Tony doesn't say anything when New York starts flooding with Asgardians because Loki has escaped from their custody. He doesn't say anything when he's called back to SHIELD for a briefing except to use some of the nicknames he's been storing up for his teammates and Fury, and he doesn't say anything over the comms when he's out on patrol one day—because someone had the genius (read: idiotic) idea to have superheroes canvas New York City for a fucking magician because obviously Loki would never want to visit anywhere else—and he sees, improbably, inconceivably, but undeniably, a tall, dark figure standing defiant on a rooftop below him. Instead, he goes dark to the rest of the team and dives toward the rooftop and lands less than a foot from Loki. The god doesn't flinch, and Tony's still rankled by that.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demands, helmet still up. But Loki lifts it off like it isn't attached by hydraulics and metal joints and tosses it aside and kisses him deep and warm and hard. Tony brings his arms up like he's embracing the god but it's two repulsor blasts to the chest and Loki skitters back across the roof like a spider blown from its web, all long, thin, black limbs and sharp angles.

"That shit in my living room," Tony continues. He's advancing on Loki, who's huddled himself together, halfway to standing. He's a ball that could explode any of a hundred ways and Tony should probably be much more afraid of him than he is. "That wasn't about you owing me a debt. That was about you. That was all about you. And so was the shit in my lab. My fucking lab." He's right up in Loki's face now, and he's got both palm repulsors and whole batteries of shoulder missiles aimed right at the little liar's face. "You need to figure out your self-esteem issues somewhere else, or I swear to whatever deity you worship I will end you."

Of everything Tony's said, this makes Loki laugh. He doesn't uncurl and he doesn't smile, but there's something in his eyes that might almost be kindness or empathy. "You can't end me, Anthony Stark. You and your metal suit are powerless." And he gestures again and Tony feels every joint of the suit lock. The hum of charging repulsors dies.

"Fucker." Tony slaps Loki across the face; it takes effort and it's slow but Loki lets it happen and when he turns his face back to Tony's there's that grin again, brushing right up against a bright red welt.

"You're powerless," Loki continues like nothing interrupted him, "And yet you continue to fight. You're blind, Anthony. You ignore the world, and in doing so, you shape it. Others of your measly race can't bear to look at infinity. You stare through it as if it is nothing more than mist."

"What is this, Introduction to Norse Psychology? I will say it again, Laufeyson, enter my house one more time and I will end you."

He wants to punch and kick but he's stuck in his armor and all he has are words and then not even those as Loki stands and kisses him again.

"You fought for me, Anthony Stark. You defended me. You wanted me."

He kisses Tony after each sentence, each kiss longer and softer than the last, and Tony has to stand there and take it, has to feel the warm, pliant desperateness and sadness that press against his teeth with each touch of Loki's lips to his own. He swallows it all down and tastes it when he breathes and remembers the nights he's spent tinkering with the armor and the arc reactor and knowing that it was his own brashness and recklessness and impulsiveness that he was arming himself against as much as it was any outside threat. He is a tiny man who put himself in a tin suit and pretended he could fly and he knows Pepper stayed around at least as much out of pity as she did out of compassion or friendship or love. He knows what it is to want to look at someone and not see fear or disappointment.

"You are honest, Anthony Stark. And I thank you for that."

And for a third time, Tony's left alone.

He explains his lack of communication as a technical problem with his suit. It's easy for the others to buy because even Thor can understand the dangling wires at the base of his headpiece. He takes himself back to his workshop in the tower and the team goes to a debrief that he resolutely ignores.

That night, he's up in the penthouse, sipping scotch and staring out at the reflection of the skyline in his recently-replaced window. Then there's a blur in the glass and a set of white knuckles rap softly against the windowpane.

Tony lets him in. He offers him a drink.

Loki accepts.