Author's note: Again, I'm completely blown away by all the comments and support for this story. :) Thank you so much for all your feedback!
There is one thing that Tony can't help but wonder when he rummages through his closets, and that's why he's never bothered throwing away all the old stuff in here that he never uses anyway.
Under a layer of white T-shirts, he spots a gaudy Hawaiian shirt that he doesn't even remember buying and most certainly has never worn. Then there's that old jacket with a large tear along the arm that he likes so much that he hasn't had the heart to get rid off it. And the hoodie that never fit him, but still looks cool. Baggy sweat pants ragged from frequent use. Black shirts sporting logos from various bands that he no longer listens to.
Perhaps he'll clean his closets out one day, but not today.
Finally, he settles for a pair of long sweat pants and a T-shirt that is too big for him, along with some underwear.
That will have to do.
Satisfied with his find, he shuts the closet door and heads out into the living room, clothes draped over one arm.
"Jarvis," he calls out, "have Loki get his ass over here."
He doesn't know where the god is currently skulking around at, and it's not like he cares enough to keep track of him. It doesn't matter. Jarvis is constantly watching him, making sure he doesn't cause any trouble. Amazingly, so far there have been no reports of the god doing anything questionable.
"As you wish, sir," comes the dutiful reply from his AI creation. Jarvis, always reliable and trustworthy, unlike certain other tower inhabitants he can think of.
A couple of minutes tick by, then there is the soft shuffling of feet against carpet as Loki enters the room. He comes to a halt a few steps before Tony, his entire demeanour showing that he's not happy about having been summoned.
As if the guy's got anything better to do than sitting around scratching his belly button and sulking over how his attempt at world domination failed.
He waves a hand at the little bundle of clothes that he has dispatched onto the armrest of one of those unsightly bulky wooden chairs that he doesn't know why he even bought in the first place.
"Got some new clothes picked out for you, Bambi. Because frankly, you're starting to smell."
The look flashing across the god's face is a mixture between disbelief and anger, but he quickly reins it in and adjusts it to a more neutral expression, though Tony is sure he can still see a muscle twitch somewhere near Loki's left eyebrow. He's willing to bet a hundred bucks and a bottle of his finest scotch that no one's ever told the god the he smells. Not that it's very noticeable as of yet, just the occasional whiff of murky leather and sweat when he's in Loki's immediate presence, but a few more days in those clothes and the faint odour will eventually turn into a reek. Might as well do something before it gets to that point.
He pretends not to notice the silent outrage. "I suppose we could just throw your stuff into the washing machine, but with all that leather I'm not sure the result would be stellar. So I think we're better off finding you something else to wear, something that looks a bit more, well, Midgardian."
Loki is suspiciously eyeing the clothes lying snugly across the chair. Tony is certain that the prospects of wearing human clothes isn't endearing to him in the least.
"Don't look so upset." Tony picks up the clothing items, turning them around in his hands as if he's inspecting the quality of the goods. "I've only worn these a few times, so they're almost like new. They've even been washed since last time, though I suppose if you stick your nose into them and inhale deeply you'll still be able to smell the cologne I used to wear back then. Scarlet Blue, it was called, though I don't think they sell it anymore."
He watches as Loki's expression turns a few shades darker. Clearly, the idea of being forced to wear used clothes doesn't sit well with him, a former price of Asgard. Especially not Tony's, his enemy's.
Oh well. At least he was nice enough not to pick that bawdy Hawaiian shirt, or the T-shirt that had the words 'Sex god' printed across the chest. Even though it does make for an amusing mental image.
Loki has still not made any move to accept the clothing that Tony is holding out to him, so Tony makes an impatient gesture with his arm. "Go on. Take these and get changed."
Of course, he didn't mean for Loki to actually get changed right here and now, not on the very spot where he's standing in Tony's living room. When he said 'take these and get changed', what he really meant was 'take these and go to your room and get changed'. It's the sort of thing that's implicitly understood, so obvious that only an idiot would need to have it spelled out for him.
That, and gods of mischief, apparently.
Because with one, no, two swift motions, Loki's removes his clothing – unclasping a few straps, stepping out of his pants and pulling the shirt over his head, only to let it all fall into a crumpled heap on the floor. Just like that, the god undresses as if he didn't have an audience consisting of one baffled Tony Stark, standing there gawking and gaping like an idiot.
Okay, so clearly being raised in Asgard comes with very different opinions on what counts as proper modesty.
Not that Tony is the modest type himself, and it's not like he hasn't seen his fair share of both naked men and women in his day, but the fact that it's Loki, the fact that it's so unexpected, the fact that it's in his own living room and they're standing only steps away from each other makes a slow blush creep into Tony's cheeks.
