Thor, Thor, Loki, G
Title: Dog's Best Friend
Characters: Thor, Loki.
Summary: AU based on THIS prompt from norsekink. Thor is a puppy which Loki finds on the street and has no intention of keeping. Three guesses how that ends for him.
Warnings: None
Author: blacktofade
Words: 8,565
Rating: G
A/N: Apparently, sometimes my brain allows me to write fic that isn't porn! I didn't know that either! Also posted at AO3. Please feel free to point out any mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Thor or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
He doesn’t know how he always manages it, but he does, and this time the water from his date’s glass actually makes it up his nose, forcing out a series of half-choked coughs before he finally lets out a humiliatingly loud sneeze. Not that his life can get any more embarrassing at this point, but it still seems to try.
“How dare you,” his date accuses and he can’t do anything but stare, blinking water out of his eyes. Tonight, it’s Bethany: a five foot engineer with plum-coloured hair and a ring in her nose. He’d met her through a friend, well, really an acquaintance, who’d said they’d be perfect together, but as she tosses her serviette across the table at him and rises from her seat to leave, he rather thinks they’re not.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean - ” but it doesn’t seem to matter what he says because she’s halfway out of the restaurant, leaving him trying not to look around at the people blatantly gawping at him, and nervously drawing out his wallet to throw a crumpled tenner on the table, easily covering the cost of their drinks, the only things they’ve made it through so far. He contemplates chasing after her, actually makes it to the pavement outside, but then watches as she disappears into a taxi without a backwards glance and he turns the other way and begins walking home.
He wipes at his wet face with his sleeve, cursing his luck to pick what seems to be the coldest day of the year to get drenched. His cheeks sting when the wind picks up and he’s thankful it’s only a couple of minutes before he lets himself into the block of flats he lives within and begins climbing the stairs. He passes Mrs Fernhouse, who leans out of her door to complain about the types of people moving into the area - though if he’s not mistaken, he’s the last person to have moved into any of the buildings nearby - and he listens to her voice fading as he retreats down the hallway before she can even begin to start on the noise from the children running about a storey above.
He lets himself in with a sigh of relief as the door swings shut behind him, blocking out the real world which seems to try its hardest to make each day a living hell, before kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat. He sets the latter of the back of the settee as he unfastens the top buttons of his shirt and moves to press the message button on his flashing answering machine.
Loki, this is your mother, comes Frigga’s tinny voice and he sighs again, moving into the kitchen to grab a deep glass and the good bottle of scotch he keeps under the sink, behind the multitude of sponges and cleaning products, ones there mostly to put people off digging further into the cupboard and finding said stash of decent alcohol. Just wanted to see how your date went, though I’m hoping that since you’re not answering your phone, you’ve done something right.
There’s enough suggestion in her tone to make him wince and pour a little more into his tumbler, but then Frigga laughs, light and happy, and he sighs again, though mostly in disappointment of himself. He can’t even count the number of dates he’s been on since the beginning of the year and after every one, Figga calls and checks up and after every one Loki has to tell her the same excuse: we just didn’t seem to connect. He doesn’t know why she keeps calling, or even how she keeps so optimistic, but he deletes the message without listening to the rest of it, and picks up the phone to return the call. Frigga answers on the fifth ring, her tone rushed and he hears something beeping in the background, which sounds remarkably similar to the smoke-detector.
“Is this a bad time?” he begins and Frigga makes a hushing noise.
“Of course not, I’m just baking.”
Definitely the smoke-detector then.
“It’s almost ten; I thought your bedtime was nine-thirty.”
Frigga lets out a fake laugh and hushes him again.
“I wanted to stay up and see how things went tonight.”
“Well, you’ll be pleased to know that it went great, apart from the bit where she threw her drink over me and left.”
Frigga tuts, though doesn’t sound surprised, which Loki doesn’t know if he should be offended about.
“What did you say this time?”
“I didn’t - it wasn’t - ”
“Loki.”
“I told that joke I heard from dad last weekend. The one with the pig and the nun. Apparently she had a different sense of humour from me.”
Frigga sighs and the beeping in the background finally stops.
“I guess you two just didn’t connect.”
Loki almost laughs, but swallows it back down at the last minute with a mouthful of scotch.
“Maybe I’m just born to be alone.”
“Maybe you should get a cat,” his mother suggests. “Maybe I’ll get you one for Christmas in a couple of weeks.”
“Don’t even think about it,” he warns before continuing. “They’re too fussy.”
“Then you’d get along great with one.”
He flops backwards onto the sofa and stretches his legs out, resting his feet on the coffee table and wriggling his toes.
“No,” he says firmly. “No pets; they’re too much work.”
“Loki, if you can’t take care of a pet, you’ve got no hope for taking care of someone else.”
Loki holds the phone away from his head as he lets out a strangled noise of frustration and shakes the device as though wishing he were shaking some sense into his mother instead.
“I can’t believe you just said that,” he says, putting the receiver back to his ear, and Frigga scoffs.
“Prove me wrong then,” she says simply and in that moment he hates her and loves her in equal measures. Though Frigga is not his biological mother, they still share traits and habits, and stubbornness is most definitely at the top of the list, Loki thinks. “You can get a dog; they’re loyal, intelligent, and loving; a perfect partner.”
“I prefer my partners to be tailless and less likely to drool on everything I own. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed,” he states firmly, and ignores Frigga’s knowing laugh. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll tell your father you say ‘Hello’.”
He hangs up and tosses the phone into the cushions, hoping that maybe it’ll just get lost and won’t ever ring again. He drains the rest of his drink in one swallow and savours the burn as he reaches across for the remote and switches the television on. It’s precisely the moment a RSPCA advert starts up, with sad piano music in the background and footage of shaking puppies with big eyes and wet noses, and he can’t quite look away because not even he is heartless enough to change the channel.
It ends with a dog wagging its tail and barking silently, looking straight at the camera, as though staring into Loki’s soul, and as it fades into the beginning of an episode of Pet Rescue, he finally switches over to ITV, hoping to drown himself in awful shows to take the sting from the miserable, soap opera-esque turn his life has taken.
He falls asleep halfway through Law & Order, just before it starts getting good.
*
The morning is uneventful and, with the exception of the crick in his neck from sleeping crookedly on the settee, nothing seems to have changed. He flicks the kettle’s switch as he passes through on the way to the bedroom to change, gets distracted by a warm shower, and ends up having to boil the water again when he realises he forgot to make tea with it the first time. He eventually makes toast and settles down at the table to sort through the accumulated post from the week.
Bill, junk, junk, bill, junk, bill, and - thankfully - his payslip. He doesn’t truly like working for Asgard Insurance, but it pays well and he can’t truly complain. Speaking of, he thinks, as he glances at his watch, he has precisely seven minutes to get downstairs and catch the 236, where he knows he’ll be squashed beside some other poor chap mentally getting ready for another monotonous day working. He drains the last of his tea, throws the picked-off bits of bread crust into the bin, and goes back to his bedroom to grab a tie and jacket. Slipping his wallet, phone, and keys into his pockets, he snatches up his coat and curses the fact that it’s still damp from the night before. He pulls it on anyway and lets the door click shut behind, testing the handle to double check that it’s locked before he starts jogging down the stairs.
He can see the bus coming closer as he strides to the shelter, hoping his legs are just long enough to get him there seconds before he’s late and has to wait another ten minutes for the next bus. There are three people already waiting and he slides in behind them as the bus hisses to a stop and the doors prise open with a low groan that sounds as though not even they are happy with their job. With a swipe of his Oyster card, Loki finds a seat near the back next to a teenage boy playing music far too loud for his iPod headphones to manage without letting out a tinny bass-line and some woman caterwauling into the closed air, grating Loki’s nerves far more than it would had he actually slept well.
His phone buzzes against his thigh and he tugs it free to find a message from Frigga.
Thought any more about the dog?
He deletes it and turns the phone off for good measure.
*
He almost doesn’t notice it when he stumbles off the bus, exhausted and needing a good sit down. He glances into the side alley without his brain catching up until he’s three steps further and has to take two steps back just to double check the fact that, yes, there is a collarless puppy staring at him. It’s a small golden retriever, barely bigger than a footstall and it cocks its head as it glances up at him. He grimaces and almost expects his mother to jump out from behind some nearby bins and tell him it’s his new present, but then the dog licks at its own foot and stands, limping towards him on three legs as though Loki has been the only one to stop and notice the poor creature.
He takes a step back, worried about rabies and fleas lurking about in its fur, but then it whimpers and Loki finds himself stooping and scooping the puppy up, hands wrapped around its body behind the front legs, letting it dangle in his grip while he stares at it. The first thing he notices is that it’s a boy - pretty hard to miss, he’ll admit. The second is that there’s a considerable amount of blood over the dog’s soft coat. He attempts to look at the puppy’s paw and assess the damage himself, but it wriggles madly and whines until Loki’s afraid someone will come along and accuse him of animal cruelty.
He shifts the dog and tucks it under his arm, giving him a free hand to pull his phone out and Google the nearest vet clinic, which only seems to be a few bus stops away from the one he’s at. He only has to wait a few moments before the bus he needs arrives and he moves to step on board before the driver holds up her hands.
“Sir, there are no animals allowed on this bus.”
Loki pauses, one foot on the step, the other on the pavement and the puppy whimpers again as though it knows.
“What about guide dogs?”
“Is that a guide dog, sir?”
“Yes, doesn’t it look like one?”
Needless to say, she doesn’t believe him and he ends up walking, hoping it’s dark enough that no one will notice the blood all over the puppy as though Loki has tried - and failed miserably - to skin the poor thing. It continues whining and Loki’s almost had enough by the time he arrives at the clinic with only five minutes to spare before closing.
He stares at the receptionist and she stares right back.
“Hello,” he says awkwardly, waiting until she finally breaks her silence and sucks her teeth briefly.
“What happened to your puppy?”
