Rocks and Water by Deb Talan
Undertaker by Moondoggies
Slow Cheetah by The Red Hot Chili Peppers
Gold Lions by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Bony on the Isle of St. Helena by Uncle Earl
Stronger by Britney Spears
ET by Katy Perry
This Tornado Loves You by Neko Case
The Lion's Roar by First Aid Kit
Chapter 5: Servants Work
"What are you doing in there?"
Ellie lets out a shocked squeak, her body jerking involuntary. She whacks her head against a shelf in the refrigerator, where she had been digging around for a clove of garlic before he snuck up on her. The bump to the shelf sends a basket fruit of tumbling out onto the kitchen floor. As she attempts to straighten and turn to him, her foot catches on a stray apple, causing her to land on her ass in a pile of green silk and awkward limbs.
She closes her eyes and counts to ten, trying to calm her racing heart. He is such a sneaky motherfucker, and she needs to get a grip before she can handle seeing that gleeful smirk, guaranteed to be plastered on his pale face.
Blowing her tousled hair out of her eyes, she glances up at him.
Yeah, there it is. That mischievous little smirk that makes him appear so young and carefree.
"Ever graceful, my sweet songbird," he drawls, leaning casually against a counter.
She hustles to her feet before he can offer her a hand only to drop her on her ass again. Brushing off her ridiculous dress, she sets about the business of picking up the stupid apples and finding the damn garlic.
"You need not trouble yourself with cooking. I have a servant doing this for you. Surely, you've seen her deliver your meals and take your laundry," he says, watching her movements intently as she gets out the ingredients for pasta sauce.
"The hunched lady," she says absently as she chops onions and red peppers.
He chuckles. "Indeed."
Silence stretches. She can feel his eyes on her back, but continues to prepare her dinner with sure, practiced movements. Although her sunburn faded after only a couple of days, he still seems to watch her as if anything at any moment will cause her physical harm.
"Where is she this night?" Loki asks. "The hunched lady?"
Ellie glances at him over her shoulder as she begins to sauté onions, peppers, and garlic. His gaze is intense, as if he is struggling to puzzle something out.
"She doesn't cook anymore," Ellie replies with a shrug, turning back to the pan. "I'm better at it anyway."
"It is beneath you," he says slowly, as if he is speaking to a child. "Below your station as someone with such great and powerful talent."
Ellie grins as she opens cans of tomatoes. Growing up in North Carolina, they would can all the excess of tomatoes from the garden at the end of the summer and use them for the rest of the year to cook with. The little memory makes her sad.
"I like it," she murmurs. Although Loki is obviously crazy and hung up on some truly antiquated views about authority and social hierarchy, she does really enjoy it when he starts ranting about her great and powerful talent. "I like cooking."
"You… like it?" he asks, struggling to understand.
Ellie nods, pouring the store bought tomatoes into a large stainless steel pot.
"You enjoy food preparation? As a servant would?"
She just nods again, only rolling her eyes slightly.
"And this is another talent of yours?"
More nodding. He is so talkative and curious this evening. Normally he doesn't make an appearance until well into the night, and when she does see him there is very little talk, just a simple demand from him to sing.
"I will judge this talent for myself," he declares, daring her to challenge his resolve.
Again, she glances over her shoulder, giving him a small smile.
"Okay," she murmurs. "The sauce needs to simmer for awhile."
"Unfortunately, I have no other pressing engagements."
Ellie nods.
Silence once again reigns as she finishes the pasta sauce. As it simmers she quickly and efficiently cleans her mess, returning ingredients to their proper place and wiping down the counters.
On a night that passes for normal here in the underground bunker, Ellie would take a nap or shower or something while she waits, but Loki is right here, watching her. It makes her skin hot, and although she wants nothing to do with him, she's been so lonely. In this moment, she is desperate to keep him close as long as possible.
She settles on baking. The tools in the kitchen are basic, but it is well stocked with every imaginably ingredient. Chocolate chip cookies are familiar and delicious and she could use a little comfort food.
Baking has never been her strong suit. It is too precise a practice, and she does not have the focus to get the measurements just right, but she is confident in her ability to manage cookies.
It turns into a messy process, and she gets flour everywhere, but more amazing smells fill up the small kitchen and Loki takes a seat on a stool at a counter directly behind her. It's just where she usually takes her meals alone.
