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She is startled awake by the feeling of his hand on her shoulder; she glances up in alarm, but he merely smiles blearily and hands over her cell phone before stumbling back out of her darkened bedroom, narrowly missing the doorframe on his way through. She squints against the glare of the display before putting it to her ear.
“Hello?” her voice is a little rough.
“What the hell kind of name is Loki?” someone asks, and she blinks for a second before recognizing the voice of her former dissertation chair. Simon keeps going, imperious as always. “Let me guess. Tragic, thin, wears t-shirts for metal bands he’s never even seen, may or may not carry a copy of Catcher in the Rye in his back pocket at all times because nobody understands him, by God, and don’t even get me started on his footwear. Good lord, where’d you find a roommate like that? Iceland? Norway? Whole Foods?”
“Something like that,” she finally manages, scrubbing a hand across her face as she rolls to her back. “To what fresh hell do I owe the pleasure of a phone call at six o’clock on a Saturday morning, Simon? It had better be good.”
“I called to see if you’ve got a suit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Business wear, Doctor Kindle. Do you own anything suitable?”
“Yes,” she says, then knits her brow. “Probably. Why?”
“Because you’ve got an interview, me duck.” There’s a brief pause and a rustle of papers. “Video call around tea time, which is just a couple of hours away. I wanted to warn you in case you hadn’t checked your email yet, and I’m glad I did, you bloody slacker. What would you do without me?”
“Interview?” she asks stupidly, her brain still sluggish from an exceptionally late night helping Loki with Tony’s project. “With whom?”
“With whom.” Simon scoffs, and the look on his face is easy to imagine. “Who do you think? John Brooks, that’s who. Head of the archaeology division for King’s College? Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Don’t tell me I drove all the way to London to bellow profanities at him for nothing.”
She surges upright. “Shut your mouth, old man.”
“Still not an ounce of respect for your elders,” he observes gleefully. “Glad to know nothing’s changed. Get your ass out of bed, girl. You’ve got a job to land.”
***
Tony knocked as he walked in, peeking around into the kitchen with bottle of syrup in hand. Loki glanced up, finger to his lips, and gestured for him to go straight out to the deck. He raised his eyebrow, snagging a plate of bacon on the way and kicking off his shoes before heading down the stairs and across the sand to where the others were already gathered around a table. Loki followed, carrying a heavier platter loaded with assorted pancakes in both hands.
“Sorry I’m late,” Tony said as he sat. “I was afraid you’d started without me. Where’s Ace?”
“Video job interview,” Parker replied, taking the the plate of bacon from him and dropping a third of its contents onto his own plate before passing it along. He met Rhodes’ stern look with a pathetic one. “I’m in mourning, man. The least you can do is allow me to eat my feelings.”
“It’s just a first interview,” Pepper observed as Parker dodged Rhodes’ smack to the head. “Anything could happen.” The matching incredulous stares she got from the others at the table made her laugh, and she lifted her hands. “Don’t look at me like that. I was just trying to make him feel better.”
“She’s been in there for over an hour.” Several pancakes joined the bacon on Parker’s plate. “I think it’s safe to say she’ll at least make it to the second round. Traitor.”
Loki sipped his tea, and Tony noticed how his eyes kept going back to the house, a faint wrinkle of concern between his brows.
“Interview where?” Tony asked.
“King’s College. Apparently her dissertation chair called her this morning to warn her.”
“London, huh?” Stark glanced at Pepper with an unreadable look on his face, then grinned and leaned back. Loki turned from the house for a brief moment, watching the two of them.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Pepper sighed in response, digging into the pile of berries, pancakes and powdered sugar on her plate with a smirk and a shake of her head.
“Do what?” Loki’s voice was distracted as his eyes flicked back to the windows.
“Miss Potts and I have been having some discussions recently,” Tony said, fanning his hands dramatically, “about the future. Growth. Expansion. An upgrade of the system, as it were.”
“And?”
He leaned forward, helping himself to more pancakes from the dwindling stack. “Two things. First- and I hate to talk business during breakfast, but this is weirdly relevant- I got a call from Stafford the other day. You remember. The bioscience contract that turned up their nose at us about eight months ago?”
“Before my time, I’m afraid.”
“Right, but not actually the point. The point is, sunshine, that they called wanting to renegotiate, and they don’t want to talk to me, or even Pepper. They want to talk to you.”
Loki blinked, and Stark chuckled a little. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself. Decent, fair and one hell of a negotiator. Word travels fast in these circles.” He poked a finger at the table. “Second. We want to expand some of our offices overseas, and London’s on the short list.” He grinned. “If she makes it, and I think we all know she’s going to, do you want in? Part time. Consultation only. Hell, I’ll even move your workshop.”
***
She leans back in the chair, smiling at the man on the screen in front of her.
“It was really quite spectacular,” Brooks says. “Showed up on my doorstep yesterday evening, out of the blue and with a copy of your CV in case I’d misplaced the one you sent us. I told him we had worked our way down to the last few candidates, and that I’d have to check if you were one of them. He was quite insistent that if you weren’t, you should be. The only candidate, in fact. I’ll spare you the extensive list of profanities he used, but let’s just say that Simon can be very persuasive when his heart’s really in something.”
“I don’t need a list,” she laughs. “I’ve probably heard most of them already.”