“It’s not mine; I found it by a bus stop. It’s bleeding and thought it would be best for a vet to look at it.”
She stands and glances over the desk, her face falling into a look of sympathy as she reaches out and scratches behind the puppy’s ear.
“What happened to you, little fellow?” The retriever licks her palm and begins wriggling in Loki’s grip, its whole backend moving as it wags its tail, happy for the attention. “Wait here one second and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
She disappears through a door and Loki hears muffled talking before she returns and points around the corner.
“The vet will see you in room two.”
He hitches the puppy back up and nods his thanks to her before moving down the hallway into the specified room. The vet is already there, glasses perched near the end of his nose, a stethoscope draped around his neck, and Loki sets the puppy down on the examination table and steps back. He recounts his story while the vet checks the dog’s eyes, ears, and mouth, before finally looking at the bleeding paw. After much whining and yelping, the vet tuts and glances up at Loki.
“It seems to be more superficial than anything; just a bit of broken glass. I’ll just take it out now and wrap it and the puppy should be fine.”
“This isn’t my dog, though,” Loki emphasises. “Can’t you check for a microchip or dog licence or something? Or just take it off my hands?”
“Sir, this isn’t an animal shelter. I can call the local rescue centre, but I doubt they’ll be open now.”
“Well, what do you suggest I do with this thing? I don’t even know if they allow animals in my flat.”
“Do you know of anyone else who can take care of it for a night?”
Loki’s mind flashes to his mother, but he knows he’ll never survive the taunting for having picked the damn thing up in the first place.
“I don’t have any food for it.”
“You can see Maggie at the reception and she’ll give you a few day’s supply. I’ll fix this little guy up and have him out to you in just a moment.”
He leaves the room knowing he’s in way over his head, but he mumbles an explanation to ‘Maggie’ and she shuffles around her office, collecting up a few items for him. She gives him half a Tesco’s bag full of loose kibbles, a squeaky toy, and a small dish to hold water, and he stares at everything wordlessly. He’s never going to live this down.
He takes a seat waiting for the vet, who eventually comes out with the puppy under his arm, the injured leg bandaged all the way up to the shoulder. He hands him over to Loki, who juggles the carrier bag and the puppy until they feel vaguely stable then waits for the explanation he knows is coming.
“I couldn’t find a microchip, which means the dog could be anyone’s. I’d suggest putting up posters in the area you found him. I gave him a wormer and de-fleaed him, but he seems to be in perfect health otherwise. You might just be lucky enough to keep him for yourself if no one claims him.”
Loki attempts to return the vet’s smile, but it feels more like a grimace and he tucks the puppy further against his side. It’s only as he’s turning to leave that the receptionist quickly calls him back.
“Sir, that’ll be £86. £50 for the medications and £36 for the care.”
Loki blinks, once, twice, thinks about dropping the dog and running, but then sighs and hands the dog back to the vet.
“Hold him for a second, would you?”
He pulls out his wallet and holds out his debit card, knowing somewhere his bank account is weeping as the payment goes through and he tucks everything back into his pockets and the puppy back under his arm.
“Remember, sir” Maggie says, meeting his gaze and shooting an alarmingly threatening expression his way, “a dog is for life, not just for Christmas.”
“I’ve seen the adverts,” is his only response.
If his Thank You sounds a little bitter as he leaves, neither of them mention it, they just wish him a good night and Happy Holidays before the door has time to slam shut behind him.
The walk back seems much longer with two heavy loads in his arms and the stairs up to his flat are even worse than usual. He narrowly escapes getting caught by Mrs Fernhouse, and he feels like a smuggler as the door shuts behind him and he sets the puppy down.
“Do not get comfortable,” he tells the dog, who begins to hobble around sniffing every available surface, ignoring him entirely. “You will not be here long.”
*
When Loki awakens on Saturday morning, the first thing he does is stretch out across his bed, yawning loudly as his back clicks. It feels as though he’s slept forever and he doesn’t remember rolling over even once to get more comfortable during the night. He pushes his head deeper into his pillow and thinks briefly about going back to sleep for a few more hours before he shifts onto his side and finds his nose pressing into hairy warmth that is strangely puppy-shaped.
Why does life hate him so much? he thinks before he bolts upright, his head feeling woozy at the sudden change.
“Off!” he orders, pointing to the floor beyond the opposite side of the bed. The puppy cocks its head and starts to wag its tail as though Loki is praising him for good behaviour. “Get down!”
Loki throws the covers off before crawling over to grab the dog and hold him to his chest tightly, carrying him out of the bedroom and into the bathroom where he’s sure he put the puppy with food and water, before he’d shut the door and gone to sleep. There are bits of food scattered everywhere, water in multiple puddles, with one looking suspiciously like pee, and the toilet roll has been shredded beyond saving. He blinks and glances down at the puppy in his arms, which gazes back at him with large, watery eyes, as though daring Loki to blame him, as if it could have been any other puppy he just happened to stumble across, spend half a paycheck on, and get stuck with for longer than he’s ever wanted.
He sets the puppy down in the room, shuts the door, and waits, a hand rubbing the side of his face to stem the headache he feels brewing. As he’s suspected, there’s high-pitched whining, a few quiet yaps, and then a dull thud and the door swings open. Apparently, it hasn’t taken long for the puppy to learn how to press down door handles. He sighs and walks to the kitchen, the dog scrabbling behind him, nails probably ruining his hardwood floor, before he puts another scoop of food in a paper bowl and sets it down.
While the puppy eats, he sets about tidying the mess in the bathroom, mopping the floor with disinfectant twice just to be sure. When he returns to the kitchen, the puppy is nowhere in sight, and it would be a lie if he said his stomach didn’t drop, however, it only takes a second for him to realise the dog is just hidden by the island, its head jammed into the bin, snuffling loudly.
“Hey!” he shouts, trying to get its attention, which works, as it backpedals quickly, looking sufficiently rebuked, though it would help if it didn’t have half a chicken bone sticking from its mouth. “Drop it,” he orders, pointing to the floor, and that’s when the running starts.
*
It takes him the better part of fifteen minutes to catch the little bastard and when he finally does, the bone is nowhere in sight. He has visions of ending up at the vet clinic again and spending the rest of his paycheck on the blasted animal, but then finds it when he’s walking barefoot across the livingroom, leaving a sizeable, throbbing dent in his foot and a few choice curses on his tongue.
He dresses in no time at all and spends another five minutes digging around in a drawer for some heavy-duty string he knows he has tucked somewhere. He fashions a makeshift collar and lead, before looping it around the puppy’s neck and hauling him up, only just remembering to grab his phone and keys before he leaves his flat.
There’s a small park only a minute’s stroll from his place and by the time he gets there it’s already half-filled with early-morning joggers and other dog-walkers. The puppy limps around, sniffing and peeing on almost everything it finds, looking back at Loki with its mouth wide, tongue lolling out as it pants happily, as though expecting Loki to be proud of its bathroom habits. He’s definitely not pleased when he has to clean up after it, having to borrow a plastic bag from another walker after forgetting to bring his own. He’s just thankful there are plenty of bins around to throw it away quickly.
When the puppy seems sufficiently worn out, he all but drags it back to his flat, removing the string and letting it flop tiredly out onto the floor, where it promptly falls asleep and finally, finally, Loki gets five minutes peace. Until the house-phone rings.
“I’m a little busy,” he says, as he recognises the number and speaks before Frigga can.
“It’s the weekend, Loki, what on earth can you be doing?” He doesn’t want to tell her, he really doesn’t, but it’s like she can read his silence, even over the phone. “What have you done?”
“I haven’t done anything. I need to call you back later; like I said, I’m a little busy right now.”
He hangs up abruptly before the truth spills out and his mother can tease him mercilessly, and pulls his mobile from his pocket. While the puppy is still for more than two seconds, he snaps a picture of it looking sleepily up at him, head on his paws before it drifts right back off again. It’s easy to send it to his laptop, plugging in the printer and printing a fair few copies of the puppy’s large face in the middle of the blank page. Slowly, he goes through them, writing the words Lost puppy in large print at the top of each, and his information at the bottom. With a tub of pushpins in his pocket, he leaves his flat again, slowly posting the flyers up and down the street, hoping like mad that the dog isn’t just a stray with no owner.
When he returns, the puppy is still asleep, snoring now in a remarkably similar fashion to Loki’s father when he falls asleep in front of the telly after dinner, and the thought startles a laugh out of him. He snorts to himself as he tugs the directory from under the coffee table and sits on the settee to flip through it for the number to local rescue shelters.
He finds one only a few miles away and he calls with anticipation humming through him.
“Can I help you?” answers a man and Loki clears his throat.
“Yes, I found a dog on the street yesterday and it turns out that he doesn’t have a chip or collar, so is there any way someone can come and collect him? Preferably today,” he hastens to add.
He hears the sound of rustling paper as though the man is flipping through a calendar and it doesn’t bode well.
“Will two this afternoon be convenient for you, sir?”
Loki blinks in surprise and can’t keep the smile off his face as he answers.
“That would be perfect, thank you.”
He gives the man his details and hangs up feeling distinctly better and glances at the puppy curled by his feet. While he watches, it stretches, whining softly before settling back down, its nose now resting on Loki’s shoe. He frowns as though it will help and tries to stop the guilt that rolls through him when he pulls it away, standing and going to his laptop to check his email, wondering if anyone has tried to contact him yet.
*
He tries not to look too eager when he opens the door and finds a bulky man on the other side of it wearing thick gloves as though about to wrestle with a bear, not a small golden retriever puppy. He steps aside, ushering in the man, who introduces himself as Stanley, and shows him the dog. He hums thoughtfully then turns to Loki.
“Cute,” he murmurs. “Hopefully, they’ll find him a new home quickly.” Loki hums quietly in agreement, but knows Stanley has something else to say when he sighs and moves towards the puppy. “Hopefully, it’ll be one of the fortunate ones.”
