Author's note: Well, kinda short chapter this time without much action, but I believe in the next chapter we'll have something happening that a lot of you readers have been asking for, so bear with me. ;)
The weather outside is beautiful, the sun shyly peaking out from behind a collection of small puffy clouds, bathing the breakfast table in light and making every speck of dust stand out clearly. Absentmindedly fiddling around with the now empty bowl in front of him, he gazes out of the window, only listening with one ear to Tony's exposition about the apparently many advantages of having toilet paper hang over the roll as opposed to the vastly inferior alternative of letting it hang it beneath.
He's not sure when it was that Tony's endless monologues stopped grating on his ears. Even if the words themselves might be pointless, the voice is still a pleasant buzz in the background that he doesn't mind listening to.
Some of the clouds in the sky drift apart a little, exposing another piece of vibrantly burning sun, the sudden brightness making him blink. He doesn't remember the last time the sky was this blue.
There's a sudden lull in the long harangue and his eyes drift back to Tony, watching as the man drinks deeply from his cup of coffee.
Tony did tell him to speak up if there was something he wanted, didn't he?
He clears his throat, trying to sound impassive. "Is there perhaps any way that I… that we could, perhaps… go for a walk outside?"
The words hang in the air for a few seconds as Tony swallows the coffee down and then flashes him a grin.
"Sure buddy. All you need to do is ask."
An hour later, they're sitting on a park bench in the shade of a maple tree, the sunlight filtering through the fluttering leaves throwing a mottled, ever-shifting mosaic pattern on the ground. A gentle breeze is ruffling his hair and he tucks a loose-hanging strand back behind his ear, but the little gust of wind feels refreshing rather than chilly against his skin.
Even Tony is quiet for once as they simply sit there, watching people pass them by. Some are running in obvious haste, others merely strolling at a leisurely pace. An enamoured couple sits down on the bench on the other side of the gravel-strewn path opposite from them; not even a minute later, their lips are tightly locked together and their bodies so intimately entwined that it's hard to tell which limb belongs to whom.
He watches them for a little while and then looks away, suddenly acutely aware of the man next to him who is busy picking at his finger nails.
A few seconds later, Tony yawns loudly and stretches his arms above his head, the movement causing his leather jacket to give off a series of sharp, ominous creaks. At this, Tony lowers his arms, wincing as he throws Loki an inquisitive look.
"Hey, you alien Vikings dress in leather all the time, don't you? How do you stop it from creaking like a frog in heat? I certainly don't remember your outfit ever doing that." He grins innocently. "Though, I admit that my mind might have been slightly occupied with other things at the time to actually notice."
Loki raises an eyebrow in his direction. "There are spells for that," he says, slightly amused by the question. "At least for those who knew how to weave them."
"Darn, I was afraid you'd say that." Tony says, leaning back against the backrest of the wooden bench. "And here I was hoping you'd have a fool-proof recipe for some fancy concoction to put a definitive stop to that. Like boiled bat blood mixed with mashed lizards eyes or something. Guess I'll have no choice but to whip out my trusty jar of yucky leather grease again, then." He makes a grimace." Yeash. Magic would have been so much more convenient and less nasty than fiddling around with that foul-smelling junk. I'm surprised your people do any work at all when you have magic to take care of all that boring stuff for you."
Loki gives him a pointed glance.
"Magic has its limitations, like everything else. You humans still work even though you have your robots and machines to serve you, do you not?"
"Eh, fair enough, I suppose," he admits, and then an impish grin spreads across his face. "Though if I had fairy magic, the first thing I'd do would be to create some really smoking hot models. An entire harem of them. In all hair colours, everything from scarlet red to bright blue."
Loki can't help but give an amused snort. If magic was truly capable of that, he'd know several sorcerers that would never leave the house again.
They sit there talking for a while, Tony going on in detail about everything he would have done if he had magic at his disposal. Most of which would of course have been wholly impossible, but Loki doesn't bother correcting him. It's too enjoyable to listen as Tony's imagination is running wild with him.
Later in the afternoon, Tony takes off in haste to attend some meeting on behalf of Stark Industries. Important business with some important client, he had huffed, one whose calibre and distinction called for the presence of the almighty CEO himself. At least if his advisors were to be believed.
And Loki is alone, standing at the window for a while gazing out, thinking about nothing in particular, before turning around and almost stumbling over that old box of papers that he never got around to sort after what happened in the wake of Tony losing him on the subway all those weeks ago. Granted, Tony has never mentioned the box since, and he could of course choose to ignore it, but for some reason he decides he will have it sorted anyway.
But first, there's something else he needs to take care of.
Frowning slightly, he glances up towards the ceiling. It feels strange and even a bit silly addressing someone he can't even see, but he can't bring himself to care overly much. He's done considerably stranger things than that since coming here, after all.
"Jarvis?" he calls out, feeling almost as if he's speaking to himself, not sure if the AI will at all acknowledge him. Perhaps it only answers to its creator and ignores everyone else.
But his suspicions turn out to be unfounded as the disembodied voice, impeccably polite as ever, rings out from the ceiling.
"Yes, Mr Laufeyson?"
And he realizes that this is probably the first time he's addressed Jarvis since coming here, as far as he can remember. So he hesitates for a few seconds, suddenly unsure of how to phrase his request, before the words finally come to him.
"I, ah, need your… help with something."
A few hours later he's finally back home again, very much sure he doesn't like the pig-faced, smarmy director of Banefort Energy one bit. Next time he's going to let his directors deal with the infuriating man on their own. What else is he paying them their ridiculously high salaries for, if they need him to hold their hands in business meetings like this?
Mildly annoyed, he kicks off his shoes and removes his tie, his suit and finally his white dress shirt, then rummages through his closet for something more comfortable to wear. He settles for a pair of jeans and a T-shirt proudly sporting the name Rush, even if it's rather faded after having been washed one time too many. He'd been sorely tempted to wear an outfit like that for today's meeting just to annoy his know-it-all advisors, whose constant hints that he isn't taking the future of Stark Industries seriously enough are starting to wear a bit thin by now.
Just as he's buttoning up his jeans, his stomach suddenly demands his attention by growling uproariously in protest, and truth be told, he hadn't even noticed until now he was actually hungry. Probably too busy thinking up creative ways he'd like to put an end to that annoying, high-pitched giggle that kept spilling forth from Mr Banefort's pudgy lips every other minute.
Oh well. Perhaps some takeaway would be a good idea?
There's a new Indian restaurant just a few blocks away that he's been wanting to try out. Loki likes Indian, doesn't he?
He brushes aside the voice pointedly asking why it's so important to him what Loki likes or not.
Yeah, Indian it is.
Grabbing his jacket off the clothes rack in the hallway, he heads out in the sunny weather, whistling as he strolls down the street, navigating expertly between strollers the size of small cars and reckless roller skaters and teenagers with headphones clamped over their spiky hair.
There's a vague but persistent feeling that there's something off, something that's different than usual, but he can't quite put his finger on it, so he ignores it for now.
It's only when he pushes open the door with a "Mombasa Kitchen" sign hanging slightly askew over the entrance that he notices that his leather jacket isn't creaking any more.
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