A/N:

Sorry about the long wait. My wifi kicked the bucket. This chapter is longer than usual, hope that makes up for it a bit.

STEVE

I returned to the station later than I should have and found a pile of paperwork on my desk that needed to be reworked. I was gladder than I had been in a long time for the bureaucratic pencil pushing. I was worried about Tony, and he's never been a man who made worrying about him easy on a guy.

Barton wandered over to his desk around 11:00, although he'd clearly come in a great deal earlier.

"Where have you been?" I asked, half bothered by his lack of productivity.

"Don't give me that look." He settled in behind his desk, slipping something into the top drawer. "I'm not the one who came in late; I'm allowed to get chatty at the coffee machine."

"Sorry," I relented, "you're right."

"I know," he said with a smirk. "So," he began again, clearly having completely moved on, "do you have any idea who the big guy was?"

"What 'big guy'?"

"The one who came in earlier, asking about your favorite private eye."

"I wasn't here earlier," I said with a frown. "He was asking about Tony?"

"Right, I just figured you would've heard. The girls out front can't stop giggling about him." Clint shrugged and stapled.

"And he was asking about Tony?" I repeated the question.

"Yah."

"So," I waved him on to expand, displeased by the needless drawing on, "what was he asking about? Did you talk to him?"

"Yah, I talked to him. It was kind of a queer conversation."

"How? Was it suspicious, or just strange?"

"It was just weird. Odd. Seemed like he was trying to background check him, find out who he ran with."

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, hoping Tony hadn't already gotten himself into trouble. "Why was the conversation odd?"

Clint hesitated. "…It was more that he was odd. He was foreign, maybe something got lost in translation."

"Oh. What was he like? Where was he from?"

"Tall, like, weirdly tall. Very blond. I don't know where he was from, didn't ask him."

"I'm assuming you got his name."

"Yah." He fished in his pocket for a moment and pulled out a small, white business card. "Thor Odinson."

I took it and flipped the small item over. It said 'Viking Industries' in clean, black print and a phone number beneath it that clearly wasn't American. "Did he leave you a means to reach him?"

"No reason to. I think he just gave it to me out of politeness or for credibility. He probably just realized what he was doing would seem odd."

"What kind of man did he strike you as?"

"Look, I don't think you should worry," Clint cut to the chase. "Other than having long hair and a bit of a beard, he came off very clean cut- certainly wasn't some low-life. I think he was just trying to discern whether Tony was on the right side of the law. He was probably a potential client."

"Could be…" I stared at the small card as if it might eventually lose its vaguery.

"Have you heard of this?"

"Viking Industries?" He leaned back in his chair. "No, not that I can remember, have you?"

"No." I picked up the phone and dialed for the operator.

"Are you calling Stark? Take a breath, Rogers, the guy was harmless."

"No. The library."

He laughed. "You're calling the library? Why would you call the library?"

"I'm going to ask their reference librarian a question." He continued to smirk at me as I got connected.

"You know, I'm not sure if this makes you the laziest or most resourceful detective I know."

I shushed him as the librarian answered.

"Hello, ma'am. I was hoping to find out about something sort of obscure."

"Well, sir, that is what we're here for," she said amiably.

I told her all I could infer about Viking Industries and she told me she'd have to do a little research. I gave her my number so she could call me back when she had information.

Barton was still watching me when I hung up, and I smiled back at his smirk, but deep in my heart I was less than amused.

TONY

Pepper didn't have any messages for me when I returned, and for that, I was actually glad. I told her to keep an eye out for a tan Ford on her way in and out of work for the next few days and went upstairs.

I dropped my papers and absurdly large sandwich on the kitchen table and then crossed the sitting room to go down the hall towards the guest room. The door had been left open.

Loki sat on the bed, cross legged, plainly looking at something laid out in his lap (though I couldn't see what).

"Hey." I rapped my knuckles against the door frame because yes, it was already open and he was clearly decent, but there was no reason to startle him. He looked up at the sound and there was a brief, although odd, pause before he smiled and responded.

"Hello."

"I've got lunch. Let's talk."

