#hes in a raincoat and theres a duck!

[wheatcak3]

they're singing in the rain 🦆✨🎶

[kashimos-hajime]

sing for the lion and lamb

Summary: “This was what she had signed up for - a good man and minimal pleasure.”

WARNINGS: spoilers as we get through it, swearing, backstory, struggles, this is one of the happiest chapters Pairing: Dectetive Loki x Reader Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: i’m a mess over prisoners and i wrote this super mess series called 1996. this is the first chapter. this is finished so i’ll be posting the other parts later but its movie+extra scenes bc theres so much stuff to get through and also reader and loki need to get through shit

... | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05

To say you love Loki would be a stretch. Two humans, born and raised in Pennsylvania who just happened to have known each other since the care system should have a natural tendency to gravitate towards each other. The two of you found each other again, so you are bound to have some sort of connection. But whilst you have a certain fondness for the man, a certain bond you are quite sure was deeper than blood, you wouldn’t name it love.

No, love is for those who didn’t know better. 

Love is not for the shadows of your eyes or the darkness in his soul. Love is not for men and women like you. 

“Detective.” 

Your eyes raise from the police report of the missing girls before you, blinking away the black boxes and messy scribbles as the man tilts his head at you. “You need something?”

The corner of his mouth twitch into something almost like a smile but your eyes only soak in the pale half-moons under his eyes. He’s sleeping again. Good. He needs all he could get before the case on the missing kids gets some steam. Rolling out your neck, you slide the report into a manila folder and stand.

“Wanted to know if you wanted to head home for a minute or two.” There comes his wide smile, one that completely morphs his face. It tugs at his cheeks, wrinkles his eyes, makes him look younger than he is. Whenever he smiles as he does now, it makes you forget about the paleness in his cheeks, the taste of coffee on his tongue, the rough stubble along his jaw. It makes him look young and handsome and like the street kid you’d known.

He knows you like that smile. Like looking at him. In bed, flushed and moaning, or otherwise. He knows it will convince you and you roll your eyes because this is not going to be a rare occasion where it’ll fail.

“Are you trying to sweet-talk me?” You stretch your arms high above your head, ignoring the way his smile drops off his face as you turn off the burning lamp on your desk. Only the pale lights of the office remains, washing the both of you in ugly pale light. 

“If you have room for dinner, maybe I will.” 

You grab your long coat, popping the collar around your cheeks and he pushes off the wall of your cubicle, walking around and stuffing his hands in his pockets. You sling your bag onto your shoulder and pull hair from underneath your collar.

“No plans for Thanksgiving?” you ask, knowing the answer. It’s only polite to ask. Detective Loki always has a pleasant way of surprising you outside the bedroom.

“None without you, I s’pose.” 

“And we’ve spent the day at work.” You don’t sound particularly surprised and the detective merely shrugs. “Come on, I know a place.”

He cocks his head to the door. It isn’t only the two of you in the station at this time of night but your caffeine-lacking brain rationalizes that they wouldn’t care and you lean up to kiss his jaw. He turns at the last moment and presses a hard kiss against your mouth, teeth snagging on your lips and you sigh into his mouth, tasting coffee and gum and the faint scent of his aftershave. Hands finding his jaw, your fingers scratch at his cheek, trail down his neck and take fistfuls of his jacket.

Your heart thrums in your throat, beats at your stomach like a drum and all you want to do is peel off the clothes burning your body, feeding the fire in your core as he noses your chin, granting himself access to your neck.

“Hey,” you whisper, hands carding through his hair. You aren’t quite sure if you want to push him away or pull him closer as he raises his head from where he’d been sucking a wet mark along the cord of your throat. “I’m hungry.”

“I know.” He ducks again to gently nip at the mark and you smack him lightly, pushing him away.

“You know I’m actually fucking hungry,” you mutter and he growls against your lips, kissing your mouth bruisingly and too, too quickly before he rips himself away. You hadn’t even realized he’d been sucking the life out of you while his hands had casually been in his pockets but he shrugs, the jacket shifting along his shoulders.

Cocky bastard. 

“Come on. Sooner we get dinner, sooner I get you,” he whispers against your ear and you chuckle into his mouth as he snags another kiss.

.

“Do you know what your, uh, Chinese zodiac sign is?”

