Chapter Text
The air in the District of Cinders tasted of ozone, burnt sugar, and the copper tang of old blood. It was a cloying, heavy particulate that coated the back of the throat, sticking there like a bad memory, refusing to be swallowed. The humidity was oppressive, a physical weight that pressed damp clothes against skin and made the shadows seem to sweat.
Tony Stark hated it. He hated the smell, he hated the heat, and most of all, he hated how much it reminded him of a cave in Afghanistan.
He adjusted the localized atmospheric filter on his collar—a subtle, hyper-advanced piece of Stark Tech woven into a scarf that looked rough-spun and greasy enough to pass for local garb. He resisted the urge to check the readings on his gauntlet for the fifth time in a minute. The walls of the alley were slick with a bioluminescent moss that pulsed a sickly, radioactive green, illuminating the faces of the crowd in intermittent, ghoulish flashes. And what a crowd it was.
Vanaheim wasn't all golden forests, noble warriors, and feasts in Hogun’s honor, despite what Thor’s meandering, boisterous stories over boxes of pop-tarts would have you believe. It was a realm of layers, and they were currently in the sediment at the bottom. The District of Cinders was a trading hub for things the shining Vanir courts turned their noses up at: illicit off-world tech, venomous livestock, hallucinogenic spores, and weapons that could turn a city block into glass.
That was why Tony was here. It was always about weapons.
Just a quick recon, he told himself, the mantra repeating in his head to the rhythm of his anxiety, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. Find the Chitauri energy signatures. Trace the seller. Buy the stock. Get off this rock.
He wasn't in the suit. The Iron Man armor was too loud, too bright, a beacon for trouble in a place that thrived on shadow. Instead, the Mark 42 was folded down into an inconspicuous, heavy briefcase carried by the massive, silent figure of Happy Hogan beside him. Or rather, a Happy Hogan look-alike LMD (Life Model Decoy) he’d slapped together in a manic forty-eight-hour fugue state. The real Happy was back in Queens, safe, watching Downton Abbey, and Tony wasn't about to drag his friends—the few he had left—into his PTSD-fueled intergalactic shopping sprees.
"Readings are spiking, Boss," J.A.R.V.I.S. murmured in his ear, the audio feed bone-conducted and invisible, a grounding tether to reality. "Seventy meters ahead. The energy signature matches the scepter's decay rates, but there is significant interference."
"Copy that," Tony muttered, keeping his head down. He pulled the hood of his cloak further over his face, obscuring his features. He looked like a drifter, a scrapper, just another piece of flotsam washing up in the market. He felt like an exposed nerve ending, raw and stinging.
Since the wormhole, silence was loud. The dark was too dark. Sleep was a combat zone he rarely won. So he filled the silence with J.A.R.V.I.S.'s constant stream of data and the dark with the HUD of his glasses, which were currently outlining threat assessments on every alien that passed him. A four-armed merchant selling skewers of sizzling, unrecognizable meat: Low Threat. A group of mercenaries in scorched leather armor, carrying plasma pikes: Moderate Threat. A hooded figure tracking them from the rooftops: High Threat - Avoid.
They pushed through a heavy curtain of beads made from hollow bones that rattled like dry laughter, entering the main bazaar.
The noise hit him like a physical blow. A cacophony of languages—guttural clicks, melodic hums, high-pitched shrieks, and the harsh, transaction-heavy common tongue of the trade routes. The heat spiked, fueled by the press of bodies and the open braziers burning blue coal. In the center of the bazaar, rising above the chaos like an altar to greed, was a raised dais surrounded by a shimmering containment field.
"Target location is the dais," J.A.R.V.I.S. supplied, his voice cutting through the ambient roar. "However, the energy signature is... confusing. It is fluctuating in a pattern inconsistent with static technology."
"Confusing how?" Tony scanned the crowd, his hand drifting toward the hidden repulsor in his glove. "Is it a bomb? Please tell me it's not a bomb. I didn't bring the blast-dampeners, and I really don't want to explain to Pepper why I came home as a radioactive smear."
"It is biological, Sir."
Tony paused, mid-step, narrowly avoiding a collision with a creature that looked like a bipedal rhinoceros with gold-capped tusks. "Biological? Like a battery? Like a Chitauri neural link?"
