Loki and Thor. On Earth. Once again, brothers on a mission. Or so that was how it was initially. After, it became Loki and Thor, brothers on Earth, attempting to figure out how to talk to one another without common business.

Their mission to find the All-Father has been over for a few days. They have just a few more before Thor will finish their work and bring Loki to Asgard to face justice yet again.

A crowd of young women once again swarms Thor on the streets of New York City. He stops for photos. Loki slinks aside, looking for an excuse to disappear. It happens this way often- Thor has the fans, the girls, the attention. Loki vanishes. overwhelmed by the chatter, sickened by the adoration, and impatient with the unsolicited touching. There is a coffee shop across the street. Thor will find him. He always does.

The door chimes as he enters. Two separate seating areas. One full of tables and chairs arranged traditionally. Another area has benches, couches, and a motley of armchairs arranged around a centre point- a lowered area with beanbags and pillows. The counter swoops around to accommodate both spaces. He doesn't bother to glance at the board and orders a black coffee. He settles into one of the armchairs and watches the people. A girl and her mother play a board game near the windows. Businessmen gather around one of the low tables. A gaggle of teenagers tumble off the beanbag chairs, laughing, in the lowered centre. A lone young woman in a long black skirt meets his eye and smiles from across the room. He takes a moment to study her, fully aware that she knows he is watching while she writes something with an elegant silver pen. A fountain pen? He can't tell. But what he can see is that her black shirt is sheer and her lower layer is some sort of lace thing, perhaps a bra, perhaps something meant to be outerwear, and her skirt shimmers in the light as it pools around her feet. He stands and walks to her table. She looks interesting. Perhaps a way to pass the time while his brother meets with his adoring fans.

He steps up to her table, "Excuse me, Miss. Is this seat taken?"

"No."

"Might I join you?"

She looks up from her paper and scans him- black suit, black shirt, tie that might be green in better light, "Sit. But don't say anything until I've finished writing this."

He sits and sips his coffee. The shirt is collared. Perhaps a natural fibre. There is a necklace framed in the open buttons- a tree. Her hair is swept up in a sleek twist, her makeup minimal. A little around the eyes. No marks on her coffee cup, no lipstick. No rings. Earrings- asymmetrical dangles in her lower holes. Something blue sparkling in the second ones. He watches her write. She has something tattooed on the underside of her forearm. She brushes back an errant lock of hair and he sees that there is writing on the other arm in the same place. Black lace fingerless gloves conceal most of her hands. Her nails are short, painted, and neat. He allows himself a moment to wonder about the occupation of this curious creature. Elegant in clothing, though not so much as Asgard's women. Striking in all black. Even her hair. And very different from most of the characters he has met so far on his brother's insistence. Midgardians are not, he has decided, his sort of creature. Most of them are so terribly dull.

Her phone chimes. She ignores it. It chimes again. And a third time. The sound irritates him. When it chimes a fourth time, he sighs.

"Are you aware your device is making that noise?"

"Yep. And I asked you not to talk until I was finished writing. They can wait, too."

"Would you care to silence it?"

"Nope. I have four chimes. That's not one of the emergency ones. But if I can't turn off one without turning them all off. And I can't miss one of the important ones. Suck it up, buttercup. I'll be done in a second."

It chimes again. Loki wonders if he should leave. But she signs the document with a flourish, snaps the cap on her pen, and sighs.

"Thank god that's done."

"Praytell what was so important that you could not check your phone?"

"Grant reporting. People don't just give your charity money because they feel you're worth the work. You need to beg off the damned government if you want to exist. Or corporate donors. And there's always strings attached and things they want to know so they can decide if you're good enough to fund the next year."

"You work for a charity?"

"Work? That would indicate they paid me."

"You do this for nothing?"

"No. I do this because there are people who need me, whether or not I get paid. I have other work, don't worry your pretty face over me."

He raises an eyebrow, "You assume I would worry?"

"Well you wouldn't be sitting here if there wasn't some interest in me."

He smirks, "Oh, I have an interest, but it's purely academic. I don't give a damn about your little charity or its work."

She tucks her paperwork in a black briefcase, "Good. I can put this away then." She slips the fountain pen in its pocket and snaps it closed decisively, "So. Why did you sit down here? Why am I the subject of your study, not someone else?"

"Well, you simply attracted the eye."

"Hmmm. I don't buy it. Give me a better reason."

"I am curious what sort of person would dress as you do. I see so few."

"Better lie, but still not the full reason. You're curious, I can see that in your face. But what else? You want something."

"Why do you assume I want something?"

"Because of the way you're watching me. Studying me. Like I can give you something. Academically. Spiritually. Physically. One way or another. You're looking for something."

"Why don't you tell me about your work?"

"Nice change of subject. Don't think I'm not coming back to this."

"What makes you think I will allow that? Or stay for it?"

"Because you want something. Like I said. And you can't get it if I don't know what it is. But about me. My works. The charity I write grants for helps sex workers, trafficking victims, abandoned kids, transgender people, queer people, addicts, veterans...anybody thrown out on the streets. We run a safe house, a shelter, clothing pantries, a food pantry, and we connect people to social services. Medical professionals that will help them without being judgemental assholes. Drug rehab. Whatever they need. And we're one of the few groups that does it without putting religion into it."

