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The last reminders of daylight have already faded by the time Tony makes it back to the tower.
There is finality in the clunk of metal on metal as he lands, listing dangerously to the left. The faceplate obscures a sigh that could be mistaken for a hitched sob under the wrong (right?) assumptions. He stumbles forward and triggers the disassembly protocol, but the mechanical arms are struggling to cope with his badly dented armor; the plate over his left thigh isn’t giving and the right shoulder doesn’t come free until the arm has practically lifted him off his feet. So much for elegant design, he thinks.
The body beneath the armor isn’t in significantly better shape. Without the suit's support, Tony is sagging, shoulders slumped forward and head barely level. He hobbles through the glass door into his penthouse and surveys his domain.
Not much has changed since he’d left almost 36 hours earlier. As he makes his way slowly toward the bedroom, he notes a glass of scotch sitting in the wet ring of its own sweat, half-finished on the living room coffee table. His clothes lie in a heap at the foot of his bed where he'd shed them in favor of the bodysuit. He'd guessed correctly from the tone of Fury's call that the fight would be a long one.
Like clockwork (Tony suspects some kind of alarm spell), his more-time-than-sometime-lover comes through the door to the bedroom and Tony’s face crumples. “Fuck, Loki. I can’t,” he mutters, eyes downcast. “Not tonight. I’m feeling pretty breakable.” Is this fear? Maybe. It wouldn't be wholly unwarranted: last week he’d had to replace the headboard, and a week prior, two barstools and the living room coffee table. Tony does not have strength enough for a god right now:
A marathon lab session had come before 36 hours of flying and dodging and hostages and stress. They’d slept and worked in shifts, but it was tense, shitty work. Too many people had been lost even before the Avengers had arrived, and Fury’s expression had been pinched as he briefed them, the permanent furrow of his brow deeper than usual. “Not another fucking one, you hear me?” And they’d nodded angrily because 36 hours ago there had been enough energy to spend on anger. They’d been flush with adrenaline and itching to fight.
Back in his penthouse, Tony is sliding into a pit of exhaustion. Maybe Loki knows this already, because instead of the sniping reply Tony is expecting, Loki says nothing and just watches him, one eyebrow raised slightly and expression unreadable.
“Follow me,” Loki says after enough time has stretched to make Tony uncomfortable. He turns toward the bedroom and heads into the master bathroom, assuming (correctly) that Tony will follow. Tony crosses the threshold just in time to watch, stupefied, as Loki strides over to the large jacuzzi tub, still outfitted in full Asgardian regalia, and turns on the water as if this were somehow a routine thing that they did. The large tub begins to fill slowly, steam rising from the water’s surface and filling the room with a balmy warmth that lulls Tony into almost forgetting that he is sharing his bathroom with the leader of Earth’s first genuine alien invasion.
Seemingly satisfied with the water situation, Loki turns to Tony and regards him mildly. The air starts to take on an unfamiliar herbal scent, rising with the steam. Magic. It’s mint and rosemary and something else Tony is unable to name.
“I see” Tony says to fill the silence, though he doesn’t really see at all. “Planning to cook me?”
Loki rolls his eyes “Come here,” he commands in reply. His hands are everywhere on Tony before Tony can consent to it, pressing, flexing, testing. His eyes narrow. “You’ve let yourself become injured. I do not appreciate it but I will allow it, this once. Do be more careful in the future, hm? I’d hate for my attentions to be delayed by your shoddy mortal body and its needs.”
Hands that, just a week prior, had lifted him roughly and pinned his neck to the penthouse’s all-too-familiar glass walls in the middle of another bruising session unzip the back of his bodysuit gently. Loki peels away each half of the black fabric, careful to avoid the majority of dark purple bruises now spreading across Tony’s ribs and back. Tony steps out of the sweaty garment and stands, naked in the bathroom and feeling rather small.
