Tony Stark’s lab was alive with the rhythmic whir of machinery, the air tinged with the sharp scent of motor oil and burnt coffee. He was elbow-deep in dismantling a malfunctioning drone when the telltale rumble of thunder shook the windows. A flash of light split the room, and Thor landed with a ground-shaking thud, Mjolnir still crackling with residual energy.
“Stark!” Thor’s voice boomed, but there was a strange warmth to it, a lilt Tony couldn’t quite place. “Midgardian ingenuity never ceases to amaze. What chaos do you conjure today?”
Tony glanced up, wiping grease from his hands. “Just upgrading your fan club’s merch, Goldilocks. What brings you down from the rainbow bridge? Miss my charming company?”
Thor chuckled, a rich, resonant sound, and leaned against the workbench, his posture relaxed but regal. “A king’s duties are endless, but even Odin himself would pause to admire your… persistence.” His gaze lingered on Tony’s arc reactor, the blue light reflecting in his eyes—too keenly, Tony thought, before dismissing it.
читать дальше“Flattery won’t get you a discount on StarkTech,” Tony said, though he smirked. Thor’s presence felt oddly grounding today, his usual bravado softened into something almost… playful.
“No flattery,” Thor said, stepping closer. He picked up a scattered screwdriver, twirling it deftly between his fingers. “Merely truth. You mortals burn so brightly. It’s… captivating.” His voice dipped, low and sincere, and Tony froze, caught off guard by the intensity in his friend’s stare.
“Uh, you been hitting Asgardian mead early?” Tony quipped, though his pulse skipped. Thor’s laughter filled the room, but there was a hitch in it—a flicker of something sharper.
“Perhaps,” Thor said, grinning. He gestured to a peculiar artifact on Tony’s shelf—a relic from a recent mission, a jagged crystal humming with dormant energy. “What of this? A trophy from your battles?”
Tony shrugged. “Pretty paperweight. SHIELD said it’s some ancient… whatever. Why? You looking to redecorate Valhalla?”
Thor’s hand closed around the crystal, his thumb brushing its surface. “It bears the marks of Alfheim’s forges. A relic of lost magic.” His tone was casual, but his grip tightened almost imperceptibly. “May I study it? I’ve a fondness for… beautiful, dangerous things.”
The words hung in the air, weighted, and Tony’s brow furrowed. Since when did Thor care about Elven artifacts? Before he could question it, Thor leaned in, his shoulder brushing Tony’s. The contact sent a jolt through him—electric, deliberate.
“You’re acting weird, Big Guy,” Tony said, forcing a laugh. “You sure you didn’t get zapped by one of your own lightning bolts?”
Thor’s smile softened, almost tender. “Perhaps I’ve learned to appreciate subtler sparks.” He held Tony’s gaze a beat too long before stepping back, the crystal now conspicuously absent from the shelf. “Thank you for the counsel, Stark. Until next time.”
“Wait—!” Tony began, but Thor was already raising Mjolnir, the air charging with ozone.
“Take care, Anthony,” Thor said, and the way he lingered on the name—gentle, almost reverent—made Tony’s breath catch.
Then he was gone.
Three hours later, Tony stared at the empty spot on the shelf, a cold realization dawning. “FRIDAY? Scan for the artifact’s energy signature.”
“No trace, boss,” the AI replied. “But I detected a minor distortion in the lab’s security feed during Thor’s visit. Like… magic.”
Tony’s stomach dropped. Magic.
He stormed to the balcony, where a single sheet of parchment lay pinned by a dagger—elegant, Asgardian steel. The note read:
Anthony,
Forgive my borrowed face. You’ve always seen through masks… but this time, I wished you wouldn’t.
The relic is safer in my hands. Yours are occupied with better things.
Until our paths cross again—in whatever guise fate permits.
L.*
Tony’s fingers tightened on the paper. The flirtation, the stolen glances—Loki. He’d mimicked Thor perfectly: the booming laugh, the earnest charm, even the way he’d clapped Tony’s shoulder after their battle in Stuttgart. But beneath it all, there’d been something quieter. Something real.
“FRIDAY,” Tony said quietly, “run a scan for godly mischief-makers in a 50-mile radius.”
“Already done. He’s gone.”
Tony huffed, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. He tucked the dagger into his belt, the metal still warm. “You’re paying for that relic, Reindeer Games. With interest.”
Somewhere in the void between realms, Loki smiled, the crystal glowing softly in his palm. A token, a tease—and a promise.
End.
(But not for long.)