Loki coughs, trying his best not to take the bait, but he falls for it anyway.
“Fortunate ones?”
“Yeah, one of the dogs that doesn’t get put down.”
He’s heard about it happening, sure, but it doesn’t seem to prepare him for the real deal.
“What?”
Stanley looks at him as though he’s dribbling.
“Y’know, after a dog has been at the shelter for a certain about of time, they’ll euthanatise it to make room for newer ones.”
“What’s the point of it being a rescue shelter if you end up putting the animals to sleep?” he counters and Stanley answers as though he’s had to get the point across a lot.
“Well, what’s better: a dog dying in the street, or a dog that’s been given a chance, being put down humanely at a warm, safe shelter?”
Loki doesn’t agree with it, but he will admit that it’s a compelling argument.
“I put up posters around the area, so if anyone contacts me, I’ll send them your way.”
Stanley nods and moves towards the puppy, which finally awakens, yawning widely and blinking up at them. He wags his tail briefly when Stanley bends down and scoops him up, but wriggles and looks towards Loki when Stanley starts heading towards the door.
“C’mon, little guy,” Stanley says, apparently attempting to pacify the struggling dog, before he grips it by the scruff and holds tightly, making the puppy yelp.
“Careful,” Loki says quietly and Stanley looks at him as though he’s not a fan of people telling him how to do his job. Loki clears his throat and moves to get the door, trying his best to ignore the puppy’s low, scared whines as they fade down the hallway.
*
He clears up the rest of the mess the puppy has left around his house - he finds a chewed up magazine under the dining room table and another chicken bone just under the edge of the settee. When he settles down in front of the telly, the house feels surprisingly quiet; he turns the volume up to fill the space and rationalises that it can’t truly have been the puppy, since he’d only been there for one night.
He tucks his feet up under himself and makes a point to switch the channel each time an advert for animal shelters comes up. He definitely doesn’t think about the puppy curled up and alone in a cage and most certainly doesn’t have heroic ideas about swooping in to save it.
*
He forgets to call Frigga back, which earns him an early morning earful from her when he wakes up on Sunday.
“What were you doing to be so busy, Loki. I hope your silver tongue hasn’t got you into more trouble. You were ever so good at it as a child.”
Loki yawns, jaw cracking as he tugs the sheets up and burrows back into his pillows, not caring if his voice is muffled by the material.
“Just stuff.”
“Am I going to have to force it out of you?”
Loki sighs and then coughs when he inhales something other than air. Holding the phone away from his ear, he puts his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, finding and tugging out a small yellow hair, definitely puppy-fur length. He wipes his hand on the duvet and shuts his eyes tightly.
“I might have done something I’ll regret for ridiculous reasons.”
Frigga sounds more than upset and just a little worried.
“What? What have you done? No one’s pregnant are they?”
Loki can’t help but laugh.
“No, mother. I - ” He doesn’t know what it’s so hard to tell her, but he’s always been stubborn for as long as he can remember. He takes a deep breath and then gives in before he can think about it too much. “I found a puppy on Friday,” he starts and ends up telling her the entire story without her interrupting once which he thinks is quite an achievement.
Frigga hums, long and low, as though contemplating Loki’s words, as if she knows that Loki knows the solution to his own problem.
“And how long are you going to laze around in bed before you go and rescue the poor animal?”
Loki sighs again and pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache already.
“I’ll call you back,” he says.
“That’s what I thought,” Frigga says before he hangs up and tosses the phone into the mess of bedding around him.
“Damn,” he whispers aloud, pushing his palms against his eyes. “Damn it all to hell.”
*
It’s starts to rain when he’s just a few streets over and he’s managed to pick the only coat without a hood, which lowers his mood even more. It gets worse when he shows up at the shelter’s doorstep and finds the door locked, the sign in the front window telling him that it’s shut for the day. He looks up at the sky and takes a calming breath.
“Really?” he asks as though someone will answer, but truly it’s his own fault for not checking before he left, but he never really thought about it. The rain seems to fall harder, sticking his hair flat and dripping down the back of his neck in cold lines and he turns his collar up as he moves away from the door thinking about the horrible trek back home. He’s only taken one step when someone taps his shoulder lightly.
“Sir?” a familiar voice asks and Loki turns to find Stanley behind him, propping the shelter’s door open with one foot, leaning out, but not far enough to get wet. “Oh,” he says, obviously recognising him from the day before and Loki smiles awkwardly.
“Hi,” he says, “I have a bit of a problem.” He looks up at the sky again and blinks against the rain. “Mind if we go somewhere a bit drier?”
Stanley holds the door open for him and Loki steps inside, wiping his feet on the mat and slipping his hands into his pockets.
“I got a call just after you left from the owners of the puppy you took, “he lies easily, though Stanley’s eyes narrow in thought.
“Why didn’t they come and collect it then?”
“They’ve been busy and were afraid someone would take it before they could reclaim it.”
“Did they give a name? For the dog, that is.”
Loki’s eyes dart about the room, panic rising. He spots a National Geographic magazine on the waiting room table that’s open on a page about old an Old Norse myth and speaks before his brain can catch up.
“Thor. The puppy’s name is Thor. But they wanted me to come down here and keep a hold of him until they can pick him up tomorrow. I had no idea that place would be shut today, though. I can come back tomorrow.”
Stanley shrugs and runs a hand though his hair.
“As long as all the proper paperwork is filled out and the processing fee is paid, you can take him with you.”
“Processing fee?” Loki inquires trying to keep his voice from squeaking.
“Yeah, it’s £75, but you can tell the owners that it includes a microchip.”
“Oh,” he says quietly, wondering what he did so wrong in a past life to deserve such torment.
“But, I mean, if the owners are going to pay you back for it, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem, right?”
Stanley holds himself as though he sees straight through Loki’s thinly veiled lies, but he tilts his chin against the scrutinising and shrugs as casually as he can.
“Right, no, it’s fine. Like you said, I’ll have my money back before I even know it’s gone.”
He laughs and hopes it doesn’t sound too manic. He digs in his back pocket for his wallet and hands his debit card over, once again feeling as though it’s judging him completely for being so easy to persuade. The payment goes through and Stanley hands him a document to sign taking responsibility for the dog, while he disappears through a back door, obviously going to find the puppy.
“Here’s Thor,” Stanley says, taking Loki by surprise as he flips the National Geographic magazine shut and pretends he hasn’t been reading about the Norse god of thunder. He smiles and takes the dog, which wriggles madly and licks his face before he can escape. Stanley laughs and staples a few papers together before folding them up.
“Guess he missed you. Now, give these forms to the owners and they can fill them in and send them to the address listed at the top of the first page. It’s just so we can have a record of the dog in case he ever wanders off again.”
Loki takes them and tucks them into his inner coat pocket to keep them dry. He holds his hand out to Stanley, who shakes it firmly, and takes a step back.
“Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate the help.”
“Just keep him off the streets, all right?”
Loki laughs politely and makes his way out, waving over his shoulder as he steps back out into the rain, but feeling a lot less miserable, despite the fact that the puppy seems able to avoid every attempt he makes to stop him from licking. He gives up halfway home and the dog licks the side of his face until he apparently gets bored and rests his chin on Loki’s shoulder, falling promptly asleep, and snoring loudly into Loki’s ear.
He’s definitely going to regret his decision; he has no doubt about it.
*
He almost doesn’t notices Frigga sitting in his livingroom when he first walks in, setting the puppy down and letting it run around, the dog having awoken halfway up the stairs and had proceeded to wriggle unhelpfully the rest of the way up.
“Frigga?”
She folds up the newspaper she’s been reading and sets it on the coffee table before standing and leading Loki into the kitchen.
“I thought you might need a few things.”
Loki blinks, finding bags and bags of different dog related items sitting on the countertop.
“What is this?”
Frigga starts emptying them out, revealing a collar and lead - decidedly much better than his string contraption, he will admit - a food and water dish, a bed, multiple tennis balls, a squeaky bone toy, and a large bag of dry puppy food.
“I hope you kept the receipt. What if the owner calls tomorrow and takes him back?”
Frigga sighs and pulls her I-know-best face, which has always been surprisingly accurate throughout Loki’s life thus far.
“Loki, it’s been over two days and no one has called yet. If someone lost their puppy, they’d be out looking for it until they found it. He’s obviously been abandoned and it’s lucky you found him.
“Lucky is not the word I would use,” he mumbles. “That damn creature has cost me a fortune already.”
“He’ll pay you back in years,” Frigga says, squeaking the toy, both of them watching the puppy run in, entirely ignoring the fact that his foot is still bandaged, and wag his tail eagerly, obviously wanting to play. Frigga throws the toy across the room and the puppy collects it then races around, refusing to give it back to be thrown again. “Dogs lower blood pressure, so you might actually live longer.”
“Hopefully, those few extra years will be blissfully dog-free.”
Frigga tuts and throws away the plastic bags, opening and closing cupboards as though they are her own, apparently trying to find a home for the puppy’s food.
“Have you thought of a name yet?”
Loki rubs at his chin, silently agreeing with the space Frigga eventually finds for the bag.
“I told the shelter worker that it was ‘Thor’.”
“As in Thor, God of Thunder?”
“The guy working there was trying to catch me out,” he says, defending the choice. “I saw an article about him and it just slipped out.”
Frigga hums thoughtfully as the puppy makes a round through the kitchen, his toy nowhere to be found; Loki just hopes he hasn’t hidden it somewhere bizarre, like under his pillow.
“Thor? I like it; suits him”
“Suits him?” Loki asks incredulously, even as the dog rumbles past, running full-speed back into the livingroom.
“He’s loud like a god of thunder.”
Loki pauses, pulling a face, before dropping his head into his palms.
“I can’t believe this is my life.”
*
Frigga stays long enough to cook him dinner, despite his argument that he’s old enough to fend for himself, he’s been doing it for years already, and funnily enough he’s still alive. He stacks the dishes in the sink and shoos her away before she can do them for him as well and she ends up kissing his cheek, rubbing away traces of her lipstick with the pad of her thumb.
