Captain America brings Tony breakfast in bed. Well, technically, Steve Rogers brings Tony breakfast in bed, dressed in wholesome farm boy clothes rather than the star-spangled spandex. But the end result is the same. Tony gets breakfast in bed. Two hard-boiled eggs, a fruit cup, a bowl of oatmeal, and a thermos of what smells like some very Irish coffee.

"You know," Tony says as he pours out a mug, "considering the amount of booze in this coffee, wouldn't you agree that my health is already down the shitter and I should be able to have some bacon?"

"Everyone gets the same breakfast, Stark," Steve answers in that tone people tend to use when talking to complete morons. "S.H.I.E.L.D. standard rations."

"Really? S.H.I.E.L.D. gives you all this much liquor so early in the day? I had a hunch working for them would be stressful, but Cap, come on. That's not the American way."

Immediately on the defensive, Steve snaps back at him. "We get orange juice or milk! Only you get..." A grunt of disgust replaces any actual words.

"Only I get the good stuff," Tony agrees with a nod. "The perks of being an independent contractor rather than an employee."

Steve doesn't reply. He just clenches his fists, tightens that heroic jaw, and stares down at Tony with a look that miraculously manages to combine utter loathing with smug, self-righteous pity.

Typical. Tony takes a sip of the coffee, which, surprisingly, isn't bad at all. "Well, seeing as I'm not an employee... I want some bacon. Go. Fetch. I got a ten dollar bill with your name on it if you're back within half an hour. Actually, wasn't ten dollars a lot of money back in your day? Can I get away with a smaller tip? Five dollars? One?"

"You look like hell, Stark," says Steve. Going for the low blow instead of thinking up any real comeback. "Just how hung over are you after what you pulled last night?"

"Not hung over at all," Tony flips back with a dumb smile. "Still drunk. About to get drunker. Romanoff's orders. I'm supposed to stay sedated and cooperative."

"Or you could do the right thing, act like a man, and help us. We're balancing at the edge of a war here. We could use you. You've been with Loki for the past week; you have to know a few things about him."

Ah-ha. So that's the ploy. And a pretty weak one at that, if Tony can see through it as clear as glass even when his vision's still fuzzy from all the drinking. He manages to keep a straight face for about four seconds, nodding thoughtfully at Steve's suggestion, before breaking down in laughter.

"What's so funny?" Steve demands.

"You. You and Natasha. This cute little good cop/bad cop routine. She threatens, makes me think I'm in trouble, you offer salvation if only I repent my sins. Pretty lame. I'll need a lot more alcohol before I'm drunk enough for that to work."

"Stark..." Steve sighs.

Tony shakes his head. "No, it's okay, it's not your fault. You're too honest. Too good. Like a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. You're not cut out for this spy shit. Who put you up to it? Agent Phil? He should've come himself. That bland, unassuming demeanor gets me every time."

"Stark..."

That one sounds a little more pissed off. Grinning, Tony throws back the rest of his cup of coffee before sinking back into bed with a yawn. "I'd ask you to tell me all about your amazing plan for me, but it turns out I don't care. And my bacon isn't getting itself."

"You don't care," Steve says quietly.

"No. I don't."

"You don't care about any of this? Anything at all? The Tesseract, the Chitauri, an invasion from outer space? When did you stop acting like a real human being?"

The grin on Tony's face stays right where it is. Frozen in place. No, he doesn't care. Not in the least. Not about anything. Not any more. Why the fuck would he want to give two thoughts to the world when his life's gone to hell in a beat-up, whisky-soaked handbasket? "Dunno," he answers. "Sometime between 1970 and yesterday evening?"

Steve shakes his head before turning to walk away. He almost makes it out, too. He's all the way to the door before something changes his mind: something that visibly rolls through him. It slows him down, brings him to a standstill, and makes him retrace his steps back to Tony's bedside.

"Just so you know?" he mutters, half hissing the words. "I don't like this. I don't agree with this. Letting you drink yourself stupid. It's..." Biting the inside of his cheek, he looks away. "You need to grow up, Stark. This isn't the way to do it. You need to take responsibility and stand alongside the rest of us."

Right. 'Responsibility'. The catch-all word people like to throw around when somebody doesn't walk the line. "Okay, sure. Thanks for the advice, G.I. Joe. I'll take it to heart. I really will.

