Chapter Text
One day Loki is going to move out of here and then his life is going to be better.
One day he’s going to wake up to peace and silence and not the infernal screams of the twins from across the hallway and their mother’s harried attempts to quiet them. Maybe there will be birds singing outside and a hint of lush foliage peeking through the blinds instead of the dull yellow glow from the streetlights below.
Maybe there will even be hot water.
Today is not that day. Tomorrow and the day after probably neither and Loki really can’t afford to lose the job that pays for this shithole.
He stands in his tiny shower, shivering under the freezing water trickling from the creaking pipes, and tries not to feel sorry for himself. He’s only allowed to do that on Monday, Wednesday and Sunday, and today is Tuesday.
At least Loki doesn’t have to worry about his wardrobe. Black slacks, black polo, and he’s good to go. He still checks himself carefully in the mirror; just because he’s wearing a uniform doesn’t mean he can’t try to look his best.
His hair is getting long, already brushing against his collar, but it’s either getting a haircut or setting the money aside for the easel he’s been coveting for months. It’s fine, Loki thinks, he has at least four more weeks until his manager will call him on it.
Loki hates the morning shift with the passion of a fiery sun. He’s probably not the only one and maybe that’s why everyone on the subway is always extra rude on the early trains, but manspreading and seathogging is just a foretaste of what will wait for him at work.
Customers at the coffee shop are worst before eight o’clock: still half-asleep, under-caffeinated and just plain insufferable. Leah keeps telling him this all-encompassing dislike for people in general is a problem he needs to work on.
Leah doesn’t know shit.
But she’s also a good friend and hands him a warm croissant as soon as he enters the staff room. She’s in charge of the cakes and pastries: not only does she get to snack to her heart’s content (something Loki wouldn’t mind, he fucking loves cake), lucky her, she also doesn’t have to deal with customers.
"Nku," Loki says, trying to chew, speak and tie his apron at the same time. It’s easier after he swallows. "You know the manager will have your head if he finds out you’re feeding me."
"Pfff, one croissant won’t ruin the shop. Besides, even you can’t stuff your greedy face with as many pastries as fuckface out there drops on a daily basis."
"What?" Loki casts a quick look into the shop and yes, there he is, Kevin, more commonly know as fuckface. Everybody hates him, but it’s always Loki who gets the brunt of Kevin’s vitriol. The guy’s a poster boy for everything that’s wrong with alphas, and Loki doesn’t deal well with idiots.
"Yeah, Becky had to trade shifts, something with her grandmother, and he offered," Leah explains. "I wonder what he does with all that money, it’s like he’s always here."
"I hope he saves it up so he can quit, the sooner the better." Loki adjusts his apron and gives a little wave on his way into the shop. "See you later."
Seventeen coffees, three good-mornings and zero dollars in tips don’t do much for Loki’s mood, but after so many months behind the counter he’s learned to distance himself from the way people are treating him and hands out beverages and pastries without giving it much thought. Hell, it’s not rocket science: brew coffee, steam milk, add syrup, don’t give a fuck. It sucks, but it’s easy.
"One IV drip, on the go, please."
Hearing the same lame joke again and again will try even the most patient of saints. Loki is self-aware enough to admit that patience isn’t exactly his forte and he’s a galaxy apart from being a saint, but at least the guy said please and even has the decency to look a little sheepish when his joke falls flat. He’s earned a little slack, so Loki dials down his glare from annoyed to just mildly irritated.
"One Venti Caffé Americano coming right up." He even manages to fake a fraction of the cheer he’s supposed to radiate at all times like it’s going out of style.
Waiting for the huge cup to fill gives Loki enough time to muster the guy from behind the espresso machine. Watching people is one of the few perks his job offers, and this guy is definitely worth watching. He’s a work of art, if Loki would have to describe him, with his neatly trimmed beard and his artfully tousled hair, his dark grey suit hugging him like a glove.
Loki doesn’t know much about suits. He owns only one and that’s the one he was able to afford. It’s tucked into the corner of his closet in its protective plastic bag, for so long now that he barely remembers what it looks like. With just enough money to feed himself and pay for his art supplies, going out for fancy dinners or to see a show is simply never an option.
