Who: Tony Stark & Loki Laufeyson What: Breakfast and tea-spilling. Where: Loki's place. When: The morning after this.
It was easier than Tony expected - easier than it should have been, in any humane world - to get coffee and pastry at 5:51 in the morning. That there were places open at this hour for any purpose other than wrapping up an all-night dance session was just unnatural. People needed somewhere, he supposed, to go and grab their drunken impulse breakfasts, their piles of eggs and greasy carbohydrates they were still impaired enough to think would make any difference in the avalanche of pain that would bury them in a few hours - but he'd never actually been to such a place sober, and, man, was it depressing. He had a couple brightly-colored little cakes boxed up, a few diamonds of that flaky, buttery, honey-drenched stuff he could eat til he was sick, some dense cream rolls, and a chocolate muffin with some kind of fruit in it just in case Loki was a health nut; he ordered a very large coffee (on second thought - two very large coffees, he had promised); and he made his way through the dark, deserted streets, composing the story he was going to tell.
Once upon a time, there was a Gamemaker, and his name was Howard Stark. He was the best at what he did. And he was a traitor.
It should have been a satisfying prospect - to demolish his father's legacy in the eyes of the man who had so long, so obnoxiously admired him. He should have been able to enjoy watching Loki's hero-worship strip away. No one Tony spoke to ever had anything bad to say about his dear, departed father, and although he was the consummate performer, joining in to heap praise upon him had always, always rankled. He avoided it more than he should have. He just couldn't sell it - not even him. You know, he was always really busy, that was the best he could do. But his work speaks for itself, doesn't it? He didn't like talking about his dad - he didn't like thinking about him. It made him angry, and he didn't stop to try to pick that apart. He didn't want to look under that log, and he sure as hell didn't want anyone else kicking it over. Fuck you, that was about as nuanced as his reaction ever got, and he saw no reason to flesh it out.
Fuck you, he thought, as he came to Loki's door, balancing the coffee awkwardly on the pastry box. Six feet under, and you're still finding ways to make me look like an asshole.
Today, at least (if this even counted as day), he had someone to take it out on. He raised his fist - and he hammered away at the door, pausing only to give the bell a few rapid rings between pounding sessions. "Rise and shine!" he shouted, leaning for a second to try peering in a window. "Hey! Good morning! Anybody home?" With any luck, he'd wake Loki up still drunk. He wanted the man at his most vulnerable, most disoriented, and least shrewd for this conversation. Appeals to emotion weren't the weapons he'd have chosen for any normal head-to-head with Loki, but today he had two real ringers in his pocket. If he could hit him hard enough while he was down, maybe he had a chance of getting through. "Hello? Up and at 'em! Let's go!"