Chapter Text
Tony was not moping.
He was reading.
Lying in this … whatever this was? This … “chaise lounge” in his living room, clutching his tablet, suit jacket and tie discarded somewhere, and finally catching up on the Steve Jobs bio he’d wanted to read the year before, but never had time to deal with. That afternoon, he’d told Pepper, with her red eyes and wringing hands, that everyone else could deal with the fallout. He was going to take some free time--”take a day, dammit. I’m owed a fucking day”--to look for some fresh inspiration on leadership.
Oh, it was bullshit, of course: He was hoping to find some validation on being a jerk while inspiring devotion in everyone else. He and Jobs had had a conversation or two on the very topic, Steve becoming more circumspect and sullen over his carrot juice and Tony getting louder and more gregarious as he worked his way through the bar.
Tony knew: Being a jerk suited him. And he wanted to keep that going. It was something he wanted to call on in times like this--something to have in his proverbial arsenal. Looking up from time to time in the hours after Loki’d bailed, he inventoried the houseguests--the reporters gone first, Asgard contingent next, then the SHIELD hangers-on, and then Pepper--worries decidedly not assuaged but needed back on the East Coast regardless.
It’s possible, yes, that he wasn’t entirely attentive. He held the reader on the same page for longer and longer periods of time as the noise in the house faded, as the shadows lengthened and sunlight turned golden. It had been … some time, because when he shook his head back to awareness, Bruce was sitting, cross-legged, at the end of the lounge. Glasses sliding down his nose, he was holding--and probably actually reading--his own thick magazine, a journal, pages folded back into a tight curl.
The sun was nearly down.
“Oh, hey,” Tony said, poking Bruce’s knee with his toe. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“About half an hour.” Bruce looked up, smiled gently. Tony realized that, somewhere in there, he had actually moved his feet to make room for Bruce, and he admired both Bruce’s calm stealth and his own complete tune-out.
Tony set the tablet on his lap. “Everyone finally gone?”
“Yep. Thor left early with the Asgardians. Steve, Nat, and Clint flew back with Fury and Coulson.”
“And … you’re still here?” He resolutely tried not to start thinking of travel logistics, because someone else needed to deal with the fallout, goddammit.
Bruce gave him a patient look, waiting for the wheels to stop spinning long enough for Tony to pay attention. “To make sure you’re okay. Not gonna fade away into feeling sorry for yourself, Havisham-style.”
Tony cringed. “Oh, Bruce--Brucie. Don’t … bring the Dickens allusions in here, okay? If anything, I’m going out like The Bride--yellow track suit, big-ass sword, Yakuza.” He wiggled his hand. “Five-point-palm exploding-heart technique.”
Bruce slid into his cheesiest, drippiest tone: “Is your heart exploding, Tony?”
Tony scoffed, prodded Bruce’s knee again. “No. That fucker did me a favor. But I can’t help but think … “
“Oh, God, don’t think.”
“Ha, nice. No, I can’t help but think, Bruuce--I’m married. Marrrrriiied. And I don’t get to have sex. It’s like … It’s the worst of both worlds, Bruce. Married, no sex.”
“I dunno--some people would say every marr--”
“Don’t. Don’t go for the easy joke. You’re above that, Mean Joe.”
Bruce snorted. “Yeah, okay.” His sheepish expression and lopsided, kind smile was why Tony found Bruce the easiest of all the Avengers to … just hang out with, despite the fact that, at a hair-trigger’s notice, Bruce could rip his head off, pull out his spine, and floss with it. Tony resolutely did not let his resulting inner shudder show on his own face.
A little frown crossed Bruce’s brow--he had guessed Tony was thinking something, but (probably) not what it was. Tony prodded him again. “So, why do you think he did this? I mean, if he could have married anyone--”
“I don’t think he wanted to marry anyone.” Bruce looked out the window. “I think he wanted--” He was looking for the nice words, Tony could tell, because that was how Bruce rolled. “I think he wanted to make a scene, obviously--to thumb his nose at us.”
“But why me, Bruce? I mean, I’m married to the fucker now. And vice versa. Fury says he can make it go away, but … Goddamn it. I’m gonna be like fucking Rochester, hiding the crazy lady in the attic forever. Just because I pissed him off the most?”
He got a snort. “Oh, so I can’t do Dickens, but you can namecheck Brontë?” Bruce shook his head, and then sorted carefully through more words. “I don’t know, Tone. But … maybe you should just take it as a compliment. A fucked-up, evil-Norse-god-style compliment. I mean, I pulverized the guy’s spine, but he didn’t offer to put a ring on my finger. Whatever you did … it got his attention.” Tony just grunted.
They sat quietly for a minute, both looking out over the ocean horizon. Finally, Bruce said, “You wanna go get some dinner?”
Tony shook his head, looked back down at the tablet’s reflective surface. “No, I think I’m going to stay here for awhile. Lie here. And, eventually, eat cake.”
Bruce sputtered a surprised laugh. “Really? Cake? Like, the wedding cake.”
