They are both drunk the first time they kiss, the smell of cigar smoke making her lightheaded as she slides her fingers into his hair and it is different. It does not curl around her fingers the way she expects. His face against hers is rough with whiskers, his lips blazing hot.
She wants more.
"We gotta stop meeting like this, darlin'. People are gonna start talking." Logan winks at her and holds out his lighter.
Sigyn lights her cigar and grins. "You should hear what they used to say about me in Asgard. The gossips here are strictly amateurs."
"Is that a fact," he slides an arm around her waist.
She giggles and leans closer. "It is. Most of Asgard thought I was my husband's mistress for years after we married."
"Neat trick. How'd you manage that?"
She shrugs nonchalantly. "It's a long story. But they thought I married somebody else."
One eyebrow raises as he thinks over this. "Think I could get used to that."
She kisses the top of his head. And speaks no more of it. It is only ten years since Loki's death. Too soon to think of such things.
It's twenty years before she will admit that their relationship is something deeper than friendship. By then her sons are grown, and gone, and the mortals have all but forgotten the memory of their father. She rarely communicates with Asgard anymore. It's as if she could forget that entire part of her life ever happened.
And so when Logan returns from his missions, she pours him a drink and rubs his back, her fingertips soothing over the skin that has already healed, trying to absorb some of the pain. Not that she can, of course, but his shoulders ease under her touch, and the worry lines on his forehead and around his mouth smooth slightly. And she is content in the knowledge that she is helping, at least a little.
He will not make love to her when he first returns. At first this hurts her feelings, and she remembers how struggle and triumph would fuel Loki's passion into a fervor so intense she would be left exhausted and breathless. She wonders why Logan does not want her.
It isn't until she realizes that he refuses to come to her while the violence burns hot in his blood. That such passion is too close to rage, too far from tenderness, and there is no joy in it for him. And so she waits until he is able to go to her without fear of causing harm.
He wishes to return to Japan, a personal journey. So she does not ask to go with him, and is surprised when he requests her company.
"Getting used to you being around, darlin'." He says with a smile that would be bashful on a younger man.
"I confess, I have grown accustomed to your presence as well." She smiles, feeling a little foolish herself. "I would be honored to be your companion.
Japan is lovely in a way she had not expected. All her years in Asgard and then in New York had not prepared her for the thought that an aesthetic might find so much beauty in the space between objects, colors, people, words. It is soothing.
They go to a temple, and she can tell that his thoughts are far away, even though he stands next to her. She excuses herself and leaves him to his memories while she explores, admiring the architecture.
She comes across an alcove and stopped short.
In the alcove is a large metal bowl. One of the tour guides explains that it was something called a "singing bowl". Sigyn doesn't know what that means, but she cannot look away from it. The sight of it fills her with anguish and fear. An empty, aching howling in her heart, and the sound the serpent's hiss and of crows cawing echoing in her ears.
Logan finds her hours later, still staring at the bowl, tears trickling down her face. He grips her shoulder in one hand, bringing her back. "Come on, kid. It's closing time."
It isn't until they are making the return journey, and there is enough space between both of them and their memories, that he asks. "No, it was nothing that happened." Sigyn says, tucking a pillow under her head and turning to look out the window. "Just something that was supposed to."
The first time he leaves, she is shattered all over again. She did not realize how much she had come to rely on his presence. But he falls in love with another, a mortal woman, and goes to be with her.
Sigyn leaves New York, and finds a home in the desert. She does not speak to anybody for seven years. She no longer sees the point.
But, as it always happens with such fragile creatures, the mortal woman dies and Logan is left alone. And so he finds her in the desert.
It is easier, the next time he leaves. And all the times after that.
Time passes, and she loses track of the decades. But when Logan's hair begins to grey, she invites him to visit Asgard with her. At least the once.
Nori no longer travels that realm, having long abandoned it in search of defeating his own demons, fighting his own battles, without the legacy of his father coloring all that he touches. Varli has chosen to make Asgard his home, and has risen far in King Thor's court.
Not much has changed, despite King Thor's more progressive policies. Asgard persists in stasis, delighting in its own unchanging nature. Sigyn finds little reason to linger, especially after she notices former acquaintances scoffing at her small, scruffy companion. As if they could hope to have half of his warrior's heart.
Varli escorts them to the bifrost. As they step inside, his eyes reveal a strange gleam. "It would be best if you do not return to this realm, Mother," he says.
She hesitates a moment, considers trying to talk him out of whatever he's planning. Logan steps away to give them privacy. She looks out the door, over the rainbow bridge, and sees the skyline of the city glittering in the distance.
She never much cared for Asgard anyway. "I will heed your words, my son." She kisses him on the cheek.
When Ragnarok comes there are no survivors. Varli had been planning for centuries, and was most thorough. She feels a pang of sorrow for the loss of her son. But it does not last. It was his choice.
Logan's hair goes entirely grey while his beard is still mostly black. Sigyn thinks this is funny, he endures her jests with grudging smiles. She is grateful for each one. Never an overly cheerful man, as the numbers of his kind inevitably dwindle he grows ever more sorrowful.
It is a pain she can empathize with. She is the last of her kind, as well. Even though she had no great love for most of the Aesir, there is an unsettling loneliness to being the only one left.
They sit on the porch at dusk, watching the sunset blaze over the desert sky. Silent. What words could offer comfort? She takes his hand in hers and smooths her thumb over his knuckles.
The attack is swift and unexpected. But Sigyn is still in her prime. The blue woman falls to the ground. A broken, empty husk.
"What did you do?" Logan demands, his eyes blazing with fury, gripping her throat and nearly lifting her off the ground.
"She attacked you!" Sigyn claws at his wrist, kicking to free herself. "She would have killed you!"
He roars, in frustration and heartbroken rage, and throws her. She scrambles out of his way. He crosses the floor in two steps and disappears.
She sits, still shaking and rubbing her throat, staring at the body of the dead woman. Her flame-red hair spreads across the floor like a pool of blood. Her yellow eyes stare, sightless, back at Sigyn. By the time Sigyn works up the courage to touch her, her skin has gone cold. She sobs as she buries the body, long-buried memories of cold, blue skin drowning her.
Logan returns far earlier than she expects. In truth, she did not expect to see him again. But he is truly the last, now. As is she. And there is comfort in that, at least.
"Do you reckon you might be able to kill me, too," he asks one night, staring at the ceiling.
"I am not sure," she confesses. "And I am loathe to try."
He grunts and nods and speaks no more of it.
She warned him long ago that she was selfish.
He continues to age, slowly. The lives of the mortals flicker and fade so quickly Sigyn can hardly keep track of them. And she grows older as well, though more slowly than Logan. Sometimes she catches him looking at her with an odd expression. A mixture of love and envy and something close to hate. But she cannot help what she is. And at this point he understands that as well.
He grows smaller and more wizened. But his metal skeleton is unchanged. His body hangs upon it, like a scarecrow. The pain is unbearable, he rarely moves of his own accord. Sigyn serves as nursemaid.
"You don't have to do this, darlin'." His voice is weak, an echo of what he once sounded like.
"I want to."
It isn't until she is sure that she can kill him in a way he won't survive that she does. She buries him next to the blue woman. And in the evenings sits on the porch, watching the sunset alone.