"Stop being a wise-ass and think about it. And for God's sake, you need to put on some pants."

"Why?" asks Tony. "I'm in bed. Pants not required. That's the rule."

"...The rule."

"Yeah. The House Pants Rule. Ask Thor. He knows all about it."

"You're out of your mind," Steve sighs as he once again turns to walk away.

"No, really, ask Thor. Go ahead. I dare you."

Something makes Steve do it. Maybe it's the cocky smirk Tony shoots him, or the sting of backing down from a challenge, or maybe just a general tendency to want to call people out on their bullshit. Whatever it is, he lifts his hand to his earpiece with another one of those looks of loathing. "Thor? Yeah. Tony Stark says you can tell me something about a... about a pants rule."

His face sinks into an expression of sudden, sheepish embarrassment the second those words leave his mouth. Tony, trying not to derisively snort too hard at the sight, reaches for the coffee thermos.

"Uh-huh," says Steve, nodding at whatever answer Thor gives him. "Hm. I see." His hand drops back down.

"And?" Tony prompts.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Steve looks down at the floor, and a grunt of irritation escapes his lips. "Thor said... that men in America wear pants, and when you get out of bed in the morning you put on pants, and those pants stay on until you go back to bed. Or use the shower."

"Exactly," says Tony. "When I get out of bed, I'll put on pants. But since I'm still in bed right now, no pants required. I'm in total compliance with the rule."

"You're hopeless," Steve mutters.

"Yep, I sure am."

This time, Steve really does leave. No glance back, no pause in the doorway, no final words of wisdom meant to appeal to Tony's so-called moral goodness. He just walks out and closes the door behind him.

Little electronic beeps bolt the door and seal Tony inside. All alone again.

He pours another mug of coffee and picks at his breakfast. Eats the fruit cup and one of the eggs. Leaves the oatmeal. He hasn't eaten that shit since he was four years old and isn't about to start again. Now if only he could get some goddamn bacon.

"Jarvis?" he calls out.

No answer, though that's not surprising. Aggravating as fuck that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s screwing around with his stuff, but not the least bit surprising. Assholes.

The rest of the coffee just fits in his mug. It's a start, but he's going to need a lot more alcohol to get through the rest of this day.

ooo

In the dream, Loki wears his full-out deep space warlord regalia. Leather, armor, cape, helmet, the whole nine yards. He paces back and forth inside his glass cage aboard the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier, but it's not the prowling behavior of a prisoner. More like thoughtful meandering. Calm. Patient.

Waiting?

Loki, Tony tries to call, but no sound comes out. Loki... I'm behind you...

It takes so long to cross the room, struggling through air as thick as tar, pushing forward step by step. Every time he tries to speed up the distance doubles. Every time he reaches out Loki steps further away.

Loki!

Carefully, Loki pulls off his helmet, which disintegrates into nothing in his hands. His cape falls away, turning into a puddle of water. Each armor piece he touches becomes smoke. Then he turns, he finally turns, he finally looks, and there's no distance at all between them. Less than inches.

Loki. Tony's hand rises to Loki's shoulder and slides around to the back of his neck. Loki's smaller somehow. Shorter. He's the same height as Tony now. He says nothing at the touch, doesn't flinch, doesn't move, only stares back with wide blue eyes. It's not his usual look. There's no judgment, no haughtiness, and no wary defense on his face. He looks so...

Tony lifts his other hand to Loki's face, letting his fingertips trace the sharp line of Loki's cheek. His jaw. His chin. The curve of his lower lip. His skin glows as white as a pearl in the cell's blue light, luminous and inviting.

Not even inches of distance between them now. Tony's mouth is on Loki's almost without moving, parting his lips, but only just. It's a soft kiss. A gentle kiss, on one corner of Loki's mouth and then the other. On that bright skin. Loki's eyes flutter closed. Warm breath grazes Tony's cheek. In sure but delicate movements, Loki's hands skim the outline of Tony's body, beginning at his hips and rising up to rest against his collarbone. Palms flat against bare skin. Tony's shirt has melted away. He can't remember when, but that doesn't matter.

Loki's still dressed. That does matter.