But even Loki can tell that this suit is beautifully tailored to fit his owner, the slim cut of the pants bordering on obscene. Loki files away the little details, tries to remember the intricate pattern of the waistcoat so he can sketch it out later.
"Didn’t think that’s your type," Kevin drawls next to him, steaming up a cup of milk. "I always thought guys like you go for the big and strong type, somebody who shows you who’s boss." He reaches into the pocket of his apron and fishes out a flyer, sliding it towards Loki. "Here, somebody forgot this yesterday. I saved it for you."
The flyer reads Daddysboy.com in such garish letters Loki couldn’t ignore it if he tried. The asshole didn’t even try to lower his voice. In fact, he’s looking smug, completely ignoring the customers' awkward looks.
Loki, cheeks and neck burning, is tempted, for one mad, glorious moment, to throw the drink he’s holding and just see the asshole burn.
A brown stain is spreading over the crotch of Kevin’s jeans. Loki hears his frenzied shouts as half a liter of hot expresso soaks through the cloth and into his skin, realizing only then that he’s actually done it.
And fuck, it feels good.
:::
"Hey, wait! You, Mr. Barista, wait!"
Loki turns, mostly because nobody ever calls him that, just in time to see the guy in the suit rush towards him. Sans coffee. Loki allows himself a brief flash of guilt for that. The guy definitely needed it.
"Fandral. Fandral Flynn," the guy—no, Fandral introduces himself, offering a firm handshake. "I’m sorry for what just happened."
"What for?" Loki frowns at him. He isn’t even out of breath, although he must have run after Loki for quite some time. "My coworker’s outdated hatred for betas isn’t your fault."
"You’re right. But I know how awful it feels to be subjected to it. So, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry it happened to you. And that you lost your job."
"Thanks," Loki says, too stunned for more. The whole conversation feels terribly awkward, but then, kindness from random strangers isn’t something he’s used to.
"Look, I don’t mean to be rude—"
"Then don’t," Loki snaps. Usually when people start like that something really rude follows, and the last thing he needs right now is a lecture, or worse, condescension from a stranger, in the middle of the street.
"I don’t mean to be rude," Fandral repeats, undeterred. He has the air of a man who isn’t ruffled easily. "But given your current situation I take it you could use some money. A lot of money, maybe."
"That’s none of your fucking business," Loki bites out. He just may have lost a shitty job, but that doesn't mean he has no dignity.
"I realize that," Fandral says. "Just hear me out, and if you’re not interested I’ll leave you be." He takes out his wallet and hands Loki a business card. "A friend of mine is looking for someone to fill an… ah, you could say a very special position, and you fit the description perfectly. It’s not for me to talk about the details, but there’s a lot of money in it for you."
A lot of money sounds exactly like what Loki needs and real quick at that. His rent is due in a couple of days, and he isn’t exactly in a position to negotiate with his landlord. More likely, the old creep will be happy to toss him out on his ass without a second thought.
The card is a deep crimson, only the words Thor Odinson etched in gold into the heavy cardstock and, a little smaller, a phone number on the back. The artist in Loki admires the bold and simple style that radiates raw power despite the unusual color choice for a man. This Mr. Odinson must be quite something.
What exactly Loki will maybe find out soon enough. None of the scenarios he can think of sound very appealing, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Come to think of it, whatever this so-called position calls for, it’s probably nothing Loki hasn’t done already.
"I’ll think—"
Loki snaps his mouth shut. He’s alone, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, so lost in his head that he didn’t even notice that Fandral left. Around him people are going on about their lives, rushing to whatever destination awaits them.
Nothing is waiting for Loki and he’s so fucking tired of it.
He tells himself it’s just excitement that makes his hands shake as he dials the number on the card.
"Thor Odinson’s office, how can I help you?"
:::
"You did what?"
"I called the fucking number," Loki huffs, talking to his sketchbook instead of Leah. He adds another layer of shading to his sketch, darkening the stain on Kevin’s crotch so it’s the very first thing a viewer might notice. And then he adds a third layer, just because it’s really damn satisfying.
