Chapter 3
Loki’s hair is on fire.
Loki’s hair is on fire.
He bats his hands at the smouldering strands, trying to quell the blaze before the acrid stench of burning hair reaches Sleipnir’s delicate nostrils.
Too late.
Sleipnir, in all his eight-legged, purpled glory, jerks his head up frantically and lets out a whinny loud enough to shake the windows. By now Loki has managed to stop the burning, at least – he is not a frost giant for nothing – but the damage has been done. The kitchen smells like scorched keratin and Sleipnir’s eyes are rolling wildly, and on top of that some sort of alarm has been raised; there is a high caterwauling emerging from the speakers in the ceiling, which only serves to further Sleipnir’s distress.
Sparing a mournful glance at the ruined contents of the baking tray, Loki teleports across the kitchen to his son’s side, stroking a soothing hand across Sleipnir’s flank. “Shh,” he says. “Shh, my love, be calm. No harm has been done. I have been needing a haircut anyway, have I not?”
Sleipnir blows a gust of hot air through his teeth, and wrinkles his nose, as if to indicate that Loki’s hair was perfectly fine as it was, and that Loki did not need to change one inch of it. Well, Loki must admit that he had quite enjoyed the long curtain of hair, but it was getting to such a length as to be highly unwieldy, even when he tried to braid it out of the way. This morning his hair was brushing his waist. Now half of it is brushing his waist, and the other half is all ragged, the shortest strands just barely brushing his shoulders.
To relax after the battle: that is all Loki had wanted. Is that so much to ask?
He has only himself to blame. He has always been a good cook, and his hosts in Vanaheim had ensured that he had become a fabulous cook. Still, there is one field that has always escaped his mastery, and that is baking. Loki has never been able to bake to any degree of satisfaction. He had hoped to rectify this, but had found his kitchen in his new SHIELD-appointed apartment to be inadequate, and so he had come here, to the Tower, unbeknownst to the Tower’s inhabitants.
Or not so unbeknownst, as the case may be.
No doubt attracted by the increasingly obnoxious alarm, the door to the kitchen flies open and Stark comes skidding through it. The scientist is smeared with oil, hair a bird’s nest, and he looks even wilder than Loki on his wildest day.
Stark gapes soundlessly for a moment, and then he says, “Loki?”
“That is my name,” says Loki bad-temperedly, fingering his tragically damaged locks. He is forced to admit that even Stark’s hair looks better than his at the moment, and Stark’s hair looks like a flock of tiny robotic birds have been nesting in it for the past week. This is unacceptable. “Did you want something?”
“Do I want something?” repeats Stark. “Do I want… I want to know why you’re in my kitchen! And how – for the love of God, how did you fit a horse in here?”
Sleipnir snorts dangerously, and Loki narrows his eyes at the mortal. “Are you insinuating that my son is oversized? I will have you know that his girth is perfectly healthy for a warhorse of his lineage!" he hisses.
Stark’s eyes are wide. “What? No? No. I just – there are four flights of stairs to get up here. He certainly wouldn’t fit in the elevator. How did you – How…”
Loki wiggles his fingers, and conjures up a small puff of glittery green magic.
“Oh,” says Stark.
“Is there a problem?” asks Loki mildly.
Stark stares around him. “You set fire to my kitchen,” he says, sounding shell-shocked. His gaze lands upon Loki again. “You set fire to yourself.”
Loki cannot think of a witty comeback, so he just sneers.
“Is this a really poorly-executed take-over-the-world plan?” asks Stark. “Because I really can’t think of any other reason that you’d be burning down my kitchen with the aid of a giant… purple… horse.”
“I am learning to bake,” says Loki, though it costs him a little to admit the weakness. “I… I could benefit from some assistance. Do you bake?”
Stark shakes his head wildly, backing away. “No. No, kitchens and I do not mix, kitchens and I are oil and water. Oil-based lubricants and condoms. You should never use oil-based lubricants with condoms, did you know that? Oh god, don’t tell Thor that I said that to you. I. Uh. Bruce can bake!”
Loki merely tips his head inquisitively. “Then might you not summon Dr. Banner to this location, and take your leave? I find your presence… disruptive.”
“Yes,” says Stark. He moves to the doorway. “Yes. I will. I will go get Bruce right now.” He walks out of the door, and then just as it swings shut lunges to prop it open, poking his head back around. “Don’t burn down the Tower.”
And with that he is gone. A moment later the alarm ceases.
