fic: lovers' wine
title: lovers' wine
fandom: thor
pairing/character(s): loki/sif
rating: r
word count: 2,596
summary: It’s only after she’s gone that he realises he didn’t ask for a name.
notes: A spies and assassins AU. This should have been a lot more light-hearted and fun but Loki's angst ruins everything. For Jordan.
In his line of work, there is a natural order to things: observe, infiltrate, pursue, corner, aim. It’s simple, it’s methodical, alchemical, and Loki executes it with near divine precision.
“Please! I’ll give you anything-”
A bullet sings in the night.
Bang-bang
Sorry, you’re dead.
-
He walks into a hotel.
Restroom first, faucets on and water scalding hot. His hands are clean and still he thinks he sees the water turn red, swirling down the drain like a discarded murder confession.
(This is the moment he looks up at his reflection, expression frozen and hell in his eyes. Time stops, all its ticks and tocks are no more and all that remains is a solemn, detached reminder of who he is, where he’s been, what he’s done and where, in the end, he is going.
Purgatory, if he’s lucky. If not, well….)
He buries the thought and his throat suddenly itches for a drink - strong, mind-numbing - his fingers itch for a glass to hold in the palm of his hand, something filled with dark liquid that in the half-light of a bar may - in his eyes - resemble blood (macabre thoughts come with the territory).
Smoothing down his jacket, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt he enters the lounge and there, he spies a woman:
Red lips, killer legs. A femme fatale not French, cavalier and dangerous.
A smirk cuts across his face, razor sharp like one of his blades, and a little voice inside his head says she’ll make for a wonderful distraction.
She doesn’t budge at first, judges him with intense, calculating (shrewdly lit) eyes from across the bar. But then her mouth curls, glass held high to hide the grin on her lips and her lashes drop in a swift wink full of playful intent.
Loki buys her a drink.
-
“Tell me a story,” he asks after her second glass and my Lady is amused, downs her Scotch like water and laughs, loud and ringing and coloured black.
“What kind of story?” she teases, imitating the curves of his accent, the refined old-world English lilt he’s oh so proud of.
“Tell me your story,” he persists, hand on her knee.
She declines. His fingers dig into her skin.
“After,” she offers.
“After what?”
“You know what.”
-
They fuck in the same bathroom he cleansed himself of figurative crimson stains, the music and sparse chatter outside a faint distraction. Her sighs curl tight into the air in time with his hands clenching on her hips before she comes, gasping loudly, her mouth open, head tilted into the mirror and he doubts he’s ever seen anything more unruly.
More beautiful.
After, her skirt fitted back in place, she kisses him, bruises his lips with hers and that was fun pours from her mouth, breathy and content.
It’s the end of a conversation, not the start of one and he doesn’t try to stop her when she walks away.
It’s only after she’s gone that he realises he didn’t ask for a name.
-
It’s only later in his room that he discovers his phone curiously missing.
(A measly loss quickly forgot; everything important is tucked away in the safe confines of his head.)
-
Two weeks pass.
A call comes in on the third, another assignment is thrown his way and the world comes to a screeching halt for Queen and Country once again.
-
The city is Monaco.
It’s a formal event outdoors. A big lavish one filled with people full of hellish pomp - tipsy, drowned in fine, crystal champagne and gorged on thick cream (éclairs and Napoleon cakes).
Intelligence is the name of the game, and Loki hovers by the sidelines. Nurses his drink and waits for the ideal moment to slip indoors.
Scans the crowds, spies a flash of red, a black up do and stops. An all too cliché moment of eyes-across-a-crowded-room unfurls and he cannot rightly feel the twinge of surprise (that he’s supposed to feel).
Another moment passes and she deigns to make the first move, closing the gap separating them, long strides, full of aplomb and a glaring challenge. She smiles, bares those pearly-whites, lovely and clever (eyes glistening, mind flashing, gears rotating) and-
(she has him trapped)
Loki steps back, automatically puts on a front, a defence. Her perfume is strong, engulfing, his head is spinning, and soon, he is tripping over air.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she says, teeth burning up, a bright flash in the thick of night.
“It is a rather auspicious turn of events. And if memory serves me right, my Lady, you owe me a story.”
He spies amusement through the sweep of her lashes and curl of her lip, a merciless taunt he cannot rightly forgive and it is enough to spur him into action.
He takes her hand.
Presses his lips lightly, almost chaste, to the raises of her knuckles and whispers, green eyes fixed upon hers, “As well as a phone.”
