947/I Don't Even Know

I Don't Even Know
Date of Scene:	14 June 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Loki

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Mercy Thompson has posed:
Hell's Kitchen.

That's where Mercy Thompson can currently be found. She was in Claire's apartment, but now she's not, now Mercy stands listlessly in front of the apartment complex. Claire offered to allow her to crash on her couch, but Mercy declined. She only stayed for as long as Claire needed her. Which amounted to several hours at least.

Now the brown-haired woman is outside, uncertain of the time, but instinctively knowing it's extremely late. In reality it's close to pre-dawn, but for now the sky above is relatively dark, the stars still bright pinpricks of light against the blackness above.

Unerringly Mercy's will turn in the general direction that leads home, towards West Harlem and her garage. She'll even take that first step to begin the trek home, but as she moves the nudge of the little purse she has over one shoulder is felt. That causes Mercy to pause in consideration. Then she's slipping the purse off of her shoulder.

Pulling the zipper open, Mercy will reach her hand into the depths of her purse and retrieve the little phone Loki gave her. Exhaustion, both mental and physical, has her staring at the little black rectangle far longer than needed. It's only after she blinks herself out of her thoughts, that the coyote will offer a small noise of disgust at herself.

"Get it together." Mutters the woman and with one last glance over a shoulder, to the apartment complex behind her, Mercy says. "Call Liam."

Loki has posed:
It's a cunning little device, the square. It can communicate on so many fronts. A few hopeful beats of green light illuminate its wakening summons, the motion detector or some cunning spell -- however unlikely -- responding to Mercy dragging out the thing from her purse.

All she needs to do is voice her will, and it acts. In that way, the square is a god. It bequeaths the wishes and prayers entreated to it. Bit of a terrifying revelation if it ever attains self-awareness, isn't it?

The cyan and green radiance strobes into another of those almost holographic interfaces, lined up to form a rolling sphere humming with purpose and pretense. "Connecting..." a feminine voice, soothing and English, announces without a hint of overly cheery happiness. An American conceit, that.

Perhaps the air tickles. It might feel a touch unusual. It doesn't quite clarify magic to a coyote's nose, but it's there, a projected field that collapses in and simply isn't.

"You know, I could show you more interesting places if you wanted to slum it, my lady." Oh, it's him. Right down to arms crossed over his chest, jade shirt casually rumpled by the motion. Apparently he was lounging around reading, doing whatever an ancient sorcerer does. Determine how to invade Liechtenstein without anyone noticing.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Yes, and for some reason there's the vaguest love hate relationship between that device and Mercy. Perhaps it's because she can't open it up and tinker with its guts.

Tinkerers hate being denied.

Still, it's a useful device, especially when it can seemingly summon people from thin air.

The lights are watched in an absent-minded way, the voice likewise heard, but Mercy's attention is already captured by whatever silent thoughts are playing throughout her head again.

With her attention mostly inward that faint prickle along her senses is almost missed. Not quite, but almost and it's enough that when Loki appears so close, Mercy will startle.

Her light-brown eyes widen with surprise, a twitch of her arm brings it somewhat up, an unconscious gesture of protection, of guardedness from the coyote. If her martial arts teacher were here he'd likely yell at her for being caught so unaware, but thankfully he's not, and so, Mercy is saved from a lecture.

For a silent second his words make absolutely no sense to her brain, but finally everything clicks into place. Her gaze loses that note of shock and her expression turns to relief. "Loki." And while normally she was take his words about slumming as something humorous, tonight that amusement seems far away. "No, not slumming. A friend -"

She lives here, left unspoken, and thanks to that mention or more importantly thought of Claire, Mercy's expression turns odd. "- I am having a really weird day."

Bad day. That's what should be used here. A really bad day.

A shadow of emotion flickers across her face, "And I'd rather not be alone."

So she called him. Yes.

Loki has posed:
Does her martial arts teacher know about teleporters? If so, he needs to have a sparring session with the children of Asgard. Those who can hop through dimensions and reappear are not exactly fair. Have some sympathy for the devil.

Loki casts a brief look at the device forming a globe. A wave of his hand terminates the glowing orb in space, the battery happily flickering and shutting down to its normal waiting state.

"How intriguing. I understand there is a custom to bestow a key or some method to track where one another live, at least here," he muses. The vaguely archaic phrasing, if not the actual words, persist. It might hint at where he's been and what he has been up to. "Midgard courtship rituals have been so varied and peculiar, in my observations. But you have me, my lady, as you have sought me."

His arm is offered to her without hesitation, and probably not looking for her call-summon-Loki-square. "I understand waffles to be the suitable answer to this."

He glances about, in case her car hides somewhere in plain sight, as a matter of recourse. Not in the least likelihood.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That rectangle. When the glow fades thanks to Loki's timely intervention, Mercy will simply tuck it back into her purse.

Still love hate there.

His words bring forth a furrow of her brow, as she considers what he's saying. "A key." She repeats slowly, "Yes, people or couples I should say, do tend to exchange keys at some point." Her head cants slightly to the side, as she's slowly pulled free from the grasping thoughts within her head.

"Do you want a key to the garage?" She asks, even as she slips her hand to the crook of his arm - settling at his side. The strength of her hold might be tighter than what it normally is. "I suppose I assumed if you really needed to get in you'd just teleport your way into the garage. But, I can have a spare made for you."

