Standing in the open elevator is a mammoth of a man, all muscles and blue eyes and long, blond hair that’s half pulled back and half falls idyllically around his shoulders. He’s wearing a big, puffy black coat and a red scarf that looks more like a blanket than a scarf. His scruffy, perfect face is pink from windburn and he looks mildly confused, but still inexplicably jovial as though he is asking, without asking, “?” but is happy to be doing so.
“You’re not Barnes,” the man says in his desperately deep voice, with an Australian accent, and it’s a little stupid and infuriating that someone this hot could somehow manage to be hotter, but this is the life Loki leads, he supposes.
 “Very clever,” Loki responds, dryly. “Guess my hair color next.”
“Dark,” the man says, cheerfully, though squinting a little. “Very dark. Black? Sorry, I think the wind has turned me blind.”
“That is not how the wind works,” Loki says, despite himself. “And that is borderline offensive.”
“Sorry,” the man offers and, to his credit, he sounds sincere. “I’m Thor.”
“Goodbye, Thor,” Loki says and goes to turn. The elevator begins shutting and Thor catches it, with his hand, and forces it open. For the love of God, when will life stop handing him men who could crush him between their thighs?
“Wait! Sorry, I’ve made a bad impression. Are you a friend of Barnes? May I come in?”
“How do I know you won’t rob the place?” Loki asks, suspicious. “I know Barnes,” Thor says, finally sounding chastened. “We’re friends.”
“Not good enough friends,” Loki says, crossing his arms. “To know when he is out of the country, it seems.”
“He’s out of the country?” Thor asks, with a slight curse. He runs a hand through his absurdly perfect hair managing, somehow, to not ruin it in the least. This is getting out of hand. Loki is honestly getting a little angry.
“Yes,” he says and tries to be as icy as humanly possible. “Until the 29th. I am here in his stead and I would appreciate not being disturbed.”
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Thor says, his face falling, genuinely falling. “Barnes had a book he borrowed and I needed it back.”
“That sounds like the perfect excuse one would use to rob a place,” Loki says. He’s not blatantly checking this Thor out, but he’s not not trying to not blatantly check him out either.
“I’m not robbing anyone, I swear,” Thor says, holding his palms up. “Look, you can follow me around, see that I only take the one book. I’ll leave a note on his counter. Or you could call him? He’ll tell you I’m his friend.”
Loki loses all false leverage if he reveals that he doesn’t have Bucky in his phone yet, so he doesn’t answer that part at all. Instead, he folds his arms and then unfolds them. Thor looks at him with desperate sincerity.
“Please,” Thor says again. “I’m stuck on a verse and I think this book has what I’m looking for. It’s a picture, my memory can’t jog itself. It’s important.”
“Honestly, none of that made a bit of sense,” Loki says with a sigh, but he’s tired and watching Thor’s perfect face light up and fall and light up and fall multiple times over the course of sixty seconds is wearing on him. Also, he’s distantly aware that he hasn’t brushed his teeth yet and his hair is a morning mess. He gestures toward the entertainment shelves and sitting room while discreetly also trying to fix his hair. With his luck, he probably ends up making it worse.
“Thank you, really,” Thor says, with a warm smile that actually, absurdly reaches his eyes.
Loki follows Thor into the living room, curiously watching him go through the books on Bucky’s bookshelf, then the books next to the BluRays and DVDs in his entertainment center, then, finally, onto the books on Bucky’s coffee table. It’s here that he lets out a triumphant sound like aha! and picks up what’s clearly a coffee table book. He looks back up at Loki eagerly, as though he’s been desperate to prove to him that he wasn’t lying after all. Loki, despite himself, finds the whole affair kind of endearing. What a strange man.
“That is a book on space,” Loki says, abandoning his perch by the open doorway to come stand next to Thor. Loki is tall, six feet even, but he still only reaches Thor’s ears. He stares at him. “What are you, a giraffe?”
Thor laughs at that, appreciatively. It’s not a quiet laugh, but something that requires his entire body, his muscles trembling with little aftershocks of laughter. What a ridiculous human being, Loki thinks, absently.
“It is a book on space,” Thor agrees and opens the book for Loki to see. Inside the glossy pages are high resolution pictures of what galaxies look like or should look like, all star clusters and swirls of purples and pinks and blue nebulas and bright, red imploding stars that Loki has to admit are breathtaking.
 “What, are you writing space poetry?” Loki mutters. “Are you a giraffe space poet?”
“A music director,” Thor is laughing again. “Although maybe that’s just the inspiration I need.”
 “Space poetry?” Loki asks.
 “Giraffe space poetry,” Thor says. “Although maybe that’s the entire musical, a giraffe and a poet meet in space.”
 “That is absurd,” Loki says, crossing his arms again, but he’s tapping his fingers on one arm, which is always a sign that he’s amused or at least considering. “Is the poet a giraffe as well? Why are they meeting in space? Where in space? What is the emotional turning point of this musical?”
 “All fine questions,” Thor says, solemnly. “The giraffe is in love with a poet who is not a giraffe. They meet in space for a final goodbye, on a planet somewhere, I suppose.”
 “So it is a romance,” Loki’s lips quirk up.
 “Oh no,” Thor says, shaking his head gravely. “It is a tragedy. The poet can never love the giraffe.”
 “Well why not?” Loki asks, not realizing his voice has gotten louder and more demanding.
 “The poet doesn’t have the word for love, so he can never love or return love.”
 “That is ridiculous.” Loki stares at Thor, almost angry about this entire conversation. “A poet’s entire existence is words.”
 “I know,” Thor says and he looks stricken. Sounds stricken too. What an absolute bastard. “That’s the tragedy.”
 Loki looks at him, eyes nearly bugging out of his head and Thor has the audacity to throw his head back and laugh. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down distractingly.
 “I need you to leave this flat,” Loki says. “Before I lose my sanity.”
“I’m sorry,” Thor says with another laugh, but he doesn’t sound sorry. His eyes twinkle with mischief and mirth, which is as attractive as it is infuriating. What’s worse is that there is no way he doesn’t know it. Yes, big and blond has to go.
 Loki walks Thor to the elevator and pointedly presses the button for him. The elevator door slides open and Thor gets in. He turns around, book clutched to his chest, and a grin on his face.
 “I’m not actually sorry,” Thor says.
 “I figured,” Loki mutters. “As I do have eyes.”
 “So do I,” Thor says and his grin widens even more. “Loki.”
Loki frowns, deeply. “How did you--”
 And Thor’s grin widens more, somehow. It shouldn’t be possible, but it definitely does. He looks down at Loki’s silk pajamas pointedly and Loki looks down and--oh for god’s sake. He blushes immediately, his own embroidered name staring back at him vividly.
 “I’ll see you around, Loki!” Thor calls as the elevator door closes shut and, what’s more, the big, dumb idiot actually sounds like he means it.
“Of all the nuisances,” Loki mutters, still warm and embarrassed. From somewhere down by his feet, Tom mrows.
 The cat doesn’t seem like he believes him.
