Of Favors

Sif had never understood Loki's intense love of the written word. He would read anything. If it contained words that were arranged into meaningful sentences, he would devour it with a fervor that had always astonished her. The only person who understood it less than she did was Thor.

Every now and again, though, he would approach her with a book in his hands and a light in his eyes. He would explain that he had just finished reading it, and he thought she would truthfully enjoy it. Out of courtesy, she would take it. The first few had laid in her chambers for weeks before she started in on them; never once, though, had he been wrong about her interests. By now, she knew better than to put them at the bottom of her priority list.

She laid on her bed, engrossed in a book that he had selected for her the day prior, when she heard a knock on the door. She didn't acknowledge it, instead turning the page and continuing on. In the last day, she had gotten over halfway through this story, and she did not wish to be interrupted now.

Another knock made her look up in frustration. "Yes?" she called, doing her best to sound pleasant, on the off-chance that it was the queen.

The door banged open without further ado, and a tall form clad mostly in black flew inside, closing and locking the door hurriedly behind him.

Sif didn't ask. But she certainly glared. Loki just turned around and put a finger to his lips, putting an ear against the door for a moment. When he smiled at her, it was full of mischief. "Thor is terribly cross right now," he explained. And then, gesturing to the book in her hands, "You're eating that up, aren't you?"

She sat up, putting a ribbon between the pages to mark her place. "It's good, yes," she acknowledged. He didn't seem to be paying attention, though, instead throwing open the doors to her wardrobe and scanning the contents. "What are you doing?"

"Which of these do you think would fit me?" he asked, running his fingers down the sleeve of one of her gowns.

She stared at him, waiting on his words to make sense in her head.

He flipped through her dresses empirically, looking at every one of them in turn. "Sif, you've not worn half of these," he commented.

"And you've noticed?" she said, still not fully understanding why he was rifling through her clothes.

"Of course I have." He pulled out a deep blue dress and held it up, turning it this way and that to see every angle. "What do you think? I mean, it's not green, but –"

"Wait; you're serious?" Sif sputtered.

"Absolutely," he told her, hanging that gown back and leaning on the wardrobe door.

She was silent for a long while; the grin on his face told her that she must have looked ridiculous as she tried to piece together what it was he meant. "So . . . you need a . . . you . . ." she paused, taking a breath. "Why is Thor mad at you?" she asked, deliberately taking a different tack. Imagining Loki wearing one of her gowns was not computing well enough in her mind for her to articulate it.

He laughed. "Oh, he's not mad at me. He should be thanking me, although I feel he likely does not share that sentiment. I am trying to help him, the oaf."

"And that involves my wardrobe?" Sif said, arching an eyebrow.

Loki gave a long sigh, looking far too pleased with himself. "This morning, while you were locked away in the pages of that book, Thor got himself into a bit of a bind. The short version is that he lost Mjolnir in a bet, and his precious hammer now lies in Svartalfheim, in the palace of the Dwarvish king." He waved the matter away as though it was entirely too trivial for his taste. "I have already berated him for his imbecilic actions; now, all that remains is to retrieve his stupid hammer so that he will hopefully make the same mistake again sometime, because, truthfully, this has been quite fun."

"How exactly do you plan to do that?"

"Ah, well, that would be where you come in, my lady."

"I am not your lady."

He shrugged her reproach off. "I promised the Dwarf king our lady Freyja as a bride in exchange for Mjolnir," he continued. "Now, I simply have to deliver."

Sif blinked at him. "You are going to masquerade as Freyja?" she asked; that image created even more dissention in her mind.

He scoffed. "Don't be silly! Thor is."

For a long moment, Sif gaped at him. Finally, she said, "That is the most idiotic idea that I have ever heard in my entire life."

Loki rolled his eyes. "I know for a fact that that's not true. You've heard my brother's plans, have you not?" He turned back to her closet, leafing through the gowns again. "You of all people should appreciate the strategy of this, Sif. From behind a bridal veil, Thor will look enough like Freyja to fool the king—if nobody else," he mused, pulling out a sunset red dress and looking at it.

"You are storming the Dwarvish castle – that, I understand and can appreciate. But dressed as women?" She got up from her bed, crossing to him and taking the gown out of his hands. "Orange is not your color."

Loki gave a smug grin, but he didn't say anything as Sif pushed him to the side, flipping through her wardrobe herself. "I cannot believe I am helping you with this," she said, glancing at a wine-colored gown for just an instant before putting it back.

"Oh, come now," he drawled. "You have to see the genius behind it. They shan't suspect a thing."

