Archive of Our Own

I.

“You do realize,” Loki said, not looking up from his book, “that today is your ridiculous Midgardian holiday, celebrating romantic love through capitalist excess and unnecessarily expensive flowers?”

Tony didn’t lift his eyes from the holographic display.

“Valentine’s Day. Yeah, I’m aware. Jarvis has been fending off the press all morning; they’re asking if Iron Man has a ‘someone special.’”

“And what did you tell them?”

“That I’m in a serious relationship with Science, and she’s very demanding.” Tony rotated the display, frowning at the energy readings. “And also—that they should mind their own business, though I said it more politely because I promised Pepper I’d stop terrorizing journalists.”

Loki finally looked up, arching a single eyebrow.

“Such restraint.”

They were in Tony’s workshop—their workshop, really, though Loki would never admit to such a proprietary definition. Two in the afternoon, February fourteenth. Tony was in an oil-stained AC/DC t-shirt and jeans with suspicious scorch marks. Loki, draped across a chair like an offended aristocrat—all in black, image must be maintained—was reading Sartre in the original French, because he was a pretentious sort.

Essentially, it was their perfect day.

At least, the “safe” part of it. Tony had intentionally locked himself in the workshop early, trying not to think about the fact that in five hours, he faced either the triumph of the year or (more likely) the most exquisite form of suicide in history: an attempt to take a disgraced god out in public.

“Listen, uh.” Tony cleared his throat and set down a tool he hadn’t actually been using. “I got you something. Thought I should give it to you now, just in case you want to... I don’t know, throw it at my head.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed with suspicion so pure it was almost beautiful.

“Why would I throw it at your head?”

“Well, it’s either a very thoughtful gesture or a very presumptuous one, and in your case, the odds of either ending in violence are about fifty-fifty.”

“A fair assessment.” Loki closed his book—Sartre, apparently, would have to wait—and looked at Tony with those impossible green eyes. “Well then, present it.”

Tony reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a thin parcel wrapped in dark green paper—not emerald, that would be too obvious, but forest green, deep and rich. He approached slowly, telegraphing every step, and stopped exactly three feet from Loki’s chair.

Three feet. Always three feet. It was their rule, their unspoken contract. Tony never approached closer without permission, never reached for him without warning, never violated his space. Not after that first week when Thor had tried to hug Loki, and he had turned so white Tony thought he was going to collapse. Not after Tony realized: the Void and Thanos had taught Loki that an unexpected touch meant pain.

So. The customary distance.

Tony held out the parcel at arm’s length, precluding any ambiguity.

Loki looked at the gift as if there were a snake lurking inside or, worse, Thor’s head.

“What is it?”

“Well, if I tell you, what’s the point of the wrapping?”

“It could be anything. A severed head. Explosives. One of those plush bears that sing irritating songs.”

“Okay, first off: why is ‘severed head’ your first guess? Second: that says a lot about you. Third: just open it before I die of anticipation.”

Loki took the parcel, making sure his fingers didn’t brush Tony’s. He unwrapped the paper with the precision of a surgeon—even opening gifts had to look aristocratically dignified.

Inside was a book. A first edition of “Jenseits von Gut und Böse” in German, 1886.

Loki froze. Entirely. Even his breathing stopped for a second, and Tony registered this with the slight panic of a man unsure if the reaction was good or bad. Consequently, he shifted from foot to foot, suddenly nervous.

“So, uh. I noticed last month that you were reading the English translation. And you mentioned—specifically, you said—that the translator had the ‘linguistic sensitivity of an extremely stupid boulder’ and that Nietzsche would have stabbed himself if he saw it. Dark, obviously, but funny. And I thought—the original. First edition. I have a guy who knows a guy in Munich who deals in rare books and might be involved in a couple of legally questionable schemes, but...”

Tony was rambling. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop.

“...if you don’t like it, or if it’s weird, or if I overstepped, I can take it back and we can pretend this never happened and...”

“It is magnificent,” Loki interrupted, his voice so quiet Tony barely heard him.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Loki’s fingers finally touched the cover, tracing the German title with something dangerously close to reverence. “I... I didn’t expect...”

He trailed off, and Tony realized with growing horror that Loki might be about to get sentimental. And that—no, that wasn’t... Loki didn’t do sentimental. Loki did sarcastic, sharp, occasionally homicidal, but not this.