“You’ve done a good thing, Loki, despite what you might think. Just give it some time and you won’t even remember a time without him.”
Loki runs a hand through his hair and follows her silently as she heads for the door.
“Just call me if you need any tips; raising a dog can’t be all that different from raising a child, and I know all about that.”
Loki clicks his tongue and avoids the hand that comes up to pinch his cheek as his mother laughs.
“Leave before you become even more of a bad influence,” he jokes.
“I’m afraid the damage has already been done,” she replies without missing a beat while she steps through into the hallway. “Goodnight, Thor!” she calls through into the flat and Loki hears her laughing even as he shuts the door on her.
*
He logs into his computer after feeding Thor and washing the dishes, keeping a careful eye on the puppy, making sure he doesn’t get into any trouble. He finds the website belonging to the owner of the block of flats he lives in and carefully trawls through it, looking for any signs that he’s actually allowed to keep Thor without having to hide him, and finds a notice in tiny letters at the bottom of an FAQ section that small pets are actually okay.
He eyes Thor across the room. He’s pretty small, he reasons, even if he doesn’t stay that way.
He quickly closes the lid of the laptop with a loud snap and sighs, shutting his eyes as he realises he has no more excuses or reasons to pass Thor on to one of his friends and forget the whole incident ever happened. He lets his head fall back against settee and doesn’t notice the silence until too late and Thor hops up onto the cushion beside him and begins licking his face happily. Loki pushes him away, setting the computer on the table to keep it from getting knocked, while he grabs Loki behind the front legs and dangles him in front of his face. Thor shakes with excitement and Loki eventually sets him on his lap and scratches him behind the ear.
It feels like he’s disarming a bomb, his heart thundering as his resolve falls to ruin around him, and Thor’s leg thumps against his thigh as he tickles a particularly sensitive spot, the puppy turning his head, leaning into Loki’s touch. He can’t help but snort in amusement at how easily Thor gives in, but then he pauses - Thor actually whines as his fingers stop scratching - and he questions which one of them it truly is that’s giving in. He thinks suspiciously that it could possibly, most likely be he and not Thor at all.
He groans in frustration, but keeps itching behind Thor’s ear, almost unconsciously, before warmth spreads over him and he wonders if this is how a good deed feels. It only takes him a few short moments to realise, no, it isn’t, and that Thor has just peed all over him in his excitement.
*
He changes, shoving a load of dirty clothes into the washer and adding extra detergent to make sure everything comes out smelling less like dog urine and more like fresh rain - or whatever scent it is that the packaging promises to deliver. Thor hovers just beyond the doorway, ears drooping and tail between his legs - all Loki did was yell at him, he doesn’t know why he’s so miserable, but he still lets Loki catch him when he slips the new collar around Thor’s neck then clips the lead to it.
He hopes by now the rain has stopped as he carried Thor downstairs, setting him on the still-damp-but-not-getting-any-wetter pavement for him to sniff around and pee even more. He’s remembered a plastic bag this time as he walks through the park, and makes sure to praise him, using his most patronising tone as Thor does his business outside, hoping it’ll keep him from doing it inside.
It’s dark and there’s only one other dog in the area, but Thor tries his hardest to tug Loki in its direction, panting and wheezing, paws sliding in the mud. Loki doesn’t give in, but the owner of the other dog strolls towards him, obviously wanting to start up a conversation and Loki focuses his attention on Thor, hoping the woman will ignore him.
“What happened to his leg?” she says and Loki finally lifts his face and smiles politely.
“He was a stray. He stood on glass and I couldn’t exactly ignore it, so I took him to the vet and now I’m stuck with him.”
It all sort of blurts out like verbal diarrhoea and he’s glad the darkness hides his flush of embarrassment. She smiles warmly and leans down to scratch Thor behind his ear.
“Well, he seems to like you, so you must have done something right.”
He laughs awkwardly and begins to tug Thor back, taking a step away.
“We’d better get back; don’t want that rain to return.”
“Maybe we’ll see you and - ”
“Thor,” he adds helpfully.
“ - you and Thor around here another day.”
He hums noncommittally and begins to walk away, throwing a quick wave behind his back, before picking up speed and leaving, Thor trailing behind as though he wants to stay for more ear scratches from someone who actually seems to appreciate his cuteness.
“C’mon,” he whispers, tugging him on. “You’re a big enough pain in my backend without you dragging strangers into my life too.”
He wipes off Thor’s paws before he lets him trot happily around the flat, as though he’s done a public service, and grabs Thor’s bed, placing it by the settee, hoping he’ll curl up into it and fall asleep, letting Loki trudge into the bedroom to change, brush his teeth, and tumble exhausted face-first onto the bed.
He appreciates the darkness that folds around him and only just remembers to set his alarm for the next morning before falling asleep.
*
He wakes from a dream of kissing a faceless woman to find Thor lying next to him, licking his lips and chin.
“Thor!” he complains, pushing him away as he sits up and wipes the sheets over his wet face. “You disgusting mongrel!”
Thor barks and launches himself off the bed, scampering around the room, making whining noises while Loki tries to figure out what the time is and what exactly is going on. He has an hour until his alarm is meant to go off, but there’s no way he’s going to be able to fall back asleep with Thor running around everywhere.
The first thing Loki notices is the random bits of bandage scattered around the flat; the second is that Thor’s leg is no longer wrapped.
“That was for your own good,” he complains as he finally catches Thor and holds him under one arm while he takes a look at his paw. It seems to have healed well enough, only a scab to mark the area, and Loki sighs in relief because there’s no way he was going to take the dog back to the vets to pay another £36 for a bandage. He sets Thor back down, staggering to the kitchen to get food for him and a cup of tea for himself, because there’s no reason he should ever be awake at such an hour without one.
*
It’s when he steps off the bus home and lands right in an old puddle that he notices the poster underfoot. It’s one of the notices he put up about Thor, but it seems his pushpins have been no match for the wind that whips down the high street as he glances up and down to the spots he knows he put posters and finds none.
He’s no exactly proud that he’s inadvertently become a litterer, but as he steps through into his flat and Thor greets him a whirlwind of happiness and loud squeaking, he wonders if the wind hasn’t done him a favour. He takes the bone toy from the puppy and tosses it across the room, watching as Thor races after it, his tail wagging so hard he wobbles as he runs.
“Daft dog,” he says aloud, and if it happens to sound more like fondness than an insult, then he blames it on a long, mind-numbing day of work.
*
Loki blinks against the light filtering into the room through the curtains and stretches, finding himself balancing on the edge of the bed, two paws and a heavy head pressing into his side.
“Thor,” he mumbles, trying his best to shift the great lump before he falls to the floor. “You’re too big to be up here now.”
Thor carries on snoring, feet beginning to twitch as though he’s chasing a rabbit in his dream.
“If I wanted someone to hog the bed, I’d have a partner already.”
Thor growls quietly in his sleep and Loki finally swings his legs over the edge of the bed and gets up, ignoring the way Thor immediately shuffles over into the warm patch of mattress he’s left behind, as though he hasn’t been asleep at all, just waiting for Loki to get annoyed enough to move and concede the rest of the bed.
Thor has grown at an alarming rate over the past months and he’s now tall enough that he can easily lean up and steal food straight off the countertops, which means Loki has had to hide the fruit bowl, not wanting a repeat of the mess he’d found last time. He dresses quickly and pads to the kitchen, Thor somehow already there, turning anxious circles beside his food dish.
“What?” Loki says, flicking the kettle on as he opens the cupboard for a scoop of Thor’s new adult food. “Why do you do this? You know you’re going to get fed. Just wait patiently and don’t look so worried.”
He pours the mix into the bowl and watches Thor gulp it down, tail wagging happily.
“It would impossible for you to starve, anyway. The amount of rubbish you find to eat outside.”
He sips his brewed tea quietly, flipping through an old newspaper until Thor disappears from the room then returns, sitting at Loki’s side with his lead in his mouth.
“If you know what to do, just walk yourself,” he mutters, though he flips the paper shut and takes Thor’s present, clipping it onto Thor’s collar and walking to the door for his shoes.
It’s a crisp morning and he almost wishes he’d brought gloves, but after Thor has relieved himself, Loki sits on a nearby bench and Thor stands calmly by his side, head on his knee so Loki can push his fingers into his fur for warmth. He scratches under Thor’s chin and Thor tips his head back; Loki wonders which one of them is getting the better deal, but pauses in thought as a shadow falls over him.
“Cute,” comes a woman’s voice and Loki glances up, squinting into the sun. “The dog isn’t bad either.”
She laughs and sits heavily beside him, nudging his shoulder.
“Morning, Sigyn,” he mumbles as she reaches over and pets Thor quickly before Thor gets easily distracted by Balder, the dog at Sigyn’s own feet.
“Sleep well?” Loki grunts in answer and she laughs again. “Thought as much from your terrific mood.”
He doesn’t know how he’s managed it - he blames Thor entirely - but the woman who had once inquired about Thor’s leg one night long ago has now become a familiar face in their lives, someone Loki sees almost as much of as he does Thor.
She leans over and scratches behind Thor’s ear, smiling when Thor’s leg begins to twitch happily.
“Good boy,” she praises, even as Loki glares.
“Don’t encourage him.”
Sigyn presses a kiss to Thor’s head and ruffles his fur with blatant affection.
“Ignore him,” she whispers loudly. “He’s just grumpy because you like me more.”
“You can have him if you want.”
She ignores him as she carries on.
“Or maybe he’s jealous and thinks that I might like you more than I like him.”
There’s no darkness to hide his embarrassment this time, the sun shining brightly against his face. He folds his arms tightly and wonders what he’s done to deserve them teaming up to ruin his life.
“I hate you both,” he says, and Sigyn laughs, Thor barking loudly at the sound, as though joining in. Loki rubs his temple and wonders if he’s ever going to escape the madness.
