Night Kitchen

A Tom-meets-Loki One-Shot

Tom pushed the door shut with his foot as he shrugged out of his overcoat and pulled off his scarf. The pale late-night moon gleamed through the windows, forming rectangular pools on the floor, illuminating the familiar pathways of his home. He slipped off his jacket, tossing it over a chair while stifling a yawn, and, by the time he'd reached the kitchen, he'd loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar.

His hand was on the fridge handle when some sixth sense warned him that he was not, in fact, alone.

"Hello, Tom."

Every nerve tensed. He spun around, his eyes focusing slowly in the dimness. Someone was seated at Tom's table, a dark outline silhouetted against the moonlight.

Tom slapped his hand to his side, realizing too late that his phone was in the other room, nestled still in his jacket pocket.

"Who are you?" he snapped.

A brilliant, green-tinged light flared through the kitchen, coalescing into a flame cupped in the stranger's hand, glowing through his flesh and outlining the long, graceful bones in his fingers. With a sinuous movement, he tilted his hand, and the flame drained out of his palm to gather itself into a little bonfire burning merrily atop the table's polished surface.

Tom gaped at it for a moment, frozen in astonishment. Then, giving his head an irritated shake, he looked at the stranger, visible now in the dancing light.

His own face looked back at him, an amused quirk to the mouth. His own face, and yet also utterly alien.

The stranger's mouth stretched into a smile. "I wouldn't have thought that introductions were necessary," he said.

Tom felt the floor heaving under his feet, the shadows on the walls spinning and flowing in strange patterns as his mind rejected what his eyes were seeing.

"That's not possible," he whispered.

"Many things are possible, more than you would think." The stranger paused, and then, gesturing lightly toward the opposite chair, he added, "Perhaps you should sit. You look a trifle. ..overwrought."

Of their own volition, Tom's legs took him to the table and deposited him in the chair. He stared at the face opposite him, and finally asked, hardly believing what his own lips were uttering, "Loki?"

The man inclined his head. "Of Asgard."

"You exist?"

"As you see."

A thousand garbled questions tumbled through Tom's tangled thoughts, but, somewhat to his own surprise, the one that came out first was, "What do you want?"

"Want? How crude. I want nothing." Then, he lifted his chin and regarded Tom steadily for a moment. "Or rather. . .yes. Yes, I wanted to see your face."

"My face?"

"Indeed."

"And having done that?'

His visitor shook his head mockingly. "No, no, no. Too soon, Tom. Why do I have the distinct impression that you'd like to be rid of me?"

Tom heard himself murmur, "Of course not," and he inwardly cursed his own ingrained politeness. He sought to take the offensive. "Why do you look like me?"

A corner of Loki's mouth lifted. "It would be better to ask, why do you look like me?"

"All right. But you haven't answered either of those questions."

In the firelight, Loki's eyes glinted. "'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, then are dreamt of in your philosophy'."

There didn't seem to be any good response to that. Tom said faintly, "You've read 'Hamlet'?"

"I have seen it played." His eyes turned distant, as he if were accessing a long-dormant memory. "He had a mind of wind and fire."

"Hamlet?"

"No. Will."

Tom felt his own mind reeling.

'You knew Shakespeare?"

"I have known many mortals. You interest me. You are creatures of such boundless variety."

"You don't think yourself above us?" Tom said, and then wondered if quoting from the film was wise.

Loki laughed. "Your Mr. Whedon is very clever, but his knowledge of me is . . .shallow. To be expected, I suppose. There is only so much personality that can be contained in a two-hour film."

"Two hours and twenty-three minutes."

"Even so."

"You haven't been visiting Joss, have you?"

"Oh, no. Only you, Tom."

"And Shakespeare. What was he like?"

"'A fellow of infinite jest'."

Almost reluctantly, Tom admitted, "I'd have liked to have known him."

"Oh, no doubt. It's unfortunate that your lives don't work that way."

Our lives don't work that way?

Loki rose out of his chair and began to wander easily about the kitchen. Tom watched him warily. It was like having a leopard loose in your house: beautiful and very dangerous.

His guest opened a glass door and removed a heavy crystal cocktail tumbler, studying the flare of light along its rim.

