Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You will never be a god.

The final gasp of a dying race, the crunch of bone and sinewy tissue as Loki gulped furiously for oxygen. The last sound the once glorious god made was a death rattle, one bounced and fumbled around like a distant cackle. The last laugh of the trickster god.

    There was darkness, and then there was a flooding light that roared and consumed and tore what he once was to shreds. The tight binding of personhood being unfurled by the strings of fate as Loki felt his memories, his essence unravel into the universe like long ribbons. Floating and grounded at the same time there was very little to grasp, a fleeting thought of “ Is this valhalla? ” following by the dense realization that his… kind could not enter the golden gates of feasts.

    He misses his mother. He still misses his mother. His grief was never touched upon but packaged away and labeled under revenge . Even when wearing the skin of his father and sipping fine wines there was the hollowness that threatened to consume him. A lingering thought of---

    Darkness consumed him again. Flipping him from the white landscape into a void of inky terrain all swallowed into the hole of nothingness. And slowly… like the tender blooming of flowers stars began to speckle the horizon. Bursting with bright colors and spreading stardust in the long expanses of the universe. No longer did the black fingers of oblivion scratch across the sky but blues, purples, greens, pinks and even colors that he could not name freckled the walls.

    This is the beginning… is it not?

    A question he posed for himself, for there was nothing living not remotely sentient in sight. In fact, looking down at where limbs and arms and torso would be there was something the shimmering colors of the universe reflecting back at him… It was as if in his death he exploded into bits and his stardust, now a bustling part of the galaxy joined the universe in its collective song of life. Interesting…

    YOU HAVE BEEN REDEEMED, SON OF ODIN, SON OF LAUFEY !

    The voice rattles his bones, or would have he still possessed them. It only shakes his soul, or whatever he is right now. Peculiarly the voice seemed inside himself, but also outside himself. It bared not decipherable gender, nor any decipherable dialects. It was everything and nothing at once.

    “ While I am more than grateful to accept redemption, I currently lack the barings to accept .” The old lithe of the silvertongue worms its way back, even in death. A tongue so skillful it could seduce the devil.

    YOU WILL HAVE A SECOND CHANCE. A CHANCE OF INNOCENCE AND GOODNESS.

    Goodness seemed boring, seemed so safe and quite… capitan america-y for lack of better words. Goodness was attainable yes but not the ultimate goal.

    YOUR CHARACTER HAS BEEN JUDGED AND THERE IS STILL KINDNESS IN YOUR HEART, SON OF FRIGGA.... Look toward the stars for guidance when you are lost, and I will guide you, my silver - tongue.

    This grand voice tapered into something smaller, something more lovely and beautiful than the trumpets of valhalla. Loki would weep if he could, if he hadn’t lost his tears long ago.

“ Oh mo--!”

Again, since he is not the only god that found joy in little tricks, he was swallowed into starlight and ripped again once more into the fabric of the universe. And slowly, ever so slowly, his dna began to knot into tight braids once more.

Downtown Portland, Oregon. October 18th, 2020. Approximately 18 months after The Event.  

    “---Okay, did you manage to get a name or address or anything out of him before he slipped away?” It’s pouring out, it is always pouring out but its particularly cumbersome today since she left her raincoat at home by the dryer and is only armed with her standard office-wear jacket.

    “No, sorry. I tried to get away to call as soon as possible but there was just something about him that… I mean, I knew he could bolt as soon as I called for help.” The man is tired, he has opened is bodega at exactly 8:03 am and besides the event with this street rat it had been a slow day, Horrible for his bills.

    “Thank you for calling us in, we will do our best to track him down but… Hold on let me get you my card-” she rifles around in her coat pockets and reveals a semi dry eggshell white card that listed a name, a phone number, and the address of about 200 cublicals crammed together. She almost winces when he takes it and her soggy fingerprint sticks to the paper.

    “If you see anything, or hear of anything else just give me a call. Again, thank you for calling this in… it really helps a lot.” She smiles, her cool business woman smile and turns on black pumps and marches out into the pouring rain. She feels a bit silly running, all cool composure and cool stature but the rain now comes down in sheets and her parking is about to expire and… fines would not go well with today.