Softly as he says this, it’s still an accusation and he waits for her reaction as he opens his mouth against her skin. Tongue hot, he licks a slow path over bone, over every ridge and his eyes never leave hers.
She does not pull her hand away, even when he resorts to using teeth.
Her curled smile fails to die.
-
First, he loses sight of her.
Then, shortly after, there’s a blast, fire and smoke and there are thundering cries (and a great many yells, voluble epithets).
A curious diversion - curiouser and curiouser - but he thinks little on it as he enters the manor, weapon drawn, firing back at an influx of unimpressive security guards with uncanny grace and precision.
One by one they drop, lifeless.
For now, Loki slaughters without regret.
-
Chaos follows him, nips at his back. Like some vengeful god come to life, intent on devastation. Instant annihilation.
Sprinting down a small hill, Loki’s mind is on escape, on reprieve (on one unnamed raven-haired minx) and he’s entirely too-too pleased when met with the sight of her taut body leaning tall against his Benz. So much so he abruptly stops walking (trips over castles in the sky) and appraises her - notes the gun in her hand.
“I trust I have you to thank for that riveting display of destructive ingenuity.”
She shrugs, blasé and there is no trace of secrecy or deception across her face - my Lady is an open book (so long as one can read the language she’s written in).
Still, she takes him by surprise when she raises her gun, fire in her eyes and a wolfish smile in place. He says nothing, breath caught in his throat and mind unravelling (calls it madness), pondering her motive and allegiances.
She fires.
A grunt echoes at his back, followed by a body collapsing and my, my, how helpful.
“You’re welcome,” she purrs and she’s already in front of him, a finger trailing down his chest before leaning forward, kissing him dot on the lips.
“Tell me your name,” he demands when she pulls away, twisting his fingers in her hair.
She shakes her head, burying his hand deeper in the thick knot of it. He pulls, hard.
“Tell me.”
“Sif,” she relinquishes, tone slightly harsh. Glare deadly.
(Sif for fire, Sif for blood. Sif for all he suddenly wants and shouldn’t want.)
Sif he mentally recites and feels a swoop, just beneath his lungs.
-
They were made to share war stories, like two generals. They were made to trade in lessons learnt and compare battle wounds and-
“This won’t happen again.”
It’s a whisper, a lie caressing his lips when his hips slam against her own, and he is confident enough to laugh, low and guttural from exertion. His amusement displeases her and she bites down hard on his lip, doesn’t stop until the taste of copper fills both their mouths.
Loki retaliates with a twisted grin, full of knowing and mirth.
“Liar,” he exhales against the long line of her neck, watches her shiver with dark delight.
(His life is a farce, an endless charade and a different name each week. Perpetual deception has made him a master of the trade and he has yet to be proven wrong in any way.)
He has her bent over a desk, screaming his name the very next day.
-
“I live for battle… the thrill of it,” she confesses, once, in bed (again), her voice low. Perhaps even anxious. “My parents have forsaken me because of it.”
It’s a familiar tale, of rebellion against all norms, of defying expectations. He weaves the story in his head and sees himself as its protagonist, of noble birth and disowned by Father for choosing a different path (of immorality and insanity, the oh so righteous old man had said).
“Something we have in common,” he sighs absently, trailing a lone finger down her spine. His eyes lazily admire her creamy shoulders, now blemished with deep-incised, puce-slit bruises, bites and kisses (Loki dubs the sight a work of art).
She scoffs.
“We have nothing in common,” she lies.
(Sif is a terrible liar.)
-
They are in Prague, assigned with tracking down a rogue agent. Their target is holed up in the back of a small Russian tavern and guards loiter around every corner. Sif’s hand hovers over the Desert Eagle at the small of her back, ready to take on the world.
When she moves, weapon drawn, he finds himself entranced, in a daze. She tears down her opponents in a violent dance without ever looking back or side-to-side. Blood pours out in spitting rushes all around her.
Her smile is euphoric.
“You leave me in awe, my Lady.”
She laughs. “You never fail with words, Loki Silvertongue.”
“And you never fail to impress.”
“And you’re as pale as death.”
“You should know, seeing as how you are death.”
Sif hums at that, thoughtful. “You should have been a poet. Your talents are wasted in this line of work.”
“I have many talents.”
“Yes, you do.”
-
Later, Sif curls up against him and sleeps, pleased with a job well done, while Loki stares (blankly) at the sunset.
