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i.
Tony will swear up, down, and sideways, to whatever deity you will ask of him, that he is not a whiny person. Alright? That clear? Tony Stark? Not a whiny person.
But everyone’s entitled to complain every once in a while.
”I just expected them to be able to keep up,” he explains, elaborating upon the feelings he’s been unloading for the past few minutes. ”They got into the exact same PhD program as me, and yet they couldn’t find enough braincells between them to complete one simple research paper at gunpoint. They are impossible to get along with.”
”Darling,” the soothing voice of his old aunt, Peggy, is a little tinny through the speaker of the phone. It’s no less of a balm for it. ”You’ve always been too smart for your own good. I somehow get the sneaking suspicion you aren’t even trying to get along with them.”
A balm, yes. Also annoyingly perceptive.
”Why should I?” he questions in place of an admission. ”We all got into the same PhD program, yet somehow they can’t pool enough brain cells together between them to come up with the bones for even half a decent thesis statement. Did you catch when I said that before, because that was a convincing argument and an actual sick burn, and I don’t feel you’re appreciating it. How is it fair that I’m stuck with these morons, and how will anybody’s life improve if I force myself to hang out with them? If anything, I’ll be running the risk of my brain cells rotting away. Maybe that’s how they are all so ridiculously stupid, Aunt Peggy, it started with one of them, and it spread, and now I’m the last man standing. You can’t possibly think I should succumb and sacrifice my genius for the sake of friendships that will mean nothing if my brain is dying.”
”Tony,” she cuts in, half admonishing, half veiled amusement. She tends to find his rants entertaining, but she also has the audacity to care about his well-being enough that she’ll call him on his shit if she needs to. ”Did you try to make friends? Maybe they’d surprise you.”
See? The audacity.
”I did,” he grumbles, relenting. He doesn’t love that he has to confess to this. ”But they really are all so fucking---”
”Language.”
”---sorry, Aunt Peggy, but they really are awful and boring and annoying. I’ve had coffee with every single one of them, and they are all the same. Brain rot zombies, the whole gang of them. You can’t make me go back there, I refuse to,” he continues, finishing off with a dramatic flair.
Peggy makes this little noise that means she’s trying not to laugh at his antics. It makes him smile. ”Alright, alright. Point taken. I should have known. You could never be happy with someone who couldn’t keep up.”
Tony throws himself on his bed. ”Thank you,” he says. He feels odd. Victorious because he’s won the argument, and a little sad because a small, childish hope that a chat with Aunt Peggy can fix everything is extinguished.
His disappointment comes a little too soon, though. ”Say, why don’t you come see me some more?” she suggests. ”A couple of the ladies here at the retirement home are starting an art club next week. I know it sounds like you’ll be bored to tears, but it will be low pressure, and you always like visiting. It’ll be a change of scenery. Just what you need.”
”The retirement home isn’t boring,” Tony corrects her. Because see here, Tony has a secret. By which I mean that Tony isn’t actively keeping it a secret, he just doesn’t have anyone he wants to share this with. Tony loves visiting his Aunt Peggy. He loves the old people, loves their stories, loves how long lives have given them experience and a different perspective. He loves their kindness and warmth, loves that he doesn’t have to be the smartest, cockiest guy in the room. He loves how he can relax and let down his guard, and how he can join in on something so unlike what he usually does, like puzzles or knitting, and not have it feel boring or forced.
Tony loves the modern age, loves technology, loves a fast paced life. Which is also why he loves hanging out with Peggy at the retirement home. It’s nice to have a place to go where things are calm and easy.
So, no, most people wouldn’t think joining an old women’s art club would be Tony’s scene. At all. And Tony thinks it’s the best idea he’s heard in ages.
”I’m not sure how that’ll help me make friends at my PhD program, but I’d love to Aunt Peggy.”
”Wonderful. I’ll message you the details.”
And that’s how he’s roped into meeting Loki
ii.
By the time Tony actually shows up at the retirement home, however, he is at least a little bit apprehensive.
He stands by all the stuff you just read. He loves hanging out with his aunt Peggy and the old people at the home. No take-backsies here, he swears. But he is wondering if an art club is actually really his scene. He can draw, and draw well, at that. He’d never be able to design all those inventions he come up with if he didn’t have a steady hand. But drawing machinery for a specific purpose is not the same as being artistic as a form of socialization.
