She moans annoyed with her restless bladder, forcing herself to sit up, the lights coming on dim, in her bedroom in her bed. That sooner she can't recall having walked too. She also can't recall drinking enough, or any at all to forget.
Echoes of a nice dream prance around her fogged head, a rarity. A voice familiar and smooth, registering whose her heart skips a beat. Loki'd hushed and cooed 'it's alright' and she's disappointed she can't recall proper context – But wait. She didn't walk to bed.
"Jarvis…How did I get here?" tentatively asked, a cringe already forming before Jarvis said:
"Mr. Loki carried you, miss." [Great. Not a dream then.]
"Oooh, my god," she groans into her hands, face flushing hot red, mumbled: "Why didn't he just wake me?"
"I imagine he didn't wish to disturb you." She rolls her eyes because she wasn't asking Jarvis.
"Yeah thanks pal."
She shrugs the matter off and drags herself out of bed, frequently trying and failing not to think about Loki. She hasn't the mental capacity to read too much into the prior night's scenes, merely recalls them on loop like a stuck melody.
Opting after the shower that she's too tired to style her bob-length, layered hair she lets it air-dry. Throws on another one of her over-sized hoodies that she doesn't often wear unless she's really not up for exuding glam, and begrudgingly leaves her room in sweats, barefoot. She would have asked for coffee in bed. But whether or not she'll admit it, she's looking for Loki.
Whom she finds in the kitchen, by the coffee machine, two mugs laid out, apple and knife in hand. "Good, you're up," he says glancing her way. She chides her stupid heart for taking off already racing.
She can hear the tv in the adjacent sitting area, sees as she nears some heads at the sofa. Black hair: Bruce, Thor's blond-tastic locks, and Natasha strown along one of the armchairs.
Loki talking again recaptures her unwavering attention: "I'm bored and I was thinking I'd try and make waffles. How hard can it be?" She grins automatically at the thought, plucking the apple-slice offered thoughtless.
"Well let's see Rudolf. I'm happy to watch," she slides onto the stool at the island-counter as Lokes shot a mischievous smirk her way, subtly setting the sliced apple before her. She munches absently, watching him scour for cookware and ingredients, rather admiring his back-view. She scolds herself with a sly smirk, wondering after her plate empties why she ate an apple.
Loki sets everything at her counter, cracks eggs and weighs sugar and flour so gracefully like he was prepping for a magic act. She can't stop smiling much too amused watching. She goes to dip index into the bowl to taste, green eyes following the motion closely even as he continues to stir the mix, as her lips close around the digit, a coy look in his gaze in his wicked smile that she matches swiftly.
Oh it would be so easy, too easy for things to escalate between them and it's too often a close call, too easy for her to forget why they shouldn't already, why he shouldn't lift her onto the counter why those thin, smirking lips shouldn't kiss her senseless-
"What's happening here?" interrupts Barton. "His majesty in the kitchen? Scandalous," taunts makes his way towards the coffee counter, glancing about as Loki disregards him to plug in the waffle-maker. "Poisoned waffles? That's new but no thanks." Loki smirks minorly to himself. If he were to make these for everyone else he'd be sure to lace Barton's with laxatives.
"Fuck off Barton," he hears Toni snap, like she often does on his behalf. "Let the man flex his dormant culinary skills. Pour me one," so Hawk pours her some coffee, chuckling incredulous before he's done and takes off, setting her cup close along the way.
She tsks after a bitter sip. She forgot to ask him for sugar. Now she has to get up, great. About to, paused when Loki plucked up the mug, turned to the counter, scooped a teaspoon-full of sugar and stirred it into her cup, returning. He set it down and grabbed the bowl, pouring some batter into the waffle-iron. Whilst Toni blinked in stupor at the coffee, cradling it between both palms, a small, uncharacteristically bashful smile tugging up her lips, and the thought unprompted: [I love you.]
A thought that yes shocks her but she takes it not in such gravity. She could love Loki yes, like she loves Rhodey and Patrick and Happy and Jarvis. Love's an easy word that underscores care and pleasant company, right?
Only her heart's weighed down in her chest like it knows, what the prickling in the back of her head wonders.
She's in her mid-thirties and she doesn't think she knows the meaning of in love. How would she know if she feels it? How come she can tell with all certainty, that she never loved Patrick that way, though she tried and wondered, wondered when she would know for certain.
Wonders if it's real, that stupid swooning movie love crap, as she stares at the back of Loki's head and wonders,
what it'd be like to walk up to him and wrap her arms around his torso, wonders what it would've been like to lean into him last night, like she used to occasionally with Patrick, less in their last few months. Would it feel the same as then, pleasant and comfortable briefly?
It's easy to imagine with Loki, an easy picture to paint – but the issue, is how her foolish heart aches, longs as though for something else she can't name with Loki, longs as though she would lean into him and sigh in raw relief that could bring her to tears – She blinks to dry her welling eyes and frowns deeply. [Hell's wrong with you? Snap out of it.]
She's been able to suppress the stupid period urge to cry for months – it wouldn't prevail now.
When Loki refaced her she schooled her face quickly, smiling as he set the first batch of waffles before her, steaming warm and rushing her nostrils in sugary goodness. He measuredly knifes a small slice of butter on top, then drizzles the plate in maple syrup till all the waffle-squares are full. Her mouth fills with saliva. He hands her a fork.
"Tell me it's at least edible."
"It looks more than freakin' edible," she says, eagerly slicing out a large bite, refusing to wait for it to cool so she stupidly exhales mouth parted, eyes slitted and watering. But she registers the taste and laughs ridiculously. Covering her mouth with the back of her fork-wielding hand, she tells him: "It's good. Really good." And Loki's grin though mischievous, was soft around the edges; it warms her insides.