Author's note: I didn't originally intend to write this chapter, but the collective persuasive powers of Laws of Chaos and Kerttu convinced me. ;) Loki and Tony might indeed have discrepant ideas about… things. ^^

The first night is uncomfortable, to say the least. It takes a long time for sleep to come to him, plagued as he is by throbbing pain and the disturbing memories of the day turning into vivid nightmares. He wakes up several times in the middle of the night, dizzily wondering if he was ever asleep at all.

When morning finally comes, he's tired and bleary-eyed, feeling like he hasn't slept in days.

Laboriously, he pushes himself up into a half-sitting position against the headrest, wincing at the stabs of pain shooting through him. Still, despite the acute discomfort, he's glad to wake up and find himself still here; he'd dreamt of getting dragged back to Asgard in chains and thrown into a dank dungeon with guards brandishing various instruments of torture closing in on him.

The unpleasant mood of the dream is still lingering, but it's slowly being replaced by the relief of lying here in bed, safe in Tony's tower. The room is an unfamiliar one to wake up in, though; Tony didn't bother taking him all the way back to his usual room after what happened yesterday, but instead put him up in a guest room closer nearby.

Still, there is nothing outstandingly different in this room compared to his old one.

No, wait, there is one thing that does stand out, one thing that is unusual, he notices as he turns his head to the right, taking in the sight of the bedside table.

There is a tray with breakfast on it waiting for him, and he blinks in surprise; he didn't hear anyone entering. Though, he doubts Tony delivered the meal himself, most likely he sent one of his robots. Even if the man actually did do just that yesterday evening, that was surely an exception, seeing as how his robots must have been busy with more important tasks at the time.

Gingerly, he reaches out for the food, grimacing at the fresh pangs of pain that even this careful movement causes to flare up. He eats the meal slowly, since even swallowing is unpleasant.

Once he's finished, he leans back against the pillows again, closing his eyes for a few moments. When he once more opens them, his gaze falls on the gauzes wrapped around what seems to be a good half of his body. He doesn't even want to think about how terribly weak and pitiful he must look, all injured and bandaged, not even able to turn without wincing in pain.

He doesn't like it one bit. He's already powerless enough as it already is without being wounded as well.

His thoughts drift back to the day before. There had been another box of papers waiting for him in the living room that he would have dealt with once they came back from the trip in the park, but obviously things had played out very differently than expected, so he never got around to sort it. It's not a task that he would look forward to under normal circumstances, and considerably less so now that he's hurting all over, but he pushes his reticence away. He doesn't want to lie here all useless and pathetic, after all.

Of course, if he had been a slave in Asgard, he would have been expected to work anyway, as long as he wasn't wholly incapacitated, and if his injuries were deemed too severe for him to handle his usual tasks, he'd be assigned some lighter work for the time being.

Obviously, the tasks he has performed here haven't been physically straining in any way, and surely something he would have been expected to continue with even now. He's still able to move, after all, even if it causes him pain.

However, he's not in Asgard, but in Tony's tower, and there is this strange certainty inside of him that Tony isn't going to make him sort any papers for the next few days. It's a strange realization, because he can't trace it back to any form of logical reasoning, or give any sensible explanation as to why he's so sure of it. It definitely makes little sense, given that he'd still be able to, even in his current condition, no matter how uncomfortable it would be.

But the certainty is like a wedge firmly lodged inside of him. Somehow, he just knows, though he can't say how he arrived at that conclusion.

Still…

So maybe Tony won't demand it, but it still doesn't mean that Loki wants to lie here like a pathetic wretch. And surely Tony won't object to getting his papers sorted, even if he isn't going to order Loki to do it.

He's not looking forward to handling that task in this state, but lying here all weak and useless appeals to him even less, so he steels himself, and slowly pushes himself up from the bed and puts first one foot, then the second one down on the floor.

Having gotten up, he stands there for a few moments, breathing through clenched teeth as the worst stabs of pain slowly die down and the black dots dancing before his eyes dissolve. Then, wincing, he makes for the door, heading towards the living room.

He critically examines the blueprint to his new suit, eyes tracing the smooth lines. Perhaps it's just him being vain, but he kind of doesn't like the look. Sure it's functional and all, modified to accommodate the new gadgets he wants to put in while still being aerodynamic enough as to not hamper his flying abilities, but its appearance could just be a bit… sleeker, somehow.

Or perhaps 'cooler' is the word he's really looking for, after all. Whatever.

For a little while, he ponders the holographic image before him, trying to deduce how it could be modified for best effect, but his thoughts keep drifting away to the god lying all bruised up a few floors above.