“Yeah,” Tony said hopefully. “Is there any of it left?”
“Tony, the whole thing’s left. No one wanted to eat the cake … after.”
“That’s a lie, Bruce. Everyone wanted to eat the cake--they just didn’t want to admit it.” Bruce shrugged, smiling, and Tony pressed forward. “It’s on a table with wheels, right? Like, casters?” He made a twisty motion with his fingers. “Roll that whole thing over here. And bring me a fork.”
“Hm,” Bruce pretended to think. “How about, there’s a giant tray of cold cuts in the fridge, and some of that fancy roll bread with weird seeds on it. And good mustard. I’ll make you a sandwich.” Tony brightened, but Bruce continued: “And leave it in the kitchen, so you get off of this stupid chair.”
“It’s not stupid. It’s a chaise lounge.”
“Not winning your argument for you, Tony.” Bruce stood up and dropped his magazine on the nearby table, where it unrolled in a shuffle of paper. “I’m gonna go get some work done--maybe you’ll be ready to head back tomorrow?”
Tony gave in, nodding.
“Good, okay. See you later.” On his way into the kitchen, he called back over his shoulder, “Eat something. And stop moping!”
“Not moping! Reading!” Tony waved his tablet in the air in the direction where Bruce used to be.
***
Tony went looking for the sandwich a half-hour later. As he passed into the kitchen, a movement in the corner--a something-that-shouldn’t-have-been-there shape--drew his eye. He froze, hand reaching for the sandwich plate on the counter, as he discovered the God of Mischief sitting at the breakfast table.
The cold spiraled down Tony’s spine, following the same, confusing path as the kiss had just--God, just that morning. Seven hours later. Shortest marriage ever--that would be something for the cover of People.
“You here to kill me?”
The corner of Loki’s mouth drew up, a dry, predatory look. “If I were, you would already have been flayed alive.” He paused. “Or, possibly exsanguinated on that … fainting couch.” Oh. Tony now knew what a “moue of distaste” looked like.
“It’s a chaise lounge.” Okay, that look? Pure scorn. His odds of going through another window might just have notched up a bit. On the other hand … He looked. Loki was … eating cake, the little plastic two-groom topper standing on a napkin close at hand. Tony sighed. If Loki meant to kill him--immediately--he probably wouldn’t have stopped for buttercream and almond filling.
“Hey--I don’t think you earned that.” Tony shot over his shoulder as he picked up the plate and examined the sandwich.
“Oh, believe me, Stark: I earned it.” The fork clinked on the china.
Tony set his plate back down on the bar, then picked up two glasses that were inverted on a towel and headed to the fridge for some water. “What--no ‘my love,’ ‘my superhero’ nonsense anymore?”
“You’re my spouse now. The romance has died.”
Tony rolled his eyes. “You guys. Always with the easy jokes.” He set one of the filled glasses next to Loki, the second at the place across the table, and fetched his own sandwich. “So, I know I’m going to regret asking this, but … you know, you probably could have married anyone, is how I see it. You’re not … bad-looking--” And that? Was a “bitch, please” look. “--and you can tamp down the crazy pretty hard when you want to.” He pulled out the chair and sat, asking the question when they were at eye-level, “So, this was all a joke to you, right?”
Loki offered a thin smile. “Oh, definitely not. Not … all a joke.” He dipped his head, conceding: “Yes, I needed to loosen the All-Father’s bonds on me, and this served quite nicely.” He looked at Tony then. “They made me a puppet, and I no longer wanted to have my strings pulled.”
Tony sighed, looked down at his plate. He was already tired of this conversation and really wanted Loki gone. Again. “Fair enough.” He picked up the sandwich. “Just … shut up and eat, husband.”
To Tony’s surprise, Loki capitulated, and they ate in silence. The god eventually picked up the glass and drank from it--cautiously--giving Tony a careful, assessing look as he set it back down. “I must ask you, husband--” Still that tone. “--why you agreed to the proposal Odin made to your leader. You and your allies expended much effort trying to convince me mortals value free will. Are you that frightened of your superior’s wrath?”
Tony snorted. “Wow--I can’t even begin to tell you all the things that are wrong with that sentence.” He threw his napkin on the table, leaned back in the chair. “I guess I just wanted to know what you would do. I wasn’t … Well. Now I know.” After a last look, Tony pushed away from the table, and grabbed his plate for the sink. “Alright. Great talking to ya. So--we’ll, uh, see you around.” After a moment: “Or not.”
Tony turned--jumped, when Loki was suddenly standing right in front of him. Fucking teleportation. The god stared down at him, cold-eyed. “You think I’m leaving.”
Oh, fuck. Tony knew this moment--and it was going one of two ways. Death or-- “I think you already left,” he said, standing his ground, plate awkwardly in hand.
Loki leaned toward him. “Perhaps I like it here.” He took the plate from Tony’s hand, slid it into the counter behind him.