“Hey, it’s just a book,” Tony said quickly, giving him an out. “An old book. A dead philosopher. No big deal.”

“It is not just a book.” Loki looked up, and there was something terrifyingly naked in his eyes. “You remembered. Something I said in passing, something I had nearly forgotten myself. You remembered and...” He stopped, swallowing hard. “Thank you, Tony.”

And oh god—his name, not one of Loki’s numerous creative insults, but his name, spoken softly and sincerely, without the usual sarcasm. It did something catastrophic to Tony’s ribcage.

“Yeah, well.” Tony rocked back on his heels, maintaining his three feet of safety. “Happy Valentine’s. Or, you know. Happy Thursday. Happy continued existence in my Tower. Whatever we’re calling it.”

“Come here,” Loki said suddenly.

Tony’s brain hit a “blue screen of death.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Come here. Closer than your absurd three-foot rule allows.” Loki watched him with those sharp eyes, and beneath the command lay something clearly vulnerable. “If you are comfortable, of course. If you want to.”

If he wants to.

Tony had wanted nothing else for the last nine months. Nine months of watching Loki flinch at Thor, seeing him turn to stone when Clint moved too fast, watching him cautiously navigate a world where bodies were weapons and touch was violence.

Nine months Tony had spent learning to be patient, to ask, to wait. To prove that not all hands caused pain.

And now Loki himself was asking him to close the distance.

Tony’s throat tightened.

“Are you sure?”

“No. But I want to try.”

Well, yeah. Okay. Tony could work with that.

He took one step forward. Then another. Slowly enough that Loki could track every movement, could stop him at any moment. Until he was close enough to touch—he didn’t, but he stood so close he could see every breath Loki took.

Close enough to see the thin silvery scars on Loki’s hands (from what? from where? Tony never asked, never pushed, but always wondered). Close enough to smell that expensive tea Loki always drank. Close enough for his pulse to thunder in his ears.

Loki slowly raised his hand, telegraphing the movement the way Tony always did—the way Tony had taught him without realizing it, simply by setting an example, by being careful.

His palm came to rest on Tony’s cheek, cool and steady, and Tony stopped breathing altogether.

“Thank you,” Loki repeated, his thumb brushing over Tony’s cheekbone with devastating tenderness. “For seeing me. For knowing what I want before I know it myself. For paying attention to the things I barely admit are important.”

Tony’s brain had officially left the building. All higher functions were offline. Only this remained: Loki’s hand on his face, a cool palm against his skin, a thumb tracing small circles.

“It’s... I just... it was just a book...” Tony managed to choke out.

“It was not just a book.” Loki’s hand lingered for a moment longer, then slid away, and Tony immediately began to miss it. “But you know that yourself.”

Tony did know. He knew what it was: I see you, I remember you, the little things you let slip matter to me. He knew it was nine months of attention compressed into one perfect gesture.

His heart beat out something complex and arrhythmic, and for the first time, it had nothing to do with the arc reactor.

“Right,” Tony exhaled. “I need... uh. I need to go drink a gallon of coffee, probably. Don’t go far.”

Loki only inclined his head knowingly, returning to his Nietzsche, while Tony fled to his workbench, feeling his cheeks burn.

II.

By four o’clock, Tony realized two things: first, he hadn’t eaten since morning, and second, if he didn’t voice his plan for the evening right now, he was going to chicken out. So, he lured Loki upstairs under the pretext of: “Normal people eat, and we should at least pretend to be normal, otherwise Jarvis will start lecturing me on metabolism.” Loki rolled his eyes but followed.

In the living room, Loki wasn’t in a hurry to sit down. He paused by the kitchen island, leaning his back against the polished countertop and crossing his arms. He just stood there, watching Stark’s every move with that unblinking gaze, in which a strange mixture of recent gratitude and habitual skepticism still swirled.

Tony, because he was physically incapable of just standing still, pulled a “first aid kit” for robots out of a kitchen cabinet. DUM-E had crashed into something again that morning, and now Tony was trying to straighten a bent bracket right there on the island, shoving a piece of stale donut into his mouth with one hand.

“So,” Tony began, trying to sound casual and failing miserably, “I have an idea for tonight.”

Loki didn’t change his posture; his gaze only grew a bit colder.

