A/N: So this chapter is shorter than the other ones, I plan to get a second one in before the 31st because I am traveling in August and writing will be the last thing on my mind for that month. In addition, I was asked by a guest reviewer if this was a ThorxLoki story and it is. TonyxLoki is something that will be lightly explored, but it is not endgame, sorry FrostIron shippers! I hope you guys enjoy, please read & review!


When Loki dreams, he dreams of laughter, of happiness. However, he does not see anything within this dream, does not know if he is the one who is happy, or if it is someone else, but he vaguely finds that he does not in fact care. It is a thousand times better than the dreams where he is falling, for what seems like infinity, where there is nothing but fast, rumbling wind that echoes through his ears.

His dream is a blur of colors; no shape takes a form, just streaks that look painted on a canvas. They move with the laugher, shaking with the vibrations that sound as if from a little boy.

Red and green. These colors are the dominant in the painting. They swirl around each other, never mixing, as if they are playing with one another, chasing each other. Maybe that's where the laughing is coming from?

It continues like this, laughing and chasing, the feeling of pure happiness that Loki is sure he has never known.

Moreover, when wakes up, it's not in a jolt, but a simple, disoriented blink. He smiles to himself, thinking this is how it should always be.


Stepping lazily down the spiral staircase, Loki hears quite, subtle sounds of cabinets closing, glasses tinking, a coffee pot hissing as it brews, and Loki thinks oddly that Tony never tries to be quiet in the kitchen, so why would he start now?

Reality hits him like a truck when he descends the last few stairs only to see her, the long haired brunette that sits idly on the kitchen counter top. Loki hopes under that big baggy t-shirt covering her knees, that she's wearing shorts, because he prepares food on that counter top, and he doesn't need her ass dirtying the area.

Curling his lip up in distaste, Loki studies her more before he alerts her of his presences. He searches for any behavior that proves ill, Loki still does not trust her, or her boyfriend, and he finds them to be too odd — uncanny for his own good.

Loki honestly had hoped that last night's incident had been a sort of berserk add-on to his collection of fucked up dreams, thinking about it, he actually would have preferred if it were. The dream he would had left, real life he could not.

"If I didn't know any better, I would think that you lived here, you seem to finding everything just fine."

Loki swears he sees her jump five feet in the air, t-shirt fanning out in a pleasant way where he can tell she's wearing tacky Bugs Bunny boxer shorts, thank god. She bustles around the kitchen, in a frantic 'chicken without its head' movement like she quite doesn't know what to do with herself, all the while, trying to flatten her unruly hair down with her palms as if he actually gives a fuck about what her hair looks like.

"Um—hi." She says shakily, adding a laugh at the end of it, probably trying to make it sound less awkward than it already is. It doesn't work.

Loki just stares at her for a moment, unimpressed by the display. He rolls his eyes, looking over at the coffee pot, having more interest in it than her.

"I hope you at least made more than one cup." He deadpans, expecting completely for her to say she has not.

She brightens fully at this, smiling and nodding her head enthusiastically like an over achieving dog and says "Yes! I made twelve actually!"

Loki looks at her then in unabashed surprise, brow raised high, as dismay and dread settle over his being yet again. Maybe he still has a chance to convince Tony to fly both of them to New York, be damned Steve Rogers—

As if sensing his thoughts, she quickly fills in, "Oh, no no no—it's not all for me! Thor—I mean Thom!—he loves coffee so I thought I would make him some before he woke up—he's not an morning person, he can be a little groggy— if that's cool with you."

He vaguely wonders why she even asks, if she's already gone and done it. Not caring in the slightest that the coffee is still brewing, Loki takes the handle in hand, watching as a barrage of brown steaming liquid hits the hot plate with a hiss, and pours himself a cup. "No not at all." Loki says dryly, roughly shoving the coffee pot back in its maker.

