Loki is away. There isn't much more he can do now anyway, not like this. Not much but brace himself against a tree, ice patterning out on the bark where his hand is pressed against it, and breathe. Allow the muscles in his legs to be weak, just for a few seconds, before he has to be anything but again.

Such is the price of godhood – in name or in fact makes no difference; the expectations are still the same. The cost is still the same. One owes, and one never stops owing.

The least he can do is ensure that nobody sees – nobody but Barton, and Barton has already seen him weak. Not merely defeated, but sick, pliable, vulnerable. Loki doesn't trust him to keep his silence for long, but it won't matter in the long run. Now it does.

And so he pushes himself up. Away. And so he stands in the comfortable chill, and looks over what they've wrought. It's work well done, but it could've been less costly. Next time, perhaps, it will be.

“Cleverly done,” Loki says, mild, carefully forcing as much breathlessness out of his voice as he can. His face is a mask of perfect innocence, bright and smiling. “It seems Mr. Stark has been holding out on us.”

Why not imply? Why not tease? They've won, won at least enough time to leave, if that's what they're going to do.

"Though I feel we've little time to interrogate him on the matter," he adds with a regretful sigh. "Best we be away, before more come, no?"