“Categorically no.”

Tony didn’t even look surprised. He just sighed and applied himself with redoubled effort to forcing the stubborn metal back into place. “You know, generally, people actually listen to the end of a question before rejecting an offer.”

“I do not need to hear it. The answer is no.” Loki tightened his fingers on his own forearms, locking into a pose he likely considered entirely impenetrable.

To Tony, he just looked like an offended cat. A beautiful, infuriating, offended cat that was about to hiss at him.

“See, here’s the thing,” Tony said in his most reasonable voice (which he suspected Loki interpreted as Stark being about to do something completely reckless), “I was going to suggest going out for dinner. Somewhere nice. Because it’s Valentine’s Day, and that’s what couples do.”

“We are not a couple.”

“We’re a ‘something.’” Tony set down his tools and turned to Loki. “And that ‘something’ has spent every evening together for the last nine months, which in my book qualifies as at least ‘couple-adjacent.’”

“Your understanding is flawed.”

“My understanding has great reviews on Amazon. Four point seven stars.”

Loki rubbed the bridge of his nose—a gesture he had definitely picked up from Tony, though he’d sooner die than admit it.

“I cannot simply leave the Tower. I am under house arrest. Or have you forgotten the vibranium and uru cuff that reports my location to S.H.I.E.L.D. every second of every day?”

“And that’s where you’re wrong.” Tony smirked with his signature I-already-solved-this-problem look. “I got permission from Fury.”

Loki snapped his head up so sharply Tony heard his neck crack.

“You did what?”

“Called him three days ago,” Tony explained. “Well, technically, I called him three times, because the first two times he didn’t pick up—presumably he saw my name and chose violence. Но on the third try he answered, and I said, ‘Hey, Fury, I want to take Loki to dinner for Valentine’s because I’m trying to do this whole relationship thing right and not screw up like I usually screw up everything else.’”

Tony began to parody Fury’s voice—it was terrible.

“And he said, quote: ‘Stark, I hate you.’ Then there was this very long pause where I could literally hear him aging in real time. And then he said I could take you to one of three approved restaurants provided there’s S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance, a GPS tracker, and personal guarantees that if anything goes sideways, he’ll hold me accountable to the full extent of the law.”

“How romantic.”

“Right? That’s what I told him. He hung up.” Tony’s smirk widened. “But then he sent the restaurant list and the protocols, so in Fury-speak, that means: ‘Have a nice time, kids.’”

Loki arched an eyebrow.

“You mean to say that Director Fury—a man who once claimed he would sooner eat his own eye than do you a favor—gave us permission for a date?”

“Well, he also made me promise to fill out a thirty-page post-mission report, but yeah. Deep down, he’s a total romantic.” Tony paused. “Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll shoot me.”

“I might shoot you myself.”

“Yeah, but you’d feel guilty afterward. Fury wouldn’t.”

Loki’s lips twitched betrayingly.

“And Thor? I assume he is also involved in this scheme?”

“Thor is over the moon. Seriously, I thought he was going to cry when I told him.” Tony’s voice softened slightly. “He’s trying really hard, you know? With that ‘ask-before-touching’ rule. Respecting your space. He practiced on me for an hour yesterday: ‘Brother, may I approach? Brother, will you allow me to embrace you?’ It was weird, formal, and... sweet, in its own way.”

A complex range of emotions flickered across Loki’s face.

“He is trying.”

“He’s going above and beyond. Even sent me a text—all heart emojis and the phrase ‘I AM QUITE PLEASED WITH YOUR COURTSHIP.’ In all caps. I think he broke the Shift key on his phone.”

Loki made a sound that resembled a chuckle.

“Absurdity.”

“Complete.” Tony also leaned against the counter, still observing the safe three-foot distance. “Look, I know it’s not the dream. I know you’d rather chew glass than go out under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s watch. But I thought... I don’t know. Maybe it’ll be nice? To do something normal? To pretend for one night that you’re not under arrest and I’m not obsessed with the idea of maniacally respecting personal boundaries?”

Loki studied him for a long, intense moment, and Tony tried his best not to fidget under that piercing stare.

“Why?” Loki finally asked. “Why is this so important to you?”