By the time she takes first batch out of the oven, the pasta sauce has thickened nicely. Letting the cookies cool, she fills another pot with water for the spaghetti.
Again, there is nothing to do but wait, and the thought of standing idle with Loki so near is just terrible, so she goes back to the fridge to dig out salad fixings. She makes her own balsamic vinaigrette.
The water boils, she adds the pasta, and again all she can do is wait.
Ellie puts two gooey cookies on two small plates and pours two small glasses of milk. Avoiding Loki's intense gaze, she sets the food on the counter in front of her captor. When he makes no move to touch any of it, she slides the cookie and the milk right under his nose.
He stares down at the dessert, obviously skeptical and verging on mildly repulsed. She smiles, finding his lack of knowledge of such simple things to be endearing. Choosing to lead by example, she takes her cookie, dunks it in her milk, takes a bite, and then watches him expectantly.
With very reluctant movements, he does as she did, his eyes going wide as he chews. Now she is the one smirking.
"Is this magic?" he inquires.
Ellie giggles and he jerks back a little, as if he is surprised by the sound.
"I never anticipated such a simple and visually unappealing dessert to taste so divinely decadent," he declares. "Do Midgardians often eat sweets before super?"
She gives him a shrug and gets up to finish preparing their dinner. Five minutes later she is sliding another plate of food under his nose.
"What is this?" he demands, totally disgusted.
"Pasta with red sauce and a salad," she replies.
He just scowls at her as if he's a little kid who's been told he can't leave the table until he eats his vegetables. The image makes Ellie smile.
She doesn't attempt to talk him into anything as she eats. The sauces is decent, the best she could expect given the quality of the ingredients, but still an edible effort. She manages to get down a few bites, but the cookie filled her up. Ellie hasn't really enjoyed food, the preparation or the consumption, since she left home, but the boredom here drove her to rediscovering her talents in the kitchen.
Loki takes a tentative first bite. He chews thoughtfully before really digging in. Again, his quick pace and enthusiasm makes her smile. Although he makes no comment on the quality of the meal, he eats everything she piled on his plate.
"Have you finished?" he inquires as she pushes the leftovers around in front of her.
Ellie nods in response.
"But you are so slight. Surely it would be beneficial for your health if you indulged in more food," he says.
She just shrugs as she stands, collecting their plates and moving to the sink to do the dishes. Loki lets out an annoyed huff, but for once she isn't deliberately trying to irritate him so she has no idea what his problem is.
"Why do you not speak?" he asks.
"I speak."
"In extremely small increments."
Ellie nods and cleans the kitchen.
"Tell me, what do you know of the procurement processes and time frame for rare building materials?"
She sends him a look over her shoulder, one that he correctly interprets as saying "I have no idea, you crazy fool. What a weird thing to ask."
Loki sighs. "I grow inpatient to get my plans underway. This period of waiting is extremely vexing and I find your presence somewhat distracting from this."
She watches him warily for a moment before turning back to the dishes.
"And now you clean? Why do you insist on disgracing yourself with the work of servants?" he demands, growing angry.
She just shrugs and continues her work. He lets her finish before snagging her wrist and dragging her towards his bedroom.
"I have another surprise for you," he says.
"An instrument?" she asks, giddy with anticipation. Now she is the one dragging him.
It's an acoustic guitar. A beautiful black Gibson. Without even waiting for him to demand it, she picks it up and starts to play. She plops down on the foot of his bed without really thinking about it, and she is too enthralled with the new instrument to notice the look of horror he sends her.
But she sings and he reclines and that's that.
It proves extremely easy to please Eleanor Tate. He simply gives her a new instrument every few days. It keeps her complacent and cures her boredom and has her flinging herself into his arms at great frequency.
And it pleases Loki as well. He enjoys hearing the variations of song she comes up with now that she has more tools than just her remarkable voice at her disposal. Her talent surpasses what he originally assumed her to have.
Most impressive is the adaptability of her voice. She seems to understand many different styles, some he appreciates, some he bans her from ever using again.
The banjo he provides gives her considerable joy, and he allows her near half of an hour to fiddle around on it until he demands she sing. Something strange happens to her voice. She calls it "twang." Loki threatens to take away her banjo if she dares do it again. He knows she rolls her eyes, but can't summon the energy to punish her for her insolence.
