1386/We All Have a Deathwish

We All Have a Deathwish
Date of Scene:	17 July 2017
Location:	West Harlem - Mercy's Garage
Synopsis:	Mercy and Loki discuss between bombs and dinner, what to do about the Winter Soldier
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Loki

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Mercy Thompson has posed:
The night where Mercy's anguish was so acute has passed. Or, at the very least, it's better. While not quite on completely balanced mental feet the mechanic can say she no longer feels the pull of those dangerous thoughts; it's no longer an undertow of blackness waiting to swell over her head and pull her down. Not like that first night.

It also helps that Mercy's work is physically intensive. Repairs and projects help to keep her attention engrossed in the present versus the past. This means work has /definitely/ been seeing a lot more of her. Busyness has been one of her constant companions this week. Idleness not so much. That doesn't mean she's ignoring people, or places, perhaps sleep, but definitely not people.

As such, an invitation was issued to Loki from Mercy. Dinner, her place, something simple and low key. Italian for the meal. Wine would have been left up to him to select.

Now that specified hour approaches and time is clearly not on Mercy's side. In fact, she's not even ready yet. She's still knee-deep within her garage though not within the guts of a broken car. Instead Mercy is at one of her work benches the wooden surface covered by a variety of tools, wiring, thin sheets of metal, various batteries and other assorted odds-n-ends. She's also still decked out in her typical work coveralls and high atop her brow a pair of dark protective welding goggles can be seen, though instead of a welding torch in her hands she currently has a soldering iron. Carefully she's joining together two small pieces of metal, both the same size, weight and shape.

Her concentration is intense, gaze sharp, and her hands steady as she works.

Thankfully the food sits safe and snug in her warm stove, protectively wrapped in foil to keep away dryness, and the potential of not being ready on time.

Loki has posed:
Loki has his own demons to slay. Events that involve the occasional recharge in his sanctum, one of many scattered over the realms, slough off the poisonous impact of his encounter with Coyote. There are agents to meet, information to exchange, secrets to glean about the strange childling son of another godling who threatened him and what he holds dear. Never doubt for an instant he's going to strongly, firmly consider countermeasures and traces on that poor kid, Joe Junior, who may long regret his days tangling with the wrong sorts.

He deals with the darkness in his own way, through forced activity and pushing his limits, and occasionally taking his mood out on the enemies of Asgard. That little desert lizard had it coming.

Dinner, Italian food, though, he will not be late for. The warmer weather should mean showing up in casual wear, but here's a man who needs to learn what jeans are for. The best he'll admit to is wearing a burgundy button-down shirt with just enough mobility to suggest another time, another era. Forget the bottle of wine being anything simple, however, for all he ignores the cake. He carries a bag with something slim and heavy in it, a dark ruby liquor distilled from the terroir of France's western-most climes where the Atlantic rolls in and waters the vineyards with clouds, salt, and innate grit.

He helps himself to enter by knocking and slipping his head in, looking about the familiar contours. "Hello, I have a broken death machine for you?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Coyote, senior in this particular instance, is keeping a rather low profile. Silence, in fact. His paws are leaving very few marks upon the mortal and non-mortal world. Whether that means he knows how angry the elder Chaos Lord is can't quite be said, but there's a definite low-key attitude to the four-footed being.

As for Joe Junior, he'll be easier to find. A comatose man matching his description might be found in a long-term care facility listed simply as John Doe. His hospital bills paid for by a variety a of shell accounts that seem to go in endless circles.

Thankfully, for Mercy, she hasn't even thought to look for her step-brother, or her father. There's too much bitterness there for her to handle. Perhaps in time, she can and will, but for now she naturally shies away from those thoughts.

When Loki arrives Mercy is caught completely unaware. Again, time isn't her friend here. It's working against her. And so, when Loki, knocks, pops his head in and offers that greeting Mercy is surprised. Her head swivels sharply towards the man, her expression tight with momentary tension, though that stress bleeds quickly away when she sees who's there.

"Loki!" Exclaims the mechanic, her gaze taking him in and his 'casual' clothes in. "You're -"

She was going to say early, but then she actually turns her eyes to the clock upon the wall. "- I'm late. Dang it." Apologetic amusement washes across Mercy's features now as she straightens from her slightly half-bent posture. The soldering iron will be turned off and set aside to cool down. Then the goggles atop her hand will be pulled off and set aside.