"You called the number."
"Yes, I did. I made an appointment to meet this guy and that’s it."
"You made an appointment."
"Yes, Leah, I made an appointment," Loki parrots. Sometimes she’s so damn annoying he can’t remember why he likes her in the first place.
"What for?"
"To meet him, that's what appointments are for. I don’t know. For a lot of money, I hope."
Loki catches the chunk of pastry Leah is flinging at him. It still leaves crumbs all over the bed they’re sitting on and Loki’s sketchbook. He shakes it to flick the crumbs off and feels a fierce stab of satisfaction when a greasy spot remains of Kevin’s face. So very fitting.
"So what, you’ll just waltz in and demand they fling riches at you? I mean I wouldn’t put it past you, but that would be a bit much, even for you." Leah points a finger at him. It shouldn’t feel so threatening from such a tiny person. "You do realize that they’ll probably ask to you commit heinous crimes. Don’t come to me to bust you out if you land your ass in jail."
She’d do it anyways and they both know it.
"Jesus, Leah, I talked to his personal assistant, so it seems to be a big company rather than the CIA. I doubt they’ll need a barista for corporate espionage." Loki does a dramatic head toss and lifts his chin, drawing a hand along the line of his clavicle. "Maybe they’ll just need somebody with fantastic looks. My gorgeous figure is just about the only thing dear Fandral had to go by."
"Which still could get you into jail," Leah mutters to herself.
Loki ignores it, as always. Nothing he can say will change his past or make Leah less paranoid about it.
"Anyways," Leah says, squirming up so she can lean back against the headrest, flapping her hand with the half-eaten croissant at Loki. Loki snatches it and groans when he bites into the buttery softness. He’d die for these croissants.
"You were saying? By the way, it’ll be your ass in jail if you keep stealing these."
"They’re just leftovers, nobody will miss them."
"It’s 6 p.m.. No leftovers until the shop closes."
"Well, they’re leftovers from my shift." Leah flings a heavy paper bag at him that smells like heaven and will save him quite a bit of money for groceries. "What I wanted to say was that you tell this Mr. Thorson that I will have his nuts if something happens to you."
"Odinson," Loki corrects. "Thor Odinson."
"Thorson, Odinson, who cares. Tell me, what is he like?"
" I haven’t met him yet, remember? There’s next to nothing about him on Google. He’s rich, likes to party but is very discreet about it. No photos except the one on the company website. He looks decent for a guy in his thirties, I guess, but you can never tell with these official photos."
Leah takes the sketchbook from him, smiling at the admittedly quite exaggerated stain. "Everybody at work thinks you’re a star for what you did, but they still won’t speak up and that asshole got away again."
"Isn’t that how it always goes? All this talk about how you just have to be brave this one time and luck will find you. It's just utter bullshit."
"Maybe it’s not." Leah traces the bold lines of graphite. "You’re so crazy talented, maybe it’s time to think about art school again."
"Do you know somebody who can work miracles?" Loki snaps. They’ve been over this a million times and she still keeps bringing it up. "The only thing that’s changed is that my asshole father is gone. Instead I’m stuck with a mountain of debt I’ll never be able to pay back."
"But there’s stipends! With your talent—"
"Yeah, because they’re giving stipends so freely to students with a police record. Leave it, Leah, please, it’s not going to happen."
Loki sighs. He’s suddenly so fucking tired, the day finally catching up with him. All he wants to do is sleep and not think and worry for a few hours.
:::
Loki arrives at his destination in Midtown with minutes to spare, slightly out of breath from his brisk walk. He wishes he’d taken a taxi, but a ride through the entire city would have left him flat broke and probably taken twice as long as a ride on the subway.
Odinson Holdings resides in an impressive high-rise building. Loki doesn’t recognize any of the long row of names listed on a panel at the entrance. They all the sound the same to him. Holding this, LLC that, just a boring list of generic names.
Inside everything seems to be made of steel and glass. Even the floor of the elevator is a large glass panel, which makes Loki snap up his neck so fast he almost pulls a muscle. He doesn't deal all that well with heights.