"Like a life sign. A complex one."
Tony frowned, the unease in his gut coalescing into a hard knot. He edged closer to the platform, using the LMD as a battering ram. The crowd was dense here, buzzing with a dark, voyeuristic energy. It wasn't the clinical excitement of a weapons demo. It was something older, uglier. It was the smell of blood in the water.
He used his size—or rather, the perceived threat of the silent, hulking LMD beside him—to shoulder his way to the front. The stench of unwashed bodies, exotic spices, and fear was potent enough to make his eyes water.
"Ladies, Gentlegods, and Scum of the Nine Realms!" The auctioneer was a spindly creature with pale, translucent skin that showed the pulsing of blue veins underneath. He had too many joints in his fingers, and they clicked as he gestured. He paced the stage, his voice amplified by a crude sonic collar that distorted his words into a booming rasp. "We have exhausted the supply of Kree labor units. We have sold the fire-drakes to the pits. But for those of you with... discriminating tastes. For those who appreciate a challenge. For those who want something truly rare."
He gestured to the back of the stage, where the shadows were deepest. Two heavily armored guards, massive brutes with cybernetic implants, dragged something forward.
Tony’s breath hitched. His heart gave a painful, singular thud against the arc reactor, a stutter in his own rhythm.
It was a man. Or it had been, once.
He was naked from the waist up, his skin a roadmap of violence. There were burns, old and new, starbursts of puckered tissue where energy weapons had struck. There were lacerations that hadn't healed right, turning into raised keloid scars. He was ruinously thin, every rib counting itself out against pale, translucent skin, looking fragile enough that a stiff wind might snap him in half. Heavy, dark iron shackles bound his wrists and ankles, connected by a chain so short it forced him into a permanent, painful stoop.
But it was the face that froze the blood in Tony’s veins.
Black hair, matted with grime, dried blood, and sweat, fell in greasy curtains over familiar, high cheekbones that now looked sharp enough to cut. Eyes that were usually a piercing, manic green were currently glazed, half-lidded, and rimmed with red exhaustion. They were the eyes of something that had stopped looking for an escape.
And his mouth...
Tony felt bile rise in his throat, acidic and burning. A heavy metal muzzle encased the lower half of the man’s face. It wasn't just a restraint; it was a punishment, a brutalist piece of engineering. Runes glowed faintly on the dark metal, pulsating with a dull, suppressing magic that made the air around the stage shimmer with heat distortion.
Loki.
The God of Mischief. The would-be King of Earth. The monster under the bed. The reason Tony woke up screaming three nights a week, tasting ash and seeing a hole in the sky.
"The Silvertongue," the auctioneer purred, grabbing a handful of Loki’s hair and yanking his head back with brutal force. Loki didn't resist. He didn't even flinch. He just stared out at the crowd with a dead, hollow gaze that looked through them, not at them, as if he were watching a different reality entirely. "Fallen Prince of Asgard. War criminal. Sorcerer. Lie-smith."
The crowd murmured, a sound like ocean waves crashing. Some jeered. A piece of rotten fruit sailed through the air and struck Loki’s shoulder with a wet smack. He didn't react. The juice ran down his chest like yellow blood, mingling with the grime.
"Found drifting in the Void," the auctioneer continued, his voice dripping with theatrical pity that masked a sadistic glee. "Broken. Bound. Discarded by his own kin. And now... available."
"J," Tony whispered, his voice trembling so hard he barely recognized it. "Tell me that's a hologram. Tell me that's an illusion. Tell me I'm hallucinating and need to up my dosage."
"Scans confirm identity," J.A.R.V.I.S. said, his synthesized voice unusually clipped, processing the anomaly. "Subject: Loki Odinson. Vital signs are critical. Malnutrition, severe dehydration, multiple bone fractures in various stages of malunion. And... Sir, the energy readings indicate the muzzle is actively siphoning his bio-electric signature. It is feeding on him to power the containment field."
Tony stared. He should be happy. He should be relieved. This was the monster that choked him in his own tower. This was the creature that threw him out of a window. This was the architect of New York’s destruction. Seeing him brought low, stripped of his power and his pride, should have been cathartic. It should have been justice.
