That wretched clinic and the hours per day three-quarters pretending to be some kind of healer were obviously doing something to him, because Loki’s instinct was to offer to help. Minds, he could handle. If he could twist them to his purpose, exploit fault lines until they cracked, he could surely smooth choppy mental waves or blunt sharp edges. Much closer to his actual expertise than the messy physical.

But he kept his mouth shut. Let me play with your brain was not initial-conversation appropriate. And the other man’s outright fear and anxiety seemed to be ebbing, ratcheted down to a simpler aura of wariness and uncertainty.

With some sparks of curiosity evident now. Good. Loki smiled. “A month now. Apparently long enough to forget my manners.” Not forgotten, just ignored when they weren’t useful. He offered a hand to shake, seemingly-thoughtlessly offering the hand that would ‘match’ with the metal. Either it would work out, the man thinking that to Loki the metal was inconsequential, or it would not. Interesting either way. “I’m Loki.”