Note: It's an extremely long chapter, oh lord. 14k.
BE READY. SO MUCH HAPPENS.
I hope you enjoy this chapter. Reviews are always welcome!
From: pirateangel
To: agent_of_asgard
Posted: Thurs Nov 9, 2017 07:57 a.m.
Re: What about Bonnefoy?
Dear friend,
I'm so glad to be reading your message! You have no idea how happy it made me feel to realise one of the emails in my inbox was a notification that you wrote again.
I apologise for the uncomfortable position I put you in by asking we meet. I am not angry nor mad; I am honestly just relieved you replied. I was getting worried you would never send me anything ever again, to be completely honest with you.
I know we have a "no personal information sharing" policy but I can't help wanting to hear about your worries because I want to be here for you. I want to listen and give you a hand and help in any way I can. After all, you don't meet Bonnefoy aficionados every day, and you have been the best penpal I have ever had, dearest friend.
"He's calling you dearest friend! He is so officially smitten and into you," Sif grins from behind Loki, chin resting upon his shoulder.
"Shut up," Loki groans as a blush creeps up his cheeks and something hot curls in his belly, stroking silently where his heart beats heavily against his ribcage. "I'm trying to read."
We can just keep talking about Pride and Prejudice, too, if you'd rather do that. I would be absolutely fine with it. And Bonnefoy. And everything else that doesn't involve real life if it's too painful to bear.
"Look how cute he is," Clint coos from Loki's other shoulder, eyes crinkling as he sips his coffee-flavored sugar. "He is so into you, boss, this is both terrifying and delightful to witness."
"Don't you two have work to do?!" Loki interjects loudly with all the annoyance and frustration he can muster—which isn't that hard, honestly, with the current situation at hand. "I have enough gossip material about Nat and you, Clint, and you, Sif," Loki says as he turns to his best friend, grins with a side twitch that doesn't bode well for anyone, "you'd better not get me started on your habits."
At the far end of the shop, Hela starts laughing, shelves full of books smiling back at her while Sif and Clint hurry behind the counter with a flush so high upon their cheeks Loki thinks they will faint at some point in the next minutes.
x x x
Heimdall chews slowly on his bagel. "We're not late. Just a bit of fumbling around with electricity and it will be all done."
Thor sighs and grabs his bottle of water, the air warm in his office but with a distinct touch of soon-to-be-winter, all spices and red hues and delicate swirls of gold. He takes a moment to breathe in deeply through his nose, to open his mouth and taste the air that smells of pine and candy cane.
Is that how you smell, dear friend? Like warmth and soft kisses exchanged near the fireplace on Christmas day? Like laughter echoing in a house where loneliness has shrunk and barely shows itself?
Heimdall's loud voice pulls Thor out of his thoughts.
"I can assure you we will be ready on time," he reassures him.
"Let's hope so," Thor replies quietly, still half-lost in the contemplation of whether his stranger smells like fresh ground coffee beans or roasted chestnuts and mulled wine. "We don't want to be behind on our schedule, especially when it comes to opening."
Heimdall doesn't say anything and he doesn't look away from him. The raindrops are a steady thrum of noise in the background.
"You want to make your father proud, is that it? You've been extremely fidgety and quiet all morning."
He's looking at him now, focused. Staring. Thor almost forgot how Heimdall could stare, eyes harsh in all their golden light.
Thor shakes his head, features on his face growing hard. He feels the headache that's been stalking at the edge of his vision creeping closer.
"It's not a question of making him proud," he almost spits, and Heimdall raises an eyebrow; interrogates his friend with nothing but a look. "I want to prove to him that I can handle this. While I don't like making tiny bookstores go under, I won't let that Shop Around The Corner get in my way. I guess it's the only way to prove him I can do it."
"You have proven yourself already," Heimdall weighs in, calm and contemplating his friend. "Your father knows. He has seen what you can do."
"But it's never enough," Thor sighs as pain settles in his chest, sizzling and crackling, so similar to lightning. "I can do more; I can be more."
"How much more deception can you take until you realise it's not worth anything?" Heimdall tells him all the time, and Thor's irises wander around the room, bagel long-forgotten in front of him. "How much longer will you break your back for a father who never thought of anyone but himself?"
Thor tilts his head towards him as he shifts in his seat, and smiles a little through his exhaustion, remembering what Heimdall did for him and how he is forever going to have his back.
It's enough to settle his fear for now.
"I'll help," Heimdall simply states, and Thor's grateful stare is enough reassurance that he is doing the right thing and not just playing Odin's twisted game.
x x x
From: agent_of_asgard
To: pirateangel
Posted: Frid Nov 10, 2017 07:01 p.m.
Re: What about Bonnefoy?
I just saw a butterfly in the subway on my way home, just like the children's book.
Did you send me a sign because I've been worried lately? I like to think you did.
Is that weird?
x x x
"You overthink everything and it's killing you slowly, you know that?"
Loki looks up from his laptop to face Sigyn, eyebrows arched, blood rushing in his ears; in the background, he notices that the sun has sunken lower into the horizon.
"I'm sorry," he says slowly, wetting his lips, "what?"
She takes a bite of her food — lemon chicken Hela cooked earlier that night — and sighs, fork in hand, expression changed from frustrated sadness to angry melancholia. "You overthink everything and—"
"I heard you," Loki cuts through, harsher than he intended and that makes him wince. "But I am asking what you mean by that."
She stares at him for a moment, and then laughs bitterly but not unkindly, eyes lost on Loki's tense face. Sigyn had always like that, mysterious in her own ways, never mean for the purpose of it but honest and looking to make the best out of weird, sometimes painful situations.
"You can be very thick for a genius," and she takes a sip of wine, lets it sit on her tongue.
Chardonnay. Always get Chardonnay for lemon chicken, Sigyn always tells him, it's the best pairing you can ever get with this meal. Highly acidic, vibrant wine, just what you need to dance with the meat. "Very much so."
Rubbing his eyes irritably, Loki inhales and exhales heavily before pushing his laptop further on the table, sucking in a shaky breath. "Stop being cryptic, Sigyn, come on. What do you mean? And I'm not a fucking genius," he mutters.
Suddenly, his words stay in the air, electricity enveloping them; they are almost tantalizing, tempting his sister's partner near the cliff. Try me, try me, it repeats in his head, poison and claws out. Try me.
Sigyn stares at him and then glances down at the plate before her, half-finished, before shaking her head.
"I get so worried about you," she eventually admits, eyes closed but voice clear and steady. It's not what Loki had expected despite knowing her for so many years and he can hear a slightly nervous hint in there.
"That bookstore chain, it's full of ignorant salespeople," Loki says. "It's impersonal. It's got nothing on us and yet? Yet, I can't stop thinking about it, about how they're going to crush us. It's not something I can let happen and you know why."
Sigyn flinches at Loki's tone, at how cruel and sad and raw he sounds.
Loki shifts uncomfortably and avoids her eyes; grinds his teeth together and scratches his nails against the grain of the wood of the dining table. He needs to stop spilling his guts and needs to suck it up for once. He tries to focus on something else instead, on Sigyn's hair for instance. Forces himself to remember how she tries to tame it down, how it resists, fine soft strands sticking straight back up.
It's no use trying to run away from it—so he sits straighter up, pushes all these thoughts that threaten to eat him up alive.
She presses her free hand into the side of Loki's neck, stares right into his eyes. "Loki. Breathe."
Pressing down on his lungs is the agonizing fear of losing what he has fought for so long: his mother's legacy, a memory he can't let go of. He is not ready, will never be ready for it—isn't grief supposed to die at some point?
Footsteps can be heard in the doorway and Loki sighs as he notices that Hela is home.
"Grief doesn't go away," her voice cuts through his thoughts, and Loki realizes he's crying in Sigyn's arms. His hand is curling in her soft hair absentmindedly, red curls thin as veins. "Life grows back around it. Sometimes it comes back. It's been hard for us lately, brother."
She's crying, too, and she's got such raw vulnerability in her eyes, something Loki has rarely ever seen his sister display in all these years shared together. Last time was perhaps the day she fought for him to take over the shop.
"Mum wanted you to keep going with the shop, not me," she tells him, frustrated and on the verge of tears. "You have to. Please, Loki. Please."
It's been a deep-rooted ache for them both for so long and they've never been able to properly talk about it. It's time, he guesses. It's time.