Characters: Thor, Loki.
Summary: AU based on THIS prompt from norsekink. Thor is a puppy which Loki finds on the street and has no intention of keeping. Three guesses how that ends for him.
Warnings: None
Author: blacktofade
Words: 8,565
Rating: G
A/N: Apparently, sometimes my brain allows me to write fic that isn't porn! I didn't know that either! Also posted at AO3. Please feel free to point out any mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Thor or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
He doesn’t know how he always manages it, but he does, and this time the water from his date’s glass actually makes it up his nose, forcing out a series of half-choked coughs before he finally lets out a humiliatingly loud sneeze. Not that his life can get any more embarrassing at this point, but it still seems to try.
“How dare you,” his date accuses and he can’t do anything but stare, blinking water out of his eyes. Tonight, it’s Bethany: a five foot engineer with plum-coloured hair and a ring in her nose. He’d met her through a friend, well, really an acquaintance, who’d said they’d be perfect together, but as she tosses her serviette across the table at him and rises from her seat to leave, he rather thinks they’re not.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean - ” but it doesn’t seem to matter what he says because she’s halfway out of the restaurant, leaving him trying not to look around at the people blatantly gawping at him, and nervously drawing out his wallet to throw a crumpled tenner on the table, easily covering the cost of their drinks, the only things they’ve made it through so far. He contemplates chasing after her, actually makes it to the pavement outside, but then watches as she disappears into a taxi without a backwards glance and he turns the other way and begins walking home.
He wipes at his wet face with his sleeve, cursing his luck to pick what seems to be the coldest day of the year to get drenched. His cheeks sting when the wind picks up and he’s thankful it’s only a couple of minutes before he lets himself into the block of flats he lives within and begins climbing the stairs. He passes Mrs Fernhouse, who leans out of her door to complain about the types of people moving into the area - though if he’s not mistaken, he’s the last person to have moved into any of the buildings nearby - and he listens to her voice fading as he retreats down the hallway before she can even begin to start on the noise from the children running about a storey above.
He lets himself in with a sigh of relief as the door swings shut behind him, blocking out the real world which seems to try its hardest to make each day a living hell, before kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat. He sets the latter of the back of the settee as he unfastens the top buttons of his shirt and moves to press the message button on his flashing answering machine.
Loki, this is your mother, comes Frigga’s tinny voice and he sighs again, moving into the kitchen to grab a deep glass and the good bottle of scotch he keeps under the sink, behind the multitude of sponges and cleaning products, ones there mostly to put people off digging further into the cupboard and finding said stash of decent alcohol. Just wanted to see how your date went, though I’m hoping that since you’re not answering your phone, you’ve done something right.
There’s enough suggestion in her tone to make him wince and pour a little more into his tumbler, but then Frigga laughs, light and happy, and he sighs again, though mostly in disappointment of himself. He can’t even count the number of dates he’s been on since the beginning of the year and after every one, Figga calls and checks up and after every one Loki has to tell her the same excuse: we just didn’t seem to connect. He doesn’t know why she keeps calling, or even how she keeps so optimistic, but he deletes the message without listening to the rest of it, and picks up the phone to return the call. Frigga answers on the fifth ring, her tone rushed and he hears something beeping in the background, which sounds remarkably similar to the smoke-detector.
“Is this a bad time?” he begins and Frigga makes a hushing noise.
“Of course not, I’m just baking.”
Definitely the smoke-detector then.
“It’s almost ten; I thought your bedtime was nine-thirty.”
Frigga lets out a fake laugh and hushes him again.
“I wanted to stay up and see how things went tonight.”
“Well, you’ll be pleased to know that it went great, apart from the bit where she threw her drink over me and left.”
Frigga tuts, though doesn’t sound surprised, which Loki doesn’t know if he should be offended about.
“What did you say this time?”
“I didn’t - it wasn’t - ”
“Loki.”
“I told that joke I heard from dad last weekend. The one with the pig and the nun. Apparently she had a different sense of humour from me.”
Frigga sighs and the beeping in the background finally stops.
“I guess you two just didn’t connect.”
Loki almost laughs, but swallows it back down at the last minute with a mouthful of scotch.
“Maybe I’m just born to be alone.”
“Maybe you should get a cat,” his mother suggests. “Maybe I’ll get you one for Christmas in a couple of weeks.”
“Don’t even think about it,” he warns before continuing. “They’re too fussy.”
“Then you’d get along great with one.”
He flops backwards onto the sofa and stretches his legs out, resting his feet on the coffee table and wriggling his toes.
“No,” he says firmly. “No pets; they’re too much work.”
“Loki, if you can’t take care of a pet, you’ve got no hope for taking care of someone else.”
Loki holds the phone away from his head as he lets out a strangled noise of frustration and shakes the device as though wishing he were shaking some sense into his mother instead.
“I can’t believe you just said that,” he says, putting the receiver back to his ear, and Frigga scoffs.
“Prove me wrong then,” she says simply and in that moment he hates her and loves her in equal measures. Though Frigga is not his biological mother, they still share traits and habits, and stubbornness is most definitely at the top of the list, Loki thinks. “You can get a dog; they’re loyal, intelligent, and loving; a perfect partner.”
“I prefer my partners to be tailless and less likely to drool on everything I own. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed,” he states firmly, and ignores Frigga’s knowing laugh. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll tell your father you say ‘Hello’.”
He hangs up and tosses the phone into the cushions, hoping that maybe it’ll just get lost and won’t ever ring again. He drains the rest of his drink in one swallow and savours the burn as he reaches across for the remote and switches the television on. It’s precisely the moment a RSPCA advert starts up, with sad piano music in the background and footage of shaking puppies with big eyes and wet noses, and he can’t quite look away because not even he is heartless enough to change the channel.
It ends with a dog wagging its tail and barking silently, looking straight at the camera, as though staring into Loki’s soul, and as it fades into the beginning of an episode of Pet Rescue, he finally switches over to ITV, hoping to drown himself in awful shows to take the sting from the miserable, soap opera-esque turn his life has taken.
He falls asleep halfway through Law & Order, just before it starts getting good.
*
The morning is uneventful and, with the exception of the crick in his neck from sleeping crookedly on the settee, nothing seems to have changed. He flicks the kettle’s switch as he passes through on the way to the bedroom to change, gets distracted by a warm shower, and ends up having to boil the water again when he realises he forgot to make tea with it the first time. He eventually makes toast and settles down at the table to sort through the accumulated post from the week.
Bill, junk, junk, bill, junk, bill, and - thankfully - his payslip. He doesn’t truly like working for Asgard Insurance, but it pays well and he can’t truly complain. Speaking of, he thinks, as he glances at his watch, he has precisely seven minutes to get downstairs and catch the 236, where he knows he’ll be squashed beside some other poor chap mentally getting ready for another monotonous day working. He drains the last of his tea, throws the picked-off bits of bread crust into the bin, and goes back to his bedroom to grab a tie and jacket. Slipping his wallet, phone, and keys into his pockets, he snatches up his coat and curses the fact that it’s still damp from the night before. He pulls it on anyway and lets the door click shut behind, testing the handle to double check that it’s locked before he starts jogging down the stairs.
He can see the bus coming closer as he strides to the shelter, hoping his legs are just long enough to get him there seconds before he’s late and has to wait another ten minutes for the next bus. There are three people already waiting and he slides in behind them as the bus hisses to a stop and the doors prise open with a low groan that sounds as though not even they are happy with their job. With a swipe of his Oyster card, Loki finds a seat near the back next to a teenage boy playing music far too loud for his iPod headphones to manage without letting out a tinny bass-line and some woman caterwauling into the closed air, grating Loki’s nerves far more than it would had he actually slept well.
His phone buzzes against his thigh and he tugs it free to find a message from Frigga.
Thought any more about the dog?
He deletes it and turns the phone off for good measure.
*
He almost doesn’t notice it when he stumbles off the bus, exhausted and needing a good sit down. He glances into the side alley without his brain catching up until he’s three steps further and has to take two steps back just to double check the fact that, yes, there is a collarless puppy staring at him. It’s a small golden retriever, barely bigger than a footstall and it cocks its head as it glances up at him. He grimaces and almost expects his mother to jump out from behind some nearby bins and tell him it’s his new present, but then the dog licks at its own foot and stands, limping towards him on three legs as though Loki has been the only one to stop and notice the poor creature.
He takes a step back, worried about rabies and fleas lurking about in its fur, but then it whimpers and Loki finds himself stooping and scooping the puppy up, hands wrapped around its body behind the front legs, letting it dangle in his grip while he stares at it. The first thing he notices is that it’s a boy - pretty hard to miss, he’ll admit. The second is that there’s a considerable amount of blood over the dog’s soft coat. He attempts to look at the puppy’s paw and assess the damage himself, but it wriggles madly and whines until Loki’s afraid someone will come along and accuse him of animal cruelty.
He shifts the dog and tucks it under his arm, giving him a free hand to pull his phone out and Google the nearest vet clinic, which only seems to be a few bus stops away from the one he’s at. He only has to wait a few moments before the bus he needs arrives and he moves to step on board before the driver holds up her hands.
“Sir, there are no animals allowed on this bus.”
Loki pauses, one foot on the step, the other on the pavement and the puppy whimpers again as though it knows.
“What about guide dogs?”
“Is that a guide dog, sir?”
“Yes, doesn’t it look like one?”
Needless to say, she doesn’t believe him and he ends up walking, hoping it’s dark enough that no one will notice the blood all over the puppy as though Loki has tried - and failed miserably - to skin the poor thing. It continues whining and Loki’s almost had enough by the time he arrives at the clinic with only five minutes to spare before closing.
He stares at the receptionist and she stares right back.
“Hello,” he says awkwardly, waiting until she finally breaks her silence and sucks her teeth briefly.
“What happened to your puppy?”
“It’s not mine; I found it by a bus stop. It’s bleeding and thought it would be best for a vet to look at it.”
