Written to: Say Hey (I Love You) - Michael Franti and Spearhead, crosspost from AO3
Louring: Darkened by clouds. Looking angry or sullen.
"Modi, you really must not bite," Thor gently scolds his son as he carefully pours water over his son's head to wash out the shampoo suds in his dark brown hair. Modi's hair certainly wasn't black any longer, but nor was it the bright gold colour it had been. Thor had stopped thinking about it; it made his head hurt too much. "It is not polite to bite people, especially your grandfather. You understand?"
Modi looks up at him impishly. Shrugs. Thor sighs and tells Modi to close his eyes as he pours another handful of water over his head.
"You will apologise tomorrow," Thor tells him firmly. "You understand?"
"Me?" Modi asks, as if Thor could possibly be talking to somebody else.
"Yes, you," Thor says, readying a towel. "You will apologise."
"Me sorry?"
"Yes, you sorry."
"Am not."
Thor eyes his son as he carefully towels off his little limbs. "You will be," he declares, and that is the end of it. Thor doesn't notice Loki standing in the doorway of the bathroom, biting at his knuckles to keep himself from laughing.
Odin looks particularly fierce the next morning, perhaps a combination of dealing with idiotic Asgardian villagers, perhaps from a sudden infestation of Jotunheimr frost chickens that had seemingly come out of nowhere. They had been delivered through the Bifrost that very morning, each with a little ribbon tied loosely around its neck with tags that were addressed to "Loki and the family." Loki had claimed to know absolutely nothing about it, and Heimdall had just been completely nonplussed and had been unable to stop the swarm of blue poultry as they clucked and cheeped and jumped over him, scrambling over the Rainbow Bridge.
"Ah, yes, the one of fearsome teeth," he says, almost jestingly, as Thor gently pushes Modi towards him. Modi clings to Thor's leg, scrambling behind it, peeking out from behind Thor's knee at his grandfather, whose fierceness is diminished greatly by a chick suddenly popping out from the thatch of his beard. "How have you slept, young prince?"
Emboldened by the chick's bravery, Modi toddles up to his grandfather's throne, pats at his knee reassuringly. "I sorry," he says, and even though it is far from sincere, Odin just smiles, pats his grandson's head, and picks him up to place him on his lap. Modi roots through Odin's beard, looks at the chick he pulls out, examines it closely. The chicken eyes him back beadily before pecking him quite fiercely on the thumb and hopping off to waddle away.