Loki thanks Sigyn silently for this as he can't find anything adequate enough to express the swelling in his chest as they're pressed together, Sigyn rubbing slow circles on his back.
Calming, soothing. Reassuring.
This.
A family of his own again.
x x x
The sign is completed on a cold day of November and it says, in bright, bold letters:
COMING SOON, JUST AROUND THE CORNER: ODINSON BOOKS!
Loki glares daggers at it while Sif mumbles, "what a fucking nightmare" under her breath.
"They won't get us," Hela grumbles. "They're ignorant and impersonal."
With a pointed clearing of his throat, Clint looks over at them. "But they have discounts!"
"But they don't provide anything that we cannot provide ourselves. People love their indie bookshops and around the corner local sellers… don't they?" Loki adds in with a frown as doubt starts creeping up his spine. Waves of dread are coming toward him and he can feel it crawl all over his skin.
"But discounts— "
Sif's eyes roll toward the sky, her dark green scarf engulfing her frown. "Clint, for fuck's sake, shut up!"
It sits with Loki all day, this feeling of doubt that won't stop showing itself to him in everything; in all the little things that he wouldn't pay attention to, on a normal day, but that he can't wrap his head around today. It makes his anxiety blow through the roof.
He can't stop thinking that he is going to lose the shop for good, this time and that Hela won't be saving him again. Not that she wouldn't want to, of course, but she wouldn't be able to carry that weight upon her shoulders like she did the first time, right after their mother died and Loki was left with the task of continuing her legacy through the bookstore. That was what he had envisioned for himself for a while as he had promised his mother and shared her love of books. Hela did as well, but it was Loki who found something special in the idea of allowing his mother's shop, her life's work, to live and evolve even after her death.
He barely remembers to breathe throughout the day until Hela kicks him out of the shop and tells him to go home.
Oh, and don't forget to eat. Go get groceries, she texts him a little while later. Also sext with your Sexy Pirate or something. Might take the edge off?
Loki finds himself in the kitchen unloading his bag—chicken and veggies and a bunch of fruits, nothing much, really—and grinning as he thinks about his sister's texts after absentmindedly shrugging off his coat.
Sexting. As if they were... involved.
A shudder runs down his spine at the idea of this man touching him—
Suddenly, his phone lights clear and blue on the counter.
He thinks it's Hela again and barely takes a look until he notices it's not her.
His heart misses a beat—
Pirateangel?
He realises it's Sif and he huffs a sigh of disappointment as he reads over her text.
Sorry, Sif, he thinks. I was waiting for someone else, I guess.
Sif (7:21 p.m)
What do you think you're gonna do for Thanksgiving this year?
Loki mumbles, yawning and rubbing his face all over with a hand.
Loki (7:24 p.m)
I don't know. Maybe dinner at Hela's. You wanna come?
Sif (7:25 p.m)
I was thinking about doing something at your apartment for a change? You never invite people anymore, it's kinda sad.
A wheeze of annoyance sparks in Loki's throat, soon extinguished because he realises Sif is right. It's been a while since Loki has invited anyone to come over, anyone that isn't Sif or Hela, whereas… "former" Loki used to have a much livelier home where it wasn't just Leia and him hanging out with ice cream and Netflix.
Sif (7:30 p.m)
Dude. You okay? I didn't mean it in a bad way.
Loki (7:30 p.m)
It's fine. You're right.
Sif calls him right away.
"What's wrong?" she asks in the softest voice she can muster—not that it's a strange thing coming from Sif, but it's not… her preferred tone.
Loki feels a pang in his chest at how readable he is, at how easily Sif picks things up. He tries to plaster a smile on his face as he answers, finding his favourite spot on his couch. Leia comes running for him and curls up in his lap, little paws tangled in Loki's shirt and her face smushed against his belly.
"Nothing," he replies; his voice is tight, barely above a whisper, but it feels wrong. Of course it does. He's so transparent that it is painful.
"Come on," she presses. "Loki."
It's as if she had nudged his arm while he fell silent on the other hand of the line, as she always does in real life.
"I don't know. I was just wondering about my work and all. I mean, what is it I do exactly? All I really do is run a bookstore that's about to fail—"
"No," Sif cuts, frowning, "no. Don't say that. You are incredible and you do an incredible job keeping this bookstore open, you hear me? Don't let these assholes crush you already."
Loki leans closer to his phone, on the verge of tears at his best friend's words, and lets out a tiny, strangled whine; he can't think of a proper answer at all, his heartbeat growing a little harsher. In the end, he doesn't say anything right away, focusing instead on rubbing at the stain of mustard on his jeans, making a mental note to add a new bottle of detergent to the ever growing list of needed supplies that he keeps forgetting. His stomach churns at the memory of food.
He hasn't been eating enough or well these days, anxiety taking up all the space in his stomach and filling him with a deep sense of dread.
"I'm tired," Loki ends up answering. His dark-rimmed glasses fall a little on his nose and his hair, neatly arranged on his left side, curly and dark and soft before, is now a mess of tangles that he is going to hate later in the bathroom. "It's a lot to handle, lately."
The numbness he feels in his body grows like a crop that anxiety keeps watering.
"You are a lone reed waving in the breeze standing strong and tall in the corrupt sands of commerce. You are so much better than these men making money off culture and—"
"Sif," Loki groans and rolls his eyes, laughing, "that's so pompous. Also, we do make money, too."
"We do but they're making a point in crushing tiny indie bookshops for the sake of it. Crushing someone's life work? That's what they live for, it's who they are. You? You're so different, Loki."
Loki rolls his eyes again, but he can't help being suddenly frightened. He doesn't know of what, even though the answer glimmers somewhere at the edge of his head.
Has fear prevented or rescued you from being yourself?
Later on, sleep seems to trickle through his fingers like snow melting at his touch, elusive. It's one of these nights that he hates, the ones where he stays awake and tries to manage his anxiety with all that he has, panic seizing him and eating him raw. He curls his fingers into the fabric of the bedsheets: so soft, yet so foreign to him at that moment—sensations are burning, either too sharp or too numb for him to feel them. He gets up, walks past his computer and phone, looks at them; expects the screen to go alight, blue and glowing and giving off friendly vibes.
Nothing.
He goes over to the window, avoiding tripping over the furniture that always seems to jump directly at his feet; looks out at his street at dusk before going over his bookshelf to pull out a copy of Anna Karenina. He stares at it for a long time, looks up, lost in thought, and wills away the burning sensation in his eyes and the emptiness that even wildfires can't ignite anymore.
Why is everything so complicated these days?
He ends up grabbing his laptop and sits in bed, writing pirateangel a message before his heart bursts out of his chest out of anxiety and sadness.
From: agent_of_asgard
To: pirateangel
Posted: Tues Nov 14, 2017 10:41 p.m.
Re: What about Bonnefoy?
I don't know if I lead the life I lead because I like it or because I have been wanting to perpetuate my mother's legacy. Maybe I haven't been brave? Maybe that's why I feel stuck, these days, helpless and without any idea on how to move on with what's been going on. It feels like winter—the bad side of winter: slow life, slow moving. Slow me. Bad ideas all over and head full of questions.
You don't have to answer. I'm not asking for one, to be honest; I just need to get this out because tonight feels especially bad to me. I just want to send out this into the void.
Goodnight, dear friend.
x x x
"I think we should get a better website with some e-commerce, don't you think? With one-day shipping like Amazon?"
Loki arches an eyebrow, spares a perfunctory glance at the room. "My mother would be screaming if she ever heard you, Sif. "Every book you sell is a gift from your heart," she used to say. Fuck Amazon."
Sif rolls her eyes. "Well, fuck them indeed but they ship fast and it's cheaper." As they walk further inside the cafe, she keeps mumbling to herself with her hot mug in hand. "What if they put us out of business, Loki? You gotta think about that."
"I've thought about it every single day since I've known these assholes were coming up around the corner," Loki groans, feeling the tightness around his chest before he points out the binders standing proudly in front of them, snuggling against one another on a shelf. He can read the few titles scattered here and there on the different spines— Men for Women, Women for Men, Women for Women, Men for Men. "What is this?"
"You fill out one of the forms in there about your favorite books with your email address and if someone is interested, they can contact you and you can meet up," Sif explains, and there's an unexpected rawness to her voice that Loki has trouble understanding.
"What a stupid way to meet someone," he mumbles, his tone sarcastic to place as he looks up at the ceiling.
