Chapter Text
“Stark.”
A single word, like silk and ice. Tony’s eyes snap open and he swallows down an insane rush of panic; he looks up and is greeted with venomous green eyes, gleaming inhumanly in the darkness of his bedroom.
“Loki.” He swallows hard and casts a glance about for anything in the immediate vicinity that could be used as a weapon against the god kneeling on his bed.
Loki looks... smaller than Tony recalled, and he realizes that he is without most of his armor, and hopefully, maybe, gods be willing (ha ha) he is also weaponless.
Not that the God of Mischief needed weapons if he wanted to take Tony to pieces in his own bed. Tony knows that Loki doesn’t, and that knowledge makes him feel more afraid than he can recall feeling in a long time. Of course, fear makes Tony babble like an asshole, and god or no god, Tony is Tony.
“Jesus, how long have you been watching me sleep? Is this your new plan of action, and if so, aren’t you missing some glitter? I thought they had you locked up in Asgard.”
Loki frowns at the missed pop culture reference, and laughs at the idea that he’d stay confined anywhere. The laugh is hitched, pained, as if he were having trouble catching the breath to make it.
“You promised me a drink, Man of Iron. Did you not? I’ve come to collect it.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony bolts up, a startled laugh shaking through him, and he shoves at the god, who, not expecting such force from the smaller man, nearly falls from the bed in an unceremonious heap. He saves himself last minute by standing rather smoothly and casting a nasty look at the angry, near-helpless superhero tangled in a nest of expensive Egyptian linen sheets.
“No, I’m not.” Loki’s face splits into a crooked, broken grin that is more a feral flash of teeth than a sign of happiness. “After all I’ve gone through at the hands of my supposed brethren, I’d very much appreciate a strong drink.”
Now that he looks, really looks- and now that JARVIS has seen fit to actually turn on a fucking light, *Thanks for the warning, you dick*, Tony thinks, he can see that Loki is in fact entirely armor-less, helmet-less, and probably weaponless; he is clad in nothing but a pair of black leather trousers, a little worse for wear, and a green roughspun shirt with its laces undone. The shirt hangs oddly at his sides, torn and gaping unevenly about his lean frame.
His pale, thin shoulders gleam in the low light, and his collarbones play in stark relief against the rest of him. He looks... delicate. Delicate, fragile, and starved. A deep, angry red gash marrs his left cheek, and though it is obviously healing, from its width and the color of the blood congealing there it certainly would have laid his face open to the bone when it was fresh.
Blood edges along his shirt at the ribs. When Loki wraps his arms lightly around himself, scowling at Stark, Tony notices blood along his sides, just above his hips. It takes all the fun out of playing peek-a-boo with Loki’s rather marvelously flat stomach.
The more Tony looks, the more he takes in, the more uncomfortable he gets. Loki is an enemy, sure, but what in the hell had they been doing to him in his homeland? Torture? Thor hadn’t mentioned any shit like that.
“Looks like you got yourself a little fucked up on your glorious quest for freedom.”
Loki doesn’t reply, save for a twist of his mouth. He watches Tony with those green eyes, and Tony can see that he is swaying, ever so slightly, as if standing were an effort. He feels a little bad for shoving him, but then, Loki did throw him out of a damned window; surely the god can handle a shove.
Tony slips out of his bed, suddenly a touch self-conscious that he is clad in red and gold silk boxers (because fuck you, that’s why was Tony’s motto for his sleepwear) but then, fuck this guy if he thinks Tony would cover up or act apologetic for his state of undress. It’s his house, it’s his bed, and he’ll wear what he wants in the middle of the night when an uninvited god gatecrashes his one decent night’s sleep in forever.
Loki follows Tony’s form across the room to the bar on the other side of it. Tony feels his eyes on his skin and it’s definitely a weird sensation, and he’s not sure at all what it means. He’s a hell of a lot more comfortable with Loki trying to kill him, he realizes, or at the very least, being contained, with lots of monitors on him.
“Don’t fucking throw a knife at me, dude. You said you wanted a drink.”
“I had no intention of such,” Loki replied, and he is suddenly there, leaning heavily on the bar, facing Tony. His eyes have dark circles under them, and he really, truly looks like hell.
“Can’t you just walk somewhere? Shit!” Tony jumps back, hand flitting across his arc reactor in a nervous, self-protective motion. “I just woke up, for fuck’s sakes, don’t do that, have you no manners?”