Loki has posed:
Coyote himself may be getting off light. The offspring is the problem. Loki should know a thing or two about world serpents, Ragnarok, and bad offspring if the tales are true. Supposing not, he at least ought to understand what the world thinks of terrible absent parents.

Joe Junior's forgotten tonight, for the most part. His fingerprints lie all over the psychic wounds still imprinted on an astral form or a memory at the forefront of the Trickster's mind. He has plenty of reason to resent the damage done.

Inside the shop, he dominates his particular space and hints at little of his aggrieved status. It's all in the eyes. The way Mercy is drunk down and watched as one minds a particularly valuable, exotic creature or the crown heiress after a brush with disaster. It's how he narrows the wavelengths he sees to her, a palpable attentiveness there.

"Dressed? Fabulously generous? The very sight to take your breath away?" He supplies her some descriptors, just in case. They rattle rapidly as the clock betrays intentions. "I believe 'smoking hot' is yours, though."

He gestures to the torch.

"You're burning through something?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
While before she may not have picked up on his emotional state tonight is a bit different. She's much more aware again, no longer so nose-blind, or unseeing in this particular sense. The emotion that's harbored within his gaze is seen. It's enough to bring something within Mercy's own gaze. Worry, yes, guilt too.

His emotions (and her own) aren't touched upon yet. Not when he offers those much more light-hearted words to her. Those bring a crooked grin from Mercy and even a quiet laugh, "I think I'lll go with all three there." She states, humor evident in her voice even as she approaches him.

It's only at his remark about being smoking hot that Mercy's mouth quirks upward into a more full-fledged grin, "Literally even. And yes -" She begins, her attention turning back to the work bench for a minute, to first make sure all the various tools are safely set aside and two, to look at her handy-work. It looks more messy than actual real work, but the beginnings of small electromagnets are slowly being created one by one.

"- I didn't want to tell you over the phone, but there's a new situation." When she looks back to Loki, he'll find her expression more grim now than amused. "Because resting on our laurels isn't allowed, right?" Bitterness is hinted heavily in those words of hers, "Yasha - James, was taken by his old group. Some people called Hydra. There's plans to try and capture him back - from what they said he's likely not in his right mind. Which means we all need to be careful right now."

Loki has posed:
"As you rightly should." Loki isn't one to argue with his own excellence or grandeur. Knowing himself as he does, the majesty and grandeur of his station shall darn well be acknowledged by passing mortals, gods, and all creation when he wants it to. His smile broadens into something slightly less damnably magnificent and magnificently bastardly. "Is this too intrusive for you? I can entertain myself for a spell if you need to finish rigging that machine with the ability to torch others that draw too close."

His glance over her tools tells him such primitive things do other things related to the big thing on the hoisty thing that dominates her garage. In short, she will not need assistance on his part putting them where they ought to go. A wave of his hand could banish the entire room to the other side of the galaxy with a bit of effort. Surely no one wants that. And they're reasonably right; long banishments end up with no organization retained whatsoever, a jumble of goods.

"A new situation?" His eyebrows are already creeping up at that, and the edged sharpness of his smile remains fixed. Mercy has to invoke one word to warrant a sharp twist of his mouth, the sneer an ugly and terrible thing to wear for any length of time. Mercifully it lasts seconds. "/Them/. Too much to hope they vanished into the dust along with the Third Reich. There are always survivors. They're rats, plague-bearers, and their whole rotten existence proves vermin survive damn near anything."

An idle flicker of green flame rolls through his gaze, turned to the wall that provides so little protection beyond the basics of elements, privacy, and storage. "I will /try/ not to offend you by implying you should take up temporary residency with me. And, I suspect, the nurse."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
His question about being too intrusive is waved aside. With that gesture of hers is two words heavily implied - 'definitely not'. And another smile is pulled from the depths of Mercy, at the mention of torching others.

There might even be a quick shake of the mechanic's head.

And let's not talk about sending her tools elsewhere. That would be a very dangerous thing to do. While Mercy isn't quite so obsessive compulsive with most things, her tools are a different matter altogether.