And what if it’s stuffy and boring? It wouldn’t be like the women he knows will be there to be stuffy and boring, but who knows, maybe they take their art very seriously and they’ll glare daggers at him if he even makes his chair squeak.
How did it come to this – Tony Stark, anxious about a casual art club for old women because currently, exactly 99,7% of his social life is dependent on it?
Fortunately for him, his worries quickly melt away.
”Tony! Dear boy!” Lorraine, one of Peggy’s friends, exclaims as soon as she spots him in the front room, clearly coming to collect him. She has a sketchpad under one arm, but she also has a drink in her free hand. It serves to immediately put Tony at ease about the vibe this club is going for. ”Long time no see, darling.”
”Hi, Lorraine,” Tony grins, bending so she can better place a kiss on his face. ”Sorry ’bout that. College has been kicking my ass.”
”All work, no play,” Lorraine tuts, playfully admonishing him, not the least bit phased by Tony’s turn of phrase. ”What you need is a drink with a few spry old women and a creative outlet.” She’s gently ushering him further into the building, aiming for a salon down one of the many hallway of the building. The actual living quarters are situated in smaller houses, spread out across the acres of land belonging to the retirement home, but the activity center is big and a bit of a maze. Still, the direction is familiar enough to Tony, who’s been frequenting this place since childhood. He’s always counted his Aunt Peggy as a bit of a safe haven.
”So I hear,” he easily agrees. He can already feel himself relaxing, and he’s mentally kicking himself for not making this a priority sooner, let alone for wasting any energy on nervous jitters. ”I wasn’t sure what kind of art we’ll be doing, though,” he admits. ”So I just brought my pens and my notebook.” He tugs on the strap of his backpack, indicating his reference to it’s contents. ”Think that’ll be fine?”
”More than,” Lorraine assures him, patting his arm affectionately. ”Don’t take it too seriously. We’re just here to have some fun. You use whatever feels best to you, my dear.”
They step through the open French doors to the salon, and the spirit of Lorraine’s words are immediately clear to him in whatever direction he looks. A scattering of older women are already present, and their chosen mediums vary greatly. In one armchair is a woman with a single piece of paper supported in her lap by a coffee table book and just one pencil in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. At the window, another has set up shop with a proper easel and canvas, brushes and paints aplenty by her side. Some have chosen charcoal and sketchpads, others those little watercolor palettes kids use. He even notices a few who aren’t there to make a picture, but have instead brought knitting or embroidery or even nothing at all.
Lorraine smiles at him, noticing him noticing them. ”See? The important thing is that you’re here to have a good time and a drink. And if you do choose to draw, you don’t even have to draw the subject.”
Tony raises an eyebrow. ”Subject?” What subject? He takes another cursory look around the room, but nothing strikes him as out of place and prominent enough to be the designated subject. It’s just people and things you would expect to find in a retirement home activity center, currently crawling with women having fun with a bit of booze and various creative hobbies.
Behind him, Peggy’s voice sounds. ”That would be Loki here.”
”Hi, Aunt Pe---”Tony spins around to greet his aunt, smiling before he has even set eyes on her, and he is immediately derailed by the vision of a man next to her. Tall, dark, and handsome is both an entirely on point cliché and a completely reductive description of this creature. This absolute divine blessing in front of him, with his stunning green eyes, cheekbones fit for slicing diamonds, and legs that go on for miles and miles and, yeah, sure, add a few more miles to that. He has to mentally give himself a good shake so he can finish speaking and stop staring. ”Aunt Peggy.”
It’s immediately evident to Tony that he isn’t being as smooth and subtle as he could have wished for. He might be doing his best to not ogle Loki outright. He might be averting his eyes to look at his aunt instead. He might even be giving his aunt his best grin, all the better because it’s genuine, even if he is also using it to cover up. But the knowing little tilt to the corner of his aunt’s flawlessly red painted mouth? That means he’s busted.
Fortunately, she doesn’t do anything to out him right away. The way her eyes flick between them a few times is discreet enough. The way she flicks up an eyebrow at Lorraine is so understated that Tony doesn’t even notice – nor does he catch the little smirk Lorraine chooses to answer with.
