The drop in temperature is sudden. This is no creeping chill, this is laughter turned icy and a grin turned cold, skin turned colder still. The joints. Foul up the joints.

Well. What better tool than ice?

Loki's sclerae redden, darker and darker as he steps forward. Scarifications raise themselves on the backs of his hands, tracing lines which disappear under his vambrace. With the helmet, that's all that Tony likely sees of Loki's skin as he moves forward: just the deep blue of that hand.

Sharon sees more, perhaps. Sees the ice gathering around his clenched fist, forming a vicious point. Sees his smile.

This is good. This is a thrill, a rush. It'll be soon, the exertion, the reveling in his own body. The bunching and release of dense, deceptively strong muscles. Being a god, yes, and he is. By name, at least, he is, and now he means to prove it.

As soon as there's an opening, as soon as he can, it will begin, and even if he should fail, what a joy it will be to do something.

"Stark," he says, the word tense, anticipatory. And he... defers to expertise. Shares the experience. Shares utility. "Direct me."