Even as the two speak Mercy quickly and efficiently closes the shop down. Garage door down, then locked, then the majority of everything put away. She arrives at his side at the same time he offers that eyebrow raise along with that sharply twisted mouth of his. That expression may not last long, but it was long enough that Mercy saw it. Worry again creeps into her expression, her gaze mostly, as she considers the Asgardian so near her. Surprise can likewise be seen within her brown eyes when Loki obviously knows of the group she speaks of.

For Mercy, Hydra is a complete unknown, beyond being obviously lumped into a 'bad guy' status.

"You know of them then." She states, no question there in her mind. At his mention of the Third Reich that earns a raise of eyebrows upon Mercy's part now, "Nazis?" Disgust can definitely be heard in that one word of hers, even as she considers the implications there. Though those implications are cut short when the trickster offers to keep both her and Claire safe. "I think in this instance I wouldn't box you for it -" The coyote says good-naturedly enough, even as she reaches out with a light touch towards his arm, "I know it's just worry talking." She continues with, "And if I knew Claire would go along with it I'd take you up on it. I'm worried too. Knowing what he's capable of -"

Well, it's not a pretty picture with what Mercy can imagine happening.

Loki has posed:
Whatever the heavy implications are, Loki weathers them terribly well. Another smile emerges to answer Mercy in kind, brief lightning to brighten the sky.

He waits as long as it takes her to close up shop according to the arcane rituals humanity favours, the kind of routines ingrained since childhood and clung to with desperate ferocity by the subconscious mind. Rhythms don't easily alter. He may well know better than to interrupt her in any fashion or shuffle around, messing up an order established by a daughter of Coyote. For all he knows, there's a trapdoor she drops people into for daring to walk too close.

"Know them?" A question repeated not so much for her benefit as the echoes of a slightly younger man. "They dared to summon us with their foul rituals. It's always dangerous to do so, to make highly clear. We choose to answer or not." His eyes flicker still, and the rhythm of his irritation spools around a tight core of condescending disgust. In that they're mutually aligned. "Worse than Nazis. Men hellbent on supremacy began long before the Germans got the ideas, though they had long quiescence. What matters more is their appearance during that abominable war. They manipulate events here, largely political, to achieve their ends. Dominance, of course, whatever else? They've used assassinations, wars, extortion, bribery, espionage, everything you can certainly think of to gain their upper hand. I'm well aware of their interest in the darkest magic." He idly flicks his fingers. "You should be worried. As an organization they are like their namesake. Cut off one head, multiple more appear. They're about as insidious as a virus, spread by contact, and allied to particularly foul influences. You see, then, why I'd prefer to have you two where it's easy to watch for trouble coming."

And, wouldn't it be nice to have someone with a big fat hammer to hurl at the enemy while he occasionally watches television and eats cake.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When Loki elaborates upon Hydra and their particular ilk, the dread in Mercy's gaze only deepens.

There's also a flash of incredulousness as well, when the Trickster mentions Hydra's attempt at summoning the Asgardian Gods. "Truly? What ... happened when they did that?" She asks, that first question rhetorical since she's hardly known Loki to lie of such things, the second question real. "I didn't realize they were so interested in magic." She murmurs, her expression turning slightly pinched as she now considers that. "When we saw him with his handlers all they had with them was technological means. Magic makes it worse." The mechanic says, even as she nods towards the door that leads into her living space.

She'll only move once Loki does, as she considers all that he's said, "If I could convince Claire to take shelter, I would, but I've a sense that'd be a long shot. Not that I blame her, she cares a lot for him. I just hope we can find him - which brings me to my next question. Sam asked me if you could possibly use a location spell to find James. I figured you could, but I only told them I'd ask if you could."

Perhaps she was too cautious in saying that, but she's not going to be the one that spills any sort of secrets here. Not if she can help it.

"Though before I left that meeting they were talking about luring James out to some remote spot for an ambush. So, I can't say if they're still looking for a search and find spell." But she said she'd ask, and so she has.

Loki has posed:
"Do they happen to have any experience ambushing a man of that particular calibre?" Loki asks, the serious state of affairs overtaking the need to have any emotive candlelit romance. His teeth grind slowly for a moment. Catching himself, he'll settle with clenching his jaw. "While I have no doubt Miss Temple's heart lies in the right place, she is not his equal in hand to hand. I don't know about Sam. What can you say of his abilities there? Is he going to be able to subdue James?"