“I wasn’t aware your mortal psyche was so very fragile, Stark,” Loki replied, rolling his eyes. He coughs, and there is blood on his curled hand when he’s done. He makes a face and wipes the blood away on his pants.
“I wasn’t aware you were such an asshole. Oh wait, yes, actually. I was. It’s sort of implied in God of Lies isn’t it?”
Loki’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing as Tony pours two Scotches and slides one to Loki. He wraps long, pale fingers around the glass and takes a sip. His dark eyebrows jump and after he swallows he says, “Not bad, actually.” He closes those beautiful eyes and lets out a shaky sigh, and slumps down more against the bar. Tony doesn’t think he’s ever seen a god so damned... tired, before. Certainly not Thor. Loki didn’t even look this shitty after his fight with the Hulk. Tony is dimly aware that if Thor could see his brother now, he’d have an absolute shit fit over it.
“Long night?” Tony asks, awkwardly, surprising himself because really, why the fuck would HE care if one of their number one villains had a bad day?
“One of the longest, really,” Loki says darkly, reaching to take the glass again and nearly polishing it off in one long sip. He doesn’t shudder at the taste like so many non-alcoholic (or rather, non-Tony) humans do.
“Want another?” Tony asks as he’s nursing his own drink. He decides to hell with it, and perches atop the bar stool; he has a feeling he’s not going to be thrown through another window or torn to bloody pieces or smashed into a paste; at least, not now.
“Yes,” Loki hisses, and when he opens his eyes he brings them to Tony’s face. “I do hope you’ve not alerted the others somehow, with your machines,” he spares a glance upward, “because I absolutely do not intend to go back into captivity tonight. I will take this entire city down with me if I have to,” he adds, and his voice is hard and cold, biting out the last words. “I am not going back to Asgard.”
“I haven’t, relax. You are the sneaky one here,” Tony replies. “But you couldn't blame me if I did, because what the fuck? We haven’t heard anything about you in weeks, and you are my enemy, dude. Enemies don’t show up for late night cocktail hour.”
“I dislike doing what’s expected of me,” Loki remarks dryly, as Tony fills his glass again. Loki’s hand trembles slightly as he takes the glass. He looks tired. Very, very tired, in that way that a thing gets before it gives up and dies.
“What in the fuck happened, man?” Tony asks finally. “You show up in my bedroom without your reindeer horns, without all that ridiculously stylish armor, and you look like someone beat the absolute dogshit out of you. What the fuck, dude? You don’t even like me. Threats, window. You tried to destroy my goddamn HOUSE. And also my city. And my friends. And me.”
Loki gives him a long look, and there it is again, the sense that the god is exhausted.
“I haven’t anywhere else to turn, if you’d prefer honesty,” Loki replies coolly. “And I’d like... this. In peace.” He finishes the second glass after giving it a bit of a wave in Tony’s general direction. “I’d very much prefer to heal in relative safety, and you are no threat to me without your suit.”
It’s a lot more honesty than Tony thought he’d ever hear from Loki, and that is enough to make him want to drink more. Shit was getting weird. Shit was getting deep.
“I don’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.”
“Both,” Loki replies and he takes the decanter of Scotch and pours himself another. The movement gives Tony a view of his shoulder, the very obvious tear in his shirt, and the dried blood beneath. He can’t keep the quiet horror off of his face; it’s late, and he’s just not that good at pretending things don’t gross him out.
Loki laughs at Tony’s expression. “Curious? Odin’s rather tired of my... misdeeds, mortal. I did not get a slap on the wrist, that’s how you say it, yes?” Another long drink. He closes his eyes again, and turns quite suddenly, showing Tony the red ruin that was once his back.
Tony feels sick.
Completely fucking sick.
He’s seen fucked up shit before. He’s been fucked up, but this...
What should be a pale expanse of perfect skin is a mess of blood and torn flesh that’s trying to heal around some of the most terrible injuries Tony’s ever seen on someone still standing under their own power; there are long, jagged lines along his spine, so deep they appear to have severed his ribs; as it is, bone can be seen beneath rakes of ragged flesh, and angry bruises line the mess; something wet and gleaming is just beneath the cuts here and there, as if... as if things had been rearranged inside.
Tony coughs and looks away to disguise a very strong urge to vomit up the Scotch in his belly.
“What in the FUCK is that.”