Instead, Peggy just goes ahead with properly introducing them. ”Loki, this is Tony. He’s practically family to all of us, and he’ll be joining us for our art club today. Tony, this is Loki. Loki comes here to sit still, smile, and pretend to enjoy our company while we paint, and in return, we give him money.”
Tony is not prepared for that stupidly charming laugh. ”Why, Peggy. Whatever shall I come up with to convince you I come here because I like it?”
Well, fuck. The bastard has a sexy accent too.
”You could do it for free,” she counters, a glint of humor in her eyes. As if she’d ever let him. Tony doesn’t have to know much about this art class to know that none of these women are likely to let Loki leave without being paid for his services, and laden with all sorts of food, goodies, and whatnots, if they have any say about it. Tony’s familiar with the song and dance himself.
Loki takes it in stride with easy grace. ”College isn’t free.” His smirk has Tony falling a little bit in love. And not just because it’s so pretty (although it is). It’s also the comfortable familiarity between him and Peggy. The way he’s so at ease here. Just like Tony is. If Loki gets along with this flock of old crones, Tony can only think that that speaks volumes about his character.
Before Tony can think about what he’s doing, he speaks up. ”It’s supply and demand, aunt Peggy. Looking like that, he can’t possibly show up for free.” Smooth, Tony. Hitting on a guy through aunt Peggy is surely the way to his heart. He’s not even doing a good job of it, either.
Fortunately, he only has a moment to internally panic that he shoved his foot in his mouth. Loki looks at him, then laughs, and it’s so mesmerizing that Tony completely misses the knowing look in his dear aunt’s eyes.
”Oh-ho-ho,” Loki counters, full attention on Tony now. ”Aren’t you a charmer? I think I might already like you.”
Phew. He’s still in the game. Alright, Tony, don’t fuck it up. You can do this. ”Good. That’ll make things a whole lot easier for me.”
Loki’s expression turns downright wolfish, and damn, Tony wants the man to eat him alive. ”Confident. Another point for you. Though never let it be said I came easy to anyone.”
Tony shrugs. His smile seems to only ever grow wider. ”Even better. Never let it be said I couldn’t handle a challenge.”
The other man hums, his grin fading into something smaller but much more mischievous. ”You’re going to love me, then.” And with that, he saunters off; Tony lets him. The man clearly has work to do.
It’s only when Peggy pats him on the shoulder and playfully tells him to ”wipe your chin, darling, you’re drooling,” that he remembers why he’s here, and that they aren’t alone.
iii.
So, okay, the club shouldn’t be Tony’s scene. Well established fact by now.
And I mean this as in, not at all. He’s a young man, an engineering student, likes a good time with a drink and a pretty face. He likes designing robots when he is bored and going out for donuts when he’s hungover or so tired that he’s come full circle and feels overly awake and alive again. He likes race cars and math and attention.
Yet every week, without fail, he turns back up at the retirement home for another art session.
He likes the women, the way they all do their own thing with their art or crafting or drinks, but all come together with their various pastimes to enjoy an afternoon of raucous laughter and conversation, never failing to include Tony. Making art is surprisingly nice, a small form of therapy, though sometimes he brings homework or schematics or some gadget or other that needs fixing.
And of course there's Loki. Beautiful, sharp, incredible Loki, who tells the best jokes and gets along seamlessly with everyone, and whose gorgeous green eyes take on a special little gleam when he looks at Tony. Who, to avoid boredom while posing, takes to chatting to Tony about anything and everything, drawing Tony in until he looks at the clock five minutes later and discovers four hours have passed.
So, he keeps coming.
iv.
”Which hobbit do you think I would be?” Tony asks one day. Loki’s been rereading Lord of the Rings, and the natural consequence is, of course, that he can’t shut up about it. Tony’s only ever seen the movies, and while he’s had a good time every time, the books have a certain reputation for being overly long and devoted to less than strictly necessary descriptions and detours. A reputation that has always had him determined to never touch them. He couldn’t sit still long enough to finish them before he turns 90, if he didn’t lose his patience and quit altogether long before. The latter, he is fully aware, is a much more likely scenario.
