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Admittedly, Tony wasn’t particularly receptive to new information when he was puking his guts out. So Loki standing behind him as he hovered over the toilet, trying not to hear the asshole’s words about fate and destiny and forever, was a little more than Tony could take.
“Shut up!” he finally managed between gags, barely believing it had come to this, hurling in his master bath while Loki God of Mischief, Lies, and Really Shitty Timing watched.
Fuck.
“Stark.” Yeah, Loki was still doing that calm-voiced thing that was so unlike him it only freaked Tony out more. “The longer you fight it, the worse you will feel.”
Tony flushed the toilet, stood, and managed a weak glare at the god-bastard as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I am not,” he gasped, “your soulmate.” Bent over slightly at the waist and braced his hands just above his knees. Fuck, his stomach still hurt. Everything hurt. “There is no such thing, you nasty, mojo-flinging sack of shit. Whatever you’re doing, just … fucking do it. Get it over with. But don’t think for a second I’m going to buy that we’re destined to be together.”
Oh, shit—he was gonna puke again. “Get out!” he croaked, before he did just that.
Didn’t quite make it to toilet that time.
When Tony saw Thor’s face, two days later, he knew it was bad. He’d been bedridden since Loki’s departure, with a steady stream of concerned visitors, friends, teammates, and doctors of medicine so specialized that their client base consisted solely of Avengers and X-Men. Their tones—all of them—had morphed slowly from the semiamused tolerance of Tony’s latest foibles to … yeah. The voices, the expressions of those who thought they might be saying goodbye.
No, he wouldn’t go to a hospital. Not when JARVIS said the attempts at treating the symptoms were all immediate failures. Not when Tony knew the cause was … fuck. Fuck Loki. Fuck Loki and his nasty mojo. Why go all this way—why wait so long—just to kill Tony too-slowly with a curse?
And then, here was Thor: “Tony, it is no curse.”
As if Tony wouldn’t believe Thor—Thor, who perhaps didn’t actually know how to lie--the enormous man rested a hand on Tony’s forearm where it lay over the sheet and blankets. A reassuring gesture, and not really reassuring in the least.
He explained, emphatically and in very simple words, that what Loki had said was true. Soulmates, rare on Asgard, almost nonexistent on Midgard, were bound together spiritually, emotionally, and physically. Predicting your soulmate was impossible. Breaking the bond, once set, also impossible.
Tony would weaken, sicken further, but linger, until he accepted the truth. Until he accepted the reach of Loki’s twisted heart.
Tony’s head sank back further into the pillows. He squeezed his eyes shut, pretended he didn’t care that Thor saw the tears streak down his temples into his hair. Felt Thor’s hand on his arm tighten and then rub, comfortingly, two or three times.
He drew in a breath—yeah, more like a gasp—and opened his eyes to look at Thor again. “Fuck, but … what if I hate him? Doesn't that count for ...anything? Why him?”
Thor actually snorted a bit, shook his head and patted Tony a little harder, more decisively. “If there is one thing I know about soulmates, Tony—and it is only what I’ve been told, since I have never been so blessed … “ He trailed off, offering Tony a small smile, another encouragement. “Bonds don’t form between those who truly despise each other.” He glanced behind himself, toward the open door, and … oh, Christ, Thor was here to present his brother’s suit. Of course he was.
Thor continued. “You may find you and Loki have more between you than you think.”
Tony wasn’t sure—really wasn’t sure—he was ready for what was on the other side of that door. Strange, lurking shithead. But Thor’s face was all earnestness, and his hand was reassuring, and … goddammit. It looked like yet another situation was totally out of his control.
Those sometimes worked out well. Sometimes.
Maybe.
“Fuck, okay.” Tony slowly pushed himself up against the headboard, let Thor help him arrange the pillows to support his back. Imagined—or not—that his headache, his stomach pains, and the misery in his heart were beginning to alleviate.
“Just … yeah.” He braced himself, then looked toward the door. “Send him in.”