Friday Morning Pancakes
So, I did not intend to write a follow up to Poetic Justice. It was meant to be a one-time deal for a friend.
Well, that's obviously gone according to plan. Thank you all for the support and enjoy. :)
Tony doesn't like weird. This is why, despite his trial relationship with Pepper that failed miserably, Tony spent most of his young adult, adult, and superhero years involved in a startling array of one-night stands where he didn't have to fall asleep or wake up next to someone else. Maybe he has trust issues. Or maybe he has commitment issues. Or maybe it's the most likely scenario, which is a lot of both. Either way, he doesn't trust anyone enough to fall asleep next to them, not after the reactor became a part of him—especially not after the reactor became a part of him— and he hates the semantics of the morning after because he never plans for repeat performances, and that can be a bit difficult to explain when you have someone draped across you wanting breakfast.
So, even though there was no sex, just some odd touchy-feely business, it's weird, really fucking weird, that he's waking up to the God of Mischief fast asleep in the chair he'd camped out in the night before.
He's genuinely surprised Loki is still there. He'd expected him to disappear as soon as Tony drifted off. The god trusts even less than Tony, and nothing says vulnerability like letting someone else watch you sleep. However, it seems all of Tony's assumptions have gone to shit because even though he remembers the sequence of events through a fever-induced haze, he remembers enough.
Tony has no idea what to make of the odd intimacies they shared. And when it comes to the two of them, it was definitely intimate, physical attraction aside. There had been some of that, too, physical attraction, but it's the emotional intimacy that has him freaked the fuck out. He thinks about Loki using his magic as x-ray vision to find the asteroid field of debris in his chest and replays the sensation of cool fingers tracing the scarred skin surrounding his arc reactor. It makes his pulse jumpstart. He doesn't know what to make of that, and he doesn't like having to self reflect.
This is all just another reason to hate the morning after, he tells himself, but he sits up slowly and studies the god, drinking in the view. Loki's arms are folded across his chest, and he's slouched in the chair, legs extended, head tilted to the side at an uncomfortable angle that exposes a long, pale column of throat. His dark hair came loose sometime in the night, and it's cascading over part of his face. He looks much older when he sleeps, which Tony finds interesting, and he wonders for the first time how old Loki really is, what he's seen in all of those years. He wonders if the stories he read on Wikipedia are true.
He hopes some of them aren't. Some of them are really fucked up, and Tony's never liked horses.
He's still staring, eyes following the contours of the god's lithe body, when Loki stretches, languid as a cat, and opens his eyes.
"Uh." Tony's heart speeds up, but he ignores it because he hasn't had coffee in two days, and his brain can't keep up with the thoughts swarming inside of his head. "Morning, sunshine."
Loki blinks a few times and uses his legs to propel himself back up to a normal sitting position. With a graceful swipe, he pushes the hair from his face and levels Tony with a stare. "Good morning," he replies tersely.
The weirdness hangs in the air like a bomb ready to go off.
"How did you sleep?" Tony asks lamely.
Loki flashes him a humorless smile. "Poorly, as you might imagine." He pauses in the middle of rolling his shoulders, head tilted to the side, and then asks, "Are you at all improved?"
That really throws Tony off. He doesn't think Loki's ever asked about anyone's wellbeing, let alone his. The god's expression is guarded, but he's staring at Tony with an intensity that could set fire to the sheets. Pinned by that gaze, Tony barely registers the fact that he's still achy and congested and his throat feels like sandpaper when he swallows. He didn't think he had a fever two minutes ago. He isn't so sure now.
"I feel a lot more like I was hit by a Fiat 500 versus hit by a mac truck," he manages to reply. "So, it could be worse. Must be thanks to your vigilant nursing."
Loki raises a brow and offers a brief nod, then stands. He stretches again, reaching upwards and exposing a sliver of skin and a hipbone. "I would be on my way, then, before my oaf of a brother begins to panic wondering where I've gone."
Before Tony has a chance to reply, Loki disappears.
Tony rolls his eyes and offers the air a two-fingered salute. "Thanks for coming."
He tosses his blanket aside, ready to just move on, to forget about how fucked up his head is from all of this, and he's about to get out of bed when he's shoved back into his pillows, two sinewy legs straddling his hips and cold fingers curling around his wrists and pinning them to his sides. His entire body goes rigid, preparing for a fight, but then he looks up and all that determination rushes to his groin.
