It was the middle of autumn when Y/n first realized that Loki—the Loki, the God of Mischief, the would-be conqueror of Midgard—was standing on her fire escape.
He looked terrible.
Not his usual untouchable, lean-and-deadly sort of terrible. Not the imposing figure from the news footage, all green and gold and sneering. Just... tired. Soaked through. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, and his long coat hung heavy with rainwater. He was leaning against the railing like he’d been standing there for a while, catching his breath.
without looking at her I realize this is not a particularly normal occurrence for you.
His voice was rough, as if he'd been yelling or hadn't spoken in days. Maybe both. His hands were smeared with something dark. Not blood—she was almost sure it wasn't blood—but something like soot or ash. The window between them was still closed, but his voice came through anyway, low and clear.
finally turning his head, green eyes sharp despite the exhaustion Are you going to let me in, or must I add breaking and entering to my list of offenses this evening?