Of Booze and Beauty

Loki, like nearly every child on Asgard, had grown up on liquor. It had been the lighter things when he had been a child – smooth, with just enough alcohol to keep his immune system working hard. Now that he was older, though, he was allowed to drink whatever he pleased.

He had also spent centuries watching the adults and quietly snickering at their behavior after they had had a bit too much. They became utter fools, every one of them; nonsense and mayhem and many, many idiotic decisions followed the stronger alcohol wherever it went. He enjoyed very few things more than seeking out a quiet corner, hidden from view, and just watching things unfold in the great hall. He had never truly understood why they acted such, but he hadn't necessarily cared; it was amusing, and he had no qualms about laughing at the expense of others.

Consequently, being drunk wasn't very high on his priority list. His pride simply could not take it.

One evening, at dinner, Thor was verging on that sort of hilarity that Loki had seen so frequently in the other adults. In fact, it seemed that nearly everybody else was either there as well or working their way closer with each swallow. Thor threw an arm around him, laughing his noisy, hearty laugh that made Loki's ears ring. "Brother, you really must try this," he slurred, holding out his tankard to him.

Loki eyed it skeptically. "Thank you, but I'd rather not," he said, easing himself out from under Thor's arm and angling himself away from him.

"Oh, come on Loki," Fandral joined from across the table. "Don't be a prude."

He arched an eyebrow at his friend. "I fear you mistake prudish for prudent," he told him. "Forgive me if I would like to retain my faculties."

Volstagg just laughed into his drink. "Probably couldn't handle it anyway."

Loki sighed quietly, rolling his eyes, refusing to respond to that. He instead did as his mother had always counseled him whenever he felt his temper begin to roil dully deep within him. He walked away with grace, dignity, and a very fake smile.

Less than an hour later, the library door opened and he looked up from the pages of the book that he had been reading to see Sif closing it behind her. "Just me," she said, coming over to sit with him. "I figured I would find you here. You are getting predictable, Trickster." She smirked, shoving one of the armchairs out of the way and sitting on the floor. "What are you reading, anyway?"

He had to think about that, closing the book and looking at the cover. "A History of the Caste System in the Courts of Asgard, apparently," he told her.

"That sounds exceptionally uninteresting."

He shrugged. "It was the first thing I saw."

"You really will read anything," she said.

"I will when I'm cross," he replied, setting the book on an end-table and joining her on the floor.

She looked up at him. "That was rather rude of them," she agreed. "But you mustn't let them get to you, Loki. You ought to know this by now."

He rolled his shoulders, wishing that the annoyance would just fall off and leave him alone. "I know in theory," he said. "Still, sometimes the execution becomes difficult." For the first time, he noticed that she had brought something into the library with her – a bottle and two goblets that she was setting out on the ground between them. "Is that –?"

She nodded, a mischievous smile creeping onto her face. "I want to know what it tastes like, but I couldn't drink it in front of them," she said.

Loki understood perfectly. They would never let her forget it if she – or he, for that matter – had any sort of reaction to the taste. Or if it went straight to their heads. Now, as Sif poured a little of the amber liquid into the two goblets, he couldn't help but grin. No doubt that she had stolen the bottle right off the table, concealing it in the draping folds of her dress, discretely snagging the glasses from the dishroom on her way to him.

She picked up her goblet, sniffing the mead gingerly. He took his glass, suddenly unwilling to protest. If she wished to drink with him, well, who was he to deny her? She held her glass up in a toast. "To breaking the rules," she said, and he echoed her sentiment, touching the rim of his glass to hers with a soft clink.

Without a second of hesitation, they both swallowed the contents of their goblets in one gulp. Loki kept his eyes closed as it went down, burning in a not altogether unpleasant manner. Actually, he wasn't sure he disliked it. When he looked at her, Sif had a similar sentiment on her face.