She does terrible things with the electric guitar and he really does confiscate this particular instrument. She bites her lip, points her chin to her chest, and looks at with him with those large, shockingly blue eyes of hers. When she smiles he thinks she might be mocking him, but then she returns to the piano, playing a piece in the elegant styles she knows he prefers.
Still the words that accompanied the noisy guitar song were compelling. "I just want to believe. I just want to believe. I just want to believe."
Often he plays no attention to the actually words, ignoring the lyrics and letting the sounds soothe him.
He thinks about her often, more often than he's comfortable with, but refuses to analyze his actions. Progress in this preparation phase is slow, but the game is set, and she is a welcome distraction, nothing more.
Waiting on the pathetic fumbling of SHIELD is maddening, but the more they come to understand the earthly science behind the tesseract, the less time it will take him to construct a way to open a portal after he takes it. For now there is little to do but wait on SHIELD and his false brother's dear mortal, Dr. Erik Selvig.
He keeps himself occupied during the day, carefully monitoring the work on the tesseract, but all the pathetic mortals retire at night, leaving him little to watch except for the progress being made on his own work station which proves equally boring.
That leaves Eleanor Tate, his songbird.
Each night she stays a little longer in his company. She performs a variety of pieces and then he amuses himself by forcing her to speak. It makes her uncomfortable, his constant barrage of questions, and he revels in it.
There is a loneliness in Eleanor Tate that is far too familiar. When he forces her to speak at times he wonders if it is she who can read minds. Her words often describe his own jumbled, confused feelings to a degree of accuracy that is alarming. Instead he chooses to ignore their commonalities.
He wants her submission and obedience and loyalty, but there are moments when he is unable to determine if he has any. Loki often sees something in her eyes, a flash of rebellion that makes him question their every interaction.
She kneels when she's told, although he only asked once because the look she on her face from her position on the floor made him want to touch her again, intimately.
She speaks when asked direct questions.
She finally dresses in a way he deems appropriate.
She sings nightly at his command, tempering her selections to fit his taste.
But he remains dissatisfied. Mockery lingers in her gaze, an edge that tells him she is simply placating him, pleasing him but not meaning it.
He wants her to mean it.
The thought is inane, and he cannot quite determine how to possess her entirely. What command could he possibly give her to demand genuine submission? Something about her prevents him from knowing her thoughts, and he certainly can't control them.
There is a reason he is known as silver tongue. His ability to get in someone's mind, to lead them using words on the path to destruction at their hand is unparalleled, but Eleanor Tate remains a mystery to him.
But he needs her distraction.
When he is alone and idle, his thoughts get muddled. He thinks about the before, and it confuses him. There are voice in his mind that he fails to banish, some bone-chillingly horrible and others painfully loving. He thinks on his false family and this is unacceptable.
Thor pushed him into the abyss. While with the Others he was sure of this final betrayal, but now something about the memory feels as false as his family. It hurts to think on, so he spends his free time irritating Eleanor Tate or reveling in her songs.
Her voice drowns out all the others. It brings him a fragile sort of peace.
"You wish to keep your talent your own. You do not want any one else to hear it," he ventures several nights later as he once again watches her cook. It is now something of a nightly ritual with them. She prepares food that appears disgusting and uneatable, but upon tasting her creations he is nearly always pleasantly surprised. Eleanor never eats much, and her lack of appetite worries him. She is so slight and it would not do for her to simply keel over dead.
What would drown out the voices then?
Ellie shakes her head as she ladles broth into a deep white bowl in response to his question. Her customary silence both pleases him and irritates him, depending on his mood. Now it is the later.
"But you claimed on your first night here that you could not imagine anything worse than the world hearing you sing," he reminds her.
"I wish to be anonymous," she corrects, pushing the bowl across the counter towards him. "I just want to be left alone."
He takes a spoon from her, but is not prepared to let the subject drop.
"You do not wish to be respected for your gifts? To have lesser beings give you the reverence you deserve?" he pushes.
She shakes her head again and takes her customary stool directly across from him.
"Eleanor," he snaps, demanding she elaborate.
"Loki," she says, exasperated with his endless questions. It is rare that she says his name, but he finds that he likes the way it sounds spoken in her melodious tones. "Have you even thought through this whole ruling the world deal? I just don't get it. Why would you want to deal with the problems of mortals? I mean, after the whole glorious conquest, assert your dominance part, you actually have to rule. It sounds awful. That means keeping people from killing each other or killing themselves or blowing shit up. Sounds like a bum deal to me."
