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Loki sat on a chair, legs stretched out and sketchbook forgotten on his lap as he stared at the tide coming in. He wasn’t sure why he liked it so much; he had always loved the sea, but this was something different. It was calm, almost serene compared to the violent, jagged surf that marked many of Asgard’s shores. Even the bay had been prone to storms, more so when his brother suffered a fit of pique or was particularly enamored with one courtier or another. Loki had long lost count of the number of beautiful lords and ladies drenched by a convenient thunderstorm, laughing as their clothes were soaked and gladly paying the asked-for price to have the rain swept away. The cost varied depending on Thor’s mood, and Loki had been belatedly called on more than once to conjure one illusion or another in order to keep the more acrobatic reckonings from prying eyes.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said, coming out onto the deck; he put his sketchbook aside as he pulled her down into his lap, snugging one arm around her waist and effectively trapping her.
“It had better be more than that,” he told her with a stern look. “I happen to know how much you won in that bet.”
Her smile was shameless. “How was I to know they’d made a whole pool out of it?”
“Because you’re brilliant.” He nuzzled her neck. “Fifty-fifty, and I’ll sp-” he stopped, lips quirked. “I’ll confess faster than Westinghouse when he’s had one too many hard ciders.”
“Ooo. Speedy indeed.”
“Norns,” he said in agreement, rolling his eyes. “Did I look like a tavern keeper to him? The things about that man I’ll never be able to un-know.” He shivered.
“And it serves both of you right,” she replied with a grin. “Eighty-twenty.”
“Sixty-forty,” he countered, “and I’ll throw in a dramatic reenactment of the single most premeditated accidental arse grabbing I’ve experienced since the last time I went hunting with Thor and his warriors three.” He leaned back slightly, hand shifting to her knee, and after a moment, he smirked. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you.”
“Maybe. I mean, do I get a hint? Was it quality, at least?”
He pretended to think. “Well, the quasi-political maneuvering was amateur at best; the delivery was a little clumsy, but while she may have been wanting a bit of finesse, she certainly didn’t lack for enthusiasm.”
“I see.”
He batted his eyelashes innocently as he slid his hand up her leg. “What you must think of me, Mr. Laufeyson. I can't believe I… well, you're just so tall, dear. I must have misjudged the distance. Norway, you said?”
“Yes,” Aeslin answered as she stifled a giggle, her accent an almost-perfect replica of his own. “Descended from a long, long line of absurdly beautiful and emotionally constipated pseudo-Vikings.” She gestured loftily. “Or so they told me, anyway.”
Loki grinned and squeezed her hip. “Not bad. Not bad at all, but I'm afraid I'll be keeping the rest until payment is forthcoming.”
“Seventy-thirty,” she offered, “the real story and the last ice cream bar.”
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, and she read his mind.
“Snickers,” she confirmed.
“Done and done. Hand it over.”
***
His back rests against the couch, knee drawn up and sketchbook braced on his thigh. She is sleeping on the cushions behind him; her arm is loosely curled around his shoulder, hand resting on his chest. The television is on but turned down, a gentle hum of words and flickering light keeping the darkness at bay. He finishes his text, putting the phone down on the floor next to him. He has barely picked up his pencil again when his cell buzzes. She comes almost to wakefulness, senses honed by countless nights on call, and he soothes her back to sleep with one hand while retrieving his phone with the other.
Parker -0045: Polo. You need to talk?
He slides his thumb across the keyboard. Not really. Just testing the list.
Parker -0048: Did I pass? I'm first, right? Please tell me I'm first. Or at least a strong second.
A smile.
Passed with flying colors, as ever. And I didn't number the list.
Parker -0052: That means I'm second. Jerk. See if I throw Catan for you again.
Loki chuckles softly as his fingers move easily across the letters. Second to none?
Parker -0055: ....
Parker -0055: I'll take it. Only because we're buds.
Duly noted, he types in response. Rematch soon?
Parker -0057: Soon.
***
Loki swiped his badge to unlock his office door, depositing the massive sheaf of papers and his breakfast gratefully on the polished expanse of desk. He stretched his arm carefully as Jarvis’ voice broke into the silence.
“Good morning, sir. How was the exhibit?”
“Just what I needed,” Loki replied. “Plenty of information, quite a bit of inspiration, and thanks again for setting up that meeting with the curator.”
“It went well, then?”
“Without question. I may need you to image some notes later. The cocktail napkins aren’t holding up quite as well as I thought they would.”
“A common problem, sir, but one without which I might not exist.”
“Born on a napkin, then? Quite a humble beginning.”
