#i'm taking the self-imposed 'kat write all jake roles 2k19' challenge to heart

[the-darklings]

—𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌, 𝒏𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓;

pairing: detective loki x reader

word count: 1.8k

summary: “Are you always…” he begins slowly, pausing to search for a world that won’t make him sound like a complete asshole. “...like this?”

notes: Never let it be said that I am not an absolute fool!!! This is set pre-movie so no spoilers for the film itself. 

‘black coffee’ drabbles: ... | 02 |

The coffee is good. 

That’s why he keeps coming in. The diner also has that typical, cosy American feel to it and is, in fact, one of the busiest in town. Certainly more busy than the Chinese place across the street he likes frequenting sometimes. 

Coming here has become an odd habit ever since the Chinese place had to be closed for the day due to a burst pipe in the kitchen. He’d been hungry, sleep-deprived, and trying to solve a case and with no other option than to go to the nearest open establishment to escape the harsh October rain.

He came in because he didn’t have much of a choice. He stayed and kept coming back because the coffee is good. 

He’s also become rather fond of his little booth at the back too. Sometimes he would come in and sit here for hours, pouring over reports and case notes, trying to connect all the little dots and make sure bastards that deserve to rot did exactly that. 

“The usual?”

He pauses, his hand lifting from the notes he was scribbling in his notebook to glance up at the source of the voice. Your face is familiar because he sees you around the diner often—practically every day, if he comes in that often which he often does, even if only for a takeaway.

Truthfully, it’s hard not to notice you. You bounce around the place with a smile and a warm greeting to everyone who steps through the door. Like somehow working endless shifts in this shitty diner that could be paying no more than the minimum wage was somehow the height of living.  

Fake.

That’s the first and logical conclusion that came to mind the first time he saw you. There is no way someone can be genuinely this happy and upbeat all day round and mean it. It’s like you’re dialled up to 200% at all times and it’s almost irritating but—

“I have one of those?” he questions slowly, squinting at you, “The usual?”

Your head tilts slightly and a faint smile lingers around the corners of your mouth, knowing and cheerful. From where you stand, it does look genuine but he still has his suspicions. People would do anything nowadays for a good tip. 

“You’ve been coming in daily for almost two weeks, detective,” you reply amiably, twisting the pen between your fingers. “Of course you do.”

His eyebrows jump slightly and he scoffs under his breath. “And that would be?”

Your feet shuffle—nervous?—and you stare at him for a beat of mutual silence. You haven’t missed the slightly condescending note in his voice then. Good. 

“Coffee: black, no sugar,” you say pleasantly, tapping your pen once against the notepad in your hand, and eyes moving towards the ceiling like you’re visualising the order. “For breakfast, you enjoy bacon and eggs. Though I do recommend our buttermilk pancakes. Joey adds magic into them, I swear. Lunch would be a cheeseburger and double fries. Oh, and for dinner, hmm, meatloaf which I didn’t take you to be the type.”

He’s not sure if he should be worried or pleasantly surprised. 

“Are you always…” he begins slowly, pausing to search for a world that won’t make him sound like a complete asshole. “...like this?”

You laugh; a warm sound, pleasant too, if a bit too loud. Your grin stretches and you simply glance at your notebook, fingers fiddling absentmindedly.

“Well, I guess my coworkers would say yes,” you admit, a touch embarrassed. “I would say that anticipating customer needs and making them feel appreciated is a sign of good customer service.”

Huh. 

He wonders if it’s really as simple as that. But every time he comes in, he does notice how you flutter around the dining room, interacting and chatting with everyone who wants to have a conversation. You do try your hardest to make customers feel welcome. Even if it’s nothing more than a job, he can at least acknowledge the dedication you have for a position most people would consider inconsequential. 

“Coffee. Black,” he states after another moment of silence between you, having to fight back a smile at the way your eyes jump to him, amused. “And I’ll try those, uh, magical pancakes. Thanks.”

Your smile is of pure delight and you hurriedly scribble the order down—almost like him somehow taking your recommendation on board just made your entire day. 

“Comin’ right up, detective.”

. . .

The coffee is good.

He can’t help but think it again—both in genuine appreciation and delight. Most places that sell coffee in this town only sell some weak, washed-out shit that’s a piss poor substitute for caffeine. He might as well add some salt and cement and mix it with water for how good or effective it is.

But as he sips on the scalding content in his cup, he can’t help but sigh. He can almost feel the dull twinge against his temple lessen. Fuck, how long has it been since he slept? He should probably try and catch at least a few hours before Captain tears into him again—though that worry has lessened with each new case he closes. As long as he makes the department—and especially the Captain—look good, very little matters outside of that. 