"Oh," he said, folding up the paper on his thighs, and slid off the bed. "That was kind of you."

"Not really," I admitted, opening the door wider to let him pass through. "I need to pump you for more information and I was already buying lunch."

Loki seemed amused by the admittance. "It would be more to your advantage if you left that part out. You don't even have to lie and say you've gone out of your way, just stay silent, let me think what is pleasant to think. When we sit down you could have asked me about myself, feigned a genuine interest, then naturally bring the conversation around to how my day was, you tell me about yours, then tell me how much easier your job would be of you had more information. I would, by my own accord, want to really rack my brain for anything I'd ever seen or heard that could help you. You wouldn't have even had to ask; and just like that, you've developed quite the rapport."

"You volunteered to help; I don't need to butter you up, do I?" I couldn't help but smile at his little discourse on manipulation.

"Well, it never hurts, does it?"

"No, it doesn't, but I suppose it's too late to tell you of all the hardships I endured to get back here," I conjectured as we crossed through the living room to the kitchen, "unless you're willing to play pretend."

"Hmm, I guess I could to my best to act impressed as you regale me with tales of your adventures. Maybe if whatever you brought is good, I could even manage some convincing praise and thanks."

"I get thanks either way, I'm saving your life," I reminded him and sat down at the table. Loki smiled at that, and the way it lit up his face was endearing. I thought that maybe he was in the process of emerging from some mild state of shock. I have had to learn to remind myself that not everyone has been shot at as many times as I have.

"That is an unnecessarily large sandwich," Loki noticed aloud as he joined me at the table.

"That's why we're sharing it." I unwrapped it and took two plates from the cupboard, placing a half on each. "Do you want something to drink?" I asked, pulling open my fridge. I was running out of food, it seemed. I'd have to see Pep about that.

"Milk?"

I stifled a chuckle at the request, but supposed that not all men were quite as keen to opt for a beer with lunch. I figured I probably shouldn't either and grabbed a soda for myself, set the cold bottle on the counter, and poured Loki his milk.

I handed the glass over wordlessly and returned to the table.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"How did everything go while you were out?" Loki tidily ripped a small strip out of the thick roll of his sandwich and popped it into his well formed mouth.

"Fine. Both far more and far less eventful than I was hoping for. Did you look at Steve's little write up?"

"I did, yes."

I took a bite of my lunch and spread out the papers that'd been brought in from the car. "Well, anything ring a bell?" I hadn't yet gotten the chance to compare what Loki and Steve had given me.

"Not much," he said apologetically. "It all makes sense, though, why he would have been down at the warehouse." I nodded. "There was a company name I know of. We did business with them." Loki reached out to point to The Liv Company.

"Okay. That's a start. Specifics?"

"LIV is a design company that would give us requests for the types of pieces they were looking for."

"What kind of pieces did they want?"

"It varied. Old valuable hand crafted furniture, ceramics. Nothing scandalous."

"From?"

"Usually Europe."

"Where? Eastern Europe?"

"Sometimes."

"Latveria? Genosha?"

"On occasion and fairly often, respectively."

"How much of it do you think is stolen?"

"I can't say, really. Now, I think maybe all of it could be."

"You kept the books, why didn't you suspect that?"

"I said I helped to keep them. I don't handle all of it. What I do concerns our dealings with distributors, not with acquisition."

It made sense. Their "distributors" were probably owned by Doom too, I thought, that way he could make things look as legal as possible. If Doom wanted to smuggle contraband in, it would be to his benefit to have it look legal at first glance. I figured I'd find evidence of wrong doing in the acquisition of the product, and how the 'distributors' dealt with it all after the handover. If an item was valuable or unique enough, it would have had to be sold through illegal channels. My Genoshan smuggler was looking more and more useful.

"Anything else? Anything at all that could be relevant?" Loki shook his head. "Not that I can think of, but I'll continue to ponder it."

"Know anyone who drives a tan Ford?" It was a long shot. "Ever seen one parked down by the warehouse?"

Loki stared thoughtfully into his milk before saying, "No. Why?"