Personally, Tony thinks he could be good as Merry or Pippin, who in his experience seem like fun-loving troublemakers and the life of the party, well-meaning even when they get themselves into trouble. But if he had hoped for either of those, or literally any of the cool, important hobbits, they are soon cruelly and swiftly dashed, as Loki’s prompt answer is ”Farmer Maggot.”
Tony chokes on the sip of coffee he had been peacefully in the middle of drinking. Loki even has the audacity to look amused when Tony coughs his way out of that one.
Farmer Maggot. Loki hadn’t even had to think about it, the bastard.
”What in the everloving fuck?” comes his eloquent reply. ”What kind of name is that? Who even is Farmer Maggot, and why the fuck would I be like him?”
With eyes twinkling far too handsomely for anyone who dares to look that smug about Tony in Tony’s own goddamn direction, Loki starts to explain. ”He makes a short appearance fairly early on,” he starts.
”I’m so offended you’re relegating me to someone who shows up for two minutes, and not even at the end, when all the cool stuff happens.”
”Hush. He makes a short appearance in the beginning, but I always liked him very much.”
”I’m flattered.”
”Do you want to hear the story or not?” Despite the harsh words, his tone is infused with laughter.
”You love the sound of your own voice too much, you need to be kept in check with a few interruptions here and there.”
Loki gives Tony A Look, and Tony grins widely back.
”Anyway. Frodo and his gang, they accidentally wander onto his lands. If the name isn’t a dead giveaway, he’s a farmer, and he’s rather protective of his property. But he’s all the same kind enough to feed them for the night, and as they chat, he mentions a strange man he encountered earlier in the day. Now, it doesn’t take a lot of guesswork to think it’s a ringwraith he encounters. A ringwratih is a ---”
”Oh, shut up,” Tony groans, and just as he’d been able to predict based on the teasing glint in Loki’s smile, the man starts to laugh at him (and, despite being the butt of the joke, Tony’d make a fool of himself a thousand times over, just for that laugh). ”I know what a ringwraith is.”
”Pardon me, I am simply trying to educate the lesser among us.”
”Yeah, yeah, I’m a cultural peasant. Tell me more.”
”Right. We haven’t exactly had extensive encounters with the ringwraiths at this point in the story, but they’ve already made their appearances and freaked our little traveller’s right out at this point. They’re terrifying creatures. Truly terrifying. Yet Farmer Maggot seems rather unfazed by his encounter.”
That has Tony perking up a bit. Now this Farmer Maggot is getting a little more interesting. ”Alright, I’m listening. Go on, Farmer Maggot’s no scaredycat.”
Loki nods. ”That’s right. The ringwraith comes by on his horse, traipsing around among the crops, asking about Frodo. But Farmer Maggot isn’t really having it. Tells him to sod off, please and thank you, Frodo doesn’t live anywhere near here, and he certainly isn’t to be found among his turnips. But the ringwraith doesn’t give up.”
Alright, fuck, fine, Tony’s invested now. He’s not even pretending to still be sketching out the finer details of his latest robotics design anymore. ”What does he do?”
”He tries to bribe the farmer. Makes some rather grand promises in exchange for information on Frodo’s whereabouts.”
The words themselves aren’t that compelling. So what, a fictional character offers another fictional character gold for information. He isn’t even getting this first hand. But Loki’s voice, intonation, gestures, his very presence and charisma, it’s all more than enough to have Tony at the edge of his seat. Over something so small and ridiculous, nonetheless. ”What does he do?” he asks again.
”He tells the ringwraith to fuck right off.”
That’s so surprising that it startles a loud, uninhibited laugh right out of him. He’s so busy laughing he almost forgets to appreciate the satisfied, catlike smile Loki wears in response.
Almost.
”Excuse me, he what? And he lives to tell the tale?”
Loki nods. ”Yes. Not in quite so many modernly rude words, but the essence is there. The ringwraith hisses and makes a rather dramatic and intimidating exit, but he does still just leave. And even that doesn’t seem to make much of an impression on Farmer Maggot. He almost got trampled by a horse with a creepy, menacing rider, and all he thinks about is basically how utterly impolite this person was.”
Tony has to wipe a stray tear of laughter from his cheek. ”Alright, alright. I take back every mean thing I’ve ever said, thought, or felt about this guy. But what about that makes you think of me?”
Loki shrugs. ”If anyone could give a ringwraith such an attitude and come out the victor of that exchange, it would be you.”