He just blinks at her. She just gave him far more words in this one moment than the entirety of their conversations combined.
A voice is back in his head.
"I never wanted the throne! I only wanted to be your equal."
Is this a memory? A dream? Were these his words? The voice sounds similar to his, but twisted with tears and laced with pain. Is this some long forgotten truth?
Eleanor is staring at him with wide eyes. He realizes that he was thinking out loud, mumbling under his breath.
Pushing out the voices, he grabs her hand and drags her to his bedroom. He needs to hear her sing.
"Tell me of your home," he demands.
They sit facing each other at their customary counter in the kitchen, awaiting the meal Eleanor prepared as it cooks in the oven. Her dishes are sloppy and she has no sense of aesthetics when it comes to presentation, but he cannot find fault in the tastes and smells she creates. Loki eats as much as he can manage, but he went without sustenance for so long in the Void, the flavors often prove too rich for consumption.
Now they await supper. Waiting is something he never did much of until he floated off into nothingness, but now it is how he spends the majority of his time.
He loathes waiting.
His mind unoccupied is a dangerous place, pull of painful memories and long shadows, so he amuses himself by badgering his songbird. As of late he has grown evermore curious of her origins, thus his inquiry.
Eleanor does not speak, but answers his question with a silent shrug. She is being particularly difficult on this night, but Loki finds he enjoys her discomfort as much as her always surprising answers.
"Is it a terrible place?" he wonders. "Or perhaps so perfect that you choose now to horde its memory, to keep it for yourself. Surely you know by now there is no longer any part of you outside my ownership."
As he speaks, Loki moves around the counter to better crowd her with his height and width. Nothing makes Eleanor squirm in repulsion quite like his violation of the space around her person.
She does not disappoint now as a very slight blush tinges her cheeks.
"Is your home idyllic?" he continues, leaning over her slight frame to further intimidate her. Still, he refrains from touching her. This always proves to elicit an unwanted reaction from his ridiculous body.
In response to his questioning, Eleanor actually snorts. It is a horribly undignified sound, but Eleanor displays no shame.
"So my first guess was correct?" he continues. Interpreting her facial expressions always proves a challenge. "Your home is a terrible place?" This would also explain the apparent ease with which she seems to have adjusted to her new life here with him as well as her lack of contact with any family members.
Eleanor shakes her head.
"Something in between?" he asks.
She shakes her head once more.
"Words," he snaps, frustrated by her typical mystery. "Use them immediately."
Eleanor rolls her eyes at him, but speaks before he can reprimand her.
"It's not anything," she explains, shrugging her narrow, delicate shoulders. "It's not good. It's not bad. It doesn't exist."
Her words, and the straightforward resigned way in which she delivers them, resonate deep within Loki. As she continues to explain, as per his request, Loki regrets starting this game with her.
"Home isn't a place," she whispers, studying his face intently. He succeeds in maintaining calm. "It's not my shitty little apartment in DC."
"Eleanor," he reprimands.
"It's not the realm from which I hail," she continues with a horrible imitation of his speech patterns. It makes him smile. "It's something in your gut and I don't have it. I don't even remember what that feels like."
Loki gapes as her words rings so true, he once more wonders if she is more than she claims. He wonders if she can know his mind in a way he can't know hers.
When the brief fight for Midgard ceases he'll build them both a home.
For long moments they simply gaze at each other with various levels of dismay and surprise before discomfort overwhelms him.
Loki gives her a lazy smirk. "You are excessively chatty this evening, my pet."
Eleanor rolls her eyes once more and fights a smile as she slides off the stool and peaks into the oven. He watches her intently, striving to understand her inner workings. The fondness he feels for her in this moment is unwarranted, unwanted, and potentially dangerous.
The songbird hums to herself and Loki is wracking his mind for something about which to yell at her, when a blinding pain sears his skull. He cries out involuntarily, clutching his forehead and steadying his shaken body on the nearby counter.
The bone-deep darkness and crushing silence of the Void penetrates his consciousness as the grey face of the Other flashes before his eyes, but he fights the call.
Generally he goes willingly, knowing full well that to resist would bring nothing but searing pain, both mental and physical.
"Eleanor," he says, gasping as he successfully comes back to himself. Her extremely concerned facial features fill his vision and her hands flutter around his body as if she cannot decide what exactly to do. "Leave," he snaps through gritted teeth as the scepter materializes in his grasp.
