Chapter Text
"Your son is having such a good time. Isn't he adorable!"
Odin flashes the woman a quick smile. He can’t spare any more time… Thor's at that age where disaster can strike out of a clear blue sky with absolutely zero warning. "He's got a lot of energy," he tells her, eyes back on his child. This is a fenced-in play area tailored specifically for toddlers - no big-kid swings to smack the little ones in the face, no dangerously tall slide or tempting monkey bars - but he can’t help but remember how Thor’s ended up nearly needing stitches three times this week alone. Once, the only hazard in range (and who knew??) had been the floor.
No steps, even. Just plain old pine boards.
He's not sure their poor house will survive Thor's childhood, even if Thor does.
"How old is he," she asks. "He's so- mobile."
"He'll be two and a half next week," Odin says. A baby hiccups. He glances over at her again, startled and a little ashamed that he's only belatedly noticing she's pushing her own stroller. "Here," he says as he hastily gathers his belongings - Thor's jacket and cap, an empty coffee cup, his phone and a big stack of magazines - and crams them into what his wife calls his diapercase. "I didn’t mean to hog the bench! Please, sit."
"Mommmmmy!" It's not Thor screaming, but the little dirty-blonde-haired girl he's smacking again and again with his toy shovel. Fortunately when he's wound up like this Thor's not all that coordinated; what his mind thinks up, his body struggles to deliver. He does land one good smack, though, and Sif screams.
Shit. "Just a sec," he tells the woman. She's still standing, the wind blowing her dark hair across her face. Her baby has started to grumble and snort; back in the day, that was often all the warning Odin and Frigga might get before Thor would start flat-out wailing. "Can you watch my stuff for a minute? Sorry!" The last bit he has to call out over his shoulder as he runs; he's already more than halfway to the sandbox.
"Young man," he tells Thor sternly, "what have your mother and I told you about hitting?"
Thor’s "I hatechoo!" is cut short; his little playmate seizes the moment and gives Thor a hard shove, enough that he topples over and lies there like a turtle with the wind knocked straight out of him.
"Sif!" The little girl's father squats and catches her by the shoulders. "No hitting. What do you say?"
Her brows pull into a comically serious frown. "He hit me first," she tells her dad. She's only a few months older than Thor, but she's surprisingly articulate. Well, for three. She and her older brother both skipped right past baby talk and went straight to sentences.
"He did," Odin admits. "She's only being honest. Thor, buddy." He steers his stubborn, pouting son towards little Sif. "No hitting. Say you're sorry."
"Am not," Thor huffs. He stamps one foot. "NOT SORRY!"
"Ooooohhhhkay," Odin says. He sighs. "I think someone needs to come sit with me for a few minutes." He scoops his kicking, shrieking son up under one arm like the world's biggest, angriest football and heads back towards the bench. "Sh-sh," he soothes as he walks. "You don't want to go home, do you?"
"Baby!" Thor tries to wriggle loose, beaming through the tears. Odin gives a silent little thank you to whatever deity might be listening. "Daddy! Daddy! Baby!"
"Thank you," Odin says again, aloud this time. "I'm so sorry! I don't know how my wife does it." Frigga swears Thor is her perfect angel, but Odin doesn't believe it. "Oh, and I'm Odin. I would shake your hand, but-." He jerks his head at Thor, who is fighting like mad to get to the woman's stroller. To the baby. "And this holy terror is Thor."
Thor wiggles and shoves at Odin’s arm. “Babababy!”
The woman smiles. Up close she looks exhausted, even more so than he feels. “Farbauti,” she says. “And this is my youngest, Loki.”
“Nice to meet you. Both of you.” All Odin can really see of her son is a few downy tufts of black hair, but he knows the drill anyway. He flips the straps out of the way and sets Thor – who’s still making grabby hands at Loki – in the jogging stroller. Not that Odin does a whole lot of jogging (like, any… once upon a time he’d been careful to keep in decent shape, but nowadays he chases his son and lies to himself and pretends it counts for something), but Frigga sometimes likes to. That, and his wife holds out the endless hope that someday they’ll do better.
Maybe she’s right. Right now, he doubts it.
“So Loki’s your youngest,” he prompts Farbauti. Thor is utterly fascinated with her baby, so much so that Odin’s even able to fasten the stroller straps without a struggle. “He’s nice and quiet.”
Farbauti laughs. “Mm. Right up until he isn’t. Yes, I have two other boys. They’re in school now, the both of them.” She has a faint accent Odin can’t quite place, except to be certain she’s not from around here. Finnish, maybe. “My oldest is twelve, and my middle son is ten.” Her son’s tiny hands come up to grab at her bracelets. Odin finally gets a quick look at Loki's small face; it’s sharp and pointy like his mother’s. His eyes are almost silver, at least on such a bright-overcast day, and are framed with long, dark lashes. It’s like he has two beautiful flowers where his eyes would otherwise be. “They like their teachers, but I miss having them around. And I could use their help with the baby.”
She’s not laughing anymore. If anything, she sounds almost sad. Wistful. Odin wishes his wife had come with them; no one ever manages to stay sad around her for long. “They don’t go to school here, then,” he asks.
“No,” Farbauti says. She gently works her jewelry out of Loki’s shell pink, chubby hands. “They live with their father.”
Oh.
“Huh,” Odin says. “That must be really difficult.”
Farbauti shrugs. “We get by.” She checks her phone. “Oh, crap. Speaking of getting, we need to get going. It’s been nice chatting with you.”
Odin nods. “Say bye-bye,” he tells Thor.
Thor waves his hands and feet. “Baby!”