Asgardian clothing comes off slowly. So many buckles and laces and hooks and clasps, up the sides and down the back. So many pieces all intertwined and crisscrossing one over the next. Loki slips out of his coat, then his shirt, baring shoulders and arms. Naked skin pale like ice. Tony's arms circle around his waist to pull him close. One body against another. Together, they sink down to the floor, and Tony's mouth is pressed over Loki's again. Tongue darting out, grazing Loki's teeth.

He knows somebody's watching. More than one somebody. There's a whole audience out there, on the other side of the glass, in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s detention center. He can't see their faces, but he knows they're watching from the shadows. But let them. He can let them watch, anonymously hidden, if they want. He can put on a show.

His lips trace a line down Loki's neck, down his chest, down over the flat plane of his stomach. White skin shivers beneath the touch. When Tony's hands close over the rise of his hips, Loki's back arches off the floor, but without a sound. He's gasping in silence. Not even the scratch of his fingernails against the floor makes any noise at all. Without words, without even a breath, he knows how to beg for more. It's a wish Tony can easily grant.

He slides down lower. Hands falling to Loki's thighs, slipping between, easing them apart. No resistance. Loki is ready and waiting. And wanting. And oh, but Tony wants him too. More than anything he can remember wanting in a long, long time...

ooo

The door. The goddamn door. That piece of shit beeping lock on the motherfucking door.

It knocks Tony out of the dream and jars him awake just in time to see Natasha enter the bedroom carrying a lunch tray. He instinctively, if groggily, reaches for a pillow to cover the situation going on down in his groin. Not that it wouldn't serve Natasha right to have to see what she interrupted, but, well, common decency and all that jazz. (Or maybe just force of habit. Which is, to be honest, way more likely.)

"Lunch is ready," she says, crossing the room, and that's a totally disingenuous smile if Tony's ever seen one.

He rubs his eyes and swallows a remark about stating the obvious. "Unless you brought me a steak or a cheeseburger, you can just walk back out right now."

"Sorry. No. Grilled chicken breast, quinoa salad, lemon rice soup, and a bottle of tequila."

"Then like I said. Walk on back out."

No surprise: she ignores him and sets the tray on the bedside table. "Having a good dream?"

The jut of her chin and the line of her sight lead down to the pillow in Tony's lap. "Uh... yeah. Second-weirdest sex dream I've ever had."

That doesn't even earn him a raised eyebrow. "Interesting," is all she says.

'Interesting' might be something of an understatement. He can still see the shimmering glow of Loki's skin so clearly, and feel its smooth warmth beneath his touch. As real as any memory. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, he needs to get that out of his head. "Tequila," he says, holding out one hand. The other... well, it keeps the pillow firmly in place.

"You want a glass or the whole bottle?"

"Like you need to ask. Whole bottle."

She doesn't even hesitate before unscrewing the cap and handing it over. And she doesn't even blink as he manages to chug down about three ounces before gag reflex sets in. No, her false little smile stays right in place; this is exactly what she wants.

"Don't you want to know about the weirdest one?" Tony asks.

"The which?"

"The weirdest sex dream I've ever had."

"I'm sure I can make an educated guess."

"King Lear was my costar," he says.

Okay, that at least gets the raised eyebrow and a semi-surprised 'huh'. "Alright, not my first guess," she allows.

Tony grins. "I'm full of surprises."

"Not really. Your actions are cliché and predictable. You feel threatened by my presence and your own lack of control, and try to passive-aggressively fight back by referencing sexuality in an attempt to make me uncomfortable. But it won't work. You're not the first guy to try this, or try worse. It's a common strategy."

"Right," says Tony. "I guess it'd also be horribly cliché and predictable if I called you a bitch right now?"

"Very. Same with 'cunt', 'slut' or 'whore'."

"What if I threaten to punch you in the dick?"

"That's a little better."

"Okay, let's run with that. One of these days, when I get my suit back, I am going to punch you in the dick, Agent Romanoff. Official threat, copyright Stark Industries."

"Just drink your tequila."

And that he does, forcing it down in wimpy little trickles. It's terrible stuff. Not dragon terrible, but getting up there. It might be a bad idea, prolonging the experience, but he's not drunk enough to gulp down any more of it just yet.

"So..." Tony says after a moment. "What's the word on your hunt for Loki?"

"We'll let you know once there's something you need to know."

"Nothing, then?"

"We'll let you know."

Nothing. She has nothing. She's only trying to make him worry with that cool, locked-down poker face.