The inevitable conclusion is drawn without any effort at diversion, because what would the point be? "Or is this a situation where the trap isn't physical at all, and you've something else in mind. Be very careful. Without having any idea of his evolved powers..." He shrugs his left shoulder higher and looks long at Mercy, the teacher replacing the suitor courting by modern standards. "He's a volatile, complex human with what wee would term a serious psychological disorder. I believe that sounds rather accurate." It's not like SHIELD is around to carefully devise a psychological profile, anyways.

He pushes his sleeves up, revealing his forearms. After loosening the cuffs, it's easy for him to manage. "Under other circumstances, I would box your ears, Mercy Thompson, for suggesting I'm a caster on call." His smirk curls sharply up at the corners. "Your pet sorcerer on a leash. As though I care anything about this world. They don't have me at their beck and call. That's absolutely clear."

And so it doesn't end up with a wrench flung at his head, his expression softens slightly. "But he came to find you." His mouth tightens, losing the grin, turning something far closer to a truth he hasn't really dealt with properly and isn't quite up to staring in the face. He already has. Coyote surely saw the depths of it on a place where they neither had body or blood, a live wire laid bare with the fullest intent to //hurt// all the world that unleashed teeth into tender belly and entrails from violated form.

Continuing, "He suffered a rather nasty turn while it was safer to stay back. So, yes, I will do it though my better judgment says summon him and restrain him for a week while I see how badly damaged his neural pathways and self-actuated psychic barriers really are." Loki shakes his head. "Of course you'll all say that's inhumane. Forgetting of course it is, I'm not one of you."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That first question of Loki's is given serious thought by the coyote. "Yes and no." Comes her slow answer, even as he likewise comes to the same conclusion without her illuminating answer. "But no, the trap is completely physical, not magical in nature. There was a woman there, a red-head, who didn't offer her name -" And Mercy didn't ask, "- she reeked of military, or something close. She offered to be bait. To accept whatever offer Hydra had extended to her to lure him out. I got the sense there's some history there between the two, and she's hoping to subdue him."

Because Claire, Sam and Mercy definitely are not high enough calibre to take the Winter Soldier down, that's for certain.

As for the remark about psychological disorder, that earns a grimace from the mechanic. "Volatile is the right word for it - even when he wasn't reconditioned he still made me extremely wary." The coyote inside her could sense the precipice that Bucky often walked, as well as see it with her own eyes.

Still, the rest of what she'd like to say is forgotten with those next words his. Caster on call. Her expression shifts to a wince, even as she lifts her gaze to meet his own. "I know. I try very hard not to promise anything in your name." Begins the woman, an apology in those first words of hers, "And you should know I would never consider you 'my pet sorcerer on a leash'. Ever." Those words of hers quite serious, even as her countenance shifts yet again, at his mention of not caring for this world.

Whatever might have been said to that is halted when Loki's own expression gentles somewhat. His words helping that figurative wrench from being tossed - because one, he may not care for the world per se, but he cares for some within this world. Or so goes the thought within Mercy's head.

"He did." Come after her, she means, "And I'm worried he'll come after you and all of us." And while he doesn't necessarily stare within the ugly face of his emotions from that trip upon the astral plane, something of it is seen by Mercy and she'll reach to touch his arm. Her gesture of comfort and gentleness, to the anger that simmers just beneath the surface of his skin.

And while others might take his last words as truly shocking, perhaps surprisingly Mercy doesn't. "No, not necessarily inhumane." Are Mercy's words, "There were times we had to restrain newly turned wolves, or badly injured wolves. It was either that or kill them outright." Which sometimes happened, "That's how I see James. A wolf that's been so severely injured he's gone into a sort of berserker rage."

Loki has posed:
For a time, Loki is silent as he muls things over in his head.

There are different shades of silence. The unkind bristling chill that physically repels anyone coming closer, for example. The bitter quiet of sorrow and loss that close around a person in times of extremity. The thoughtful hush necessary for a man to contemplate the world is very different from blocking out too much stimulus and noise in the middle of a fight.

His is an assessment and balancing of options, more than anything else. Someone may take their own conclusions from how long he's not speaking while Mercy lays out the terrain of a situation for him, and possibly doubts the wisdom of speaking of the Asgardian mage. Doubt has no place in that moment, however.