"You mean, compared to a literature forum and talking about Bonnefoy?" Sif says with a raised eyebrow and a grin.
Loki blusters before he can stop himself, flushing red like a tomato. "We're not romantically involved!"
Sif's eyebrow is still raised, and she is still very much smirking. "So you still haven't met him?"
The tightness in his chest remains. Loki pulls his sleeves down over his arms, down the ugly scar running around his forearm that he almost forgets these days. "I do not plan on meeting him. End of discussion."
Sif sneaks a glance sideways. "You've been such a poor liar recently. What happened to your legendary silver tongue?"
"Odinson Books happened to me," Loki grumbles, then stops; plays with the hem of his sweater and gives her a wry smile upon realising the topic at stake. "Wait. Why do I get a feeling you would be out there in the binders to meet someone?"
They look at each other in a short circuit of uncertainty, Sif grinning while Loki frowns.
"Maybe because I am?"
She flips the book open and shows Loki her application. If she ends up blushing, Loki takes care not to mention it, focusing on the press of her fingertips on the paper instead.
"What ?" she grumbles.
"Nothing," Loki replies and licks his lips, the beginning of a grin showing up on his face. "I didn't think you'd need it, is all."
"I was sad and tired a few weeks ago and ended up here, filling out the form while drinking coffee until I was twitching. I just…" and she looks up at Loki, frowns. "I don't know, dude, stop looking at me like that," she grunts, "maybe I feel lonely?"
They leave the binders back in their shelf and find a free table to sit at, Loki pulling his chair towards him and still grinning. He grabs a pack of sugar and adds it to his cup. The morning sky is blood-red in the distance and Loki can't stop thinking that these smoky moments of dawn definitely are the calmest, especially on Saturdays.
A beat.
"So. Did you get anything?"
Sif smiles softly. "I might."
"And?"
"And she's cute and smart and her boss has a boat?"
"That's the worst." Loki pauses, his nose wrinkling. "The boat, I mean. I could never be with someone who owns a boat."
x x x
"Uncle Thor!"
"Uncle BORE!"
"Tommy! Don't call Thor like that! And be careful with the boat!"
Thor laughs at the kids and jumps off the boat to greet Wanda, Vision and their twins, squinting against the glare of the sunlight.
"Hi!" he says gently as he picks up Tommy, who has been running at full speed toward him. "How is it going, buddy?"
It's Billy's turn to be picked up, but he doesn't run toward Thor, just walks, still holding Wanda's hand timidly; he is definitely the shyer of the twin brothers, far less of an extrovert compared to his bouncy sibling. The washed-out light of the midday sun illuminates the city in blue and golden hues behind them, a stark contrast compared to the day before, bathed in grey clouds and heavy rain.
"Dad told us how to spell our name! M-A-X-I-M-O-F-F."
"That's excellent," Thor smiles at Tommy, then shots a grin at Vision who smirks back. "Do you think you can try to spell mine?"
"O-D-I-N-S-O-N," Billy's voice comes through softly, fingers tightening in the back of Thor's shirt.
Vision and Wanda brush tender hands through their sons' hair before dropping a kiss on their cheeks.
Some people would complain about having to babysit kids that age but Thor doesn't mind; actually, he loves it and even asked to see Billy and Tommy more after they were born.
Wanda and Vision have been his best friends—along with Jane—for so long that he sometimes doesn't remember they're not as free as before. He has been seeing them less often with the kids and their professional lives—both of them doctors—taking up so much space.
He smiles at Wanda. "Everything okay on your end?"
She slaps Thor's shoulder and barks a laugh. "Everything's fine! We're dead tired but since you asked for the kids this weekend, we're going to have some time for ourselves at a fancy hotel with a spa."
"God do we need it," Vision sighs tiredly as he wraps an arm around his wife's waist. "This week has been crazy."
That elicits a laugh from both Thor and Wanda.
"You always overwork yourself, Viz."
They keep chatting for a bit before Vision takes a look at his watch.
"We need to go, darling," he tells his wife gently, pressing a kiss to both of his sons' cheeks. "Be good with uncle Thor, okay?"
Wanda does the same, hugs Thor and waves goodbye.
"Don't kill our kids!" she smiles over her shoulder on her way back to the car.
x x x
There's a chocolate sauce on Tommy's cheek and he's laughing, lips brown and red, the air playing with his blond hair and seeping through his small cardigan. Thor laughs and wipes his cheek and mouth, leaning in to kiss his forehead. The air smells like rose and pine and upcoming frost, something spicy, something slightly warm, and he hums, takes a few minutes to feel it curl beneath his shirt.
It makes his heart ache pleasantly to be with the kids, something replacing the pain he has been experiencing as the opening of the bookstore draws near.
x x x
Billy presses his face to the tall glass windows, the high sky of November falling onto his light brown hair, transforming it into a mop of auburn curls. "Uncle Thor, it looks nice, can we go inside?"
Independent bookstores like these always remind Thor of his mother, who had started with one herself before she married his father and left everything behind to focus on Odinson Books.
"Of course," Thor answers with a smile, Tommy cooing excitedly at some comic book standing behind the glass. "If you want anything, just ask."
x x x
Adrenaline bursts in Loki's abdomen when he realises who's in front of him.
Handsome Stranger is smiling at him with a kid in his arms.
Oh, fuck. He should have known. Of course that guy has a wife and kids.
Despite the muzzle he has put on his normal train of articulated thoughts, he can feel himself fall into hushed frustration, and it seeps into his bones as a lingering chill.
"Nice to see you again," says Handsome Stranger, his gaze clear and focused. "I mean. If you remember me," he says, but there doesn't seem to be anything accusatory about it.
Loki can see the other man giving him a small smile, and that helps him calm down, even though his throat feels dry.
He remembers, too. Good.
"How could I ever forget being ridiculous in front of you?" Loki smirks with an edge of awkwardness and hesitation, and he ends up laughing, relaxed and warm and happier than he has been for longer than he can remember—such a weird feeling knowing he's facing someone who has witnessed him being a dumbass in public.
It's a cold but clear, sunny day outside, leaves painted gold with the sunlight pouring through the sky, and rays come out and fall through the glass windows across Handsome Stranger's face to kiss his cheeks. It makes Loki think of old Byzantine art and its blossoming brushing of golden light all over biblical faces. Flickering yellows and reds drip onto his jacket and blue eyes, and all that Loki can do is stare and stare and stare until he realises what he is doing and a mortifying blush creeps along the lines of his neck all up to his face.
A flash of sapphire sun. Handsome Stranger is smiling at him, genuine and contagious, and Loki feels a slight nervous flip in his stomach at it.
"Brother," Hela's voice comes through his daydream, "I think this gentleman is asking you a question."
The other man's stare is as soft as summer rain; warm and gentle and whispering sweet nothings to his ears.
"Sorry," Loki says hurriedly, still flushed to his very core, "what can I help you with?"
Handsome Stranger shakes his head. "It's alright, I was just asking about—"
Billy sneezes hard, suddenly, and stops the man in his tracks. Loki doesn't think twice, reaches for the handkerchief his mother embroidered for him so many years ago that lies in his pocket—"why are you not using tissues like any normal human being?" Hela would ask so often—and hands it over the counter to Billy who looks back at him, puzzled.
"What is that?" he asks in a tiny voice.
"It's a tissue you don't throw away," Loki answers softly, and his eyes crinkle with gentle lines. His voice is low, seeking and holding Billy's gaze. "My mother embroidered this one for me—see, there are orchids and my initials. Orchids are my favourite flowers."
Billy takes the handkerchief between his small fingers and stares at it for a long time, long enough that Loki starts asking himself if the kid has frozen. Instead, Billy simply raises his head and says, "My favourite flowers are the yellow ones in my mom's garden."
"That would be amber-coloured roses," Handsome Stranger adds in for the child, and gives Loki another smile; fingertips brush through the mop of brown hair on his head. "Billy, you should thank..."
The man trails off before throwing a questioning look at Loki, who's quick to fill it in for him.
"Loki," he says with a smile, dry quietness and shyness somehow showing up on his lips, and he doesn't know why. "Loki Laufeyson."
Billy wipes his nose with the handkerchief and folds it back very gently before putting it on Loki's counter. "Thank you, Mr Loki."
He storms off after his twin brother at that, leaving Loki to face Handsome Stranger whose arms, he didn't realise, are full of books.