The mention of waffles finally earns a smile from Mercy, a half quirk of a thing, but a smile. "Cookies too." She adds, "But waffles sound better."

His casual look for the car will find Betsy nowhere in sight. Either Mercy walked here, took a cab, or subway, but she definitely did not drive.

And whether they start to walk, or continue to stand there a moment, or even teleport (who's to say), Mercy will still try to interject something of a normal question into the conversation at hand. "What were you up to tonight?"

There that's normal enough. Yes.

Loki has posed:
"Your expectations about finding my residence were more the focus," the black-haired Asgardian says dryly. He holds no hint of unease about that. "A key to your garage would be helpful, however. I would not have Medea attempting to disembowel me on the basis of an invasion."

She'll be on the front lines in the taking of Andorra, though. Let the tourists flee before her tailless might.

His hand flexes and he loops his arm around hers. On account of Mercy's apparent state, weary and possibly confused by the earliest events of the evening, direct travel comes naturally. He gives no warning. It merely happens while magic teases along her mind.

A hint of burning amber and carnelian light trail down over them in a rush. Behind the wall of gold trending orange, the absent sunrise dances over her skin in the momentary transition. One second they're in the Kitchen. The next, on an overlook above a kitchen, across the street from a trendy breakfast place noteworthy for catering to the night crowd, and shutting promptly at 8:00 AM. Because waffle restaurants that are all night, but not all day, are just the sort of hip concept that New York can support, right? A set of stairs leads down from the second floor balcony they're on to the ground, for the occupants, presumably, to get over the little closed cafe to their home.

He grins. "Syrup very rarely troubles a situation. It naturally improves things, as it happens. You may still bestow your cookies if it eases your anxiety, of course." It's okay to hit him at any time.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Medea a general in the glorious army and she didn't even know it.

Because cats, especially Medea, would never accept anything less in rank.

His first words bring a vague shake to her head, "Wait no, I really wasn't asking that -" And now comes a shrug of her shoulders, her mouth curving slightly into a grin, "- But I won't lie, I am curious where you spend your time. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stomp a foot and demand you tell me."

She's a civilized coyote, after all. She also has a feeling that wouldn't go over very well.

And now she's a rambling coyote too. "I'll get you a key." She ends with, and before any other rambles might be said Loki twines his arm with her own and then teleports.

While the fall of light around them doesn't necessarily cause her to gasp in surprise, that emotion can be seen within her expression.

When the two finally appear on that second floor balcony, Mercy will curiously look about herself. At the mention of syrup and cookies, the coyote will turn her gaze back to Loki, "Bestow my cookies?" That earns a vague noise from the woman, one part amused, one part wry. "No, I think I'm okay."

And if he doesn't pull his arm from hers, she definitely won't either. The pinched look around her eyes and mouth have eased, her expression turning something more normal for Mercy. Something more loose, versus coiled - waiting to spring at any moment.

Loki has posed:
He plants a kiss on Mercy's head for her patience, or simply to renew himself with the scent of her hair and the familiar tells that so rarely traverse casual boundaries. Her reaction might just reveal the faultlines of preference and emotion to Loki, not that he's seeking to expose them. Her surprise and unease are enough.

He doesn't say anything until she relaxes slightly, and then guides her to the staircase and down to ground level. While he might just leap over the small gate at the bottom, he stops to unlatch it and let them pass. Then it's simply off to Owl, the land of midnight waffles and post-sunset pancakes.

Warm weather encourages the windows to be open. Patio space is null because, hello, New York has no patios when pedestrians rule the world. Some serious questions need to be asked about waffles being breakfast food or everyday food. The heavenly aroma of batter floats through the air, overcoming whatever less pleasant odors are associated with the street. Inside are a number of small booths, squished in two rows like a diner, though the 'bar' of sorts is a giant space age kidney bean in bright orange, brushed steel around and behind it. The Owl staff are in browns and golds, serving up egg-shaped plates or big wheel ones plated with mini-waffles, dime cakes, silver dollar options, and others. The syrups and sprinklings include an awful lot of fruit.

"This," he murmurs behind her ear, holding the door open, "is just the thing, isn't it? Find a spot to suit yourself and we'll have ourselves a chance to see the dawn together. And where I spend my time? Ah, a good many spots, none quite so snug as the forest house."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Whether that kiss atop her head is for patient or the renewal of connection, it seems quite welcomed. The gesture on his part is enough to cause Mercy to tilt her head back slightly, so she can look up at his face. A smile can be seen from the coyote now, even as she dips her head slightly closer to him - intending to briefly lean her head against his upper arm. Her gesture a combination of happiness, but also something more, something that still seeks out some comfort from that physical contact between the two.

It only lasts for as long as the two are still, once they're on the move, Mercy will fall into more familiar patterns. Down the steps and to the ground level, Mercy walk beside Loki and before too long, the two are at the Owl.

"Thank you." She says, when Loki holds the door for her, then she steps inside. An appreciate inhale can be heard from Mercy as she takes in both sight and scent of the place.

"Yes, it is." She says in agreement, and at his prompt of picking a spot, Mercy will cast her gaze around, before settling on a booth mid-range within the establishment. She'll nod toward the booth she selected and head that way, intending to reach for his hand if he allows it.