"Don't worry about it. Unless you see one, that is. Then, still don't worry, actually, just tell me."

"I doubt I'll have to worry, then, since I am not to leave the house."

"Not yet. Maybe tomorrow or the next day if we can do it safely, which I think we can. Don't want you getting too stir crazy and becoming useless."

"That would be appreciated. Thank you."

I nodded and hoped he realized I wouldn't be letting him wander around on his own.

A silence fell over as us we ate, and I used it to finally get a good comparative look at everything I'd gathered. The smuggler's name wasn't on anything from the police records or on Loki's list. Out of the three other names Pietro had given me, one was also in the official records; I circled it in pen.

"What's that?" Loki asked, and I realized he'd been watching me.

"Someone I need to put priority on checking out."

"Who? Anyone I'd know of?"

"I don't know. Ever heard of Leroy Wesley?"

"No."

Another idea occurred to me. "Speaking of people you know, who'd you work with?

Did you have a lot of coworkers?"

Loki shook his head. "Not that I interacted with often. I usually just saw the man I worked for, he managed all the accounts. I was often present when appraisers came by, sometimes when everything was picked up."

"And how did that all work? What was the process? And I'd like the name of your boss."

"It's not too complicated," Loki began to explain, "The shipment comes in, it gets moved to the warehouse. Then it's all checked for injury, and inventory is taken. Appraisers from whoever we imported it for come, and then over the next few weeks it's all picked up. The man directly above me was Walter Declun."

That was a name I was almost positive I knew and I wrote it down. "How much does most of it go for?"

"That really depends on what it is. A vase doesn't go for the same price as a bureau. But the prices are always high. When do you have to go out again?" he tacked on.

"Uh," I looked down at my watch, "I was planning to go back out to get back there by one."

I continued to work my way through the papers. The rest of lunch was mostly a silent affair, finally giving me a chance to do my reading.

Having learned a valuable lesson about staying close to the car, I drove all the way the second time. I pulled in next to the little place I had gotten lunch and set about waiting.

STEVE

"Viking Industries," the librarian told me when she rang a few hours later, "started out as a small fishing company, then moved into shipping, and then mining as its success grew. It was founded by Borr Búrason quite a ways back. His son runs it now."

"His son?"

"Mhm. Odin Borsson."

I looked back to the business card. Thor Odinson. Odin Borrson. Borr Búrason. The names relation to each other did not escape me, but I didn't get to inquire further. Clint was tugging on my arm and telling me for the second time that we "really, really have to go. Someone else is going to take it if we don't go. C'mon, I'm bored out of my mind, Stark's a big boy, he survived before you were there to waste the city's resources watching his back; on the other hand, there are two dead men that really need our undivided attention."

TONY

Waiting was a tedious game, but a man grows used to it. The place wasn't yet open when I got there, but soon enough, a car pulled into its driveway. I was glad when a little blond gal was the one who stepped out and unlocked the front door. It's much easier to get information out of employees who probably think they're holding down an honest job.

I checked myself in the mirror before hopping out and took a long look up and down the street before crossing. I pulled my hat off as I opened the door. "Good afternoon?"

"Good afternoon," said the girl's disembodied voice. A few seconds later, she popped up from where she'd apparently been bending down behind the nick-nack covered counter.

"Hi there," I said with a winning smile, moving to look at the nearest shelf of bowls and vases.

"Hello, sir. Is there anything I can help you with today?"

"You could tell me about these. They're lovely."

"Oh," she said, coming to join me at the display, "I'm not an expert when it comes to East Asian ceramics, but this is all Chinese Hard-paste porcelain. Early 19th century. Are you a collector?"

"Of sorts. I'm no expert either, but I appreciate beautiful things. Tony," I introduced myself, holding out a hand.

"Stella," she informed me as she accepted my hand and shook it lightly.

"So, is this a family place?"

She shook her head. "No. It's a very friendly place, though."

"Care to show me your European porcelain? Nothing so old that I'll be too afraid to bring it home."

The question as to whether I was looking for Hard-paste, Soft-paste, or Bone porcelain meant absolutely nothing to me. I chose Bone. Stella the shop girl treated me to a bland tour of their newer European Bone porcelain. I smiled and nodded, flirted, and chose one at almost random.

