[softly]: it’ll pass.

You pack everything up before you ask.

You figure that forgiveness is better than permission—and in any case, you don’t live in a world where Loki often tells you no.

Two sandwiches, a sleeve of chocolate cookies, a tall thermos of blackberry lemonade, all laid on top of a soft, multicolored quilt, all carefully packed inside of a wicker basket.

A fine selection for an afternoon picnic, if you do say so yourself. 

The only thing that seemed to be missing from your carefully crafted array was your plus one for the afternoon. 

Fortunately, it doesn’t take long for you to find him, stored away at the cluttered desk in his otherwise neat study—his head craned over a stack of papers, idly scribbling his ink pen. 

You approach softly, but not quietly, with hands sliding against the tops of his shoulders.

Loki leans back in his chair, the back meeting your sternum. 

“Ah. The fates have answered my call,” he murmurs, head tilting back. His blue eyes meet yours, the pretty green flakes around his pupils sparkling. He still looks tired, you think. Kept inside too long. "Hello."

You hum softly, squeezing his shoulders. The muscle feels tense underneath the soft fabric of his shirt. "Come on a walk with me,” you say. 

Not a question.

Loki scoffs. "My dear, I'm in the very middle of my work. You want me to leave to go on a walk?" He pauses, like he expects you to answer.  

You think about pinching him. 

A grin breaks out on his face. "I'll get my boots."

You duck over his shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Meet me at the front door!” 

000 

The weather’s unusually warm, a complete opposite from the nonstop rainy days that seem to have taken over the past month’s forecast.

But the breeze blows just enough to make it feel pleasant to be outside, and the trees that litter the path from home to river provide just enough shade that it doesn’t feel like your skin is on fire. 

Loki carries your basket underneath one arm. You’d protested initially when he took it, but it was nice to walk without the burden of the pack. 

Your face tilts upward towards the sun. “This is nice,” you say. 

“Indeed,” Loki replies. His cheeks already show a healthy, pink glow. 

You bump into his hip on purpose. 

Loki reaches out, hand brushing against your wrist. He lingers, then takes your palm against his, fingers gliding between yours. 

His skin is cool to the touch. An illusion, you think. A gift against the heat. You squeeze his hand once in thanks. 

000

The river looks exactly the same as the last time you trekked out with Loki. Clear water and beautiful weeping trees; grass overgrown to the point of comfort. 

Loki walks over to one of the taller trees, sitting the basket down at the base of its roots. He gives you an expectant look. 

It only takes a few steps for you to catch up to him, bending over to open the basket and mindfully pull the quilt out. With a few quick shakes, the blanket unfurls, expanding to let you place it against the ground. 

“Historically, a good spot,” Loki muses. He waits for you to sit before he follows, wasting no time in unlacing his boots. 

“I’m glad I picked it.” You stretch out on the blanket, palms pressing into the plush grass. You can just barely see the blue sky through the leaves. 

You don’t need to look over to know that Loki rolls his eyes at your comment, or that he has already settled against the tree like some ancient thing; you only need to feel the gentle tug as he moves your feet from the blanket to his lap.

“I was under the impression that we were a team.”

“We are.” You tilt your chin to look at him now—shaded by the tree, dark hair down in waves, long fingers tapping against your ankle. Peaceful. “I find the good spots. You carry heavy things.” 

“I recall you saying, at least once, that I’m also good at finding spots.” His voice has an edge of teasing in it—flirting, mixed with unashamed insinuation.  

You poke a toe into his abdomen. 

He laughs, circling your ankle with his hand. “Easy,” Loki murmurs. 

The last thing you see before you lay back on the quilt is that smugly satisfied look on his face. 

000

Eventually, the growling of your stomach prompts you to sit up again. Emptying the basket, you spread the food out between you and Loki. 

He picks up the thermos while you open the sleeve of cookies. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a frost forming around the curve of the container. 

