Disperse the Frosts of Dawn

Loki no longer remembers having done this, being, at this stage, quite drunk.

Bruce is sitting in the Lokithrone, an honour that Loki will allow to no Avenger other than Bruce. Loki is sort of sprawled over the top of him, occasionally nuzzling his face into Bruce's shirt, which is very, very soft. Bruce's belly is also soft, with a hint of paunch over his belt-buckle, and Loki is quite delighted with how suited for cuddling the whole arrangement is.

Loki is clutching a glass of champagne with a little strawberry perched on the lip of the glass. Occasionally his gestures will become so expansive that the champagne looks like it is about to spill, but thanks to a hastily applied charm earlier in the night, there are no mishaps. Bruce is drinking something which looks like whiskey but is actually apple juice. ("I have a poor history with drinking," he explains. What he actually means is that his father had a poor history with drinking, but Loki will come to know that later.)

At some point Loki leans over so that his breath tickles over Bruce's ear. "Look at Thor," he murmurs.

Bruce dutifully peers over the crowd to seek out Thor, who is attempting to flirt with a hulking Jotun half again his size. The Jotun in question is one of Helblindi's bodyguards, with short hair hacked away in a style uncommon among the Jotnar, thin hips, enormous arm muscles, and small breasts tipped with nipple piercings.

"That is Jarnsaxa," whispers Loki. "She is a fine warrior. Think you that she will beget a child upon Thor, and I will have a niece or a nephew to dote upon?"

Bruce raises his eyebrows very high, and seems somewhat perplexed.

"Oh," says Loki. "You Midgardians. Jotnar are not sexually dimorphic, you know. For that matter humans are not exactly sexually dimorphic, either, so I do not know why you are always so surprised. There are several ways for a Jotun to identify, and we are all capable of siring or birthing children."

"Sounds... useful," says Bruce.

"Indeed," says Loki happily. In truth it is a little hypocritical of him to scold Bruce for being surprised, since he himself did not know any of this until Helblindi began to teach him more about the Jotnar. "Besides," he says, somewhat wistfully, "I think Sleipnir would like a cousin to play with. He so rarely gets to see his siblings..."

"Jörmungand," says Bruce, nodding, "and who else?"

"I have two other children," says Loki. "Fenris and Hela. Four in total."

Bruce suddenly gives him a smile that is very bright. "I'd like to meet them," he says softly. "If you, if you don't mind."

Loki blanches, and says, "Fenris, perhaps, but I hope that you do not meet Hela for a long time."

Bruce must take this the wrong way, because his face falls. "You mustn't feel obligated," he says hurriedly. "They're your children, not mine."

"Oh, no," says Loki, distressed. He paws at Bruce's face rather clumsily. "No, darling, don't ever think that. Hela is queen of the dead, you see."

This seems to be rather too much for Bruce, and he screws up his face in confusion and then buries his head in Loki's shoulder. "I'll have you know that I'm an atheist," he says helplessly, voice muffled by Loki's skin.

"Of course, dear," says Loki, and pats him on the head. He is quickly distracted by the softness of Bruce's hair, and continues to stroke it somewhat absent-mindedly for the next hour or two, while getting progressively drunker.

Eventually Helblindi retires to one of the guest suites, and most of his companions trickle away, with the exception of a few loudly snoring Jotnar draped over various surfaces. A few of these bear perplexing marks upon their faces, seemingly drawn in washable marker, in the shape of luxurious moustaches. Others have various household implements precariously balanced on their heads, such as colanders and lampshades. A quick enquiry reveals this to be the work of Stark, who apparently thinks himself a master comedian. Loki resolves, at some point, to show Stark what a real trickster's pranks can achieve.

After most everyone else has left, Loki gets to his feet, wobbling slightly. "I should go home," he says. "Sleipnir will be expecting me."

Bruce gives him a worried look. "Pretty sure you shouldn't drink and teleport," he reminds him. "I can call you a taxi, if you like."

Loki snarls. "Fiendish mortal things! No, thank you. I will walk home."

Bruce blinks at him uncertainly. "It's a long way to your apartment," he says, brow crinkling. "No one would mind if you crashed here, you know. There are guest rooms..."

"Most of which are taken up by my Jotun brethren," counters Loki. Suddenly he feels very exhausted, and very old. "Oh, well. I slept on the Lokithrone last night. Another night will not hurt anything, except perhaps for my back."

Bruce stares at the ground, and then up at Loki's face, and then he starts to blush. "I have rooms," he blurts out. "You could... You could spend the night with me."

Loki's eyes widen a little.

"I'll take the sofa bed, of course," says Bruce quickly. "You can have my bed."

"What a generous offer," purrs Loki, sidling up until he is nestled against Bruce's side. "Well then, doctor. Lead the way."

Still blushing fiercely, Bruce shows Loki the way to his private suite, which, in true Stark fashion, is both ridiculously opulent and ridiculously technologically advanced. Advanced for Midgard, anyway.

Loki flops down on the bed and then opens his arms wide, hoping that Bruce will take the hint and join him. Bruce does not take the hint. Bruce, in fact, hovers awkwardly by the side of the bed, looking rather nervous about something.