"This is very nice. I'll take this one."

"Oh, great. It's funny how a silly little misunderstanding could be responsible for such a beautiful new kind of pottery." I didn't have a clue as to what that meant, although I assumed she was referring to something in the history of ceramics. "Did you want to take it with you now?"

"Any reason it shouldn't be now?"

"Just in case you wanted it delivered, since it's delicate."

"Oh, no, thank you," I assured her, "I'm sure I can manage to get it home in one piece."

She pulled it down exceedingly carefully and I followed her back to the counter where she began an intensive and complicated wrapping process. I made conversation as she packed and then as she showed me the forms to fill out. Apparently it was common practice to keep track of where their pieces ended up. I felt like I was buying a gat.

Expressing awe at their varied selection, and the difficulty of acquiring it all, I was rewarded with a little ramble about how I "would be surprised with what manner of valuables you find people selling, none the wiser to its value", and how they had "an amazing dealer firm" that supplied them with a lot of their wares. Orion, it was called. I was hoping that by some stretch of luck she was going to name the design company Loki had talked about. When she didn't, I asked her if she would recommend them. Stella said she hadn't heard of Liv. Never the less, it was information I could use.

It was a fairly pricey buy, but not so pricey that anyone in their right mind would have bothered to smuggle it into the country. I thought maybe there could have been a grander operation going on behind closed doors, that the customers who knew what to ask for and who exactly to ask for It would be shown a more private collection. If it was really owned by a Genoshan smuggler, it had to be more than a cute antique store.

I wondered what in the world I was going to do with my vase as I set it on the passenger seat. Maybe Pepper would want it for herself.

My next stop was the place of business of the man who I'd heard about through Steve and the Maximoff twins. All Steve's files had said was that he was an errand boy for Doom, but Pietro had said he was actually a button man for the associate of a man who was Doom's-better, for my purposes. No one, no matter how far down the ladder, who I could trace straight up to Doom, would spill their guts to anybody. I would probably just have to be straightforward with the guy, I thought. Promise him no one would know, make it worth his while, or threaten to get him arrested, all that jazz. As it turned out, I wouldn't get the chance to see it through.

The guy, Leroy Wesley, did business out of an office in the same building as a butcher shop, and I figured that was probably fitting.

It seemed a far better idea to wait until he stepped out then to rush into his secluded office full of questions. I struck it lucky a bit longer than a half hour in when he saw someone out. I hastily grappled a pack of cigarettes from where it had fallen under the seat and into my pocket, and then left my car behind. I pulled one out on my way as if to go into the butcher's, then padded myself down and stopped.

"Hey fella', got a light?"

"Yah," he said, as he produced a match and swiped it.

I'd been given a description by Pietro, but "sort of short, dark hair, blue eyes, a bit chubby" was not a unique set of features amongst average men. I needed to make sure I had the right guy before I launched into questioning him.

"This a good butchery?" I asked, trying for friendly nonchalance, "my old place just closed down."

"Wouldn't know." He shrugged. "Gets enough business at least."

"Oh. Not a customer then?"

"Nah. I've got a place in the building, that's all." It looked like he was my man.

"Great. You and I need to have a little talk, then."

The man stiffened and eyed me guardedly. "Do we?"

"Yah."

"And what do we need to talk about?" His voice had hardened.

"Doom."

He snorted, "And what would a man like me know about a big time player like him?"

"That's what I'm here to find out. I hear that your boss has a buddy who answers to Doom. I don't expect you to know where the man sleeps, but I expect you to know something."

"Me?" he asked, looking a mix of nervous and seriously ticked. "I'm nobody."

"Yes," I agreed, "You're too low to be on his radar, which means that talking to me isn't likely to put you at risk. Not talking to me, on the other hand… I know how to draw attention to a guy."

"Nothing to draw attention to. I don't know him, I've never crossed him-Don't plan on trying to start now." He turned around to go back inside.