What happens when there is no warmth left? What happens when you die? What happens when- If-
(the words trail off: he’s been down this path before, and it never ends well).
-
One night, he tells her he is going to hell.
“I’m damned,” he admits, voice low and dark, eyes set on the night sky beyond the terrace, “We both are, we’re damned, forsaken, we’ll burn, we’re-”
She loosens her mouth, dark red and lipstick smudged, from around his cock.
“At least we’ll have each other,” she notes with a small smile, knees bent against the hard floor.
Her words pull at his heartstrings, soothe the agony he keeps bottled stonily inside, locked and keyed under the wrinkles of history and skin.
He whispers her name like salvation when he comes.
-
In Shanghai, she almost dies.
Sif almost dies and he feels his insides twist, crumble, burn to a char. With rage, with fear (inescapable and all-consuming, he loses his mind at the thought of losing her).
Loki screams bloody murder and paints the world red.
(Later, much later, he’ll scrub his hands raw to the bone and marvel at just how much blood covers them that simply won’t. wash. off.)
Dropping down beside her, he takes her into his arms, grips at her face. He looks into her eyes, dark and bottomless like an abyss. And in them, he sees his face and mania (madness) reflected right back at him, a tenfold gift.
“I won’t lose you,” he vows, finds his hands tightening, fingers burying into her arms. “I will never lose you.”
Sif shivers and closes her eyes.
-
In their room, he cleans and bandages her wounds. Each and every one, right down to the minor, hairline cuts. He does this without hesitation, without discretion; they are desperate (his actions) and look like flourishes of sweeps of swipes of crazed lunacy coming down.
The poison is in the mind, eating away till there’s nothing left.
Sif stays oddly silent. Endures well beyond her usual limit and it’s only after he’s checked the near-fatal blow for the tenth time that she threatens him with physical harm if he doesn’t get out! right now!
Loki, reluctantly, leaves. Drowns his worry by hunting down the bastard that put the bullet in her chest, just above her heart.
(When he finds him, he returns the favour with a bullet to the head, dead centre. Right between the eyes.
But first, he makes him cry. Makes him scream.)
-
When he returns Sif stares him down, notes his appearance and there is accusation, disappointment, plain in her eyes. Loki says nothing. She says nothing. Their lips remain shut like they’ve never parted at all and perhaps that is for the best.
Tentatively, he takes her hand into his.
(When he touches her, everything comes alight in an all-consuming blaze and he should hate that he can’t put it out, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t care.
He will sooner burn than let her go.)
-
In England, she tries to kill him.
In her hand there is a gun and she isn’t smiling. She isn’t smiling as she stands by a window and her hand is steady when she raises her arm and takes aim. Frozen in place he feels his heart give a twist (gnawed and vomited), his chest give a pull and even breathing has become a chore. A sliver of foreboding blows around him topsy-turvy.
“I could kill you right now.”
“You could, but you won’t.”
“Oh? And why’s that?” she fires right back, eyebrow raised.
“We’re comrades.”
A scoff. “Debatable. You look like you’re ready to fly off the rails any day now.”
“You’d miss me.”
“You overestimate your appeal.”
“What’s this about, Sif? What’s wrong?”
“Give me a reason, Loki. Give me a bloody good reason why I shouldn’t pull the trigger.”
He loosens his tie if only to give his hands something to do and takes a slow step towards her, considers her carefully. He lowers his voice.
“We are nobodies. We are alone in this world. All we have are death, lies and each other,” he utters sincerely, his voice raw and on the verge of cracking, “And if you kill me, you’ll have no one.”
Sif stares at him for the longest of minutes, is speechless. Slowly she lowers her arm and he closes the distance, coaxes her grip free with his hand over hers. The gun drops to the floor.
With a gentleness he didn’t know she was capable of, she leans forward and rests her forehead against his temple. He can hear her swallow thickly, breathe deeply, as her arms slowly wrap around him. background:white">
Loki returns her hold, hugs her tight and close.
It’s odd, he is content. Loki wants the moment preserved forever.
-
Sif disappears the next day.
He’s not surprised.
-
He doesn’t look for her.
She doesn’t expect him to.
-
One evening, he enters a dimly-lit lounge (which he remembers from so long ago). A woman is nursing a Scotch and shoots a glance his way. He peers intently into her eyes and all-too-familiar face and hears her say-
“Fancy seeing you here.” She smiles, a small tug at the edges of her lips but a smile nonetheless. Her lashes drop.
