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Three drinks, one loaf of free bread dredged through herb-infused olive oil, and one boxed up entree.
That’s how long you waited for Loki before you tired of the pitying looks from your waiter. At least you didn’t look like an overstuffed penguin in the dated button-up white shirt and black tie they were forced to wear.
But that was your resentment talking.
That was the ache in your heart looking for anyone to blame but yourself. Because you should have known better than to trust the Trickster God to have a romantic interest in you. It made much more sense that he would ply you with riveting conversation and enchanting eyes over an evening of forced recreation with the other Avengers, invite you to dinner at a restaurant that didn’t even have prices listed on the menu - if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it - and then leave you high and dry for a bill that put a significant dent in your wallet, even on what Tony paid the newer recruits.
And, as if the weather knew the true devastation hanging in the pit of your stomach and wanted to add onto your misery, it had been raining the entire evening. At least you had prepared for this dismal turn of events, unlike your ruined dinner date, and you shielded your drawn face and perfectly styled hair - what a waste! - beneath your umbrella as you stepped out of the stuffy restaurant.
The walk to your apartment wasn’t too far, just long enough for you to really get your pity party started before you changed into your comfiest pajamas and dug out the wine and ice cream. So lost in your own thoughts of what movie to put on to distract you from the god’s pathetic prank, you didn’t notice anyone around you until someone almost barreled you over into the sidewalk.
“Hey, watch i-”
You recognized the large, pale hands steadying you by your biceps, and your exclamation died in your throat. What you didn’t recognize was the state of his appearance.
Never before had you seen him look so normal. Never before had ‘normal’ been a negative descriptor for someone, but Loki was anything but normal, usually.
Standing before you, his hair dripping wet and plastered to his forehead and neck where it hadn’t begun to curl riotously, his finely tailored black suit positively drenched and most definitely ruined, his sculpted face flushed from exertion, and his expression positively distraught, it took more than a moment to realize that it was Loki holding out a mixed bouquet that had seen better days.
“Loki?”
He ducked down as best as he could beneath your umbrella, towering over nonetheless. As angry and hurt as you were, it felt cruel to leave him hunched over, so you allowed him to take it from your hand and hold it up to a suitable height for the both of you.
“My deepest apologies, darling,” he panted, guiding you to the inside of the sidewalk with a gentle, barely-there touch on your shoulder. “There was an unavoidable issue with Stark concerning Hydra and it was not solved as quickly as I had predicted upon making our arrangements.”
Even though it was petty, even though you knew that he was very busy trying to save the lives of others, you had to say it anyway. “You could’ve called, sent one of your ghost things. Something. Fu-” Your lower lip quivered at the embarrassment still clinging to you with the scent of tomato sauce and wet flour and your throat tightened to choke out the curse words you were about to let fly. Damn him for putting you in this situation.
Tentative fingers caressed your cheek, wiping away the betraying tear that slid past your rapidly blinking eyes. “I am deeply sorry for the pain that I have caused you. Next time, if you’ll allow me another chance, I will send a ghost thing to inform you of my tardiness.”
“You think you deserve another date?” you smiled mischievously, stepping closer to him when a gust of wind blew frigid rain beneath the reach of the umbrella and against your back.
His hand automatically lowered to the small of your back, tugging you protectively into him so that you could detect the faint scent of soap, masculine spice, and cedarwood that perfumed his skin and clothes.
This close, with the full power of his hopeful grin directed down at you, you never stood a chance.
Sensing the walls of his misdeeds crumbling down, happiness danced in his arresting emerald eyes. “I am hoping that you believe I do, yes.”
Dignity required that you pretend to give his wishes further consideration, that you pretend he hadn’t already won you over with his charming smile and unkempt appearance. But you both knew that your deliberations made on that dreary sidewalk were simply a show.
Inspecting his sculpted face for any lies or shenanigans, you noticed a small cut beneath a sodden lock of raven hair. You carefully pushed the hair behind his ear to get a better look as you stood on your tiptoes. A serious, concerned expression furrowed your brows as you shook your head. “It appears you were injured on your mission. I can’t have another go at forcing you to buy me dinner to make up for tonight if you die from infection. No, you need to come to my apartment so I can clean and cover that wound properly.”
His hand completely enveloped yours as he turned in the direction of your apartment and walked alongside you. Mischief lifted the lines on his skin as he peered down at you with every other step. “Ah, yes, of course, I cannot repay my debts if I am dead. I knew you were clever.”
“As if you would settle for anything less,” you laughed, tugging him along with a newfound bounce in your step. “I think this overpriced meal is enough to feed us both while we wait for your hair to dry. It wouldn’t do to catch a cold, either.”
The warmth of his laughter cut through the chill deep in your bones. “If you insist, my little mortal.”