"Thor," he eventually says with another one of these delightful, easy smiles of his. "Just Thor. And I'll take those, please."
"Thor," Loki repeats, choking a little on the name and fumbling with his hands before he takes a look through the selection and smiles as he encounters Last Love Poems by Paul Eluard. "Gift for a friend?" he asks.
A fond smile settles on Thor's face before he shakes his head. "For myself." He stops, looking genuinely emotional, his features melting into the softest expression Loki has ever witnessed on someone else's face. "A dear friend recommended it to me and I just knew I had to get it."
"Your friend has good taste," Loki smiles, waves of feelings thrumming under his skin.
"He really does," Thor smiles back.
I see everyone is in a Paul Eluard mood, even at work, Loki writes to pirateangel later this day. Funny how it made me think of you; and pirateangel replies, but who isn't in a Paul Eluard mood for this fall, I ask you? Dear friend, he's so wonderful. And buying the book today reminded me of you, too.
Clint peers out behind Loki and takes a look at the books on the counter.
"You're going to come back, aren't you?"
Loki frowns and lifts his head to be at eye-level with his employee. "What?"
Clint shakes his head. "I was asking the gentleman, boss."
He goes up to the cash desk and rummages around on it all the while risking a look at the blond man still standing at the counter.
"Of course," Thor replies, not entirely sure where the conversation is going but answering nonetheless. "I like the atmosphere here. Reminds me of my mother."
For a moment, Loki perks up, surprised, and finds himself staring at the red stain of happiness blooming on Thor's face like a poppy; soft and gentle and blowing away with the wind.
"You see?" Clint smirks, throwing his hands in the air. "That's why we're never going to go under!"
Thor throws him a puzzled look though Clint is already busying himself elsewhere, away from the counter and Loki's giant sigh at being reminded of Things He Wishes He Could Forget About, Just For One Day.
"They're opening an Odinson Books around the corner," Loki sighs quietly; he might come apart at the seams with all the anxiety he has been feeling lately and how his heart is beating behind his ribcage.
Tommy's head flips. "Odinson Books? But that's your—"
Thor gently puts his hand over Tommy's mouth and his eyes crinkle differently than they did before. "—My least favourite place on Earth," he finishes for the kid, his laugh sounding a little fevered. "Tommy has a lot to say about them, and he's starting so young."
Loki chuckles, trying to keep his voice as light and as merry as possible when asking, "how old is your son?"
He can't help the pang of annoyance at himself for being frustrated at this man having children, at being probably engaged or worse, married. He drums his fingers on the table, one two three, one two three until Thor chuckles back, huffing out a laugh, his smile threatening to split his face.
Thor winks at Loki. "Oh, no! Tommy and Billy are my best friends' kids, not mine."
Loki finds himself grinning, hanging on to the counter tightly enough to make his hand ache, the electric sensation travelling from clavicle to fingers; closes his eyes for a split second and so much relief washes over him that he almost feels guilty about it.
You can be such a vain piece of shit at times.
He blinks himself back into coherence. "That's so nice of you to take care of them."
Why are you making such stupid small talk?
Thor, he finds, is much like like summer and warm evenings spent reading in their family garden, the strange melancholia brought by autumn and the scrape of rain when the city sleeps: gentle and quiet, yet brimming with an energy Loki is eager to see, to taste. He has met this man twice and he can't help wanting to know more about him, about the tattoo that sticks out from underneath the collar of his sweater at the juncture between his shoulder and neck, about his taking care of twins for his best friends and the lines of stress and worry that line his forehead.
"I like it," the blond man answers, pushing the kids away to a corner where dinosaurs books are on display. Tommy soon has his hands on the comic book he saw earlier on, eyes sparkling, and Thor sighs in relief, danger avoided. He takes his wallet out of his pocket while Loki is scanning his books. "I work all week and it's not the easiest job in the world, so having the kids is somehow... relaxing."
Loki snorts. "Kids aren't exactly what I would call "relaxing," but I can see why you seem to think so."
They don't talk for a while, just enjoying the background noises and Loki's swift fingers upon book covers until Loki catches Thor looking around, features torn between tenderness and aggravation.
"I know we don't do earth-shattering discounts like Odinson Books but sulking won't push me to take more money off your list," he jokes tentatively, hoping to lighten the mood. As much as Loki wants to play it cool, he can't help the anxiety running down his spine.
Hearing the rasp of the other man's breath as it catches in his throat, anxiety curls even tighter in his belly. Thor's face eventually breaks into another one of what appears to be his "signature" smiles, much to Loki's happiness.
"And what's the story of the shop?" Thor asks gently. "You got me interested."
"I used to help my mother here after school," Loki starts explaining as Thor's eyebrows arch upwards and he leans forward on the counter to listen, Loki's stomach flipping in the process. "I was a kid and watched her every move with delight because this bookstore was—and still is—our sanctuary. It's probably silly, but..." and he stops, takes a look down at his black fingernails splayed upon the glossy cover of the Paul Eluard collection, "books help you shape yourself, and my mum was one of these people who believed in their magic until the very end—she believed selling books would help people become whoever they were supposed to become. Books become part of your identity; you carry them with you, always, whether they have a positive or negative impact on you."
He stops again and throws Thor a glance; the man hasn't moved or stopped watching Loki, which makes him even more nervous that he crossed the line or went too sappy about his job.
Loki clears his throat. "I guess I got carried away."
"No, it's alright," Thor says in a hurry. "I loved it, and you made me feel—"
It's Thor's turn to stop in his tracks and to trail off when he catches sight of the frame on the wall behind Loki where a woman—most probably Loki's mother—and a grinning child are standing in front of an older version of the shop's front window.
"—Great ," he finishes, finding Loki's face again. "Your mother seemed like a really great person."
This picture of them makes melancholy wash over Loki, reminding him of the ocean waves that swelled at his feet back in August while he was on holidays with Hela and Sigyn. Breathing the salty air had brought tears to his face. It makes him both happy and sad—happy that this happened, sad that his mother is no longer here with them to guide him, especially during these trying times.
"She was," Loki smiles with jagged edges, nonetheless kissed by sunlight. "She left the store to me and I hope to leave it to my children. Or Hela's."
"How old are your children?"
Loki shakes his head and hands the other man his books, secretly pleased again at the sight of the Eluard book. "I don't have any. I'm not married, either. Not that you have to be married to have kids, but, yeah. You know. I'm just a poor single soul married to his work and trying to fight off bad dudes from big chains." He grins at that, even wider when Clint's muffled "fuck off Odinson Books!" comes up behind the counter. "Here you go."
He can't help the way his heart curls on itself when Thor brushes against his hand with his fingers, a soft, sunny smile on his lips as he retrieves his books.
"It was nice seeing you again," Thor says honestly, eyes sparkling. "I kind of hoped we would meet again after that Starbucks encounter."
In the background, the slow music seeps easily into the growing dimness of the shop as hours pass and the day turns into soft evening. Loki thinks he hasn't smiled this much in years, and it feels good and right. He shuts up his never-ending internal monologue in favour of returning the compliment, weirdly pleased that life decided he would meet Handsome Stranger again on his own terms, on his own ground.
"Until we meet again, then," Loki says and pushes a stray strand of hair out of his eyes.
"I'll be waiting," Thor answers with a grin on his face.
The few hours left at work go in a daze, Loki in a better mood and Hela teasing him relentlessly about it right until he goes to bed. Her texts pile up and Loki cannot even find it in himself to be mad.
Hela (8:47 p.m)
Looks like that Thor dude really liked being here. ;)
Loki (8:51 p.m)
It was nice seeing him again!
Hela (8:51 p.m)
Brother, you're so pure. Here we are with Sigyn just writing out all the possible scenarios you could get with him.
Loki (8:52 p.m)
While I adore you both, you should really stop imagining my life as a film or a fanfiction, because it definitely ISN'T.
Hela (9:03 p.m)
Loki, he's so into you!
Hela (9:16 p.m)
Are you mad at me because he definitely checked your ass?
Hela (9:23 p.m)
Loki. LOKI. He enjoyed seeing you A LOT.
Hela (9:29 p.m)
BROTHER.
Hela (9:45 p.m)
This dude definitely likes you! Sigyn's gaydar doesn't lie!
Loki (9:54 p.m)
I'm going to bed. Goodnight.
Hela (9:58 p.m)
It's only ten!
Hela (10:00 p.m)
Have sweet dreams of Handsome Dude!