"You're not going to find him. Just saying. He's not coming back, and you're wasting your time."

"Drink your tequila, Stark."

He takes a bigger sip. Son of a fuck, it's getting worse... "Lemme guess," he says. "Coulson impulse-bought this at the Cancún airport and is now abusing my liver as an easy out for all his bad booze?"

"No. That one's from a place down the street."

"Hm. I s'pose that was a dumb guess. Now that I think about it... I can't imagine Coulson in Cancún. Or in a bathing suit. Or taking a vacation at all, anywhere. Does he take vacations? Does he even have a life outside the office?"

"Drink."

"Why?" he asks after another swig.

Her perpetual smile slowly fades into blank boredom as she crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the bedside table. "Because you need to finish at least a third of that, and I need to stay here and watch. And since I have better things to do than play nanny over you and your bottle, I'd appreciate it if you got to work."

"You don't like me wasting your time?"

"Not really."

Well, boo hoo.

"How about this," she tries, stepping up to a new tactic. "As soon as you're done, I'll tell you something that may interest you."

"About-" Loki. But he stops himself before saying that. "...About what?"

"Drink up and I'll tell you."

Fine. Okay. There could be worse ways to pry information out of S.H.I.E.L.D. than by getting drunk (drunker) on their dime. At least this way he doesn't have to crawl out of bed, put on pants, or really do anything at all. "This might take a while," he mutters as he lifts the bottle. "FYI, for future reference, I hate tequila. Tequila and I have a once-a-year obligatory Cinco de Mayo relationship, and then I buy some decent stuff. Not this donkey piss. If you want to get me drunk faster, bring quality scotch. I can drink that like water."

"I'll keep that in mind," says Natasha.

And she will. She's the kind of girl who remembers those little details. For now, though, Tony can take one for the team and down his tequila. One mouthful at a time. (Christ, that's nasty.) If he holds his breath as he swallows, he doesn't really have to taste it. "This one time my pal Rhodey and I went sailing down the Baja peninsula. Went ashore in some little town and this old man offered to sell us the best tequila in the world. He didn't want American dollars, so we traded for some titty mags and canned soup. Anyway, I don't know if it was the best tequila in the world or the worst, but after finishing one bottle between us we were drunk as hell and seeing yellow halos around everything."

"Stark..."

"What? I told you, this'll take a while. I'm going as fast as I can."

The one saving grace is that the more time he takes, the more time the alcohol has to soak in, dulling his senses into a good ol' dizzy stupor. It's always easier to drink whatever the fuck is in front of you once you've reached a certain point of no return, and Tony powers on past that point. By the time he stops to look at his progress, the tequila's half gone. "Now look at that," he says. "I went over and above, just for you. Proud of me?"

Taking the bottle from his outstretched hand, she nods. "Like a soccer mom."

"Now you have to tell me the..." What was she supposed to tell him? Something? Did she even say? His memory might be a little fuzzy. "...tell me the thing," he finishes.

"You should lie down," she says to him, gently guiding him, hand on his shoulder, to lie back in bed. Fluffing up his pillow and stroking his hair. Like a soccer mom. "You need to sleep for now. Rest up."

"But tell me the..." he mumbles.

"Shh. I'm telling you now. I'm telling you to relax, get some sleep, because we'll need you later."

"For...?"

"To help us. We'll need your help tonight, Stark. We have Loki in the building."

ooo

It wasn't just tequila. It couldn't have been just tequila. There was something else. Something else that's now slithering through his veins like a snake, weakening his muscles and constricting his lungs and his brain. He can't breathe (oh god, can't breathe, can't get enough air) and it's in his head, squeezing thoughts and concentration into panic... It chokes his eyes and his ears. The bedroom's been reduced to a blur of light, and if he tries to sit up, it knocks him back down with a slap to the face. He can barely lift his head. It's so heavy; his whole body is so heavy and slow. Refusing to listen to what he tells it to do.

It wasn't just tequila, it was something else, and that something else is being forced through his body on waves of polluted blood while Loki... while Loki...

His skin burns, every inch of it prickled with icy sweat as sickness blooms in his stomach. Natasha has Loki. S.H.I.E.L.D. has Loki. Somewhere in the building. S.H.I.E.L.D. has Loki, and here Tony is, lying paralyzed in bed like a fucking useless drunk. Unable to move, unable to think, unable to do a single thing but feel the crippling weakness slowly invade every nerve in his body from fingertip to toe.