“I believe it was the back of a takeout menu,” came the reply. “Not that it makes much of a difference.”
A gentle smirk as Loki sat down and began sorting through the stack in front of him. The AI spoke once more.
“Music, sir?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Anything in particular?”
He fanned through the papers. Flowery phrases, masses of fine print and more passive-aggression than his last nameday feast and the treaty negotiations with Alfheim put together. He pulled a face.
“Something to keep me awake,” he said. “It looks like I’m going to be here for a while.”
***
He was still deep in the morass of contract language hours later when there was a timid knock at his door. Loki didn’t glance up until he had finished a scribbled notation in the margins.
“Come in.”
The young man from Supply poked his head in; Loki had met him briefly a while before during the initial haze of employee orientation.
“I’ve got presents,” he said without fanfare. “I can come back later if you’re in the middle of something.”
Loki cracked his neck experimentally. “No, that’s fine. I could use a break.”
“Sorry it took so long,” replied the kid, pushing a cart into the room. “We only got the final signatures a couple of days ago.”
“Not a problem,” Loki said soothingly. “What do you have?”
“Everything. Office supplies, the art you selected, frames, and I think there’s even a plant or two on here somewhere.”
Loki’s eye was caught by a flash of bright yellow. He gently extracted what appeared to be a sign. Flipping it over, he glanced at the front.
“What’s this?”
The young man looked up from his clipboard. “Oh. Those are a pretty new thing. Everybody’s got one, or at least they’re going to in the next couple of weeks. We’re trying to move toward a more active and open door workplace. That’s for you to put in your window when you’re gone or busy and can’t be disturbed. It’s meant to give people more face-to-face interaction and encourage activity instead of chasing each other down with out of office emails. I mean, we’re not phasing out email or anything. Just trying to be more like people. It’s still in the experimental phase.”
Loki held up the sign, which read Out of Order in large, friendly letters, and raised one eyebrow.
“Oh,” said the kid. “Oh. Oh man, I’m sorry. We must have ordered the wrong one. It’s just that Stark signed off on yours himself, so we didn’t bother double checking any changes or mistakes and oh, gosh. Here. I can get that replaced.”
Loki didn’t hand it over. “Stark approved it himself, did he?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry. We usually check for mistakes or anything like this, but-” he stuttered to a stop when he saw the look on Loki’s face.
“It’s not a mistake,” Loki told him. “I can almost guarantee that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” said Loki with a faint grin, putting the sign carefully next to the pile of papers on his desk and turning to help the man unload the rest of the cart. “I know an opening shot when I see one.”
***
These were the types of meetings Tony liked. Just Pepper and he, going over files or talking about business or science or anything in between. He’d made a good choice handing the reins to her, hadn’t doubted it once; that didn’t mean he didn’t like to sit up on the box with her from time to time.
A knock, and a moment later Loki strolled in, crisp and sleek as though he hadn’t just spent eleven hours straight in a boardroom with a set of snippy upstarts from Silicon Valley. Tony had had a brief moment when he almost felt sorry for him, but one question to Jarvis had set him laughing so hard that he’d realized he’d been pitying the wrong person.
“How’d it go?” he asked, gesturing to the neat file in Loki’s hands.
He shrugged as he placed it carefully on the edge of Pepper’s desk. “Well enough. I got what you wanted.”
“How so?”
“They met your terms.”
Pepper looked through the cover pages. “All of them?”
“Every single one.”
Tony sat forward. “Even the ones we put in there knowing they’d never bite?”
“Even those, since you never bothered to specify which ones you meant to throw out and which ones you didn’t.”
“Concessions?”
“One.”
There was a vast silence for a moment, and then Pepper cleared her throat.
“Excuse me?”
“One concession, non-contributory at best and easily met. You’ll find it on page one hundred fifteen, toward the bottom,” Loki told her. “You asked me to do a job, and I did it. Your terms are met, the contracts signed, with initial delivery expected in forty-five days. As requested.”
Pepper’s eyes were wide as she continued reading, and Tony stared at him, open-mouthed.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, loosening his tie as he headed back toward the door, “I’ve got reservations to keep.”
The only sound after he left was the rapid shuffling of paper as Pepper looked for the page, and her sudden laughter as she handed the sheet to Tony. He glanced at the language, then at the sticky note attached, the sharp, clear shape of the script somehow unsurprising.
Party starts at noon; plan your flyover no later than 1220. They’ve promised to save you some birthday cake. With any luck, it will at least be edible, but as the esteemed celebrant is only eight, I can make no guarantees.
Let the games begin.