At Loki’s movement, Tony pulled away, just a hair. Testing. Then, pointedly: “Perhaps you got what you wanted, and it’s time to go.”
“But I haven’t gotten everything I wanted.” Loki’s voice was teasing, but dark. Insinuating. “We’re not truly married. Yet.”
Oh, so … not death. Fuck. The low note in Loki’s voice, heavy and fluid, had gone straight through him, to stir and heat in a hidden place beneath his belly. Tony looked down at his cock and said, “God, really?!” in a tone of sheer disgust. Of course, he did this in his head, because anything other than that would just have been embarrassing.
“Uh,” Tony offered, out loud this time. “I’m not a cake. You definitely haven’t earned me.”
Loki reached for his left hand, where he found the ring Tony hadn’t taken off (yet. He hadn’t taken it off yet). He twisted it gently on Tony’s finger, pads of Loki’s own fingertips stroking the skin they brushed. “Mm. Maybe not, but I want you.” A wide smile. “And I have the most certain feeling that it is mutual. Is that really not enough?” Tony maintained his position, and, with a last, very small step, Loki loomed over him. Seven inches--of height--made quite a dizzying difference. Loki’s breath, warm on his face, was all sweetness, vanilla-scented--as innocent as the being himself was not. “Weren’t you already imagining what we would do on our wedding night?”
Tony's fingers twisted up to tangle with Loki's. “Maybe.” Tony decidedly didn’t squeak when Loki then reached arms around him, hands sliding down his back and settling confidently on Tony’s ass with a possessive hold. “You don’t--uhh--you don’t feel prickly. That's--good.” He squirmed in the grip, felt the resulting squeeze. “Oh, you’re handsy,” Tony breathed, admiration settling heavy in his voice. His own hands reached for Loki’s upper arms, solid underneath the black leather and green cloth sheathing them.
Loki, encouraged, backed Tony up to the counter, their bodies pushing aside barstools with a series of loud screeches on the wood floor. Tony shot one arm out behind him, blindly feeling first for the counter and then the nearest stool, which he pulled desperately behind him, something to lean against. The other arm he kept around Loki, holding him close as they shifted.
Loki hummed his approval, maneuvering Tony up against the padded seat. Tony barely worked himself out of the fog of arousal long enough to hear, “You have the tradition of the honeymoon, do you not?” Loki nipped his jawline, where the stubble had started to grow back despite Pepper’s best efforts. He pulled Tony further into his embrace, lifting first one, and then the other of Tony’s legs around his own hips. “How long do those usually last, in your culture?”
“Uh,” Tony gasped stupidly at the resulting--glorious--sensation, pressed between the stool and the wall of muscle and heat. He could hardly make sense of the words. Then: “A week,” he said finally. Then, catching on, “Maybe two.”
Loki pulled him in harder, and, with Tony’s ass in his hands, moved them together with the sweetest, hottest friction. “Then I will stay for a week.” An eyebrow raised. “Maybe two.”
Tony half-forgot what they were talking about, just for a moment. “And,” he gasped, “... after that?”
“After that, we’ll have to … renegotiate.” A particularly vicious thrust briefly silenced him. He finally added: ” ... the terms of our union.”
Tony chuckled as he reached up for Loki’s hair, pulling sharply on it. “Oh, God, I think … I think I just married a traveling salesman.”
A line of confusion settled on Loki’s brow, even as he kept moving them together, a good rhythm that made further debate of questionable value. Tony continued anyway: “A girl--or guy, whatever--in every little town with a train depot and five-and-dime. All of us ignorant of each other.”
Loki’s confusion alleviated--somewhat--and he said, “You think you were a tool. A pawn.” His eyes slid over Tony’s face, his hair, and one hand came up to tweak an earlobe sharply. He chuckled at Tony’s little noise, then, more seriously: “You were. … But--”
Tony pulled Loki’s hand away from his ear, took his wrist and settled it back behind him. “‘But?’”
He got a sharp bite just behind the same ear. Then, a whisper: “You were also a choice. You will not be rid of me so easily as that.”
“Glad to--” He twisted at the next bite, fruitlessly trying to move his tender skin away from the unforgiving teeth. “Glad to know it.”
Loki pulled Tony off the stool, brushing lips against his forehead as Tony’s feet hit the floor. “So, my husband, have you considered what you want to do tonight?”
Tony thought about Clint’s obscene warnings, Coulson’s offered escape hatch … and, hands capturing Loki’s face, he brought the god’s mouth down for another kiss. When their lips parted, he said, simply, “Everything.”
***
In a galaxy far, far away, about an hour later, Odin was lying in bed. At his visible cringe and gasp, Frigga turned to him and touched his arm. “Are you well, my husband?”
The old man’s face smoothed out, and his sigh was one of deep relief. “It is done.” He patted her hand to reassure her. Then, after a moment, “And, might I say, wife, that that must be the most disturbing of all the abilities I have.” He made another, exaggerated face at her knowing smile.
He watched her roll back over to go to sleep. Then, shaking his head to himself, he added, “Just … ew.”