When Tony comes home, he places an immediate hold on Fellowship of the Ring at the college library.
v.
The following week, Loki seems much more interested in asking Tony about his work than any chatter pertaining to his own life. He recently learned that Tony has superior skills in naming things - his inventions, more specifically - and he’s clearly curious about the process.
(Alright, fine, maybe that’s Tony putting words in Loki’s mouth. Maybe he didn’t exactly use words like ”superior”, but he really is asking questions about Tony’s naming choices, and he feels that the superiority is a fact rather than an opinion, alright, so it’s fine.)
”You come up with the name first, and then decide what it stands for, I assume?” Loki guesses.
Tony shakes his head. ”No. I mean, yes. Most of the time, really. Like, I knew I wanted to name the coffee machine I built after Merlin, because I’d been binge-watching it while working on it, so I had to come up with the rest after. Most Excellent Really Luxurious Instant Nectar wasn’t my best work, but in my defense, I was super drunk. Other times, things just sort of happen the other way around. Those names always turn out the worst, though.”
”Tell me one.”
Tony hums for a second, and it’s probably a little too telling that he has enough options to pick from that he needs a moment to choose the one he is going to make an example of.
”Alright, uh. I was working on this holographic illusion technology. And I just, kind of… wrote down what it was. Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing. And, ah…”
Tony doesn’t have to finish explaining. Having done the mental math as the facts were presented to him, Loki is already laughing his stupidly cute butt off. ”You named it BARF. BARF!”
Tony can’t help but grin. He’s way too charmed by the way Loki’s hair falls and frames his face when he leans forward, practically doubling over with laughter. ”Sure did.”
When Loki recovers, he asks, ”why didn’t you just come up with a new name?”
”If a name sticks, it sticks. BARF is a perfectly good name, thank you very much, and I refuse to be name-shamed by a guy who named his pet snake after a mythological monster, even though he is fully aware he can barely pronounce it, and is just aiming for the most pretentious aesthetic he can possibly achieve with a name like Loki already on his hands.”
”Jörmungandr,” Loki says smugly, because they both know Tony isn’t qualified for shit to tell if that pronunciation was actually flawless or not.
”See? Pretentious bastard.”
”At least I didn’t name my machine BARF.”
”No shame in my game,” he reiterates.
Next time they see each other, Loki looks smug as all hell as he hands Tony a pair of sweatpants with the word ”BARF” proudly printed in hot pink on the butt.
Just to prove a point, Tony puts them on right away. The way Loki smiles when he does is not at all an ulterior motive, nor does his mind continuously return to the fact that Loki not only gave him a gift, but that he must have put a lot of painstaking effort into getting him these ridiculous pants over an inside joke.
(Just kidding. It’s all he thinks about for the rest of the day. And then some. A lot more some.)
vi.
This week sees Loki taking a break from his chair in the middle of the room, curled up in the window seat with Tony. He’s been complaining about the stuffy air, the unseasonably hot weather doing a number on them all, and Lorraine has suggested this change of pace.
Tony certainly doesn’t mind. Not when this means he gets to sit next to Loki instead of somewhere in the loose semicircle around him for once. The idea is novel enough that he’s abandoned his own work on the couch, happy to let Loki have all his attention.
”I can’t believe you’ve seen 21. Nobody I mention this to knows this movie,” Loki marvels. Because of course the man has impeccable taste in movies too. Tony knew this already. It’s already been confirmed to him a thousand times over that Loki is pretty much the perfect man.
”Are you kidding? MIT student, so smart all his peers struggle to keep up, joins a card counting ring, and leads a secret life in Vegas? It checks all the boxes,” Tony points out. ”Plus, the lead’s kind of cute. Tall, dark hair, the whole thing.”
Loki playfully nudges him. ”I don’t know. He could do with some improvements.”
Tony looks mock outraged. ”Oh please. Name one thing that could make him better.”
The look Loki sends him has Tony’s gut doing some truly impressive somersaults. He should sign his gut up for gymnastics. He’d take home the Olympic gold medal in no time, as long as Loki was sitting in the audience, looking at him like that. They could achieve great things together for this country’s honor, as long as Loki doesn’t ever stop looking at him like that. ”I think a goatee might do the trick.”
