marvelbox | Stitches

It had taken every trick in Loki's considerable repertoire to arrive in Asgard ahead of Brokk and Eitri. As he strode down the halls toward his Odin's throne room, he tucked his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. He fought to control his breathing, to appear calm and in control. The effect was ruined by the tattered state of his coattails, by the wildness of his hair, and the vivid streak of blood that had run from his forehead and past the corner of his eye.

He would explain it, all of it to Father. Well, all that he safely could. Thor's part in the escapade, he would leave out. As much as it gave him pleasure to tweak his brother whenever possible, he owed Thor this one and he would keep his peace. But Father would understand, would no doubt see the cleverness in the plan, would appreciate the gifts he had brought back in addition to the newly-rescued Mjolnir...

The throne room was filled to the point of bursting, though that was not unusual for the day and time. The court turned to look at him, his footfalls loud and hollow, but he told himself that, too, was not unusual.

Then across the crowd of gathered Aesir, he spotted the dark, stumpy forms of the dwarven brothers. His breath caught in his throat with shock, and there was a slight stutter in his step, but otherwise his expression was well-schooled enough to not show his dismay.

Head high, he walked to the steps of the throne and dropped to one knee. "Father, I have won gifts for you, and for the Queen." With a clever movement of his hands he turned the armlet, the golden boar, from the pockets in space he'd used to hide them, and set them on the floor. Mjolnir, he still kept hidden, the titanic weight a strain on his magic that was beginning to make his head pound. He imagined that the dwarves had the common sense to not mention Mjolnir as part of the wager and spoils he had won; surely they must have kept that silent if they were playing for Odin's sympathy.

"Loki." Odin's voice rolled like thunder. It was not the tone that Loki had hoped to hear his name spoken in. "I have been told that you won these gifts dishonorably."

Loki looked up, meeting his father's eye. He saw nothing there but a mirror, that showed a pale but resolute image. "I would beg to differ. I promised them my head, but gave them no leave to touch my neck. It is no fault of mine if the good dwarves did not fully consider the terms."

Brokk cursed him; Eitri grabbed his brother's arm. "We no longer desire his head. We accept your judgment on this matter," the dwarf said.

Loki's eyebrows went up. "Judgment?"

Odin stood. "You have treated friends of Asgard falsely, Loki. It is luck for all of us that they have accepted this, and ask but a pittance in return. The people of other realms might not be so kind." Odin's voice became cold. "Words have as much power as actions, Prince. And you must consider your words, and your wagers more carefully for what they could cause."

Loki bowed his head. "Of course. I understand."

"I don't think that you do." Odin said. Loki looked up sharply to see him wave a guard over. The man held a tray, with a spool of coarse black twine and a needle. "Brokk and Eitri have proposed a punishment I find most fitting. Your words have caused much trouble, Loki. It would be best if you take time to think before speaking so glibly again." The court dissolved in an uproar.

It didn't have to be spelled out any further than that. Loki swallowed hard, but he could also see no path of escape in his father's face. And he refused to beg shamefully in front of the entire court. His head felt strange, light and far away. "I understand."

It was only then that he realized that the noise of the court was not disagreement or protest.

They were laughing.

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His answer surprised her and she lifted her hand to cup against his cheek, her brow furrowed with concern. "It's not pathetic," she argued, shaking her head, a frown on her lips. "There is no shame in admitting fear. But of what, Loki?" she asked, her voice softening as she searched his face, worry dark in her eyes. "What is it you're afraid of?"

Loki dragged his gaze back to her face, examining her expression minutely for any sign of contempt, anything that didn't match with her words. He wasn't certain what he hoped to see. Because in a way, it would have been easier, if she had chided him or insulted him or told him to grasp at his courage and move forward since he seemed so unmanned he couldn't do it on his own.

He didn't know how to react to sympathy, to the other strange emotions coloring her eyes. Her touch made something twist in his chest; he shuddered, but covered her hand with his to keep it there.

How to answer that question? Everything was the closest thing to the truth, but it seemed so ridiculous and dramatic. Just the thought of it drew on odd sound from him, a laugh but far more painful. His other hand tightened against her back, gathering a fistful of cloth.