You wipe at your mouth with a napkin, frowning when your lipstick smears over white. The detective looks up from where he was reading the meaning of each on the paper place mat, offering a smile. This restaurant is one of your favourites, having been the restaurant you went to after your… well, you wouldn’t call it a first date. You went here for a meal once, alone, ‘cause you were hungry after a night with the man sitting across from you. 

After-fucking meal. That’s the phrase. Apt, and conventional, and...

Point is, you like it here and you want him to like it.

He sips on his white mug, taking in the tea as you push around your fried rice. He’s working on some noodles as you drag a finger over the drawings of the Chinese zodiac on the paper.

“No. Do you?”

“Rat.” You watch as he turned to read, finger trailing until he finds the animal at the top of the list. 

“Intelligent, charming, quick-witted. Hm.” He arches an eyebrow and you roll your eyes as the waitress came with the check. It’s only the two of you in this small establishment and you look around, nothing the absence of fortune cookies in the red metallic bowl near the register.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks.” He raises his hand to gesture in a vague shape and you squint as the waitress poured your mug full of tea. “Hey, you have any of those, um, fortune cookie things?”

“My boss told me cops don’t like fortune cookies.”

“Well, it’s Thanksgiving,” you murmur and the waitress laughs under her breath. “What’s your Zodiac sign?”

“Monkey.”

You toss a glance expectantly at the man sitting across from you and he drops the bill he was reading, looking down at the paper.

“Very intelligent. You have an ability to influence people.” You hum thoughtfully at his answer as he continues, “Maybe you could influence your boss to lower the check a little bit?”

You snort quietly, hiding your laugh as you pull out your wallet. Picking up the slip of paper, you read the the total and begin to lay out bills to pay as the waitress shakes her head.

“Mr. Li is a rooster, Detective,” you comment, extending the check back to the waitress. 

“Thank you.”

“Keep the change.”

“How do you know that?” You don’t miss the edge of his tone as he takes another sip of his tea. Jealousy. You opt not to answer and his gaze drops to the paper. 

“What does the rooster mean?” Leaning on your hand, you watch as he reads out the description. 

“He’s selfish and eccentric.” His eyes raise to meet yours and his gaze carries a hint of mischief. “That’s—”

In unison, both your phones vibrate. David’s clatters against the table and you shove a hand into your bag, feeling for yours. Digging out the phone, you stand and gather your coat and bag as David grabs his own raincoat. The heels on your boots click hard against the tile in your haste to get from the restaurant to the car with as little rain contact as possible as David answers the phone, right at your heels.

Shielding yourself from the rain, you walk to the car and duck into the old thing, slamming the door shut. He slides in beside you, twisting the keys in the ignition and he hands you the radio on instinct. As the two of you pull out of the parking lot, you can’t help the warmth in your gut extinguishing. 

It is so easy to pretend, sometimes. To act as if you’re people you wish you could be. A bitter taste floods your mouth as you think about moments like the ones in the restaurant, ones where you felt so perfectly normal that it’s crazy to even think about the broken parts between you and the man beside you.

But then you’re dragged back into the real world. The real world of long nights, and bullet rain, and the fact that you and David are merely co-workers who live together because that is the only way you can survive having him in your life.  Any more than what he is now, the occasional hook-up, your partner in every case, it might as well break you.

It’s clockwork, working with him. Without rust or a knot in the system, you never feel like there is a task you cannot handle, a case you cannot crack. That ease, that bond, doesn’t come from something messy like what could’ve been. It comes from someone who knows your mind better than you. 

The thought terrifies you at night because you sure as hell think about what could’ve been more than you’d like to admit.

Shaking yourself of the person you were in the restaurant into the person you are, you roll down the window and let rain-slick wind slice into your cheeks. There is a plastic container of gummies on the dash and you reach for it, nerves biting at your fingers. Your other hand reaches for the radio as you respond.

“This is 13-40 and 13-41. We’re five minutes out. We’ll meet the responding units there.”

.

Your whole body drenched in sleet-cold rain, you feel your jaw twitch as David interrogates the man into the corner of the room. You can’t help the pity welling up inside you as you gently tease your hair through a proffered towel, and you can’t help the fire burning in your stomach, warming you from the inside out.

His tactic, getting up close and personal with the potential suspect, always has a way of messing with you.

Shaking it off, you ignore the thoughts that dog at you persistently — the images of him grabbing at Alex Jones and wrenching him to his feet — as you turn away. You squeeze your hair between the towel as you walk through the halls of the station, your heels echoing in the mostly-empty building. Linoleum reflects the artificial light as you reach the locker room, pushing open the door and throwing the damp towel into the dirty wash basket.

