The steady rock of the train lulls Thor to sleep, the image of D.C with its red and yellow leaves breaking off the trees in the wind disappearing behind his eyelids.
The next time he opens them, he is in a Manhattan terminal.
He hums his voice back to life as he moves around in the seat that is too small to properly rest in. He pulls the denim jacket he'd used as a blanket from off his shoulders, and looks out of the window. Bodies move in perfect disharmony; their directions unpredictable, their heads bowed down to screens and their feet narrowly missing someone else's. Thor is groggy, moving slowly and ungracefully from his seat. His ministrations make the woman beside him raise her shoulders up in annoyance, huffing every time he moves to collect himself.
He's too tired to care. "Damnit", he mutters, feeling drunk as he wills his body to obey his brain, collecting his bags and trudging to the train doors. He reaches the threshold, and before he goes, sends a salute over his shoulder to the puffy lady in his row. She scowls. He smirks, shaking his head.
Someone beside him laughs, suddenly, stealing his attention, "New York, am I right?"
Thor snorts, nodding, "That you are."
He first finds a bench, feeling like he's trying to fit all of him into the tiny space he's sharing. A severe looking matriarch in a white visor and a fanny pack, talking fast on a smartphone stretches out on the public bench, and he is struck with how much easier this might have been if he'd had a phone of his own. No, instead, he's got a map in one pocket, the number for Yellow Cab in the other, and his little brother's address on repeat in his head. It's all so ironic, really: he's got nothing now, and isn't that always the way we come back home?
The city has not changed so much, he realizes, as he comes up the steps from the terminal and onto the busy street. He's just missed the sunset, and the whole city is bathed in the pink afterglow, making the red leaves warmer and the yellow leaves softer. The streets are still full of cars and bikes and the big city mayhem people create when there's too many of them in one place. Thor walks in one direction until he gets to a Dunkin Donuts, ordering a coffee and dumping his duffle bags onto the table in front of him. The map burns a hole in his pocket—he should be getting to where he needs to be, but, he's finding it hard to separate the physical implications of that question from the philosophical ones.
Where is he supposed to be?
Washington D.C, 5 years ago.
Jane's lips spread into a smile against the base of his neck, leaning her whole body against him in an embrace. Her weight is a welcome pressure against his cold skin. Most of the boxes in their apartment were still packed, his rain coats included, so he'd spent the entirety of his shift on a roof in the rain with nothing but a t-shirt and a hard hat. "That's hot", she murmurs, letting her laugh float behind her as she disappears down the hall and into the kitchen. He takes off his boots, dumping them into the tray beside the door, and the shirt goes too, hanging where his coat would have.
"Cold, actually", he leans against the kitchen archway, watching Jane cook dinner for the first time since they've moved in. It's usually him; she cannot use a spatula worth a damn, but, since he'd introduced them, Jane had spent almost all of her free time getting to know Steve and Sharon, who seemed to be the cooks in their respective relationships. "Although", Sam would brag, "she might as well call me: Steve wouldn't know a damn thing if he wasn't dating me." Steve would bristle, and continue on with his lessons with Jane.
Every time she'd tried to recreate those lessons, the only thing that would end up on their table was her.
"Did the rain delay you? I know how much you hate having to extend projects", she's stirring what looks like spaghetti but doesn't smell like his does it. He walks further into the room, the ceiling fan chilling his still cold skin, and he picks up assorted powders and spices, trying to find the garlic. She arches an eyebrow at him, caught somewhere between a laugh and a protest, "excuse me, Chef Ramsey, I did not ask you to come in here and grade my work."
"First; I am honored to be compared to an icon. Second, we worked through the rain, and third: lucky you", he says, finally finding the garlic at the top of the 'kitchen' box, "because I would have deducted points; garlic is not an option."
She grins, setting the isle a little lower, "you don't need garlic to make good spaghetti."
"You are entitled to that opinion", he nods, leaning his hip on the counter, a foot of space between them, crossing his arms in that superior way he knows will irritate her, "even if it's wrong."
"Your obsession will not determine my eating habits, okay", she points a large spoon at him, "this is America, and I am free to eat the way I please—it's my right."