And huh, there his stomach goes, acing some complicated athletic maneuver, previously unheard of. His gut is going to absolutely kill the Olympics – if Tony can survive Loki flirting so overtly with him, that is. ”Psh. No. No beard. If I were to change one thing, I’d give him green eyes.”
Loki’s face brightens in a pleased little grin.
Not far off, Peggy is watching them with a knowing look, pencil working steadily away at the once blank page of her sketchpad all the while.
v.
So, alright. It’s obvious to literally everyone and their mother that Tony is into Loki, and that Loki would probably not say no if Tony were to make a move. Tony is aware of this. If a deaf and blind man from the other side of the world were to call and tell him he could feel the tension all the way from where he was currently enjoying a nice cup of tea in the middle of the Australian bush, he somehow wouldn’t be surprised.
So why doesn’t he make a damn move?
Quite simply, because this means too much to him. Not just this break from his everyday life, which he doesn’t want to ruin (not to mention Loki’s got a paycheck depending on this). But because, far too quickly, Loki has become one of the people in the world he is closest to. Who means the most to him. It doesn’t matter that they’ve gotten to know each other in front of an audience of old women. With Loki, it always feels like nothing gets between them. Nothing interferes with their building connection. It doesn’t matter that they’ve never even been alone together, because every time Loki looks at him just so, the rest of the world fades away.
If he were to change things, what would happen to them? What if what they have suddenly stopped working? And hell, it takes two to tango. Loki hasn’t made a move either. Surely that’s significant.
No. Better stick with this. Despite his ever growing yearning for more, Tony is content. Things remain the same.
Until finally, the old women’s art club make their move for them.
vi.
The sound of the men’s bathroom door creaking open reaches Tony’s ears over the sound of the water running over his soapy hands, and on instinct, Tony looks up, just in time to watch Loki get shoved unceremoniously through the door. The loud click of a lock seems to echo through the room with its pointedness. ”What the---”
He doesn’t really get to finish that thought before Loki starts banging on the door. ”Peggy, for the love of all that is good in this dumpster fire of a world, open this door right now or so help me!”
A new voice – clearly Peggy, despite the locked door distorting it – speaks up. ”No. Not until you’ve worked things out.”
Tony looks to Loki, confused, turning off the tap as he does. Work things out? Nothing’s wrong. They aren’t fighting. There’s nothing to fix. He cannot, for the life of him, think of anything that needs fixing.
And yet… Loki’s cheeks are red and his jaw is set in a way that speaks of… embarrassment? Tony takes a moment to enjoy the novelty of that; Loki’s usually always so composed. ”Peggy, I’m warning you.”
Something has started shuffling in Tony’s brain at the look of Loki’s face, and it clicks into place when a third voice – Lorraine, this time, Tony’s reasonably sure – chimes in. ”We told you, Loki. We’re not letting you out until the two of you finally admit your damn feelings to each other. Just do it.”
Loki’s face reddens even more. But, despite knowing, somewhere, deep in some dark, dusty corner of his mind, that this is, in fact, mortifying and he should wish for a shovel so he could dig himself a hole to hide in (or a tunnel out, that’s probably more his style than that other old cliche), he starts to smile.
Though Loki has so far been very clearly trying his hardest not to look at Tony, he apparently still notices Tony’s expression out of the corner of his eye. He whirls around and sets his blazing gaze on Tony. ”Do you think this is funny?” Because Loki likes mischief and a good prank, but clearly not when his own not-quite-secret feelings and personal business is the target.
Tony shrugs. ”Yes,” he admits. Then, before Loki can start thinking too much about what a men’s bathroom might have to offer in terms of impromptu murder weapons, he hurries to elaborate. ”I’m stupidly in love with you, and you clearly like me too. It’s hilarious that you and I of all people can’t just work that out between ourselves instead of needing intervention from an elderly women’s art club.”
He’s dimly aware that his hands are still wet, so he yanks the hand towel off it’s hook and makes quick work of drying off before he drops it, listening to Loki sputter. He doesn’t notice where it goes, having forgotten all about it by the time it’s fluttered to the floor. ”You--- That’s not --- they had no right!”
