#eee. finally

In another life, one not so long ago, Loki's immediate reaction to someone else touching him, or even simply reaching into his personal space, would have produced a reaction not unlike that of a cat: hissing (of the metaphorical sort), smacking of hands, and a look that would kill, if looks could do that sort of thing. But the years have softened him. He was still Loki -- still a trickster, still himself -- but he had removed the chip from his shoulder. So, while physical touch was still not something he would actively seek out, he no longer immediately flinched away from touches which proved to be non-threatening. They were touches as this one: someone reaching out to straighten the lapel of Loki's jacket, which had been flipped by the wind and rain outside. The small smile which he gave the man in return was soft, but genuine. "I thank you for appealing to my vanity," he said. "Can't stand to have even a hair out of place." He dipped his head in a small nod. And then, somewhat theatrically, because he had changed but not totally, he asked: "Your name, kind sir...?"

He couldn't help it. Standing right beside him, in all his Norse glory; was the god of mischief himself. These galas keep getting crazier and Bob has to contain himself from absolutely freaking out, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

Maybe the booze is actually starting to affect him (not possible), or the energy of the room giving him confidence-- but his arm moves on his own and very gently picks a stray chip off of the god's shoulder. Bob meets his eyes, soft and a little intimidating, given how much taller Loki was-- and manages a lopsided smile.