Loki (10:02 p.m)
You should stop drinking wine. Goodnight.
Hela (11:21 p.m)
LOKI. HE IS INTO YOU. I THINK I SAW HIM SOMEWHERE BUT I DON'T REMEMBER WHERE. ANYWAY. HE IS INTO YOU. LOKI. TAKE YOUR CHANCE.
x x x
Veiny leaves and minty breath with hints of vanilla and cinnamon. Never encountered this combination before, Sif tells herself, lips pressed to Brunnhilde's neck in her tiny bed that takes root in a corner of her equally tiny New York apartment. She's something else entirely.
"Do you always think this loudly?"
Even her voice is something else.
Sif chuckles into the curve of the woman's neck, feeling the dichotomy between the softness of her skin and the tensed bow of her muscles. There's nothing accusatory in Brunnhilde's tone, just curiosity and pleased surprised, and Sif finds that she likes it very much.
"I don't know," she answers honestly, a smile catching at the edge of her mouth, "but I bet I'm as easy to read as an open book." Chest tightening, she laughs it off. "Which is both nice and frustrating."
"I like honest people," Brunnhilde says gently. "I don't think it's a default to wear your heart on your sleeve."
For a second, Brunnhilde seems contrite, frustrated with something, and Sif glances at the storm before her, confused.
She eventually shakes the thoughts out of Brunnhilde's head with a kiss and sinks further into her body, warm and solid against her own.
x x x
Loki dexterously picks up his salmon sushi with his chopstick and dips the fish in soy sauce. "I hope we don't see any of these pricks from Odinson Books tonight," he mumbles, watching Hela take a sip of her sake from the corner of his eyes.
"I'll punch them," she replies matter-of-factly, her eyes never moving from Loki's, which he finds fascinating because Hela never seems to have a problem doing two things at the same time. She holds out her hand from across the table and reaches for Loki's pale one, the soft press of her fingers along his palm a calming touch though his heart is still hammering in his chest.
He nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat and watching as Hela's eyelashes make dancing shadows on her face. He thinks of the marbles of scars on his body, of the way anxiety won't let him be. Of how he feels himself burn out with all that he has to handle, and then Hela comments on Sigyn's new painting and Loki gets carried away with the flow.
They finish their meal slowly, talking about everything but the bookstore and Loki is grateful that Hela decided not to focus on it, at least during their dinner together. As they walk in the street later on their way to the party Sif had invited them to—a publication party from an author her new girlfriend and Hela know named James Buchanan Barnes—Loki can feel a smile start to curve his lips before he drags his eyes from the sidewalk.
"You will really punch anyone who gets in our way, won't you?"
Hela smirks. "What do you think? This is our shop, mum's legacy, and I won't have any of these assholes take it away from us; from you, especially."
Worry laces through his veins at the mention of losing the shop, but Hela wraps an arm around his waist and brings him closer, pulling her brother into a fierce hug. Around them, the lights from the street lamps spew golden light all over the pavement.
"We're in this together and we're going to be fine," she murmurs in Loki's black hair. In her embrace, he nods firmly, brushing a tired hand over his eyes before they resume their walk toward the address Sif had given them and find themselves in the elevator up to the fourth floor.
James—Bucky, actually, Loki realises as Hela greets him—welcomes them at the door, Sif in sight with who appears to be her girlfriend and many other people Loki doesn't recall ever seeing before; mostly journalists and media, apparently, and a few scattered faces he recognises here and there.
"It's been a while, Hela," Bucky smiles as he hugs her.
"It has," she grins back, "congratulations on the book! I'm sure Steve is even more enamoured."
"Oh, that… he is," and the look of pure tenderness on Bucky's face makes something stir in Loki's guts.
Yearning, desire, jealousy. He hates those with a passion.
"I don't know if you remember my little brother Loki," Hela adds, turning to her brother and making sure to include him.
Bucky holds out his hand and smiles again gently, Loki shaking it and smiling back.
"Hi," Loki says quietly, "that's a nice flat you have here."
Bucky beams and looks around the room fondly. "Kind of a surreal story, if I'm honest with you. Came from nothing, my family was poor as dirt, and now I'm a published author married to his childhood best friend. Pinch me but I'm dreaming."
Loki is tempted to say that it's disgustingly sweet, but what he isn't confessing is that he wishes he could have the same situation going on instead of having a shop that will probably go under sooner or later.
And. Well.
Yeah. A crush on a ghost that he met on the Internet. Spectacular, to say the least.
"I'm glad you're happy," Loki says in earnest, eyes crinkling in the dim light of the flat. "I'll let you guys catch up, I need to meet Sif's new girlfriend."
x x x
On the other side of the living room, Thor's heart skips a beat when he looks over Steve's (giant) shoulder and notices Loki meeting up with Brunnhilde and her new girlfriend.
Fuck. What is he doing here?
"Thor?" Steve asks, arching an eyebrow. "You okay? You look stricken, all of a sudden."
Thor shifts his position so Loki can't see his face, but sneaks a look nevertheless and manages to see him speak with the two women. Loki is grinning as he crosses his arms, tilting his head with a smirk on his lips; fuck, he looks so good in this green emerald shirt and black jeans and Thor absolutely can't be seen here or it will start World War Three.
"I'll go get another drink," Thor declares in a rush.
He disappears between the tight mass of people crowding the apartment.
When he reaches the bar, he glances over his shoulder before relaxing down with a sigh. No Loki in sight. Good.
He orders a glass of red wine, closing his eyes for a second, and listens.
"A glass of white wine, please," someone says nearby.
I'm screwed, Thor thinks. Loki's voice travels through his body like thunder.
"Thor?"
He brushes a lock of fair hair off of his forehead, biting down on his bottom lip as he turns around and looks up at Loki. "Hello."
"Remember me from the bookstore? And Starbucks, but please forget it if you can."
"Of course I remember you," Thor replies; he tries to smile, somehow hopes he doesn't have to make small talk and can escape this goddamn situation as soon as possible. "Fancy seeing you there."
Loki smiles despite feeling the shadows in the other man's eyes shift. "My sister knows the author."
It's actually endearing, the way Loki blushes whenever their eyes catch. Thor tries very hard to swallow his own pounding heart down.
Thor clears his throat, says: "I have to deliver this."
He shows the glass of red wine to Loki, and for one sharp moment, he regrets everything that he's been thinking, regrets lying to this man for the sake of… the sake of what, exactly? He doesn't even know how to answer that one and it drives him crazy. Regret is useless and painful, and it drains something out of him.
"I have a very thirsty friend who needs his fuel, you see."
Loki laughs, this time, even though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You should go, then."
Thor disappears into the party without looking back, suit wrinkled and leaving a shadow of uneasiness and doubt in his tracks.
"You know Thor Odinson?" Bucky asks suddenly from behind Loki, Hela on the side.
"Thor Odinson ?" Loki gasps. "As in— as in, Odinson ?"
It cracks through Loki like lightning, so sharply it gives him whiplash.
Handsome Stranger, aka Thor, is Thor Odinson, the man who's opening a fucking bookchain store around his corner?
Thor is standing at a table of food squinting out of the corner of his eye, his back to the room when Loki eventually finds him; he watches as the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone to snap a picture of the buffet made out of various colours and appetising food.
The chatter in the background is deafening to someone like Loki and it's a little too much all at once, especially with what he has just learnt. Maybe he should eat a slice of bread with hummus; maybe that would calm him down, in a weird way.
The spoon isn't of the plastic kind Loki expected but sturdy and silver instead.
"Rich people," he mutters to himself, scooping a bit of the chickpea paste and putting it on top of whole grain bread.
Fuck.
Fuck, it won't do. He needs to confront Thor—he won't calm down until he does.
x x x
Blood rushes into Loki's head as he steps up beside Thor and addresses him. "Odinson? You're Thor Odinson ?"
His voice feels disconnected, destroying himself in an attempt to be brave; his cheeks burn something awful and he swallows down the difficult intake of air.
Thor spins around and looks at him.
God, it's so fucking hard to keep his composure right now.
Blue eyes study Loki intensely. "That's my name."
"God, I didn't realise who you…" Loki trails off, heart in his throat, too shocked and angry to finish his sentence. Something he can't exactly pinpoint—anger? Frustration? Sadness?—is shrinking his insides, consuming him and reducing all of his efforts of being calm to nothing.