Loki looks positively evil smiling down at him with his hair hanging around his face. He leans forward, curving his back until a few strands tickle Tony's cheek and their hips grind together. Tony has to bite back a groan. He isn't the only one who's hard.
"I do not recall coming," the god murmurs, fingers tightening on Tony's wrists enough to bruise. "Perhaps next time?"
Loki drags his hips forward, and Tony has to use the little self control he has not to buck up into the motion. "Jesus fuck, what are you even doing?" he grinds out, closing his eyes briefly before meeting Loki's gaze.
Loki's eyes are a stormy green, and if possible, his grin becomes even more predatory. Tony's pulse picks up and he can barely hear Loki over the whoosh of it in his ears.
"If it is not blatantly obvious, Stark, then I fear I have overestimated you."
Loki disappears again.
Tony doesn't think it's smart for someone with the flu to take a cold shower. He takes one anyway. It helps his raging hard on, but any progress he thought he made is tossed out the window that afternoon when his fever comes back with a vengeance and his head throbs with the tenacity of a jackhammer.
Four days, an annoying amount of Bruce by his bedside, several cups of unwanted tea, and no sign of Loki later, Tony wakes up drenched in sweat and feeling a hell of a lot better. The lingering cough is wet and persistent, but the head and body aches are gone, so he takes it as a win.
"Jarvis, what day is it even?" he croaks blearily.
The curtains automatically open, allowing the foggy morning glow to wash over the room. "It is Friday, June thirteenth, sir."
Tony claps his hands together like a kid on Christmas. "Oh my god, perfect timing for Operation Fuck the Flu. Please tell me it isn't too late."
"No, sir. It is 7:05am. You have almost an hour before Captain Rogers begins." Jarvis sounds robotically amused.
Tony is out of bed immediately. "More than enough time."
He showers and dresses, surprised as how good it feels to don real clothes after almost a week of wearing pajamas and using his sheets as a toga.
When Tony walks into the kitchen at 7:45am, everyone's already seated and waiting, watching Steve in his pink apron like he's about to do a magic trick. Tony bought him the apron as a joke, and Steve— bless his heart— wears it every single time. The kitchen smells heavenly. He sinks into his normal seat between Bruce and Natasha with Thor and Clint across from him. The lot of them looks tired, and no one looks too worse for wear, but Natasha's right arm is in a sling and her left cheek is turning a beautiful shade of greenish purple.
Anger builds up in Tony's stomach like acid. He never wanted to be a part of this team. After New York, he argued with Fury about it, especially when the whole of the Avengers moved into his newly renovated tower. Even after SHIELD fell to Hydra and he helped build it back up with Coulson taking the reigns, he considered bowing out. But he can't, and he won't, and now that he's a static part of it all for better or for worse, any failure punches a hole right through his gut, especially if it means one of his team is injured.
He doesn't take failure well. Daddy issues and all that. So, Tony's going to blast a hole through Skurge's chest the next time they meet up. Problem solved.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Steve says happily once he's seated. "Pancakes?"
"Oh, god, yes," Tony groans, leaning back. "Food of the gods. All Bruce has been feeding me is horse meal."
Bruce's smile is tight-lipped. "Oatmeal, Tony. It's oatmeal."
"You look like shit," Clint says happily.
"You want to start with me, Robin Hood? I heard all about your little tryst with Amora. Apparently someone's a little weak minded and easily mind controlled."
Clint narrows his eyes, offering Bruce a dirty look because who else would add fuel to the Tony Stark fire and tell him about touchy subjects, and then he points at Tony with his fork. "I could totally take you right now, Mr. Weak and Feeble."
"Performance issues got you down?" Tony replies haughtily. "Actually, let's just stop the banter and focus on the important things. I just really need coffee. Steve. Buddy. Pal. Oh Captain, my captain. Please."
"Do not interrupt the chef," Clint says dangerously, but he scoots his chair back towards the counter and, still sitting, grabs a mug and fills it with coffee. He hands the mug to Tony with a dirty look.
"Thank you, dear," Tony says with a bat of his lashes, then takes a sip. It's divine. He could die happily. He groans into the next sip.
