eyes and the morning light hits him like a brick to the face, he's pretty sure he'd rather be almost anywhere else. On the floor. Outside. In the desert. Back in Atlantic City. Hell, even in a S.H.I.E.L.D. prison cell. If he were in a S.H.I.E.L.D. prison cell, he wouldn't be this hung over.

If he were in a S.H.I.E.L.D. prison cell, he wouldn't be lying next to the person he's lying next to, buck-ass naked and spooned together with legs all crossed over and mixed up.

"Ohhhhhhhh fuck."

"Yes, that would be an adequate summary of last night's events," Loki lazily confirms.

Loki. Regular, same old Loki. Loki of the decidedly masculine voice and other physical attributes to go along with it.

Tony pulls his hand away. "Weren't you a woman when I got into this bed?" he growls, rolling on to his back, which turns out to be a bad move. Everything in his stomach lurches at once in what feels like a coordinated bid for freedom, and he has to clench his jaw to keep it down. "I'm at least eighty percent sure you were a woman."

"Only eighty?" snorts Loki. "How much do you recall?"

He grunts. Not much. And he'd like to keep it that way by not talking, since he has this bad feeling that any discussion will start to dredge up too many details from the recesses of his mind. Right now everything's a vague blur of crying like a baby over Pepper before stumbling back to the motel, and then something about a Stark Expo shirt. That's all he needs, and still more than he wants.

"You were quite intoxicated, Tony Stark, but still performed admirably despite yourself. It was certainly more enjoyable than Agent Barton's utilitarian fumblings."

And Tony's stomach lurches again, this time for completely different reasons. "Oh Jesus Christ. You and Barton?!"

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Loki sits up and stretches his arms out wide. "Is that jealousy I detect?"

"No. Horror. I'll never be rid of the mental image." Barton and Loki. Together. Son of a fuck.

"One does what one must," Loki says as he stands. "I must rebalance my magical energy from time to time. Some of those times involve less than ideal solutions."

That statement, falling lightly from Loki's mouth, doubles in weight when Tony replays it inside his head. One does what one must. It sounds innocently resilient at first. And then sounds... he doesn't even know. But it makes something inside of him sink down low into his gut, dark and uneasy. "I should tell Barton you said that," he says, trying to force a joke and a smile.

Loki may or may not be smiling with him. It's hard to tell. Either way, he doesn't respond. "I am going to shower. Are you well enough to travel?"

Travel where? Tony sits up, holding one hand against his forehead as he does, since that seems like the right thing to do to keep his brain from pounding its way out the front of his skull. "Lemme throw up in the parking lot a couple times and choke down a dozen Aspirin and I may be able to walk without dying. Why, where are we going?"

Again, no response. Just another curious maybe-smile before Loki disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door.

"Don't use any of my shit!" Tony yells after him. And immediately regrets it as the words vibrate and echo and clang through his head. Gingerly, raises his other hand to his face and massages his temples. "Fffffuuuuuuuu..."

There was this rhyme he learned once, back in college:

Beer before liquor, never sicker
Liquor before beer, you're in the clear

Last night he chased down a bottle of Jack with five cans of PBR, and that rhyme is a blatant lie. Nothing about the way he feels now could be classified as 'in the clear'. He'd sort of been joking about throwing up in the parking lot before. Now it actually sounds like a good idea.

He fumbles and swears his way out of bed, sidestepping the used condom on the floor. He has no memory of putting that on (or taking it off), and the sight of it makes him cringe. Maybe more than cringe. It might make him want to tear his skin off to better crawl into a hole and die. But at least he can pat himself on the back for taking the time to make sure he didn't accidentally get Loki pregnant, because seriously, having the 'sorry I knocked up your brother' conversation with Thor would be weird even beyond the weirdness that's already gone down in the past couple days. Yeah. Sorry I knocked up your brother, who was a woman at the time, after you specifically told me not to come back to the motel last night, because you probably knew exactly what would happen.

That's what's on Tony's mind as he pulls on his pants, shuffles to the door, vomits over the rail into room 109's parking space, and then downs a little hair of the dog from a bottle he chucked in the Superman snacks backpack: Thor. Specifically: what Thor knows about Loki's magic.

Probably everything, or close to it. Thor has that advantage. After so many years of fighting, either with or against Loki, he probably knows all the workings of the magic. All the tricks. All the rules.