"I didn't mean from Doom." He took a long moment just to glare at me so I continued. "It sounds like Doom has a lucrative smuggling thing going on. How about I say a name, and you just tell me if you know of them. Just point me in the right direction."

"You're a cop?"

"No. I'm an interested third party. I don't care what you or anyone connected to you, or to him, does. I just need to know about Doom." He continued to eye me. "Listen, I may not be a cop, but I've got friends on both sides of the law, which you realize must be true because I know that you, Leroy Wesley, works for Roland Scott, who used to run a racket with Donnie Morris, who answers to Doom. I know enough about you to round off what the cops already have and I will happily give it to them."

"Fine," Leroy grit out followed by an angry breath. "Where?"

"How's my car sound?"

He shrugged. I took it as a yes. Pointing to my car, I gestured for him to go first. Everything he had to say, for the most part, was truly trivial. It was all little things Roland Scott had mentioned, people he knew Donnie Morris knew, rumors. I'd driven us a ways away for his perception of security more than anything else. He was right about being a nobody, but I took what I could get. He spent the majority of the conversation staring out the window. He got half way through a story about a delivery that a "friend" had done for Morris. It was the first thing I had actually wanted to hear, but just my luck, it never got finished. He had to turned to look at me, one of only a few times he did, before he stopped talking, instead staring oddly over my shoulder. His face was frozen in an unnerving expression of curiosity laced with fear.

"If you are a cop, now would be a fine time to tell me."

"Still not," I said, turning a bit to try to look where he was looking.

"Then you're in trouble that I want no part of. Watch yourself," he told me, pointing beyond my window as he abruptly popped the door open and climbed out.

"Wait," I ordered, but was more interested in looking where he'd pointed than getting out to wrangle him back to my car.

Much to my own chagrin, I did not see what he had. I kept staring, searching everything I could with my eyes, but nothing stood out. Sliding into the passenger seat to look from where he'd been sitting, I still saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. It was all just the average city afternoon movement, the people milling about in the soon to be failing light. I got out, but yielded no more results. I turned back around to see that Leroy was long gone. I groaned, running my hands through my hair before I clambered into the car with unnecessary roughness. I'm a curious man by nature and I've never liked being in the dark about anything. I turned the key in the ignition and took off. If Doom knew I was out for him, I was in some serious trouble, but if this was the same person who had followed me to Banner's, then they'd been tailing me since the first night Loki had come to me for help. If it was someone of Doom's, and he'd been following Loki, Loki would never have made it to my door. But who else had a reason to be following me, I didn't know. I've always been good at pissing people off, but I hadn't stepped on any new toes as of late, and the timing was certainly suspicious.

The look on his face stuck in my mind.

I had briefly considered checking in with the Maximoff twins, but realized if I was being followed at that very moment, it wasn't fair to lead my pursuer to anyone I could get in serious trouble. Those two have always been a little left of center, and it was especially so back then, but despite some of their more unsavory past actions and associations, they've also always been good at heart. It wouldn't have felt good putting them at unnecessary risk.

Despite what I'd planned to get done, I turned towards home preemptively for the second time that day. There were a couple of facts I wanted to ask Steve about anyway.

It could be hard getting a hold of Steve down at the station, and by some weird luck, I've always managed to catch him right when he should be on his way out.

"Sorry, I don't know about that," Steve said to my inquiry concerning LIV, "I just wrote the name down in case. I didn't think it would actually be important."

"Do you still have it all checked out?"

"Of course I don't. I checked it all back in when I was done, and before you ask, no, I'm not getting it out again," he told me firmly. "I have my own work to get done, most of which will keep me out of here today. You just caught me back dropping off evidence."

I conceded the point for the moment after a little unsuccessful needling. I'd been lucky to get as much help from him as I already had (although it usually doesn't hurt to push for more when you can).

"Feel like getting a beer later?" I asked instead. "Banner's isn't too far from the station."

"Banner's?" The disapproval was heavy in his voice. "Tony, I can't believe you still go there."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because you know who runs it."

"What's your problem with Betty?"

"You know I don't have a problem with Mrs. Banner, and you know I'm not talking about her."