“My dearest father gave me wings,” Loki replied, turning back to face Tony. “It is called the blood eagle. I have... been threatened with such before. It was decided that... my trouble here on Midgard merited such a punishment. I was left on a tree. There was an actual eagle in residence. It was quite ceremonial.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“I do not kid, I assure you.”
“How did you...”
“I didn’t want to die,” Loki replies. “And I can take a lot of pain. It will heal. It is healing as we speak, but it takes some time and I am... I am in no mood for running or fighting.” He looks exhausted, utterly exhausted and it’s no wonder.
“Fury isn't gonna hear about this from me,” Tony says, finally. “I mean, if you go and blow shit up as soon as you’re... better, all bets are off, but right now- I’m not telling anyone.” He frowns. “I’m not that big of a prick. I... dude, I don’t do torture. I don’t condone that shit.”
“How magnanimous of you. My... the Asgardians certainly do not share your opinions on the matter.”
“I don’t think your brother would, either.”
“Oh, heavens no.” Loki waves his hand absently, and finishes another glass. His eyes are shining now, unfocused. “My dear, idiot brother, he’d have had a... what do you say here, a fit... a fit, yes, if he’d born witness to this deed.” Loki chuckles dryly, and coughs again. “I won’t say I... did not deserve it. I am not so foolish to think that a failed attempt at the domination of a realm merits no punishment, but... I am not so righteous that I’d sit through it quietly. Not after the first few days.”
“You’re not righteous at all, actually,” Tony points out thoughtfully. “I’m not really, either. Probably why I’m still talking to you. And days? You fucking stayed like that for days?”
“Yes. And that is why I’m here.” Loki waves his glass and gives another tired smile. “Days. It was most uncomfortable, and that darling eagle I spoke of made certain that it did not heal during our time together. Wretched creature.”
Tony pales, completely unable to imagine letting his innards hang out for DAYS. “You need to sleep. I don’t really know shit about gods, but I’m sure that sleep is a universal necessity for people who get knocked around and gutted and... yeah. Basically all those terrible things.”
“I’ll partake in your spirits, Stark, but I am not- will not- sleep in your presence. I am no fool.”
“What am I going to do?” Tony asks, putting his glass on the bar and stalking the few feet between them. “I just fucking told you I wasn't going to call anyone. I’m giving you a CHANCE. I know it’s ridiculous, and you’re probably going to eat my goddamn face while I sleep or something, but YOU need sleep, YOU look fucking awful, and I don’t like the idea of kicking a dude while he’s... down. Like, totally down. You have surpassed being on the floor and are in the basement of down.”
Loki cocks his head at Tony and says nothing. Blood trickles down the side of his mouth and he licks it away absently.
Tony is embarrassed that despite Loki’s condition, and Tony’s own anger at the situation, he reacts to the flick of Loki’s tongue the way he does. He decides that his body is just trolling the shit out of him and looks away because no, blood is never sexy, and fuck’s sakes, the guy is toeing the edge of falling apart, in the worst literal way. Clearing his throat and walking away before it’s entirely noticeable (except not really because Loki notices everything) Tony starts throwing a pillow on the long, low lounge by the windows. He disappears momentarily and comes back with a sheet; an expensive sheet, but it’s black so maybe, just maybe blood won’t show on it and it’ll be salvageable after all of this, and adds it to the lounge.
“Sit. Stay.” He points at it, and Loki shakes his head bemusedly, and takes his glass, full again, with him to the lounge. He sits slowly, lets out a hiss of pain at the way things shift, and finishes off that Scotch, too.
“You are going to have the worst fucking hangover,” Tony remarks.
“I will not,” Loki refutes. “I am a god, Stark, and your mortal spirits are not nearly so strong as that.”
“You’re slurring a little.”
“I’ve been GUTTED, you ignorant little man. Perfect diction is not my top priority in this moment.”
“Point taken. You ah, you lay on your stomach, I guess. Let me get a look.”
“There’s little you can do. It will heal, I told you, it’s simply quite a bit of damage and it’s taking longer than I expected.”
“Yeah, but I feel like it needs some... I don’t know, some Band-aids or Bactine or something, anything. Just letting that shit hang out can’t be good.”
Loki sighs heavily and sprawls out along the lounge. He is ridiculously tall, but not nearly as muscular as his brother. He rests his head on his crossed arms, and rolls his eyes up to Tony, looking almost nervous.