It wasn't.
It was horrifying. It was a violation of something fundamental. Even monsters deserved a trial. Even monsters shouldn't be... meat.
Loki swayed on his feet, his knees buckling under his own negligible weight. The guard on the left kicked the back of his knee, forcing him down. Loki hit the floor hard, the chains rattling like a bag of silverware, and stayed there, head bowed, panting through the vents in the muzzle. The sound was ragged, wet.
"This is not a slave," the auctioneer announced, holding up a scroll made of some shimmering, dark material that seemed to absorb the light around it. "This is a Contract of Indenture. The binding is absolute. Ancient dwarven magic, forged in the heat of Nidavellir. Whosoever holds the contract, holds the leash. He cannot disobey. He cannot harm his master. He cannot speak unless permitted. A perfect servant for the... ambitious. Or the vengeful."
"Bid starts at five thousand credits!"
"Six thousand!" yelled a voice from the back—a massive rock-troll with a necklace of finger bones.
"Seven!" screeched a harpy-like creature near the front, her wings rustling with agitation.
Tony stood paralyzed. His brain was warring with itself, a civil war of logic versus instinct. Walk away, the logical part screamed. He's a murderer. He's a threat level Alpha. If you free him, he'll kill you. If you leave him... he's going to die. He's going to die slowly and badly.
He looked at Loki’s hands. The long, elegant fingers—fingers that had once plucked an eye out of a socket in Stuttgart—were bloody where the nails had been torn. He was trembling. Not the trembling of rage, but the fine, continuous tremor of a body in profound shock.
Tony remembered the cold of space. He remembered the feeling of helplessness as the suit power died, the utter silence before the fall. He looked at Loki and saw the same silence.
"Ten thousand!" the rock-troll roared, pushing a smaller alien aside.
"Twelve!"
The auctioneer was grinning, shark-like, revealing rows of needle teeth. "Do I hear fifteen? For a god? Think of the prestige! Think of the fun you could have breaking him further. He endures so much before he breaks."
Loki closed his eyes. It was a small movement, barely a flutter of lashes, but it looked like surrender. Total, absolute surrender. The acceptance of hell.
Tony’s hand moved before his brain gave permission. He tapped the comms unit. "J, how much liquid currency do we have in the shell accounts? The off-books ones."
"Sufficient to buy this entire district and burn it to the ground, Sir."
"Fifteen thousand!" the harpy screamed.
"Twenty thousand," the troll countered.
The crowd was frenzied now, feeding on the degradation of royalty. They didn't see a person. They saw a toy. They saw a punching bag that wouldn't break.
Tony stepped forward. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. He let the LMD amplify his voice just enough to cut through the din like a laser through butter.
"Fifty thousand."
Silence slammed into the bazaar. It was sudden and violent. Heads turned. The auctioneer blinked, his grin faltering into confusion.
"F-fifty?" the auctioneer stammered, squinting at Tony’s hooded figure into the harsh lights. "Credits?"
"Standard galactic credits," Tony said, his voice flat, hard, channeling every ounce of Stark CEO arrogance he possessed. "Transferable immediately. Verified by the Intergalactic Banking Clan. No waiting period."
The rock-troll growled, stepping forward, his shadow engulfing Tony. "Who is this runt? The god is mine! I have a cage prepared!"
Tony didn't look at the troll. He kept his eyes on Loki. Loki hadn't looked up. He hadn't reacted to the bid. He was staring at a dark stain on the floorboards as if it contained the secrets of the universe, or perhaps the end of it.
"Fifty-five thousand!" the troll bellowed, though he sounded uncertain. That was a fortune. That was generational wealth.
"One hundred thousand," Tony said instantly. No hesitation.
The crowd gasped. That was the price of a starship. That was the price of a small moon. That was "I own you" money.
The auctioneer was sweating now, greed warring with suspicion. "One hundred thousand... going once..."
"He's a Terran!" the harpy shrieked, pointing a clawed finger. "Look at him! A soft, pink Terran! He smells of iron and milk!"
"Money is universal, sweetheart," Tony drawled, though his palms were sweating inside his gloves and his heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "And I'm impatient. Do we have a deal, or do I buy the building and evict you?"
