Morning slipped in through a slit in the warehouse's sheet-metal wall. Loki sat hunched against the crates, watching the light's progress across the floor. He ached, but the screaming wrongness of his amputated magic had fallen away to groaning numbness. With the numbness came near clarity.
His patron had underestimated him—a common, but fatal mistake. The only games he played were ones where he made the rules. Let Her wait until he knew her hand. Until then he was content to bide his time.
"Morning!" greeted the boy as he slithered out of his den, still wearing the same clothes as the night before.
Loki managed a cordial nod. He winced as the simple movement reminded him that while cardboard was an improvement on cold, wet ground, it was still a far cry from what he was used to. He'd also come to the conclusion that human bodies were much more ill-suited for such treatment than Asgardian ones. Not that he'd personally had much experience—in such situations it had been more comfortable to take on the form of some animal made for sleeping on the ground.
A smile of sympathy quirked across the boy's face. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it." He hopped down off the box and poked idly at the fire. As Loki stood and stretched out his knotted muscles, the boy carefully edged around the barrel, always keeping the fire between them. His body language was casual and relaxed, but Loki could see the intent behind the carefully chosen movements. Keep something between him and the much bigger man. Loki remembered similar maneuvering as a child, attempting to avoid the flesh-purpling embraces and "friendly" slaps and punches in the arm showered upon him by most of Thor's acquaintances and Thor himself at times. It was as if Asgardians were unable to show anything but martial affection. Thor received the same treatment, doubly so since he excelled at many pursuits Loki did not. Because nothing says "well done" like a concussive blow upside the back of your head. But Thor never shrank from such displays or seemed to sprout the bruises that Loki did with such ease. Eventually Loki had resigned himself to the fact that there was something wrong with him and learned to deal with near perpetual tender places. It was yet another reason on a long list that he took such care in hiding his flesh so that no tell-tale marks would show and make him the object of ridicule and laughter—or worse, pity.
Snapping fingers jerked his thoughts back to the dingy warehouse. His mind bounding off in meandering rabbit trails was a sure sign that he was far from peak performance. Though he may be silent and still, his mind rarely was, and the more exhausted he became the more difficulties he faced directing that activity.
The fingers snapped again. "You in there? Loki, hey, Loki," Book dragged out the last letter of his name and waved his hand.
He snorted and shook his head, flinging away the rambling thoughts. What?!
"I asked if you'd like to get something to wear."
Loki glanced down at his tunic and breeches. They weren't the Midgardian fashion, but they were serviceable at least—though a bit stained from his night among the graves. He folded his arms across his chest.
A patient, knowing sigh, and the boy gave him an encouraging smile. "I'm not saying you've got to burn them—in fact that'd be a waste—but you're going to attract way too much attention. Not that tall, vampire-pale guys with serious attitude problems aren't noticeable, but you look like you escaped from a Ren Faire slumber party." A contemplative crease burrowed between the boy's brows. "Did you…"
Loki cut him off with a refined glare.
"Just theorizing. Look, I've fed you, housed you, now I'm offering to clothe you—this is the part where you're supposed to be grateful."
An impish grin sliced across Loki's face as he gave a bow dripping with sarcasm.
"Or not," snorted the boy. He shook his head, as if dealing with some unruly child that didn't know better. Turning toward the long hall that led to the outdoors, he snatched up a bag and threw it over his shoulder. "Come or not, your choice. We can get breakfast after and you can dis my hospitality some more." With that he disappeared into the darkened hall, his footsteps receding. A screech of metal and brief slice of light marked his exit.
The heavy mantel of silence peculiar to large, empty spaces settled over the warehouse. Near sneering incredulity flitted through Loki as he realized he meant to follow the boy. All those months alone made even an ant preferable company to the vapid silence. The mention of food also reminded his stomach that he hadn't eaten since the night before and it began to complain forcefully that he do something about it. Never let it be said that Loki was above using whatever means necessary to achieve his goals, even if those means meant fraternizing with humans—again.
