A woman in a black dress could be anything, from maid to monarch- she could go anywhere, be anyone, and nobody would bat an eyelid. Currently, for want of a better option, she had answered questions to her identity by threatening that "Gerry'll be pissed off you didn't let his best girl in, and trust me suga, you do not wanna see Jerry when he's pissed."

It worked surprisingly well. A slight shift in her posture and the smoothing down of her hair, and the black dress went from clothing a girlfriend to one of O'Finley's many PAs, swanning through the old rec centre (what kind of bastard sets up his crime den in a kids' rec centre?) until she reached the office of one Geremio O'Finley.

It was so late into the night that it was morning, and the guard outside his door was too sleepy to object to another woman in an ambiguous dress going into the boss' office. She entered without objection, silently locked the door behind her and found O'Finley sprawled in his chair with his feet on the desk, smoking a cigar that must have been one in a long line to stain the ceiling yellow.

"I'll give ya… seven outta ten for body, and four for ya face," he said, and laughed. She giggled, and carried the plate she had been couriering over to him.

"Dinner for ya, Mr O," she said in a heavy Bronx accent. He nodded.

"You cook it?"

"Nah, Mr O. I ain't good at that kinda stuff," she said, hesitating as she turned back to the door.

"You better learn, girl. It's an important skill," he said and squeezed her backside as she went to walk away.

"Oh, Mr O," she sighed, "I wish you hadn't done that."

He'd started on the chicken legs first, leaving the mashed potato (imbued with the Asgardian fruit's juice, of course) untouched. "What the hell makes you think you can talk to me like that?" he asked, spraying food everywhere as he talked through a mouthful. Gwen might not have had the best table manners, but at least she didn't projectile launch whatever was in her mouth at the time.

"Swallow," she said coldly, turning around to face him.

"If I had my way," he replied, "that's what you'd be doing later tonight, heh heh."

She laughed again, took two steps forward, scooped up a handful of potato and yanked his jaw open by sticking her hand in his mouth and pulling down his lower teeth. She forced the food down his gullet and pushed his chin up with her other hand.

"I said," she snarled, "swallow."

A few minutes later, when O'Finley had stopped thrashing about, she let go of his head and looked down at her hands, which were covered in food and spit and whatever the froth was that he had been producing in the last few seconds of her life.

"Ew," she muttered, and wiped the gunk off as best she could with his tie, before using it to wipe the residue from around his mouth. "Much better."

When she opened the door she saw that a large group of people had gathered, and were staring with horror at her. His kicking must have been louder than she thought.

"There musta been somethin' in the mash," she told them calmly, "he just started choking, there was nothing I could do."

"But-"

"Best guy t'contact now would be Martoni, I reckon," she continued, "he'll know what to do."

"But-"

"You," she said, pointing at a guy who looked more relieved than shocked, "call him, now. I'll phone an ambulance- ya never know, right?" The crowd parted to let her through, and when she was out of sight she smiled to herself. A black dress and a knack for blagging could get you in anywhere.

By the time she reached the perimeter O'Finley had set up, walking at a leisurely pace so as not to attract attention, the blockades were already being dismantled and Ben was waiting for her with a grin that glittered with a gold.

"Thought you'd pop up here," he said, "nice work."

"Cheers. You don't happen to have any hand sanitizer on you, by any chance?"

"Nah, sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Can't believe nobody had got to him before, it was easy as the alphabet for me," she told him smugly.

"Yeah, yeah. Well, he's arrogant and besides, no one expects a pipsqueak like you."

"I'm like the Spanish Inquisition."

He chuckled. "Somethin' like that, Pinky. You wanna lift home? I got one of the boys to drive up with an extra car."

"Ta. Anti-bac wipes?"

"Nope."

She sighed. "See you later, Ben."

The ride home was uneventful, save for the bottle of water on the back seat- she pounced on it immediately and poured it over her hands, sticking them out of the window as the driver took a roundabout route to the burrow. James was waiting nervously on the doorstep; his face lit up and he ran out to hug her.

"I was worried sick, miss!"

"Bloody hell, James. It was a hit, not world war sodding three." She patted him awkwardly on the back. "Can you, uh, can you let go now please?"

"Right." He released her and handed over Algernon, who she lifted up to eye level.

"I hope you behaved," she scolded him, and he nudged her finger affectionately. "Good boy, and don't lick me 'til after I showered."

"Delivery came for you miss, and Mr Loki's in the upstairs kitchen too."

"Good, good." She walked inside, and Bobby stood to attention as she passed. She was already yawning as she made her way into the ground floor kitchen, where Loki was stood examining a bottle of champagne.

"Compliments of Mr Martoni," he said, "full payment to come tomorrow. News travels fast, it seems."

"Pour me a pint, will you?" she asked, slipping Algernon into his kitchen cage and washing her hands with an awful lot of soap in the sink. "I didn't even ask for payment."

"How out of character," he replied, "he must like you, then."

"I'm a very likable person," she reminded him, wiping her hands on her skirt.

"Debatable." She grinned as arms took her waist and spun her round to look at him, and he kissed the grin from her face.

But something about his face felt wrong between his fingers… she leaned back, but everything looked fine. So then why…?