Loki relaxes a bit, sliding his eyes shut, as the aroma of Starbucks Breakfast Blend drifts up into his nostrils, capping the slight edge that comes with having two bizarre strangers in his home. Loki only pours a smidge of creamer and a pinch of sugar into his beverage, believing solely that creamer and sugar take away from naturally good coffee, that it steals away its integrity, and nothing that is so good should ever have to have a flavor substitute.

His relaxation comes to a halt as he sees from the corner of his eye the girl watching him, not even trying to hide her obvious interest, as she quirks her head, thoughtful crease between her brows.

Her staring vexes him, innerves him in a way that is far from when he piques the interest of dull woman on the street. It is not attraction that keeps her watching—he knows what attraction looks like—she watches him as if he is some puzzle to figure out, to put back together piece by piece, he wants to laugh at the simple irony of it, but instead loudly clears his throat.

"Jane was it?" He asks, taking a delicate sip.

She flushes brightly, and the theory that she was watching unconsciously rings true as she frantically averts her gaze, staring anywhere but him.

She nods, "Yes, Jane Foster—and your Loki?"

He hums an affirmative, coffee already numbing his nerves.

"Last name?"

"Hmm?"

"Your last name—you didn't mention it." She says timidly.

Loki wants to say that maybe he didn't mention it for a reason, since seemingly, he has a newly formed stalker phobia that is half her fault, but instead goes for the less aggressive route.

"Ah—my last name—I don't know it, well at least I don't know the real one."

He is mildly surprised when she does not react in the expected way everyone else does when he tells people he has no inkling of his last name. There is no confused tilt of the head, or scrunching of the nose, she just looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

"About two years ago I was found in the New Mexico desert—what I was doing there I have no idea—but I was found and they took me to a hospital. When I woke up I had no idea who I was—it was only a couple of days later that I remembered my name—Loki, but that was it."

Something in her dark brown eyes lighten, as the marginally widen. "Oh wow—that must have been horrible."

He rolls his eyes at the fruitless sympathy; it's not really her, just the issue that arises whenever he tells someone his story, the empathy along with the concord comes gushing off people like droves. As if they understand his pain, as if they care. Their sympathy doesn't make anything better, doesn't make the years he has lost come back.

Shrugging it off he continues, "Anyways, I had to re-name myself self so I picked Sylvain—and don't ask—all they had book wise in my room was old Roman mythology. Silvanus was the god of the forest—I'm not a nature guru—but it fit."

Taking another sip, Loki ponders a look at Jane, who in turn looks up at him in pure engrossment. Well that's too bad, he thinks, there's nothing more to tell.

"I think your coffee is done." He says annoyed, motioning to the coffee machine, when she doesn't stop looking.

"Oh!" She flutters around the kitchen, taking a mug out of the cupboard on her tippy toes, pulling back out the cream—in addition with honey, and he stares at her back in skepticism.

He wants to ask about her story; more importantly wants to know about the blond beefcake that staying in the same house as him. Loki wants to know things that he is too prideful to ask, and he scoffs at himself for wanting to know in the first place.

"So—what's the deal with you two?" He asks offhandedly, as if he could care less, but the way his heart pounds faster as he awaits an answer tells him all to different.

Jane looks over her shoulder, smiles, and looks back around giving a shrug. "Not much. We just came back from South America—just seeing all what the country had to offer—"

"For five years?"

Loki cannot imagine being away from home for such a long period of time, let alone on a different continent. Yeah, he'd love to go see either Brazil or Argentina, but for five years…

"Yeah, we weren't planning on staying so long, but it's a beautiful continent, with beautiful countries. We just traveled around, stayed village to village, that sort of thing."

"So then you must speak—or be really good at speaking Portuguese and Spanish?"

Jane stills at this.

"Um no actually—not really."

Loki hums in thought, his brain urging him to latch on this topic. Who stays in Portuguese-Spanish speaking countries and can't utter a simple sentence?