Tearing the car door open she tumbles into the leather interior and shuts the door with a confident thunk! before smoothing sopping wet curls behind what her mother used to call fairy ears (they were so small and growing up in the northwest there was more legends in the woods than trees sometimes). Steam begins to climb up the windows, fogging up the already blurry visions of traffic. It would probably be quite difficult to get out, damn parallel parking--

“HELLOOO AGEN---!” cuts a voice rising from the backseat only to be cut off themselves by the surprise scream of the young government worker.

“FUCK! Andy don’t do that! You know I can’t handle scares like that.” She grumbles, and goes back to smoothing the black pencil skirt under her legs so maybe, just maybe her thighs would stick to the awful leather seats. Andy, pops from the backseat and slides into the front seat with a gangly ease that did nothing to lighten the mood.

“Okay, I am sorry Agent Morris but! On a more serious note I think I have a lead on the missing child case, or rather the misplaced child case. Here, look.” Without much flare Andy dumped a stack of notes on Morris’ laps before pulling his phone from his pocket and skimming several notifications.

“Andy… I can’t read half of these. You write like a caveman. I mean, this one isn’t even notes it’s just what you got from the lunch run. Why can’t you… you know … use your notes app like literally everyone else.” Droplets of water sprinkle the page from the drying curls, smearing even more what was once “legible” writing. A soft frown dips on her features, baby crow’s feet wrinkling at the edges of grey eyes.

“Okay, fine, fine. I’ll summarize. Basically, a few of the shelters in the area have been seeing this rather young kid. Dark hair, dark hoodie, mostly alone, well not mostly , always alone. Some think he might be a mutant however there is not defiant reports or ones including you know, evidence . Right now he isn’t doing anything wrong, from what I am seeing.” All this was spoken without making eye contact, and actually while the young government worker was texting his wife (they were still in the honeymoon stage of things) a bunch of heart emojis before finally finishing off with a rather toothy grin.

“Even if he is mutant, that isn’t the reason we are looking for him, kid. He looks, what… seven at most? The fact that he is so evasive is what I am worried about. Most likely an abuse victim…” This instantly kills the light mood of playfulness between the partners. Working in child services was probably the most draining job in the government, that and sex crimes. Morris often wondered if this was the right career choice but everytime she encountered a child in the process of healing it really struck her heart deeply and only encouraged her to push forward into her career.

“Jeez… I guess I didn’t think of it that way.” Andy makes a mental note to make sure that he brings flowers home to his wife. A lot of abused kids came from broken homes and he didn’t even want to amuse the thought of adventuring down that road.

Burnside Portland, Oregon. October 28th, 2020. Approximately 18 Months After The Event

If rain could ever be considered a natural disaster, surely this would be considered one. Soaked through the already soggy sweatshirt and baggy jeans Noah feels himself begin to shake violently from the whipping winds and the sheets of torrential downfalls. Shaggy black hair slings to his face and bright red shoes that were once apple red now are dark as they shine back at him through the wavering puddles. If only he could find his friends then maybe--

CRASH!

He jumps from the sideway almost into the street, just almost. A car honks at him and the sound ripples through the air like rolling waves. The noise came from the alley, followed by small gasp and then the final whimper of help! There’s something in him, more animal in human, that says he should just bolt and forget he heard the cries from the ahem dark alley. But the heroic part of him, the part that he modeled after those heroes that defeated some kind of purple space god, told him to venture in and save the day. Armed with only some soggy shoes and voice that cracked between man and boy, he tip-toed into the brick alley.

“H-Hello? Do you need help?” His voice cracked, first man then dropped deeper into a man’s voice, or rather the man he would soon become in just a few years. Maybe less if he actually worked out more.

“ Please help, I’m stuck!” Again, the voice squeaks. This time it comes clearer, behind the dumpster and distinctly the voice of a child. Or something mimicking the voice of a child, this thought makes his blood turn ice.

“H-H-Hold on, I-I’m coming!” With the last dregs of courage, he dashes to behind the dumpster to see a sturdy desk on top of two small, wriggling legs. The desk wasn’t large, made of cheap material that they probably furnished college dorms with. Regardless it was still heavy, and still trapping what he was sure of now was a kid. With utmost care, he lifted and shifted the cumbersome object until the waning strength gave out and white pieces clattered to the rain soaked asphalt.