“Because...” Tony trailed off, choosing his words carefully. This was important. He couldn’t ruin it with his usual verbal diarrhea. “Because you deserve something nice. Because nine months ago, you could barely stand to have another person in the room, and now you’re here, with me. And that’s... that’s a huge step. Incredible progress. And I want to celebrate that. With wine, mediocre food, and maybe—if you’ll let me—holding your hand.”

Loki’s expression became indescribable. Soft, vulnerable, and frightened all at once.

And that was... okay, that was the second time today. The second time in nine months Loki had looked at him like that, and both times happened today, on Valentine’s Day. This meant one of two things: either Tony was doing everything damn well right, or he was irrevocably ruining everything, and for the life of him, he couldn’t tell which.

First the book. Now this.

Tony was beginning to seriously fear that he had somehow managed to “break” Loki just by acting like a human being toward him. The thought itself was depressing and spoke more eloquently than any dossier about what Loki was actually used to. Side note: find whoever tortured him in the Void and introduce them to the business end of a repulsor. Second note: stop panicking, this is supposed to be romantic.

“You want to hold my hand,” Loki repeated slowly. “In public.”

“In a private room, but in public. Yeah.” Tony shifted from one foot to the other. “If you’re comfortable. If you want to. No pressure. We can just eat, talk, and keep our standard three-foot perimeter if that’s better.”

“And if I am not ready?” Loki’s voice grew quieter. “If I agree to dinner, but I cannot... if touch is too much?”

“Then we won’t touch,” Tony answered immediately. “We’ll sit across from each other, eat fancy food, argue about whether Italian wine is overrated, and come home. It’s not about the touching. It’s about spending time together somewhere outside the Tower. Showing you that the world beyond these walls can be safe, too.”

Loki was silent for a long time, then finally said:

“An Italian restaurant. In Tribeca.”

Tony’s heart did an acrobatic flip.

“Yes?”

“Yes. But...” Loki raised a finger. “You will tell no one except Fury and his surveillance detail. Especially not the other Avengers. I will not endure Rogers’ earnest comments on healthy relationships or Romanoff’s knowing looks.”

“Deal. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“I was a very dedicated Boy Scout for exactly three weeks until I got kicked out for rewiring all the pinewood derby cars.” Tony’s smile was radiant. “Seven o’clock. Wear something that makes me forget how to form coherent sentences.”

“Stark, I achieve that even in sweatpants.”

“Yeah, but imagine what you’ll achieve if you actually put in a little effort.”

“I do not need to imagine. I can simply observe your face when I enter the room.”

Tony opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Okay, that was pretty smooth. When did you get so cool?”

“I always was. You were simply too distracted by your own mind to notice.”

“Ouch. Accurate, but ouch.”

Loki smiled—a real one—and Tony wanted to take a picture of the moment for posterity.

“I should...” Tony gestured vaguely toward the door. “Go check if I remember how to tie a tie. And maybe ask Jarvis to remind me how to act on a date like a normal person.”

“You have been on dates before.”

“Not with you. You’re different.” Tony said it without thinking, and only then realized the weight of his words. “I mean... not ‘bad’ different. Good. Important. Okay, I’m shutting up now.”

“A wise decision, perhaps.”

Tony was about to leave, but he froze in the doorway.

“Hey, Loki?”

“Yes?”

“Can I...” Tony stopped, pivoted. “I’d like to come closer. Just for a second. If you don’t mind.”

Loki’s expression shifted, a shadow of uncertainty flickering in his eyes. But he nodded:

“You may approach.”

Tony crossed the kitchen slowly, deliberately, until he was standing directly in front of Loki.

“I’m glad you said yes,” Tony said softly. “To dinner. To trying. To all this... whatever it is.”

“I am afraid,” Loki confessed, and that honesty knocked the wind out of Tony. “Of being outside. Of being seen. Of disappointing you when I inevitably panic, or freeze, or...”

“Hey.” Tony lifted his hand very cautiously, very slowly, giving Loki time to see his intention. “Can I touch your shoulder? Just for a second?”

Loki nodded; he was tense, but he didn’t pull away.

Tony’s palm came to rest on Loki’s shoulder, warm and steady through the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t squeeze or pull him closer; he simply held his hand there.

“You won’t disappoint me,” Tony said firmly. “If you panic—we leave. If you freeze—I’ll wait. If you want to go back home in five minutes—we go back. There are no ‘wrong’ options here. The only thing that matters is that you feel safe.”