Book didn't so much as flinch when he strolled up next to the boy, falling in step beside him. The boy spared a glance through his fringe of hair, shrewdly studying his silent shadow. Mercifully, he kept his thoughts to himself as the two began to leave the hollow shells of urban decay behind. It was still too early for most to be wandering the streets, but they still seemed to take a winding route of back alleys and fence holes. Realization sent a smile across Loki's face. The boy was trying to confuse him so he couldn't find his way back to the hideaway.
Before long, they were sidling up to the back of an industrial looking building with yellow headed weeds struggling through the pavement. A large, locked bin stood at the corner, bright blue against the sagging bricks and yellowed mortar.
"You keep watch," whispered the boy as he knelt by the padlock on the front of the bin. "Cough real loud if you see anyone." Sucking on his lip, Book focused on the lock, carefully inserting slender metal rods into the key hole. A few moments of jiggling and the lock popped free. He punched the air in triumph.
A fine trick, thought Loki as the boy edged backwards, gesturing at the now open bin.
"Open for business," he said with a grin. "We could go to the Salvation Army store, but nothing beats getting first dibs. Even if it means stealing from the charity bin. And no need to avoid well-meaning prying."
Lip curled in disgust, Loki hesitantly pawed through the used garments spilled at his feet. They appeared clean at least, though there was something humiliating about a prince digging through the cast off garments of such feeble creatures.
The pile of unacceptable clothes to his side grew as his jaw tightened in frustration. Why must these mortals be so small? And when he could find anything of length, it would have bagged about him like a sack—to say nothing of the quality of the garments. The boy kept pointing him toward thick woven pants of a deep blue—jeans, he called them.
"Can you just pick something already?" the boy flung back his head and groaned. "You're worse than a girl." He barely dodged away as a loafer sailed past his head.
It's called taste. You're unlikely to have encountered it before.
"If you don't pick something in the next five minutes, I'm leaving you here…I'm hungry."
Loki ignored him and scrutinized his options. Finally, something that wasn't completely reprehensible. Not the elegance he typically tried to exude when forced into Midgardian habit, but sufficient for his current needs. He gathered up his finds and turned to leave, giving Book a brief nod.
The boy glanced at the clothes in Loki's hands. "Oh, no, no, no. You wear something that nice and people will notice." He tugged at the suit sleeve, even as Loki tightened his grip. Book pursed his lips together and frowned. "You really are new street aren't you? Let me paint you a picture: your scrawny self will be black and blue in some alley, probably bleeding, if you go strutting about like you weren't down just like the rest of us."
Loki looked down imperiously. And deftly jerked the jacket away.
"Look, I get it. You're not used to all this." Book gestured vaguely, taking in the charity bin and empty parking lot. "You've still got your pride. And you see a good set of clothes."
Loki snorted. Barely adequate.
"But I'll tell you what some meth-head or bottle pusher will see—green. It doesn't matter that they won't get much for it, but they can sell that nice suit of yours and there's another day of chemical nirvana."
Cocking his head to the side, Loki lazily considered the boy's words. Then he gave a short laugh as a smile that looked too much like bared teeth split his features. He'd keep the suit.
Book threw up his hands and wheeled away. "Whatever, Princess. Your pride is going to get you killed."
A vision of fire and darkness flared across Loki's vision. Pride indeed. He would never attain his purpose without it. But eons stretched between his fall and the fading fabric in his hands.
"You're cleaning that up, right?" asked the boy as he jabbed a finger at the strewn clothes.
Holding up his finds and blinking innocently, Loki gestured at himself. I must change.
"Oh, this is so not becoming a habit," groused Book as he bent to gather up the scattered items of charity.
A sheltered doorway offered some privacy as Loki peeled off his garments, they were limp and stretched out with too many days hard use. He reveled in the touch of clean fabric—even rough peasant fare—though he wished his skin were equally clean. The trousers required some cinching up with a fraying belt, but at least they reached his ankles. Missing buttons caused the gray shirt's cuffs to flop open. Growling, he rolled them up to just below his elbow. A vest with torn lining followed the shirt—at least it fit correctly, which was more than could be said for the light coat that slouched off his shoulders. The grey-green scarf looped idly around his neck was just for flair, too thin to actually be of much use against the cold.