He continues to fight the pull, but resistance is futile. Any moment he will be back in the Void.
"Now, Eleanor!"
Something about his tone makes her jump, but she finally leaves him alone in the kitchen for a moment until he departs this worldly plane behind for the company of the Other. It is the place, not the creature, that haunts him, but Loki manages to keep the panic at bay.
"You dare resist our summons?" hisses the Other. "And who is this pathetic being you keep at your side?"
Loki closes his eyes for only a moment, cloaking himself in the persona of king, and when he opens them again they burn with power and purpose.
She had been in his room. Without him. During his absence she was here, in his space, amongst his belongings.
Rage boils in his veins but he smiles wickedly. Long has he been awaiting an opportunity to punish her, to remind her of her place here as his in every conceivable way.
He was momentarily distracted from this task after his rash action resulted in her burned skin, but she long ago recovered from those hurts.
When he arrives in her chambers he finds them devoid of occupants. Although he experiences a brief moment of panic at the thought that she somehow managed to leave him, he quickly tunes in to the sounds of running water and Eleanor's garbled voice.
For a moment he smiles, enjoying the sounds of her crooning without inhibition, but then he remembers his rightful rage and her sneaky, unacceptable behavior. It is not the first time he questions her true nature and her true goals. Part of him still believes that she allowed herself to be taken in order to fulfill some nefarious purpose that threatens to destroy his carefully laid out plans.
"You might think that I won't make it on my own, but now I'm stronger than yesterday," Eleanor wails. She continues to make some rather bizarre noises. What a being claiming to be a Midgardian can possibly know of strength is beyond him.
The shower turns off and Loki melts into the shadows in her entryway. Eleanor is exceedingly easy to startle, even if her fear is short lived. In the past few weeks he has delighted in surprising her.
This is how her punishment will commence.
Amongst a billow steam she emerges from the bathing room, swathed in a green robe. Her hair is an absolute disaster and her cheeks are rosy from the heat. As she approaches her vanity she hums something to herself, the melody indistinct.
Loki feels a little bit like something is sitting atop his chest as he watches her grab a hairbrush. She closes her eyes and belts out the lyrics into the handle portion of the brush. She twirls around, singing, moving her hips in a way that is positively sinful, and he momentarily forgets his purpose in her chambers.
Despite the lack of refinement he favors, he appreciates the power of her voice in this moment. She truly sings like no other. If it were possible to rule a race with the power of song alone than all would bow to Eleanor Tate, his songbird.
Her foot catches the leg of the bed and she almost tumbles to the ground. Loki tenses and is forced to quell a ridiculous urge to assist the mortal, but she recovers with a few grumbled curses.
One so beautiful with such talent should by all accounts have much better limb control, but she is ever clumsy.
Eleanor attempts to run the brush through her unruly hair, but gives up when she encounters a few knots. Discarding the item on her bed, she moves to her wardrobe to select her outfit for the evening.
Silently he places his body directly behind hers. She opens the doors, reaches out to select a dress, and encounters a projection of the God of Mischief.
"Eleanor," croons his double, giving her a maniacal grin.
His songbird's reaction does not disappoint. She lets out a high pitched scream, attempts to slam the door to the wardrobe shut, ends up closing it on her own toe, and then stumbles back into the flesh and bone version of the image that frightens her so, screaming once more.
His arms clamp around her, holding her immobile against the leather and metal of his attire. Her body is taught as the string of a bow, and she lets out a whimper.
"Mean," she whispers. "You know I hate that."
"What you hate is without consequence," he snaps, voice low and lips moving against the shell of her ear.
She tries to turn her head, to look at him, but Loki's long fingered hand snakes around her throat. A thumb presses into her jaw to hold her in place and he can feel her heartbeat pick up.
The first hints of fear seeping into her system please him. It's about time she learned this lesson. Since the burning incident he's been far too lax with her.
"You're mad," she observes. He is surprised to hear her speak at all. "Why are you mad?"
"Are you as inept as you are insolent?" he hisses. "You know why. How dare you?"
The suddenness of her struggle to turn in his arms takes him by surprise, and when he moves to firm up his grip on her, his foot catches on her ankle. The pair tumbles to the ground. He winces as the full weight of his body comes down on her slight frame. A huff of air escapes her parted lips, along with a slight groan.
They are both still, momentarily shocked by the abrupt change in position.
