Admittedly, this might not have been the best idea. Whereas the city was loud and crowded, it also had paths that were relatively easy to follow once one knew how—the halls of the airport are open, and there's no way besides the wall to know their direction. Unfortunately, people like to stand against said walls, so trailing them isn't quite as effective as he would like.

Loki does his best to use the echos as a vague guide and locks on to the voices of a couple people around him to judge his relative proximity. It's not perfect by any means, but better than nothing.

Thankfully it's not hard to find a meal, because the scent of coffee and fast food hangs in the air and provides a fairly decent target point. Not caring too much what he eats so long as he eats something, he heads for the nearest option and almost runs into a woman who stops suddenly in the middle of the walkway. Stupid mortals. He apologizes politely, though, and finds his way to the counter.

"Good evening," Loki greets with a pleasant smile.

"Hi, what can I get for you?"

His smile turns a bit sheepish as he gestures to the cane. "Would you mind reading off the menu? I'm afraid I can't quite see it."

The woman obliges and he ends up ordering a couple sandwiches, a cup of soup, a salad, some french fries, and a milkshake. Enough for two humans, maybe, but their lunch had been rather short and he's still healing. Honestly, he could eat two or three times this without much trouble. Mortals act weirdly when one man sits down with enough for a family, though, so he's learned to stagger his meals while in public. Even as more a snack than a meal, it's still food, and he's content with that for the time being.

Balancing that in one hand is a bit of a trick, but thankfully the seating isn't far away and the man at the first table he finds points him to an open one not far off. Loki sinks down into the metal chair gratefully when he finds it, appreciating the end of his long and arduous quest.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that long, but it wasn't fun. What he wouldn't give for a little magic right now…

The food's a bit stale and not quite as warm as it should be, but at least it's filling. It tastes a bit unfortunate as well, though that seems to be standard for Midgardian fare.

"But I don' wanna, mommy," comes the voice of a young boy behind him, "I wanna draw."

There's a yelp. "Ow! Mommy," a girl whines, "Ben pulled my hair…"

"Ben, we don't pull people's hair. Come over on this side and stop harassing your sister."

"I want my pretzel, mommy!"

"Just a moment, Alice, there aren't any tables. We'll have to go back to the gate and sit there."

"But I'm hungry."

"Alice…" the mother says with a sigh, trying to calm a now-crying baby.

Loki turns. "If you don't mind sharing a table, you're welcome to sit here. I hardly need four chairs."

"I can't impose–"

"Really," he assures her with a smile, "I don't mind. It'll save you from having to herd them all the way there with your hands full."

"You're a lifesaver, thank you so much," she thanks him with the obvious gratefulness of an overworked mother.

"Of course." Loki pulls out the chair beside him for the little girl, who's trying and failing rather miserably to do so herself. "My name is Lachlan."

"I'm Maria. These troublemakers are Alice, and Ben, and the little one is Amanda."

She sounds young—under thirty, most likely, though still probably a little older in relative terms than him. Her voice is kind. He decides he likes her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." There's a huff from his right, and he looks over. "And you as well, Alice. Where are you flying?"

"Los Angeles. My parents', now that these two are out of school for the summer. What about you?"

"I'm going to Russia with a friend, but we're flying through Los Angeles as well, I believe he said."

"God, that's gotta be a long flight."

"Yes, so I'm told. I'm not used to spending so long traveling; it's odd for me."

The girl taps on his arm insistently.

"Yes?"

"Can I have a french fry?"

"Alice!" Maria scolds, "that's not polite."

"…please?" she amends.

Loki can't help but laugh, and nods. "Since you asked nicely, then of course."

Suddenly he has a lap full of what he's assuming is five-year-old, give or take a year since it's hard to guess for sure. To be honest, he doesn't really mind at all. There's a pang of sorrow that makes itself known, but she's not them, he reminds himself. She's different, and there's no use comparing them.

He turns the box toward her so she can reach a bit more easily, and settles into a comfortable conversation.

As it turns out, the woman twenty-nine and her husband works out of Seattle, so they haven't seen each other in about a month. She's been raising her children single-handedly for that time. It's an impressive feat, he knows, especially with the ages that hers are.

At one point Ben starts asking about the cane (or stick, as he calls it), and Alice demands his sunglasses so she can pretend to be a secret agent. He refrains from telling her just what he thinks of government agents, instead letting her take them and run around the table pretending to hide behind him. She doesn't seem terribly bothered by the scars when she pulls them off of his nose, but his hearing is good enough to notice Maria's breath catch just slightly.

"What happened? I mean, if that's not rude to ask or anything, sorry–" she quickly adds, but he shakes his head.

"No, it's fine." For a moment he runs the tree of possibilities through his mind, deciding the best course of action to take, and chooses one that's mostly truth. "I angered my father, he took his revenge."

"Oh my god," she says, sounding shocked. He supposes the United States' justice system is a bit different from Asgard's. "I'm so sorry."