An answering chuckle. “I’m not so sure. He’s improved his repertoire with time, I think.” He grows a little more serious. “But the fact is, Doctor Kindle, that Simon Claremont and I have been friends for almost as long as you’ve been alive, and when one of us speaks, the other tends to listen. It’s also to be said that over the years, he and I have consulted on candidates, and he has never once been wrong, for good or ill. His… accolades, profane as they might be, are rare praise indeed.” A movement off screen, and Brooks slides three books into view.
“The thing is,” he goes on, “you almost don’t need it. Your works and experience stand on their own. I went back through our files, and it would seem that we had bandied around the idea of an offer to you about a year ago, but it seems to have never come to anything.”
“Last year was… difficult,” she finally manages. “There were several urgent projects for my then-employer that I was thrown onto at once, and then, you know. Invasion. Death in the family. Things got a little busy.” She taps a finger on the desk, unable to help herself. “So… you have my books in the library there?”
“No,” he replies. “Not yet. I had to borrow these.” Brooks shuffles them. “This is your latest, from Doctor Claremont. The other two are loans from Colin Stewart.”
Her jaw drops fractionally. The man who’s run the field schools for decades. The one whose place she’d take. She shoves down the hero worship and attempts to look casual. “Oh.”
“Hard to read, though,” Brooks admits. “He’s highlighted and annotated them within an inch of their lives, poor things.” He smiles at her discomfiture and leans forward, hands clasped.
“So,” he says with a warm grin. “When can we expect you in London? For the second round of interviews, of course, but I think we both know those will be mere formality. Please, Doctor Kindle. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to our humble institution.”
***
She shot out the back door with a whoop, ignoring the stairs completely as she landed on the soft sand at a run. Loki was on his feet before she hit the ground; he braced himself as she slammed into him, then scooped her up into a tight hug without caring who saw.
“That’s a yes, then?” Rhodes said from his chair, and Parker’s head thumped to the table as she grinned over Loki’s shoulder.
“You could say that.”
***
Sunday mornings were quiet, reserved for only the two of them. They often involved long walks or drives as they explored the surrounding area, or detailed discussions of nothing of consequence, lessons, naps or a combination of all four.
Baking wasn’t too different from crafting in his workshop on Asgard, as it turned out. In fact, it was quite similar to creating potions. Both took practice. Both took precision. Both took lining up all of your components beforehand because time was generally of the essence, and preparation meant success.
The recipe was almost a page; after a few ambitious trials, she had put her foot down and told him to start at the beginning. He’d learned pancakes and french toast easily enough and was quickly moving on to more involved creations. They’d determined he was a better baker than a cook; he understood ratios and measurements more easily than trying to adjust a recipe on the fly, and spices continued to occasionally elude him.
She sat on the countertop a few feet away to offer moral support while giving him ample space to work; it had become her favorite perch during his culinary practice sessions. Never needling, always patient, and she didn’t talk too much, which was greatly appreciated when concentration was required.
He had set up the ingredients as he always did - left to right in order, and he didn’t bother to look up from the recipe as his hand worked its way across. Flour, sugar, baking powder, everything in its place until he went for the salt and his hand came straight down onto the cool stone of the counter. Distracted, he shifted his fingers a little, only looking up at her after he hit the cinnamon, next in line and clearly not what he needed.
She blinked at him curiously, one hand tucked behind her back, and he suppressed a smile with some effort.
“Hand it over.”
“Trade you,” she said.
He gave her a level look, but she gave no ground. At last he sighed and reached for the bottle of cinnamon on the counter. He held it out.
“Trade.”
“Nope. Don’t want that.”
“Then what do you want? Vanilla? Baking chips?”
“A kiss,” she replied.
“You’ve already had one,” he told her. “Not two hours ago.”
One eyebrow went up. “I wasn’t aware they were rationed, so I’d like another, if you please. I’m leaving, remember? I think I’m allowed to borrow at least one or two. Stock up, if you will. It’s only fair.” She relaxed dramatically against the cupboards, hand still tightly lodged behind her. “Seven whole days without a smooch to be had,” she said mournfully. “However will I manage?”
He shrugged. “I can't help that my passport hasn’t come through or that Stark scheduled my meetings for the same week. Besides, you seemed to do all right before I showed up.”
“Right. Before. I know better now. It’s not my fault you’ve ruined me.” She sighed, all grey eyes and studied innocence.
He leaned in, just a little. “You are incorrigible.”
“And you need salt.” She matched his pose and his smirk, and he hoped he would never get used to the way his grin looked on her. “So pony up.”
He did need salt, even though it was becoming increasingly unimportant, and he dropped the bottle of cinnamon onto the counter with one hand as the other yanked her forward. This kiss was different from the one he had given her this morning; this one was hot and fierce and teasing because two could play at this game and seven days was longer than it used to be.
He dragged his hand down her arm, following it behind her back. He nipped her lower lip, and her free hand crumpled his shirt. Pulling back slightly, he grinned before he kissed her again, hard and quick, barely managing to catch her head with his other hand before it hit the cupboard behind her. He kept her gaze as he slipped the jar of salt from her now-unresisting fingers, stroked his knuckles along her cheekbone, then calmly turned back to his mixing bowl and unscrewed the lid.
“You know,” she said, “we had more above the stove.” She wore a slightly drunken grin as she watched him carefully measure out a fourth of a teaspoon.
“Did we,” he replied with the same faintly stupid smile on his face. “I had no idea.” She nudged him with a bare foot; he tightened the lid back on the salt, and yes, indeed. These were going to be the longest seven days of his life.