The auctioneer slammed his gavel down so hard the handle cracked. "Sold! To the human in the hood!"
The containment field shimmered and died with a whine of powering-down electronics. Tony felt a wave of nausea. What have I done?
He walked up the steps. The wood creaked under his boots. The guards backed away, eyeing the briefcase the LMD carried, sensing the latent power within. The auctioneer practically vibrated as he handed Tony the scroll. It was heavy, warm to the touch, and felt slick, like oil skin. It felt alive.
"The key," Tony demanded, holding out his other hand.
"Ah, no key, sir," the auctioneer said, counting the credit chit Tony had slapped into his chest with trembling fingers. "The Contract is the key. As long as you hold it, the collar obeys you. You want the muzzle off? You command it. You want him to dance? You command it. You want him to stop breathing? You command it."
Tony looked at the scroll with disgust. He wanted to burn it. He shoved it into his jacket pocket, feeling it pulse against his hip.
He turned to Loki.
Up close, the smell was worse. Old blood, infection, necrotic tissue, and something sharp and chemical—the smell of fear sweat. Loki was shivering violently now, the tremors racking his frame.
"Get up," Tony said.
Loki didn't move.
"He needs a direct command, sir," the auctioneer offered helpfully, leaning in. "Address him as 'Slave' or 'Pet'. He responds well to pain, too. The shock setting is delightful."
Tony turned a look on the auctioneer that could have melted steel. The Stark glare, usually reserved for board members and senators, was turned up to lethal levels. "Speak to me again, and I'll have my associate here remove your jaw and feed it to you."
The LMD took a threatening step forward, servos whining menacingly. The auctioneer squeaked and vanished into the counting room.
Tony looked back down. He crouched, trying to keep his distance, trying not to look at the raw skin around the iron collar where it had rubbed him raw. "Loki," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Get up. We're leaving."
At the sound of his name, Loki’s head snapped up.
The recognition was slow, painful to watch. The green eyes widened, pupils blowing wide with panic. He scrambled backward, crab-walking on his hands and heels, the chains clattering. A muffled noise of distress caught in his throat behind the metal plate—a sound that was almost human.
He knew. He remembered. And in his mind, Tony Stark was just another torturer, likely more creative than the last.
"Easy," Tony said, holding up his hands, palms open. "I'm not gonna... look, I'm not gonna hit you. Just get up."
Loki pressed his back against the crate behind him, chest heaving. He looked terrifyingly young like this. Stripped of his armor, his magic, his dignity, he was just a terrified crash survivor.
"J, translation," Tony muttered. "Is he hearing me? Is he processing?"
"The muzzle dampens auditory input as well as vocal output, Sir. But he recognizes you. His heart rate is 160. He anticipates execution."
Tony grimaced. Of course he does. Why wouldn't he?
"Okay, Reindeer Games," Tony said, standing up and trying to project an air of bored authority he didn't feel. He reached into his pocket and touched the scroll. He could feel a weird hum, a psychic connection. It was invasive. It was gross. "Stand up. Follow me. Do not fall behind."
The magic in the scroll pulsed.
Loki gasped, his back arching as if he'd been whipped. His body moved against his will, muscles locking and forcing him to his feet. He swayed, dizzy, fighting the puppetry, but the magic held him upright like a marionette on steel strings.
The look he gave Tony was a chaotic mix of hatred, fear, and profound confusion.
"Happy, take point," Tony said. "Let's get back to the ship before buyer's remorse sets in."
The walk back to the docking bay was a blur of tension. The crowd parted for them, whispering. They saw the human with the heavy droid and the bound god trailing behind him, and they made assumptions. Dark assumptions. Some nodded in approval. One merchant offered Tony a whip for a discount. Tony ignored them all, keeping his gaze forward, though his sensors were tracking the stumbling figure behind him.
Loki walked with a staggering, uneven gait. The chains connecting his ankles were short, forcing him to take small, shuffling steps. He kept his eyes on the ground. Every time he stumbled, the magic of the contract would jerk him upright, a visible spasm of pain crossing his face as his muscles contracted involuntarily.
Tony wanted to vomit. He wanted to cut the chains right there in the street. But he couldn't. Not here. Not surrounded by vultures. Not until they were safe behind a hull of titanium alloy.