"I am certain they won't," she noted wryly, pulling out another gown and holding it beside him. She shook her head, hanging it back. "This isn't working," she said, marching up to him and grabbing his collar. Instinctively, he tried to twist out of her grip, only stopping when he realized that she wasn't trying to hurt him; she was unbuckling his coat.

"You could just ask nicely, you know," he said, blatant teasing splayed all over his face. "Unless, of course, you enjoy taking my clothes off."

She pretended not to hear him, ducking her chin so he wouldn't see the way her face had colored at his comment. Enjoyed it, indeed. "It's too bulky," she explained, pushing the coat from his shoulders. It fell to the floor, gathering into a heap. Before he could comment, she had started in on his vest. "I cannot possibly find something to fit you if I can't see how you are built."

He didn't speak, instead just letting her work.

She didn't stop until multiple layers of clothing laid on the floor, and he was wearing only his green tunic over his black leather pants and boots. Her hands hovered at the hem, considering. He arched a brow at her, and she backed away a half step. "Sorry," she said, not intending to infringe on his modesty.

He shrugged. "I just think I can manage this bit on my own," he told her, loosening the laces at the neck and slipping the shirt off over his head. "Better?"

For a moment, she could only stare. He stared back, face carefully blank.

He was strong. She had always known this; she had fought him enough times to understand. But seeing him there, nothing but his skin on the entire upper half of his body – it seemed much more tangible to her. Planes of muscles arced around his torso, pale as the rest of him and very tight. Still, he was smaller than his brother by nearly half. It amazed her – something so lethal contained in something so compact. What commanded her attention the most, though, was the plethora of scars that carved into his skin. Some were old and very faded – likely from his childhood, stretched into oblivion when he had grown. Others were more recent, and there were even four or five that still glared at her, angry and red and barely healed. She wondered which among them had been her doing.

"Sif?" he said.

"Sorry," she said abruptly, tearing her eyes from him and instead turning to her wardrobe, staring absently at the gowns. "I didn't realize you had so many scars." Though her back was turned to him, the image of him still swam in her mind, as real and as detailed as if she was seeing him before her. She tried to blink the idea away, focusing on the dresses, but it was harder than she had anticipated. She felt him walk up behind her, reaching over her shoulder to touch a deep purple dress. The look of his arm – completely bare and leanly sculpted – still came as a vague shock to her, who had never seen him without some sort of shirt. With sleeves.

"What about this one?" he said.

"That one's tight even on me."

"Ah." Quietly, he leafed through her wardrobe from over her shoulder. "Sif, you really should wear these sometime. They're quite pretty," he said empirically, as though he was talking about weapons or armor—about things that weren't designed to make her look more beautiful to people like him.

She shrugged. "Maybe someday. If I have the occasion." She backed up, looking at him again. A bit of the shock returned when she did, though it was considerably more manageable than before. She hummed thoughtfully while he stood obediently still. "I think…" she turned back to her wardrobe, looking for the dress she had just remembered. "It's not one of my favorites, but…" From the very back of the closet, she pulled a golden gown, holding it up to him. "Yes, it should work," she mused, feeling grateful that he was as lean as he was. Someone like Thor never would have even come close to fitting into one of her dresses.

Loki reached out, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. It was light, like his tunic, cut in a very gentle, flattering style. "That's good enough for me. I only need to get past a slew of dwarves, and we all know how – ah – unconventional they are with regards to their perception of beauty." He winked at her.

She tried to shove that mental image away, still refusing to picture him wearing her gown. "Just see to it that it gets back to me in one piece," she told him, shoving it at him.

He smiled. "Of course. I should like to see you wear it someday. I'll bet it would look better on you than me." He pulled his tunic back on and gathered the rest of his clothes in his arms, effectively hiding the gold dress. He bent down and pecked a kiss onto her cheek, saying, "Thanks for this, Sif. You're a real life saver," and he was out her door again as quickly as he had come.

For a long moment, she stood there, rooted to the spot. The silence seemed to ring after so much activity. She could only blink, replaying these latest events in her mind as the dust settled around her. Briefly, she wondered if it had been a dream. But she knew better. She knew Loki better, and this was in no way beyond him.

She rolled her eyes, muttering, "Please," as she seamlessly went back to her book, her wardrobe doors still hanging open.

A/N: As with the cutting of Sif's hair, this circumstance is one out of mythology as well. Thor was indeed disguised as Freyja in a bridal gown, and Loki posed as his handmaiden. As I understand it, Thor made a rather fetching bride. ;-)