To hold.

It's only after the two are settled within the booth, that Mercy will offer a smile that borders upon a grin. "Snug. Well, I'm not going to complain about your house in the forest. Good memories there."

Loki has posed:
Few living beings do not know the value of touch, as a comfort and a connection. It's why so many taboos and customs surround touch. Women in burkas have the same root cause as personal space, in some respects. So be it altogether clear the Asgardian probably knows exactly what he does and calculates his activities accordingly.

But first, waffles. The booth she chooses will be inconvenient one way or the other. Tall; he hasn't a choice about that. Mercy might sit comfortably but he slides in with a groan of vinyl protest and a bump of his knees, all part of the expected difficulties. Even being slim, by his people's standards (and especially his /other/ people's), requires a little adjustment.

"Have you ever considered tiramisu as a crepe?" Idle conversation point there. He hasn't even looked at the menu, nor does he, casting a brief survey to see what others dine on. A combination of savoury and sweet, rarely both, greets curious eyes. Mascarpone cheese and chocolate syrup, pear brandy jam and wilted spinach kissed rather than forced to straddle heat are common enough. So is French pressed coffee. Sadly, no lattes. Hot chocolate, though, covered in a thick white veneer of cream is abundant.

His grin at Mercy is briefly lupine, chased in truth and mischief. "If it's to your liking, we can visit again. Though other places are more home. The garden, obviously. I suppose I should be a proper and right gentleman of the city and acquire /real/ property here, though..."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
His height and mass. Something Mercy is not quite used to. "We can move to a table -"

Is her offer, for Loki's poor knees and legs.

"- And no, I haven't. You?" She asks right back, even as she pulls a menu to herself. She'll glance at all the various waffles, crepes, pancakes and food they offer. It's a long list from the plainest of waffles, to things that would likely send people into sugar comas.

"I could try it, that or even this crepe filled with chocolate and hazelnuts. That's not a bad combination there. And coffee."

Much coffee. Unlike some so near to the coyote, Mercy's own energy will eventually flag - she's only gotten this far due to her magical physiology.

His grin and words bring an answering grin from Mercy, as she nods, "Yes, I'd like that." To visit again, she means. And then, at his mention of buying property within the city, the coyote grins again. "You should." She says, being bold in her own way, "I'd like that too."

And while Mercy rarely tries to pry into Loki's background, that opening allows her to ask, "Tell me about your home? The garden was only a small part." She hazards.

Loki has posed:
"They put too high a value on the property in this city. Some is not worth it. Maybe I will be condemned to sitting in a shack on the tip of the island." Meaning he could buy Manhattan for some beads, but is that really his style? Or he'll have the Montauk Lighthouse all to himself. Oh, the possibilities. Loki muses over the idea, plucking one of the napkins off the table and unwrapping the silverware. He fluffs out the disposable tissue to spread over his lap. "What might I do with such a thing? I'm sure there must be some agent of property willing to deal."

The notion is neither here nor there as a particularly curious individual with blue and green hair shows up, ready to dish out coffee from a carafe and inquire what they might happen to want.

"Hot chocolate. Sprinkles on the cream." Shoot him, Mercy, if you like. He wants his chocolate shavings. Mismatched accounts of how villainous he is, even to the point of wanting a sweet beverage. "Whatever suits your fancy, my lady. Presumably they have a few of interest. The pomegranate one may be ill advised. I shouldn't want to share you with Hades." His eyes gleam faintly.

No doubt the death god of the Olympians would have a little problem between the trickster and Coyote, if that were to happen. Besides, everyone knows the Winter Soldier would be a more desirable target.

He reaches out to keep a hold on her hand once situated, though, and has no compunction about however much that leads to bumped knees. The table can fly out the window if necessary. "Something suitable, then. And my home? It's..." He looks at the server pointedly, with that 'why are you still here?' arch look mastered by aristocrats for generations. Republic the US may be, it's still a class driven society. The kid scrams.

A whisk of his free hand over his temples throws back long strands of dark hair. "My home is the culmination of civilisation. I've seen places finer and more technologically advanced, many positively primitive, and some in ruins for aeons before we rose to prominence. A voyage of marvels into a realm of dreams, you could liken it to. Many a poet has." The distinct candor softens his reply with memory and distance. "I've my own property there, naturally. It is apart from the central complex for we value our privacy." As old as he is? No surprise there.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"A shack." Muses the coyote, as she listens to Loki expound upon the reality of realty within the Tristate area. She has some sympathy, however, understanding the price most people have to pay to rent or own residential and commercial abodes. "I'll make certain to bring you some cookies at your shack." Is her final amused words on the topic of property and ownership.

When the server arrives, Mercy will automatically turn a welcoming smile to them. "Evening." Wait, should she say morning? Too late now, as Loki orders his hot chocolate with sprinkles. That causes amusement to flare within her gaze, as well as the quirk of her lips. There's just something about a god ordering sprinkles -

"Coffee is fine, thanks. And can we have the tiramisu crepe and the chocolate hazelnut one, as well? Clearly we're going for sugar overload." Jokes Mercy, to the server, even as her gaze returns to Loki.

Pomegranate. That earns a faint shake of her head, as the coyote says with a grin still upon her lips, "Hardly Persephone here. And besides, unlike some I don't think he's wily enough to catch me."