"Do you two need a room?" Natasha asks.
"Who wants the first stack?" Steve asks.
Silence settles over the table as everyone looks around. Then Thor states, "Maidens are to be served first" at the same time that Clint says, "Me!"
"You heard the maiden," Natasha says without so much as a smile or a hitch, and gestures at Clint with her good hand.
They all laugh while Clint sinks down in his seat, and Steve sets the first plate in front of Natasha anyway.
Everyone else is served, and Tony is salivating by the time Steve walks towards the table with his plate. The pancakes are piping hot, buttery steam wafting above them, and Tony reaches forward to grab the plate like a drowning man reaching for a flotation device when the air around him pops with energy and a cold hand takes a hold of his wrist.
He knows that touch. Clearing his throat, he starts to crane his head around. "Hey," he growls. "Mine."
He isn't expecting how close the god is, though, and freezes about an inch from Loki's lips.
The god doesn't smile outright, but Tony can see the playful, daring glint in his eyes. Tony angles his head back immediately, putting several inches between their faces even though a part of him longs to lean in. The last thing he needs is to continue where they left off with Thor sitting right across from him.
Clint's fork clatters against his plate. "Why do you always do that?" he demands. "Just appearing out of no where!"
"Brother!" Thor booms, his face splitting into a bright, toothy smile. "Would you join us this morn for pancakes?"
Tony snorts, because he always gets a kick out of Thor-isms combined with modern day words or phrases, but tugs his wrist free and grabs his plate possessively. "Get your own pancakes, David Copperfield," he says.
Loki just raises a brow.
"I'll have another up in five, Loki," Steve says, still blinking through his shock. Tony can't blame the confusion. He's used to Loki's presence after the days and nights of the god loitering in his workshop, but the rest of the gang, Thor aside, still haven't seen much of him in group settings. Loki has never joined them for pancakes. He's never joined them for a meal, actually. He occasionally pops into existence during horror films to scare the shit out of Clint because Tony thinks he likes the way Natasha cackles, completely unladylike, and occasionally Tony catches his shadow out of the corner of his eye in the back of the living room when they watch a drama, leaning against the windowsill and far enough away that he isn't really a part of the group.
But he doesn't care if this is the first time Loki's come down for pancakes. He isn't sharing. He's about to put the first forkful of fluffy goodness into his mouth when Loki's long fingers curl around the back of his neck.
"I will fight you," Tony says, and then he's in a black vacuum that makes all of his extremities go numb and his lungs cave in until he can't breathe. He feels weightless and solid, entirely too solid, like he might sink into the blackness and drown.
He's reinflated with air seconds later and drops the pancake-laden fork he's still holding. Gasping and coughing, he stumbles forward and looks up at Loki, who is holding onto his shoulders to stop him from falling over. The god smiles, a quirk of the lips somewhere between mischievous and thrilled. His eyes are still glowing with the aftereffect of magic use.
Tony swats his hands away and seethes, "What the fuck was that?"
Loki doesn't answer, just continues smiling. Tony looks around and his eyes widen. They're in his workshop. In his fucking workshop.
"Did you just teleport me?" he demands, then laughs. He feels the excitement bubble up in his chest as he turns around. "Holy shit, that is awesome."
He's still shaking his head and looking around when Loki leans in and brushes his lips against Tony's.
It's oddly gentle, nothing like the way Loki held him down on the bed, and Tony blinks, everything going blank. "I— what?"
"Many thanks," Loki drawls, grin widening, "for the pancakes."
"Oh, no," Tony starts and reaches out for him, but Loki is gone. "You son of a bitch."
Fuming and a little giddy, Tony gets Jarvis to unlock all of the doors. He's never been locked in his own lab before, and he's both happy with and pissed off by the security— he really needs some anti-magic thingy to keep magic users out of his workshop, and probably the headquarters in general. A project for another time. Right now, pancakes are more important. Pancakes and throttling a certain god of mischief.
He waits at the elevator, because it isn't at this floor, and Tony can't believe how long it's taking him get around his own goddamned tower. When he finally makes it back into the kitchen, breathing heavily and hacking up his lungs from running part of the way even though he's still not feeling one-hundred percent, he's met with a sight that stops him dead in his tracks. He stands in the doorway, mouth agape.