“Dramatic.” 

“It’s a million degrees outside,” Loki retorts. 

“Like I said.” 

“I heard thank you.” Loki places the thermos back in its spot. “And you’re welcome.” 

You hand him a wrapped sandwich, quiet except for the small smile pulling at your lips. Loki takes it, unwrapping the paper with care. 

000 

At some point after eating, Loki’s head ends up in your lap. His eyes close not long after your fingers thread through his hair, brushing through the long, dark strands. 

“Are you asleep?” Your fingers pause in his hair when you ask. 

“Mm. No.”

“You look like you’re asleep.” 

“Sleeping requires more silence,” Loki mutters, an eyelid cracking. He raises an eyebrow at you. You smooth a finger against it. 

You realize, not for the first time, how easily he lets you touch him. How often you want to touch him.

Just because. 

The heartbeat in your chest makes itself more known, a solid thumping that sounds like he’s still here—and that might be the crux of it. 

He is still here. He is still peaceful. Your peace. And it feels all too fragile. 

“You should let me pluck these,” you say. Your tone is higher than you intended it to be. 

Not privy to your thoughts, Loki closes his eyes again. “My eyebrows are fine,” he says, smooth and unbothered, “and will not be sacrificed for your amusement.” 

“You’re hardly in a position of power right now.”

“I am exactly where I prefer to be,” Loki answers. “Though perhaps you would prefer a different activity?” 

“Do you have a suggestion?” You ask, fingers idly returning to their task of raking through his hair. “Or simply speculation?” 

Loki tsks. “Neither, dear heart.”

000

The sky hits its highest point, making it almost impossible to stay still any longer. 

You weren’t willing to go home so soon.

Home was nice, yes—but being out in the open, with fresh sun, and with Loki, was a moment that you always wanted to hold on to for a little longer. 

You rise, step closer to the water. The waves are gentle, lapping at your toes; refreshing against the dry air. Reaching down, you grab the first stone that you touch. 

It fits easily between your fingers, a nice weight that tells you to throw it. 

The rock sinks. 

Not satisfying. 

You pick up another rock, more determined for it to skip, and throw. 

Again, it sinks straight down to the bottom of the river. 

Loki stands up, standing next to you without flourish. “What are you doing?” he asks. 

You look down to see that he’s rolled the legs of his pants up his calves so that he can step into the water. You pick up another rock, biting back a smile at the vision of Loki wading into the river. 

“Skipping stones,” you explain, straightening. “Or trying to. I’ve never made it past two skips.” 

Loki hums thoughtfully, reaching to grab a stone. “Show me.” 

You hesitate. 

Then, with the same technique you’d been using, you give the stone a toss. 

“Ah.” Loki watches as your stone soars several feet toward, then meets its tragic, anticlimactic fate. His thumb brushes over his stone; then, in one smooth motion, his elbow cocks back and his wrists flicks, sending the stone several skips ahead. 

Oh! Your brow furrows and you turn at him so quickly that the water splashes around your ankles. “Without using magic!” You protest, pointing a finger. 

Loki grins, holding both hands up in surrender. “I didn’t use magic,” he says. “Promise.” 

It’s worse if you believe him, because that means… you’re just not very good at skipping stones.

You frown, grabbing another rock from the water. “Do it again,” you say, holding your hand out. 

Loki plucks the rock from your palm. He turns his gaze back to the water’s surface, pausing. Like he was considering. Then, again, he goes through the motions to make the rock fly forward. 

It only skips forward three times, but it’s still one more than your personal best. More than enough to dampen your mood. 

He looks at you. Realizes your expression, his own joy faltering. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“Nothing.” You pick up a handful of rocks in one hand, tossing them into the river with the other, clearly not making an effort. 

Loki watches as the rocks sink. One, then another, and another. The silence between the two of you is noticeable. 