Wait until she realizes that Hades might be a real person. Won't that make the conversation all the more surreal.

His dismissal of the server causes Mercy to slant a look towards the scampering away kid, and a faint call after the youth, "Thank you.", then it's back to Loki, her eyebrows raised slightly. Mercy is one hundred percent blue collar in the end.

She'll listen to how he describes Asgard and note the softening of his voice. His mention of privacy earns a flash of a smile from Mercy, "Privacy, yes." There's a squeeze from her fingers, as she says, "I won't lie it's been hard not to crack open history books and re-read all the various stories and myths again - though perhaps with an extra grain of salt this time around." Versus when she originally read them in school.

Loki has posed:
"If my shack even has anywhere to sit, I'll be grateful," says the young man, effectively innocent tn all ventures that arise from the situation. If Mercy sits on the floor, it'll be fine. Cookies are involved. Or she can sit on a bush and be happy he is one with nature.

The sugar rush promised with the crepes will do well. He might well add a waffle later; Loki is a sorcerer. They need energy. He has to acquire that from somewhere, after all. Toying with a fork, he listens to her mindfully and then shakes his head.

"Hades is the wiliest of them, save Odysseus. Athena seems so, but not really." He examines the fork and sets it back down, a clink of metal on the table. Around them, the other diners aren't paying too close attention. "He stole his bride, daughter of Zeus, under her mother's nose. Consensual, I heard, but regardless. The man keeps horrors of many kinds in check, including his own father, so tread lightly on the notion he can be outwitted by a bit of humour."

Emerald eyes leave little doubt of their purpose and intensity. Oh, so the Olympians are real. Books get a touch of a laugh.

He leans forward, her thumb stroked by his. "Dig into whatever you like. It is nearly the same for me reading your news articles on the computer." Or, as Thor calls it, the message box.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
There's the faintest shake of Mercy's head at Loki's words. That quirk of a grin still lifts a corner of her mouth upward, as the coyote says, "I see I need to brush up on my compliment giving skills, but I do understand what you're saying."

And she does. Hades is real, as Loki is real, and it's enough to bring Mercy back down to Earth. A little reality interjected with that humorous compliment of hers.

Her free hand will go towards her filled coffee cup. While she normally pours the sugar in tonight she drinks it dark and bitter. Once the cup is back upon the tabletop, Mercy will cant hear head slightly to the side, as she considers the topic of news. "Yes, I'd take that with a grain of salt too. Especially with certain news outlets. They like to push an agenda that's not always quite so truthful. Or their own." She says, her tone dropping in volume a bit, as she considers those words of hers.

A crease begins to form upon her forehead, as Mercy's thoughts shift from the light-hearted to something less so. Those troublesome thoughts are enough to cause the woman to feel a moment of sharp discord. That's enough to cause Mercy shake her head at whatever is in her head. Her next words might seem abrupt as they shift the conversation from something more light-hearted to less so. Her tension might be felt in the hand he holds, thumb stroking her own. "When we're done here -" Eating and drinking that is, "- Let's go elsewhere. The garage, a quiet place in the city, any place else."

And not necessarily off of Earth she means with that explanation of hers.

Loki has posed:
"Everything in moderation." They're stuck on the ancient Greeks for a moment, he might as well take advantage of that, no? Loki rubs his hands together and awaits the arrival of a mug overflowing with a teetering mound of white alpine cream, liberally capped by chocolate sprinkles. Soon the precious beverage will be his, the elixir to banish all the weariness of the prior night. The hour hasn't impacted the wit or blunted his humour, nor released the intensity that grips him most times. "On the matter of the news, the more I see, the less I truly believe anything put into print. Everything set down on your screens or papers is a crystallised opinion, one side of a story, and not remotely the wholecloth of it. Stories /are/ something of my purview, after all." There comes the fiendish grin, spreading far enough to ignite the balefire green of his eyes, a commiseration across the table in the midnight breakfast restaurant.

But when the server carries the burden of his mug over and sets it down on a napkin, he nods and does nothing more to encourage an interruption. Back to curving his fingers around Mercy's hand, if she'll surrender it after brief forfeit, he spoons off some of the cream and points it at her. "You look as though you could use some of this. We can go wherever you like. The waffles will likely not take so long to make as I expect roasting a pig on a spit would. Though I am reminded they /still/ do that on the islands in the Pacific, and to a grand effect. I ought to visit and see whether the concept works as well in the tropical latitudes."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Everything in moderation. That pulls Mercy's attention back to the present. There's something ironic with Loki of all people (gods) saying that. It's enough to cause a momentary faint curve to Mercy's mouth. Her expression will actually grow to a proper smile when Loki rubs his hands together. The image that he presents is far to cat-like to not earn a reaction from the coyote.

"Yes, I'd imagine you have quite the knowledge on stories." Agrees Mercy, "I suppose the next question would be - have you ever found a story that wasn't colored by a person's own perceptions? Even writers who say they're 'impartial' really aren't. Everyone has a bias thanks to whatever life events shaped them. You, me, the people in this restaurant."