Not acceptable. He has to do something. As long as he's alive, he can always do something.

He's forced to slide his way out of bed, hands first, collapsing to the floor to crawl. He has to beg his arms to move, desperately trying to bend his legs despite their waterlogged refusal. One inch at a time. He can do something. He can drag his sorry ass to the bathroom, spurred on by a growing flame of hatred. Natasha has Loki. S.H.I.E.L.D. has Loki.

Well, not for long, assholes. Not while this guy's still alive.

Three tries it takes to open the bathroom cupboard, clumsy hands pawing at the knob. He allows himself a smile, though, once he sees what's inside. S.H.I.E.L.D. obviously didn't do a very thorough job of checking out their temporary prison before locking him in here. All those beautiful little bottles. The basket of cleaning supplies. Products and appliances. There's bleach paste and peroxide and isopropanol. Glass cleaner and CLR. Aerosol hairspray. Paper towels. Plastic trash bags. In one drawer, a curling iron and electric toothbrush. Extra batteries. In another, cotton balls and the first box of tampons he's ever been glad to see in his life. Third drawer: hair pins and elastic bands. Good. He can make use of all this. And he knows there's a lighter with the bag of weed in the cupboard next to the bathtub if he can just climb up onto the toilet and reach high enough to grab it.

His balance on the toilet is precarious enough to begin with, but add in a whirl of green materializing in the mirror beside him... The shock of that sight sends him falling to the floor to crack his head against the side of the bathtub. He'd probably see stars if he weren't already messed up as all fuck.

"Loki..."

It has to be a hallucination. Or a ghost. A ghost-hallucination, because that's Loki standing between the door and the towel rack, and he's wearing his full armor. Cape and helmet included. Tony screws his eyes shut and rubs his forehead, but it does jack shit to fix anything. Ghost-Loki is still there.

"I've been waiting for you for hours," he says, in such an impatient and matter-of-fact tone.

Yeah. It's a hallucination. "You're not real," Tony groans.

"Why would you think that?" Loki asks. He crosses the bathroom and kneels down at Tony's side, pulling his helmet off as he does.

"Because... because... you're all dressed up and in my bathroom instead of wearing my dad's suit with Natasha where you should be."

"I promise I am real, Tony Stark."

His movements are blurred. Too fast or too slow, flickering and jumping, setting his helmet aside in slow motion before his hands leap to rake his hair back at double speed. Then one arm floats down like a feather and rests on Tony's knee.

There's an aspect to Loki's magic that Tony hadn't considered. He'd never even thought of it, but there it is, preceding the rush of metallic warmth through his body. Withdrawal. It's easy to see now how much he's missed this. How much he's wanted it, how much he's needed it, how eagerly he's been waiting for it. How dark he felt in its absence, and how much brighter things are now that the magic is back. It floods over him like the caress of the wind, touching everything at once. Outside. Inside. In his skin, in his blood, even in his thoughts. Maybe in his thoughts most of all. An image pours its way into the forefront of his mind, of glass walls and a pearlized body, waiting to be touched.

Either the magic or the memory of the dream guides his arms around Loki's neck. He pulls himself up, clinging to the pulse of magic and using Loki as an anchor. Until his face meets the curve of Loki's chin. If this is a hallucination, it's perfectly real and strong and solid. He breathes in the smell of leather and oxidized metal and a fleeting hint of coconut.

Maybe not a...

"You're not a ghost," Tony whispers. Mouth brushing Loki's skin. Not ready to pull away just yet.

"Of course I'm not a ghost," Loki softly replies. Somehow, his hands have found their way to Tony's shoulders and waist, supporting his weight and keeping him upright. "Why-"

"Sorry. I'm... I'm really fucked up."

Loki nods. "You do smell fucked up." He leans back, though only inches; still within the circle of Tony's arms. The leather of his clothing creaks as he moves.

Black and green and gold. "You got your clothes back."

"Yes."

"You were waiting for me."

"The bathroom is the only place not under video surveillance."

"But Natasha said..."

"The Romanoff woman deliberately misled you," Loki tells him. "I am in the building, Thor can sense that, but they by no means have me. She lied to see how you would react."