"Would you like a drink?" Tom heard himself saying, and then squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, lord, shades of Tony Stark!

He opened them again, to find Loki observing him with a knowing smirk. "Thank you, but no. Midgard's libations are something of an acquired taste, and I have not acquired it. Though not for want of trying, I assure you."

"Well, you didn't come for drinks, and, no matter what you say, you didn't need to come all this way to see my face. You can see it yourself anytime you look in a mirror. So why are you here?"

Loki steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips, eyeing Tom speculatively, as if deciding how much truth to dispense. Finally, he said, 'I hear my name when it is spoken, throughout the Realms. And, lately, there has been such a clamor from Midgard."

"You're very. . ." Tom searched for a suitable adjective, and finally finished lamely, ". . .popular."

"Oh, not I." Loki shook his head, eyes gleaming. "It's you, Tom. You channeled me so charmingly."

Tom felt slick horror coat his throat. "Channeled?"

Loki waved a hand dismissively. "An expression, merely. It would be a dark day indeed if I were forced to use such clumsy methods as . . . possession."

Suddenly he tossed the tumbler. Tom reached up to catch it, but what landed in his grasp was not heavy crystal; instead he found himself holding a square-edged object. When he sat back in surprise, Loki smiled wolfishly.

"Call it. . .a gift. From one Loki to another."

Tom examined it: a bundle of heavy, yellowed paper, trimmed raggedly on the edges and carelessly sewn along the binding to make a sort of book. Its surface was covered with scrawled handwriting, much marked-over and heavily crossed-out, with many dribbles and splotches of faded black ink.

He'd seen this writing before; crabbed and untidy, it looked familiar. . .

He felt his jaw dropping open.

It couldn't be. . .

He looked up to find Loki watching him. Unable to form the question, he held up the little book, both brows raised.

Loki shrugged. "You did say that you would have liked to have known him. I'm afraid this is the best that I can do."

Tom managed, "This is Shakespeare's notebook?"

"He had dozens of them, and he was always leaving them lying about. In taverns, in the theater. He never noticed when one or two went missing." Loki quirked one brow. "Where did you think the Bad Quarto came from?"

"Well, I always thought it had been scribbled down by a spy at a performance, or stolen. . .from. . .his notes. . ."

Loki grinned.

Tom passed his hand over his eyes. This whole situation was dizzyingly surreal. How was it possible that he was sitting in his kitchen, in the dead of night, discussing the Bad Quarto, with Loki? With Loki?

He blew out a breath and opened his eyes, to see that his guest had once again seated himself in the opposite chair.

He glared at him for few, stretched moments, and then said flatly, "I must be hallucinating."

"You may tell yourself that, for a time, if it pleases you. donec nostri tunc congressus."

"Thank you very much." Tom wondered if Loki absorbed sarcasm or if it just rolled off him like water on oil. His mind was already translating the Latin.

"Wait. . .what? What next meeting?"

Loki leaned forward. "I will leave you now."

He laid his hand over the quivering flame on the table; it flared up between his fingers, and then went out.

Tom woke with a start, lifting his head from its resting spot on his crossed arms. His neck and back were stiff. Gray morning light spilled through the windows.

I fell asleep at the table?

Confused memories began to seep into his mind. He looked down, suddenly, his heart in his throat, and there, beside his elbow, lay a small, handsewn paper notebook, covered in ink-blobbed scrawls. He stared at it, afraid that it would dissipate like smoke if he touched it, and then his eyes flickered to the center of the table, where a greenish flame had burned. Now, he smoothed his hand over the unmarred surface, a frown wrinkling his brow.

How could that have been anything but a dream?

His hand froze in mid-motion, then, as his eyes found a square of folded parchment, leaning jauntily against an empty crystal tumbler. On the front, inscribed deeply into its bone-colored surface, there were a few scratched lines that might have been some sort of rune.

Slowly, Tom reached forward and picked it up. He slid his thumb under the fold, and flicked it open.

Two sentences, written in elegant, angular script:

My thanks for your hospitality, however unwittingly given. I am pleased to have met you at last, Tom- -face to face.

Thanks for reading! I'd love it if you'd leave a review! :)