Oh, my heart! It breaks!
Sorry for the bit o' a wait - between last-minute visits with friends and family and otherwise prepping for The Big Move (for those of you who haven't heard I'm just a few days away from entering my freshmen year of college), things have been hectic.
Two more chapters! And I think you might like this one...
-XXX-
The bustle of paper and high-pitched children's voices greets me Monday morning. Twenty-five four-to-six-year-olds pack in a punch far greater than espresso. I am scrambling all morning from knee-high table-to-table, stooping to examine the white "clay" (flour, salt, and water, don't sue me – the real stuff is expensive, and they're five) forms that are appearing before them. Tiny hands create lumpy figures. It's invigorating to see young minds at work and play, and even though my room is a mess twenty minutes in, I wouldn't have it any other way.
"Miss Tati, Miss Tati," one tot cries down the aisle where I'm currently squatting to watch one little fellow sculpt a beetle. I look up to see Hannah bouncing wildly, her golden curls flying in time with the lilac ribbons tied at the base of each pigtail. "Look see!"
She shoves her ladybug in my direction. The class is currently studying bugs, so the teacher suggested I encourage the kiddos to make their favourite insects or arachnids. The oval stares up at me. I appropriately "ooh" and "aah" over Hannah's masterpiece. She beams. "See what Lin-Ju made!"
Hannah beckons to her companion, a smaller girl of Asian descent with wide, dark eyes, and a black braid down her back. Lin-Ju shyly offers forth a butterfly. I marvel (with a little more sincerity this time) at the delicate wings. Lin smiles softly at my praises.
Naturally, then Billy and KJ and Theo and D'angelo and Alex and Leah and Cris and Justin and Mara and Philip and Cole and Tessa have to show me their pieces, too. So I've got a laughing chaos of tiny voices, and I am forced to examine worms, spiders, beetles, flies, caterpillars, dragonflies, and mosquitoes. None of them are painted – that's next week's assignment. They're all abuzz, telling each other all of the colours they're going to paint their bugs. With honest pleasure budding in my chest - "Just what I needed after this weekend." – I pat a few of them on the head or shoulders, then sweep across the room to make sure everyone is done. Lance, one of my more troublesome boys, sits at the corner of his art table, still putting the finishing touches on his massive centipede. His spiky black hair makes him look like a little mad scientist. Actually, he reminds me a little of Tony.
"Hey buddy. Nice bug. Can you tell me what kind it is?"
He glances up, bright little eyes flashing as he tilts his head. "You can't tell?"
"I am not very well-versed in my bugs," I tell him gravely.
"It's a centapeed," Lance explains seriously. "He's got a bajillion legs."
"Oh, my," I say. "That's not quite a bajillion, though."
"Well, I didn't have 'nough clay," says the boy, a little huffy. "Why I asked you for more."
I briefly remember one high-pitched little voice badgering me for more of the white stuff.
"Sorry hon, but I had to make sure everyone had an equal amount. It still has a lot of legs, thought." And it certainly does – approximately thirty, which is probably why he was behind the others in construction. "But it looks really cool either way. Your friends are going to be impressed."
"I know!"
"Haha, right," I say, rising. "Why don't you go put it in the window to dry, then next week we'll paint it, okay?"
"Uh-huh," the little fellow agrees happily.
I direct the others to follow suit, then line up just like ducklings for their teacher, who would be very, very impressed if they kept as quiet as owls. Comparing them to animals, I'd found, could be quite effective. The only thing is, I'm running out of quiet creatures. Almost everything out there makes a sound, and even the ones I would normally pass out are challenged by a five-year-old's vast knowledge (which can probably be attributed to excessive Discovery Channel watching). Today my little ducklings rush to be line leader, then there is a brief tussle between Lance and Alex before I settle it, recalling (falsely) that Lance was line leader last week. They accept this. And then, mercifully, their teacher arrives to escort them back.
The next half-hour is spent cleaning up the room. While significantly less messy than paint or ink, clay, or even fake clay, has a residue all its own. With a sigh, I clock out. The little ones were my last crew of the day. I take a long time putting on my jacket, hat, gloves, and winding my scarf 'round my neck, then trail out the hallways into the bright mid-afternoon light. It's brighter than usual, actually, since there was a faint dusting of snow last night. Like powdered sugar on gingerbread houses, it has accumulated on the awnings, roofs, window sill, railing, and the gutters.
Once outside, I watch my breath frost in the chilled air. New York winters, I've found, are very different from the kind I usually experience. Colder. Crisper.
I walk about a block before deciding it is simply too cold to go much further. I step to the curb, lifting my hand to hail a passing cab. It readily stops, but just as I am reaching for the door handle, another's hand, encased in a very expensive black leather glove, flashes forward to grip the painted metal. Shock rises in me as a tall, slim guy passes, back to me, to open the door and make to slip inside.
"Hey!" I cry as I grab the guy's shoulder.