They reached the Icarus, a modified stealth transport Tony had parked in a private bay. It wasn't the Quinjet; it was faster, meaner, and had a living quarters. It was his escape pod from reality.
As soon as the ramp hissed closed behind them, sealing out the noise and smell of Vanaheim, Tony slumped against the bulkhead. The adrenaline that had sustained him evaporated, leaving him shaking.
"J, initiate lockdown. Get us in the air. Warp trajectory to Earth, but take the scenic route. I need to figure this out before I dump a Norse god on the Avengers' lawn. Cap will have an aneurysm."
"Trajectory plotted, Sir. ETA to Sol system: forty-eight hours."
Tony turned to look at his purchase.
Loki was standing in the middle of the cargo hold. The command to "follow" had ended, so he had stopped. He stood perfectly still, staring at the bulkhead. He looked like a statue made of bruises and bad intentions.
"Okay," Tony exhaled, peeling off his gloves. He felt dirty. He felt like he needed a shower in bleach. "Okay. This is happening."
He walked over to a workbench and grabbed a pair of laser cutters. He approached Loki.
Loki flinched so hard he nearly fell over. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for a blow. He hunched his shoulders, protecting his neck.
"Jesus, stop it," Tony snapped, the stress making him sharp. "I'm not—I'm getting these chains off. You look ridiculous. And they're scratching my floor."
He knelt. Loki was trembling so badly the chains rattled like wind chimes in a hurricane.
"Hold still," Tony commanded, hating how the words tasted, hating the power they held.
The magic obeyed. Loki went rigid, his body locking into place.
Tony worked quickly. The laser cutter sliced through the ankle cuffs with a hiss of ozone and a spark of red light. The heavy iron clanged to the deck. Tony moved to the wrists. Loki’s wrists were raw, the skin rubbed away to the dermis, infection beginning to set in at the edges.
"You need a medic," Tony muttered, working the laser with precision. "Which is great, because I'm a mechanic. I have a first aid kit and a bottle of scotch. Pick your poison."
The wrist cuffs fell.
Loki didn't move. His arms hung limp at his sides. He was still under the influence of the "hold still" command.
Tony realized his mistake. He reached into his pocket and touched the scroll. Relax, he thought. At ease. Whatever.
Loki collapsed.
He didn't faint; his legs just gave out. He hit the deck with a wet thud. He didn't try to get up. He just curled in on himself, bringing his knees to his chest, protecting his stomach, making himself as small a target as possible.
Tony stood there, laser cutter in hand, looking down at the heap of god on his floor.
The muzzle was still on. It was a complex piece of engineering, wrapped around the back of his skull and locked into his jaw. It looked painful. It looked like it was drilled into the bone.
"J, scan the muzzle."
"It is a complex weave of Uru and inhibition circuitry, Sir. It is keyed to the Contract. Removing it without the proper magical command sequence could trigger a fail-safe."
"Fail-safe?"
"It will detonate," JARVIS said calmly. "Removing the subject's head. The blast radius would also likely compromise the hull integrity."
Tony dropped the laser cutter. It clattered loudly on the metal grate.
Loki flinched again, a full-body jerk.
"Great," Tony rubbed his face with both hands, dragging his skin down. "Just great. So I can't take it off until I figure out the password. Which is probably in a dead language I don't speak."
He looked at Loki. The god’s eyes were open now, watching him. Wary. Waiting. There was no defiance left in them, only a terrified calculation.
"You're thirsty," Tony stated. It wasn't a question. The dehydration signs were obvious—cracked lips, sunken eyes, skin that didn't snap back.
Loki didn't respond. He couldn't.
Tony went to the kitchenette and grabbed a bottle of water. He paused, looking at it. Then he grabbed a straw. He walked back.
"Sit up."
Loki scrambled into a sitting position, back against the wall, legs drawn up. He eyed the bottle like it was a weapon, like Tony was about to pour acid on him.
"It's water, you paranoid diva," Tony said. He cracked the seal so Loki could hear the snap. "I can't take the face-hugger off yet. Not without blowing your head off. So we have to improvise."