Shedding your long rain coat, you sigh and begin to unbutton your blouse. It sticks to your skin like wet paper as the air conditioning puffs goosebumps onto your chest and arms. You unzip your boots, tugging them off before peeling away your pants and examining the status of your socks. Your badge clatters against the wooden bench as you sit down in nothing but your bra and underwear. Your nose twitching, you stare down at your toes and inhale sharply. Rain is clogging up your sinuses, but your socks are dry.

Not soaked through, so boots held up. Good. 

The shower pelts against your skin, hot bullets that slam into your skull deliciously and chase whatever chill rain left on your skin as you hear the door open. Closing your eyes, you let the shower run over your face, focusing on the hissing stream over the clatter of boots you can hear.

It’s nearing 12 AM and you are sure everyone who doesn’t want to be here and don’t need to be here are gone. No one is here more than you and David. No one showers in here if they had a choice. So much for Thanksgiving. Should I be giving thanks that we might’ve caught the sick fucker already? Perhaps.

In your heart, somehow, you know it isn’t him.

Through the shuffling of fabric, you rake shampoo through your hair and begin to lather your body with soap, merely waiting until he shows up as steam begins to soak into your skin. A pair of pants drop to the tile, the clink of a belt against ceramic. Then, soft footsteps that brush against the shower tile and a shadow that blocks out the faint light. Taking a deep breath, you run your hand over your face and pull open the shower curtain. 

“Come here,” you murmur over the steam rolling out of your little shower stall. David steps in through the shaft of light that pours through to your little world before thrashing the curtain back into place. The stall dims remarkably as he leans down to kiss your forehead. You step back so he can stand under your stream of burning hot water and he blinks against the current.

Your forehead rests against his collarbone. His arms rise to run hands through his hair and he cards fingers through the dark strands as your hands encircle his waist. It’s darkly intimate, and all too familiar but you can’t help the addicting heat that he provides. Water runs down his chest and over your arms as you count the tattoos on his chest. One, two, three...

“Any leads?” Your voice is barely audible over the hiss of the shower.

“Aunt’s house.” He has a tattoo of a robin mid flight along his ribcage, and you trace the arc of its wing, palm flat against his heaving ribs. It’s one you know every stroke of, one you watched being carved into his chest. Your eyes close as a finger curls underneath your chin, lifting you to him. “Open your eyes.”

You do to see strands of hair falling into his eyes, his skin red against the blistering heat of the shower. Cupping his face with one hand, you use your fingers to delicately pull away the dark slick hair. His eyes bleeding midnight, his breath ghosts against your lips as his finger trails down your neck. His hand is warm against your throat and he makes sure that your eyes do not stray. As if an astronomer can look away from the phenomenon in the universe, a clash of asteroids, a dying star. He reaches into your mind, pulls you apart like a well-worn book, and reads your thoughts like a diary entry before he pulls out and his eyes fill with shards of glass.

“This isn’t like that,” he promises, insists, convinces you, and you nod because it’s the only thing you can do. Your heart splits in your chest, thrumming in your mouth and crushing your stomach all at once as his gentle grip on your neck firms. Your hands trail his waist, fingers dancing along tattoos that used to have meaning as you count the seconds you can stay standing. “We’re gonna find these girls.”

“Yeah. I know that.”

He sighs, eyes searching your face and you kiss him fully, softly. His lips taste of wind and rainwater.

The shower turns off and the two of you step out, drying each other’s legs and arms, face and hair as is routine when you shower together, and then you get dressed. He clips your badge to your belt, you slide the ring onto his pinky finger. He zips up your boots, you clip the necklace around his neck.

Clockwork.

You toss your hair up into a tight knot and hang your raincoat over your arm. Your gut twisted, you turn to your… something. He gives you a short nod, raking his hair back with rough fingers. You shed your old self, leave it in the shower to slip into the drain.

“Let’s go.”

.

Whilst David went for the Birches, you stop outside the Dovers, walking up the steps. The two of you had gotten no sleep last night after the visit to the aunt’s and forensics for the RV came back negative. Caffeine rules your system as you climb the steps and ring the doorbell.