Loki shugs. "It was years ago, and has been forgotten. There is no use in me dwelling on it now."

Sharp stone digging into his spine, the cold abominations they call bonds, pain and fear and agony… grief. Grief of the greatest, most complete form. Screams and wails of terror that still echo in his ears at night when all falls quiet. Eternal darkness that blocks his senses and reminds him all too much of the place between Her branches.

No, it is neither forgotten nor forgiven. It never will be.

It can't be (and he has a few hundred scarred tallies to ensure that fact)

Yes, he deserved what was done to him. The sewing of his lips, the lashings, the cave… he's come to realize that.

His sons didn't.

Odin will pay for that.

The memories and anger come in a flash, but he banishes them just as quickly and keeps his expression in check.

"Besides, now Alice can be a spy. She's so clever that she's disappeared!" he says with feigned surprise, looking around for her (not that it really helps, but it's just to appease her, after all). Loki knows exactly where she is, of course—crouching behind his chair and giggling quietly. It's rather endearing.

After a few minutes of pretending to search for her she climbs back into her seat, and he can hear the grin in her voice.

"Pew! Pew!" she exclaims, and her tone becomes serious. "Now you're dead."

Clutching at his heart, he pretends to die dramatically and causes another bout of giggles.

"If I say you're adorable, will that get me killed?" asks an all-too-familiar voice behind him.

Loki cracks one eye open, looking up toward the man from where he's dropped his head back. "Yes. I would highly recommend against such comments, idiot fool."

"Lame. What are you up to?"

He sits up a bit more elegantly than his feigned death and gestures to his present company. "These are Maria, Alice, Ben, and Amanda. They're on our flight."

"Awesome. Hey, guys. Name's Jake."

"Nice to meet you," Maria says politely while Loki tries not to laugh at the mortal's chosen name. It doesn't really suit Stark at all, but in some ways that's to their benefit. He's definitely the more recognizable of the two of them.

"Lancelot, we should probably head toward the gate. We board first."

"Has it really been that long?"

"Like an hour and a half, yeah."

It certainly hasn't felt like such a lengthy period of time, although that's most likely due to the children. They ease a little of the pain, although cause some too. It's complicated, really.

"Of course," he replies, finding his cane and collecting his trash. "Perhaps I shall see the four of you later?"

"I hope so. Thanks again for the table, you're incredible."

Loki smiles. "It was no trouble. Thank you for the company."

Stak is polite enough (for once) to throw out the bag of trash for him before letting him take his arm and leading him back toward the gate.

"Picking up chicks, are we?"

He rolls his eyes while he tucks his cane under his arm. "She is married, fool. And I am in no way attracted to her—she needed a place to sit, and I offered one to her. It's really fairly simple."

"That's no fun, I need shit to tease you over; you're hilarious when you're irritated."

"Is that so?"

"Well, when you're not trying to kill or maim me. That part's not so cool. But still, you're way too easy to fuck with sometimes and I love it."

Loki shoves him good-naturedly and gives a sigh of exasperation. The air cools as they reach the gate and the seats are a bit overworn, but whether or not he'll admit it, he's glad the mortal has returned. Finding B10 would have been a nightmare alone, and as much as it irritates him he feels safer in the man's company. Largely because that way at least he has someone's eyes watching where they're going, although it's true that after everything they've been through together he's come to have an instinctual understanding that Stark is a worthy watchman, as he once trusted Thor, Sif, or the Warriors Three to be on extended hunting trips and the battlefield.

Foolish sentimentality is what it is, really. Norns be damned…

He changes his mind about liking the man when he starts being poked repeatedly in the shoulder.

"Do I need to cut off that hand of yours?"

"Rude."

With an unamused look, Loki turns. "Is there something in particular you require, or are you just trying to see how far you can push me before I do something we both regret?"

"You'll regret it? I feel like that's a success, actually."

"I have no desire to end up in custody again," he elaborates, "the other casualties I don't care much about."

"I'm hurt, Dasher."

"Good. You're like a fly, with your constant pestering. Please remind me to apologize to Miss Potts, because she deserves to be paid a good deal more than whatever she's making. More than you, certainly."

"I am not that bad!"

No, he's far, far worse. Calling him a fly is really being too kind, the insufferable idiot. Granted, the insufferable idiot to whom he owes his life and relative sanity, so he probably shouldn't complain too much.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, their time is spent alternating between bickering like children and himself getting distracted by other people's conversations. Never had he thought that his usual hyper-alertness would be so detrimental, but since he's using the soundscape to keep his bearings, he's paying even more attention than normal. It's easy to become caught up in another story in such a busy place as this.

An insistent tugging on his pant leg brings him back from a ridiculous political debate happening a few rows over, and he looks over.

"Look, look!" a familiar, young voice says excitedly, "I made an airplane!"