Loki is the first to move, shifting up onto his elbow to keep from crushing her. Eleanor's cheek rests against the lengths of his forearm.
"Fuck," she mumbles.
He growls, the hand that isn't pinned under his songbird digs into her hip. The tension is back in her body, and she lets out a small cry.
"Why?" he demands.
She sighs, the sound regrettably absent of fear and pushes her shoulder into his chest. The message is clear. He has found Eleanor to be exceedingly adept when it comes to nonverbal communication.
Let me turn, says her body language.
He hesitates. The last thing he wants is to grant her anything, but seeing her eyes will help him find his truth.
When he remembers just how he found his truth last time, he clears his throat and grows hot. Out of necessity he puts space between their bodies, letting her turn beneath him.
Seeing her laid out beneath him in this manner, her hair a tousled gold halo around her head, her eyes fixing him with that intense stare so unique to his songbird, does nothing to assist him in quelling the irrational and irritating desire pulsing through him.
He hardens his cold, dead heart against her.
"Why?" he yells.
She winces, furrowing her brow.
Another sigh from Eleanor. Another growl from Loki.
Tentatively she reaches up, going slow to give him time enough to stop her. Her fingertips make contact with his gaunt cheekbones and her thumb traces the dark bag under his blazing blue eye.
A flinch runs through the length of his frame, but he doesn't pull away.
"Loki," she says as if she is addressing an upset child. "I was in your room—"
"So you do not deny it, then?" he hisses. She remains unfazed by his aggression, her hand moving to cup the line of his jaw.
"—because the piano is there."
The explanation is as simple as it is believable. Did he not witness the supreme joy the instrument gave her upon its unveiling?
"I was bored," she continues. "You obviously don't appreciate my makeovers so it seemed like a good alternative. I'm sorry," she says, fingers caressing his skin now.
His eyes go wide at her quiet apology. What he would have once given to hear such a simple and heartfelt statement from any of the members of his false family, in particular the Allfather.
Eleanor says it with such ease, as if there is nothing to it, this admitting ones mistakes business.
But it is far from simple and her easy explanations are dismissed under the dark cloud of his suspicion. He will never trust her.
Madness seems to overtake him once more.
Rage renewed, he bats away her delicate little hand and wraps his own much larger version around the long column of her neck. The fear is back in her eyes, but she just lies passively beneath him, making no move to fight against his hold.
Taking into account her alleged mortality, he tightens his grip enough to make her uncomfortable, but not enough to do any long-term damage.
Her breath come in rasps, a painful reminder of what she's like in the throws of pleasure. The sounds combined with their current position leads him to consider fucking the truth out of her once more.
Or is this a convenient excuse?
Refusing to analyze his motivations or reaction when it comes to this girl, he lowers his face to hers.
"Do you dare enter your king's chambers without permission and than presume to lie about your purpose?" he asks, voice low and chilling. He feels the shiver run through her body and he moves his free hand slithering up her thigh and parting her robe.
This is a great repulsion for her. He knows that the sight of him disgusts her, the thought of what he did to her upon their meeting horrifies her, but her gaze does not falter. She does not squirm or push away from the monster.
"You are the God of Lies," Eleanor Tate replies, staring him straight in the eye. "Shouldn't you already know the answer to that?"
As is increasingly becoming the usual in regards to the cursed words that rarely tumble from her lips, they send a jolt of shock through his system, giving him pause. The grip on her neck loosens and he cannot do anything but stare into her intent blue gaze.
"Loki." She says in hushed tones. He feels something long lost within him shatter further. "I haven't been dishonest. Not once. The piano is in there. I love the piano."
He cannot even fathom loving something as Eleanor loves the piano. He cannot even fathom being loved the way Eleanor loves the piano.
Expelling a great breath he wasn't even aware he was holding, Loki closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers. She calms him just as she confuses him. She brings him joy just as she irritates him into madness.
When she wraps her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace, he doesn't know what she means by it.
He lets his every muscle relax, body once more pinning hers to the ground. His mind is blissfully blank for the first time in memory.
Eventually, and far too soon for Loki's tastes, Eleanor shifts under him. Quite begrudgingly, he opens his eyes and allows her to sit up, scooting out from under him.
"You may enter my chambers to play the piano, even in my absence," Loki tells her, shocking both of them.
Eleanor gives him an enchanting smile.
"Is it time to sing?" she asks him.
"Oh, all right," he replies.