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“I made it known to you, Stark,” Loki says, slowly, impassively, too loud. “I shan’t stand betrayals, and I do not grant forgiveness.”
He comes to a stop before Tony, tall and imposing, absinthian eyes giving nothing away, yet taking everything in. His gaze holds the cold detachment of the void, and such nothingness makes Tony shudder despite himself. Suddenly, he feels claustrophobic, like every mistake he’s ever made is clawing their way towards him, hungry for their payment due, searching without seeing.
‘I have nothing left to pay,’ his mind whispers unhelpfully, the unbidden truth weighs more than his lies ever could. ‘I already gave everything to him, and still it’s not enough.’
He cranes his neck to look into those eyes, and wonders what Loki sees now. Does he see the guilt in Tony’s mind, the pain sinking its teeth into his metal heart, or the love with its hands still steadfastly clamped around the mortal’s soul?
When there is nothing left to be done, Tony closes his eyes and waits, Loki’s name on his lips and hope burning him anew, asunder. His hands doesn’t stop shaking, his heart doesn’t stop thrumming and he thinks, ‘This is it. This is the final option.’
What he bites out instead, is this: “I can’t lose this time, Loki. I will win if it’s the last thing I do.” A shaky breath later, “Hear that, you bastard? I’m not losing you.”
He flinches when Loki runs the back of his fingers over one cheek, not because he fears, but because he must. It was that way with the God, even from the beginning.
“Is that so, my own little deceiver?” Loki asks, watching him. His voice is eerily quiet. “And what game do you propose this time round, hmn?”
The God of Chaos’s hand finds itself on the shorter man’s belly, and Tony lets out a stuttering breath. This time, the thing clotting at the back of his throat is undeniably fear.
‘He knows.’ Tony’s mind supplies, voicing his dread. He shouldn’t be surprised, really, Loki always knows; what he decides to do with that knowledge in his current frame of mind, however, is both questionable and horrifying.
“Know this, Stark, that should you lose,” he leans in closer and wraps his arms around Tony lazily, dropping a soft kiss on the inventor’s hair, “I will tear that child out of you with my bare hands while you struggle and bleed.”
He continues, tightening his hold just so.
“My heir shall not suffer being carried by a wretched creature who would betray its father.” He hisses, hands sliding down, pressing bruises into Tony’s hips. It is deserved, this violence. He had been gentle to Tony, before, but that ship has sailed.
“You would kill your own child just to – ” Tony’s voice breaks then, and his tears fall without choice. How could he ever think this could end well? Naivety has never been a trait of his, yet he hoped.
“Yes, I would.” The God lets go of him and smiles, showing his teeth. “You’d better not lose then, Iron Man.”