It's been ridiculously, maddeningly hot for the past two weeks, and even Loki's tricks can only do so much to cool down the shabby little apartment where they've been sleeping
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The windowsill, empty until a fraction of a second ago, suddenly houses the trickster in question, sprawled inelegantly across the lip of plaster and taking in the sights without a care in the world.
Replacing that care: many, many beads and a round pair of glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
(Man. If there's one new usage she genuinely despises, out of all the deliberate reworking of their own language that this generation seems bent on, it's that one; using the word not as an appellation but as an oath.)
With just as little concern: "They'd probably punch me in the face if they believed in violence."
(Which, naturally, is half the fun of saying it at all.)
He tucks his hands behind his head, crossing one ankle over the other. His feet are bare and stained heel to toe with dirt. "Is that what's got you so cranky?"
"Better get back out there again, then." She folds her arms and leans one shoulder against the wall. "I'm sure you could pick up another half-dozen clods before nightfall."
Is there a barbed innuendo in those last words? Surely not.
The windowsill, empty until a fraction of a second ago, suddenly houses the trickster in question, sprawled inelegantly across the lip of plaster and taking in the sights without a care in the world.
Replacing that care: many, many beads and a round pair of glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
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"You're joking," she says at length, flatly.
(Man. If there's one new usage she genuinely despises, out of all the deliberate reworking of their own language that this generation seems bent on, it's that one; using the word not as an appellation but as an oath.)
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He's been joking since the day he was born. Haven't they covered this?
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He shoves the glasses back up his nose in one decisive sweep.
(Clatter, go a couple of the beads around his wrist.)
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"Do you know what all those feeble-minded infants outside would say if they heard you call their costume respectable?"
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(Which, naturally, is half the fun of saying it at all.)
He tucks his hands behind his head, crossing one ankle over the other. His feet are bare and stained heel to toe with dirt. "Is that what's got you so cranky?"
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"Do you really want to ask what's got me so cranky? Really, Loki?"
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(In fact, the more annoyed Kali gets, the calmer he seems to become.)
"Wouldn't've asked if I didn't want to know."
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He wiggles his toes. Pointedly.
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"Did you decide this place wasn't squalid enough without another few pounds of dirt?"
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Is there a barbed innuendo in those last words? Surely not.
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"Hey, that's not a bad idea," he says, chipper as ever. "Wanna help?"
(...Okay, maybe not entirely.)
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