He thought to loosen his grip, to let his palm slide from Gungnir finger by finger, letting go of his life and all it entailed, all that had burdened it for far too many years, but the thought stopped him, the image of her smiling, youthful face caught laughing as the breeze blew her hair all around her, dark, wild, free strands basking in the current of the air, framing her eyes and brightening the smile deep within them.
It was that image, coupled with the memory of her slow, sneaking distrust that made him hold tighter to the staff, suddenly all too aware of his legs dangling above the void, his only salvation found in the two gods above, gazing desperately to him as the echo of Odin's empty words floated around them.
The tears drying cold on Loki's cheeks made him shiver, and he looked to Thor, who clung to the staff like his life depended on it, teeth gritted from the strain of holding Loki aloft.
"Brother, please," Loki murmured softly, quiet enough that Odin, from his perch far above them, couldn't hear, and Thor's teary eyes, blue and bright, widened as they stared down at him, sad and afraid and determined.
He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Loki felt the tiniest, most reluctant smile curl at the corners of his lips, and he ignored, dutifully and stubbornly, the memory of Odin's dismissal, the bitter sting of it still like salt poured into fresh wounds.
…
She was waiting for him, in her own quiet, reserved kind of way, the anger in her eyes instead smothered by the glint of concern, her cheeks reddened ever the slightest as she stood in the corridor, arms crossed as Thor, gentle and wary and confused, tugged Loki by the arm down the hall, placing him at the door as he nodded to Sif, who took Loki's arm once Thor released it, guiding him inside his own room as he stared after his brother, green gaze trailing the flickering, billowing motion of Thor's crimson cape as the echo of his heavy, booted footfalls faded into silence.
Her touch, feathery and calm, made him turn, the pressure of her palm on his arm bringing his attention back to the present, and Sif caught the shine of memories in his eyes, frowning as she lead him past the threshold, gingerly shutting the door after them as he moved to sit heavily upon his bed, the covers untouched from the last night he'd slept, which was well over half a week ago, the remembered sensation of impatient tossing and restless shifting as he'd futilely sought the solace of slumber, the refuge from the day, resurfacing in his thoughts.
Turning to stare, absently, at the mirror hanging on the far wall, Sif, dressed in scuffed, dirtied armor, drops of blood staining her hands and dripping from the corner of her forehead, brought slow fingers up to touch her hair, where the crimson liquid had crusted within the ebony strands' embrace, and he recalled the fight with The Destroyer, all that she and her friends had done to help Thor.
Suddenly, looking to stare at the falling night through the open window, Loki felt that it was all so far from him now, such an odd, inconceivable dream that he'd only glimpsed in fleeting, brief moments. He looked back around to find Sif gazing at him, eyebrows drawn together in conflict, mouth turned down and skin flushed.
"Why did you do it?" Sif asked plainly, curious, and Loki shrugged, perhaps realizing for the first time what exactly it was that he had done, and it was a bitter thought, a bitter excuse living and lying and dying on his tongue, and he couldn't answer her, shaking his head.
Slowly, carefully, maybe even cautiously, she padded over on light feet to sit beside him, the mattress dipping beneath the added weight as his gaze darted to her, wide and realizing and unremorseful. She glanced over to him, and the smile she offered was one of reassurance, an urge to comfort that went far beyond the civil small talk they'd exchanged in the past, something that ran deep into her eyes and through her blood, coating her memories and bringing up the image of a youthful, happier time.
"It'll be alright," she murmured in a low, consoling tone, eyes gleaming, all previous hostility wiped clean from both her gaze and her words, and he felt more at ease than he had all night, "They'll decide what to do with you, but it won't be anything undeserved."
Gently, she reached out to lay a steady, warm palm atop his hand, soft fingers tracing the bony knuckles there, and he resisted the urge to turn his hand in hers, if only to feel her touch more securely upon his skin, if only to convince himself that Sif was real, if only to trick himself into believing that the night would never end.
Based off a prompt given by natashabromanoff over on Tumblr.
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