With no mirror, Loki wasn't entirely sure what he looked like—a fool most likely. Sighing, he wadded up his Asgardian clothes and left the privacy of the doorway.
Amusement flashed across the boy's face as he caught sight of Loki. "You look like a homeless hipster." Not giving him a chance to respond, the boy chucked a fraying canvas bag rather directly at his head.
Loki snatched it away from his face. Putting an edge of smugness into his smirk, he caught the boy's gaze.
"That's your street bag, k? You keep it with you at all times. Nothing important to you or irreplaceable gets put anywhere but that bag. And you guard it." Seriousness flooded his tone. "This is life now. You've always got to be ready to move. Don't count on whatever hole you found to be there when you get back."
The woven fabric slid smoothly against his thumb as he idly fingered the strap. So this was to be his existence. Clothes that didn't fit and a little brown bag. All hail the mighty conqueror.
"Time for food. Lucky for us, it's Wednesday." White teeth flashed in a broad grin. "That means Farmer's Market! And the Mennonites always let me have any of their doughnuts that look like they came from a foreign country."
Loki had no idea why they would want to eat a nut made of dough, but right now his stomach told him he'd be happy to eat just about anything. He couldn't quite suppress the flash of memory that brought Frigga's voice chiming through his head, chiding him for being finicky about his food. It hadn't been so much about the food as having to share a table with Thor and his friends. The only one of them with any manners had been Hogun. Eating with the hounds would have been preferable.
Stomach growling again, Loki trailed behind the boy's retreating figure. The "Farmer's Market" as it turned out was a rather bustling collection of pieced together stalls and vehicles overflowing with early or imported produce, apparently overpriced craft projects, and the products of various livestock. Left to his own devices, Loki nonchalantly browsed through the stalls. Snatching up an over-wintered apple here or slice of bread there when he found himself unwatched. The repeated attempts at small talk that he rebuffed did nothing to keep attention from him, but if Loki couldn't work under scrutiny by now, he didn't deserve to be known as the God of Mischief.
Catching sight of his particular ant, at least he was fairly sure it was his, Loki joined the boy under the feeble shade of a newly budding tree.
"I grabbed you some things," he said as he lifted the flap of his own bag, revealing a handful of radishes, a bag of nuts, two pastries, and a turnip.
With a flourish, Loki revealed his own spoils.
Blinking in surprise, a grin crept across the boy's face. "Light fingers, nice." An appraising glint flashed through his eyes as he looked his companion up and down.
Loki merely shrugged. Slight of hand may have been less versatile than magic, but he'd found it a useful skill—as well as a challenge. His cousin—his false cousin— Freya never did figure out how her necklace had found its way round Thor's neck during the middle of a ball with no one seeing how it happened. Being Vanir, she would have known if there was magic at work so close to her person. Her utter puzzlement had been nearly as entertaining as Thor's consternation and embarrassment as he found himself wearing some piece of jewelry from most of the ladies present by the end of the night.
The rest of the day passed with little event, the boy showing him a park washroom where he could awkwardly sponge off at the little sink. He wasn't truly clean—his hair in particular feeling like it was beginning to plaster thickly to his skull—but it was an improvement. The shattered mirror offered him nothing but a thousand sharded splinters of himself, nothing clear enough to actually see what he looked like. A shadow in the ruined glass had him glance over his shoulder, but he was alone in the dim, concrete box.
Dinner came in the form of something Book called a hotdog but that appeared to be a curiously pink log of meat jammed into slightly soggy bread. Loki sincerely hoped it wasn't actually dog. Especially since they'd paid for it rather than stealing. It had only taken the boy three tries before he managed to find someone willing to give them money. His whole face had softened and years had dropped away, making him look even younger as he'd approached the mark. The fact that it didn't come off as an act was what impressed Loki.