Now fully in the open was a kid, sporting jet-black hair like his only cropped short in a ratty hoodie and skinny jeans. His shoes were old, dirty even with a hole on the side that whispered of their use. But besides the general dirtiness of his surroundings, he sported two, brilliant emerald eyes that shined brighter than any diamond, and pale skin that a few childish freckles.

“Are you hurt?” He was cautious, mimicking the tone of heroes he watched through the TV.

“No,” as he said this, he tried to rise but a slow hiss escaped him and the tiny boy crumbled into the black trash bags in a sigh of defeat, “...maybe.”

“Okay um, before I tell you to go to the hospital and you probably refuse lets exchange names. And then I’m going to call my sister, because I’m not dragging you to the ER in this rain. Sound good?”

He nods, accompanied by a small sniffle.

“Alright, I’m Noah. It’s nice to meet you…?” Noah offers his hand, whether for him to shake it or use to get it, he really didn’t care. For a moment, the child looks puzzled, as if his name is locked far away from his reach. But after a moment of awkward silence and Noah’s hand be outstretched, he reached forward and heaved himself up.

“Luke. My name is Luke.”

Noah grins, his lopsided grin that would drive girls (and boys) wild once he turned 20. Luke doesn’t look more than nine years old, and its a bit of a bitter reminder that this is what he must have looked like to his older sister. Early stages of emo mixed with the drowned rat look was quite the staple look growing up and even know he prided himself on his careless style.

“Well Luke, how do you feel about hot coco?”

Despite the rain and wind, Luke flashes his first smile.

Chapter Text

It had been Noah and Mavis since Noah could recall. Mavis went to parent-teacher meetings, she cleaned all of his cuts and bruises, she packed his lunches, and she made all his appointments. So by all means, and even in the eyes of the state, Mavis was Noah’s guardian but before that she was Noah’s sister. 

You see, Noah was now freshly 15, and a full adult in his own head. He tended to operate on his own and go seek his own adventures (finding Luke being one). Sometimes trouble would follow, and Mavis, the responsible cool elder would fix it or at least give some really good advice that made the whole situation feel somewhat worth it. But at one point they did have parents, different dads but the same mom, and Mavis recalls parts of her childhood where she too was a child and not a girl playing a mother’s role. 

It was 2010 and Noah had just turned four years old. There were still leftover decorations from his Elmo themed birthday party strewn about the room, recordings of Sesame Street blaring loudly on the TV as Noah played with his new plastic car set. Mavis was sixteen and was deeply in the “scene” scene, down to the white monster she nursed on while deciding what music she was gonna paste on her tumblr home page. In the kitchen her mom is starting to rifle through the cupboards for dinner and at this point Mavis is starting to see how this evening might turn into a “fend for yourself” night which is happening more and more frequently. Given it being October at 7pm in the pacific northwest, walking to the nearest convenience store wasn’t an option. 

“Well, I’m too exhausted to fix dinner for you guys tonight, why don’t you try and whip something else up?” Their mother, which Mavis referred lovingly to as “Jean” (yes, Mavis’ maternal grandparents really named her Jean ) tossed as she waltzed to the door, snatched her raincoat and car keys and slammed the door. The sound was enough to wake Noah from his Sesame Street induced trance, and blink blankly back at his sister curled up on the couch a few feet away. Mavis blinked back at him. 

“Well, buddy… Do you want to wait for Marty tonight or should I make nachos again?” Marty was Jean’s husband, and not the father to either of them. He worked long and weird hours bouncing for different bars around Portland. Even if it was a weekday night, the likelihood of Marty making it home before 3am was very, very slim. 

“Ummm…. Nachos fine.” Noah still had baby fat and when he smiled he looked exactly like a Hollywood Gerber baby. Cute, round, perfect, and mostly naive to the fact that the world was crumbling inside and outside the home. 

So… Nachos. Nachos generally is chips and cheese, however when you lack the cheese and the chips you have to get creative. Mavis listened to the little voice in her head that told her to squirrel away things she thought she wouldn't need, like the kraft cheese packets that were tossed aside when Noah was feeling sick and would only eat butter noodles. Mixing the cheese with water she would make a cheese paste, and use the little shredded cheese they had left to mix in for better consistency. For chips, she has to go “old fashion” and fry the stale tortillas left forgotten in the cupboard. After about 30 minutes a poor man’s, or kid in this case, version of nachos was served to a none the wiser four year old. An intense debate ensued over what they would watch while eating, since Mavis already knew how to count to 10 and Noah was pretending that he didn’t know. Many threats and stuffed toys thrown, the two settled on Winx club. 