He expected Loki to fuck with him, but he didn't expect to find the god sitting at the table, actually eating his pancakes. He's sitting between Clint and Thor (Thor, who looks like he's won the fucking lottery, and Clint, who doesn't look like he's really sure what's going on). He isn't smiling. He isn't even speaking. He's just listening as he eats, eyes darting between the others at the table as he follows their conversation. When his gaze lands on Tony, a lazy smile drags at his lips, and he puts a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.
The god looks so proud of himself, and Tony would throttle him if it wasn't so adorable and sexy. He's not even going to put any brain power into figuring that one out. He's just going to let it be what it is.
"Tony," Steve says, because he's noticed him, and he's trying not to smile. "I kept the pan hot. I'll make you some right now."
"This is no way to treat someone who's sick," Tony manages before he dissolves into a coughing fit.
"I'll make you some tea," Bruce says, pushing back from the table and putting the kettle on.
"Can you give me, you know, a finger or two of whiskey instead?"
Bruce narrows his eyes. "You're going to drink the tea. Did you take your meds this morning?"
"No, mom," Tony seethes, words breaking apart from the strain on his throat.
Natasha pats his seat. She's giving him her normal, tight-lipped Natasha smile, but Tony knows, just knows, that she has an idea about what's going on even though Tony isn't sure he knows what's happening. He sits down, basically falls into the chair like a kid having a tantrum, and eyes Steve's pink-aproned form.
"These better be the best fucking pancakes I've ever had, Captain."
They are— they always are— and Tony finishes his with gusto.
He's aware that Loki is watching him the entire time, even after he's finished his pancakes. He finally thinks, fuck it, and stares back, frustrated and a little excited by the shiver that crawls unprecedented down his back. Loki's mouth twitches, like he knows, and that only exacerbates the feeling.
Tony doesn't understand where this attraction started. He knows that on a base level, when labels like hero, villain, good, and evil are set aside, he and Loki function on a similar plane of existence. They like power, they like knowledge, and they like it showy. And damn, they're both as vain as can be, but Tony doesn't think it's an attraction to what they see of themselves in each other that has them edging towards the precipice like moths to a flame.
He can't understand it, but he wants it, even if Loki is a wildcard and it will probably blow up in their faces.
No one ever claimed that Tony Stark made good decisions. No particular reason to start now.
"Who's got cleanup?" Steve asks as he unties his apron.
Clint nods towards Loki. "I think the newbie should do the dishes."
Everyone is silent, and Clint looks like he's about to recant his statement because he still trusts Loki the least out of everyone, but then a grin blooms across Loki's face and he raises a hand. A verdant glow surrounds his fingers, smoking like fire, and he waves his hand. All of the plates disappear from the table, and then Tony hears the sound of porcelain clicking together in the cabinets.
"Why do I even hire a cleaning service when Magic Hands is here?" Tony asks, and Natasha snorts.
"Uh, thanks," Steve says.
Thor looks like someone just handed him happiness on a golden plate. "This has been a most pleasing morning."
Tony opens his mouth to speak and a series of body-quaking coughs tear up his throat and past his lips. He hunches over, chest heaving, and wheezes into the crook of his elbow until he feels lightheaded and weak. When it passes, he sags back into his chair. "Medic," he says jokingly, but he sounds too breathy, too tired.
"Tony, you need to get back to bed," Bruce replies and pushes the cup of tea that Tony edged away back in front of him. "And drink the tea. It will help your throat."
"I'll just relax here for a while," Tony says and allows his eyelids to half-close. "Come back in an hour. My legs will work then."
Thor stands, his face a mask of determination. "I shall carry you to bed, Tony Stark."
There is silence, and then Clint is clutching his stomach he's laughing so hard. He doesn't even stop when Natasha elbows him in the ribs with her good arm.
"I can port him to his chambers."
Clint's cackling is cut short, and everyone turns to look at Loki, who sits with his hands folded on the table. He smiles blandly.
"Tony?" Steve says.
Tony shrugs. "A free teleportation service? I could get used to this."
Bruce rolls his eyes. "Make him take his meds."
"Of course, Dr. Banner," Loki replies and stands.
Tony watches him, long limbs and languid movements. He doesn't understand how someone can move so fluidly. Loki places his hand on Tony's neck again, then looks towards Steve.