The arrival of the server earns another polite smile from Mercy, as she murmurs to the youth, "Thanks.", for the arrival of the hot chocolate. Then it's back to the conversation and Loki. She welcomes the touch of his hand with another smile, and the lightest of squeeze of her fingers, even as she glances at the spoonful of whipped cream (and sprinkles). A crooked grin quirks a corner of Mercy's mouth upward, "Whipped cream and chocolate can fix many things." She admits with a slight shake of her head, "But tonight needs something a little stronger, I think."

There's a wave of her free hand, moving to dismiss her pensive words even as she nods at his estimation of waffle cooking time, and roasting pigs for that matter. Striving for a lightness in conversation, Mercy will say, "Perhaps back to the garage for a movie then." A crinkle of amusement at the corners of her eyes, as she offers that particular activity for the two, "Perhaps Pride and Prejudice."

"Unless you're an action junkie? I'm sure I could find something appropriately gritty and explosive."

Loki has posed:
Moderation for everyone else, perhaps. Does anyone believe, truly, that Loki Scathefire, Loki Liesmith, Loki Cursebringer is going to abide by the rules? He might, maybe. For about three seconds, after weaving in so many loopholes... He probably knows what that grin means, and tips his head.

"I /had/ thought once about going about and asking everyone their story. It's a good way to get to know them. People do so love to talk about themselves." The sly smirk has echoes of an older being, a very dangerous one. "Yes, I have found someone without bias. Usually animals. Children, at times, though the truly observant ones invariably are the best liars of them all. Though certain things, spirits in particular, are categorically incapable of shading their stories. What they say is, which makes them so prized by nearly anyone. You of course must be mindful of the kind of spirit. I wouldn't trust an incarnation of wrath with much. Malice, murder, even less. Anything aligned to a vice."

He must make that sound so casual. Their meals are up, and those will be brought over in time; any delay is going to see them conjured onto the table, though. He isn't patient in that respect. Loki isn't paying attention, though, given that feeding Mercy the sprinkled whipped cream is much more interesting. Even if she refuses, well, he sweeps it lightly back and forth. "Do you trust me? In many of my travels, I've learned /very/ little equals chocolate for the potency of banishing problems. Put your hair down, have a few drinks if you must, and a great deal of physical exertion will help you forget what ails you for a time. No power to totally banish it. Although..."

A sip of the hot chocolate is strong enough, melted down in its heart to a black bittersweet drop enveloped in a storm of gourmet sweetness that teeters just on the brink of being too intense, and not nearly overpowering enough without a second sip. The flavour and scent permeate the senses. It sweeps away everything else for an instant, and his eyes narrow in quiet pleasure.

"Shall we get the food to go and zip back to your garage? I have..." He looks her over again, measuring the amusement for any sign of mockery. "I never quite took you for an Austen fan. Less Regency, perhaps. Though maybe a bit more Shelley and Bronte sister." He sighs softly. "Ah, for the days when the poets were out of their minds on laudanum and so easily stirred to those rapturous heights. I can't say anything for the state of hygiene in that sorry era, but the clothing, the sheer grit and much... Mm. Well, one day I'll show you if you are so inclined. You will, unfortunately, have to wear a proper dress that resembles something of a nightgown. And I suspect I'll have to style your hair for you. There's simply no helping it; you absolutely must have a feather and one of those absurdly decorative dos. It's better than the French, at least. You will be /quite/ the stir, I assure you."

Some days are **not** fair.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Three seconds - surely that would be a record for the trickster. Again, with her own bias she considers him wilier than a certain infernal greek God. Still, his words about stories, people, children and even spirits earns a corresponding nod from her. And even a faint flattening of her lips at the mention of spirits, "Believe me." She begins, her voice sounding quite confident with her words, "I give ghosts and spirits a wide berth. Giving them any sort of credence or even their name often adds to their power." And not to mention she can control them to some extent, though that's left unsaid. A secret for another time.

That wagging spoonful of cream is eyed a second, but it's his words that bring her eyes back to his face. His question of trust earns a flash of a smile and the immediate words of, "Of course I trust you." And to prove her words she'll finally lean forward and eat that proffered spoonful.

Trust and chocolate. One supposes you can't ask for too much more.

Well, actually, one could, but that's for another time.

As for that amusement at the mention of Pride and Prejudice, it's not mockery, just the parallels between Loki and Darcy. The two are similar in many regards; or so it is for Mercy. "I can't say I love all of Austen's work, but Pride and Prejudice is one of my favorites of hers." Her head cants to the side, "And you're not the only one surprised that I like Austen. It's the whole mechanic thing -" Most people don't see mechanics very well read, even though that's typically far from the truth. And while she could say more, his words about poets and time-traveling and eventual styling of her hair causes Mercy to laugh.

"Hey, who says I can't style my hair?" Then comes the speak of feathers and Mercy's gaze widens, "Wait, wait, feathers?" There's another laugh from the woman, as she holds a hand up, "I'll consent to a feather as long as I get to pick what kind bird. I am not wearing a peacock feather."

Of course, that brings Mercy back around to the fact that Loki can time-travel, "You can really travel through the ages? To see all that's happened in the past firsthand. How do you stay in the present?" She asks, that question of hers only half-rhetorical.

Loki has posed:
Nothing like the power of trust to sweeten chocolate, or chocolate to establish a rapport so badly needed. Magical how that works, honestly.