Noah recalls this as a fond memory he shares with his sister. His night ended with him curled up in a soft blue blanket with a belly full next to his favorite person in the world, holding the new elmo doll he got for his birthday. Mavis’ night ended when she picked up her little brother, who was getting heavier with each passing day and tucked him into his toddler bed in the room they shared. She then tiptoed out back into the living room to flip mindlessly through the channels waiting for her mother to return. 

Mavis then jumped to the sound of the keys jangling in the lock and the door opened to reveal the 6’4” behemoth of a man Marty dwarfing the door frame. It was then in her bleary mind she realized she had fallen asleep and a) her mother had snuck in and not woken her or b) her mother, Jean , had never come home. The infomercial blared on the screen, advertising collectable watches as a 1-800 number flashed aggressively across the collection. In the corner of the TV read the time 3:16am.

“Is your mother home?” Marty referred to Jean as your mother when they were fighting as if it was Mavis or Noah’s fault that any man decided to rear children with her MUCH LESS settle down and get married . Mavis noticed that all of them, all the flings, boyfriends, and husbands would say your mother at least once. Like it was their fault that their mother would get upset and break plates and their respective fathers had to dodge flying bits of ceramic. 

“Umm, I don’t know Marty , is her car outside?” She yawns and then rises from the corduroy brown cushions. Her eye makeup is even more smudged than intentional and her black teased hair is straight up flat on one side from sleeping on it for too long. 

“No.”

“Then she isn’t here, is she?” Marty only gives her this dumb, blank stare as she replies. It’s honestly really not his fault that Mavis doesn’t like him, it’s just the natural dynamic of having a step-parent at least in her mind. And yes, Mavis was wholeheartedly aware that her mother was absolutely off the chain, like the real crazy that men only dreamed about, but did that detract from the fact Marty was an absolute homophobic meathead? 

No.

“Did she say anything about when she would be back?” what a stupid question.

“Listen Marty, if I knew anything I would have told you. She didn’t say anything about leaving or when she would be back. All I know is I had to pull dinner out my ass because Jean doesn’t want to play house today. I have school in four hours, I’m going to fucking bed.” Mavis then clicks the TV off and storms off to the bathroom where she will make quick work of whatever makeup is still smudged around her face with a washcloth and the face wash she stole from Fred Meyers. Quietly she then slinks into the shared bedroom, taking one quick peek at her brother peacefully dozing before shimming out of the tight skinny jeans and into sleep shorts. Mavis then creeps under the covers still in the sweatshirt she wore the entire day and slipped the sports bra out without taking off her black hoodie. 

From the bedroom she hears Marty crack a beer, and a twinge of guilt sits with her as she knows he is sitting alone in the kitchen wondering what went wrong. Mavis had been through this stage with several other men, her father and Jean’s other assorted affairs. They sit and wonder in the silence what went wrong in their life, and why they ended up here, broke as fuck caring for children for a woman who isn’t even home half the time. 

It’s a hard pill to swallow when you realize you have been used.  

Mavis then fell asleep, lulled by the small snores of her little brother and the rain hitting the window. In her own mind, she recognizes this night as one of the last nights she was allowed to still be a child, but the reality of it was that she was always more of a mother and parent to Noah then Jean ever was. 

Jean, called to the wild with the lust of adventure in her heart, kept driving that night and drove until her car broke down just south of Roseburg almost 200 miles away from home. Then using what little cash she had in her purse, she refueled her tank and took that sedan to the nearest car dealership where she was offered $2500 in cash. Jean happily took the cash and ran to meet the free-spirited hippie who invited her on his caravan across the U.S. outside of the 7/11. True Americana romance if you will. 

Marty, being neither the legal guardian nor legal husband to Jean, surrendered both Mavis and Noah to being wards of the state. Or the more sanitary term, foster children. Whether it be through trauma or maybe the grace of some all powerful being, Noah has little to no recollection of the little under 2 years they spent bouncing from group homes and foster parents. Mavis on the other hand remembers and recollects with very sharp accuracy and it was the largest driving force in securing a job, housing and being able to become the legal guardian of her baby brother at the very fresh age of 18. 

