It was entirely possible, Loki thought, that the only regular meal either of them actually managed some days was the one they shared out of spite and inertia. (He'd actually snapped something like if this is going to be a regular occurrence, bring lunch! be useful, human! and somehow that had happened.) Stark had no real appetite, and Loki considered eating to be one of several activities he engaged in so as not to die. (That his I-don't-give-a-fuck eating habits were still better than Stark's, judging from the weight the man had dropped or was still dropping, was probably something a new-minted medical professional should care about. Loki didn't, yet.)

Beyond the vague annoyance of 'what do you even want?', though, Stark actually wasn't terrible company. They'd grown comparatively used to each other, quiet most of the time as Loki tried to stuff reams of medical knowledge into his head (whether or not he'd been forced into the role, staying bad at it was unacceptable to his ego) and Stark did whatever Stark things came to him.

From the outside, it might even have looked like they were becoming friends. They were not, of course, and most of their conversation was in the nature of 'picking a fight' or 'picking scabs'.

Loki wondered which one this would be as he answered, intentionally breezily, "Heavens no. When would I have had time? Just the mayhem, for me."