“You are unexpectedly patient for a man who once built a suit of steel in three days simply out of boredom.”

“Well, yeah. Turns out I can be patient when it’s important. When it’s you.” Tony gave his shoulder one soft squeeze and pulled his hand away. He took a step back. “Seven o’clock. Private room. Escape routes planned. S.H.I.E.L.D. is keeping everyone away from us. It’ll be perfect.”

“It will be a catastrophe.”

“Then it’ll be our catastrophe. And honestly? I’ve staged worse catastrophes on a random Tuesday. At least tonight there’ll be good wine.”

Loki’s laugh echoed through the kitchen, and Tony thought: “It’s worth it. Everything in the world is worth it for that sound.”

III.

The restaurant was perfect.

Tony had checked it three times. Okay, four. Five times, if you counted the instance he made Jarvis put the manager through an interrogation: did “private room” truly mean the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents would stand far enough away not to breathe on their damn risotto?

Dimmed lights, white tablecloths. A wine list that would have given Pepper a week-long migraine just from realizing what a hole Tony was about to blow in the budget for a single evening.

But it was worth it.

Because Loki was sitting across from him in a suit tailored so impeccably that Tony suspected magical intervention, and he was smiling—not that cutting smile he usually greeted the world with, but a small, almost—god, was that shyness?—genuine one.

And Tony thought: “I harassed Fury for this. I endured three threatening phone calls and signed off on a thirty-page report I’ll never read. I put on a tie. A tie, Loki. The last time I wore this noose was when they hauled me before the Senate.”

It really was worth it.

“You’re staring,” Loki noted, not looking up from the menu.

“Yep.” Tony didn’t even try to deny it. “I said to wear something that would make me forget how to formulate thoughts. You exceeded the target. Right now, my head is just static and the word ‘damn.’”

“How eloquent.”

“I tried. I learned three new words specifically for you, but they all evaporated the moment you walked into the restaurant.”

Loki looked up, his smile widening slightly.

“Three words?”

“Yeah. ‘Whoa,’ ‘wow,’ and something unprintable that I probably shouldn't say out loud in polite society.”

“We have never been polite society.”

“Fair point.”

They placed their order—Loki went with the squid ink pasta because he was pretentious, Tony got the carbonara because he was predictable—and fell into their usual rhythm. They argued about everything and nothing. Whether Italian wine was overrated (yes, according to Loki; categorically no, according to Tony). Whether Machiavelli would succeed in modern politics (both agreed: most likely, yes). Whether Tony’s workshop playlist was a form of auditory assault or acceptable background noise (verdict still out).

“So,” Tony said, swirling the wine in his glass. “On a scale of one to ten, how weird is this?”

“‘This’ being?”

“This. Us. Sitting in a restaurant. On Valentine’s Day. Like normal people.”

Loki pondered. “Roughly a nine. We are decidedly not normal people.”

“Fair.” Tony smirked. “Though I’d bet we’ve done weirder things. Remember that first week? When Fury wanted to send you to the Raft and Thor literally fell to his knees...”

“...and begged you to take me instead, yes.” Loki’s voice went flat. “How could I forget. My brother, the diplomat.”

“Hey, it worked. And you have to admit, life in the Tower is better than an underwater prison.”

“The bar was below sea level.”

“But you cleared it. That’s what counts.”

Loki set down his menu, studying Tony with that frightening intensity that occasionally overtook him.

“You never answered my question. On that first day, when Thor asked if you would take me in—you said ‘yes’ instantly. Before Fury even finished threatening you with sanctions. Why?”

Tony fidgeted in his chair. They had danced around this topic for months, circling the edges but never quite diving into the deep end.

“Would you believe scientific curiosity?”

“No.”

“Spite toward Fury?”

“In part, perhaps. But not entirely.”

Tony sighed, rotating his glass. “Alright, fine. You want the real answer? I saw the footage from the Battle of New York. Not the stuff they played on the news, but the S.H.I.E.L.D. files. The classified ones.” He met Loki’s gaze. “I saw you when you first stepped through the portal. Before all the speeches and the theatrics. And you looked...”

He trailed off, trying to find the word.

“Hunted,” Loki supplied quietly.