"Bland food sparks feelings of nationalism? I feel a headline coming on", he wraps his cold arms around her warm body, and she laces her arms in with his. They laugh. He presses his body against hers, and she matches his pressure. Thor revels in the feeling of her body heat, the smell of her shampoo and the soft caress of her hands. It's something he depends on, at the end of the day—coming home to her warm hands and welcome arms. It what makes working in the rain and coming home to her dinner projects worthwhile. It makes the hard decision to move here, the one that still sits on his shoulders and keeps him up at night, worthwhile. Her love makes it worthwhile.
"You're still wet", she whines, the thin material of her shorts and his too big t-shirt that she wears stain from the dampness of his jeans.
He hums into the back of her head, "The real question is, are you?"
They pause, and he holds his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing as she turns around with mischief in her eyes and a palm on his chest, pushing him until the back of his thighs hit the edge of the table, "that's so corny—but still hot."
"Did you need something else?"
Thor looks up from his half full, lukewarm cup, and offers a smile he hopes doesn't look as hollow as it feels, "no, thank you,"
The cashier nods, taking her mop and disappearing somewhere behind him. He sighs, wondering how long he'd been stuck in his own head. He'd forgotten how fast night fell this time of year in Manhattan. It'd been too long. He slid the papers from his pockets, and fished out the flip phone he hated using. He'd sold his laptop, and stopped being able to afford his iPhone a very long time ago. He'd been a little ashamed to buy the cheap Samsung, as it, like his sudden homelessness was more humbling than he was ready to accept. He remembers Steve, and his less than conventional methods of encouragement, "Situations are unavoidable, but stupidity is optional; get a damn phone. Disobey materialism and be responsible." Steve had told him this, all while letting Thor cry it out on he and Sam's living room sofa.
He'd been prepared to live minimalist, he thought, when he first moved in with Jane after he left his home, trust fund, and severed familial ties behind in Manhattan six years before. He'd believed in her dream, and he'd believed in her. The love they had transcended fate itself, and a future he was born to live with suddenly became an option. If leaving luxury behind meant true independence, then Thor would do whatever he could to attain it.
The prices of freedom, though, were steep.
And hindsight was 20/20.
He begins to call Yellow Cab, but dials another number instead.
"Hello?"
Thor works his jaw, nervous, "Hey, it's me."
"Thor", Loki's voice sounds like he's trying to feign indifference, but the relief slips out anyways, "haven't called to back out, have you?"
"No", Thor chuckles, because it's always been so easy to read Loki. Even when he didn't want him to, "no, I actually called to tell you I made it—"
Thor doesn't want to say home. Loki saves him from it, "do you need the address again? I told you to write it down", his laugh is a little forced, "I see you haven't improved your listening skills in your absence."
Thor doesn't want to banter, doesn't think he has it in him, but the minute they start speaking plainly and let the thin veil that is sarcasm crumble then they'll have to address their real problems; Thor's abandonment, Loki's resentment. "Perhaps not. Still, you never could give clear directions."
"If this is about that road trip to Louisiana, I'm still blaming Sif's for missing that exit", they laugh. The memory burns and balms all at once: how long has it been since he's spoken to Sif?
But the silence that stretches between them isn't about Sif at all. Loki's being generous, and even that alarms Thor, because it really means that he'd been gone too long. Thor had left his brother the legacy neither of them had ever wanted. He, selfishly, chose his heart over his brother and he knows that Loki has not forgiven him for it.
Still, when everything fell apart, his was the first number that Thor called, who answered.
"Thor?" Loki's voice was uncharacteristically soft, "brother, are you still there?"
Thor refocuses his eyes, and looks at the streetlights reflecting through the store windows, "I'll be on my way soon—will you be there to let me in?"
"I cant. Late meeting tonight. But there's a lobby on the first floor of the building; ask for Loretta Murphy and give her your name. She will take care of you."
Thor almost loses everything after meeting, "does he know?"
"No", Loki's voice goes sotto, "I have to go. I'll see you this evening. Don't get lost."
The phone call ends, but Thor is sure that he heard his father's voice in the background.