Loki snaps a finger, whisking his own clothing off into some nether dimension, probably. Always the same hand, a distant part of Tony’s brain notes with curiosity, maybe this works like writing. He only has seconds to appreciate Loki’s very naked person before he finds himself rising inexplicably into the air and floating toward the tub.
“You know I hate your voodoo, child.” Tony snarks from mid-air, hovering above the water’s surface.
“Suit yourself,” Loki shrugs and cancels the spell.
Tony drops like a person-shaped stone being thrown into a lake, sending gallons of steaming water splashing across the tiles. After a few seconds of decidedly undignified flailing, he resurfaces, sputtering. “Bastard.”
Loki’s mouth twitches in the hint of a smile. “Given your bruising and three cracked ribs, I had assumed it would be the least painful way to escort you to your bath. My apologies for assuming incorrectly.” He approaches the edge of the tub and steps gingerly into the hot water behind Tony. Only it isn’t just water,Tony realizes. His skin is starting to tingle, intensely at first like his whole body is asleep, before the tingling settles into a pleasant, almost effervescent sensation. Tony stretches his legs across the bottom of the tub and feels his aches subside.
Loki lowers himself into a sitting position, exhaling as he adjusts to the water’s heat. They’ve thrown all their usual scripts away so Tony isn’t sure what to expect next. He starts to turn in an effort to gauge Loki’s expression, but Loki puts a hand on his head and forces it forward once more.
“Do you not trust me, Stark?” Loki asks, voice almost playful. “Tilt your head back, don’t turn it.”
There’s the snap of a cap popping open, the unmistakable phthupft of shampoo being squeezed from a bottle, and then Loki’s hands are on his head, working the stuff into his sweaty hair and massaging his scalp. Tony stifles a moan. Beyond the sheer relief of Loki’s strong fingers working his skin is the shock of intimacy. They’ve fucked in a hundred rooms across Manhattan, thrown each other against walls and furniture, tied each other up, and stripped each other down physically, verbally, mentally, but this, this is something altogether different and infinitely more dangerous.
The pleasant tingle of the water mixed with the heat and the steady rhythm of Loki’s fingers working his scalp and temples and neck are too much, and Tony allows himself to groan with pleasure. His limbs are heavy and his eyelids droop.
“You know,” he slurs, leaning back, “In anyone else but you this kind of treatment might get mistaken for attachment.”
Loki barks a short laugh in response, but the pitch is off. Tony won’t think about it until later. For now he is content to close his eyes and let himself drift. He takes a deep breath. The air is minty.
_____________________________
Tony wakes as he is being deposited in bed. The sheets are soft beneath his fingertips, and he doesn’t open his eyes. The mattress dips with the weight of a god. Loki’s hands are on him again, expertly tweaking joints and lifting limbs, checking for any missed breaks or bruising. Tony starts to lean into the contact, but the weight lifts and Tony feels its lack.
His eyes snap open and he makes a pass at Loki’s hand, grazing cool skin but failing to catch hold. Tony’s muscles are loose from Loki’s ministrations and his last waking memories before this moment are of Loki’s hand carefully shielding his eyes as he rinsed the remaining shampoo from Tony’s hair. Somewhere inside him aches.
“Stay,” he asks, eyes seeking Loki’s. This is not pleading, he promises himself, and maybe Loki, too, by extension. It is not a request that Tony would make in the light of day, under their usual circumstances, but Loki had blown past usual when he decided to play bathtime with his favorite Avenger.
Loki looks down at him from 100 miles away, wearing his armor once more. His expression is shuttered, almost condescending in its utter blankness. "Let us not make any pretenses about what this is and is not, hm, Stark?"
Tony withdraws his hand. “No.” The word comes out with more emotion than he’d intended, and he remedies it. “No, of course not.”
The orange glow of the city pours into the darkened room, illuminating Loki’s pale, perfect face: cool like marble, and unyielding. A thousand alternate universes spin out in Tony’s mind, where he says the right words and doesn’t spend the night alone. Loki takes a step backward and pauses, maybe to consider the offers of a thousand better versions of Tony. He vanishes into the night.