She stands and glances over the desk, her face falling into a look of sympathy as she reaches out and scratches behind the puppy’s ear.
“What happened to you, little fellow?” The retriever licks her palm and begins wriggling in Loki’s grip, its whole backend moving as it wags its tail, happy for the attention. “Wait here one second and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
She disappears through a door and Loki hears muffled talking before she returns and points around the corner.
“The vet will see you in room two.”
He hitches the puppy back up and nods his thanks to her before moving down the hallway into the specified room. The vet is already there, glasses perched near the end of his nose, a stethoscope draped around his neck, and Loki sets the puppy down on the examination table and steps back. He recounts his story while the vet checks the dog’s eyes, ears, and mouth, before finally looking at the bleeding paw. After much whining and yelping, the vet tuts and glances up at Loki.
“It seems to be more superficial than anything; just a bit of broken glass. I’ll just take it out now and wrap it and the puppy should be fine.”
“This isn’t my dog, though,” Loki emphasises. “Can’t you check for a microchip or dog licence or something? Or just take it off my hands?”
“Sir, this isn’t an animal shelter. I can call the local rescue centre, but I doubt they’ll be open now.”
“Well, what do you suggest I do with this thing? I don’t even know if they allow animals in my flat.”
“Do you know of anyone else who can take care of it for a night?”
Loki’s mind flashes to his mother, but he knows he’ll never survive the taunting for having picked the damn thing up in the first place.
“I don’t have any food for it.”
“You can see Maggie at the reception and she’ll give you a few day’s supply. I’ll fix this little guy up and have him out to you in just a moment.”
He leaves the room knowing he’s in way over his head, but he mumbles an explanation to ‘Maggie’ and she shuffles around her office, collecting up a few items for him. She gives him half a Tesco’s bag full of loose kibbles, a squeaky toy, and a small dish to hold water, and he stares at everything wordlessly. He’s never going to live this down.
He takes a seat waiting for the vet, who eventually comes out with the puppy under his arm, the injured leg bandaged all the way up to the shoulder. He hands him over to Loki, who juggles the carrier bag and the puppy until they feel vaguely stable then waits for the explanation he knows is coming.
“I couldn’t find a microchip, which means the dog could be anyone’s. I’d suggest putting up posters in the area you found him. I gave him a wormer and de-fleaed him, but he seems to be in perfect health otherwise. You might just be lucky enough to keep him for yourself if no one claims him.”
Loki attempts to return the vet’s smile, but it feels more like a grimace and he tucks the puppy further against his side. It’s only as he’s turning to leave that the receptionist quickly calls him back.
“Sir, that’ll be £86. £50 for the medications and £36 for the care.”
Loki blinks, once, twice, thinks about dropping the dog and running, but then sighs and hands the dog back to the vet.
“Hold him for a second, would you?”
He pulls out his wallet and holds out his debit card, knowing somewhere his bank account is weeping as the payment goes through and he tucks everything back into his pockets and the puppy back under his arm.
“Remember, sir” Maggie says, meeting his gaze and shooting an alarmingly threatening expression his way, “a dog is for life, not just for Christmas.”
“I’ve seen the adverts,” is his only response.
If his Thank You sounds a little bitter as he leaves, neither of them mention it, they just wish him a good night and Happy Holidays before the door has time to slam shut behind him.
The walk back seems much longer with two heavy loads in his arms and the stairs up to his flat are even worse than usual. He narrowly escapes getting caught by Mrs Fernhouse, and he feels like a smuggler as the door shuts behind him and he sets the puppy down.
“Do not get comfortable,” he tells the dog, who begins to hobble around sniffing every available surface, ignoring him entirely. “You will not be here long.”
*
When Loki awakens on Saturday morning, the first thing he does is stretch out across his bed, yawning loudly as his back clicks. It feels as though he’s slept forever and he doesn’t remember rolling over even once to get more comfortable during the night. He pushes his head deeper into his pillow and thinks briefly about going back to sleep for a few more hours before he shifts onto his side and finds his nose pressing into hairy warmth that is strangely puppy-shaped.
Why does life hate him so much? he thinks before he bolts upright, his head feeling woozy at the sudden change.
“Off!” he orders, pointing to the floor beyond the opposite side of the bed. The puppy cocks its head and starts to wag its tail as though Loki is praising him for good behaviour. “Get down!”
Loki throws the covers off before crawling over to grab the dog and hold him to his chest tightly, carrying him out of the bedroom and into the bathroom where he’s sure he put the puppy with food and water, before he’d shut the door and gone to sleep. There are bits of food scattered everywhere, water in multiple puddles, with one looking suspiciously like pee, and the toilet roll has been shredded beyond saving. He blinks and glances down at the puppy in his arms, which gazes back at him with large, watery eyes, as though daring Loki to blame him, as if it could have been any other puppy he just happened to stumble across, spend half a paycheck on, and get stuck with for longer than he’s ever wanted.
He sets the puppy down in the room, shuts the door, and waits, a hand rubbing the side of his face to stem the headache he feels brewing. As he’s suspected, there’s high-pitched whining, a few quiet yaps, and then a dull thud and the door swings open. Apparently, it hasn’t taken long for the puppy to learn how to press down door handles. He sighs and walks to the kitchen, the dog scrabbling behind him, nails probably ruining his hardwood floor, before he puts another scoop of food in a paper bowl and sets it down.
While the puppy eats, he sets about tidying the mess in the bathroom, mopping the floor with disinfectant twice just to be sure. When he returns to the kitchen, the puppy is nowhere in sight, and it would be a lie if he said his stomach didn’t drop, however, it only takes a second for him to realise the dog is just hidden by the island, its head jammed into the bin, snuffling loudly.
“Hey!” he shouts, trying to get its attention, which works, as it backpedals quickly, looking sufficiently rebuked, though it would help if it didn’t have half a chicken bone sticking from its mouth. “Drop it,” he orders, pointing to the floor, and that’s when the running starts.
*
It takes him the better part of fifteen minutes to catch the little bastard and when he finally does, the bone is nowhere in sight. He has visions of ending up at the vet clinic again and spending the rest of his paycheck on the blasted animal, but then finds it when he’s walking barefoot across the livingroom, leaving a sizeable, throbbing dent in his foot and a few choice curses on his tongue.
He dresses in no time at all and spends another five minutes digging around in a drawer for some heavy-duty string he knows he has tucked somewhere. He fashions a makeshift collar and lead, before looping it around the puppy’s neck and hauling him up, only just remembering to grab his phone and keys before he leaves his flat.
There’s a small park only a minute’s stroll from his place and by the time he gets there it’s already half-filled with early-morning joggers and other dog-walkers. The puppy limps around, sniffing and peeing on almost everything it finds, looking back at Loki with its mouth wide, tongue lolling out as it pants happily, as though expecting Loki to be proud of its bathroom habits. He’s definitely not pleased when he has to clean up after it, having to borrow a plastic bag from another walker after forgetting to bring his own. He’s just thankful there are plenty of bins around to throw it away quickly.
When the puppy seems sufficiently worn out, he all but drags it back to his flat, removing the string and letting it flop tiredly out onto the floor, where it promptly falls asleep and finally, finally, Loki gets five minutes peace. Until the house-phone rings.
“I’m a little busy,” he says, as he recognises the number and speaks before Frigga can.
“It’s the weekend, Loki, what on earth can you be doing?” He doesn’t want to tell her, he really doesn’t, but it’s like she can read his silence, even over the phone. “What have you done?”
“I haven’t done anything. I need to call you back later; like I said, I’m a little busy right now.”
He hangs up abruptly before the truth spills out and his mother can tease him mercilessly, and pulls his mobile from his pocket. While the puppy is still for more than two seconds, he snaps a picture of it looking sleepily up at him, head on his paws before it drifts right back off again. It’s easy to send it to his laptop, plugging in the printer and printing a fair few copies of the puppy’s large face in the middle of the blank page. Slowly, he goes through them, writing the words Lost puppy in large print at the top of each, and his information at the bottom. With a tub of pushpins in his pocket, he leaves his flat again, slowly posting the flyers up and down the street, hoping like mad that the dog isn’t just a stray with no owner.
When he returns, the puppy is still asleep, snoring now in a remarkably similar fashion to Loki’s father when he falls asleep in front of the telly after dinner, and the thought startles a laugh out of him. He snorts to himself as he tugs the directory from under the coffee table and sits on the settee to flip through it for the number to local rescue shelters.
He finds one only a few miles away and he calls with anticipation humming through him.
“Can I help you?” answers a man and Loki clears his throat.
“Yes, I found a dog on the street yesterday and it turns out that he doesn’t have a chip or collar, so is there any way someone can come and collect him? Preferably today,” he hastens to add.
He hears the sound of rustling paper as though the man is flipping through a calendar and it doesn’t bode well.
“Will two this afternoon be convenient for you, sir?”
Loki blinks in surprise and can’t keep the smile off his face as he answers.
“That would be perfect, thank you.”
He gives the man his details and hangs up feeling distinctly better and glances at the puppy curled by his feet. While he watches, it stretches, whining softly before settling back down, its nose now resting on Loki’s shoe. He frowns as though it will help and tries to stop the guilt that rolls through him when he pulls it away, standing and going to his laptop to check his email, wondering if anyone has tried to contact him yet.
*
He tries not to look too eager when he opens the door and finds a bulky man on the other side of it wearing thick gloves as though about to wrestle with a bear, not a small golden retriever puppy. He steps aside, ushering in the man, who introduces himself as Stanley, and shows him the dog. He hums thoughtfully then turns to Loki.
“Cute,” he murmurs. “Hopefully, they’ll find him a new home quickly.” Loki hums quietly in agreement, but knows Stanley has something else to say when he sighs and moves towards the puppy. “Hopefully, it’ll be one of the fortunate ones.”
Loki coughs, trying his best not to take the bait, but he falls for it anyway.