And of course, he can't help but look at the god in all his stark naked glory. As if moving by their own volition, his eyes slowly sweep down over Loki's body – the lean chest, the sculpted arms, the flat stomach, down to…
Well I'll be damned.
So not only is Loki a god, he's clearly endowed like one too.
And Tony feels a faint, familiar stirring in his groin as his eyes take in the body before him. Loki is a bit thinner than expected, as if he hasn't been fed properly for some time (which, Tony supposes, he probably hasn't before his arrival here), but his body is still well-shaped with lean muscles rippling underneath the taut, pale skin. Like a fashion model, tall and handsome, straight out of one of those silly magazines that the more vapid types of women like to read. A rebellious, most inappropriate part of Tony wonders what it would feel like to run his fingers down that chest…
… and then he realizes that he's still standing there like a moron holding Loki's clothes as the god is giving him an odd look, in turn holding out his hand for the clothing that he has been ordered to put on but is for some reason still clutched tightly in Tony's grip.
"Oh," is all Tony manages as he almost shoves the items in his hand into Loki, who takes them without offering a word of comment. Something for which Tony is immensely grateful.
The god dresses himself almost as quickly as he undressed, and Tony still watches awkwardly, not sure what else to do with himself, though the southward stirring from a moment ago has thankfully disappeared. He notices that there are dull black and greenish remnants of old bruises on Loki's body, and traces of scars only barely healed. Much too fresh to be leftovers from the battle in Manhattan and Loki's subsequent encounter with the Hulk – no, someone's obviously put them there after all that. The concept makes Tony feel uneasy. He thinks of Erik and his little team of Einherjers, and then wonders what the dungeons in Asgard are really like.
It would seem that prison guard brutality isn't purely a Midgardian thing. He wonders if it's officially sanctioned in Asgard, or something that's done 'on the side' and under the radar of whatever counts as the authorities back there. Though, he'd rather not really think about that at all.
And then, Loki is fully dressed once more, standing before Tony in grey sweatpants and a slightly faded black T-shirt with the name AC/DC printed across the chest. It's odd how a mere change of clothes can so drastically change someone's appearance like that. Loki looks almost normal, almost human now, rather than like the demented, narcissistic megalomaniac that once tried to take over the planet.
The feeling from a few moments ago, Tony quickly banishes to the deepest recesses of his treacherous brain.
Being forced to exchange his Asgardian clothing for the Midgardian apparel hasn't exactly put him in a better mood, and to say that it wasn't all that cheerful to start with is an understatement.
Loki runs a finger over the grey fabric where he sits at a window sill, absent-mindedly looking out over the bustling city beneath. At least he assumes it's bustling, from up here he can't really see much of what's going on down there at ground level, though the view stretching out into the distance is spectacular.
At first, he thought it was the unappealing idea of wearing Tony Stark's old, used clothes that bothered him, but he soon realized that there's more to it than that. His own clothes, plain and simple as they were, were all he had left of Asgard, of his old life. The last thing that connected him to the home that he has now been cast out of (the chains around his wrists, locking his magic away, don't really count).
Of course, it's a small trifle, a nuisance at the most. Given his current position, it should be the least of his worries. But it serves to reinforce the fact that for all intents and purposes, he's little more than a simple mortal, wearing ordinary human clothing. No, he corrects himself, he's even less, even lower than a simple mortal. He's a slave.
At least the fabric is soft and the clothing comfortable, though it's a small reassurance. What the word AC/DC on the shirt means he has no idea, but he suspects it's one of those peculiar Midgardian things that have no equivalent back in his world.
Like Cheerios.
He leans his head back against the white-plastered wall, feeling the drafty chill from the window on his cheek. There is still another thought that keeps intruding, an unpleasant feeling that won't leave him alone, even though he's been trying not to dwell on it.
But even now, hours later, he remembers the way that Tony's eyes were glued to him as he took his clothes off, not leaving his body for one second. For Loki, having been brought up in Asgard where nudity is considered a natural thing, getting undressed isn't something that should cause anyone to stare under normal circumstances.
He shifts slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position on the narrow window sill, but the edge of the wall is starting to uncomfortably dig into his shoulder and no matter how he adjusts himself, he still ends up no better off than before.
Then again, he tells himself, Tony was probably just looking approvingly at his bruises. That makes sense; with all that's happened, why shouldn't Tony be revelling in the evidence of the harsh treatment Loki has suffered at the hands of vindictive prison guards?
At least that's what he hopes Tony was doing. Because the other alternative is too disturbing to consider.
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