"So then blondy must be the speaker then? Do you think he can teach me some things? Your account has made me rethink going to both Brazil and Argentina, it would be pretty helpful." Loki knows for a fact that he doesn't speak it, but it's the first plausible seed of doubt that he can hook on to, he knows there is something off with these two.

As if irony has called the oaf down itself, Loki hears big, heavy footsteps make their way down the spiral staircase, rattling its very structure. Loki has to remind himself to breathe, almost dropping his mug as he glances up.

For some reason he is only in a towel, a towel that emphasizes the goldness of his skin, that comes only to the upper tops of his knees because he is so fucking tall, and then on his side, a slit that shows a sliver of skin that widens whenever he takes a step because he is so fucking huge. He ruffles his wet hair with another towel on top of his head, smiling jovially, electric blue eyes shining as he spots Jane and Loki.

"Jane," he nods politely to her, "Loki," he says with more timbre, and it wipes out whatever intelligent response Loki had on his tongue.

He's staring—he knows he staring—and Thom knows he's staring too, because he's staring right back, eyes roaming non-to-chalant over his form, and Loki wishes that he would have put on a tank top before he came down stairs.

"Stark has the most excellent washroom devices. I never knew that there could be so many ways for water to clean me. All I had to do was stand there amongst the spray!"

Loki moves far back into the counter as Thom bustles into the kitchen, his simple presences—the way he smells, the way he looks, the way stray droplets of water cascade down his back—all overwhelm Loki. It's frightening to him how aware of it all he is. Loki doesn't have a clue if his reaction is based on the fact that blondy looks like a 21st century Adonis, or if he's still scarred from the happenings of last night, maybe it's both, he reckons.

The sound of Jane's amused laugher knocks him out of his daze, and he scolds himself horribly for being such a prepubescent schoolgirl.

"Here you go, I made you some—and there's more too." She hands him a coffee mug that all but shrinks as soon as she passes it into his hands.

"Thank you." He says, and Loki can hear the fondness pour off the two syllables like honey.

Loki's eyes never leave Thom's form as takes a gulp of coffee, watching as his Adam's apple bobs up and down attractively, hearing the faint, pleased hum that slithers invitingly on his skin, making him shiver.

Loki resists the urge to jump as Thom's eyes peer over the rim off the coffee cup, locking on to his, smirking slightly as if he knows.

"Did you sleep well?" Thom asks curiously, calm easygoingness raking over his whole body, as he copies Loki's lean on the counter, letting it take all his weight.

Loki stubbornly removes his gaze, defiant pout etching across his lips, as he takes a much-delayed sip of coffee, musing over his answer. Clearing his throat and adopting a more open stance, Loki smiles, hoping that no sign of discomfort will be read to easily from this stranger.

"Yes very much." He keeps it short and sweet, to the point. False kindness oozes from Loki's pores, and internally Loki gapes when Thom just laughs, an amused quiet little thing, as if mocking him and it only irritates Loki further.

"That's good—though, I was disappointed that you did not come with us for dinner—it was quite fun. However, I do understand—I just wanted us to get to know each other a little better—to prove that I am not the loon you so think I am."

Loki wants to snort, wants to ask, how do you know what I think?—but it seems immature when he relays it in his mind.

"I don't think you're a loon." He lies, but it sounds convincing.

Thom stills with a sigh, putting his coffee cup softly on the counter, lightly shaking his head, sly smile on his lips. "Thank you for saying so—but I can tell your trying to appease me, and as much as that is flattering," his eyes flicker playfully to his, "it's unneeded. I would much rather have you honest with me."

Loki to his utter most horror, feels flustered, feels heat rushing to his cheeks and ears. How dare he?

"Trying to appease you—" Loki mutters in disbelief, eyes widening in mortification, and without another word, leaves in a hurry up the stairs, coffee long forgotten.

"Please do not go too far! I hope to take you and Jane out for luncheon!"

Loki snorts in reply back, like hell.