He bends one knee, propping his heel against the baseboard of the wall. Or where it would normally be found, anyways. "Now that's a fascinating element. Some angry redhead offering out of the kindness of her heart? I'd like to meet her, if it's not a problem. Assess whether she can be trusted," he says simply. Terms, of course. But they are hardly onerous.

The rest of it, and the coyote, need to be addressed more directly. "Yes, well, my methods of fixing things tend not to rely on 'kill it' as a default. Pity that's not true for everyone." He breathes in sharply through his nose, quelling some inappropriately acerbic comments, the bilieous etch swallowed down. "I'm speaking in generalities, I realize. Deliciously complex situations don't have a strategic plan from end to end that ever comes out intact. His conditioning won't break overnight without finding a fatal weak point in it. And really, I'd doubt he might come out better for that. So, then, let's talk immediate needs instead of what I might like to do. He's out there roaming around. Talk to Miss Temple about at /minimum/ allowing me to set up some proper defenses for her. I suppose you and I could do the same here, though he's not foolish enough to march in. I've seen him approach everything at a distance." He skims a look over the wall, back to Mercy herself, anchoring on her face. "Some basic sparring routines, maybe. It's easy enough for me to simulate shooting at you for you to learn to move fast."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Silence.

If Mercy didn't have her other senses to rely upon perhaps she'd feel far more nervous than she does. As it is, she can tell the current silence isn't out of anger towards her. Or the coldness of a shoulder turned away. Instead it's a contemplative one. Understanding this Mercy holds her tongue; which isn't always the easiest thing for the coyote to do. Outside of hunting and dangerous situations Mercy is a creature of noise. Of liveliness.

His now casual stance earns a faintly crooked smile from the mechanic, even as she drifts a few paces away. She's moving back to her work bench, reaching for one of the small contraptions that's partially built upon the tabletop. Returning back with the half-formed invention, she'll say with some amusement, "I didn't call her angry and I don't see why you couldn't meet with her. The invitation to help with this whole situation is open to you as well - though under the guise of Liam, of course."

Because secrets, of course.

A bland look is then given to Loki when he mentions his preferred method of dealing with things. "Yes." She says, her voice matching that expression of hers. "You often remind me of a wolf too. They have a similar default setting." She agrees, though her expression turns less amused and more sadden again. Mostly at the talk of James not coming out whole even after his conditioning is broken. Similar instances can be found within the wolves she was raised with. Perhaps not such severe conditioning being broken, but something that snaps the last dredge of humanity within the wolf.

"I'll talk with Claire about fortifications." Agrees Mercy and at the mention of sparring and speed, she grins, "I'm pretty fast, but I wouldn't mind practicing. Especially since he likes to take the high road and if he remembers I've better senses than most people I'm sure he could compensate easily enough for them."

Loki has posed:
Framing his jaw between thumb and finger, Loki doesn't quite stroke his chin. That would be patently absurd for him to do, and utterly lacking in panache or charm.

"Tell me what you know for this plot to bait him, A woman he's had history with. And then what? Shoot him with a drugged dart?" he asks. While Mercy bustles about the interior of the shop and makes her final preparations for the evening, he undoubtedly appears all the odder for not moving more than an inch from the atoll claimed for himself. His wall, his purpose in life is to stand there looking good. "I'll set up a tracer to see what I can find. After dinner, of course. No point in upsetting your plans unless you feel it critically necessary. In which case I'll need a bowl and water."

If Mercy intends to see anything, anyways. His casual posture slides into something even less formal when dropping his arm away and rotating in her direction, stepping off the wall. "Or maybe I ask what happens /after/. Has anyone put thought to what you'll do when you have an angry man surrounded by the enemy? He can't well be pumped up with medicine and lulled into thinking he's a ten year old boy again, can he?" He'll never be entirely sure what strange little people do here... So says the man with the means to rework someone mentally.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
He would want more details, wouldn't he. His question earns a faint grimace from the coyote. "I'm sure you'll hate to hear this, but what I told you is about all we have." So far, though really that so far is still a long ways off.

