Mischief Is A Lifestyle (Loki Oneshots)

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The coach rumbles and shrieks as we approach Camden Town Station.
It's early evening, rush hour mixing with the many party goers who get off the train in Camden.
Crowded, loud, hot and chaotic; doors opening and closing, people talking and laughing loudly, pushing their way through the crowd of many others who do the exact same thing.
I don't like people.
They are annoying, self-centered and filthy, though I myself am not better at all.

Still, I like traveling via tube, you can learn so much about other humans, observe them and their behaviour. And Camden is perfect for doing so, you can't imagine they crazy folk running around there if you haven't seen it with your own two eyes.

Most of the people have their headphones on or read, but I usually just sit there and watch them or 'stare into space' as my father phrased it when I was a kid.

People hop on the train, the automatic voice announcing 'Doors closing, stay clear of the doors.' and off we go again.

I eye the newcomers, my curiousity hidden under the typical Londoner expression: Something between annoyance and not caring at all. There's a young woman around my age in brown boots and baggy clothes, covered in tiny bits of colour; most likely one of the many artists of this city.
Two businessmen, a teenage couple. And this very very odd man.
He's wearing a black suit, black shirt and no tie; doesn't look like a businessman but neither like a lawyer or something. He has something very special I can't put my finger on. I can't place him.
Interesting.

At this very moment he looks me directly in the eye.
Living in the city all my life and therefore being as tough as leather I manage to not flinch even though his eyes are darker than everything I've ever seen.
I can't read his expression and he doesn't stop staring back at me; my practiced cool and somewhat desinteressed mimical expression starts to slip.
Who the heck is that and what does he want?!

Wait, is that some kind of wicked smile tugging the right corner of his lips up?
If I didn't know better I'd say he looked downright mischievious. 

My thoughts get interrupted by the automatic voice announcing 'This is a Northern Line train via Charing Cross terminating at Kennington. This is Mornington Crescent. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.'

Against my own will I glance at Mister Mischievious, heart thumping a tad louder in my ears; I don't want him to leave yet.
Usually I'm not that naive but I want to get to know this crazy man, find out who he is. It's not about some kind of deep connection or some other cheeky thing, it's that I won't sleep at night if I didn't gather at least a little bit of information about this mysterious figure.
Because something about him is odd, he's like that one part of a puzzle that seems to fit nowhere, that has all kinds of unusual corners and therefore stands out without even trying to.

Okay probably I should stop staring at him, but he doesn't stop either!
At least he doesn't get off the train yet.

Nevertheless I try to concentrate on something other, scanning the newcomers to give my racing thoughts time to settle.
I play my little game of guessing their professions; businessman, cook, factory worker, nurse, some fancy shop worker, mother of two.
I glance at Mister Mischievious out of the corner of my eye.

He's still looking at me.

From time to time people get off the train, the newcomers become rarer. The strange man remains. We're the only two passengers in this coach now.

Shortly after the automatic voice announces "This is Charing Cross. Doors closing." he walks over. Slowly, fluently, elegantly, like a black panther stalking its prey. He sits in the seat opposite to mine, leans forward and the air seems to be stuck somewhere in my chest. His eyes aren't black but a dark green; a green like deep endless pine forests, a green I can't recall to have ever seen in London. His piercing gaze on my face I begin to blush and-

"Ask."

"Pardon?" I'm startled.

"You clearly want to know something about me." He speaks in a low but full voice, obviously being used to being obeyed; a snall wicked smile playing on his lips.

I frown, pretending to not care: "And you are ...?"

His smile vanishes. "Loki"

"Just Loki? Some sort of pseudonym, eh?"

"No." My comment earns a frown "That's my actual name."

I put on a fake smile "Sure"

He dips his head slightly to the left. "I suppose you didn't stalk me all night long to discuss names."

Snorting I lean back. "Well I am not the one who stalked somebody here."

"You're really hard to have a proper conversation with." He sighs and leans back too.

This time my smile is real. "I know. And you're not good at making up one either. Anyway, where you heading?"

"Waterloo. Fancy some food? I know a wonderful Taco place there."

"On my way to night shift, sorry." I lie.

The mischievous smile is back. "No, you're not. You showered and wear fresh clothes. Probably only worked the morning or had a day off."

I shrug. "Worth a try."

His gaze remains fixed on me, enveloping my body like a cool thin layer of silk.

"I like Tacos though." I add. Loki doesn't seem dangerous and my gut feeling has proven to be trustable. This evening promises diversion.

"Lovely" His smile looks real and his expression more open than before. We sit in comfortable silence, the train rumbling and shrieking.

"This is Waterloo. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform. This is a ..." the automatic voice continues but we have already left our seats and enter the platform. I feel soft fingers sliding through mine and look down at Lokis and my hand, now intertwined.

Interesting. Let's see where the night takes us.

"Ready?" Loki smiles.

I smirk back: "I'm from London, honey, I was born ready."