His way leads him past not one but two receptionists and even then there’s another lady waiting for him rather than the mysterious Mr. Odinson.
Her name plate says Sif, followed by a string of consonants Loki doesn’t bother trying to pronounce, Personal Assistant of Thor Odinson.
She’s gorgeous, dark hair and flawless skin, but she looks utterly murderous, there’s no other way to put it. Not at Loki, even he can’t provoke such a reaction within half a minute. Either it’s the person at the other end of the phone that’s provoking her wrath or, more likely, the constant buzz that’s coming from the other people in the room. Loki can’t shake the impression that this isn’t how this office usually looks.
Apparently Loki isn’t the only one who has an appointment with Mr. Odinson today. He counts seven men who couldn’t be more different. There’s a little bit of everything, the whole range from corporate employee in an ill-fitting suit to what seems to be a twink who came straight from a club. The only visible thing they have in common are their age and dark hair.
The good thing is, they’re all obviously not here because of their excellent references.
The bad thing is, they’re all obviously not here because of their excellent references. Loki hates to admit that maybe Leah wasn’t so wrong.
"Loki Laufeyson," he introduces himself when Sif finishes her call. "We talked yesterday. I’m here to see Mr. Odinson."
She doesn’t answer. Instead she musters him, her gaze traveling the lines of his body for so long that Loki has to consciously stop himself from fidgeting. As slim as the chances are that this is an actual job interview, he’d like to give it a go and not be dismissed for acting like a fool before it even starts.
"Oh thank God," Sif whispers then, heart-felt and fervent. "You’re perfect!"
"Gentlemen," she announces, the steel in her voice enough to make everyone snap to attention. "I’m sorry, but I must inform you that the position is already filled. Thank you for your time and of course we will refund any expenses you’ve had."
Loki’s mind is still reeling when she stands to see the other candidates out. His suspicions that he’s here for his looks just got confirmed, but he isn’t quite sure whether he should be glad or offended.
"Go in," Sif orders, tilting her head towards a door Loki hasn’t noticed before.
He takes a deep breath and goes before he might change his mind.
:::
Loki remembers thinking that Thor Odinson really must be something. He’s been never so wrong in his whole life.
Thor Odinson is everything.
Everything that pushes Loki’s buttons. Every single one of them.
The first thing Loki notices is his scent. As a beta he usually doesn’t respond to an alpha’s scent. It’s faint, barely there, but for him to smell it at all it must be incredibly strong, completely irresistible for any omega.
The photo on the website doesn’t do him justice, not by a long shot. It doesn’t show the piercing blue of his eyes, the thick golden hair pulled back into a bun, or the width of his shoulders, thick muscles straining against the white shirt he's wearing, the rolled up sleeves a stark contrast against his tanned forearms.
Loki knows he's staring, rude and completely unprofessional, but how can he not? Most likely the guy is used to it, judging by the wry smile that curls his lips when Loki finally manages to pull himself together.
"Your name?" Mr. Odinsons asks, clearly not for the first time. His voice is a deep rumble that might actually be his best feature.
"Loki Laufeyson. Mr. Flynn gave me your card."
"Fandral really is a good friend. Only he would pick you out of eight million people and then send you to me instead of keeping you." Thor points at the chair in front of his desk. "But I'm being rude, please have a seat."
Loki sits down, grateful that he no longer has to hold himself upright. This is getting weirder by the minute and his legs are feeling like rubber. Why in hell would Fandral want to keep him? For what?
"I guess you've figured out by now that this isn't an ordinary job interview, so I'll come straight to the point. I'm offering you 300,000 dollars in exchange for a year of your time."
Loki's feels his cheeks go hot. That amount of money would save every single one of his problems. He wants to say yes, right now, this very second, yes yes yes, but there's a nagging voice at the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Leah, telling him that a fortune like this won't come cheap.
"A year of my time? I mean, what do I have to do?"
Thor leans back into the plush leather of his chair, fixing Loki with a piercing look.
"Marry me."