“Fortunate ones?”
“Yeah, one of the dogs that doesn’t get put down.”
He’s heard about it happening, sure, but it doesn’t seem to prepare him for the real deal.
“What?”
Stanley looks at him as though he’s dribbling.
“Y’know, after a dog has been at the shelter for a certain about of time, they’ll euthanatise it to make room for newer ones.”
“What’s the point of it being a rescue shelter if you end up putting the animals to sleep?” he counters and Stanley answers as though he’s had to get the point across a lot.
“Well, what’s better: a dog dying in the street, or a dog that’s been given a chance, being put down humanely at a warm, safe shelter?”
Loki doesn’t agree with it, but he will admit that it’s a compelling argument.
“I put up posters around the area, so if anyone contacts me, I’ll send them your way.”
Stanley nods and moves towards the puppy, which finally awakens, yawning widely and blinking up at them. He wags his tail briefly when Stanley bends down and scoops him up, but wriggles and looks towards Loki when Stanley starts heading towards the door.
“C’mon, little guy,” Stanley says, apparently attempting to pacify the struggling dog, before he grips it by the scruff and holds tightly, making the puppy yelp.
“Careful,” Loki says quietly and Stanley looks at him as though he’s not a fan of people telling him how to do his job. Loki clears his throat and moves to get the door, trying his best to ignore the puppy’s low, scared whines as they fade down the hallway.
*
He clears up the rest of the mess the puppy has left around his house - he finds a chewed up magazine under the dining room table and another chicken bone just under the edge of the settee. When he settles down in front of the telly, the house feels surprisingly quiet; he turns the volume up to fill the space and rationalises that it can’t truly have been the puppy, since he’d only been there for one night.
He tucks his feet up under himself and makes a point to switch the channel each time an advert for animal shelters comes up. He definitely doesn’t think about the puppy curled up and alone in a cage and most certainly doesn’t have heroic ideas about swooping in to save it.
*
He forgets to call Frigga back, which earns him an early morning earful from her when he wakes up on Sunday.
“What were you doing to be so busy, Loki. I hope your silver tongue hasn’t got you into more trouble. You were ever so good at it as a child.”
Loki yawns, jaw cracking as he tugs the sheets up and burrows back into his pillows, not caring if his voice is muffled by the material.
“Just stuff.”
“Am I going to have to force it out of you?”
Loki sighs and then coughs when he inhales something other than air. Holding the phone away from his ear, he puts his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, finding and tugging out a small yellow hair, definitely puppy-fur length. He wipes his hand on the duvet and shuts his eyes tightly.
“I might have done something I’ll regret for ridiculous reasons.”
Frigga sounds more than upset and just a little worried.
“What? What have you done? No one’s pregnant are they?”
Loki can’t help but laugh.
“No, mother. I - ” He doesn’t know what it’s so hard to tell her, but he’s always been stubborn for as long as he can remember. He takes a deep breath and then gives in before he can think about it too much. “I found a puppy on Friday,” he starts and ends up telling her the entire story without her interrupting once which he thinks is quite an achievement.
Frigga hums, long and low, as though contemplating Loki’s words, as if she knows that Loki knows the solution to his own problem.
“And how long are you going to laze around in bed before you go and rescue the poor animal?”
Loki sighs again and pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache already.
“I’ll call you back,” he says.
“That’s what I thought,” Frigga says before he hangs up and tosses the phone into the mess of bedding around him.
“Damn,” he whispers aloud, pushing his palms against his eyes. “Damn it all to hell.”
*
It’s starts to rain when he’s just a few streets over and he’s managed to pick the only coat without a hood, which lowers his mood even more. It gets worse when he shows up at the shelter’s doorstep and finds the door locked, the sign in the front window telling him that it’s shut for the day. He looks up at the sky and takes a calming breath.
“Really?” he asks as though someone will answer, but truly it’s his own fault for not checking before he left, but he never really thought about it. The rain seems to fall harder, sticking his hair flat and dripping down the back of his neck in cold lines and he turns his collar up as he moves away from the door thinking about the horrible trek back home. He’s only taken one step when someone taps his shoulder lightly.
“Sir?” a familiar voice asks and Loki turns to find Stanley behind him, propping the shelter’s door open with one foot, leaning out, but not far enough to get wet. “Oh,” he says, obviously recognising him from the day before and Loki smiles awkwardly.
“Hi,” he says, “I have a bit of a problem.” He looks up at the sky again and blinks against the rain. “Mind if we go somewhere a bit drier?”
Stanley holds the door open for him and Loki steps inside, wiping his feet on the mat and slipping his hands into his pockets.
“I got a call just after you left from the owners of the puppy you took, “he lies easily, though Stanley’s eyes narrow in thought.
“Why didn’t they come and collect it then?”
“They’ve been busy and were afraid someone would take it before they could reclaim it.”
“Did they give a name? For the dog, that is.”
Loki’s eyes dart about the room, panic rising. He spots a National Geographic magazine on the waiting room table that’s open on a page about old an Old Norse myth and speaks before his brain can catch up.
“Thor. The puppy’s name is Thor. But they wanted me to come down here and keep a hold of him until they can pick him up tomorrow. I had no idea that place would be shut today, though. I can come back tomorrow.”
Stanley shrugs and runs a hand though his hair.
“As long as all the proper paperwork is filled out and the processing fee is paid, you can take him with you.”
“Processing fee?” Loki inquires trying to keep his voice from squeaking.
“Yeah, it’s £75, but you can tell the owners that it includes a microchip.”
“Oh,” he says quietly, wondering what he did so wrong in a past life to deserve such torment.
“But, I mean, if the owners are going to pay you back for it, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem, right?”
Stanley holds himself as though he sees straight through Loki’s thinly veiled lies, but he tilts his chin against the scrutinising and shrugs as casually as he can.
“Right, no, it’s fine. Like you said, I’ll have my money back before I even know it’s gone.”
He laughs and hopes it doesn’t sound too manic. He digs in his back pocket for his wallet and hands his debit card over, once again feeling as though it’s judging him completely for being so easy to persuade. The payment goes through and Stanley hands him a document to sign taking responsibility for the dog, while he disappears through a back door, obviously going to find the puppy.
“Here’s Thor,” Stanley says, taking Loki by surprise as he flips the National Geographic magazine shut and pretends he hasn’t been reading about the Norse god of thunder. He smiles and takes the dog, which wriggles madly and licks his face before he can escape. Stanley laughs and staples a few papers together before folding them up.
“Guess he missed you. Now, give these forms to the owners and they can fill them in and send them to the address listed at the top of the first page. It’s just so we can have a record of the dog in case he ever wanders off again.”
Loki takes them and tucks them into his inner coat pocket to keep them dry. He holds his hand out to Stanley, who shakes it firmly, and takes a step back.
“Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate the help.”
“Just keep him off the streets, all right?”
Loki laughs politely and makes his way out, waving over his shoulder as he steps back out into the rain, but feeling a lot less miserable, despite the fact that the puppy seems able to avoid every attempt he makes to stop him from licking. He gives up halfway home and the dog licks the side of his face until he apparently gets bored and rests his chin on Loki’s shoulder, falling promptly asleep, and snoring loudly into Loki’s ear.
He’s definitely going to regret his decision; he has no doubt about it.
*
He almost doesn’t notices Frigga sitting in his livingroom when he first walks in, setting the puppy down and letting it run around, the dog having awoken halfway up the stairs and had proceeded to wriggle unhelpfully the rest of the way up.
“Frigga?”
She folds up the newspaper she’s been reading and sets it on the coffee table before standing and leading Loki into the kitchen.
“I thought you might need a few things.”
Loki blinks, finding bags and bags of different dog related items sitting on the countertop.
“What is this?”
Frigga starts emptying them out, revealing a collar and lead - decidedly much better than his string contraption, he will admit - a food and water dish, a bed, multiple tennis balls, a squeaky bone toy, and a large bag of dry puppy food.
“I hope you kept the receipt. What if the owner calls tomorrow and takes him back?”
Frigga sighs and pulls her I-know-best face, which has always been surprisingly accurate throughout Loki’s life thus far.
“Loki, it’s been over two days and no one has called yet. If someone lost their puppy, they’d be out looking for it until they found it. He’s obviously been abandoned and it’s lucky you found him.
“Lucky is not the word I would use,” he mumbles. “That damn creature has cost me a fortune already.”
“He’ll pay you back in years,” Frigga says, squeaking the toy, both of them watching the puppy run in, entirely ignoring the fact that his foot is still bandaged, and wag his tail eagerly, obviously wanting to play. Frigga throws the toy across the room and the puppy collects it then races around, refusing to give it back to be thrown again. “Dogs lower blood pressure, so you might actually live longer.”
“Hopefully, those few extra years will be blissfully dog-free.”
Frigga tuts and throws away the plastic bags, opening and closing cupboards as though they are her own, apparently trying to find a home for the puppy’s food.
“Have you thought of a name yet?”
Loki rubs at his chin, silently agreeing with the space Frigga eventually finds for the bag.
“I told the shelter worker that it was ‘Thor’.”
“As in Thor, God of Thunder?”
“The guy working there was trying to catch me out,” he says, defending the choice. “I saw an article about him and it just slipped out.”
Frigga hums thoughtfully as the puppy makes a round through the kitchen, his toy nowhere to be found; Loki just hopes he hasn’t hidden it somewhere bizarre, like under his pillow.
“Thor? I like it; suits him”
“Suits him?” Loki asks incredulously, even as the dog rumbles past, running full-speed back into the livingroom.
“He’s loud like a god of thunder.”
Loki pauses, pulling a face, before dropping his head into his palms.
“I can’t believe this is my life.”
*
Frigga stays long enough to cook him dinner, despite his argument that he’s old enough to fend for himself, he’s been doing it for years already, and funnily enough he’s still alive. He stacks the dishes in the sink and shoos her away before she can do them for him as well and she ends up kissing his cheek, rubbing away traces of her lipstick with the pad of her thumb.