“Yeah. Hunted. Broken. Like someone who had been taken apart and put back together wrong.” Tony leaned forward slightly. “And then I read the scraps of intel we had on the Chitauri, on Thanos, on what they do to people they want to use. And I thought: this isn't a villain. This is someone who was tortured into being a weapon. And it seemed like nobody except Thor gave a damn.”

“And you took pity on me.”

“No. I recognized myself in you.” Tony’s voice was steady. “I used to be a weapon, too. Afghanistan, remember? Three months of having my brain scrambled and my body broken. I came back different. Wrong. I built the suit because I couldn’t stand the feeling of helplessness. So when Thor said you needed time to heal, that Odin wouldn't let you go home until you were ‘purged’... yeah. I said ‘yes.’ Because I knew what it was like to need a safe place to pull your pieces back together.”

Loki remained silent for a long time, a complex array of emotions playing across his face.

“That is remarkably sentimental for someone who calls himself a futurist.”

“Well, yeah. I’m full of contradictions. Besides, I wanted to study the cuff on your arm. The possibilities of hybrid Asgardian-Midgardian tech alone...”

“There it is.”

“...but mostly the first part. The fact that I recognized you.” Tony smirked. “The science was just a bonus.”

The food arrived, and for a while, they ate in comfortable silence. Then Loki spoke up: “This is absurd.”

“The food?”

“The conversation. We are on a date, supposedly, and we are discussing the circumstances of my status as a war criminal and subsequent house arrest.”

“Okay, yeah, when you put it like that, it sounds pretty grim.” Tony thought for a second. “But at the same time—it’s very ‘us’? Our first real conversation was about how I was approaching energy distribution all wrong. The second was an argument over whether anything in Norse mythology is even accurate...”

“Nothing.”

“...and the third was when you had a panic attack because Clint moved too fast and I had to explain the concept of personal space to a team of superheroes who had apparently never heard of it.” Tony shrugged. “We aren’t exactly great at normal.”

“No,” Loki agreed, his voice softening. “We are not.”

Halfway through the main course, Tony reached across the table for the wine bottle. His hand brushed Loki’s hand resting on the tablecloth.

Loki didn’t flinch.

Tony, however, froze, his fingers still touching Loki’s knuckles. Three times today. First his face, then his shoulder, now this—each touch like a tiny miracle, a cautious step forward.

“Sorry,” he began. “I should...”

“Do not apologize.” Loki slowly, deliberately turned his hand palm up. An invitation. “Unless you want to.”

Tony’s heart did a somersault. “You... this is...”

“I am asking if you want to hold my hand, Tony. Use your words.”

“Yes. Yes, I want that. Very much.” Tony placed his hand in Loki’s, and—my god—they were holding hands. In public. Well, in a private room in public, but still. It counted.

Loki’s palm was cool, his elegant fingers intertwining with Tony’s shorter, calloused ones. Loki’s thumb traced patterns on the back of Tony’s hand—some Asgardian symbol Tony didn’t recognize, or perhaps just a chaotic movement, grounding and real.

“You okay?” Tony asked quietly, because he asked, always asked, even now.

“Yes.” Loki’s voice was firm, but Tony could see the slight tension in his shoulders, the effort it took to stay here, not to hide in old habits. “I am quite alright.”

They stayed like that until the end of dinner, hands locked over the table. When dessert was served—tiramisu for Tony and some pretentious panna cotta for Loki—Tony had to eat with his left hand, awkward and clumsy, because he had absolutely no intention of letting Loki go.

“You are eating like a pig,” Loki remarked, watching Tony nearly drop his spoon.

“It’s worth it.”

“Truly?”

“Holding your hand? Yeah. Definitely worth the minor humiliation of looking like a person who has never seen cutlery before.”

Loki’s smile was faint but sincere. “You are ridiculous.”

“And yet you’re here, holding my hand, voluntarily participating in the ridiculousness.”

“A momentary lapse in judgment.”

“Sure. That’s exactly what’s happening.”

A silence fell, cozy and charged with something warm, fragile, and important. Tony traced his thumb over Loki’s palm, feeling the cool skin, the thin bones beneath, the reality of the moment.

“May I ask you something?” Loki said after a while.

“Always.”