He approached slowly. Loki pressed the back of his head against the wall, his breath hitching in a high, terrified whine that the muzzle barely suppressed. It was the sound of an animal cornered in a trap.
"Stop," Tony said softly. "I'm not... look at me."
Loki looked.
"I'm not them," Tony said. "I'm Tony. The guy you threw out a window? We have beef, sure. Massive beef. But I don't torture people. That's not how I operate. Okay?"
He didn't know if Loki believed him. Probably not. Why should he?
Tony knelt. He saw the vents on the side of the muzzle. Small, barely wide enough for air, let alone sustenance.
"This is going to be undignified," Tony warned. "But you need fluids."
He guided the straw into one of the vents.
Loki frozen. For a second, Tony thought he would bite the straw or thrash. But then the instinct for survival, deep and primal, took over. Loki drank. He drank greedily, frantically, swallowing so hard his throat clicked.
Tony held the bottle, feeling a strange, surreal disconnect. Here he was, the Merchant of Death, hand-feeding a genocidal alien warlord on the floor of a spaceship. It was absurd. It was tragic.
When the bottle was empty, Loki slumped back, chest heaving. A single drop of water escaped the vent and tracked a clean line through the grime on his cheek.
"Better?" Tony asked.
Loki looked at him. The glaze was fading from his eyes, replaced by a sharp, calculating intelligence. It was dim, flickering like a dying bulb, but it was there. He gave a microscopic nod.
"Right," Tony stood up, his knees cracking. "I'm going to set a course. You... stay there. Or don't. Just don't touch my stuff. And don't die."
He walked toward the cockpit. He stopped at the doorway and looked back.
Loki hadn't moved. He was watching Tony’s back. And for the first time, Tony noticed the scars on Loki’s shoulders—brand marks. Runes burned into the skin, still angry and red.
Ownership marks.
Tony felt a cold rage settle in his gut, displacing the fear. He touched the pocket where the scroll sat.
"JARVIS," Tony said quietly as he sat in the pilot's chair.
"Sir?"
"Start decrypting the scroll. I want to know how to break it."
"Breaking the contract usually requires the death of the master, Sir."
Tony looked out at the star-streak of hyperspace. He thought of the trembling figure on the floor. He thought of the silence in the suit. He thought of Yinsen in the cave.
"Then find a loophole," Tony said. "Before I have to do something stupid."
"I believe we passed 'stupid' approximately forty minutes ago, Sir," JARVIS noted dryly.
"Yeah," Tony whispered. "Yeah, we did."
He engaged the autopilot and sat in the dark, listening to the hum of the engine and the faint, ragged breathing from the cargo hold. It was going to be a long trip home.
The first night was the hardest.
The Icarus wasn't built for comfort—it was built for speed and stealth—but it had a cot in the small quarters behind the cockpit. Tony, naturally, didn't use it. He sat in the pilot’s chair, monitoring the systems, monitoring the void, and—most obsessively—monitoring the internal sensors of the cargo bay.
Loki hadn't moved for six hours.
The thermal imaging showed him curled in the corner, heat leeching into the floor plates. His heart rate was slowing down, dangerously so. The adrenaline crash was setting in, and without magic to sustain him, his body was failing.
"Sir," JARVIS interrupted Tony’s third review of the engine diagnostics. "Subject's core temperature is dropping. He is entering a hypothermic state."
"He's a Frost Giant," Tony argued, rubbing his eyes, trying to push the fatigue away. "Isn't he? Blue skin, ice powers? Cold shouldn't bother him. He's built for ice."
"His physiology is currently compromised by extreme trauma, starvation, and mana exhaustion. Furthermore, the magical dampeners on the collar appear to be inhibiting his natural thermoregulation. He isn't regulating, Sir. He is freezing to death."
Tony swore, a string of colorful expletives. He spun the chair around.
He grabbed a thermal blanket from the emergency locker—the shiny, crinkly silver kind that looked like a baked potato wrapper—and a thicker wool blanket he kept for himself, one that smelled like motor oil and home.
He walked back into the hold.
The lights were dimmed to standby amber. Loki was a shadow in the corner. As Tony approached, he saw the tremors had returned, violent enough that Loki’s teeth would be chattering if his jaw wasn't clamped shut. His skin had taken on a gray, sickly pallor.