Loki hadn't looked much better today than yesterday, as Tony entered his room to deliver his breakfast. For a while, he had contemplated whether to wake the god up to tell him that food was being served, but had quickly decided against it. Loki needed his sleep, and in his current state he was probably lucky to get very much of it at all.

So he had simply placed the tray on the bedside table instead, content to leave it for Loki once he woke up. It wasn't as if either the food or Loki was going anywhere, after all.

He expels a sigh through his teeth. It's amazing how that runaway rollercoaster never stops when Loki is around, and how there is always another speed bump waiting just around the corner, leaving him with his kidneys shaken down into his boots. But perhaps things might indeed calm down a little after the recent scarce, now that Loki will be confined to bed for at least a couple of weeks. And Tony will have to play nursemaid for a while, but he can deal with that, and besides-

"Sir," Jarvis' voice interrupts his trail of thought. "It would seem that Mr Laufeyson is on his way to the living room, even though my readings suggest that he would be much better off staying in bed."

Tony sighs again. Just why isn't he surprised?

"Alright, Jarvis, I'll take care of it," he says, getting up from his swivel chair.

What on Earth is Loki trying to do now? There is no reason for him to be up and running like this, not in his condition.

No, he doesn't like this one bit, so he hurries up the stairs to the living room, intent on getting the straying god back to bed as soon as possible.

He steels himself for a few heartbeats as he prepares to sit down next to the box on the floor. It's going to hurt, but he can handle it. At least he'll be able to show – though he isn't sure if it's mostly for his own or Tony's benefit – that he's not as weak as he might appear, proving that he's not entirely useless, despite his injuries.

Yes, it's going to hurt, but he can do this.

"Reindeer Games?" he suddenly hears a familiar voice behind him, and he quickly quenches his reflexive reaction to whirl around to face Tony, just barely saving himself a world of pain from his midsection.

"What the heck are you doing walking around here? Why aren't you in bed?" Tony asks as Loki slowly turns around and meets with the man's incredulous stare.

Loki tries to straighten himself up a little, despite his protesting ribcage, as to not look quite as pathetic as he knows he must surely be doing, standing here shirtless and barefoot, wrapped in bandages and covered in ugly bruises.

"I was going to have the box of papers from yesterday sorted," he says, giving a brief nod towards the thing on the floor.

Tony looks down in puzzlement as if he's seeing it for the first time. Then he looks back up at Loki again, incomprehension marring his features. "You were going to do what?" he asks, as if he didn't hear Loki the first time.

And why does he get the feeling that that's not the answer Tony wants to hear? Nevertheless, he repeats himself.

"I was about to sort that box of papers," he says. "I never got around to doing it yesterday." The clarification is highly superfluous, but he adds it anyway.

Tony is quiet for a while as his eyes keep darting back and forth between Loki and the box. "No – just no. That's not – I don't even…" his words trail off as he gives Loki a very odd look, hand raking through his hair a couple of times. Then he exhales, fingers going to rub at his forehead instead.

"Okay," he says as his hand finally comes down. "I think the two of us need to have a little talk." He points towards the doorway. "While you're in bed, the only place you belong right now."

Of course, there's nothing else to it but obeying, so he walks back, Tony following at his heels, and laboriously crawls into the bed as Tony pulls out a chair and seats himself.

"So," Tony says, "now I want to hear why you thought it would be a good idea to sort papers – or do anything at all, really – in your current state."

"I… thought you wanted to have them sorted," he says hesitantly, thinking that should be enough, but all the same getting the feeling that it isn't.

"Uh-huh. And what made you think I can't wait a few weeks with that, considering that those boxes have been lying around for months before you started working on them?" Tony retorts, eyes not leaving Loki for a second.

"I'm not that badly injured," Loki half-lies. "I can still work."

Tony gives a sound that is half a snort, half a sigh. "I don't think so. Seriously, Bambi, do you really think I'm such a tyrant that I'd force you to work when you got a busted rib instead of recuperating like you should?"

"No?"

No, he actually doesn't, but…

"Okay, so I know you're not actually a labour union member or anything, but that doesn't matter. Injured people don't work, that's not how we do things here." Tony points to where Loki is leaning against the headrest. "So you'll stay right there in bed until you're well enough to actually do stuff. Got it?"

And despite how the prospects of having to remain in bed like this vex him, a not insignificant part of him is relieved all the same. He certainly hadn't been looking forward to doing any work in his current state, despite what his pride was telling him.

"I got it," he answers, fingers picking at a bandage.

"Good. No one here is going to be happier because you're pushing yourself to the point of breaking. I know I certainly won't," Tony says resolutely, as if…

… as if…

… as if he thinks that Loki somehow actually matters.

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