Loki allows himself to relax, a little.
He turns around, to find that Sleipnir has sneakily moved over to the kitchen counter and is busily munching on the charred remains of what Loki had intended to be muffins. Loki fixes him with a stern glare, and Sleipnir lifts his gaze up, managing to look woefully innocent even with blackened crumbs dripping from his mouth.
Sleipnir whickers, hopefully.
“Stop that,” says Loki. “You will only make yourself ill, and who will you have to blame but yourself?”
Sleipnir whickers again, this time with an undercurrent of deep sorrow.
“No,” says Loki. “Don’t start. You may have muffins when I bake muffins that are not roasted to a cinder. Pumpkin muffins! Pear and appleseed muffins! Every muffin that you might desire!”
Sleipnir whuffles.
“Fish muffins?” says Loki, bemused. “Whyever would you want – well, yes, I suppose so, if you are sure. I could bake fish muffins.”
There is a low laugh from the doorway. Loki turns, ready to snap at Stark, and is struck speechless. The man at the doorway is not Stark but Banner, and he is not covered in oil, but is rather dressed in a sleek tuxedo, hair perfectly coiffed, brown eyes sparkling.
Loki abruptly feels very underdressed, in his old sweatpants and green apron. (The apron had been a present from Dr. Foster, accompanied by a very large casket of very good wine. Thor’s taste in bedmates has improved drastically since last Loki saw him.)
“I’ve never baked fish muffins before,” says Banner. “But I’m sure it can be done.”
Loki blushes hotly. “Sleipnir has his whims,” he says, feeling oddly defensive. “Often they turn out unexpectedly well.”
“I’m sure,” says Banner. Loki scrutinises the mortal carefully to be sure that he and Sleipnir are not being mocked, but Banner seems… sincere.
“I am a very good cook,” says Loki suddenly. He feels the need to defend his culinary honour. “I can broil various meats, and age wine to perfection, and I can make soup, and risotto, and sushi – your Midgardian foods are not unfamiliar to me – I just – I cannot bake bread.”
“Or muffins,” observes Banner.
“Or muffins,” agrees Loki, dipping his head.
“Well, I can teach you, if you like,” says Banner, unperturbed. He inclines his head towards Loki’s son. “Sleipnir too, if he likes.”
Loki feels suddenly breathless. He glances towards Sleipnir, who looks shocked, and then back to Banner. “You would teach Sleipnir to bake?”
“Of course,” says Banner. There is a little wrinkle in the centre of his forehead. “I mean, there’s the whole lack of opposable thumbs thing, but Thor said that Sleipnir has been learning magic…?”
“Yes,” says Loki. “Yes, he has.” Thor is impossibly proud of Sleipnir’s advancements in his thaumaturgic studies, and will boast of his nephew’s achievements to anyone that will care to listen. Loki finds it both incredibly sweet and incredibly galling. Thor had never been so excited about Loki’s magical achievements, in their youth.
Still. They are old wounds, and do not need to be revisited.
Thor and Loki are… working things out.
“So, uh,” says Banner. He licks his lips. Loki’s gaze feels irresistibly drawn to the movement. “Do we have a deal?”
“A deal?” says Loki. And here comes the catch. “Baking lessons – in exchange for what, exactly?”
Banner blinks. “Well. The pleasure of your company, I suppose.”
Loki looks at him very hard. Bafflingly, Banner seems entirely serious.
Loki had always prided himself on being able to tell truths from lies, but maybe now that he is God of Bubble Baths instead of God of Lies (and/or Mischief) his skills are slipping.
Or maybe Banner really does want to spend time with Loki.
The thought is oddly compelling.
“First things first,” says Banner, moving into the kitchen. “You really need to change your oven settings.”
“I knew that,” retorts Loki, instinctively.
Banner looks at him.
“All right, I didn’t know that,” says Loki, feeling rather ruffled.
Sleipnir lets out a totally ridiculous noise of excitement and licks a long stripe up Banner’s face. Loki tenses, anticipating disgust, or the appearance of the Hulk, but Banner only smiles and pats Sleipnir on the side of the head.
Loki doesn’t hear what Banner says next because he’s too busy – not swooning. Certainly not swooning.
Okay, maybe a tiny little bit of swooning.
“Loki?” says Banner. He reaches out and taps Loki on the nose to catch his attention, unbothered by Loki’s Jotun skin.
Loki stares at him.
Okay, so maybe it’s a great, big, enormous bit of swooning.
This may present a problem.