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Diplomacy is a matter of adaptation. As a foreign envoy in a far away country—or, say, a far away world—one must be able to make the best of differences and analogies alike.
Trained by two queens, Loki has long since mastered such art. Before the fall, he would spend hours in the library with Frigga, hunched over dusty tomes about the Nine Realms and their inhabitants, whereas Thor ventured with his comrades on an insatiable hunt for battle and glory. After the fall, he would let Farbauti lecture him about Jötunn customs, language, traditions and history to prepare him properly for his sojourn on Midgard.
With no small amount of amusement and fascination, Tony soon discovers just how talented at adapting the Liesmith can be.
In less than twelve hours from his arrival on Earth, he dismisses a rather pissed off Fury by threatening to report to his mother that the Midgardians are too rude and primitive to be considered valuable assets, settles on the couch in Tony’s living room and picks Stark Tower as his residence—more specifically, his penthouse, which leaves Tony torn between annoyance, because it’s his house, goddamn it, not the Incredibly-Weird-And-Possibly-Alien Club headquarters, and excitement, because God—no pun intended—Loki’s hot.
He can’t do much more than get used to it, anyway, since the god shows no intention of going away any time soon.
Except for Thor’s exasperating habit of dropping by every day in the hope that his brother will grace him with a conversation, sharing the house with Blue And Snobbish is surprisingly simple. He already spends most nights in his workshop anyway, so it isn’t a big deal when the Liesmith takes over the bedroom, and he turns out to be an astonishingly good guest: he doesn’t bother Tony when he knows that he’s working on something, asks politely for permission to join him in the lab whenever the mood for science strikes him instead of just popping out of nowhere as though he’s entitled—which would irk Tony to no end—and generally acts like his snarky and smart and seductive self twenty-four seven, which Tony happens to like. A lot.
The only real issue—only it isn’t that much of an issue, since Tony’s kind of rich—concerns food, because Loki eats like four wrestlers, albeit he’s ridiculously picky about everything. However, he’s also curious enough that he’s always eager to try, and Tony can’t help but find it adorable.
“Now, what is this supposed to be?”
Tony has to resort to all his willpower to stifle the laugh that threatens to burst out of his lips when he walks into the kitchen to find Loki Laufeyson, insufferably haughty prince of Whatthefuck, staring suspiciously at a Pop-Tart as if it can blow up in his face.
It’s eerily early in the morning for Tony to be already up and out of his workshop—meaning it’s nearly ten o’clock—but he forgot to get dinner and passed out on the blueprints for a new armor last night, and was woken up by a rather upset, empty stomach, much to his dismay. Now, though, he’s thankful for that, because the wary look on the Liesmith’s face is priceless. Fortunately, JARVIS always records everything.
“That, my dear,” he replies, startling the god, who was apparently mumbling to himself, how cute, “is called a Pop-Tart. No need to give it the nasty eye, by the way: the worst you can get is a stroke because of all the sugar.”
Loki glowers at him, then back at the sweet. He’s holding it by an angle between thumb and index finger, sitting behind the aisle in the kitchen, with the whole box of Pop-Tarts opened in front of him.
He’s taken to wearing “Midgardian” outfits more often than leather and gold and—Tony has to give it to him—he has an amazing taste for fashion; on top of that, his Jötunn looks all but scream exotic and sexy, no matter the clothes—as far as Tony’s concerned, he would be even better without any clothes at all.
Today he’s going for a homey attire: baggy, silken black slacks that shouldn’t seem so good on him and a simple, dark green V-neck T-shirt that matches his skin color and accentuates the sinewy muscles on his arms and chest.
Like the rest of his clothing—he’s been on Earth for four days and he already has a wardrobe as big as Tony’s, the unexpected shopaholic—they’re laughably pricey. After two days spent wondering where the hell the god found that much money, Tony had JARVIS check his banking accounts and, ah, magic. For the sake of that awesome body, though, he couldn’t bring himself to get upset.
“No, I’m serious. You can eat it like that if you want, but it tastes way better if you microwave it first.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, he makes a beeline to the counter, takes an Iron Man mug from a closet and turns on the coffee machine.
After a stretch of pensive silence, filled only with the humming of the coffeemaker, the god finally stands and places the sweet in the microwave while Tony has his back turned on him.
