My mother and I were speculating on what exactly may have happened to put Loki on the throne of Asgard at the end of Thor: The Dark World - so, inspired, we worked together on this little fic. This first one was written mostly by her with some of my editing.

The child sat on the bench patiently waiting for the bus. There would be 90 more minutes before his trip would be complete and he would be home. But he had his books with him and the golden heart that beat within his chest.

While the boy waited for the bus he was approached by a man looking weary and tired; his clothes were disheveled and he smelled of a hangover.

The man sat next to the boy but the boy did not move further down on the bench. Instead, he simply smiled and gave a, "Good morning."

"Mind if I sit here a while?" Said the old man as he sat down.

"Sure," the boy replied, "are you waiting for the number 17?"

"Oh no, I'm just resting here a while before I continue on. It's a nice place to rest." He paused a moment before nodding his head, "What do you have there, young man." The old man reached into his coat to find the remains of a cigarette he had found on the street only moments ago.

"A book, sir. I enjoy reading; I find it keeps my mind busy. What do you have there?" said the boy as he gestured to the cigarette in kind.

"It is an indulgence. One of the few I have left." and the man began patting his pockets as though doing so would cause a match to magically appear though he had none and knew it.

"Here, why don't you try this instead?" and boy reached into his backpack and pulled out a few packets of cheese-and-crackers. He handed them to the old man.

"Son, you should keep those."

"Oh, don't worry about me. I have all I need and this will give your mouth something better to do than smoke that cigarette." And the boy put the packets on the bench between them.

"And would you like some water?" but he did not wait for answer, he pulled the water out of his backpack and handed it to the old man.

Looking puzzled at the gifts that were now beside him the old man looked intently at the water and the crackers.

"Why?" he said, but his voice cracked and he could barely speak the word. The boy returned to reading his book but this was just to avoid the gaze of the man next to him.

"When my dad was alive, he took care of me. Gave me everything I needed. He died – in an accident. It was no one's fault. And, I guess whenever I see men like you, I think of him. And I wish I could've helped him. But because I cannot, I help you." The boy wiped his face with his sleeve. He took a deep breath and looked at the old man.

"So please, take these. It is a small thing for me but you look like you could use them." With a shaky hand, the old man took the gifts and placed them in his pockets.

"I won't take charity. But here, how about you take these," and the old man pulled from his pocket a few pieces of paper and handed them to the boy.

"Lottery tickets?" the boy said.

"Yes, I found them a few streets over. Maybe your kindness will bring you luck." With a shove and groan, the old man stood and looked at the boy, "Best of luck to you. Thank you. I, too, miss my father."

"Is he still alive?" asked the boy.

"Oh yes. But he lives a great distance from here and I'm not so sure that he would be very happy to see me."

"Well," started the boy, "if I had a son, it wouldn't matter where he had been or what he had done, I think I would be happy to have him back. I have a few dollars if ..." and as the boy reached into his pocket, the old man raised his hand in protest.

"No, boy. You are wise beyond your years. Keep your money and hold on to those tickets. And I… I'm going to think about what you said." With a pat on the shoulder, the man walked away. The boy watched him as he walked down the sidewalk. The old man no longer hunched over as he had been when he originally approached the bench, instead he now walked as if a new man, his head high. The boy kept his eye on him until the old man had crossed the street and turned the corner, out of sight. Having turned the corner and out of sight of the boy, the old man shimmered and Loki looked at the crackers and water so freely given.

"If only my father had been like the father you would claim to be," he whispered.

Feeling very good about repaying the boy with lottery tickets that would surely change his life, Loki looked for the passage that he knew would lead him back to Svartalfheim. Perhaps, he thought, he would give his father one last visit.

The boy was joined by a few other people on the bench when the number 17 bus arrived. The boy stood and looked at the tickets, three in all. He gave one to each of the people that sat on the bench near him and wished them luck. Another boy, much younger than himself sat on the bench. After a moment, he pulled the book he had been reading out of his backpack and handed it to the child, "It's about Norse mythology," he told him, "Gods and such. It's pretty interesting – if not a little inaccurate in certain places."

He boarded the bus – its only passenger, in fact, and took a seat. Soon, it departed to go a great distance: it left the inner city and journeyed on from the major highway to paved roads and finally to dirt roads and a farm. The bus doors opened and the boy stepped out, thanked the driver and began walking to the middle of the field. When the bus had continued on its way, the boy shimmered and Odin called out, "Heimdall, I am ready." In a brilliant light, the Allfather returned to Asgard with the hope of seeing Loki soon to continue their conversation.