But Mavis wasn’t 18 living in a shit apartment off of 82nd and caring for her 6 year old brother anymore. She was now 27, living in a house with a spare bedroom and a sun room in a nice neighborhood up in the hills above Portland. Noah had his own room, his own bed(no longer toddler size), and his biggest worry is his homework assignments at school. A complete 180 from the world that Mavis lived in. 

In the beginning she got a job as a telemarketer, and would make phone calls for 8 hours a day and 5 days a week with no real opportunity of improvement. The environment was shitty, the pay was shitty, the only “fun” part was clocking in and seeing who had finally gotten fed up and quit. While working that job she had witnessed several panic attacks and three psychotic breaks, so Mavis always got a chuckle when the social worker described her work history as “stable”. But, when trying to win over the government when it comes to getting back a child, “stability” is important.

In the end, the siblings were reunited and Mavis found a better job. And then a better job, and THEN a really, really good job that let her buy a house in the city. So life at the moment was pretty cool. 

But every time the leaves changed, Mavis would be briefly sucked back into that time where her mother walked out on the two of them, the leaves orange, red, and yellow through the sliver of the closing door. In fact, she found herself wandering through the less savory bits of memory lane until her phone began to violently vibrate on the hardwood counter. Noticing that it was just Noah calling, she quickly picked up the smartphone to answer. 

“Hey, uh, Mavis, I have like a um…… little, or maybe large, um, just promise you won’t be mad.”

“Jesus, Noah, that's a hell of an opening. What have you gotten yourself into?” Truthfully the trouble that Noah found himself in was little to nothing, just anxiety (or mental illness) ran in the family and often he would describe or lay out the situation much worse than the reality of it. 

“Well. Okay. I am with this kid named Luke, and he’s hurt. I didn’t hurt him of course--- I mean I found him in a dumpster, um, like that, and I don’t know I think we should go to the ER or urgent care but its raining really hard and I don’t think the bus will let us on I mean he has a little blood on him but he’s alone and who just leaves their chil----” 

“-----Noah.” Mavis has to interject, Noah is running his mouth at a mile a minute and seems to be missing a lot of key major details.

“----yes…?”

“You said there is blood and a child with no parents, and a dumpster. Where are you? Are you okay? Is the kid okay? Did you call 911?”

“I’m off of Burnside, close to Sizzle Pie. I’m fine, and the kid, well his name is uh, Luke, we are chilling at the moment. He is just a little banged up. Should I call 911?”

“Hmm…. does Luke look like he has a home or that his parents are close?”

“Well, I didn’t wanna be rude and ask, but uh…. no.” Noah whispers this behind his hand, careful to not make eye contact with his new friend.

“Okay well, just stay put, okay? I’ll be there in like 10 minutes. Don’t call 911 yet, we can take him to the ER and go from there.” Mavis doesn’t explain on the phone, but she knows that getting police involved can sometimes (most times) end poorly. Especially if this young child is a run away, most likely running from an abusive home that the police would just place him back in. 

Burnside Portland, Oregon. October 28th, 2020. Approximately 18 Months After The Event

Luke, now sits swinging his feet happily enjoying the hot coco and already half devoured the enormous slice of pizza from the pizza shop. Luke, or Loki, would normally refuse to eat such garbage midgardian food, but after eating literal garbage and sifting through it for a few weeks certainly changed his outlook. Being in this body limited his abilities significantly, as magic was not just something that grew with knowledge, but grew with maturity. Spells and conjuring that were of ease to him as an adult expended too much energy for him as a child, and since he was already running on empty only very small parlor tricks were available. 

His pride had prevented him from seeking help from the likes of the heroes . Besides, every one assumed him dead and if playing the long game he could plan an elaborate sneak attack and establish himself as the true ruler of th----

“ Loki… remember your goodness. You have been given a second chance, and only this once. Do not waste it on foolish greed.” a voice whispers in the wind

By Odin, he couldn’t even plot in peace. 

But then again, what was there to conquer? Thanos divided and conquered yet was still vanquished. And even in his time gone, newer and stronger foes rise and are vanquished by newer and stronger heroes. It's like the writers of this world were running out of ideas for their character arcs. So whatever, Loki can play this game the universe has for him. Migardian Simulator, if you will. 