As if by unspoken agreement, she picked up the bottle and refilled both glasses. They drank again, and this time, Loki was relatively certain that he did like the heat in his throat as the liquid went down. It was pleasant – unlike anything he had ever felt before.

A little while later, he could feel a warm haze reaching up into his head. He guessed that Sif felt it too, because she was laughing. He laughed because she did, even though there was nothing funny that he had noticed. Her face had grown flushed with the alcohol, and her eyes looked dark and radiant in the low torchlight of the library. He smiled to himself as she shifted, rearranging her long, flowing skirt around her legs. He could just barely see her feet, and she wasn't wearing shoes.

She took his glass, pouring more mead into it. He watched her, his eyes unintentionally roving all over her body while she wasn't looking. She had grown into a divine woman, he thought. As she handed him back his goblet, his fingers brushed hers, and he had never really noticed just how pretty her hands were. They were usually grasping a sword anyway. But tonight, she looked like a woman – his eyes briefly followed the low, draping neck of her dress down, catching a modest glimpse of a cleavage line before he yanked them up again – and her hands, though significantly calloused, were feminine too.

They drank, and she laughed again. He hadn't realized how much he enjoyed the sound of her laugh. Words were pushing their way onto his tongue, and he couldn't stop himself before they spilled off: "You're beautiful."

She looked at him curiously, and he instantly regretted saying anything at all. He had never called any woman beautiful before – not in this way, at least. But, he tried to reason through the fog, it was true.

After a long moment, Sif laughed – a slow, drawling, partially-inebriated thing that sent a delighted shiver down his spine. He laughed too, though he knew not why; he had been entirely serious.

Before he could ask her about it, she leaned across the space between them and kissed him fiercely.

A second later, she was gone, and he was blinking at her, briefly stunned. She smiled, genuine and becoming. "Nobody ever calls me beautiful," she said.

"Well, they should," he told her, feeling much less eloquent than usual. He chose to blame it on the mead – not on the fact that Sif had just stolen a brilliant, passionate kiss that had left him craving more. "It's the truth."

She looked at him curiously. "You should drink more often," she slurred, leaning a little closer to him and smirking. "You're rather handsome when you talk sweetly like this."

"I'll not tell Sigyn you said that," he told her, an inadvertent smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Sif pouted mockingly at him. "Poor little Sigyn. Would she be a touch jealous?"

He scoffed, saying, "I think so, though I know not why. I am no more hers than she is mine."

"But she is meant to be yours."

"And you are meant to be Thor's," Loki reminded her with an arched brow.

She hesitated a second before lowering her voice and saying, "I do not love him, though. No more than as a brother or a friend."

"Neither do I love Sigyn enough to marry her," he said quietly, glancing around them as if the very shelves and sconces could hear them.

"Good," Sif scoffed. "She does not suit you anyway."

He wished he could say the same about his brother with regards to her. Instead, he shrugged. He fully intended to tell her something else, but the words "I love you" fell from his tongue instead.

For a second, they stared at each other. And then the both burst into spontaneous laughter. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I have no idea –"

She just shook her head, gasping for air. "I know, I know," she said, dissolving even further into her fit.

As long as she was laughing, he couldn't stop. So they both laughed until tears fell from their eyes and their sides ached. When he could breathe again, he leaned across the space between them and kissed her. It was long and intentional and messy and perfect, and Sif pulled herself closer, knocking over her empty glass and winding her arms around his neck. Their tongues touched. Breaths became gasps and little giggles bartered between their mouths. Somewhere in the back of Loki's mind, he knew they would never talk of this. From the second they broke apart, it would be like it never happened. From the way Sif was kissing him, he guessed that she knew it too.

Neither of them wanted that.

As Sif slid her hand down his chest, a shiver shuddered through his entire body, and he wondered if perhaps he really did love her. After all, mead had a reputation for drawing out even the most subconscious of secrets. He shrugged it off; he'd probably forget it tomorrow anyway.