"Well. That seems good of you."

"It's good work. Hard work. Our clients face some of the shittiest treatment people can dole out to one another. Any kind of abuse you can imagine, they've probably endured it. Sexual abuse, physical abuse, emotional, spiritual, some of them have been tortured. Some of them have been used to mule drugs. It's pretty terrible."

"And your role is in paperwork? How does that serve their needs? Are you no more than their secretary?"

She laughs, "Oh, no, darling, that would mean we had money to have a full staff, not that we were begging off the government's teat for a grant to keep the lights on. Money we get donated's better used to help the clients. I'm the streets girl. I used to walk them, I know what's out here. I go out and look for the new people. The kids, particularly. And then I talk to them and find out if I need to bring them anything or if they're ready for us."

"You don't just pick them up?"

"Can't take someone unwillingly, darling. People are still people, even if they don't know what they're doing. The kids are easier to convince. And if they're young enough and on their own, I'll call in the professionals."

"Law enforcement?"

"Sometimes. Social workers first. I don't like to send kids to jail for being lost and hurt."

He nods, "That's decent of you."

"Well what did they do to deserve being locked up? They've already been thrown out. The ones being trafficked have already had their trust manipulated and chained. It feels wrong to say I'm there to help and do the same damn thing. They're just people. Scared. Hurt. On their own."

He furrows his brow, "You've said that a few times. Trafficked. I don't get your meaning."

"Oh, sorry. Human trafficking. Where bodies are traded and sold for their labour or their sex. People treated as things."

"Ah. Slavery."

"Yes. But we have cultural baggage around that word, and since nobody seems to be willing to realize that slavery didn't end a century and a half ago, we have to use a different and more broad term. Especially since trafficking victims might be paid for their labour. Their pimps take it all back in rent or fees or just by taking it. There's a lot of threats and coercion going on. Identity papers or cards withheld."

"And this is all something you do when not working?"

"Yep."

"And what do you for work?"

She slips a business card from her briefcase's outer pocket, "Come see me. And bring your brother."

"How do you know I have a brother?"

"You're not the only one who watches people. Human behaviour's my job, love. And I saw how you looked at the girls swarming him. Come by if you'd like to see a side of Earth women that isn't desperate for fawning male attention." She stand up and straightens her blouse, "And it's Egyptian cotton. Very fine."

"Desperate?"

She taps the card and leans towards him, one hand on the table, her voice low, "You'll see. Those women fall over him because he has the power, the heroism, the recognition they all crave. They want someone to see them and they imagine being special and kept and to have someone like him be the one to do it...that's something they dream of with their fingers between their legs. Me? I prefer to be the one in charge. Boys in the news don't impress me. Not even the bad ones." She winks, "See you tonight, Loki." It is only as she is walking away that he realizes he never told her his name.

Thor catches the handle as she opens the door and steps aside to hold it for her as she passes, "Excuse me, M'Lady."

"I'll see you tonight, Thor."

He looks confused, "Oh? I don't think we've met."

"No. But your brother has my card. And he's oh, so curious." She smiles and drags a finger on the edge of his shoulder as she passes. His eyes follow her down the street.

He steps into the coffee shop and orders a latte before sitting down across from Loki, "Who was that woman? She is quite beautiful. And seductive."

"I don't know."

"She said she would see us tonight."

"I made no such promise."

"But you did talk to her."

"Of course I talked to her. She looked interesting and you had abandoned me for your...fans."

"Harmless fun, Loki. They wanted photographs. Why not make them happy? Happiness costs me nothing."

"Only time."

"There is time for a photograph. We have the All-Father safely back in Asgard. We have a few days before I follow Father orders and bring you home. Or before you disappear again."

"Not home, Thor." Loki sets the card on the table. Dark red. The colour of fresh blood or a dark rose. The print on it is in black edged in silver.

Thor reads it, "'Violetta Scott'."

"Turn it over."

"An address. Days of the week. And times. Starting at 9. Did she say what she does?"

"No. Her charity work is with the wretched ones of this world. But she never said her other occupation other than I needn't worry my 'pretty face' over that her charity work was unpaid."

"Well, brother, I certainly am curious. Shall we make this one of our last adventures in Midgard?"

Loki downs the last of his coffee and carefully tucks the card in his inner jacket pocket, "I suppose, Thor. If you insist."

"Oh, I do. And I think you want to know, too."

"No, I don't really care about the occupation of a random Midgardian woman met in a coffee shop. Perhaps you should go alone. My time is better spent on more academic pursuits."

Thor stands and Loki follows, "Oh. You mean reading articles online for hours without sleeping. I'm sure that's a good use of your limited time. I didn't ask you to spend a few days here so you could shut yourself in front of a screen. I want you to see this place. Perhaps even understand why it means what it does to me."

"Now that, Thor, is an unrealistic expectation." They step back out on the street, "Which route shall we take to avoid the majority of your adoring fans?"

Thor shrugs, "I don't know. They seem to be everywhere. Let's just walk towards Central Park. I think you will like it. A little green in the city."

Loki tosses his cup in the street bin as they pass, "Just so long as I can escape your admirers if they become too much."

"There are plenty of places to hide in the park. It's a beautiful place."

Loki nods, "Then forth we go, into the wild unknowns of this Central Park."