The man pours his coffee—super black with no sugar, JARVIS knows him too well—into the mug and pretends he isn’t watching him out of the corner of his eye. He wants to laugh so badly his throat is already hurting, but he manages to maintain his self-control. As he brushes past him on the way back to the aisle, he offers casually: “No more than ten seconds, or you’ll burn it.”
Loki scoffs at him, but follows his instructions and joins him at the aisle shortly after with his own mug of what smells like tea—after some useless research for a normal one, he had to make do with a mug reciting Tony Stark is too awesome for this world—and his Pop-Tart on a plate.
“For your information,” he declares, nose crinkling in a display of royal irritation, “if it does not cater to my tastes, I will consider myself offended.”
If Tony was a comic book character, his eyebrows would shoot up way past his hairline, because damn, moody prince of snow and darkness is moody. Tony makes a show of bringing the mug up to his mouth ever so slowly, taking a long sip from it and setting it on the aisle again before he replies, clipped and apparently disinterested: “Whatever.”
He doesn’t mean it as a challenge—okay, scratch that, he does, but Loki practically begged him to—but the god takes it as such anyway and keeps his eyes stubbornly trained on his host as he parts his lips, catches the smallest piece of Pop-Tart between his teeth and bites it off brusquely.
Arching an eyebrow, Tony folds his arms over his chest and waits, curious despite himself—and maybe, maybe, only a little too focused on the way the Liesmith’s mouth moves. It can’t be held against him, though, if Loki manages to look sinful while eating Pop-Tarts, and the fact that he still hasn’t gotten him into bed, even though they’re living together, doesn’t really help.
The god takes his sweet time to chew and all Tony can do is practice his patience, because for the life of him he has no clue what the Liesmith’s expression is supposed to mean, no matter how hard he may inspect his features—not that he minds it, by the way. They are different than any he’s ever seen on Earth, but the overall effect is more seductively foreign than unpleasant.
At last, Loki swallows and seems—not satisfied, but not disgusted either; it’s more like he’s disappointed.
“It is…” A strained pause. “Edible.”
A triumphant smirk tugs at Tony’s lips and fighting it back is like struggling against the need to get wasted; winning, too, feels the same—like he should be proud of himself and yet he’s missing something. He fakes a cough to hide his expression behind his hand and congratulates himself for the plain, blank tone that he maintains: “Fine.”
“Fine.”
They keep an obstinate silence for a while; Tony finishes his coffee, makes some more, pulls out a tablet and starts flipping through random tabs idly, while the Liesmith stares into the distance, still and solemn—only, at some point Tony realizes it isn’t the distance that draws his attention. More like the box of Pop-Tarts.
“You can have another one, if you want,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “I don’t care. I can buy as many as I feel like, anyway. Hell, I could probably buy the whole company.”
The god snorts derisively and turns his head away from him, dipping his nose into the mug of tea. Asshole. Then he reaches out—excruciatingly slow—drags the box in front of him and walks up to the counter. He empties the box, unwraps the sweets, and stuffs them into the microwave.
When he sits back next to Tony, he has a plate full of Pop-Tarts balanced on his palm and a jar of peanut butter tucked under his arm.
How Tony keeps a straight face is beyond the man himself.
Maybe he’s better at diplomacy than Pepper gives him credit for, after all.
*
“So, about the Pop-Tarts. I didn’t even know you knew what they are.”
“I… am not sure what you are referring to, Mr. Stark.”
“Yeah. Right. Stop throwing shit at me, will you? How did you even guess that he’d like them, by the way?”
“Those Pop-Tarts of yours are food of the finest quality, and Loki has very sophisticated tastes. Mine was only an assumption, though it was worth a try. However, have you by any chance mentioned—?”
“No worries, big guy. I figured he would’ve washed his mouth with vitriol and would’ve been suspicious as hell ever after if he’d known they were from you, so I just… let’s say, failed to remember about that bit?”
“You have my thanks.”
“Seriously, man, no biggie. Anytime, really. Only, next time you want to sneak something into my house to make him a surprise? Well, don’t open a hole in the wall, okay? Just give me a call or something, ‘cause that’s the kind of thing that people tend to notice—and you know Loki’s a sharp one. Not to mention it’s also the kind of thing that the owner of said wall doesn’t appreciate.”