Loki buys her a drink.
Fin
fandom: thor
pairing/character(s): loki/sif
rating: r
word count: 2,596
summary: It’s only after she’s gone that he realises he didn’t ask for a name.
notes: A spies and assassins AU. This should have been a lot more light-hearted and fun but Loki's angst ruins everything. For Jordan.
In his line of work, there is a natural order to things: observe, infiltrate, pursue, corner, aim. It’s simple, it’s methodical, alchemical, and Loki executes it with near divine precision.
“Please! I’ll give you anything-”
A bullet sings in the night.
Bang-bang
Sorry, you’re dead.
-
He walks into a hotel.
Restroom first, faucets on and water scalding hot. His hands are clean and still he thinks he sees the water turn red, swirling down the drain like a discarded murder confession.
(This is the moment he looks up at his reflection, expression frozen and hell in his eyes. Time stops, all its ticks and tocks are no more and all that remains is a solemn, detached reminder of who he is, where he’s been, what he’s done and where, in the end, he is going.
Purgatory, if he’s lucky. If not, well….)
He buries the thought and his throat suddenly itches for a drink - strong, mind-numbing - his fingers itch for a glass to hold in the palm of his hand, something filled with dark liquid that in the half-light of a bar may - in his eyes - resemble blood (macabre thoughts come with the territory).
Smoothing down his jacket, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt he enters the lounge and there, he spies a woman:
Red lips, killer legs. A femme fatale not French, cavalier and dangerous.
A smirk cuts across his face, razor sharp like one of his blades, and a little voice inside his head says she’ll make for a wonderful distraction.
She doesn’t budge at first, judges him with intense, calculating (shrewdly lit) eyes from across the bar. But then her mouth curls, glass held high to hide the grin on her lips and her lashes drop in a swift wink full of playful intent.
Loki buys her a drink.
-
“Tell me a story,” he asks after her second glass and my Lady is amused, downs her Scotch like water and laughs, loud and ringing and coloured black.
“What kind of story?” she teases, imitating the curves of his accent, the refined old-world English lilt he’s oh so proud of.
“Tell me your story,” he persists, hand on her knee.
She declines. His fingers dig into her skin.
“After,” she offers.
“After what?”
“You know what.”
-
They fuck in the same bathroom he cleansed himself of figurative crimson stains, the music and sparse chatter outside a faint distraction. Her sighs curl tight into the air in time with his hands clenching on her hips before she comes, gasping loudly, her mouth open, head tilted into the mirror and he doubts he’s ever seen anything more unruly.
More beautiful.
After, her skirt fitted back in place, she kisses him, bruises his lips with hers and that was fun pours from her mouth, breathy and content.
It’s the end of a conversation, not the start of one and he doesn’t try to stop her when she walks away.
It’s only after she’s gone that he realises he didn’t ask for a name.
-
It’s only later in his room that he discovers his phone curiously missing.
(A measly loss quickly forgot; everything important is tucked away in the safe confines of his head.)
-
Two weeks pass.
A call comes in on the third, another assignment is thrown his way and the world comes to a screeching halt for Queen and Country once again.
-
The city is Monaco.
It’s a formal event outdoors. A big lavish one filled with people full of hellish pomp - tipsy, drowned in fine, crystal champagne and gorged on thick cream (éclairs and Napoleon cakes).
Intelligence is the name of the game, and Loki hovers by the sidelines. Nurses his drink and waits for the ideal moment to slip indoors.
Scans the crowds, spies a flash of red, a black up do and stops. An all too cliché moment of eyes-across-a-crowded-room unfurls and he cannot rightly feel the twinge of surprise (that he’s supposed to feel).
Another moment passes and she deigns to make the first move, closing the gap separating them, long strides, full of aplomb and a glaring challenge. She smiles, bares those pearly-whites, lovely and clever (eyes glistening, mind flashing, gears rotating) and-
(she has him trapped)
Loki steps back, automatically puts on a front, a defence. Her perfume is strong, engulfing, his head is spinning, and soon, he is tripping over air.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she says, teeth burning up, a bright flash in the thick of night.
“It is a rather auspicious turn of events. And if memory serves me right, my Lady, you owe me a story.”
He spies amusement through the sweep of her lashes and curl of her lip, a merciless taunt he cannot rightly forgive and it is enough to spur him into action.
He takes her hand.
Presses his lips lightly, almost chaste, to the raises of her knuckles and whispers, green eyes fixed upon hers, “As well as a phone.”