He smiles, running his fingers over the slightly lop-sided paper wings. "Oh, wow! Look at that! I bet that was hard to make, huh?"

"Yeah," she replies, in the sort of half-seriousness that young children think is convincing but is really just endearing. "Mommy had to help me. Mommy can make all sorts of planes!"

"She must be very talented, then. What about your brother? Can he make planes?"

That earns a giggle. "Ben's too little. Ben squishes paper and mommy says they're rocks."

Alright, it's enough to make him laugh a little. "He's trying."

"Ben isn't as good as me."

"Hey, be nice to your brother! You're both good."

"But he's mean," she whines.

"He just needs someone to teach him how to be nice, that's all. He's very lucky to have a big sister like you."

A woman's voice comes over the old speaker, crackling like old paper, calling for passengers with disabilities or small children who need extra time boarding to do so. Loki considers for a moment, but doesn't get up. Stark is an experienced enough guide that he doesn't feel any anxiety when following him, and it's hardly difficult to sit down. Besides, as much as he's willing to take advantage of the situation when it benefits him, there's no point in calling it out when there's no real plus. It's not like they'll leave any sooner if they're first on.

They're first-class, anyway, so once the couple young mothers and disabled elderly go they're in the second group to be called.

Walking down the boarding tunnel is weird. The air pressure shifts and the temperature rises to a more summer feel as soon as they step through the door, and it's disconcerting.

"Watch out, there's a gap between the end of the ramp and the plane."

Well obviously. Besides, this is what the cane is for. It's not like it's hard to step over. As predicted, the mortal makes it easy to find his seat, and it turns out to be a good deal more comfortable than the ones at the gate. Loki relaxes with a sigh into the worn (fake) leather. What is it with humans and their need to recreate everything in plastic? And their qualms with wearing real furs is idiotic—there's no use in wasting useful parts of one's game. Plus, if properly prepared and cared for, fur is far warmer and softer than the faux alternative. That's a skill most hunters learn early on.

He suddenly misses his fur and wool cloak that he'd use in the winters while travelling.

It feels like an hour has passed before they start taxiing to the runway, but taking off is exhilarating. It's been far too long since he's flown, and he's missed it.

"Planes are fucking awesome, huh?"

Loki scowls. "There are children nearby, Stark, please watch your words."

"You are so weird around kids, not gonna lie. It's like a magic switch."

"Yes, well," blond hair, eyes as blue as the Sea of Space, laughing in pure joy as he teaches them to catch the little fish in their hands, "I have parental instincts. It's something you can't understand until you have children, really. And yes, flight is enjoyable, but you speak as though Asgard is perpetually in Midgard's dark ages. We have flying ships, you know."

"Wait, really?" the man asks with a yawn.

He hums in affirmation, adjusting the gasper so it will stop blasting cold air at his shoulder and hissing obnoxiously. "They are powered by dark energy rather than engines, but most of them are more advanced than this."

"Hey! Stop dissing Earth shit!"

"Swearing, Stark. To be fair, Midgard has its impressive sides as well. You manipulate electricity instead, and in some forms your electronic technology is your own form of magic—I find it intriguing, actually."

"Tech is not magic."

"It depends on your viewpoint, I suppose, but in many ways I would argue it is, especially since your kind still don't entirely understand it. You can create new elements in your workshop with a miniature particle accelerator—it's simply a different method to channel Yggdrasil's power, if less intuitive."

"I'm definitely asking more about this later, but I think I'm gonna take a catnap if you're cool with it. I haven't slept in like thirty-six hours at least. All-nighters aren't exactly new, but I'm not usually running from SHIELD."

Loki assures him that he in no way minds, choosing instead to pull up an article about Russia on his phone now that they're allowed to be used. It would benefit him to have at least some idea as to the cultural differences.

Ten or fifteen minutes later he can't help a quiet laugh at the man having ended up sleeping against his shoulder. Surprisingly, he doesn't really mind. Loki isn't really used to having friends who trust him, and it's often confusing, but also an odd kind of nice (if ridiculously foolish on the mortal's part). Stark's position looks rather uncomfortable after a time, so he shifts to sling an arm over his shoulder and let him settle in a more pleasant manner in the knowledge that the man tends to have fewer nightmares when someone is nearby. It's rather similar to Thor and him when they would travel together, although different reasoning, and he's not sure if that's a fond or bitter memory.

Loki leans his head back and closes his useless eyes. There are a few equations he's been considering for one of their projects that he runs through absentmindedly, but for the most part he sinks into a watchman manner whilst the hum of the jet engines and roar of air outside filter through his peripheral. His newer, more complicated Rubik's cube is in his bag, so he pulls it out with a bit of odd maneuvering to avoid waking the mortal, and keeps his hands occupied while he stays alert for danger. There's one man on the plane with a gun, he knows, although from the signs it's a sky marshal so he's not overly concerned. Still—better to be on guard than caught by surprise.