A kid no older than sixteen or seventeen answers, all pale and terrified-looking. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink either and you press your lips together. Although you empathize with the family, you can’t afford to become attached. You nudge your coat to flash your badge and the kid steps aside. Your fingers unclench from its tight fist as you enter the home.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Ralph. Uh, my dad… I… I saw the RV first. Did my dad tell you guys that?” 

You pause, turning around to spot the kid closing the door. He looks like he’s seen death, and his eyes are wide-eyed and shine under the light through the windows. Poor kid.

“Yeah, I read the statement.”

“Okay, Dad wanted me to, uh, make sure,” the boy says and you follow him to where a blonde sits on the couch, tissues littered around her. “Mom?” The woman looks up as you stick out a hand for her to shake.

“Detective Y/L/N. My partner and I are heading the case for your missing daughter.”

“Yes, of course. Sit. Do you need anything to drink?” She begins to unfurl on the couch but you simply hold out a hand. The woman’s face is sallow and thin, and she looks almost as if she is phasing from another time to your present. You sit down on the couch. Her voice scratches and you wonder when the last time she ate was, the last time she showered or drank or slept.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m just here to…” Your voice fades as your phone vibrates in your pocket and you dig it out, turning on the screen to see an email notification from David. Opening it up, you frown at the few attachments strung along.

Better photos of the other kid. Heading over to you now. -D

“So, did we pass?” As you watch the bar across the screen signify the speed of your download, you also begin to forward the photos to the Captain.

“Hm?” You are only half-listening. Your phone vibrates again and you open up the downloaded photos, letting out a soft sigh as round, dark brown eyes stare back at you on your tiny screen. What a fucking shame.

“The poly thing. The lie detector we took this morning.” Turning off your phone, you let it fall into your tight fist as you look at the mother. She stares at you as if you hold all the answers and you swallow a tight knot. “Did we pass?”

“Yeah. You’re fine. I don’t think anyone really suspected the two of you anyway,” you say, glancing at your phone again. “Thank you for your cooperation, though. You understand — the formalities we have to take. Precautions.” You tuck a slip of hair behind your ears and her eyes flicker to the movement, gaze following your fingers. You know what she is trying to do and you interlace your fingers, hiding the permanent ink needled into your skin along your knuckles.

“Yes, of course. It’s just… it’s embarrassing. I don’t know. All this fuss — people are just going to think we’re crazy when they show up here, perfectly fine or… I don’t know.” The woman’s arms crossed tight against her chest, she doesn’t even look at you anymore. Your eyes dart to her knuckles to find them stark white, her fingers digging into the flesh of her bicep.

“Do you have any reason to believe they might’ve run away?” The words come out tough as rubber in your mouth. The woman’s eyes close and you sigh, already regretting your words. You know in your gut that that isn’t the case.

“No,” she breathes, “no. They’re happy. They… the must have run away.” A silly child’s game. The woman nods along to her own words as she tries to convince herself. Your heart crumbles to ash in your chest as you force on a smile. “I think they must have run away, right?”

“Of course, Mrs. Dover. But we’ll find them,” you assure, setting a hand gently on her knee. She seems to quiver under your palm as she swallows and looks at you with bleak, earthwet eyes.

“Your police captain told me about the two of you. Um, he said that you and your partner—” You suck in a quiet breath, already knowing what her next words are going to be. You don’t like it, the pressure, the want to keep a record pristine, but your reputation has always preceded you in cases like these. Cases where you just wanted to find the grave and be done with it when your very thought should be finding a warm body, not a cold one— “he told me that the two of you have solved every case you’ve ever been assigned. Is that right?”

Your nails dig into the flesh of your palms as you look away. You don’t want to give this woman hope, even if she needs it. It’s stupid, you realize, to stare at the reflection of yourself when you have already smashed every mirror.

Your nose twitches.

The doorbell rings. The kid, Ralph, goes to get it again as you look up at the woman. She’s beginning to break down, hiding her face in her hands as she mumbles out apologies.

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry,” she whispers through her tears as the door opens. You can see the shadow of him on the walls before he comes in and you shake your head minutely as soon as your gazes meet. Nothing here. “Do you… do you have children, detective?” 

You bite your lip until you taste blood.

“We’re gonna find your daughter.” Mrs. Dover looks up jerkily, flinching at the man’s voice. Closing your eyes, you hang your head as your partner walks deeper into the room. Everything feels like it’s been scooped out of you, replaced with nothing but sick and acid.

You can’t listen to promises you aren’t quite sure you can keep anymore.