Thor thanks the cab driver, and has him keep the change, only thinking better of it when he realizes that his measly $200 dollars is down to a whopping $150 for all his generosity. Outside the window, he see the lights of a gorgeous lobby, "This is 14 Park Row?" The cab driver gives a stunted nod, getting out of the car to help him with the duffle in the trunk as he shuffles out of the backseat with the one strapped to his chest. Thor arches his head, trying to see how far up he can look before the muscles begin to protest. He whistles in appreciation, "nicely done, little brother."
The inside of the lobby is, impossibly, more impressive than the outside. It is posh and clean, much like he remembers his father's old offices to be downtown, in the financial district. Night has truly fallen, and even in a city like New York, evening brings the energy to a lull. The lobby twinkles with light and hums, people leisurely going in and out of the double doors. Thor tries too not look too much like a fish out of water, though his work boots and black hoodie don't match the Chanel and Ralph Lauren. He approaches the desk, where a young man with a name tag and a sleek button down types away at a computer, "good evening sir", he finally looks at Thor, and notices how much he doesn't fit in. "I'm sorry", and he truly does look it, "are you lost?"
Thor's brows furrow, "no, er…I'm-uh, is Loretta Murphy here?"
The young man, Rajan, his nametag reads, nods, looking at him warily as he turns to go down a hallway. Thor snorts and the irony, thinking of himself only at that boy's age, having too much money and not enough sense.
Thor hears her before he sees her. She wears heels that clack against the polished floors and echo against her voice as she and Rajan speak. She clears the hallway threshold, and Thor remembers how beautiful women have the terrible power of rendering him speechless.
Standing at his eye level, the woman who he assumes is Loretta Murphy stares at him through Irish coffee brown eyes with clear carnelian skin that seemed to shine beneath the florescent lights. Tight coils fanned out like the sun around her head and down her shoulders, and her curvy body looked soft to the touch. It was a little much for Thor. Especially since D.C
He wouldn't say that he'd lost his edge, but the way his mouth hung open like the proverbial fish he kept coming back to, proved otherwise. He hasn't been the same since D.C, and that was obvious in every interaction he had with an attractive feminine person: his charm was gone, he was clumsy, and he just didn't know how to act. Her pretty, red painted lips were moving and he could not, for the life of him, figure out what she was saying.
They were such a lovely shade.
"…and I don't want to have to call security…"
He shook his head, clearing the fog, "I'm so sorry—I'm Thor Odinson and was told to ask for you personally."
She pinched her lips in thought, going through a notepad beside the computer, and her features loosened in recognition, "Laufeyson's guest?"
Thor nodded, wishing he had the words to apologize. He didn't think 'you're really beautiful and I got overwhelmed' would work well because that's lame. And creepy. And she's already threatened to call security, so he didn't think it would be wise to push his luck.
"Sorry about the mix up, sir", she says, typing fast into the computer and sending Rajan away to bring back keys. "We'll have your keys brought out to you shortly. You want to go to the 65th floor. The elevator will take you straight up", Rajan puts the keys in her hands, and she passes them to Thor across the counter.
"Thank you, Ms. Murphy", he tips them up in salute, "and I apologize for…earlier"
She smiles, and something in her eyes tells him that she'd caught everything, "it's fine sir. These things happen."
He chuckles, soft and short, before turning to the elevator.
Loki's apartment is insane.
It is the epitome of indulged, privileged, rich bachelor in the corporate world.
Against one of the thirty foot walls, the first to be seen from the door, is a floor-to-ceiling- window, black panes matching the accents of his gunmetal grey décor with mahogany finishes. The light from the city casts a shadow over everything, but the incandescent lights (once Thor finds them), illuminate the whole room and make it look gold.
It is everything Thor was supposed to be, with everything Loki was about. It felt strange to stand in it.
The living room sat closer to the window, the kitchen to it's left and a wall, donning a faux fire place and mantle, extended into a hall where a number of doors were closed, except for the lone door on the left wall of the hallway, ajar and inviting.
Thor dropped his bags at the door, following the dark hallway into a bathroom. The sensor lights illuminate the modern designs, with a standing shower built comfortably for two. Thor chuckles, wondering if it is on purpose.