“It’s the stone,” Loki finally says. You throw one more, then pause. He’s looking into the water, concentrating, until he finds one that he likes. “It needs to be smooth. And flat. Maybe circular? But mostly flat.” 

You huff a breath of air, not easily caving to the patience in Loki’s voice. You watch the water, the way that it moves, rather than looking at him again. 

“Finding a good rock,” he continues, pulling his arm back, “is almost as hard as aiming it.” 

“And what made you an expert on skipping stones?”

“I had many afternoons of practice, dear heart. Hours when I would walk away and no one would find me until supper. Which was fine. Got a bit boring, though.” The stone skips into your view as he pauses. “I mastered almost every mindless task.” 

Loki is still staring forward when you look. You think that, maybe, your pouting was unwarranted. 

“Like what?” 

“Oh, to be told,” he replies, turning his head towards you. He looks still - much like the river you were standing in. Calm, but able to drag you under. “I can tell you the secret to skipping a rock, little mortal, but any more secrets? Those will have to wait.” 

“I’m going to push you in.”

“You are not.” 

You shove his side. It doesn’t move him. 

Loki lifts an arm, smoothly pulling you closer to his side. He pinches a rock from your grasp. “Shall we try again?” 

“You’re so annoying.” You duck your head against his chest for a beat, indulging in the closeness before you shuffle yourself away from him. The air was still too warm to be that close. 

“Perhaps.” Loki’s hand stays against your shoulder, even with the distance. “And yet—you stay.” A fact he knew you wouldn’t refute. “Now, the angle is what’s important—” 

000 

The sun is setting by the time you start to pack away the picnic. 

You throw the garbage in the bottom of the basket. Loki helps you fold the quilt in careful quarters. The thermos is back to a normal temperature when you place it in last. 

During the entire time you’d spent in the water with Loki, your stone never skipped more than four times. 

But—when Loki takes the basket from your hands, and you give it over without thinking about it, and you start the walk back to the house - you think about how you feel sated. 

You think about how he’d slipped in telling you a hobby he’s learned; how he almost fell over when a fish swam by, and how you had to grab his arm when the fish brushed by your ankle. 

You think about the sun on your face as you walk home, and how much lighter you feel than when you had left the house. 

The idea that Loki would have a toothache is something that doesn't even cross your mind.

He's over a thousand years old. A diety, depending on who you ask. Well masted in the magics and even sometimes competent in healing.

A skipped trip to the dentist shouldn't be an option for creating problems.

And yet—one swollen face and a series of dental visits later, and Loki has become one with the couch.

He insisted he would be fine, that he would not need after care for such a trivial thing, and had doubled down in saying that there was not a pain medication on Earth that would slow him.

And yet—he has called you pretty twenty-seven times since you've been home (which, when you do the math later, is almost once a minute).

He asked for soup, then fell asleep before you could enter the kitchen to prepare it.

When he wakes up, he asks for something cold - and you have to work to understand him because he is mush-mouthing - and doesn't protest about the bag of peas that you place against his cheek.

He asks for a blanket because he's too cold, then kicks it off because he's too hot. Asks for a pillow behind his head so that he can comfortably watch television, only to squirm uncomfortably while flipping channels.

You hear him call your name from across the room. You walk over, ready to tell him off because even though you know he's in recovery, he's still acting like a child—but he looks up at you with such sweet, hazy eyes that you stop in your tracks, because you know he doesn't have much left in him this evening.

"Sit here," Loki says. He doesn't specify. He doesn't say please.

Still, you move blankets and pillows to make yourself comfortable near his feet, helping to fold his legs somewhere over you. The long limbs are somewhat awkward against the couch, but he doesn't voice being uncomfortable.

Quite the opposite—Loki settles against the pillows against his back, eyes drooping faster and opening slower.

"Okay?" You ask. You watch him for a sign of true discomfort, and not just whining. The only thing you can see is disheveled curls and a sleepy man.

Loki mumbles his yes, and then—

Nothing.