And that makes Tony want to punch him in the face, because the motherfucker knew. He knew. Of course he did. Why else would he take the key, if not to stop Tony from coming back to the room? He knew what Loki would do. Fuck, he's known for days what Loki was planning to do. And yet he said nothing. All he divulged was some cryptic bullshit that Loki was up to something, and it involved Tony, and then the business about do not let him touch you...

If he has to decide who he hates more at the moment, Thor or Loki (hating himself is not a valid option, because that's kind of an ongoing thing), he'd have to say Thor. The vagueness, dancing around the truth, and general screwing-over are things he'd expect from Loki. If Loki had been the one to take the key, if Loki had been the one to hint at something unsavory in the works, he'd have been all over that like white on rice, overanalyzing every little clue as to what was going on. But Thor... He trusted that bastard. He was stupid and careless enough to let himself believe that if he stuck with Thor, everything would somehow work out. He honestly thought Thor had all of their best interests at heart.

Guess again, sucker. Thor's just in this for Asgard. He wants to find the Tesseract and take Loki back home, and only gives a rat's ass about you as long as it's convenient for him.

Well. Some lessons are better learned the hard way. Lesson one was 'never trust Loki'. Obvious enough. Lesson two is 'never trust Loki's brother'.

Gingerly, Tony sits on the bed. No huffing, dramatic flops with the way his stomach and head feel. Then he closes his eyes and lies back, because his brain hurts too much to think and concentrate on remaining upright at the same time.

Trouble is, easy as it might be to shake his mental fist at Thor for last night's big ball of failings and bad decisions, shifting the blame does nothing to take away any of the guilt. It's not Thor's fault Tony couldn't say 'no' to Loki. Christ, it's not even Loki's fault. Thor was being Thor, Loki was being Loki. Tony was being Tony. And that's the real problem, isn't it? Tony Fuck-up Stark. There's the weakest link. The one who got drunk off his ass and forgot how to not act like a sex-crazed teenage spaz. He could've easily stayed in his own bed and gone to sleep. Or he could've walked back out that door the second he saw what Loki was up to. He could've left Loki the hell alone, and he could've got a second room to himself. He could've kept his distance from Loki from day one. Or, if he were really smart, he could've made a better effort to be a decent human being to Pepper all along. In which case he never would've found himself in this situation.

Could've, could've, could've. All those possibilities, and yet he still chose to go down every single shady fork in the road leading to this moment. He chose. Not Thor. Not Loki. He did.

"Yep," he says aloud to the water stain on the stippled ceiling. "Nobody's fault but mine. Fuck balls."

That articulate and heartfelt confession still does nothing to take the guilt away.

ooo

Loki's entire demeanor has changed by the time he emerges from the shower. It's not that Tony would have described him as 'laid back' or 'apathetic' before, but compared to the Loki that comes out of the bathroom, Atlantic City Loki was downright easygoing. New Loki moves with purpose to pick out clothes from the Ninja Turtles backpack. No more lolling around in a towel. Once the base layer is on, plaid shorts and a Spinal Tap shirt, the illusion of a crisp charcoal gray suit settles gently into place with a glimmer of gold. A quick comb of hands through his hair is all it takes to transform damp curls into his signature spiked-out Aladdin Sane style.

He looks better overall – healthier – when he turns to Tony. Skin still milky pale, but no more waxy sallowness or sunken, shadowed eyes. No more clammy sheen. There's even a tinge of color in his cheeks. But it's his posture that says the most: the way he now moves and holds himself with a razor-sharp sense of confidence. He stands at the end of the bed like an emperor, fearsome and majestic even in the drab setting of a sleazy motel. The aura of power all but shines from his body. Slowly, he drops his head to one side, then the other, stretching his neck as if settling back into himself. A self that's been too damaged and overwhelmed by magical aftermath to be seen these past few days.

His smile, when he pauses to spare a glance at Tony, is thin and cold. So this is the true Loki. Loki of Asgard. Loki of legend. Loki of powers and abilities and knowledge that Tony, for all his earthly genius, can't even begin to comprehend. And for the first time, standing there in yellow morning light that filters through nicotine-stained drapes, this man looks like he could truly be a god.

For the first time, Tony feels real dread begin to trickle into his chest, chilling his blood.

Loki isn't human. Of course he knew that before, in some abstract and artificial way. The same way somebody can know about the enormity of mountains but never fully understand until they've seen them in person. But whatever skeptical part of him had been holding back, subconsciously unwilling to believe in Loki's otherworldly origins... that's all gone. Tony understands now.

Loki isn't human.