He walks back out, and goes straight for the kitchen for water. For a man who's been comfortably drinking from taps and coolers for the better part of six years, he knows his way around a fancy refrigerator dispenser, "sparkling is an option? Wow, that's nice", he shrugs appreciatively.
A loud thump and shuffle turns his attention to the door.
Which he watches Loki struggle agains, blocked by Thor's bags, looking positively ridiculous as he stretches through the small crack he is allowed, grumbling and cursing his way through.
Thor isn't across the room fast enough.
If he was asked about what propelled him, Thor wouldn't know how to answer. But he hasn't seen his brother in six years and even though the very thought of it brought him pain (wrapped up in regret and his mistakes), the sight of his little brother, looking so familiar in his exasperation made him want to hold on and never let go, again.
"Gmvofvmmvhyhvmbrdmhvmov!"
Thor furrows his brows, bringing his arms from around his brother's head to place his hands on his shoulders, "what?"
"I said", he takes a breath, but does not put distance between them "get off of me, you oaf", he's harried and pulling at his all black suit, straightening the lapels, "this is Gucci."
Thor feels the strong urge to cry. The last time he'd seen Loki, he was fresh out of college, getting ready for a graduation trip to Italy and trying his damdest to stay away from home. The last time he'd seen Loki, he'd been so excited about starting his anthropological research overseas, and felt clandestine, as he'd only told Thor. The last time he'd seen Loki, he held onto the door frame of a crumbling house, his red rimmed eyes begging what his mouth would not dare say.
Don't leave me.
Now, his little brother had grown up. Loki had become a man, in his absence. And if welcoming Thor into his home was any indication, he'd become a good one.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Loki's brows drew together, catching the way that Thor's face had begun to glow, around the eyes and cheek and he rolled his eyes, "I almost forgot how in touch you were with your emotions."
Thor sniffs, and laughs around a lump in his throat, "you—you grew up."
Loki nodded, the divot returning, his arms coming up to cross on his chest, "that's what people do. They grow up. and you grew out", Loki tugs a stray piece of hair, definitively diverting the conversation. "What is this shaggy mess on your head?" He steps out of his almost pristine stance, walking in a tight circle around Thor, who tries not to fidget, "your jeans have…holes in them. And this sweater is as old as you are. Good god, I'm surprised they let you through the front door."
"Well", Thor steps out of the circle Loki makes, going into the kitchen, "they did almost call security."
Loki's laugh is something he immediately associates with their childhood, when the man before him was far less ordered, but maybe no less mischievous, "I heard about that. Are we smitten with the floor manager already?"
Thor chuckles, the sound dry and humorless as he drinks his water and wishes it were something stronger.
The silence that follows is nary comfortable nor intolerable. But there is silence, and it speaks. Thor didn't tell Loki everything. He told him that his relationship with Jane was over and that he had nowhere else to go, skimping on the details. Loki is a detail-oriented person, and will expect some answers, sooner or later. Thor is also still reeling; Loki's misdirection did nothing to quell the guilt building up in his chest. The longer he looks at him, the more he realizes how much he's missed.
Time he can never get back.
Time he may never be able to make up for.
There is a cavern of space between them and Thor cannot meet Loki's eyes, but he is sure that his little brother is staring directly at him. "Thank you. For this, letting me be here."
"It's fine", Loki's voice is almost a whisper, it's so soft. The cavern of space between them remains, signifying the landmines they'll have to crawl over it to close it.
For closure.
"I'm—" Thor starts, but he doesn't know exactly where. Is 'I'm sorry' even enough?
"Look", Loki begins, breathing the tension out of his shoulders, "this is weird. It's going to be weird, for a while", he squares his shoulders, "but you're here now. It's not all that matters, but it matters", there is something so undeserving and compassion in Loki's eyes and that lump is back in Thor's throat again, "it's a start." Loki's eyes aren't guarded, like he thinks they should be; there is something honest about the way he that he looks at Thor and it completely disarms him.
"It's a start", he repeats, trying to disguise the tremble in his lips, "it's a start."
A/N: New WIP for all The Pick-Up Artist friends! We've got an All-Human AU with Thororo as endgame. If you loved it, let me know!
Check me out on Ao3, too: soulmuzik