"I believe people are now looking for a good location for the proposed ambush to take place. They've asked me to figure out ways to take his arm down, to try and give us a little bit of edge. It's what I was doing when you arrived." She'll turn the little contraption over to show sharp spikes that've been welded onto the belly of it. Wires can be seen peeking around the main component and the exposed ends have yet to be attached to the small batteries that are attached to the body. "I've decided to go with a variety of magnet and electrical based ideas. I've seen in his arm, it's a lot of complicated articulation and I'm going to assume if I can knock one thing out of balance it'll make it harder for him to use it."

Or so she's hoping. And let's not mention how close one has to get to get the magnet attached to the man.

She'll nudge both wire ends to the battery and a soft hum can be heard by sensitive ears as the circuit completes. She'll let the little thing hum happily for a few seconds, before she breaks the connection again.

"After dinner is fine." She says, "I think we've earned a few hours to ourselves."

Not that her words seem to pull the conversation away from Bucky, nor the shadow that enters her gaze again. "I don't think they've thought that far. I would hope they wouldn't keep him drugged up, I think that would hurt him all the more. Mentally more than physically. He's already had his self stripped away, form what I gather, we'd simply be doing the same thing. How would he be able to trust us if we did the exact same thing those people did to him. Sure, we could coach it in terms of healing, but a beaten dog doesn't trust their 'savior' if they employ the same methods of caring for it."

Loki has posed:
Loki nods to the explanation he's given about the plan in motion. "The arm is going to be a problem," he says. He orients on the battery in creation, his eyebrows creeping up as it becomes apparent the spikes and the battery are connected by wires that presumably produce a charge. Electricity is more the other Odinson's skill, but /he/ at least knows how science works. Thor just spins a hammer and laughs at the lightning. It doesn't always add up to the equal degree of insight.

Not every solution needs Mjolnir. Honestly.

Mercy's demonstration halts the cadence of his steps to stand opposite her, looking over the device in creation. He doesn't touch what she has made, rather than invoking a shock or tainting her work. "Yes. Cunning device, isn't it? Overlapping plates, like lamellar. Interior system is bound to be somewhat primitive." He likes that word, doesn't he? "I doubt it's exactly cutting edge today given the big red star. Hydra isn't /Stark/, which we can be grateful for. No tinkering with thrusters and other annoying contraptions."

Stark tech, reduced to contraptions. Probably more popular with Wayne Industries right there.

Blowing out a dark chuckle, he's headed for the table and the food. Though not sitting waiting to be served, there's another element for respecting Mercy's house. Frigga /did/ raise him with manners. "How do I..." It's obvious with a wave of his hand. Other than displace Medea, surely can do something around the kitchen. Table. Life.

"Drugging him is going to be complicit with the same sins done to him. I doubt it's going to take permanently with that approach." He flicks a finger across his collar. "Nor is art therapy or pouring out his soul or a dog going to help. Not for that. Rehabilitation by a master painting career wouldn't even work if he had the talents of a Picasso crossed with that funny little man obsessed with skulls."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Primitive, sure, but it'll work." Are Mercy's words, confidence in her skill at creating the mini-electromagnet, now confidence that the plan will actually work? That's an altogether other thing.

Much like Loki said earlier, plans rarely stay the same once the action has started.

Still, dinner is here and Mercy will bring the two into her kitchen for that dinner she invited him for.

The kitchen is as it always is; clean, neat, orderly, the only difference is the table. It's been set simply with plates, wine glasses and silverware, a small coppery table bisecting the small table into equal halves. His question earns a grin from Mercy, as she raises her eyebrows upward slightly, "How do you open the bottle of wine? I'd suggest a corkscrew or magic. Whichever you find easiest to deal with."

Of note the kitchen is warmer than the rest of the place, as the stove keeps the food gently warmed. Quickly, carefully, Mercy will pull each foil wrapped container out. It's far from homemade, because Mercy is really only great at baking, but it is home made in the sense of having been secured from a restaurant with real roots in Italian eatery. Each dish will be put in its own serving dish and then placed upon the table. While not three courses, or more, it's still heavy on the carbs and a lot of it.

Gnocchi in a buttery-creamed based sauce, with mushrooms, linguini in a red sauce, and of course some form of bread. Instead of sticks, warm garlic knots can be found. "Dessert's waiting in the fridge." Mercy will add, and with a critical eye at the placement, the coyote will then step back a moment. "Let me get cleaned up. It'll only take fifteen."