"Loki," she sighed, "drop the glamour."

At least he didn't argue; the clear skin melted away to reveal a bloody black eye and a gash over his temple. "Try to keep the pity to a minimum," he instructed her.

"What happened? Don't lie, I'll know if you do."

"I… became bored," he said, shifting so he was stood next to her. "Odin is old, he rules from his throne. Which is right in times of peace, but… I am not Odin, whatever my people think. I still have youth enough to grow restless every now and then, and since I would rather not channel that energy into reckless diplomacy I need to find other ways to spend it."

"And?"

"I wore the face of a guard, I went into a tavern and happened to find myself in the middle of a brawl," he said, "Thor was there, too, although I think the same could be said for half of Asgard."

"You're an idiot," she told him, grabbing a clean cloth and holding it under the cold tap. He winced as she pressed it to the side of his head. "I think it might need stitches."

"I'll be fine," he muttered, pushing his hand away.

"You want a scar, then? Go to a healer."

"I can't, can I? I cannot reveal myself," he pointed out.

"That and you're too bloody proud. I'll stitch it, don't worry. I've done it before."

"Somehow I am not filled with confidence," he said as she pulled a needle and a spool of fine silk from the cupboard, along with a bottle of whisky to clean the former with.

"Oh, shut up posh boy. It's not like you got anyone else, is it?" she said without thinking, and wilted under the glare he gave her. "Sorry."

"You should be," he murmured.

"Are you drunk?" she asked, kneeling on the counter so she could reach his forehead.

"A little."

"Good. That'll help with the pain. Hold still," she ordered, and pulled the needle through his skin as he swore.

"I think I need more alcohol," he said.

"Tough, because the bourbon's for cleaning the needle and the champagne's mine. Now don't be a baby." Eyes narrowed in concentration, she finished the suture and tied it off. "At least it should all fade, so your pretty face is still intact." She kissed his cheek where the bruising was lightest. "Please don't do something stupid just because I did. And if you are going to, at least wait until you know I'm safe first. One of us should remain sensible at all times."

"Since you asked so nicely," he half-smiled.

"You can also say thank you for me stitching you back up."

"I can," he agreed, "whether I will or not is another matter entirely." She poked one of the darker bruises. "Ach!- fine, fine. Thank you, mouse."

"You're welcome." She paused for thought. "See, the real question is if you caused more damage than you got."

"What kind of god do you take me for?" he asked, in a mock-insulted voice. "That tavern master will never walk straight again."

"Good man." She tilted her head to one side. "How do you look so good with a busted-up face?"

"The touch of Odin," he said, "you should see my Jotunn form."

"Wait, what? This isn't what you really look like?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "No. I am an ugly thing, Gwen."

"Show me," she said.

"What?"

"I'm nosy and I'll keep badgering you until you do," she persisted, "I wanna see what a frost giant looks like!"

"No."

"Please? Pretty please?"

"Still no."

"Show me, Loki. Show me show me show me show mmmf mmf mmf-" She glared at him, over the hand he had put over her mouth.

"Will you shut up if I do?" he asked, and she nodded. "Fine. Try not to scream," he warned her, "Odin's spell goes deeper than my magic, but I can use a glamour if you allow me a moment to recall what I actually look like…" he looked down, and his eyes went from green-blue to a dark, pupil-less red.

It was nowhere near as bad as she expected- his skin turned to cobalt and archaic markings flowered across it, over his eyes and beneath the bruises. She didn't see what was so ugly about it, but then she saw the shame in his expression. Clearly, the monstrosity of Jotunn was a subjective thing, and she wondered what stories Asgardian children were told to make them be so fearful and repulsed of Loki's true kin. She also wondered how many of them were true.

"Hey," she said, "y'know what?"

He looked up at her with heavy eyes. "Say it."

"You… have you ever heard of the Smurfs?" she asked, and started to snigger.

He shook his head. "I really cannot believe you, mouse."

"Gimme a moment." She straightened her face with difficulty. "I guess it's personal, 'cause I don't think it's that bad. But then, I wasn't raised to see this as the monster under the bed." Her thumb traced the markings down his cheekbone. "You're still a pretty son of a bitch. Do these mean anything?"

"Perhaps, but the Aesir have never asked. Similar engravings mark the Casket of Ancient Winters."

"Stupid name."

"Indeed." His usual skin tone returned at her touch, and quickly overtook the blue again. "I told you not to pity me," he said, and Gwen realised that her thoughts must have found their way into her expression.

"When have I ever listened to you?" she asked, and he lifted one shoulder. "But anyway, as far as I'm concerned, that's not you. Just like my birth name ain't me anymore. You're this relatively normal-looking dude, and I'm Gwen, and Mouse too I guess. See? What you are by birth don't dictate who you are by choice, don't make you any more or less of a person. Yeah?"

He nodded.

"Well, that was interesting, but there is an unopened bottle of liquid starlight over there, and it's a beautiful night. Be nice if I could spend it with the guy I love without him sulking." She pulled the cork from the champagne with her teeth, and quirked an eyebrow at him. "Whaddaya say, Aesir?"

"Weak Midgardian drink and a poky bedroom," he said, "how could I possibly resist?"