The woman had been skeptical at first, wondering why Loki would be sending his "nephew" to ask for money. Her gaze had softened as Book quietly told her that his "uncle" had been very sick and couldn't speak. She glanced up to find Loki turned slightly away, wearing the face of someone shamed by their inability to act and having to force a child to beg. Book had seen it too and got that appraising look again. The money was theirs after that performance.
As they walked the darkening streets, Loki could read hesitation in his ant's movements. He hovered at the entrance to an alleyway. Loki wondered what he would choose; he knew the boy was trying to decide whether to ditch him or allow him to follow back to his den. Not that Loki wouldn't be able to find it again on his own—eventually. The steadiness of a made decision settled across Book's shoulders as he beckoned. Apparently, Loki had passed some sort of test.
Once back in the warehouse, Book uncovered the coals and set the fire to snapping against the chill. He still kept a strategic, yet casual distance. Loki in turn did his best not to appear to notice and project a general aura of harmlessness. He didn't miss that there was something the boy wished to say.
"So, I've been thinking, and I've got a proposal. A mutually beneficial agreement." He dropped onto one of the boxes, legs swinging over the side. "You clearly need someone to show you the ropes, and nobody knows about surviving on the streets better than me—not just surviving, thriving. Basically, I'll be your Obi-wan."
Loki blinked and cocked his head with a puzzled smile.
"Dude! Where are you from! I'm talking Star Wars here…no? How could you not…? Never mind. I'll be your mentor."
Loki lounged back against the wall in an attitude of amused ease, his head propped up on his elbow. He cocked an eyebrow, And?
The boy spread his hands, eyeing Loki cautiously. "You be my responsible adult when I need one." He huffed air through his teeth. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not actually old enough to do anything without an adult's permission, and unattached homeless kids have a tendency of getting snatched or thrown to the system."
Something about the way he spat "system" perked Loki's interest. He had no idea what this was, but clearly the means of dealing with children on Midgard was quite different than in the Realm Eternal.
Book was up and moving, thumb drumming against his thigh. "It's easy, you just show up and, you know, be an adult—you'd be surprised how few people question it. They just accept things and move on." He leaned against the wall as if Loki's response made no difference in the world. "And you can split whenever you want."
Anyone but the trickster might have bought the act. It was just a moment, the barest fluttering against the back of the boy's eyes. But Loki saw it. Saw the piece of yearning that had slipped from the boy's grasp and pressed itself to the murky glass of muddied eyes. Just an instant and then the emotion was dragged down again, bound with all the other hopes and needs that shouldn't be seen. Too late, though. Loki had seen. Oh, he could use this.
There was one more dose of hope lurking beneath Book's indifferent posturing. He hid it well and guarded it zealously. He had just enough light left in him to trust one more person, just one more time. He was no fool, though. Loki would grudgingly admit that—he wouldn't have survived this long if he wasn't quick. On some level Book knew he'd trust once more and that that person would raise him up or leave him hollow.
Loki would have to be cautious. The boy would be wary, he'd clearly been used and abandoned too many times. If Loki waited, if he were patient, the boy would open up to him. That briefest glimpse told the Trickster all he needed to know. Book wanted to not be alone. That was a weakness Loki knew how to use.
He smiled and gave a slow, courtly nod. He didn't need the staff, or magic, or even his own voice. This boy would be his thrall just as surely as SHIELD's little hawk. And all because he too had heart.
Author's Note: An extra chapter this week to make up for the formatting issues I had earlier. Look to Mondays to be the likely update day for this (not so little) fic. A-hopefully-fun treat on a not always so fun day. I gotta say that writing Book was always enjoyable, but I really struggled with nailing his voice down. He is a child and needs to sound like such-but he's also kind of precocious, which helps quite a bit. His speech patterns were largely patterned after the way various boys in my Middle School Language Arts class would talk. They're...um...an interesting bunch at that age (my mother says they're not human at that stage and I'm inclined to agree with her). They once tried to convince me that "taco" was an emotion.