"I don't really know," he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. "But it's not a luxury I can afford."

"Loki," she spoke softly, turning her hand, giving his fingers a squeeze. She was still pressed against him, and very aware of it now, with his fingers fisted in the cloth at her waist. She felt her cheeks heat slightly and unconsciously took a step backwards, although the movement was reluctant. She hadn't really wanted to, but at the moment, she was very conscious of what she should or should not do. She still kept hold of his hand however, unable to relinquish that just yet.

"Then what can I do, Loki?' she asked him softly, still searching his face. "What is it you need?"

That hurt as well, when she stepped away; there was an echo of that pain in his expression for just the blink of an eye, and then he had himself under control again. Loki quickly dropped his hand away from her back. He pulled her hand away from his cheek, pausing to place a light kiss on the back of it, the motion made into an irony with the practiced arch of an eyebrow.

He had wanted her to tell him to stop his self-pitying and move forward. This would do just as well, he supposed. He should not have asked for comfort in the first place, and it was not a thing he could ask of Sif, for all her noble offers of help.

She had said he could give her orders, he mused for one dizzying moment. But that would be a new level of pathetic to grasp at.

He opened his fingers to let her hand go, adding a polite, if half-bow to the motion. "I require nothing of you at this time, Lady Sif, but I appreciate your concern. I ought to go see my father now. I've already delayed far too long." He gave her a smile that was all pleasant, polite distance, as if they were miles apart rather than nearly on top of each other in the tiny room. "Perhaps find my brother and delay him if he has not yet spoken to our father, though it's no doubt too late for that."

He was distancing himself. She could acknowledge it - even understand it - but Sif could find no way around it. Not right now. Even though she hated the smile he gave her, the one that made her feel like she was just another member of the court, one that must be shown the facade he so often wore to mask his true face. Her fingers curled into a fist at her side and she averted her gaze before he could see the disappointment in her gaze. Lifting her hand, she pressed her fist to her chest and gave him a bow with the same amount of polite deference he'd granted her, keeping her head bowed.

"There is a chance Thor has not gotten to him yet, my prince," she answered, managing to make her voice even, despite the slightly strained element to it. "He may have returned to his chambers first. You might still catch your father first if you hurry."

The back of his throat tasted bitter as he smiled. But this was necessary, wasn't it? He'd revealed a bit too much, trusted a bit too much, and it was Sif that had stepped away from it.

And it was only fair. He could no longer rely on his father, and it certainly wasn't fair to try to transfer any of that burden over to Sif, as he'd been tempted to do in that moment. It was his to deal with, and he needed to accept it.

"Hurry I shall, then. See if you can find my brother, if you please."

With an easy, graceful movement he slipped around her to get to the door. But he wasn't quite able to stop himself from reaching out, his hand running down her arm as he passed, his fingers momentarily finding hers and squeezing lightly.

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the hall, not looking back. It was cowardly, but he found himself glad that he couldn't see her face. He should not have done that, not after he'd gone to all the trouble of re-establishing the distance between them. It seemed he still hadn't entirely regained his rationality. Maybe he would once he was no longer in her somewhat sympathetic presence.

He strode down in the hall, taking the shortest course to his father's chambers. The throne room would perhaps be better, since it was public, but... he wasn't quite ready to face the throne room yet, and hopefully his father would still be in his rooms.

Sif squeezed his fingers in return, her throat choked shut on any words she might have said to him, any way she could have made it better. Her skin tingled where he'd touched her and she could only watch as he walked away. her hand reached out without even realizing it, but he never looked back, never saw.

Her fingers curled as the door slid shut behind him, leaving her alone in his hidden room. She stood there a moment, taking deep breaths, trying to bring herself back under control once more, her fist dropping unnoticed to her side. Her eyes were clenched shut because she couldn't bear to look now. not yet. It took all her strength not to run after him, even now. But no. He needed her to stop Thor, if she could. She'd promised him.

Her jaw clenched and she forced her shoulders to straighten once more as she adopted an impassive expression, wiping her feelings from her face. Strengthening her resolve, Sif strode from the room in search of the elder prince, determined to do what she could this time.

Stitches

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