Oh, shit. Of course. Of course she'd do that. Of course she'd lie to see what would happen, what he'd say, what he'd give away. To provoke a response and make him do...

He glances down past Loki's arm to the scattered bottles and batteries on the floor.

...Something stupid.

Loki follows his gaze. "What is all this?"

A mess. It's just a mess. Two minutes ago in the frenzy of panic it looked a lot more promising, but now... "Uh... I was hoping I'd be able to sober up enough to MacGyver my way out of here," says Tony. "But now I'm all paranoid and think maybe it's a setup. If they don't know where you are, they probably think I do. And that I'd try to warn you or get to you if I thought you were in trouble. Rescue you. Which is... exactly what I was about to do. Son of a bitch."

He drops his head down onto Loki's shoulder. Plate armor isn't the world's most comfortable headrest, but who the hell cares. Loki's hands still tingle against his back, holding him up. He can spare a minute of boneless relaxation in the safe cocoon of Loki's touch.

"Considering your state, I think I should be the one to do the rescuing today," says Loki.

Probably wise. "You're the magical prince," Tony agrees. "I guess rescuing people from towers would be your line of work. Let's get out of here."

"Agreed. Stand up."

"Why?" he asks as Loki pulls him to his feet. "Can't teleport while sitting?"

The hitch through Loki's body is small, but it's there, and it leaves a bad, sinking feeling in Tony's gut.

"Okay, seriously what now? You lost your power to teleport?"

And that makes Loki pull back all the way, a little scowl sliding into place on his lips. "Temporarily," he spits.

"And that means?"

"If I need to explain everything to you-"

"Yeah, you do." Even though they'd been having such a nice little moment a second ago. Welcome back, God of Assholes.

"The Tesseract!" snarls Loki. "Those fools brought it here, and it interferes with my powers! It's impossible for me to shift within..." He shakes his head. "...two hundred feet of the wretched thing. It's like a disruptive magnet, as bad as the Bifrost, and if I try..."

"You'll end up right on top of it?" Tony guesses.

"Or on the opposite side of the world. As I said: disruptive. You either play with it, or you do not play at all. There are rules."

"Then how did you get back after you left?"

"I'm fairly good at circumnavigating rules," he says with a nasty little smile. "I shifted two hundred feet up in the air and fell onto the roof."

"Oh." Sure, why not, that makes total sense. "Then... how are we going to get out?"

Slowly, Loki paces past the tub, past the shower, over to the bank of windows on the eastern wall. "Two options. The first requires you to be sober enough for us to fight our way out of here."

Tony nods. "I can do that."

"The second requires you to be sober enough to hold my hand."

"I can do that way more easily."

"I thought as much."

"So the plan is?"

"You're a smart man, Tony Stark," says Loki. "I'll let you guess. What would be the opposite of falling into the Tesseract's radius?"

"Flying up?" And Jesus H. Christ, for one split second his heart soars at the possibility of- "You got my suit," he breathes. "Please tell me you got my suit. It's here. The Mark Seven. It's just downstairs. If we can activate it..."

"Too risky," Loki replies with a little frown, almost like sympathy. "And that was a good guess, but I was looking for a different answer."

Damn. So much for that spark of hope.

All Loki needs to do is press down one silver switch and the blinds retract, opening up the room to a wall of glass overlooking the midday skyline. "Come over here. Can you walk?"

He can shuffle. At least for a few steps. Then Loki has to catch him as he teeters forward.

"Sober enough to hold my hand Tony Stark?" he says softly.

Tony laces his fingers through Loki's, squeezing hard in annoyance. "Yeah, yeah, got it."

"Try not to let go."

"Or else?" he asks.

"You'll die," Loki answers, squeezing his hand in return.

The opposite of falling into the Tesseract's magnetic radius, Tony sluggishly realizes, would be falling out of it. And Loki kicking out the window would be a real good indication of exactly how they're going to accomplish that feat. It shatters into ten thousand glittering fragments, raining down onto the city below, and then Tony's jerked forward, his feet leave the floor, and the wind hits his face.

If he dies, his last words are going to be, "No Loki fuck I can't do this without my suit!" followed by a pathetic shout of terror that's choked down into a moan as blasting air fills his mouth. But he blacks out before learning whether or not this is the dramatic climax to the sci-fi soap opera of his life.