This may have just turned into a Loki/Sif story… sorry I didn't warn you. I think warnings are lame and destroy the suspense, so there you go.
I ship them because in real mythology Loki only gets with horses and frost giant ladies, I want to improve his prospects.
Rain, rain constant rain like a Biblical deluge, singing down from the spouting gutters into the sandy earth, stiff wind howling up from some forgotten corner of the Atlantic. Water rose round the boots of the woman, dressed head to foot in anachronistic armor, who sat on the low paving stone wall under the eaves of the little trailer house in Eastern florida. The siding was colored with grey moss and dark red water stains, a curtain of rain fell in front of her face. Sif buried the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, willing this stupid, humanish reaction to an uncontrollable twist of fate, to stop, just stop.
Please, Loki, stop.
Sif snorted thick, salty fluid, she lay her head against the wall of the building, blinking against stinging tears.
Warriors shouldn't cry.
She heard the sound of a news broadcast from inside, the Midgardians were doing some dull Midgardian thing. Her apathy was infinite unless there was something to smite.
Just for a minute, Sif told herself, just long enough to control her emotions. Just a minute and she could forget that her heart was breaking and she would never hear his voice again. That thought circled around her, ringing in her solar plexus and tightening round her throat. That voice, supple like fine cheese, intoxicating like sweet mead precious as silver.
She turned her head unconsciously exposing her jugular to familiar kisses
But her mind was gone to tatters by the memory of that face, the sea bright aqua eyes, childish, cackling laughter, the very embodiment of mischief. Perfect white teeth between perfect lips and a toungue made of silver.
She almost smirked and then remembered that that mouth was currently invaded by some crude human contraption designed to hold a dead man from his destiny.
But not Loki. Loki was forever, slipping into her story to touch and covet, and run his fingers through her hair, and whisper spells into her ears. He could command her effortlessly with that tongue.
Chaos has no fear of war.
A thousand years of carefully filed memories had piled up at a dead stop when she heard Natasha's report of his condition.
When the plague had first struck, hundreds of ancient beings of light and wisdom had died before a cure was found. Frygga said he would be fine, said he would live, but no one recovered from out of the death sleep, the last stage of the plague was one hundred percent fatal.
The queen had been wrong in her supposition that his true birth would protect him; instead it was the very woven tapestry of magic which had repaired the broken, twisted body of a Jotun and a runt, which was killing him all the same.
Sif sniffed and blinked through another wave of ghastly fluid.
It rained and rained and rained.
And that was how she was sitting, hands hung uselessly between her legs, crying as quietly as possible on the garden wall, when Thor staggered around the edge of the house and nearly ran into her.
"Tho-" she started to say, catching him by the arm as he lost his balance, "What in the nine realms are you doing?"
She guided his bulky frame down to the garden wall, his hair stuck to his face and illegible black smudges were all that could be seen of the dampened runes.
"I have-to clear the sky." He mumbled, "have to get mjornu-" frowning into her face, he seemed to come to some conclusion.
"Thor!" she braced to launch into her best lecture on responsibility.
"You were crying." He cupped her cheek with one massive hand, silencing her.
"What of it?" she turned away from the fever hot warmth of his touch.
He breathed very evenly, trying to slow his heart rate. Clutching the wet paving stones on either side of him. "Is it that bad?"
Sif nodded, her lips going tight for a moment before her face collapsed into a mask of grief, "I thought we had him back."
Her voice cracked into a squeak, tears gushed across her cheeks and she fell into Thor's comforting embrace. He was big and fuzzy and wet.
"It's not over, Asasif." His beard scratched her forehead, he smelled like mead and ozone. "Lokkesilfur might yet live."
"If you clear the sky?"
The rain seemed to fall harder than ever, in vast slanting sheets which dampened their legs.
"Help me Sif."
"The runes will wash off," she glared at him.
"Then we must make haste."
"indeed." Sif sat up, looking the god of thunder in the eye, "Where was the last place you had it?"