"Okay, fine, but have you ever met Bruce? The guy's got his quirks, sure, but he's harmless."

Steve made a small skeptical harrumphing noise. "The man is a dangerous criminal. Violent. Probably clinically insane. Banner may come off meek, but there's a whole other side to him. You know that."

"Betty's related to that girl you've got it so bad for. The blond one, with the curls and the figure."

"If you're talking about Miss Ross, they're cousins. I don't see how that's relevant though, Tony."

"You ever wonder what their folks were thinking?" I asked him, not in the mood to bicker about my choice in bars.

"I don't follow."

"They're both named Elizabeth. Betty and Betsy. One of them just needs to go by Elizabeth."

"Betsy does sometimes."

I was almost positive that Steve was the only one who ever called her Elizabeth. In fact, he probably only did that when he felt bold enough to momentarily graduate from calling her Miss Ross. Steve may have been a tall, dapper mass of well toned muscle with a 100 Watt smile, but he'd yet to completely grow into everything that came with that. He certainly hadn't mastered dealing with women.

"Well, your strange contentment with mooning over the less fun of the Ross girls aside, are you free tonight?"

"I wish. Raincheck?"

"Yah."

"Hey. Have you ever run into Thor Odinson?" Steve asked after a strange quiet.

There had been a message waiting for me when I got back to the office from the man Steve mentioned. He had asked Pepper about me and my services-about how trustworthy a man I was. She had only spoken to him over the phone, but from what she said, it sounded like having him as a client would be an interesting ride. Apparently he was looking to discuss "a very private matter of the utmost importance" with me.

"No, but Pep talked to him just earlier today. Is he trouble? I probably don't have time for a new case right now regardless, but do I need to worry about taking it later if he feels like waiting?"

"No. I was just curious. He was asking about you, and I just wanted to make sure he wasn't some one you'd gotten yourself in trouble with."

I wasn't sure whether to be warmed that he bothered to worry, or wonder what it meant that he just assumed I'd gotten myself in trouble. I decided on the former, since I am no stranger to trouble.

I spent more time than I wanted to reading the mail that Pep had left unopened. She had a knack for knowing exactly which letters were private enough that I would bother reading them myself.

Upon going upstairs, I realized I really was out of convenient food. Everything in the cupboards would have made fine ingredients for someone who knew their way around an oven (which I certainly did not). At first glance, it might appear otherwise, what with one cupboard being entirely devoted to spices. They were actually a remnant of the long past days when Pepper had a reason to cook for me.

"Loki," I called out. When there was no response, I decided to opt for a tactic other than the Italian intercom. Knocking on the guest room he was occupying turned out to do no better. "Loki?" I rapped a few more times and then pushed open the door to find an empty room. "Hello?" I tried again, turning to look in the other unoccupied rooms. "Pepper," I yelled from the top of the stairs immediately before realizing where he must be.

"What?" She yelled back, voice strained.

"Never mind." I knew where I hadn't checked. I found Loki in my bedroom, eyes firmly affixed to my book shelf. "There you are," I said as his head snapped to look at me.

"Sorry. Were you looking for me?"

"Yah. Popping in here seems to be becoming a habit for you."

"Sorry." His small smile was rueful. "You said I should feel free to look through your books," he explained, holding up two small books I didn't realize he had been holding.

"You should."

"Feel free to tell me if anything I do over steps," he told me, and for a second there, I was sure the look in his eyes was flirtatious.

"If you step on my toes, you'll know." There was a moment of heavy but not uncomfortable silence which I took upon myself to interrupt. "Hey, do you know how to cook, by any chance?"

"Not really. I can boil water as well as any man." It looked like dinner would be coming courtesy of the deli a block over.

With the odd occurrences of the day and darkness falling, I didn't feel comfortable sending Pep out to buy groceries or pick up dinner. The short drive was thankfully uninterrupted by anything suspicious.

Loki had donned his patterned sweater for dinner and I couldn't help but comment.

"So, is someone in the family a knitter, or what?"

"I don't have family."

"Oh. Sorry." I didn't delve deeper. Swapping stories about our folks, or lack thereof, was not my idea of a good time.