If Loki had spoken some godly proclamation, in that moment, Tony's pretty sure he would've obeyed without question. Knelt, prayed, sacrificed a goat... hell, whatever he was asked. But all Loki says is, "How long will it take us to travel back to New York?"

Not what anybody was expecting. "Without teleportation?"

A dark look crosses Loki's face. "No. Transporting both you and Thor all that distance would require a massive energy commitment, with all the resulting inconvenience. Doing such when I have no assurance of revival would be very foolish indeed."

"Assurance of...?" Oh right. Tony coughs. "Yeah, that's, um... huh. No way around that, is there?"

"Why? Are you offering to make yourself useful again, Tony Stark?"

"No," he says, maybe a little too quickly. "You want me to be useful, I'll steal a car. I'm very useful in that area of expertise... or at least I am in the safety of my own garage when I screw around for S 'n' Gs. But just so you know, you dumped us all the way in the opposite corner of the country. Driving back to New York, even if I teach both you and Thor how to drive and we boot it day and night taking shifts at the wheel and only stopping for gas, will still take over thirty hours. More realistically, three or four days. And trust me, a four-day road trip with the three of us crammed into one car will be hell."

"I shall leave our travel arrangements in your capable hands," says Loki, dismissively turning away to poke at the curiosity that is the TV remote on the dresser. "Choose whichever method you deem best."

Tony rakes his hair back with a grumble. "How kind of you..." A choice between two thousand miles in a stolen vehicle with his favorite Martians, or whoring himself to the God of Assholes for a chance to unravel the laws of physics again. Long and aggravating versus quick and degrading. Damnit.

When he looks up, Loki's smirking at him. "This wasn't meant to be a difficult decision."

"I wasn't-" he begins as he rolls to the edge of the bed and sits upright, feet on the floor, but the rush of hot blood to his face shuts him up. Usually he's good at this kind of thing. Maybe it's the circumstances and the hangover and the aftermath of what happened last night, but shooting a snappy reply back at Loki right now is too draining. He doesn't feel witty. He doesn't feel sharp, or clever. Just tired and overwhelmed, like this whole conversation is a big waste of time and a way to pretend everything's okay and skirt around the real issue when all he really wants to know is-

"Why did you do it?"

Shit. He didn't mean to say that part out loud.

"'It'?" Loki asks, though Tony can tell he understands full well.

"You know what I mean. It. Everything. Everything since yesterday or... hell, even before. Why me, when you could've just waited? Why did you do it?"

And Loki throws the question back in his face. "Why did you?" Never a straight answer.

"Probably because I make bad decisions. It's what I do. I fuck up my life and do stupid things I later regret."

"Such as drink yourself into oblivion and fall into bed with any willing partner?"

What was that phrase he used talking to Thor last night? 'Harsh but accurate'? Yeah. Only harsh always seems a little harsher when it's pointed at him instead of somebody else. "At one point, yes, that was my daily routine."

"Well," says Loki, "that makes two of us. Though in my case, we shall replace the word 'drink' with 'magic'. The result is essentially the same."

"If it comes at such a high cost with all these dire consequences, why don't you just stop using it?"

"Why don't you just stop drinking?" Loki sneers, and Tony feels his jaw clench at the low blow. "I will tell you why: because the magic is as much a part of me as your destructive vices are a part of you. Physically a part of me, and it has been for as long as I can remember. Do you know what happens when I rid my body of magic?"

No, but the uncomfortable tingle at the base of Tony's neck is telling him that he might not want to know. Nothing good has ever come from a question like that.

Loki holds his arms up in front of his face, the illusion-suit sleeves neatly folding themselves back. "This is a new trick. One I learned quite recently. It came in handy at the time, though I must say my Chitauri jailers found it less than enjoyable."

The spread of blue begins in his hands, like a stain seeping through from the inside out. It flows up to his fingertips and down past his wrists, changing the color and texture of his skin from pale humanoid to something leathery like an animal hide. The ridges Tony saw briefly back on the beach rise up from nothing to form complex patterns of circles and lines, while crystals of frost glitter into being around lengthening, talon-like fingernails.

Despite the strangeness, despite the prickle of fear down his back, Tony leans forward. He can't help it; curiosity outweighs apprehension, like staring at giant spiders at the zoo or watching youtube clips of things he knows will end badly. It's one of those things he can't not see. When else is he going to have a chance to have an up-close look at a blue-skinned alien? "Is this... what you look like in your Jotun form?"

Immediately, the color disappears and Loki drops his arms to his sides. "Where did you learn that word?" he snarls.