“So um… you from around here?” Noah awkwardly stumbles around the question. He is skinny, lanky, about 5’10’. He can’t look no older than 16, but then again Loki always struggled with guessing Midgardian age. You look away for one second and they would go all pruney like you left them in the bath too long. He has short blackish brown hair, a few freckles and dark brown eyes and there is nothing remarkable about the clothes he wears. Seems very standard for the average midgardian teen.

“Yes.” 

A long pause. They are sitting at outdoor benches outside the restaurants, with Noah only partially looking at him. “Oh yeah, I mean, makes sense.” Loki hears a light tapping, noticing that his companion is bouncing his leg up and down. He must be nervous, but the real question why would this kid be nervous? Was Loki being set up by the Avengers? Were they going to appear from out behind the garbage can and capture him in his feeble, path---

“So where are your parents?”

Ah, he was trying to work up the nerve to ask that question. 

Taking the final dregs of coco, Loki sets the paper cup down and looks Noah dead in the eyes. This is the first time Noah had ever seen a child look so serious and hold such an intense stare. “Dead.” 

Watching the realization and horror trickle onto this teen’s face gave Loki some entertainment but it was short lived when both were distracted by a cutting voice of a short dark haired woman.

“-----Noah! There you are.” Mavis can’t stand any taller than 5’4, sporting rain booties and a large black rain coat, the kind that looked similar to a trench. Even from far away Loki could see the long, bright pink nails she sported with all sorts of sparkling gems and charms. 

“Mavis! This is Luke, I found him up the street.” 

Mavis had thick bangs and round glasses that were flecked with drops of rain. As she crouches in front of him, he notices that her hands are tattooed, her knuckles displaying the words “love” and “lust”. Love being on her right hand and lust being on the left, and peaking out from under the trench on the right side Loki can make out the head of a snake sitting on her wrist. Interesting. 

“Hey Luke, my name is Mavis and my brother Noah found you. Are you hurt?” She speaks in a really low, quiet tone almost whispering to him. It reminds him of his mother, for a split second. 

Loki shakes his head. He had feigned injury initially to trick his enemy just in case of attack, but given his “enemy” was a 15 year old kid that looked like he couldn't hold off a toddler in a fight, he took his chances. Even if he was mostly useless in combat in this form, Loki still had a few tricks up his sleeve. 

“No.” 

“That’s good. Were you with someone or have you been alone for a while?” She again speaks very softly, like talking to a wounded animal. If only she knew the terror and havoc he had wrought in his time. 

“..... I’ve been alone.” There’s a pit in his stomach, a gnawing reminder that he had always been alone. With this childlike body comes the rush of childlike emotion, the very raw reminder that his home, his mother, his father, and even his brother were gone. While Loki did not outwardly show his love in the best ways, he showed pride in his people. He was proud, for such a long time, to be Asgardian, to be the Son of Odin, Brother to Thor, and most importantly the Son of Frigga. But those names held no meaning anymore, as anyone who recognized their greatness was gone along with them. He feels wetness on his face and blames the rain. 

“Do you have anyone I can try and contact? An aunt or a friend? Maybe a teacher?”

Loki shakes his head and now covers his face. He feels hot, overwhelmed like a balloon too full about to burst. A bomb about to break and smash through the walls. Grief eats at his heart and gnaws on his bones as rocks himself, trying to soothe the tears that began to flood him. He hasn’t felt emotion like this in years, in centuries, his heart had become too cold and callous to. But now reborn as a child, it was fresh and new. Grief, abandonment, loneliness, and depression fold his little body into a tight ball and it takes him a minute to recognize the distant cries as his own.

Mavis, without another word, folds him into herself and rocks him as he sobs outside the pizza restaurant.  He reeks of garbage, and she briefly notes that she will have to wash her hair when she showers tonight after he bathes. 

“How about this… we get you cleaned up, fed, and well rested and we can make a game plan in the morning. Does that sound okay?” Mavis rubs his back and rocks him lightly as she holds him, and she can feel him nod against her shoulder in agreement. Taking a few more moments to relish human contact, Loki then pushes himself away and begins to wipe the tears and snot off his face with dirty green hoodie sleeves. Even from the distance he can clearly see the snot spot he left on her trench shoulder, but Mavis just smiles back none the wiser, or maybe saving him the embarrassment. 

“Don’t worry about it, I can wash it.”

Loki finds himself smiling, a bit more genuine than the first time.