"Come, now," says Loki, annoyed, "I am not so churlish as to deny you the comfort of your own bed. There is space enough for both of us." Loki is rather proud of the fact that he managed not to slur either of those sentences.

"It's not that," says Bruce. His expression is complicated, and Loki is far too tired and drunk to try to parse it. "I just don't want to take advantage."

"I promise not to molest you in your sleep," murmurs Loki, eyes already half-closed. This bed is sturdy and wonderfully comfortable. It doesn't even creak beneath his weight, which shouldn't be a surprise, since presumably it was created to bear the weight of the Hulk.

"Okay," says Bruce.

With an enormous effort, Loki opens his eyes wide, and sits up a little. "Although," he says, "a goodnight kiss would not go amiss."

Bruce wavers, and then Loki leans in towards him hopefully, and the scent of Loki's alcohol-scented breath seems to put him off a little. "I'll kiss you in the morning," he says. "I promise." His words are a little too heartfelt.

Can I get that in writing, Loki wants to ask, but he does not. If Bruce still wants to kiss him in the morning, good, and if he does not, Loki will respect that. Stolen kisses are the worst kind of kiss.

He slumps back into the bedding, and after a moment he feels a dip in the mattress as Bruce joins him. They take care not to unnecessarily invade each other's space, though Loki desperately wants to continue the cuddle from earlier. It's clear that Bruce isn't really in a cuddling mood anymore, though, so he lets it go, and follows his dreams into the darkness.

In the morning Loki has a headache that has nothing to do with his impending horns, and the sunlight stabs at his eyes, and he lets out an audible groan.

He is not in his own bed. He cannot hear Sleipnir's snoring. It takes him a moment, and then he remembers: he is in Bruce's bed, with Bruce beside him, and suddenly the sunlight seems far less piercing.

Loki rolls onto his side. Bruce is still asleep. He lies there for a while, studying the faint movement of Bruce's eyelashes against his cheeks, the dusting of freckles over his nose, the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Eventually Bruce's breathing changes.

"Good morning," says Loki softly, and Bruce startles so fast into wakefulness that he almost falls off his side of the bed.

"Morning," he replies after a flustered moment.

"I would like to kiss you now," says Loki. "Please tell me if this is acceptable."

Bruce flushes. "Y-yes," he says. "Very acceptable. More than acceptable. Actually I would have to say - " and then he has to stop, because his words are muffled by Loki's mouth latching onto his own.

They kiss lazily as the sunlight grows brighter and brighter. Bruce tastes sour from sleep but Loki can't get enough of him.

They part, finally, and Bruce whispers, "This is nice."

"Midgardians call this dating. I mean. Would you like to?" blurts out Loki, all at once, and then hides his face in the bed-covers.

"Would I like to what," says Bruce. Loki removes his face from the bedclothes just to give him a look of disbelief, only to find that Bruce is grinning wickedly.

"Would you like to - date me." The words sound clumsy and wrong. Loki would much prefer to recite a traditional courting ballad, but that is not how Midgardians do things.

"Date you," repeats Bruce. "What kind of date?"

"Now you're just teasing," grumbles Loki.

Bruce softens. "How about this. We could go ice skating."

"I don't know what that is, but it sounds brilliant," says Loki.

"And then," says Bruce, "you could kiss me again. And we could go out to dinner. And we can go library-hopping. And we'll see how things go, and if we enjoy ourselves we'll keep going, and if either of us stops enjoying ourselves, we'll stop and re-assess things."

"That sounds perfect," manages Loki. His throat is a little tight. Bruce gets it. 

There is a dainty cough from the ceiling. "I hate to interrupt," says JARVIS, "but there seems to be a situation in downtown Manhattan. Captain Rogers requests your assistance."

"What kind of situation?" asks Bruce warily.

"A slime monster kind of situation," says JARVIS.

"No," says Loki, rolling over and pressing his face into the pillow. "A thousand times no. I am going to spend the day in this bed, perhaps with the occasional pancake break. You are perfectly welcome to attend to this madness without me."

"We could use your help," says Bruce, but he sounds more amused than disgruntled.

Loki casts a baleful eye at him. "The last time there was a slime monster in Manhattan, I was stuck to a tree for hours and none of you noticed."

"We noticed," says Bruce. "We were just busy."

"Busy?"

"Busy defeating the hundred-foot-tall gelatinous being from another dimension who was holding several civilians hostage."

"Oh," says Loki. "We'll, that's all right then. But I'm still not coming."

Bruce arranges his face into a rather spectacular pout. Loki, however, is used to the equally magnificent pouts of Sleipnir, and he is resolute.

"If I may," says JARVIS delicately, "it appears that Mister Odinson has been incapacitated, and is currently glued to the side of City Hall. He seems to be rather distressed."

"Is he injured?" asks Bruce.

"Oh, no," says JARVIS. "But I am told his hairstyle has suffered rather mightily."

Loki brightens immediately. "Well," he says. "Perhaps I will swing by. Just to watch, you understand."