"...who I was. I know." Thor clears his throat and does the quotation mark with his fingers. "'I didn't know you were Thor Odinson.'"
Loki narrows his eyes. The rush of adrenaline he had before has slowly faded to black and the slice of bread in his hand suddenly weighs a ton. "Excuse me?"
"I get this all the time, but maybe it's for the best. I don't like being in the spotlight, unlike my father and step-sister," Thor sighs; his voice sounds distant like it's hastily constructed from half-pieces in the air. He picks at his ragged thumbnail, avoiding the burning gaze of the other man.
"You were spying on me, weren't you?" Loki says accusingly. Fire tears through his guts. "Don't tell me you rented those children to make it more believable, too, that'd make you sound even more like a Disney villain."
Thor arches an eyebrow. "Why would I spy on… you?"
It stings, the way he says "you". As if Loki was nothing but a bug to be killed; a mere annoyance. In spite of himself, he colours.
"I am your direct competition and you know that perfectly well. Your sign doesn't lie. You were here to spy on me, to see how we work, weren't you?" Loki lets out and stares at him with incredulity and bitterness, feeling that a horrible impending pain will soon crash his whole being.
Thor smiles this time, baring his little white teeth. "Me, a spy, that's a good one, Loki, gotta give you that." He chuckles bitterly. "Look, the reason I came into your store wasn't to spy on you. I have better things to do with my life, actually. I was spending the weekend with Billy and Tommy and wanted to make them happy with a present, because, believe it or not, I love books and I want them to love them too. Your store was on the way and we stopped there. Period."
Blushing in embarrassed outrage, Loki tilts his head and looks at him, eyes burning. "You're everything they've said you were. You really are."
He realises that he can't stop running his fingers over the dark green fabric of his arm, over the pinch of his bony limb beneath, sticking out and making the smooth trajectory bumpy, unsure. Unsafe.
"Who I really am?" Thor asks in confusion, and Loki sees something akin to blush on the other man's face, half surprise, half frustration. Thor probably already knows the subtlety of Loki's sentence.
At the far end of the flat, Loki's eyes track Hela as she emerges from the balcony, eyebrows furrowed and accompanied by a red-haired woman who is trailing behind her, both of them making their way toward Loki and Thor to Loki's confusion.
"You two really look nothing alike," Hela's deep voice cuts through. She looks stern and stiff, which doesn't mean anything good. "But I'm sure you share the same delightful traits your father gave you."
Loki's head whips down so quickly his neck cracks. His hands are trembling and he's trying to hide them, sticking them behind himself; like a child. A child. That's what Thor thinks of him—something incapable of holding a business and making it thrive.
It brings a chill to the very marrow of his bones.
"You shouldn't stay with him, brother," Hela adds. "We should go."
"I have no desire to talk to that man more," Loki manages to say through his trembling voice that is trying to edge over firmness, swallowing the bile down in the back of his throat, his fingers tapping hollowly against the plastic cup of wine still in his hand.
"You know her?" Thor asks his half-sister in disbelief, if only to break the cloying silence between them and to take up space in his brain instead of dark thoughts.
His piercing blue eyes are gazing deeply into the scene at hand, at Hela, Angela and Loki in turn, and the bitter tang of wine resurfaces at that, alcohol threading thick through his veins.
Shitty wine for a shitty party.
Loki uses a couple of fingers to trace down the length of the scars sequenced on his wrists and curling into silver white slashes; it grounds him, helps him keep the anxiety at bay in situations where shattering keeps glimmering at the edge of his vision.
"Hela's one of my exes," Angela says, her voice a neutral line Thor can't wrap his head around. "We met during college and dated for almost two years."
"Yeah, and you ruined it all because your ego is as big as the moon," Hela throws back, soft but charged with an anger Loki recognises very well. "Doesn't surprise me that your brother inherited the same trait since it runs in the family."
"I'm not your enemy," Thor retorts, frustrated.
Hela looks him up and down with a bitter smirk. "Oh, aren't you? Your very goal is to crush us with your bookstore, so let me be a little sceptical about the relevance of your statement."
"Why would I want to crush an independent bookstore that barely sells 200 000 dollars worth of books per year? Are you so full of yourselves to think I would be afraid of that to the point that it would compel me to rush out to you and spy on your strategy? Your brother here scarcely makes ends meet." He rolls his eyes. "Can I have the hummus spoon, please?"
Poisoning, tantalising. That's all Thor seems to be interested in giving the Laufeysons right now, under this spot of orange light falling on them. He stares up at Hela with those stormy eyes of his, and she holds his stare with as much dignity as the man before her.
Saying that kind of shit and then asking for a fucking spoon to get himself hummus. A little mocking. Fuck him. Fuck. Him. It makes Loki's ribs ache with the strength of it, the mocking strength of someone more powerful than him who doesn't care whether he loses his shop or not. His shop. His mother's shop. Everything.
Loki's skin prickles and he looks like he's been slapped; he can feel his blood boil in his veins but is too shocked to reply, staring at the floor instead as he works on breathing deeply for a while so as to calm down. He can barely open his eyes again when they close, let alone speak clearly, trying to shake away the feeling of frost between his fingers.
Thor opens his mouth to apologise but Loki is already looking away and he decides that it's not worth it; none of this is, really, and he wants to go and erase all the shit this evening has pulled on him so far. He even ends up wondering with a hint of sour amusement if anything else is going to come up as a cherry on top.
"Here! Have your fucking spoon!" Loki spits, throwing the spoon on the floor at Thor's feet before backing away and striding to the other end of the room, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment and anger.
That was such a childish move, he realises, but he couldn't help himself when faced with such— such—despicable behaviour.
There's a light tap on his shoulder. Loki looks up, dazed; his eyes burn a little as he squints directly in the lights.
Sif frowns; she smells like wild lilacs and it gives Loki a headache. "Are you okay? You just threw a spoon of hummus at that dude—"
Loki vaguely notes the soft accents of worry in her voice, but shrugs them off; he doesn't even know what he is feeling himself. "Handsome Stranger is Thor Odinson. I feel robbed. He's handsome and an asshole!"
"I—what? Really?"
He raises his eyes to meet hers. "It's a mess, Sif. I need to go," and he presses his hand to his best friend's shoulder, an intimate touch.
He can barely bring himself to say a polite goodbye before walking past the now slightly crestfallen and mostly worried Sif.
He needs something to pull him through. Something to make him power through this and the betrayal he has just witnessed; god, he feels ridiculous thinking this is a fucking betrayal. Why does he even care? He met Thor twice in his life. It shouldn't be that big of a freaking deal.
The tension in Loki's chest finally eases when Hela and he eventually get out of the flat to spill out on the pavement outside, moon glowing high in the sky and air fresh through his lungs.
x x x
"She almost got me a job at Odinson Books," Hela grunts as they beat the wet asphalt.
Loki pauses, turning part of his body towards her. "She what ?"
Hela sighs and runs a hand through her dark-as-gasoline hair. "I was in desperate need of an internship and Angela offered me the position."
"And?"
He waits, and when she doesn't answer, he glances back, catching Hela's eye for a moment before looking away. The ache has moved to his chest, now, and he wishes it hadn't.
"Odin is the biggest asshole on this planet," she says instead, but it goes without saying that this was a whole mess and didn't work out; Loki doesn't even have to ask. Instead, he holds onto Hela's hand and wraps his other arm around her arm, hugging her tightly to his body in an attempt at comfort, not only for Hela but also for himself, selfishly, currents of warmth radiating from his fingers and feeling lighter somehow.
He turns around again before she leaves, considers his sister carefully and licks his lips, gravel crunching beneath his feet in his motion because of the construction work nearby.
"Did you love her?"
The silence stretches on as the streets around them sleep peacefully, New York in a deep slumber after a long night out. It's staring at him now, worry practically pouring out of the cracks in the asphalt.
Expression clear and unguarded, Hela smiles sadly, gives a small laugh that makes Loki shudder with how unhappy it rings in his ears, then visibly gathers herself.
"I'd like to think I did."
x x x
"You should come up for a drink," Angela says. "You look like you need it."
Thor scrubs his face and wipes the sleep from the corner of his eyes, feeling the gleam of the stars above. "Actually," he says as he turns to Angela and smiles, "I'm tired. I think I'll just go home and meet up with my bed."
Panic is slowly melting into something darker, harsher, into regrets and frustration and everything that Thor cannot control.
