Who: Loki and Bucky What: Loki is v. drunk. Also talking. Where: Loki's place When: Day after the reaping, immediately following these texts Warnings: Language. Mentions of alcoholism. The usual sad things.
It was true what he'd said to Bucky -- generally, men (and women) from Two could hold their liquor. Which was why, upon entering his home for the last time before the Quell began, Loki had immediately torn apart the guest room reserved for Thor to find the flasks he knew would be hidden there, somewhere. His tolerance was nowhere near his brother's, but wine wouldn't do tonight, and he knew it. Better to have the bitter, powerful home brew that Thor always carried with him now. That would do the trick, if he drank it fast enough.
It was a poor choice, Loki knew. He needed to be alert now more than ever, but fuck it. If Thor could slip away like this when things got too hard, Loki deserved one night of numbness before he had to watch his mother ride in on a tribute chariot.
After he'd thrown back all the liquor he could find, he wove down the hall and keyed a code into a tightly locked door. "Hello, beauties," he murmured as he stepped into the greenhouse, its air thick with the mingled scent. Flowers everywhere -- lilies and gardenias, snapdragons and winding skeins of morning glories, and, especially, orchids. He hobbled down the rows at a slow, deliberate pace, pruning a dead leaf here, letting his fingers gloss the curve of a petal there, leaning down catch the individual perfume of each.
For once, he'd left the door open. What did it matter? There was little left to hide.