"Don't be," was all he said, because it wasn't his either.

I locked up after dinner and Loki retreated to his room. I settled into my own room with old case files and a bottle of scotch. It's surprising how often people overlap in cases and it's always wise (although tedious) to take a shot at finding any connections. The radio played unobtrusively in the background.

I eventually found myself staring out at the city night wondering if there was someone out there whose job it was to be keeping their thoughts and eyes on me. I hit the sheets, but I remained sleepless. I don't know how long I spent staring at my darkened ceiling feeling restless. I've spent many a night up and working, but I was tired and unmotivated. The air in the room was heavy so I cracked the window to let the night in. It did very little to help.

When the hour grew later and later but sleep came no closer, I pulled my robe over my pajama pants (my shirt having been discarded earlier in the squirmings of sleeplessness.

I was vaguely surprised by the light that emanated from down the hall when I stepped out of my room. The house was otherwise dark and quiet, excepting the occasional noise that slipped in from outside.

If there's one thing that loves company more than misery, it's insomnia.

"Hello?" Loki called out when I neared.

"Hey. You slept yet?" I asked through the door. I heard the padding of bare feet on the floor.

"No. I'm still up," he admitted as he opened the door. "And yourself?"

"I've been known to be a night owl." His night wear was forest green, and his hair, although clearly still oiled, turned out to be longer than I'd thought when it had been completely slicked back. "Can't sleep, or just a bookworm?" I gestured to the book his finger was tucked into as a placeholder.

"Do they have to be mutually exclusive?"

"I suppose not. They probably compliment each other. It's certainly better than staring at the wall or counting sheep."

"Is that what you do?" he asked me, letting himself lean against the door frame.

"Only when I'm feeling too lazy to do anything else."

He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. "Are you feeling too lazy to join me for a cup of tea?"

"Sorry to disappoint, but it's not something I keep in stock." Loki looked amused by my answer.

"Actually, you have quite the collection."

"Then I'm not feeling too lazy to join you. As long as you're making it, that is."

He nodded in agreement.

I let the guest room's light remain the only illumination for the hall, but turned on the green lamp in the living room. I dropped onto the couch and pulled his book from where he set it on the coffee table en route to my kitchen. Seeing as I didn't own any Icelandic books, I figured that it was the one Pete had picked up from Loki's apartment.

I placed it back on the low table and watched Loki move in the warm light of the kitchen. He pulled open a drawer I had been sure was empty. That explains the tea.

The only sound was the quiet hiss of water heating. His lithesome form was made obvious by the clinginess of his silk pajamas. I let myself wonder if he had been making eyes at me earlier. It wasn't the sort of thing to be acted on with such tenuous evidence, despite my usual willingness to act on my suspicions. For all I knew, any sort of overture from me could be met with shock and horror, but I've always had a good eye for that sort of thing, and I didn't think shock or horror would be the response I received. But, if I was wrong it would put him in one Hell of an awkward situation, all that stood in between him and an unfortunate end being me.

My musings were interrupted by the whistling of the kettle. Soon enough, there was a cup of tea in front of me (something I'd never particularly cared for, although it tasted better than late night worries) and Loki was beside me on the couch.

"What's the book about?" I asked, for lack of a better topic (and one that didn't involve a proposition to commit an act illegal in every state in the union).

"It's poetry," he told me, blowing on his tea.

"I might tease you if I wasn't so tired. Remind me in the morning?"

He shook his head, but smirked all the same. "It's not the flowery American sort. And you must remember that I've seen your bookshelf."

"Fair enough. Feel free to not remind me, then." I let my head loll back and closed my eyes. It wasn't exactly a formal get together, after all.

I still hadn't touched the tea. In the morning the cup would be where he'd set it, full and cold. The room's silence was interrupted briefly by the sound of a siren in the distance and then a second time by the rustling of pages. As it turned out, I was quite fed up with silence. My nights were usually finished on the town. "Read aloud?"

"You do realize it's not in English?"

"Yah. Humor me."

He did.

A/N, the second: As always, thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated!