Notes: More notes at the end, because I don't want to start whining right off the bat, but up front I do want to put a warning for references to sexual abuse in this chapter. Nothing at all graphic, but it is implied.
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"No, Loki, we can't just change the rules like that. This game has a very long and prestigious history, dating all the way back to at least 1993 or something. You have to respect the legacy. Pants come off. Now."
"Tony Stark-"
"No. No more whining or you have to take another shot of rum, too. I told you all this before we started, and you agreed. Pants."
It isn't like this is the most complicated game in the world or anything. It's nothing more than a handy conglomerate of gambling, drinking, stripping, and the truth half of truth or dare. The first player rolls one die, and asks the second a question based on the number that comes up. A one equals the kind of mundane thing you'd be comfortable asking any stranger on the street. A six gets you a deep, dark secret. The second player has the power veto any question by drinking a number of shots equal to the number rolled and removing one article of clothing. Three vetoes total allowed.
And Loki just lost his second.
"I'm not asking you again," Tony says as Loki stares back at him with what can only be described as a look of unfiltered loathing. "Refusal to comply with the rules makes you lose a turn."
"You just invented that," snarls Loki.
"No, I didn't just invent that. I invented it back in 1993, along with the rest of the game. This is an established rule. Are you going to take your pants off or not?"
Yes. Yes, he's going to take his pants off. Grudgingly, but they come off, revealing silk shorts beneath. Green. But same gold elephant print.
"Good boy," says Tony. "Your turn."
He scratches at his jawline, feeling the mess of stubble beneath his fingers. He should've shaved this morning. He should've shaved yesterday. Hell, he should've shaved a week ago. This is getting out of control, and yet for reasons unknown he keeps putting it off. Maybe due to a subconscious desire to look more like a fugitive on the run, physically distanced from his former self? Or sheer laziness. One of the two.
"Are you growing a beard?" Loki asks with a gesture of his chin.
"Is that your question for this round?"
Scowling, Loki rolls the die. One. "I suppose it might as well be," he sighs.
"You have the shittiest luck of anyone I've ever played this with," says Tony. "What's that, the fifth one you've rolled so far? Have you got anything above three yet?"
"Just answer the question."
"Right, I guess you don't want me making fun of you for being the only person in the universe to actually consistently fail at a game of complete chance. So. Um. Beard. I don't know? Maybe? I hadn't made a conscious decision either way. Just kind of going with the flow right now. Why, do you think I should? Move towards more of an Obi-wan Kenobi look?"
"Is that your question for this round?" Loki asks.
Tony rolls. Three. "Nope."
"Sorry, you've already asked. And yes, I think a beard might suit you very well."
"No, that doesn't count! I get another crappy, low-level question. Two ones for a three. More than fair."
Loki's hard eyes bore into Tony's for a long, tense moment before he looks away with a huff and a shake of his head. "Fine," he agrees. "You may ask one more insignificant question, Tony Stark."
And the question all but presents itself right then and there. "Why do you always call me 'Tony Stark'?"
"Because that is your name," Loki answers. A small frown pulls at the corners of his mouth. "What else would I call you?"
"Tony. It's just Tony. Not Tony Stark. 'Tony Stark' makes me feel kind of like I'm listening to a news report about myself. My name is Tony, and you can call me that. Stark is my family name. You only use it when you're trying to be either respectful or ironically disrespectful. Not after we've seen each other naked and, you know, done more than just see."
"Tony," Loki repeats slowly, his frown growing. "No, I don't think I like that. It sounds strange by itself."
"I don't see how that's possible, since it's phonetically very similar to Loki. Anyway," he adds, "get used to it. Otherwise I'll start calling you 'Loki of Asgard' all the time. Unless you guys have family names on your alien homeworld? Do you?"
Reaching for the die, Loki shakes his head. "It's not your turn."
He rolls a two. And looks like he might be a hair's breadth away from crushing the mocking little cube beneath his fist.
"Truly phenomenal," says Tony. "Remind me never to take you to Vegas."
"How long does this idiotic game last?" snarls Loki.
"Until we both run out of vetoes. Which, judging by the astounding speed at which you're not asking me any questions I might feel uncomfortable answering, will probably be a year from now."
Loki mutters something to himself. Choppy words too soft to hear, spinning on the underside of his breath. "I can't think of any other pointless questions to ask you. The rum makes my head feel..."
"Well, that's what you get for using up your vetoes so fast," Tony replies, and he glances at the clock. "Eleven shots of rum in half an hour will do that to you."
"Do you have any children?"
"Is that a serious question or are you just wasting your turns now?"
"Serious," says Loki.
It may be strange, but he does look serious. Even rubbing his face as the last round of shots starts to hit him, there's no sense of anything other than honest curiosity (okay, maybe a healthy dose of annoyance, but mostly curiosity) when Loki looks at Tony through reddening eyes.
Something about it sets off an uncomfortable twinge deep in Tony's gut. "Uh... no. No, I don't. When I was twelve my dad sat me down and had one of those really awkward father-son talks about manhood and responsibility and how a lot of the women I'll meet in my life will just be after me for money. And God help me if I get some gold digger pregnant. He gave me a glass of whisky and a box of condoms and made it clear he wouldn't be there to clean up the mess if I did something stupid and ruined my life. Between that and his follow-up talk about STDs... yeah. Scared me into an OCD level of condom dependency. So no kids. Not even any pets or plants. I'm strictly a cars and robots kind of guy. Out of curiosity, why do you ask? Is this one of those cultural difference things that would be normal to ask about on Asgard yet makes no sense here?"
"Probably," Loki answers, shrugging.
"I don't think I like where this conversation is going," mutters Tony. "Are you about to drop the bomb and tell me you have a dozen illegitimate children back home?"
"You'll have to roll for that."
No. There are some things that are better left unknown, at least for now, and this sounds like one of them. "Thanks, but I prefer my comfortable delusion that everything you do when I'm not watching doesn't exist. Tell me about..." He rolls another three. "...your happiest childhood memory instead."
Eyes narrowed, Loki stares at him. The look of loathing is back. "Why do you ask me these ridiculous things?"
Because you've already vetoed the two questions I asked about the Tesseract, Tony thinks. Because things that are 'ridiculous' are the only things you'll talk about. Because I rolled a three and can't hit you with anything better. But Loki starts speaking before he has a chance to voice anything aloud.
"It was after a festival in the city. Driving home in the carriage afterward. Thor sat up front with father, golden prince of the realm. He would be king one day, so naturally people needed to see him. Mother and I sat in the back, in the enclosed part of the carriage. It had been a long day and I was so tired... I remember leaning against her shoulder as I stared out the window, watching the city go by. It was raining. But she had her arm around me, and both of us were tucked inside the warmth of her cloak. She smelled of roses and warm milk and told me stories as we clattered over the muddy road: legends of mountain peaks and distant stars. I wished that drive could have lasted for hours. I don't ever remember feeling so content. Just mother and I, happy in our own little place, while greedy Thor sat soaking wet and shivering up front on display."
Tony can picture the scene in his mind, so clearly despite Loki's minimal description. Rain pattering against glass. A boy with black hair, maybe nine years old, nestled under the arm of a soft, round-faced woman. Her cloak of rich brown fur envelops the both of them. It's a tableau of serenity. The mother presses a kiss to the boy's forehead while pulling the fur more snugly up to his chin; he closes his eyes.
Sentimental is the last thing anybody would accuse Tony Stark of being, but that image...
Loki's happiest childhood memory. "You know," Tony says softly, "most people would have answered that question with a story about getting a puppy or building a tree house or going camping."
"I'm sure I did all those things too," Loki replies. "But those events were never exclusively happy. And I know the moment in the carriage may seem small and common and even dull to everyone else, but to me..." One small breath stretches out seconds-long into a leaden pause. "...it was perfect."
Blank. He looks so unnervingly blank, thin-lipped and glassy-eyed. The defenses are raised so high around this one little chink in his walls, scar tissue quickly filling the void.
"You misunderstand what I meant," says Tony. "When I said most people would've told a puppy story, that wasn't me saying you should've done the same. That was me trying to say, in my shitty, unclear way, that... I don't even know. Your seems more real, somehow. Real happiness."
Special. Beautiful. A tiny sliver of everyday life made extraordinary by accident.
Looking down at the three on the table, Tony sighs. "Mine would've been some cliché story about getting a skateboard for Christmas."
"Did it at least make you happy?" ask Loki.
"The skateboard? Maybe. It was more that my parents had absolutely refused to buy me one all year, and I was sure I wasn't going to get it, but there under the tree on Christmas morning... a powder blue skateboard with red wheels. They actually listened to me for once and got me something I wanted instead of what they thought I should have. Anyway, maudlin reminiscing aside, please hurry up and roll a six so you can ask me something I don't want to answer and I can use one of my vetoes and start getting drunk. I don't like being the only sober, clothed person in the house. That's too much responsibility."
Loki picks up the die and places it back on the table, six side up. "Six."
"I'll allow it."
"First time you bedded another man?"
"Very good question."
It's a sad, sad state of affairs if Tony's sober enough to pour out six consecutive shots of Flor de Caña without spilling a drop. He tosses back three, pulls his shirt off, then downs the rest. "I feel better already. So the question was the first time I slept with a guy? That would've been 2006. Or 2005. Somewhere in there. No, 2006."
"Why do you still answer the question if you've used your veto?"
"Because," says Tony, "technically, there's nothing in the rules saying I can't do both. And I feel like oversharing at the moment. So, in 2006, I was dating this woman named Mariana. And by 'dating' I mean I'd seen her more than twice. That counted as a long-term relationship. After a couple wild nights together, I suggested we go for a threesome. Her answer was yeah, sounds great, as long as it's with another guy. Well. I freaked out and said no, that's disgusting, that's weird, absolutely not... It turned into a big production."
It's subtle, the way Loki slowly moves closer. He shifts position. He stretches and balances his weight from one side to the other. He lies down, and sits back up again a second later. All the while inching across the living room carpet over to where Tony sits, back against the couch. "Why all the fuss?" he asks.
"Because I was a kid in the 70s and a teenager in the 80s," Tony answers. "Back then, calling another kid 'gay' was one of the worst insults you could throw out. It was a transition time, when everybody knew what gay was, the concept was out of the closet, so to speak, but it wasn't acceptable. Not by a long shot. Maybe for a couple really outrageous celebrities, but regular people? Teenagers? Right at the time when AIDS was starting to explode into big-ticket paranoia? No fucking way. Maybe if I'd been born fifteen or even ten years later I wouldn't have lain awake at night wondering what was so wrong with me that I was having these thoughts and dreams that were wrong and disgusting and gay. But in the early 80s? It scared the hell out of me. I might be different. I might be a freak. For the most part I could convince myself I was normal, because I still liked girls and jerked off to titty pics, but there was always that little doubt in my mind. The question of what if and why don't you try it, and the voice that says she's a total babe but check out her boyfriend's ass. I forced myself to ignore that."
"Until?" Loki's so close now. Less than an armspan away.
"Until I was thirty-six. All that time spent lying to myself and working too hard and overcompensating to make sure I was never anything but normal and 100% straight... then Mariana comes along with this suggestion of a threesome with another guy. I thought about it for almost a week. Agonized for hours arguing back and forth with myself until, in the end, I was drunk and feeling rebellious and finally thought, why the hell shouldn't I? It's two-thousand-fucking-six. This isn't 1984 any more, I'm not a confused kid, I'm a grown adult and I can do whatever I want with other consenting adults in the privacy of my own home. I told Mariana I wanted to do it, she came over with her friend Michael... The only regret I had afterward is that I'd wasted twenty years of my life worrying about whether or not something was normal, which is really stupid in hindsight considering I'd been willing to do any crazy, kinky thing with any number of women. Yet I held out for twenty years on sleeping with another man. Even though this desire was obviously a part of me and had been for as long as I can remember. Weird what we allow and deny ourselves for the sake of fitting in, huh?"
"And then what happened? After you came to this realization?"
Tony shrugs. "Ironically, not much. I saw Michael a few more times, just the two of us. Every so often at some sleazy Beverly Hills party I'd hook up with a guy. Always an actor or other high-profile figure like me who'd share my need to keep things discreet and avoid being seen. I could accept myself, but I couldn't – and I guess I still can't – accept the risk of seeing my name tied to a gay sex scandal on every gossip blog and tabloid magazine between here and Timbuktu. Maybe in another twenty years, but not yet. I have to defend enough of my life choices to the media without adding the always-misunderstood stigma of bisexuality into the mix."
"Mm," says Loki. And that's all: one humming syllable through closed lips, smiling when Tony looks over at him. Half a smile in a face touched with the faint pink of too much rum.
"Are you drunk?" Tony asks him.
"I believe I am. Are you?"
"No. Just starting to feel the buzz from the shots I took."
Six shots, creeping slowly through his body, from his stomach up to his head and down through his arms and legs. There are still four ounces or so left in the bottle. He could finish that easily. Probably should. Just to round things off. Pick up the bottle, unscrew the top, throw it back one mouthful at a time. And there's more in the cupboard. More rum. More scotch. More vodka and liqueurs. Lots to go on.
But six shots are enough to make him lose a little bit of control. To make him feel a little dizzy. A little weighed down. A little foggy and a little unclear. A little bit helpless. The last time he had anything more he was... (falling out of bed and struggling across the floor, arms too weak and uncoordinated to push himself up, clawing his way to the bathroom, desperately slow...)
The taste lingers in the residue of rum on his tongue: bitterness and bile, tequila and dragons. The rest of the Flor de Caña bottle holds nothing better than that.
"Are you going to have any more?" asks Loki.
"No. I don't think so."
"Wise choice."
If so, it's the only wise choice he's ever made of this nature in his whole life. But there's always a first time for everything.
So he picks up the die instead of the rum, and rolls a six. "You know what my favorite part of this game is?" he asks, turning to look at Loki with a smirk. "The part where I'm way better at it than you are. So now I'm going to ask you to tell me about your first time with a guy."
"Then I will ask you to pour me six shots, and I will use my third veto."
"Really? On such a simple question, after I just told you all about my own experience?"
Loki only waits a moment longer. When it's obvious that Tony isn't making any kind of move to pour out the drinks he leans forward and grabs the bottle himself. "Yours is a nice story," he says in a stony voice. "Mine is not. It's better left alone."
Like talking to a brick wall. Or slamming into one at high speed: the shock of that sudden, jarring impact reverberates through Tony's whole body. It's not just Loki's words. It's the blankness again. The way he can sit there so emotionlessly, pouring out shots of rum with inhuman steadiness and a face like a porcelain mask. The careful distance when he speaks, as if he's telling the mundane story of something that happened to somebody else, somebody unimportant, in far-gone, irrelevant history.
Just four shots of rum, the fourth one incomplete. That's all the bottle holds. They go down quickly, one after another. "Go get another bottle."
"You know... you don't have to-" Tony starts, but Loki cuts over him with words as sharp as a blade.
"Yes. I do. Go."
The other bottle of rum in the cupboard is over half empty, which might be a good thing at this point. Tony hands it over without words, and likewise without words, Loki takes it and pours out his remaining shots. His eyes stay fixed on the safe haven of his hands.
There have been a few times in Tony's life when he wished he knew what to say. Or what to do. Not many, but a few: times when he almost wished he were one of those empathetic, soulful heroes who knew how to weep at a tragedy instead of cracking black jokes while hiding behind make-believe indifference. Times when he wished he were the kind of person who had concise and free-flowing feelings instead of this jumbled mess of confusion squeezing his chest. But how did those kinds of people cope?
"Loki," he says, carefully and quietly as he sits back down. "If you want to tell me anything... honestly, anything, whatever you want to talk about, just to say it..." Except that sounds like a fucking high school guidance counselor, and with the look Loki gives him in reply, he feels like a fucking high school guidance counselor, too. Maybe he should also mention something completely hypocritical about how drinking won't solve any of Loki's problems.
Instead, he just sits there on the floor, back against the arm of the couch, and racks his brain for any kind of poignant observation.
Loki beats him to it. "I woke up one morning. After three years of this... relationship. Arrangement, really. But whatever you call it, after three years, I woke up one morning and he was there in bed beside me. There was nothing unusual about this morning at all. Just a morning like any other, but I woke up with a sudden and overwhelming sense of clarity. Almost as if I had been asleep for three years, but was now awake. Truly awake. I could see and feel and think for the first time. I woke up, and I knew, with absolute conviction, that I could not stand the thought of him continuing to live and draw breath one more day. So. He died in an unfortunate hunting accident that afternoon. His horse spooked, the saddle cinch broke, and he was thrown into a ravine. Several people took the time to tell me how very sorry they were. They knew how close we had been. But do you know what they called me, Tony Stark, before that day? Do you know how Asgard knew me?"
No. Tony shakes his head no, with his jaw clenched against any other words that might try to escape.
"'Princess Loki'. They called me Princess. Because I was so thin and pale and gentle and rarely picked up a sword, preferring instead to study magic with the girls. Princess. But after that day, after that man died, and after several of his close friends did as well, all under mysterious circumstances... poison, drowning, madness leading to suicide, disappearing into the night, never to be seen again... After that, they called me 'Loki the Snake'. They knew what I had done, but nobody could prove a thing. 'Loki the Snake'! As if that would shame me. I would rather be a snake than a bear. A snake is small and silent and quick, and you rarely see him until it's too late. He can kill a sleeping bear so easily. I took the snake as my sigil. I had a shield with a snake, and daggers with snake handles, and some guessed my helmet was fashioned with goat's horns, but no: they are the hooked fangs of a snake. Thus I stole the name they gave me and made it my own, and if you ask anyone now, very few will remember its true origin. They think I am Loki the Snake because I chose to be."
"And you're fine with this?" Tony has to ask. "Being the solitary snake? Killing people, just like that?"
Loki's hand shoots forward, snatching the die up off the table and rolling it on the floor between them.
Five.
He flashes that half-smile of his again. "How many people have you killed? You personally? Excluding the thousands of deaths caused by the weapons you designed and produced, how many? I know that number isn't zero."
It isn't zero. Zero wouldn't land with such a crushing weight on Tony's shoulders the second those words slide from Loki's tongue. "We're not playing any more," he says, flat out.
"Yes we are. You said the game goes on until all the vetoes are gone, and you still have two more. How many people have you killed?"
"I don't know!" Tony snaps, and that just piles on more weight. Why doesn't he know? Why didn't he count? Something that important, people's lives that he took... He should know. He remembers so many stupid things, all those meaningless details of life like phone numbers and mathematical formulas and where to turn on highways. But people he's killed? Lives he ended? All those men in the cave and in the camp and in that town. How many were there? He should know. "Maybe..." What? "No, I don't even know. I didn't count."
Didn't try. And didn't think, and didn't feel, and didn't ever stop to consider what he had done. As if smashed skulls and charred bodies were a reasonable price to pay for one man's freedom.
"You see?" says Loki. "You judge me for doing what I do while standing guilty of the exact same crime. In the end, does it matter why we did it? The result is identical. People are dead because of me, and because of you."
"But do you regret what you did?"
"Roll."
Four.
"No," says Loki. "They deserved to die. In my mind. And who can tell me my opinion is wrong? I can only act for myself. In my own defense. What about you? Do you regret your choices?"
Tony pushes his hair back. There's sweat beading on his forehead. Cold and sickly. It's a sign of guilt, for sure, but regret? How can he ever regret living? How can he regret fighting back against those who would keep him behind bars, and all the good that came as the result of building that first suit of armor? Maybe there are things he could've done differently, but regret is such a strong word. Silently, he shakes his head.
"We're the same, Tony Stark. You and I. We do what we must, in the only way we know how."
"We're not the same."
"We are," Loki insists.
"You killed eighty people at that S.H.I.E.L.D. operations base when you stole the Tesseract."
Loki nods. "I did. And if you knew the alternative, you would agree that eighty lives is a very small price to pay for the safety of your world. A million lives would be a small price. If you knew all the terrible things that could happen."
"Like what?" He doesn't let himself look at Loki, though his heart is suddenly pounding in his throat. Calm, stay calm, stay calm, feign disinterest and maybe he'll say-
"Thanos wants the Tesseract. And he'll have it. One way or another, whether I give it to him or if he finds a way to cross the universe and take it on his own."
Thanos. Who the fuck is Thanos? Thor guessed that somebody had given Loki that scepter and sent him to earth: is this the guy? From the corner of his eye, Tony watches as Loki's head drops back against the couch seat. Seventeen ounces of rum in forty minutes. Any human would be drooling on the floor. But an Asgardian... is he drunk enough to let something slip? "Oh?" Tony asks.
Yes. He is. "Thanos cares nothing for your weak little planet, which could be either a curse or a blessing. A curse if he came himself: he would kill you all and take what he wanted, leaving nothing behind. But a blessing if he gains the cube before that happens. Midgard is worthless to him. His only interest is the Tesseract. If I claim it for him, he will leave you under my rule, forget about you, and your world will be spared."
"Then we have to get it back from S.H.I.E.L.D.," says Tony, and shit, there's a little too much excitement in his voice. Excitement and urgency. "If all this asshole Thanos wants is the damn Tesseract, let's give it to him! If that's all this is, if that's why you were sent here, I say we go for it. I don't want that thing on Earth any more. Rogers thinks it's bad news, and if we tell him our plan, I'm sure he'd be on our side. Banner too."
"It's somewhat more complicated than that," Loki murmurs.
"How?"
"The Tesseract is an artifact of incredible power. In the hands of someone like Thanos... you don't know what he might do. He has grandiose notions of ruling the universe."
"I've seen enough sci-fi movies to know that never works," says Tony. "The universe is a pretty big place for one Evil Empire. He'd have his hands more than full with just one galaxy."
"It's true he may fail," Loki allows. "It's equally true he may succeed in conquering his own small area and stop there. Or he may eventually be ambitious enough to wish to subjugate all known life. But once he has the power, I suspect he will first turn his attention to Asgard and the other weapons he might find there."
"Can Asgard defend itself against him?"
Loki's answering silence stretches out into a long strand of uncertainty. "I don't know," is all he eventually admits.
"Well, let's worry about that later. Maybe we can give this bastard the Tesseract, tip off Asgard, and let him get himself killed in battle. We'll work out the kinks when the time comes. For now? We're back to square one. Steal the dumb thing from S.H.I.E.L.D.."
"Hm."
And that's all Loki will give away: a little hum as his eyes droop closed. There's probably a lot more to this, a lot of details he's left out and other factors Tony really needs to know, but at least this is a start. Thanos. A name. A purpose. A reason behind Loki's sudden appearance on Earth. A few more pieces falling into place.
"Tired?" Tony asks. Sidling closer, he slips one arm around the back of Loki's neck.
"Mm-hm."
"Here. Up on the couch. You can have a nap and sleep off the rum while I..." Think up a plan to save the world. "...watch TV."
"Why did you free me from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s prison?"
"...What?"
Loki's eyes open again as he unsteadily follows Tony's guidance up onto the couch to sink into a half-sitting, half lying position. "Why did you free me? I asked you that first day. But you never answered."
True: he never did. "Because I was a prisoner once," Tony says. "Living through the hell of threats and interrogations and tortures and forced labor. For three months. I guess the way S.H.I.E.L.D. was treating you hit too close to home. I thought I could do better. And I think I have."
"You have," Loki agrees.
"So why do you still refuse to trust me, and act so weird and distant and blank all the time? Like this morning?"
A ripple of that blankness passes over Loki's face. A second of it, and then it dissolves. Maybe blank is too hard to hold after all that booze. Drunk emotions are too slippery to contain and like to escape their protective shell. And under that blank is the kind of raw, stinging sadness that makes Tony sorry he asked.
Reaching up in a tentative gesture, Loki's hand brushes Tony's neck. "Come here?" he says, like it's a question to which the answer might be 'no', and his hand keeps a tight hold when Tony leans in to a sloppy, rum-laced kiss.
"I try to trust you. I try."
"You can," Tony answers in assurance.
But Loki only repeats his words: "I try."
.
.
.
End Notes:
Point one: Thanks for reading! :) I can honestly never say that enough. It really makes me happy that you guys continue to read and enjoy this story.
Pont two: Now for the shitty news. I'm kind of 90% sure I won't be able to post an update next week. :( For a couple reasons. Primarily, it's because I live in Calgary, Alberta, and if you haven't seen anything on the news, google "Calgary flood" and you'll get an idea of what's going on here. I'm okay, everyone I know is okay, but some friends and family have damage to their homes and the whole city is kind of screwed up right now. My mom is going to be staying with me for this coming week, my job is all chaotic because we're not allowed in our building until further notice, we're scrambling to pull together creative ways to work from home, and everything is just a big ol' ball of UGH. So, I probably won't have any writing time. I'm going to try, because this this story is a positive distraction at the moment, but it's not looking good for the immediate future based on how hard it was just to get this week's chapter done. (Like, I wrote most of it this evening and just finished right now, which is why it's not my favorite piece of writing ever, but I still wanted to get it out on time.)
So yeah. That's a thing. Anyhoo, hope you liked this week's instalment, and I'll see y'all again in two.