And while most women would actually take more than what they stated, not Mercy. She had the foresight to lay her clothes out beforehand; so it's a quick wash, a quick brush of hair and a quick change. When she returns she'll be dressed in a rather relaxed outfit; a off the shoulder mint-green blouse, loose like a peasant-blouse, but fitted thanks to the empire-waist. Darker green thread picks out an abstract pattern of swirls and leaves, which travels along the collar, hem and sleeves of the shirt. Instead of pants, or jeans, Mercy opted for a pair of shorts, it is summer, after all.

Her hair has been pulled free of her customary braids and left to fall around her face and shoulders in slightly crimped waves.

It's only as she returns that she'll step back into the conversation at hand. "I agree, I don't think the traditional means of helping him overcome all of this is going to work. He needs something more than what we can offer here." Now she looks to Loki, "I'm open to suggestions if you have any."

Loki has posed:
Appraising eyes all around: food, table, decor, woman in shorts. It falls to Loki to appreciate all the effort made in his presumptive honour, because he's the sort of person to assume there has been some extra special effort on his behalf. Why not?

The copper table in particular warrants some kind of nod and tactile exploration, his fingers trailing along the bare surface to see if it's really made from that metal or something more like treated wood, weird paint, or whomever else knows what. Maybe a wolf constructed it from a giant snake scale, put legs on it, and called it a trophy until Mercy ran off with it when she was 21 and starry eyed about the big city.

"I quite like this. How did you come by it?" Other than the obvious answer, buying it at the store. He pulls out a seat in preparation for her, and then heads towards Mercy to help carry dishes to the table. "I would recommend trying to add some launch function to your device. Like those electrical weapons the police carry, if you can shoot an electrode at him, it may help. Not guaranteed to work, but then nothing is."

Except observing the augmented male in the wild, attempting to counter the females of the species descending upon him. Most interesting, will he restrain himself out of a deep-seated biological imperative not to damage potential mates, or be overcome by the psychological trauma and study? Nurture vs. reconstructed nature. Fascinating.

While she's off changing, he produces that bottle of a deeply potent pinot nor. The suitable thing, rather than a rarer varietal that might not taste. Corks are the things of luxury. He is pragmatic for the aged cork in his, whispering to it, "/Out/," in a commanding tone. It wiggles and rises, popping free and arbitrarily splitting in places to imply someone knifed it with a spiral key of some sort. So when she emerges, he's already pouring two glasses. Not even overflowing, like they're lushes!

Mercy Thompson has posed:
His touch will reveal the table to be metal, yes, a mixture of copper definitely, but something more durable as well. To be able to weather the abuse a table must go through on daily basis. "Barter." Mercy says, her eyes falling automatically upon the metallic table. "An artist, who dabbled heavily in metal sculpture, couldn't afford an engine rebuild. This was the compromise. She wanted to make me a sculpture and I convinced her a table was better." The mechanic says with a grin, as she steps closer to the table, her fingertips touching the cool surface. The surface nearest to the stove holds a slightly warmer feel to it.

She'll consider his his suggestion for her magnets, "Like a taser." She adds helpfully, in case he was truly curious as to what he was describing, and already the wheels inside her head begin to turn. "Though how to incorporate that into my design, hm." Clearly she's thinking on how exactly she could turn her potential weapon into something more portable. Well, really safer for the person who gets the fun task of placing them upon that deadly arm of the Soldier's, at least. Which might be her all things considered.

While she could spend all night considering different iterations of those electromagnets, she doesn't. Instead, Mercy pulls herself back to the present.

She'll circle around the so admired table and settle near the chair that was pulled out for her. She doesn't yet sit, instead allowing her hands to drop to the high back of the chair, eyes just watching Loki pour the wine into their glasses. There's a flare of nostrils as she takes in the scent of food, the kitchen, the wine and even Loki himself. And something about this all brings a small curve to the mechanic's mouth.

Not a grin, or even a full-fledged smile, just an upward tilt to her lips.

"Thank you." The coyote says, though there's more there than just her thanks for pouring the wine.

"Shall we eat?" She asks, that question likely wholly unnecessary as she settles within her own seat.