Softly as he says this, it’s still an accusation and he waits for her reaction as he opens his mouth against her skin. Tongue hot, he licks a slow path over bone, over every ridge and his eyes never leave hers.
She does not pull her hand away, even when he resorts to using teeth.
Her curled smile fails to die.
-
First, he loses sight of her.
Then, shortly after, there’s a blast, fire and smoke and there are thundering cries (and a great many yells, voluble epithets).
A curious diversion - curiouser and curiouser - but he thinks little on it as he enters the manor, weapon drawn, firing back at an influx of unimpressive security guards with uncanny grace and precision.
One by one they drop, lifeless.
For now, Loki slaughters without regret.
-
Chaos follows him, nips at his back. Like some vengeful god come to life, intent on devastation. Instant annihilation.
Sprinting down a small hill, Loki’s mind is on escape, on reprieve (on one unnamed raven-haired minx) and he’s entirely too-too pleased when met with the sight of her taut body leaning tall against his Benz. So much so he abruptly stops walking (trips over castles in the sky) and appraises her - notes the gun in her hand.
“I trust I have you to thank for that riveting display of destructive ingenuity.”
She shrugs, blasé and there is no trace of secrecy or deception across her face - my Lady is an open book (so long as one can read the language she’s written in).
Still, she takes him by surprise when she raises her gun, fire in her eyes and a wolfish smile in place. He says nothing, breath caught in his throat and mind unravelling (calls it madness), pondering her motive and allegiances.
She fires.
A grunt echoes at his back, followed by a body collapsing and my, my, how helpful.
“You’re welcome,” she purrs and she’s already in front of him, a finger trailing down his chest before leaning forward, kissing him dot on the lips.
“Tell me your name,” he demands when she pulls away, twisting his fingers in her hair.
She shakes her head, burying his hand deeper in the thick knot of it. He pulls, hard.
“Tell me.”
“Sif,” she relinquishes, tone slightly harsh. Glare deadly.
(Sif for fire, Sif for blood. Sif for all he suddenly wants and shouldn’t want.)
Sif he mentally recites and feels a swoop, just beneath his lungs.
-
They were made to share war stories, like two generals. They were made to trade in lessons learnt and compare battle wounds and-
“This won’t happen again.”
It’s a whisper, a lie caressing his lips when his hips slam against her own, and he is confident enough to laugh, low and guttural from exertion. His amusement displeases her and she bites down hard on his lip, doesn’t stop until the taste of copper fills both their mouths.
Loki retaliates with a twisted grin, full of knowing and mirth.
“Liar,” he exhales against the long line of her neck, watches her shiver with dark delight.
(His life is a farce, an endless charade and a different name each week. Perpetual deception has made him a master of the trade and he has yet to be proven wrong in any way.)
He has her bent over a desk, screaming his name the very next day.
-
“I live for battle… the thrill of it,” she confesses, once, in bed (again), her voice low. Perhaps even anxious. “My parents have forsaken me because of it.”
It’s a familiar tale, of rebellion against all norms, of defying expectations. He weaves the story in his head and sees himself as its protagonist, of noble birth and disowned by Father for choosing a different path (of immorality and insanity, the oh so righteous old man had said).
“Something we have in common,” he sighs absently, trailing a lone finger down her spine. His eyes lazily admire her creamy shoulders, now blemished with deep-incised, puce-slit bruises, bites and kisses (Loki dubs the sight a work of art).
She scoffs.
“We have nothing in common,” she lies.
(Sif is a terrible liar.)
-
They are in Prague, assigned with tracking down a rogue agent. Their target is holed up in the back of a small Russian tavern and guards loiter around every corner. Sif’s hand hovers over the Desert Eagle at the small of her back, ready to take on the world.
When she moves, weapon drawn, he finds himself entranced, in a daze. She tears down her opponents in a violent dance without ever looking back or side-to-side. Blood pours out in spitting rushes all around her.
Her smile is euphoric.
“You leave me in awe, my Lady.”
She laughs. “You never fail with words, Loki Silvertongue.”
“And you never fail to impress.”
“And you’re as pale as death.”
“You should know, seeing as how you are death.”
Sif hums at that, thoughtful. “You should have been a poet. Your talents are wasted in this line of work.”
“I have many talents.”
“Yes, you do.”
-
Later, Sif curls up against him and sleeps, pleased with a job well done, while Loki stares (blankly) at the sunset.