"Hey," Tony said.
Loki flinched, curling tighter. He looked small. It was disturbing how small he looked without the cape, the horns, the armor, the ego. Just a bag of bones in dirty leather pants.
"You're turning into a popsicle," Tony said, keeping his voice neutral. He held out the blankets. "Here."
Loki stared at the blankets, then at Tony. He didn't take them. He looked confused, as if Tony were offering him a loaded gun.
"Right. The hand thing," Tony muttered. "You probably can't feel your fingers."
He crouched down. Loki tensed, preparing for pain. When Tony draped the heavy wool blanket over his shoulders, Loki froze, baffled.
Tony tucked the edges in, awkwardly patting the shoulder. "It's wool. It's warm. Deal with it."
He stood up to leave, but a sound stopped him.
It was a low, muffled whimper.
Loki was looking at his hands. He was trying to bring them up to adjust the blanket, but his arms were shaking too hard to coordinate the movement. The gauze Tony had applied earlier was spotting with fresh blood. He looked frustrated, humiliated, and in pain.
Tony sighed. A long, bone-deep sigh that rattled his own chest.
He sat down on the floor.
Loki watched him, eyes wide.
"If I leave you here, you're going to die," Tony said, more to himself than Loki. "And if you die, I wasted a hundred thousand credits. And I hate wasting money. Pepper kills me about the budget as it is."
He scooted closer. "Let me see the wrists."
Loki hesitated. He pulled back slightly, protecting the injury. Then, slowly, painfully, he extended his hands.
The raw flesh was angry, red and weeping. The metal cuffs had worn away the top layers of skin, and the infection was spreading.
"I have some med-gel in the kit," Tony said. "It stings like a bitch—worse than the laser—but it helps. It seals the nerve endings."
He fetched the kit. He came back. He sat.
For the next twenty minutes, the only sound in the ship was the hum of the drive and the soft wet sound of Tony applying gel to the god’s wrists.
Loki watched Tony’s face the whole time. He was searching for the trick. The malice. He was waiting for the moment Tony would push his thumb into the wound and laugh. He was waiting for the 'price' of the kindness.
It never came.
Tony wrapped the wrists in fresh sterile gauze. He was efficient, clinical. His hands, usually twitchy with energy and caffeine, were steady.
"There," Tony said, taping the gauze down. "Don't pick at it. If you get gangrene, I'm not amputating."
He looked up and found Loki studying him. The green eyes were less hazy now. There was a question in them. Why?
"Don't read into it," Tony deflected, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants. "I just don't want blood on my deck plating. It rusts."
He turned to leave.
Loki moved. He shifted his legs, wincing, and nudged the silver thermal blanket toward Tony with his foot.
Tony paused. "I'm fine. I have the climate control in the cockpit."
Loki nudged it again. Insistent.
Tony looked at the god. Loki was wrapped in the wool blanket, looking like a miserable, oversized burrito, but he was offering the second blanket back.
It was... a gesture. A transaction. You helped me. I acknowledge it. I do not wish to be in your debt.
Tony stared at the silver foil on the floor. He felt a lump in his throat he couldn't swallow.
"Keep it," Tony said roughly. "Make a pillow. You look uncomfortable."
He walked away fast, retreating to the safety of the cockpit door.
"JARVIS," he said, as the door hissed shut.
"Sir?"
"Lock the door. And... dim the lights in the hold to 10 percent. Let him sleep."
"Yes, Sir."
Tony sat in the pilot's chair. He didn't sleep. He pulled up the holographic display of the scroll—the Contract.
It spun in the air, a cage of glowing runes.
Owner: Anthony Edward Stark.
Property: Loki Laufeyson.
Tony stared at the words until they blurred. He hated them. He hated the universe that allowed them to exist.
"I'm going to fix this," he whispered to the stars. "I'm going to fix him. And then... then we'll see."
He touched the hologram, spinning it away.
In the cargo hold, buried under two blankets, the God of Mischief closed his eyes. He didn't sleep—gods in pain rarely do—but for the first time in two years, he rested without the fear of waking up to a whip.
The Icarus burned through the dark, carrying two broken men toward a home that neither of them was sure existed anymore.