Title: Ragnarok Delayed

Author: Cyprith

Summary: A story about two old gods meeting on a bus. Well, actually, really it's about one old god being annoyed at his blood brother who tends to masquerade around as a god sometimes, but generally pretends to be other things to get laid a lot.

So, yeah. Loki and Odin, just sitting around, catching up. They talk about people they know as old men tend to do and bicker a bit. Not much of a story, but I like it.

"You're late," he said.

Outside the bus window, the world rocketed past. Inside, the newcomer smiled, pockmarked lips twitching in the old, familiar way.

"I'm never late."

Without asking, he sat down on the abandoned seat beside him, a 1980s refugee wearing fabric that had never been in style, and set to rifling through his pockets. Bits of string stuck to the back of his fraying gloves. Deeper, abandoned pennies kissed the surface of something ancient and metallic that could not fit in a pocket, but managed just the same.

"Seven-hundred forty- two years, fifteen days, six hours, thirty three seconds…" The old man looked up from his watch. "And counting."
The newcomer snorted, still occupied with his pockets. At last, he pulled out a plastic game system and held it up between two long fingers with a triumphant grin. The pockets set about re-buttoning themselves, but weren't fast enough to hide glint of life swimming inside one pocket, suspiciously like a lost soul.

"You're still on about Ragnarok, then?" he said, flicking the game awake with a blunt thumbnail.

The old man settled back in the uncomfortable seats, watching as souls and cities passed through the two view screens in vivid detail. Life and death tangled up together in predictable patterns, sex and loss and blasphemy singing to the heavens, to the new gods and the long perennial favorite, chaos.

"And you're still flitting around your humans."

"I like humans," the newcomer said without looking up. "Better than you lot with your apples and rules—and while I'm thinking of it, I still expect Fenrir back in one piece, thanks very much."

"He got the sword out ages ago. Calls himself Wargsson now."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mm… Took up with Idunn and buggered off Fates only know where. Bragi set Garm after them, for all the good that'll do."

The newcomer smirked. Infuriating and familiar, the crooked pin corner of his mouth danced. He'd known already. Probably even had something to do with it.

And they said the world had changed.

"Well, you'll have to pardon me if I don't come sailing in on a ship of the dead just yet," he said. "I rather like things as they are."

The old man sighed.

"Bloody well get on with it already," he grumbled. "Can't escape prophesy forever."

The newcomer grinned at him and stood. Pocketing his game, the human faces there still flashing despair and ecstasy across the screen, he pulled the cord.

"Don't see why not," he said.

And in a billow of mismatched fabric, the newcomer was gone, leaving only his smirk and the lingering scent of waterfalls and wood smoke behind.