Loki is quick to refresh his palate with that sublime blend of chocolate and fattening sugar and cream blend that makes the world go around. He doesn't exactly smack his lips, but swallow a mouthful very slowly in order to pick up some darker, richer hint. It could be overpowering if he were not so sparing about how much he takes, given the possibility he could just down the entire thing. There //is// some degree of consideration. He might. It would taste good. And Mercy might have opinions about the whipped cream trying to topple over onto the tip of his nose.

How much of a man's dignity originates from his dress, his bearing, the absence of whipped anything on his face in public venues, save carnivals or fundraisers? Hmm.

"More I would think that Austen is unsatisfying in that she only shows the pursuit of the hunt and //not// the culmination. There is a certain air of... fantasy about it," he chooses the word carefully, "when the woman seeks the man or he's not right, and another suitor comes along, and the whole commedia trundles right along. Yet we never see what happens after their nuptials, whether matrimonial promise and the actual life they have together happens. I assume that's entirely due to Austen never marrying, and thus having no real insight into that side of life. But still, you'd think someone other than a widower gets to be the star of the story. It is entirely unwritten, whereas the likes of her counterparts give more satisfying sweeps and arcs. Not that I fail to enjoy her. She has lovely literary devices. And 'connexions.' " Yes, he pronounces it differently. "It has nothing to do with your occupation. I've long learned one's occupation has no direct correlation at all with a person's intellect."

Just look at his brother. Prince... dumb as a stump.

While he muses on that fact, let Mercy worry of feathers and space-time paradoxes. They're easier to avoid than one might think. "Do you know the prevailing fashion around the high society at Brighton in 1829, my lady? It would /never/ do to be a peacock. That suggests you're a courtesan or a harlot of particular expense, which isn't the case. Ostrich or naught. Pheasant has a certain charm but only in the country and certainly not off one of the grand estates, which would imply poverty and a certain mawkish... Well." He doesn't finish, mischief sharp and bright around them as the scent of the waffles being delivered. There they are, tiramisu for one and the other hazelnut and chocolate crispiness. Neither are on fire.

"Tsk, I could answer that, but you have to fess up to a story of your own." He waves his finger. "I've certain seen some things firsthand. As to what's anchoring me at this moment," implying not other moments, "there's a woman."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
While Mercy might allow a spot of whipped cream to stay upon Loki's face for a second, possibly two, eventually she'd save his dignity; she understands how much that matters to him.

... Much like Mr. Darcy ...

Definite correlation there.

His words about Austen are considered, and as she listens to what he has to say she'll reach for her slowly cooling cup of coffee. Unlike him she doesn't necessarily feel the urge to down her drink in one gulp. Not without adding heaping spoonfuls of sugar at the very least.

"You have a point -" Mercy says, the mug of coffee set back atop the tabletop, "- The majority of fiction is fantasy-based and while the majority of readers will say they like reading romance for the chase, my opinion on the matter is it really gives people hope. Hope that their life might go like that, hope that happy endings are possible and that anything, no matter how terrible, isn't always as insurmountable as it may first appear to be. As for Pride and Prejudice and the lack of a continuation, there have been recent authors who've continued the tale. Though I don't think you'll find their writing as good as Austen's. Or the Bronte Sisters. But the books are fun reads."

His question about the fashion in the 1800s, specifically Brighton, earns a faint head shake from the coyote. She knows much of history, but such details? It would take research for her to recall specifics for the area and that time. "A harlot." Amusement inches the corners of her mouth upward, "Such a harsh word." Mercy says, even as she cants her head slightly to the side, "Though for that time, yes I know, that word was considered quite insulting. Rarely said in front of polite company, or society."

A fourth sip of coffee will be had by Mercy, before the subject of feathers continues, "Ostrich. I suppose if I had to, I would, but perhaps I'd start a new trend altogether. Eagle, hawk or falcon even. Something to allow women to show their strength and spirit in a subtle way when needed or wanted." His amusement is met with her own, even as she looks down at the plates that holds the chocolate, hazelnut and tiramisu creations. The sight and smell of the food is enough to finally wake Mercy's stomach. It has been nearly a full day since she's eaten -

- With the food so near, Mercy will release Loki's hand, to allow both to eat their food easier. Not necessarily because she wants to.

His request for a story of her own pulls Mercy's attention away form unrolling the silverware from their papery-thin napkin. "A story of me? Or just a story I know?" She asks with a raised eyebrow, before her head tilts slightly at those last words of his. "A trouble-prone woman that constantly needs rescuing apparently." She says with a flash of humor, and whether she caught the implied 'moment' is hard to say, as she now waits for his answer to her earlier question for the type of story he's asking for.

Loki has posed:
Also, tremendously jaunty headware. Mr Darcy with his stovepipe hat, and Loki with his magnificent crown.

It's not like Odin doesn't have the horns /and/ the wings of Thor or anything. Shall we speak of overachievers? Let's.

He may well have to contemplate downing the cocoa in one go, presuming Mercy is not about to run off to Books-an-Amazon-Noble and grab a copy on the cheap of some Pride and Prejudice classic, or the whole set, and point out what he prefers. "I do believe there have been many an author trying to tell the story thereafter, but none were the Lady herself. I'm not exactly a purist. However, I appreciate that she had a voice and the means to scribe a little further."