The fantasy has turned to ash. He must accept it. He must accept his error of trying to see past his goal without attaching anger to it. Loki sounds like a decent person, enough that Thor wanted to… what? Befriend him?
He was so stupid to think so.
She clicks her tongue at him. "Feeling bad about pushing that indie shop to its last stop?"
"I don't care about it," Thor hisses like a cat, "I really have other things to think about. Goodnight, Angela."
"It sounded like you were on friendly terms with Hela's brother before he realised you were Thor Odinson. Don't tell me you pulled that trick again? They all fall for this and you along with it."
Oh, the vicious burst of memory it brings.
"Goodnight, Angela," Thor repeats, feeling frustration and annoyance scrabble at the edges of his voice and building up like no tomorrow; he has a sudden flare of fear at what could happen if Angela did push it again.
"Thor, come on, you can talk to me—"
This time, Thor whips around. "Goodnight, Angela," he repeats one last time in a drawl, eyes shining a rare shade of rage. "I don't want to talk to you."
Her voice still travels to his ears—Thor, listen to me, we need to have an adult discussion—when he closes the heavy door of his apartment until there is no sound left.
He grabs a beer in the fridge, pets Fenrir and sinks into his couch without even turning the lights on, drinking and remaking his discussion with Loki in his head over and over again until he can't take it anymore.
A sigh and he pushes his bottle away on the table to grab his phone.
Thor (00:20 p.m)
I really fucking hate what my father has made me become.
Jane (00:31 p.m)
What happened? Do you need me to call you?
Thor (00:33 a.m)
You know when you make an ass of yourself in public because you can't stop the verbal diarrhea? Well.
Jane (00:33 a.m)
What did you do?
Thor (00:34 a.m)
I got mad at someone and indirectly insulted them and their job. Which is really shitty because it's a family thing and I know how much they cherish it and. God, Jane. I snapped? Became Mr. Snap. Again. I hate it.
Jane (00:34 a.m)
Shouldn't you let Heimdall handle the opening of your new bookstore instead of pushing yourself too much? You've been exhausted lately and so damn stressed out that "work" is the only word you mutter, the only topic you seem to talk about. It's not good.
Thor (00:36 a.m)
I can't do that. It will mean I failed, and I can't have that with my father. I need to hold on until the bookstore opens and then, maybe… maybe I can take a few days off. I don't know. I just… I can't let my father think that I can't handle the company.
Jane (00:37 a.m)
But isn't your mental health more important?
Thor (00:37 a.m)
It will get worse if I fail.
He knows it's far from a healthy thing to do but he literally cannot break down now. He can't let this happen at work.
Although, at home—
Yeah. He needs to let go here. He's allowed to, between these walls of his that separate him from this hell he has found himself in.
From: pirateangel
To: agent_of_asgard
Posted: Sat Nov 18, 2017, 01:01 a.m.
Re: What about Bonnefoy?
Dear friend,
Do you ever feel out of place? Do you ever feel like the biggest asshole on earth? Because I am.
Thor shakes his head as he reads his message again.
"So much self-pity, Jesus Christ," and he erases everything, wonders if it's the right thing to do. Maybe he shouldn't be sending his friend a message now when he's so sensitive and full of emotions he can't put a finger on.
Jane had told him many times to write, whether it was on his laptop or in a notebook, as long as Thor wrote something and let go of some of his pains through writing.
Laying back against the couch, Thor rests his head and thinks for a moment before standing up, startling Fenrir in the process. A few notebooks are stacked in the drawers of his desk and he takes one with a simple black cover out, grabs a pen his mother had given him for his 21st birthday and heads back to the couch where he plops down and starts writing.
It's a furious process, almost carnal; it digs into his flesh and bones until he can't feel anything anymore, just words and letters melting into one another, blurry, inked and turning into a puddle of indistinct faces.
I fucked up. Why do I always fuck up? What happened to me that ended up making me become the worst version of myself? I already have the answer: my father.
I should really go to therapy and deal with this with someone qualified, but I'm so afraid of doing so because I'm scared of failure. I know I shouldn't be thinking like that, but I can't help it. I would hate to be the failure of the family, the disappointment, the boy who can't even open a bookstore while his sister is so much more successful and more beautiful and just so much more in general.
It's not even about Angela. I kind of like her? I don't hate her. I'm actually proud of her success. I just didn't grow up with her and don't know her that well. I don't even know what her favourite wine is or what she likes eating the most.
Everything? This fucking mess, it's not about her. It's about dad. All of this is. It's all about him and his idea of perfection that has fucked me up from the very beginning. At least I had mum before. I hate that she's gone and that I can't tell her about all of this.
It wouldn't have happened if she was still around. If that fucking car hadn't killed her, she would still be here and dad wouldn't be a remarried asshole with deep issues. I'm so unfair but it's not like my dad gives me the best examples in life, I must say. I'm tired and angry and upset. I hurt someone very gentle who has a good heart and who pursues his dreams, unlike like me. Loki didn't deserve any of the words I threw at him tonight. He didn't deserve anything this violent and yet, here I am. I was harsh and terrible and horrible. I can't believe myself. I'm not this person. Well. That's what I like to believe, but maybe I'm just an asshole.
Maybe I'm just an asshole.
Fuck.
I don't wanna be an asshole.
I need to be better than this, but I don't know how. I don't know how to be a better man.
x x x
As he comes home, Loki reaches up and tugs the band from his hair, letting it fall in loose black curls around his shoulders. He shakes himself off like a dog at the entryway of his apartment before scraping off his boots.
"What a fucking night," he breathes out, his voice echoing off the walls, the limp necks of the flowers Hela had left there a few days ago staring back at him.
The tickling in the back of Loki's throat becomes quickly unbearable, as well as the tossing and turning in bed.
It's something Loki has never been good at, sleeping. Started because of the fear he'd always go to bed with, of waking to find his father poised above him with his own belt, his eyes burning holes in his Loki's skin. Now, surviving means forgetting and trying to build steps out of thin air.
How long did he think he could run away from his trauma, pretending he was fine and not a bag of fostered years and ridiculous, poisonous flashbacks?
He grasps his own wrist and flexes his fingers absently, shadows licking at the walls. He exhales slowly. All of a sudden, Loki misses listening to his mother's descriptions of the sunsets in early July back in England. It's the only thought that seems to make sense in his head at the moment for a reason he cannot fathom but is too tired to understand. He allows it to flow in his mind and brushes a hand upon the wings of his collarbones. They are standing stark against his skin and he feels the depression and hills there.
No more scars, at least. They healed easily, there, and that's a relief.
Pulling himself up to a sitting position, he draws his legs into his chest, hugs his arms around his calves and stares into the void for a while, hair unbrushed and unwashed, exhausted out of his bones; he doesn't care. Not tonight. Not when breathing becomes a chore and his stomach has hollowed itself in distress. Not when memories haunt him and seep quietly underneath his eyes.
He had hoped, and that led him astray again. But that's the trick with hope: it settles in your bones and the more it grows, feeding on life, the more desperate you are to keep it safe.
Until it crumbles, that is.
Awful things have their own kind of beauty, he read once, and he keeps thinking about it now. What kind of bullshit is that? He asks himself angrily. His pain is nothing of beauty. Why did he hide who he was inside the stories of what he did?
Loki touches the spot on his neck that makes him shudder when brushed or kissed and blushes, thinking, his pulse still thrumming in his ears; he blinks rapidly and his eyes come alert, a slap back to reality, steadying himself with deep breaths.
He picks himself up. He has to, for the sake of rising above the surface, to keep himself there. Alive. He owes it to his mother, to Hela. To himself. He is joyful and believes in good things, in seeing the optimistic side of the world bloom.
Moonlight sleeps quietly beneath New York's grey smog when determination hits him again.
x x x
He wakes up again a couple of hours later to the sound of a new notification.
From: pirateangel
To: agent_of_asgard
Posted: Sat Nov 18, 2017, 3:52 a.m
Re: What about Bonnefoy?
Dear friend,
I wonder what you think about me. I wonder if you'd like talking to me in real life because I don't think that I appear as cool or as nice in reality. I have all these secret hateful parts to my personality and you would hate them so much.
You probably don't know what I'm talking about and it's alright. All I'm saying is: don't think too highly of me because I am a disappointment.