Cab stealing is a relatively common, especially among the businessmen, stockbroker and lawyer set, but I've never had it happen to me before, and I'm a little ticked. Contrary to the general assumption New Yorkers aren't the jackasses everyone claims them to be, but as in every community, there are a few. New Yorkers are just busy and wary, like normal people. But this isn't a small town. People shouldn't expect the natives to go out of their way to privately escort them about the city.
So when this guy cuts me off, I'm pissed. But I'm not scared. I mean, we're in public. What could he do?
He spins on his heels (which are bearing very, very expensive, very nice black loafers polished to perfection) to face me. The first thing I notice is the off-white diamond-print scarf wound 'round his neck and pulled up to cover his mouth. The second is his eyes – a pair of merrily alighted emerald irises, clearly amused with my endeavors to prevent him from stealing my cab.
"Loki," I breathe. It's more of a breath than a title or sound. A simple statement. As easy as inhaling. Which I do, once I'm crushed to his chest.
Backing up a little, I demand, "What the hell?"
He doesn't exactly answer, though, instead choosing to seal my lips with his own hungrily. I do not protest in the least. But the cabbie does.
"You kids have anything better to do than mack out in the street?" he bellows in a thick Bronx accent. "Get in here or go away!"
Once in the back seat, I pull the smirking god to me once again. His lips move against mine, slow and teasing before we're interrupted again. The cabbie is staring with raised brows.
"Sorry for the disturbance, but where exactly am I taking you two lovebirds?"
I croak out the Upper West Side address, then we return to our unmasked make out session in the backseat, with little regard to the poor cab driver. Loki nuzzles me without a sound, nosing my collar bone and kissing my neck. It's not his standard practice, but again, I'm not complaining. We continue with the gross, lovey behavior until the driver stops with a screech in beside the curb. Loki tosses him a few bills (which have spontaneous appeared in his fist, but no one comments, especially seeing as the poor guy just wants these two sickos out of his car). I mumble an unintelligible thanks, and the fellow does not linger.
Without a word, I am dragged up the steps and all but flung into the foyer, where I am then savagely pressed against the door, Loki's very figure conducting a siege against me. In response, I keen under his hands, my hands fisting in his newly-shorn locks. Clever fingers work at the hemline of my blouse, then creep across my skin. The cool touch sends shivers through me. I stretch. He finally speaks, murmuring my name lowly, then in a language I don't understand. Curling into him, I kiss the god fully on the mouth.
"Tati," he murmurs again.
"Where the hell did you come from?" I wonder aloud in a whisper.
He winces. "That exactly. Hel."
"Loki…."
"No," he insists, lips against mine again, briefly. "Utter misery. It is no longer my home, Tatiana. And the scenario was only made worse by my punishment – that fitting for a child. Not a man. And not befitting my crimes. A disgrace."
"You want to be burned at the stake?"
He makes an impatient noise. "I would rather take a burning than being imprisoned as a tot in his nursery."
"Well, you cannot expect them to not treat you as such," I say, watching his lips quirk. "You have the maturity of one about five years old. And I would know. I've spent all day with children."
As if to prove my point, he rolls his eyes. And then he decidedly proves the opposite, claiming my lips again. With another massive smirk, Loki pulls me from the door, scooping me up as though it were effortless (which it cannot be, I know what the scale says), then trekking up the stairs. After he closes the door to corner me – blocking Win, who has yet to realize we're home – on the bed, besieging me against the headboard. But I call pause.
"Did SHIELD clear this?" I gasp.
With a groan, Loki drops his lips from my throat. Affectionately, I run my fingers through his hair. It is, as I said, shorter, striking his jawline, and has been pushed back, smoothed to the nape of his neck. I quite like it. It's not quite the length to be tied back with, but perfect from mussy up.
Frustrated, he looks up at me with narrowed eyes. "No. They have not. But the King of Asgard and his Queen have."
"Oh." I stare openly. Loki's wide eyes lock with mine, trying to discern my reaction.
"You are…disappointed?" he asks delicately.
I shake my head quickly. "Gods, no! I'm just…." I drift off sheepishly. "Worried. You know."
"You will not need to fear." He bares his teeth, feral glint in his gaze. I abruptly feel the need to pull away, but with my back against the wood I'm rather restricted. So I settle for looking just past his shoulder. "This has the Allfather's blessing. We're safe."
This does little to reassure me – I mean, the Allfather hasn't been any friend to me – but I sag slightly at his words. Gentle fingers trace my cheek. My gaze is drawn back. Those deep green orbs are icily bright. We are silent. Loki, usually so cautious and calculating, is being more of a "shoot-now-ask-later" kind of god for the moment, and it's disturbing me.
"What –"
"I've been gone for months, my dear half-wit," he says pointedly. "Must we….?"
No. No we mustn't.
-XXX-
I have missed Loki dearly.
So...whatcha think? Reviews, comments, questions, concerns, critiques, I take 'em all!