What would possibly go awry if they were to continue channeling that conversation topic? He rests his elbow on the table, mug still pressed to the inside of his palm, and assesses the coyote as though pure and wholehearted in his innocence. "Besides, there is a measure of raw fantasy in outcome. The thrill can exist when you do not know the outcome, when you have to imagine the voices and the future for yourself. But I contend there is a tale to be told in more completion, and a /value/ in that. One mischievous wit so tenderly stifled, alas, by the rigors of circumstance and all that bother. I could acquire a broader degree of patience for happily ever after, but why assume on its existence rather than making it?"

But, then, he must attack that waffle after transferring mug to table and fork to hand, where the implement may be turned with a duelist's speed and skill upon a sunning seal of a pastry. Fie! Yo! Poking makes for a delicious promise of ladyfingers and espresso. Perish the notion he means anything risqué by it. "So, tell of that story. However you wish."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy could say many more things about Pride and Prejudice and books in general, but she'll concede the conversation for a minute.

Now she must consider a story to tell. Her expression turns thoughtful, as she takes the first bite of waffle and hazelnut concoction. While she could say it's good, very good even, she doesn't instead going for a second bite. It's only after that second bite is chewed and swallowed, that Mercy will finally say. "All right, I have a story for you."

"Inspired by a like for complete stories -"

A swallow of coffee will be taken, before Mercy settles both her hands around the warm vessel. "There once was a girl named Feather Woman. Every morning she awoke to watch the Morning Star rise. To her the star was a beautiful thing and that beauty made her love it with all her heart. One morning she woke her sister and said, 'Oh, sister, look at the Morning Star! I will never marry anybody except that Star.'"

"The sister laughed at her and soon ran to the camp to tell the rest of their people. They all laughed and mocked Feather Woman, but she paid them no heed, instead continuing to rise each morning to gaze on the Morning Star. One morning she went alone to the river, to fetch water for the lodge and there she beheld a bright youth standing in the river-path."

"'Feather Woman. He said, 'I am Morning Star. I have seen you gazing upward, and now come to carry you back with me to my dwelling.' And so with branch of juniper and rich yellow plume placed in her hands, Morning Star and Feather Woman found themselves in Sky Land. There she met Morning Star's parents; the Sun and the Moon. With their blessing the two married. As is with such things, a child was conceived and he was named Star-Boy. In-between her responsibility of wife and mother, Feather Woman also helped the Moon. The Moon gave her a root-digger and told her to dig up all kinds of roots, but to never touch the Great Turnip. For if she did, unhappiness would come to them all."

"Day after day, Feather Woman dug up the roots and day after day she avoided the Great Turnip, until one day she didn't resist the temptation and she began to dig around it and eventually uprooted it. Feather Woman looked down through the hole and below she could see her camp, where she had previously lived. She saw the women, the men and the children and heard their familiar songs and Feather Woman found herself filled with homesickness. She went back weeping to Morning Star. When she arrived Morning Star looked at her earnestly and said, 'Alas! Feather Woman, you have uprooted the great turnip." The Sun and the Moon, also, were troubled. She disobeyed the one rule they had for her and so, Morning Star took Feather Woman and their son to the Spider Man. It was he who wove a web to return Feather Woman and the baby back to Earth, and her people saw her coming down like a falling Star. She was welcomed back by her parents, her sister and all her people and though she lived happily with her people, she was equally longed for what she had with Morning Star. Those longings were in vain, and soon her unhappy life ended."

And just like that, Mercy ends the story as she looks to Loki now; to see his reaction. "That story has similarities to Pandora's Box. If she hadn't uprooted the turnip, she'd never have known or felt that homesickness and subsequent unhappiness."

Loki has posed:
The tale is one which the man wouldn't dream of interrupting. He asked, he will be a respectful audience. Having both hands free allows Loki the opportunity to slice up his crepe and put away bite-sized pieces of it surprisingly quickly.

Chocolate syrup truly improves everything, including a story involving root vegetables and the spotless sadness of someone who looks down to what they had, rather than what delicious, horribly bland foods they currently got. He ruminates on the message with a belly filling with ladyfingers, the dustings of rich mascarpone lovingly surrounded by crispness of the fine outer layer. With any amount of distraction, he could dare to neglect all that.

Mostly.

"Culinary choices are ever the woe of nature. We'd be wiser to keep to our own bowls and attend on distance relationships another way," he replies, sounding utterly innocent. Really. All that excitement.

He grins at Mercy across the table, and pats her hand. "Feather Woman needed only a few days among her people to remember why she bothered leaving in the first place, don't you think?"

A pause. He calculates. "Or they could stop eating turnips."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A corner of Mercy's mouth twitches upward at Loki's words and after a second her expression turns to something closer to a laugh.

"Yes, those dastardly turnips. Always ruining a person's fun." She agrees, understanding where his amusement is coming from; he's not the first that raised an eyebrow at that particular story, or rather the particular root vegetable involved with the story.

The mention of family earns a wry look from the coyote, a nod given to his words, "Isn't that how it always is? You visit family, see what you missed, then after two days you're ready to escape again before bloodshed can occur. Or at least very minimal bloodshed that might occur."