"What the hell," Loki mumbles in his pillow, Leia curled up warmly against the small of his back. His phone is staring back at him and question marks spring up from nowhere in Loki's mind. What the hell is his friend talking about? What is it with the sudden negative vibes and thoughts?
He doesn't think he's dreamt much over the past few days, much less slept peacefully, waking up and falling back asleep erratically; though, right now, Loki can't bring himself to find sleep again with words like these stuck beneath his burning skin.
He stretches his arms over his head and cracks his neck before burying his face deeper into his blankets and pillows, thinking of a reply to this very alarming message.
From: agent_of_asgard
To: pirateangel
Posted: Sat Nov 18, 2017, 4:37 a.m
Re: What about Bonnefoy?
Dear friend,
What is it with all these negative thoughts? And what is it that makes you think I think highly of you in the first place?
Joke aside, your message worried me. I know we have a no-personal-info policy but I can't help wondering about your well-being.
Something obviously happened to make you feel like this (or maybe not, and it's okay, too!). If you ever feel like sharing a little of that burden, I will be all ears.
Please stop worrying about flaws. While I get your anxiety regarding this matter, it's alright and we can't exactly fight them (maybe just "correct" them a little so they're a little less invasive depending on the case?). Sleep more and enjoy your weekend before going back to work on Monday. Read yourself some Bonnefoy, or perhaps check out a fun tv show like Friends, or… do something. See someone? I think it will help. I know it's easy for me to say, but I believe you are much too hard on yourself. Despite never seeing you, I know that you're not the hateful spite you described there. Nobody's perfect. We learn with mistakes. It's a bad moment and it will pass.
Take care of yourself.
x x x
Opening day for Odinson Books' new store means eating-anything-will-make-me-throw-up day to Thor, so he decides to only get coffee on that cold day of November, and even that tastes like plastic.
"I'm never letting you out of my supervision on an opening day ever again," Heimdall says, deadpan, as he grabs Thor's fifth Starbucks cup of coffee and pushes a granola bar in his hand instead.
Thor whines. "You know how anxious I get about these. I can't stomach anything until we close for the night."
"I know, but we are going to have to change these habits or you will die on me one day and your father will sue me for failing to assist you. Eat ."
"Alright," Thor murmurs, glancing down at the bar in his hand and sighing. If eating was a challenge today, at least it was one he was willing to tackle, unlike going to say hi to Loki and trying to talk about what had happened the other day at Bucky's book launch party.
As he munches on the bar, Thor takes a look around and feels that pang of happiness at seeing his store coming together at last. The inside is beautiful, soft clear brown tones mixed with warm grey and red armchairs to sit on, with round tables scattered for people to drink and read at. People are pressing on the other side of the shop where seven cashiers stand at their registers and smile back at customers who rushed to use the 35% coupon for the opening day.
Between the people and the books, the store is jam-packed.
Books everywhere. It doesn't get better than this, Thor thinks to himself, and allows himself to smile for the first time that day.
That is, until his father and grandfather show up at the doors and decide it's a good time to ruin his fragile peace of mind.
"Hello, father," Thor smiles nervously, stuffing the last of his bar in his mouth. "Fancy what you see?"
"I have to admit," Oding starts, "that your store looks good. That is a good choice of colours. I assume Heimdall picked them out?"
Keep calm. Carry on. Smile. Fake it until you make it.
"I did, actually. Heimdall thought more of white walls, but I found that using browns and greys would bring out the whole "independent bookstore" aesthetic."
Bor snorts. "Oh, that's a good one, Thor. We're going to crush them. The neighbourhood loves us already."
They end up walking through the store to admire it, Odin commenting on things here and there but Thor keeps his calm through it all, Heimdall following them in their tracks and winking at him from time to time.
Odin stops at the children's section and turns around to look at Thor. "How's this section going?"
Thor scowls, and tugs his waistcoat back into place— just in case. "School isn't out yet."
He keeps his answers short and precise; concise. He doesn't want to give his father anything else than what is here, out in the open.
"I see," his father replies quietly and goes on with his inspection of the whole store.
At 8, Heimdall knocks on the door of the office Thor for himself at the bookstore and stares down at him with his golden eyes.
"You should go home," he tells him. "It's getting late and nobody's here anymore."
Thor nods, pushes a file closed. "I promise I will. I just have a few things to finish here, then I'll be out."
What he doesn't expect is Brunnhilde rushing into his office a few minutes after Heimdall has left, eyes wide and panicked.
He frowns. "What's wrong? Did someone die?"
"Boss, I need—I need some advice."
x x x
That night, he stumbles into Loki as he turns around the corner and starts walking home after having locked the store, Brunnhilde out of his sight quicker than he had expected. She had simply thanked him and waved at him before heading home, head full of new perspectives and ideas thanks to their talking and processing a situation that could rapidly backfire.
Don't lie. Don't keep lying to that woman or this will end badly. She deserves to know the truth or she will think that you are playing with her feelings.
He had seen it first hand.
He needs to make it right to Loki. He simply needs to.
Thor reaches out for Loki's arm when he sees him in order to keep the other man in place because he has a feeling this won't be this easy, that Loki will probably try to escape. "Loki, hi, wait—"
And he's right.
Loki shakes his arm out of Thor's grasp quickly and frowns, almost disgusted. Pain swells in the hollow of Thor's chest at that.
"Mr. Odinson," and oh, it stings, it fucking stings the way it resonates through Thor, "I don't want to talk to you. Please leave me alone."
Thor's face falls in understanding.
Loki is angry at him. That's only fair after what happened.
x x x
What does this man want? Is it not enough that he has humiliated Loki in public and then put his bookstore to shame within the first day of Odinson Books opening? Is it not enough to torture him like this? Why did he have to come all the way down to the corner and be there when Loki locked up the door?
Why?
He needs a cigarette and a beer. Two beers, or three.
An entire pack, actually.
He hums quietly and runs his eyes over him all over again. He both loves and loathes his sight. The air is definitely too thin to inhale, too cold and too sharp. He wants to be home as soon as possible, Leia on his lap and books crushing his soul into numbness to forget about today and the news of having made 1200$ less this week than last year's. The store is definitely going to go under at that rate.
"We're gonna fold if this keeps happening," Sif says, gloomy. "I can't believe it. How am I going to pay rent?"
"Asking myself the same thing," Clunt grunts.
Loki pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs heavily, trying to steady himself in the midst of this raging storm. He allows himself to believe the few words he had uttered to Natasha this morning—"We're fine! Not gonna go under. Please do your next signing here!"—because she is one of their most trusted authors and has always supported the shop. "We're not gonna fold and you're gonna keep paying rent. Period. Now go back to arranging the shelves, we need everything ready for Thanksgiving."
"Can you move? I want to go home."
"Oh, right," Thor says and steps to the side. He doesn't even try and that angers Loki even more. Who does this man think he is?
There's nothing else to add, and so Loki shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat and buries his face deeper into his scarf, the soles of his boots scraping against the dirty pavement.
"You've been avoiding me," Thor's voice comes up in the air, somehow distant but close still.
"No shit, Sherlock," Loki mumbles as he keeps walking in the path in front of him, remembering the unpleasant encounters he had to go through lately, pretending not to see Thor at Starbucks in the morning or while buying the newspaper at lunch. "I wonder why."
Once again, Thor tries to stop him, walking fast behind Loki and reaching out for his arm, but Loki whips around and pushes him away; he hears the faint rumble of anger growing in the back of his mind and it is not good, really not good at all.
"Can you stop following me? I'll call the police on your ass if you keep going," he tries, but Thor isn't letting go, and something latches inside of him, something crimson and thorny and dripping with rage. "I have work to do," Loki says, mechanical and cold. I have work to do, as if it were the answer to all these questions that keep stumbling into his mind and sending his brain reeling. I have work to do and hours to spend trying to forget your stupid face.
"Loki—"
"Look, you've had your fun, great for you, but now's time to let go of your new toy," Loki finally snaps. "You had what you wanted: my bookstore is probably going to close down, I'm gonna fire people and I won't have a job anymore. The street will be all yours! Wonderful! What else could you possibly want from me? If you have regrets, please allow me to laugh because that can't be true. Now, will you please leave me alone? I want to go home and drink a whole bottle of wine."
The way he glares at the blond man is a bullet straight through his heart; it's enough for Thor to release his strong hold—too strong, way too strong, why did he do that—on Loki's arm and before he has a chance to apologise, Loki is gone in the shadows of the city.