Oh. Maybe this is something he's not supposed to know about. "Sorry. Thor told me."

Wrong thing to say. A flat hardness clamps down over Loki's eyes, and this time, he says nothing more. No more sly banter. His mouth becomes a thin line, white-lipped, and his expression cold.

"Look," Tony tries, but a cutting glare from Loki silences that train of thought.

"I am weary of this idiotic conversation," Loki says. Like he's just remembered who he is, and who Tony is, and where they are... and that maybe he shouldn't be saying the kinds of things he's said. He let his godly guard down for one moment but it's back up now, stronger and higher and more impenetrable than ever. "I will not be abandoning use of magic, but nor will I frivolously waste my powers at the whim of a mere mortal. The Tesseract can wait four days. Go find us a car."

ooo

After a brief reconnaissance tour around town, Tony figures their best bet for wheels is the white four-door Grand Am parked behind an insurance place. That has a nice sense of irony to it. He stops in at the hardware store down the street to buy a spool of fencing wire, a set of screwdrivers, and a drill, then it's back to the motel. Back to Loki. Like a trained fucking poodle.

It's a small consolation that, for the time being, he and Loki have a common goal: return to New York. If he has to be forced into the role of Loki's new hired goon and dragged along on some hare-brained adventure, at least it's to somewhere he wants to go. What'll happen once they get there is anyone's guess, but he'll worry about ominous future problems when the ominous future comes. Maybe four days in a Grand Am will convince Loki that Earth is a terrible, terrible place and he wants to leave immediately. (Okay, unlikely, but a guy can dream.)

Loki's sitting on the dresser when Tony opens the door to room 108. Or to be more exact, Loki's perched on the balls of his feet on top the dresser, next to the TV, leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed. Crushed, empty juice boxes litter the floor around him.

For some reason, despite everything else that's gone down in the past three days, everything he's seen from blue skin to teleportation to impromptu sex changes, this is what strikes Tony as really strange: Loki posed like a dresser-owl. After putting up with so much deep space crazy magic weird, plain old regular Earth-type weird is strikingly absurd in comparison. "You're a creepy bastard, you know that?" he says, tossing the hardware bag onto the bed. He glares at Loki, who neither moves nor acknowledges his presence in any way. "I got some shit to steal a car, and picked out a shitty car to steal. We can leave whenever Thor gets back. Are you trying to contact him?"

"No," says Loki. And that's all. No explanation of what he is doing.

"Do you know where he is?"

"No."

"Well here's a thought: if you want to get out of this place, maybe you should put some effort into locating our third team member. So why don't you work on that. I'm going to shower."

Loki opens his eyes. Smirks. "I was about to suggest you do so. You're covered in dust and smell of numerous unpleasant things."

There are a lot of ways Tony could reply, but none of them is exactly safe for a potentially violent owl god. Easier to just flip a certain finger over his shoulder on his way to the bathroom. He strips off his clothes and turns the shower on full blast, steaming hot. Maybe it can scald and scour away all the dried guilt still clinging to his skin.

(No, that'll never come off, but it's nice to get cleaned up all the same.)

He stands under the spray until the hot water starts to run out, washing his hair twice and scrubbing the cheap bar of hotel soap over every inch of his body more times than he wants to count. Feels a little better. What would feel a lot better is stepping out of the shower and being able to dry off with a towel Loki hasn't already used, but there's this phrase about beggars and choosers that keeps popping up in Tony's mind lately.

Just four more days, he says silently to his reflection in the mirror as he pats himself down with a damp towel. Maybe three. Three more days. I'll be back in New York, have my suit, grab the damn fucking Tesseract, boot He-Man and Skeletor back to Eternia, and all this shit will be over.

The reflection staring back at him looks unconvinced. Wet, tired, scruffy, and unconvinced. Its red-rimmed eyes seem to say, You've spent three days with those jokers so far and are already precariously balanced on the brink of insanity. How the hell are you going to live through three more?

Because he has to. There's no other choice. The fate of the world more or less hinges on his ability to put up with Loki and Thor until the two of them are safely off-planet.

...In which case, there's a good chance the world is screwed.

.

.

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Notes: Chapter-specific warnings for magical shapeshifting genderswap Loki and drunken Tony making some bad decisions with genderswap Loki in the first scene. Non-graphic, fade-to-black sex is implied. Regular Loki returns after the first scene break, beginning with the words "there could be worse ways" in case anybody wants to skip ahead to that.