Paul hustles. It's like that kiss Loki leaves him with spurrs him on, and in a way it does. He hasn't felt close to someone like this in a long time. He hasn't felt loved like this in an even longer time. He left without a worried, worried about Loki's safety, not wanting to jeopardize everything Loki did to try to do to get out of an oppressive, terrible situation. Loki's forgiven him. Loki understands, just like Paul understands that Loki's a good guy, doing good things.
That's the thing about both of them: patience has been instilled in them since young.
He drops Loki off and immediately drives a few hours to grab the parts the shop refused to special order until later. Hauls them in the back of his trunk where he still swears he sees the imprint of Nino and Bernie's duffel bag filled with money where it stayed. Gets to work and refuses to take a lunch and works overtime, doing the same thing the next day until Loki's car is not only fixed, but tuned perfectly and modified. Paul uses the dirty money he got from the run he'd wound up nearly totalling Loki's care in anyway, figures it's even that way.
Loki deserves something nice. Fixing cars and driving are the only things Paul can really do. It seems like a no brainer.
--
Loki looks like shit, like he hasn't slept--probably he hasn't, Paul guesses, from how he's chewing on that toothpick and the slow, sloped way he's blinking--and Paul resists the urge to curl his hand against Loki's around that cup. He settles instead for looking at him longingly. Probably, people think he's staring. He's not not staring. It's hard not to, Paul's drawn to Loki in every way possible.
Pie's good, coffee's great--Paul's a sucker for lemon or lime meringue and any coffee that's not the autoshops is good coffee. Loki's here, too. That's what matters.
"Should be fun," he comments, mostly because winter isn't anything he's had to deal with too much in LA. Housewives fascinated him in a way they probably shouldn't, too: something about how devoted they are, a lot of times for people they barely actually know.
Paul, a smudge of grease on his face, overalls ditched only for the ride here, looks over at Loki. Loki's a busy guy. Loki's taking time to treat him.
"You got 10 more minutes?" He asks, voice soft, brows lifting.
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That's the thing about both of them: patience has been instilled in them since young.
He drops Loki off and immediately drives a few hours to grab the parts the shop refused to special order until later. Hauls them in the back of his trunk where he still swears he sees the imprint of Nino and Bernie's duffel bag filled with money where it stayed. Gets to work and refuses to take a lunch and works overtime, doing the same thing the next day until Loki's car is not only fixed, but tuned perfectly and modified. Paul uses the dirty money he got from the run he'd wound up nearly totalling Loki's care in anyway, figures it's even that way.
Loki deserves something nice. Fixing cars and driving are the only things Paul can really do. It seems like a no brainer.
--
Loki looks like shit, like he hasn't slept--probably he hasn't, Paul guesses, from how he's chewing on that toothpick and the slow, sloped way he's blinking--and Paul resists the urge to curl his hand against Loki's around that cup. He settles instead for looking at him longingly. Probably, people think he's staring. He's not not staring. It's hard not to, Paul's drawn to Loki in every way possible.
Pie's good, coffee's great--Paul's a sucker for lemon or lime meringue and any coffee that's not the autoshops is good coffee. Loki's here, too. That's what matters.
"Should be fun," he comments, mostly because winter isn't anything he's had to deal with too much in LA. Housewives fascinated him in a way they probably shouldn't, too: something about how devoted they are, a lot of times for people they barely actually know.
Paul, a smudge of grease on his face, overalls ditched only for the ride here, looks over at Loki. Loki's a busy guy. Loki's taking time to treat him.
"You got 10 more minutes?" He asks, voice soft, brows lifting.