He just wants to get to the new case and the case after that—not much else exists for him outside his work. He’s good at it. He likes it. What more could he ask for?    

“Hard case?”

His eyes lift and he sees you approaching his booth with a plate of steaming, fluffy pancakes in hand. He’s not much for sweets but even he has to admit that the pancakes look rather good. 

“No,” he answers, lowering his cup slightly, “Not really.”

Not for me.

It goes unsaid but the way your mouth twitches slightly to the side tells him that you likely picked up on the unspoken meaning anyway. He regards you critically, accessing, as you lower the pancakes in front of him.

“You work too hard, detective,” you tell him, expression and voice empty of accusation or judgement. It’s simply a statement, and he even notes the slight, worried furrow of your brows. “You need to rest to be productive. Besides exhaustion can place your life in danger.”

He draws a deep breath, peering at you as he blinks a few times, squinting, “That’s rich coming from someone who I see here every day,” he points out mildly, fingers tapping against the rim of the cup with that slight edge of annoyance he can’t quite quell fully. “Today is your eight-day in a row.”

Your face creases with surprise—almost like someone noticing anything about you is somehow shocking, and perhaps it is; you are as invisible as you are seen in this place—and this time around your smile is softer, almost melancholy. 

“Well, we all gotta eat, right?” you ask, but he gets a sense that you’re not really looking for a reply so he keeps quiet, silently observing you because—perhaps—he is a touch more curious than usual. “Besides, I’m saving up. See, I really want to open my own place. Nothing big, just enough space for a kitchen and maybe ten customers—definitely something manageable. Somewhere where I can make fresh food, and stand back and watch people enjoy what I made for them. There would be kids and lots of sunlight and laughter. It would be warm. Someplace I can call my own. Don’t get me wrong, I do like it here—I mean I grew up in this town, so it goes without saying but…”

You trail off and the fond, dream-like tilt of your voice fades too. For a split second, he feels almost disoriented because for a moment he saw it too. You would greet all guests and know them all by their first names. You would be working every day but you would adore every moment of it. He could see you in a tiny kitchen, dancing around and creating to your heart’s content, putting all your positive energy into the simple art of creation. 

“Sorry,” you mutter weakly and clear your throat. “You’re busy and I shouldn’t be bothering you with this type of talk. But yeah, if you want a good thing, you have to be prepared to work hard for it. I will make it out of here one day.”

No, you won’t. 

It’s a cynical thought—and after hearing your dream he almost feels bad for thinking it—but he knows he’s right. If Huntington thought him anything is that life has a way of gobbling up dreamers like you and spitting them back out mangled and broken beyond repair. Time will pass, you will not leave: be it money, family, or whatever else is holding you back from going right this second. Eventually, you’ll be empty of hopes and dreams, living one day at a time in a cycle that’s like a noose around your throat. 

He should know. 

Your joy will grow into resentment, and your drive will sour into bitterness. All that’s left will be someone unhappy with their life and all they could have done with their wasted time. 

It’s a shame though. 

At this point, he can at least admit to himself that perhaps he was too hasty to assume you were playing pretend. Just an endless optimist. It will be a shame to see a fire like yours slowly dim with time. Because given time, you will wither like so many others have.

“Will I be getting a discount at this new place of yours?” he wonders idly, stabbing the fork into his golden pancakes as he takes another slow sip of coffee.

Your embarrassed expression eases, something warmer and happier taking its place, and you suit it a lot more than a frown. Some faces aren’t made for unhappiness. Tragedy and pain become rawer when reflected in them. That’s why happy people are always the hardest to deal with on cases—they don’t know how to hide their suffering the way others do. 

“That will depend entirely on how much sleep you get before coming in,” you say, something joking and teasing twisting your voice. “I would hate for those bags under your eyes to scare the little ones away.”   

His lips twitch into a surprisingly genuine smile around the rim of his cup, and he turns his head slightly as if considering your words.

“You should also smile more, detective,” you add, voice pleasant, thoughtful, “It suits you.”

His eyes lift to look at you but you’re already walking away, waving at random customers as you pass with few passing comments in between. 

His expression twitches and he blinks quickly a few times, but his gaze stays on you till you disappear behind the kitchen door.

. . .

an: anyway I love one stoic, broody detective and giving him someone happy and positive to deal with is so damn funny. hope you guys enjoyed it. this was a fun little exercise (especially writing from Loki’s POV oppose to Reader’s) so I hope you all liked it. might write another few parts for this because I had so much fun but we shall see since I still need to finish Unbecoming. thank you for reading! <33