day 1: wolf
30 days of 300 word drabbles – frostiron set
“Fascinating,” Loki mumbles, poking a harsh finger around the bite on Tony’s thigh, drawing a loud swear from the owner of said thigh. He isn’t even wearing gloves, the unsanitary asshole. “Well, then.”
“Please,” Tony says, scathing, “please, try to be more obtuse. I enjoy not having a clue what’s going on. It’s wonderful. The suspense, the guessing…”
Loki throws him a withering glare, not that Tony’s earned it, in his opinion. After all, he’s the one laid out on a medical examination table being poked and prodded and ‘hmmm'ed at by a magical, hand-waving being from another realm, because the magical, hand-waving guy that was first on Tony’s list is vacationing in another dimension. Luckily, Thor apparently had his brother on intergalactic speed dial, because not five minutes after Thor left to go track him down, Loki popped out of thin air in a tidy black suit and a manic expression, eager to see Tony’s wound. There’s a bite mark gashed into his thigh—a souvenir from some sort of unholy mutated, half cybernetic dog from a Doom base. It had torn right throw his armor, no never mind, before Rogers was able to disconnect it’s metallic jaw with a will-timed shield.
Normally, Dr Cho would be more than capable of handling the wound, but something about it wasn’t… right. It gave off a foul stink, and the jagged skin around in had turned green, rotting away from Tony’s leg, and the sepsis spreading at a rate too rapid to be natural.
“Am I going to turn into a werewolf?” Tony asks with a stubborn jut of his jaw. He breathed out against the pain, pushing it from his body. In, and the pain rushes back. Out, push it away. A meditative measure that kept him sane back in Afghanistan. “Because, if so, let me die now, because ugh. The fur.”
“Are you utterly incapable of silence?” Loki fires back. There’s a worried bend to his brow that Tony does not like in the goddamn least. “Were you able to bring back a sample of the beast?”
“We tried,” Tony says. “But started to decompose almost as soon as it died. It was hunks of fetid meat and metal by the time we were able to get it anywhere remotely cold.”
“Hmmm… how long was that?”
“A half hour, tops.”
Loki rubs the bridge of his nose. “This,” he says, pointing to the necropsy spreading before their eyes. “Is not of this world.”
Tony snorts loudly. “Thank you, really, I would have never guessed. A genius, truly.”
“And that means,” Loki continues loudly, “that the cure is not of this world, either.”
Tony’s mouth snaps shut. His nostrils flare. “We could remove the leg.”
“No, the infection is in your blood already. There is no point. Remove the leg or no—you’ll be dead in a few hours, once it reaches your brain. I happen to know where a cure could be obtained, however, and I could be tempted into fetching it for you, Stark.”
“What do you want?” Tony says, bitter. The upper part of his thigh throbs, but his calf has gone completely numb. “I won’t–”
“Are you truly in the position to be negotiating terms?”
“I won’t agree to anything that could kill people.”
Loki clears his throat delicately and chuckles. “Nothing of the like. I need… tissue samples, shall we say. Willingly given. Saliva, hair, skin, and… semen.”
Fury spreads through Tony like wildfire. His whole body burns with fever, joints aching. What sick shit was Loki planning? “What’re you–”
Loki tuts. “I shan’t answer. You will accept, or you will die. Choose.”
A moment passes. The searing, stabbing, throbbing, aching pain flares like a volcanic eruption and Tony screams through gritted teeth. Loki just watches, faintly amused and with a detached, almost clinical air. “Fine,” Tony spits. “Cure me, then take what you need.”
Loki holds out his hand, a glittering smile in place, and Tony shakes it, feeling very much as though he just made a deal with the actual devil.