What happens when there is no warmth left? What happens when you die? What happens when- If-
(the words trail off: he’s been down this path before, and it never ends well).
-
One night, he tells her he is going to hell.
“I’m damned,” he admits, voice low and dark, eyes set on the night sky beyond the terrace, “We both are, we’re damned, forsaken, we’ll burn, we’re-”
She loosens her mouth, dark red and lipstick smudged, from around his cock.
“At least we’ll have each other,” she notes with a small smile, knees bent against the hard floor.
Her words pull at his heartstrings, soothe the agony he keeps bottled stonily inside, locked and keyed under the wrinkles of history and skin.
He whispers her name like salvation when he comes.
-
In Shanghai, she almost dies.
Sif almost dies and he feels his insides twist, crumble, burn to a char. With rage, with fear (inescapable and all-consuming, he loses his mind at the thought of losing her).
Loki screams bloody murder and paints the world red.
(Later, much later, he’ll scrub his hands raw to the bone and marvel at just how much blood covers them that simply won’t. wash. off.)
Dropping down beside her, he takes her into his arms, grips at her face. He looks into her eyes, dark and bottomless like an abyss. And in them, he sees his face and mania (madness) reflected right back at him, a tenfold gift.
“I won’t lose you,” he vows, finds his hands tightening, fingers burying into her arms. “I will never lose you.”
Sif shivers and closes her eyes.
-
In their room, he cleans and bandages her wounds. Each and every one, right down to the minor, hairline cuts. He does this without hesitation, without discretion; they are desperate (his actions) and look like flourishes of sweeps of swipes of crazed lunacy coming down.
The poison is in the mind, eating away till there’s nothing left.
Sif stays oddly silent. Endures well beyond her usual limit and it’s only after he’s checked the near-fatal blow for the tenth time that she threatens him with physical harm if he doesn’t get out! right now!
Loki, reluctantly, leaves. Drowns his worry by hunting down the bastard that put the bullet in her chest, just above her heart.
(When he finds him, he returns the favour with a bullet to the head, dead centre. Right between the eyes.
But first, he makes him cry. Makes him scream.)
-
When he returns Sif stares him down, notes his appearance and there is accusation, disappointment, plain in her eyes. Loki says nothing. She says nothing. Their lips remain shut like they’ve never parted at all and perhaps that is for the best.
Tentatively, he takes her hand into his.
(When he touches her, everything comes alight in an all-consuming blaze and he should hate that he can’t put it out, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t care.
He will sooner burn than let her go.)
-
In England, she tries to kill him.
In her hand there is a gun and she isn’t smiling. She isn’t smiling as she stands by a window and her hand is steady when she raises her arm and takes aim. Frozen in place he feels his heart give a twist (gnawed and vomited), his chest give a pull and even breathing has become a chore. A sliver of foreboding blows around him topsy-turvy.
“I could kill you right now.”
“You could, but you won’t.”
“Oh? And why’s that?” she fires right back, eyebrow raised.
“We’re comrades.”
A scoff. “Debatable. You look like you’re ready to fly off the rails any day now.”
“You’d miss me.”
“You overestimate your appeal.”
“What’s this about, Sif? What’s wrong?”
“Give me a reason, Loki. Give me a bloody good reason why I shouldn’t pull the trigger.”
He loosens his tie if only to give his hands something to do and takes a slow step towards her, considers her carefully. He lowers his voice.
“We are nobodies. We are alone in this world. All we have are death, lies and each other,” he utters sincerely, his voice raw and on the verge of cracking, “And if you kill me, you’ll have no one.”
Sif stares at him for the longest of minutes, is speechless. Slowly she lowers her arm and he closes the distance, coaxes her grip free with his hand over hers. The gun drops to the floor.
With a gentleness he didn’t know she was capable of, she leans forward and rests her forehead against his temple. He can hear her swallow thickly, breathe deeply, as her arms slowly wrap around him. background:white">
Loki returns her hold, hugs her tight and close.
It’s odd, he is content. Loki wants the moment preserved forever.
-
Sif disappears the next day.
He’s not surprised.
-
He doesn’t look for her.
She doesn’t expect him to.
-
One evening, he enters a dimly-lit lounge (which he remembers from so long ago). A woman is nursing a Scotch and shoots a glance his way. He peers intently into her eyes and all-too-familiar face and hears her say-
“Fancy seeing you here.” She smiles, a small tug at the edges of her lips but a smile nonetheless. Her lashes drop.
Loki buys her a drink.
Fin