“Are you...” Loki paused, choosing his words with care. “Are you disappointed? That we are like this? That I am still... that I cannot simply...” He gestured vaguely with his free hand. “Normal people do not require a warning before their partner touches them. Normal people can embrace and kiss and exist in the same space without protocols.”

Tony squeezed his hand gently.

“First off, we’ve already established we aren’t normal people. Second, I don’t need ‘normal.’ I need you. And you come with protocols, a three-foot perimeter, and a need to see someone coming. And that’s okay. That’s part of who you are. Part of why this works at all.”

“How can it possibly work? I can barely stand Thor’s presence. I flinch when people move too fast. I have had three panic attacks this month alone.”

“And yet here you are,” Tony said firmly. “You’re sitting in a restaurant, in public, and holding my hand. You touched my face this morning without me asking. You’re trying. You’re healing. That’s not a failure, Loki. That’s courage.”

“You have remarkably low standards.”

“I have accurate standards. And my standards say you’re doing amazing.”

“Your standards also said building a robot that tried to kill you was a brilliant idea.”

“Okay, fair, but Dum-E has only tried to kill me about three times, which all things considered is a pretty good track record.”

Loki laughed, and the sound was lighter than Tony had heard in weeks. “You are insufferable.”

“Yeah, but I’m your insufferable.”

“Are you?”

“If you want me to be.”

Loki’s hand tightened its grip on Tony’s palm.

“I do. Very much. Even though I am... even though I am not easy.”

“Neither am I. I work too much, I sleep too little, I’ve got my own collection of PTSD triggers, and I once stayed in the workshop for four days straight because I forgot time existed.” Tony smirked. “We’re a perfect set of twin disasters. It’s flawless.”

“Flawlessly disastrous.”

“Exactly. Our style.”

They finished dessert, still holding hands, and when they finally left—the S.H.I.E.L.D. tail following at a respectful distance, which Loki pretended not to notice—Tony thought about the progression. Loki had touched his face, his shoulder, and by evening they were holding hands.

Three times. Three small, cautious bridges thrown across the distance they had kept for nine months.

And the night wasn't over yet.

IV.

They returned to the Tower at ten. Tony planned to walk Loki straight to his floor—give him space to “decompress” after going out, after the intense dinner, the confessions, and the hand-holding.

But as soon as they walked in, Jarvis announced:

“Sir, the team has gathered in the common area for a film screening. Captain Rogers requested your presence. I quote: ‘Tell Tony he can’t skip team-building just because he had a date.’”

Tony groaned. “Of course he said that.”

“You do not have to,” Loki said softly. They were in the elevator, still in their suits, and Loki looked more relaxed than Tony had ever seen him. Happy. “I am sure they would understand if you told them I was tired.”

“Are you tired?”

“No. But I could become so—purely for diplomatic reasons.”

Tony considered it. On one hand, Loki had had a long evening: people, noise, the anxiety of their first real date. On the other hand—he looked good. Calm. And the team had tried—they had tried so damn hard to make Loki feel like he belonged, to treat him as part of the group rather than the villain they fought nine months ago.

“What do you want?” Tony asked.

Loki’s lips quirked.

“I suppose we could make an appearance. If only to see the look on Rogers’ face when he realizes we actually showed up.”

“Oh, there’s that deviousness I know and love.”

They took the elevator to the living floor instead of the bedroom floor, and when the doors opened, Tony heard the chaos before he saw it.

“...it is not a Christmas movie!”

“It takes place during Christmas!”

“That doesn't make it a Christmas movie; that makes it a movie that takes place during Christmas!”

“Oh my god,” Natasha’s voice cut in. “If you two don’t stop arguing about Die Hard, I’m going to shoot both of you.”

Tony and Loki walked into the room to find what could only be described as “organized chaos.” Steve and Clint were in the middle of a heated debate over film classification. Bruce was on the sofa looking like a man whose patience limit had been reached for the day. Natasha was in an armchair with a glass of wine, watching the argument like a free show. Thor was on the floor—literally on the floor like a giant golden retriever—with a bowl of popcorn that could feed a small army.

“We’re watching Die Hard,” Clint announced the second he noticed them. “Because it’s the greatest action movie of all time.”

“And a Christmas movie,” Steve added.

“It’s February,” Tony noted.

“The heart wants what it wants,” Clint said solemnly.

Thor scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking over the popcorn.