Whether from the pat upon her hand, or the fact that her waffles are cooling, Mercy will unwrap her hands from the warm ceramic mug and return back to the duty of eating. "How about this one -"

"- Once there was a woman, girl really, who loved the rodeo. She'd follow the show wherever it'd go, seeing freedom from a life she found oppressive." Several bites will be cut from the waffle, though not eaten, "I suppose we'd call her a groupie in this day and age. Anyway, she caught the eye of a bull-rider, or perhaps he caught her eye, who's to say and the two fell in love." There's a slight twitch to her mouth at that, "They only had days together, happy days so we're told, before tragedy occurred. The young bull rider died in a terrible car crash leaving the young woman devastated. While she would never know what their life could have led to, she did retain a piece of him. A baby that could change into a coyote."

"The end. Your turn now."

Now Mercy takes a few minutes to eat several bites of her waffles.

Loki has posed:
"Two hours or two days." It's a toss up, depending on the composition of one's family. Loki slides the fork into his mouth and chews on the next sweet morsel of food. His glittering eyes narrow slightly. "I take it your own family are a closer knit sort or definitely not around, at least in close range. Such that visitations are enjoyable and the freedom for driving away has an appeal in and of itself?"

Don't ask how he deduces these things, except as he does, and makes connections as necessary. "Holidays are always interesting when people are widely divided by distance. At times you have to wonder if the journey is more a celebration than the moment present."

He leans back in his seat and the bench alarmingly creaks to moan its protest at someone who might be a marble statue come to life. He isn't going to complain too loudly. Things made for his scale are already hard enough used; there is no cause to make it worse. Not when the tiramisu is so very good. He flicks his fork about and slides the pieces into a heap, drenched in the slowly smeared cheese. Her story of the rodeo runner is heard without interruption, as before.

"She is better to have had the time together than apart. Anything can happen. Life works that way. It isn't safe. Though it makes no amends for feelings," he says, quietly. Then his own turn for a story.

"Once, there was a young woman named Green Leaf. A very young woman, at that. She a came into her youth during a time of great hardship and poverty for her people. Once great warriors, they turned instead to raiding to fill their empty bellies or, more common, forget the gnawing hunger. If she had brothers, she'd never met them or seen them for the raiding. If sisters, they long ago sought their fortunes or meals elsewhere. Her father was off raiding more than not, a blessing giving he was a cantankerous drunk prone to giving whippings," he says. His dismissive gesture absolves her of guilt, that mystery woman.

"She had the misfortune to be raised in a time with few chances for a girl of studious, focused nature among a tribe that prized sport and violence more than craft and wit." His mouth thins a little, the smirk barbed. "Green Leaf spent much time alone in a sea of empty huts. She hunt and trapped on her own to fill a larder for people gone for months. She scraped a few coins from the rare sale with passing merchants when she could. And she dreamt of stone floors and wooden bookshelves. She imagined warm rooms in the winter. But instead, raiders came. They burnt the huts and robbed her caches. She went to the forest, taking bow and arrow with her."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A sardonic lift of her mouth at the mention of hours, versus days, and she'll offer a quick, "Hours typically." Especially if a particular wolf is around. Or perhaps that's a particular set of wolves. Still, that's a story that likely will never be told and so, Mercy simply moves away from that stray memory. The mention of her mother's time together with the bull rider, versus apart, earns a nod from the brown-haired woman. "True." Is what she'll say, "But if you knew my mother -" Another of those vague twitches to her mouth; she loves her mother, she does, but their relationship isn't as close as one would like.

But again, other topics. Especially when Loki moves onto his own story. While half of her plate of waffles is now eaten, her fork will be set aside while Loki tells his story. Her head cocks slightly to the side as she listens and when he speaks of whippings there's a sympathetic grimace from her.

It's only with that natural pause to the story that Mercy will almost ask 'and', but she doesn't. Waiting instead for Loki to continue with what happened to the poor young woman named Green Leaf -

Loki has posed:
"Raiders came to conquer a village and found only goats and sheep," Loki idly says. "They saw empty beds. So, the bravest went out into the woods to round up the women and children missing. They did not come back that night. They heard laughter all the day from the deep trees. By the next night, the raiders looked worriedly to the woods. The wisest of them decided to set a trap. They would go forth, one dressed in rags and crying piteously for help, and bring out the family."

He pushes the empty plate away, and smirks at Mercy. "They heard a ribald poem, said the only guard to escape, before the rocks fell upon the raiders and swept them into the sea. So, then, the wiliest decided it was time to leave. But the angriest of the raiders were in a temper and thought to fire the whole village. If they couldn't have it, then so be it. While they threw everything into a pile and spread burning tinder from ruined hut to hut, Green Leaf crept through the smoke down to the shore where their raiding boats waited. And she found the smallest,, and struck the rope and hoisted the sail."

He blows a stream of air into the space above them. "Boats are heavy. It would be a feat even for a grown man to push it free. But sometimes the world favours a good story, so a bit of wind pushed her out to the shore and carried her far over the sea from her miserable home, now the last of her bonds gone. Green Leaf would end up in a great harbour soon enough where she caught the eye of an impressionable man at the helm of a very important country, and naturally they'd fall in love and children. But a dynasty began with an annoyed young woman who resented raiders interrupting her studies, as it happens. You can probably suss out whom based on her name, but she was certainly no one's fool. And the raiders, alas, would be crushed under an unhappy royal hammer. No idea where he got that notion from."