“You’ve done a good thing, Loki, despite what you might think. Just give it some time and you won’t even remember a time without him.”
Loki runs a hand through his hair and follows her silently as she heads for the door.
“Just call me if you need any tips; raising a dog can’t be all that different from raising a child, and I know all about that.”
Loki clicks his tongue and avoids the hand that comes up to pinch his cheek as his mother laughs.
“Leave before you become even more of a bad influence,” he jokes.
“I’m afraid the damage has already been done,” she replies without missing a beat while she steps through into the hallway. “Goodnight, Thor!” she calls through into the flat and Loki hears her laughing even as he shuts the door on her.
*
He logs into his computer after feeding Thor and washing the dishes, keeping a careful eye on the puppy, making sure he doesn’t get into any trouble. He finds the website belonging to the owner of the block of flats he lives in and carefully trawls through it, looking for any signs that he’s actually allowed to keep Thor without having to hide him, and finds a notice in tiny letters at the bottom of an FAQ section that small pets are actually okay.
He eyes Thor across the room. He’s pretty small, he reasons, even if he doesn’t stay that way.
He quickly closes the lid of the laptop with a loud snap and sighs, shutting his eyes as he realises he has no more excuses or reasons to pass Thor on to one of his friends and forget the whole incident ever happened. He lets his head fall back against settee and doesn’t notice the silence until too late and Thor hops up onto the cushion beside him and begins licking his face happily. Loki pushes him away, setting the computer on the table to keep it from getting knocked, while he grabs Loki behind the front legs and dangles him in front of his face. Thor shakes with excitement and Loki eventually sets him on his lap and scratches him behind the ear.
It feels like he’s disarming a bomb, his heart thundering as his resolve falls to ruin around him, and Thor’s leg thumps against his thigh as he tickles a particularly sensitive spot, the puppy turning his head, leaning into Loki’s touch. He can’t help but snort in amusement at how easily Thor gives in, but then he pauses - Thor actually whines as his fingers stop scratching - and he questions which one of them it truly is that’s giving in. He thinks suspiciously that it could possibly, most likely be he and not Thor at all.
He groans in frustration, but keeps itching behind Thor’s ear, almost unconsciously, before warmth spreads over him and he wonders if this is how a good deed feels. It only takes him a few short moments to realise, no, it isn’t, and that Thor has just peed all over him in his excitement.
*
He changes, shoving a load of dirty clothes into the washer and adding extra detergent to make sure everything comes out smelling less like dog urine and more like fresh rain - or whatever scent it is that the packaging promises to deliver. Thor hovers just beyond the doorway, ears drooping and tail between his legs - all Loki did was yell at him, he doesn’t know why he’s so miserable, but he still lets Loki catch him when he slips the new collar around Thor’s neck then clips the lead to it.
He hopes by now the rain has stopped as he carried Thor downstairs, setting him on the still-damp-but-not-getting-any-wetter pavement for him to sniff around and pee even more. He’s remembered a plastic bag this time as he walks through the park, and makes sure to praise him, using his most patronising tone as Thor does his business outside, hoping it’ll keep him from doing it inside.
It’s dark and there’s only one other dog in the area, but Thor tries his hardest to tug Loki in its direction, panting and wheezing, paws sliding in the mud. Loki doesn’t give in, but the owner of the other dog strolls towards him, obviously wanting to start up a conversation and Loki focuses his attention on Thor, hoping the woman will ignore him.
“What happened to his leg?” she says and Loki finally lifts his face and smiles politely.
“He was a stray. He stood on glass and I couldn’t exactly ignore it, so I took him to the vet and now I’m stuck with him.”
It all sort of blurts out like verbal diarrhoea and he’s glad the darkness hides his flush of embarrassment. She smiles warmly and leans down to scratch Thor behind his ear.
“Well, he seems to like you, so you must have done something right.”
He laughs awkwardly and begins to tug Thor back, taking a step away.
“We’d better get back; don’t want that rain to return.”
“Maybe we’ll see you and - ”
“Thor,” he adds helpfully.
“ - you and Thor around here another day.”
He hums noncommittally and begins to walk away, throwing a quick wave behind his back, before picking up speed and leaving, Thor trailing behind as though he wants to stay for more ear scratches from someone who actually seems to appreciate his cuteness.
“C’mon,” he whispers, tugging him on. “You’re a big enough pain in my backend without you dragging strangers into my life too.”
He wipes off Thor’s paws before he lets him trot happily around the flat, as though he’s done a public service, and grabs Thor’s bed, placing it by the settee, hoping he’ll curl up into it and fall asleep, letting Loki trudge into the bedroom to change, brush his teeth, and tumble exhausted face-first onto the bed.
He appreciates the darkness that folds around him and only just remembers to set his alarm for the next morning before falling asleep.
*
He wakes from a dream of kissing a faceless woman to find Thor lying next to him, licking his lips and chin.
“Thor!” he complains, pushing him away as he sits up and wipes the sheets over his wet face. “You disgusting mongrel!”
Thor barks and launches himself off the bed, scampering around the room, making whining noises while Loki tries to figure out what the time is and what exactly is going on. He has an hour until his alarm is meant to go off, but there’s no way he’s going to be able to fall back asleep with Thor running around everywhere.
The first thing Loki notices is the random bits of bandage scattered around the flat; the second is that Thor’s leg is no longer wrapped.
“That was for your own good,” he complains as he finally catches Thor and holds him under one arm while he takes a look at his paw. It seems to have healed well enough, only a scab to mark the area, and Loki sighs in relief because there’s no way he was going to take the dog back to the vets to pay another £36 for a bandage. He sets Thor back down, staggering to the kitchen to get food for him and a cup of tea for himself, because there’s no reason he should ever be awake at such an hour without one.
*
It’s when he steps off the bus home and lands right in an old puddle that he notices the poster underfoot. It’s one of the notices he put up about Thor, but it seems his pushpins have been no match for the wind that whips down the high street as he glances up and down to the spots he knows he put posters and finds none.
He’s no exactly proud that he’s inadvertently become a litterer, but as he steps through into his flat and Thor greets him a whirlwind of happiness and loud squeaking, he wonders if the wind hasn’t done him a favour. He takes the bone toy from the puppy and tosses it across the room, watching as Thor races after it, his tail wagging so hard he wobbles as he runs.
“Daft dog,” he says aloud, and if it happens to sound more like fondness than an insult, then he blames it on a long, mind-numbing day of work.
*
Loki blinks against the light filtering into the room through the curtains and stretches, finding himself balancing on the edge of the bed, two paws and a heavy head pressing into his side.
“Thor,” he mumbles, trying his best to shift the great lump before he falls to the floor. “You’re too big to be up here now.”
Thor carries on snoring, feet beginning to twitch as though he’s chasing a rabbit in his dream.
“If I wanted someone to hog the bed, I’d have a partner already.”
Thor growls quietly in his sleep and Loki finally swings his legs over the edge of the bed and gets up, ignoring the way Thor immediately shuffles over into the warm patch of mattress he’s left behind, as though he hasn’t been asleep at all, just waiting for Loki to get annoyed enough to move and concede the rest of the bed.
Thor has grown at an alarming rate over the past months and he’s now tall enough that he can easily lean up and steal food straight off the countertops, which means Loki has had to hide the fruit bowl, not wanting a repeat of the mess he’d found last time. He dresses quickly and pads to the kitchen, Thor somehow already there, turning anxious circles beside his food dish.
“What?” Loki says, flicking the kettle on as he opens the cupboard for a scoop of Thor’s new adult food. “Why do you do this? You know you’re going to get fed. Just wait patiently and don’t look so worried.”
He pours the mix into the bowl and watches Thor gulp it down, tail wagging happily.
“It would impossible for you to starve, anyway. The amount of rubbish you find to eat outside.”
He sips his brewed tea quietly, flipping through an old newspaper until Thor disappears from the room then returns, sitting at Loki’s side with his lead in his mouth.
“If you know what to do, just walk yourself,” he mutters, though he flips the paper shut and takes Thor’s present, clipping it onto Thor’s collar and walking to the door for his shoes.
It’s a crisp morning and he almost wishes he’d brought gloves, but after Thor has relieved himself, Loki sits on a nearby bench and Thor stands calmly by his side, head on his knee so Loki can push his fingers into his fur for warmth. He scratches under Thor’s chin and Thor tips his head back; Loki wonders which one of them is getting the better deal, but pauses in thought as a shadow falls over him.
“Cute,” comes a woman’s voice and Loki glances up, squinting into the sun. “The dog isn’t bad either.”
She laughs and sits heavily beside him, nudging his shoulder.
“Morning, Sigyn,” he mumbles as she reaches over and pets Thor quickly before Thor gets easily distracted by Balder, the dog at Sigyn’s own feet.
“Sleep well?” Loki grunts in answer and she laughs again. “Thought as much from your terrific mood.”
He doesn’t know how he’s managed it - he blames Thor entirely - but the woman who had once inquired about Thor’s leg one night long ago has now become a familiar face in their lives, someone Loki sees almost as much of as he does Thor.
She leans over and scratches behind Thor’s ear, smiling when Thor’s leg begins to twitch happily.
“Good boy,” she praises, even as Loki glares.
“Don’t encourage him.”
Sigyn presses a kiss to Thor’s head and ruffles his fur with blatant affection.
“Ignore him,” she whispers loudly. “He’s just grumpy because you like me more.”
“You can have him if you want.”
She ignores him as she carries on.
“Or maybe he’s jealous and thinks that I might like you more than I like him.”
There’s no darkness to hide his embarrassment this time, the sun shining brightly against his face. He folds his arms tightly and wonders what he’s done to deserve them teaming up to ruin his life.
“I hate you both,” he says, and Sigyn laughs, Thor barking loudly at the sound, as though joining in. Loki rubs his temple and wonders if he’s ever going to escape the madness.