”Eh.” Not super eloquent, but Tony finds it hard to argue convincingly either way. Because no, they probably don’t have any right. But this is the calmest and clearest he’s ever felt about what to do with Loki. He suddenly just knows that, even though neither of them were ever going to do anything about it themselves without interference, even though he’s been scared shitless of trying for more this entire time, there’s nothing that’s ever going to make him happier than to be with Loki. He can’t remain content with this setup forever, not when it’s so ridiculously obvious that Loki wants it too, and that their own idiocy is all standing between them and the pure bliss of Happily Ever After. He can’t really argue with the results he just knows will come. ”Maybe not. But unless you’re opposed to admitting you have feelings for me too, and then letting me kiss you senseless, I don’t think we should be complaining too much.”
Loki glares at him, arms crossed. ”Tony.”
Tony doesn’t bend. ”Loki.”
”Tony, this is outrageous. I am not going to be bullied into a love confession by that gaggle of hags.”
Tony makes a slashing gesture in the air, as if he can sweep Loki’s argument off an imaginary table. ”Forget about them. They’re not asking you now. I am.” A step closer. ”Do you love me?”
A few beats pass and Tony raises a brow. The hesitation should be terrifying, but it’s not. Not when Tony knows Loki is just being a stubborn dick (and that he adores him just the way he is). ”Do you?”
Finally, Loki huffs in frustration, dropping his arms like a sullen child, tipping his head a little back to direct his glare at the ceiling. It’s so juvenile, and Tony loves him a little more for it. ”Fine,” he relents. ”Yes. I am right out head over heels for you, you insufferable menace. Are you going to kiss me now or what?”
Oh, yes. Yes, he is. He takes a second to break into a triumphant grin, but then he’s pulling Loki down by the collar of his shirt and into a kiss that makes him feel like his feet are being yanked right out from under him by the tide of the goddamn ocean, and rather than being freaked out at the thought that he could get lost in the vast emotion of this one kiss alone, he is ready to let himself free fall and tumble headfirst into this new experience.
The moment is broken when a voice outside the door demands their attention once more. ”Did you kiss yet?”
They break apart just long enough for Tony to muffle a laugh in Loki’s shoulder and Loki rolling his eyes so hard that Tony doesn’t have to see it to know it happened, because he can practically hear them creak with the effort. Then, the tide brings them surging back into each other once more.
vii.
In Tony’s new home, there’s a mantelpiece.
As far as Tony is concerned, he could take or leave having a fireplace. Loki, however, has been incredibly insistent, and, well. If there’s anything Tony has learned from ten years of being with Loki, it’s that his partner gets what his partner wants.
It’s ridiculously cluttered, even though they agreed to find a balance between Tony’s preference for clean lines and Loki’s love for leaving his things goddamn everywhere. Tony, at least, has the decency to only make a mess of his own workspace.
(Loki’d argue that it isn’t mess, it’s decoration, and there’s nothing wrong with having some personality in their choice of decoration.)
He takes a break from unpacking to lean on the door frame and look at the collection of knickknacks they’ve acquired, and which Loki has taken it upon himself to display. The tackiest snow globe they could find in Prague, when Tony took Loki there for their first vacation; a single, gold dipped rose in black, green, and gold, originally taken and preserved from Loki’s wedding bouquet; a tiny figurine of Farmer Maggot Loki gifted Tony for their first anniversary, right on top of Tony’s stack of Lord of the Rings novels (because of course Loki’s get to live in the library, the beautiful bastard). Just to list a few of his favourites.
In the midst of it all is a framed drawing of the two of them, curled up and laughing in the window seat of a salon in a retirement home, known to the two of them especially for hosting a weekly art club. Peggy’s signature is curved across the bottom left corner.
”Tony,” calls the familiar voice of the love of his life, out from somewhere near the front door. ”Butterfingers is about to steal your toolbox, and if you don’t come deal with it, I’m just going to laugh when he inevitably drops it on your foot when he tries to be helpful.”
Tony rolls his eyes, even as he smiles to himself, and pushes off the door frame to go save his poor robot from itself. ”Coming.”
Before he goes, however, he glances at the display of some of the most precious moments of their life spread across the mantelpiece, just one more time over his shoulder before he goes. He still thinks Loki should learn to limit the amount of crap he puts everywhere, but…
Well. He supposes he won’t make a fuss, just this once.