"Thank you, Captain Rogers, for the meal. It was very pleasing."
Steve blushes, and Tony and Clint both look at each other before they start laughing. Natasha is fighting it and losing, and Bruce just shakes his head, dopey grin in place. And Thor. Tony's laughter dies in his throat. Thor's smile is small compared to the huge grins he's seen take over the god's face, but there's something about the small smile that tears at Tony's heart. He realizes, after a moment, that it's because the god looks like he might cry. He's so happy he might cry. Thor, God of Thunder, a literal legend, the future king of Asgard, might cry, all because his adopted brother is having a moment with the rest of the team.
"All right, I need a nap," Tony says gruffly. He can't do feelings on a good day, let alone when he's sick. "Beam me up, Scotty."
Loki roll his eyes, fingers tightening on Tony's neck. "Your references are tedious, Stark."
"It totally works, though! Have I made you watch Star Trek yet? Please tell me I have."
Loki doesn't respond, and then they're engulfed in the same blackness as before.
He tears back into reality seconds later in his own room, right next to his bed, and he collapses on it. "That packs a punch, doesn't it?" he mutters, dizzy. Bright lights flash across his vision.
"It is because you are unwell," Loki replies.
After a minute of staring at the ceiling, Tony sits up, grunting at the way his head wobbles. He focuses on Loki and realizes the mug of tea from the kitchen is wrapped in the god's hands. Loki stares at it, a semi-disinterested look on his face, and the steam curls up from the mug.
"You're like a walking microwave. Seriously, I should hire you as my personal assistant," Tony says when the god hands him the mug.
A moment later, Loki is holding out a few tablets, as well.
"You're almost as functional as Pepper. Can you forge my signature with your magic? If so, the job is yours."
"What is it you said?" Loki asks thoughtfully, one brow arching. "I do not believe you could afford me, Tony Stark."
There's something in the way the god's voice drops that ignites a familiar heat in Tony's groin. He tosses the pills into his mouth and takes a sip of the tea— it's the just perfect amount of hot— and shrugs as he swallows. "I have a lot of money, thankfully. You know, technology empire and all that." He pauses, then says, "Also, what's with the kiss, Aphrodite? I mean, don't get me wrong, it was nice, but—"
The mug disappears from his hand without warning and Tony jumps. He doesn't have enough time to ask before Loki straddles him, cups Tony's face in his impossibly cool hands, and slots their lips together.
The god's lips are cold, but his tongue is hot, and Tony groans into the kiss, his hands moving of their own accord to grip Loki's waist. The god arches into him, their chests flush together, and then Loki's hands slide from his face into his hair, tugging gently at first, then more insistently. He pulls Tony's head back, and Tony is about to speak, but the words dissolve into a gasp when Loki begins to kiss and nip and lick as his jaw.
Tony is ready to tear off the god's clothing when he feels the tickle build in his throat. He presses his hands against Loki's chest and pushes him away. Loki looks surprised, green eyes widening a fraction as they stare at each other. Then Tony turns his head to the side and starts coughing into his own shoulder, eyes tearing up from the force of it. The hacking subsides quickly enough, but his throat feels like someone just shredded it to ribbons. He swallows gingerly and then offers a sheepish smile.
Loki sighs and climbs out of Tony's lap carefully. His fingers linger in Tony's hair a second too long. Tony almost grabs him and pulls him back onto the bed, but he manages to resist.
"You should rest," Loki says. The cup of tea appears in his hand, and he holds it out to Tony. "And drink this."
Tony imbibes the lukewarm liquid in a few large gulps and then scoots back towards his pillows, eyes never leaving Loki, who stands there almost restlessly. He steps from side to side, adjusting his weight, and tugs at the hem of his shirt.
"Why did you kiss me?" Tony asks as he pulls the covers over his legs and waist.
Loki watches him thoughtfully, then says, "Computer, I would have you close the curtains."
"Of course, Mr. Laufeyson," Jarvis replies, and the curtains slowly inch together.
Tony leans back against his pillows. "You're not going to answer me."
"Sleep well, Stark," Loki says. By the time the curtains are completely closed, he's gone.
"This is going to end badly," Tony says out loud.
He dozes off grinning. He likes to beat the odds.