“Brother! Stark. You have returned. How was your... date?” He said the word cautiously, as if he had been practicing, and his face was so sincere Tony couldn’t even be annoyed.

“It was fine,” Tony tossed out, trying to sound casual.

“Acceptable,” Loki said at the same time.

Everyone stared at them.

“Acceptable?” Natasha repeated, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes. The food was tolerable, the wine was overpriced, and Stark kept the public embarrassment to a minimum.”

“I’ll have you know I embarrassed myself zero times.”

“You dropped your fork. Twice.”

“I was distracted!”

“By what?” Bruce looked genuinely curious.

Tony and Loki both opened their mouths and immediately shut them. Steve, bless his 1940s heart, saved them:

“Are you joining us, or did you just come to argue?”

“We can multitask,” Tony guided Loki toward the sofas. “We’ll watch your ‘not-Christmas’ movie...”

“It is Christmas-themed!”

“...and argue at the same time. It’s efficient.”

Seating was a delicate matter. Thor was on the floor in front of the TV. Steve and Natasha were on the sofa. Bruce was in one of the armchairs. A small loveseat and one more armchair were free.

Loki headed straight for the armchair, and Tony followed without thinking, perching on the armrest. Close, but not crowding. Respecting the space even now.

But Loki looked at him and said, quiet enough that only Tony could hear:

“You could sit normally. If you wish.”

“In the chair? With you?”

“Hardly a revolutionary concept.”

“You sure?”

“Sit down, Stark, before I change my mind.”

Tony sat. The chair wasn't exactly designed for two—especially not two adult men—but they made it work. Tony ended up slightly sideways, feet hooked over the armrest, with Loki pressed against his side. There was exactly zero space between them.

It was perfect.

“Oh my god,” Clint said loudly. “They’re actually cuddling. Tony Stark is cuddling. Somebody get a camera. This is a historic moment.”

“Shut up, Barton,” Tony shot back without real heat.

“No, seriously. This is... you two are disgustingly cute. It’s an insult to my senses. I’m insulted.”

“You’re jealous,” Natasha noted.

“I’m not jealous; I’m confused. They’re acting so...” Clint waved a hand. “...coupley. It’s unnatural.”

“It’s natural for people in a relationship,” Steve cut in with his reasonable Captain America voice. “Leave them be.”

“Thanks, Cap,” Tony said.

“Though,” Steve continued, a hint of mischief in his voice, “I have to agree: it is a little strange to see Tony so... domestic.”

“I’m not domestic. I’m sophisticated.”

“You’re sitting in a chair with your boyfriend watching Die Hard,” Bruce pointed out. “That sounds pretty domestic.”

“Boyfriend,” Loki repeated, tasting the word. “How high-school.”

“What do you prefer? Partner? Life companion? Person I go on dates with?” Stark asked.

“Consort,” Loki said regally. “I am a consort.”

“Oh boy,” Clint muttered. “It’s even worse than I thought.”

Thor, who had been watching the whole exchange with barely suppressed delight, turned around from his spot on the floor.

“I am glad to see you both happy. Brother, you have never sat with us like this before. It is good that you are here.”

There was so much sincerity in Thor’s voice, so much hope and love, that even Loki’s expression softened.

“Yes, well. Do not get used to it.”

“But you will come again?” Thor’s eyes widened with hope.

“Perhaps. If the entertainment is adequate.”

“We’re watching people shoot things and blow stuff up,” Clint said. “How can it not be adequate?”

“Start the movie, Barton,” Natasha said, “before I shoot you and give everyone a live performance.”

Clint started the film, and Tony settled into the chair, keenly aware of Loki’s presence beside him. They were touching—shoulders pressed together, Loki’s thigh against his. It was the longest physical contact they had ever had, and Tony was trying very hard to act natural.

“Relax,” Loki whispered. “I can feel you vibrating with nervous energy.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are absolutely nervous.”

“Okay, maybe a little. This is new. We’re under the team’s gaze.”

“They are watching the movie.”

“Natasha is definitely watching us.”

“Natasha is always watching everyone. It is her superpower.”

The movie began, and for a while, everything was normal. Tony listened to the screen with one ear and Loki with the other. The team provided a running commentary: Clint gave unnecessary play-by-play, Steve pointed out tactical errors, Bruce raised physical objections to the explosions.