Tony kneels beside him, ignoring the lingering look he’s getting from the injured god, and glad that the couch is hiding his crotch just in case Loki does something creepily sexy again (and leave it to Loki to make licking his own fucking blood off his mouth attractive), and peels back the ruins of Loki’s shirt.
“We need to take this off.”
He only has to pull a little and the top of the shirt rips in two, and he pushes it down Loki’s shoulders to get a better view of the damage. “They could have at least taken off the shirt before they fucked you up, you know. I mean even Jesus got it bare backed. Ruining clothes is just uncivilized.”
His remark makes Loki give an ugly, broken laugh, and he smiles in spite of himself. Gallows humor, indeed.
The wounds are healing, Loki was right about that, but his back looks terrible, and he can see all sorts of things a person is just not supposed to see. He gets a terrible urge to push one of the ribs that’s jutting out back into place, but holds his hand close to his chest, fighting the feeling, because it’s just not normal or at all okay to be touching other people’s bones.
“No,” Loki tells him, though he can’t see him from this angle. “Push it back. I could not quite get to it, and if it is in the proper place it will heal better. Faster. Please.”
“It’s going to hurt. Like, a lot.” Tony frowns. There’s absolutely nothing sanitary or safe about this. He is not a doctor. He has no idea what he’s doing, and he’s a little tipsy.
“You think I don’t know that?” Loki asks lightly. “I do not mind a little pain. I’d much prefer this fixed than to lay about with the cool night air on my innards.”
Tony tries not to think too hard or long on Loki and his not minding a little pain, tries not to think about the grotesque picture his brain just painted from those awful words, and reaches out and very firmly shoves the offending rib back into place; the resulting movement is disgusting and weird and very wet, and it sounds like ripping silk and maybe tearing open a melon at the same time, with a strange high pop that Tony can’t quite identify. It makes him feel a little sick, but Loki gives a groan that’s half pain, half deep satisfaction, and arches against the awful movement instead of screaming or pulling away, and again Tony’s mind lingers on something very inappropriate and is quietly horrified.
“Jesus,” he remarks, not sure how to take the reaction, or his.
“Better,” Loki mutters, and already it seems like the wound is coming together a little easier. The healing muscles are knotted beneath his pale skin, working to reform. It’s fascinating and gross and Tony isn't able to look away.
“How long ago did you...”
“Escape? Ah, time flows strangely between the realms. Not long. It took a moment to find my bearing here. I did not... arrive where I’d intended. Days on the tree made me... fuzzy, if you will.”
Tony thinks to himself that it’s a goddamn shame that something so hard to kill isn't working on his side.
He realizes that there’s almost no point in fighting Loki if this is the kind of damage he can heal, that this is the shit he can take without his armor and that he can just put himself back together. It’s a giant middle finger to science and all the things Tony used to rely upon as true.
“And you sought me out.”
“Out of all of the mortals I’ve met here, I don’t quite hate you.”
Tony snorts, shakes his head.
“You are clever. I could not control you. Your armor is well-made, and you are the one who made it. That is enough to... pique my curiosity.”
“That’s just science being bad ass, there.”
“Your science,” Loki points out, “and I am not my brother. I appreciate your science.” He gives a shrug, and winces a touch.
“Thanks. I think. I feel all touched now. Maybe I should giggle? Blush?”
“I’d prefer if you did not,” Loki replies, rolling his eyes. “I said I didn’t... hate you, not that I’m here to ask your hand in marriage, Stark. I would still kill you, in a myriad of painful, slow ways, if I had need of it.”
Tony can think of nothing in reply, so he stands, and says, “Well, thanks for that. But right now, you need... to rest. Again, don’t fucking kill me in my sleep, okay? Don’t make me immediately regret this- and JARVIS... delete any record of Loki’s arrival. All the security footage, all the audio, every last bit. I don’t want this shit on SHIELD’s radar right now.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, turns to walk across the large penthouse towards his bed. This open floor plan is really kicking him in the ass right now; he’d feel a lot safer if Loki wasn’t in the same room, but then, he reminds himself that walls don’t seem to matter to the god anyway.
“I give you my word that I shall not try to kill you tonight, Stark. At the very least, I shall wait until you've had your breakfast to attempt any violence on your person. It’s only polite.”
With that, Loki turns his head away and settles into the most comfortable position he can attain with his injuries being what they are, and Tony goes back to his bed, surprised to be smiling at Loki’s final quip of the evening.