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For whatever reason, Loki's glorious punch bowl really is a plot point in the life of her apartment.
People often comment on it. They regard its crystal depths as the centre of the room - and it is close to being so - and unconsciously orientate themselves around it.
Loki just likes it because the uses of such a gods damned large bowl are infinite. Punch, yes. Magic brews and alcohol and a mystery concoction devised by Thor to test his own ability to swallow something foul-tasting.
She's not at all surprised when space rends itself open above her punch bowl, but when a sneaker lands on her table and upsets the empty punch bowl, she has to dive to catch it.
Damn her refusal to use magic. She ends up smacking her knee on the leg of the table, and the bowl slips out of her hands anyway and smacks her in the chest. By the time her guest has orientated themselves, Loki's lying on the floor at their feet like a dying spider.
"This is new, chico," America says amusedly, stepping from the table, placing the bowl back where it came from and helping Loki up. She looks her host over before correcting herself. "Chica."
"Yes, well, I don't plan to make a habit of prostrating myself at your feet," Loki says wryly. "Evidently my punch bowl was not designed for a kick. A design flaw, perhaps."
"Hard to find a bowl that can withstand me at my most determined," America shrugs. "Crystal just ain't gonna cut it."
America's clearly skirting around a question, but Loki lets her, and they chat idly for a minute or two as Loki fetches the little jam pastries she made earlier. Now that she's living permanently on Midgard, making food for herself is surpassing being a necessity and turning into a hobby.
Loki flops down on the couch dramatically with pastry in hand and only remembers that she's wearing a dress and not pants when she accidentally flashes a substantial amount of thigh at America.
"Don't mind me," Loki says with an awkward smile, maneuvering into a slightly more modest position. "We're all girls here anyway."
Human standards of decency. Back in the day, one could run naked into battle if they were angry enough. These days, even one's thighs and midriff are expected to be covered. It's a drag.
"I have to say, the fact that we're all girls here does raise a few questions, chica," America says. "Any particular reason for the switch?"
Loki grins, knowing she can troll America.
Troll. It's a wonderful word she's picked up on her internet explorations. The Asgardian version is different - bigger and hairier - and really, the Midgard version appeals to her so much more.
She tosses the last piece of pastry in the air and catches it in her mouth, then pokes her tongue out at America. Wiggles it, for good measure.
"I'm told I have a very clever tongue and as you don't play for my usual team..." she says impishly.
America, to her credit, doesn't look any more disgusted with her than she usually does.
"Your brain would struggle to comprehend exactly how many things are disturbing about that idea," America says. "You'd better be shitting me, kid, or it won't be the punch bowl that gets a kick."
"Drama queen," Loki sighs.
"Number one on the list is that not so long ago you were a little boy who'd barely made it past his tenth cumpleaños," America tells her firmly.
"Au contraire. Most measurements I did of my own form told me firmly I was at least thirteen in Midgard terms. A late starter on the puberty front, I think."
"Thirteen. So much better," America deadpans.
"Well, isn't it fortunate that I actually have no desire to peel you out of your star-spangled shirt, then?" Loki says. "I've seen you spit a logie at four metres, at least. Kills the mood."
Once upon a time, Loki would've quite enjoyed the opportunity to unclothe her. Thirteen-year-old boys are odd like that. Now, she's a little more restrained in her interests. And, in any case, she's midway through planning to apprehend Lorelei, and if something happens on that front...
It's hypothetical, anyway. America would struggle to be less interested.
"Prodigy told us about New Year's," America says, trying to continue the conversation as Loki's attention wanders a little.
Loki makes a slightly exasperated noise. "I simply made a suggestion. I was hardly serious."
"You struck out, linda," America chuckles.
"Perhaps I did. Or perhaps he was lying to you, and he and I made love to the cheers of the New Year," Loki says dryly.
America's amusement turns to a slight shudder.
There's another silence as Loki claims another pastry and starts picking it apart, wary of getting pastry flakes on her hair and dress.
"Creepy flirting aside, what's with the dress?" America finally asks.
"Do I need a reason?"
"Usually, yes," America says.
"Midgard is so painfully uptight. You have morals and values stuffed in all sorts of painful places," Loki says theatrically. "A reason, you say? I think not. If I feel like a girl, then a dress I don. I'm a shapeshifter."
"We have a word for that around here, you know," America tells her.
"So I've been told. I don't feel as if it applies."
"Suit yourself, chica," America shrugs. "Hate to cut to the point-"
"You really don't."
"-But I gotta ask, why'd you text me to come over?" America retrieves her phone and reads from the screen. "'Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.' Very amusing."
Loki gets to her feet and gestures over herself. "Be honest now: how do I look?" she asks, raising her arms to show off the cut of the dress.
"You're asking me?" America says in disbelief.
"You're not likely to spare my feelings," Loki says. "If I asked any of my neighbours, they'd tell me I was beautiful. I'm the god of lies; I can tell they're not entirely truthful."
That makes America pause to think. She looks her host over, then tells her. "You look very human. Suits you."
"Do I pass for your standard edition Midgardian lady hacker?" Loki says.
"Never met one. But you remind me enough of Black Widow," America actually smiles at that.
This feels oddly like they're friends. America seems genuinely happy to help her out and they're sort of bonding.
"Who're you trying to look good for, kid?" America asks. "Don't tell me you got a date."
"In a manner of speaking," Loki says innocently. "I'm trying to infiltrate a mission to pinch a vast sum of money from a casino. For the greater good."
"Good luck with that," America says amusedly.
There's a ping from another room; Loki's computer is warning her of an incoming video call.
"You gotta take that, I guess?" America says, and when this is confirmed, she says "Then I'm outta here."
"See you in the multiverse," Loki says with a nod.
America, in her typical fashion, leaves in a bright star with a kick. Then Loki retreats to her office to take the call.
She affects her most sharklike smile as she answers and Lorelei's face comes up in the screen, half-obscured with a scarf to make her harder to positively identify.
"Trixie," Loki introduces herself, making sure she's speaking English and not her usual All-Speak. "You must be the infamous Lorelei."