Chapter Text
Making the hour-long drive out to Thor’s house has never been one of Loki's favorite things to do, but in the midst of a late August downpour, it gets even worse.
He’s not really sure why his brother called in the first place. In fact, it’s one of the last Fridays of the summer so really, his brother should be out enjoying the beach with his trio of moronic friends and whatever girl is on his arm this week, not calling him in the middle of breakfast with some sort of emergency. But Thor’s tone in the voicemail he’d left had been all wrong, he’d sounded unusual, distressed, even oddly…desperate, which is so unlike him that, against his better instincts, Loki is here.
Here of course is eight miles from Thor’s house, with the navigation telling him he’s got almost thirty minutes of drive time left. Traffic is bumper-to-bumper and the road before him appears as a stream of red as thousands of city slickers try their damndest to make it out to their various vacation homes and rentals in time for dinner. He can barely see ten feet in front of him— the pelting rain makes certain of that— and it’s blustery enough that he can feel his Prius shaking as it scoots forward inch by inch.
Usually this is a drive that takes an hour at most, but he left just after an early meal with his mother and it’s well past noon now and absolutely nothing seems to be letting up. Between the intermittent horns, the crashing rain on the windshield, and the wind howling outside, the idea of playing music or an audiobook over the car speakers makes him want to scream, so Loki is left alone with his thoughts and sending the occasional unanswered text to Thor.
There are plenty of things he could be thinking about— junior year starts in less than a week, his philosophy advisor is planning on nominating him for a conference in the spring that he needs to write an abstract for, there’s a major firm in the city hosting an open interview session for students interested in interning with them next summer, and it’s never too early to start preparing for the bar exam. But what occupies most of his thoughts, pushing his actual priorities out with a stubborn shove, is the conversation he’d had only a few hours ago.
Oh, it hadn’t been anything new, just a rehashing of the same conversation he’s had with one or both of his parents since he was thirteen to varying degrees of intensity.
It usually starts innocuously enough. Indeed, this morning’s iteration of The Talk had begun with his mother not-so-casually mentioning how excited Thor was to finally start at the Asgard Group after interning there for the past three summers. As was his practice, Loki had replied with feigned interest— as if Thor’s success was a result of anything other than being the CEO’s son was completely laughable— and silently prayed his mother would drop the subject. Normally, her child’s rolled eyes and sarcastic quips would be more than enough to dissuade her from pressing further, but for some reason she’d been overly determined to push today.
“You know, it’s never too late to pick up an economics minor my dear. I know you’re set on law school, but I don’t want you to miss out on a great opportunity because you’ve been so set on crafting your own path that you’ve left your own happiness to the wayside. I know your father would be so grateful to have your help at the company, and you’d be a brilliant asset to him. I promise I’m not telling you what to do, you know I just worry. I don’t want you to throw away a fantastic opportunity because you realized later you were being stubborn.”
Her words echo in his mind with perfect clarity in a constant loop hours later, punctuated by the rhythm of rain on his windshield.
It’s always particularly difficult when she attempts to sway him towards the family business mostly because, he knows deep down there’s a distant chance his mother is completely right. She’s always known and loved him better than anyone else in the world, has staunchly supported his dreams of becoming a lawyer since he was thirteen, but that also means that she’s been privy to some of his most intense moments of doubt. Oh she’s tried her best to curb his deepest insecurities, to bolster him in the face of his father’s continued disappointment, but it’s accomplished little. The insecurities are still there and as he’s grown, the only thing that’s changed is that he’s gotten better at hiding them. Still, he refuses to subject himself to a life he knows he could not bear, where he’s never able to measure up to anyone’s expectations solely because he isn’t his father or Thor.
Luckily, before he can descend too far down that depressingly familiar rabbit hole, another car honks, setting the entire highway off again, and the chorus of beeps and shouts from behind windows provides enough distractions.
When he finally pulls up to the house forty five nightmarish minutes later still not having heard back from Thor, Loki’s gone from irritated to angry to seething, a feeling which heightens even further when instead of seeing his brother’s SUV in the driveway, there’s only an unfamiliar pickup truck half-packed with boxes and misshapen objects precariously shoved under tarps. From afar he can see the arms of a chair and what looks like an end table outlined in blue, which would usually point to someone moving out or in, but that would make no sense because last he checked, Thor lives alone.
He fumbles with his phone searching for his brother’s contact as he attempts to call him one more time and within seconds that old familiar voicemail is playing. In all likelihood Thor has once again forgotten to charge his phone and was too distracted by work or a meeting or some girl to notice it’s been dead for hours. The experience is so commonplace that it shouldn’t make him this frustrated anymore and yet, today it makes Loki feel like he’s seconds away from having a tantrum. He has no idea why he’s here or what he’s walking into, and he has to do it alone because it seems his dear, irresponsible brother didn’t have the decency to stick around and help.
Perfect. How very like him.
With a curse, Loki shoves his phone into his pocket and blindly reaches for the umbrella in his backseat, sending another glare at the house and then the truck as he grabs it, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the attempt.
By now, the tarps are slowly but steadily beginning to pool with water and he wonders who he’s about to find inside, perhaps Volstagg, Fandral, or Hogun crashing on the couch between apartments? The four had just graduated university a couple months ago, so it’s not an impossible conclusion to draw but, he doesn’t remember any of them owning an old but well-kept faded red pickup.
Just then he sees a flash of movement in one of the front windows; someone slender with gentle curves and flowing hair wandering by, a distinctly more feminine form than he was expecting.
That’s what finally sets him into motion, Loki leaps out of his car, jamming open the umbrella, jumping over puddles, desperately hoping his footing is steady enough not to get caught in a patch of mud as he sprints to the porch. He finds the door unlocked and slips in quietly, leaving his umbrella on the porch to dry and violently brushing his soaked shoes on a towel just inside the entryway. He can hear the low murmur of a woman’s voice from somewhere in the living room and though the words are lost to him, the simmering anger behind them is crystal clear.
He pads down the hall to get a better look, taking notice of a few framed pictures and vintage band posters that have seen better days hanging on the walls, neither of which seem to be his brother’s style. It’s odd enough that he almost stops short and attempts to solve the mystery laid before him, but he’s interrupted by a sudden loud shout of frustration from the next room. With a steadying breath, he turns the corner.
The woman before him is absolutely gorgeous; slim but clearly strong, with long blonde hair that falls down her back in a ponytail painted a few shades darker from the rain, the ends of it starting to curl in the humidity. Her intense hazel eyes are narrowed into a glare as she eyes the suitcase before her, pressing down on it with shockingly well-defined arms. The cutoff shorts she wears put her similarly muscular legs on display as she presses a knee down onto the suitcase, working to shove an ancient t-shirt into the overstuffed bag and zip it shut. It’s hardly a surprise that the woman in his brother’s house is beautiful, after all, Thor has always liked pretty things. No, what catches him off guard is the scowl etched into her lips and the glint in her eyes. She seems more dagger than woman, like if he touched her, his hands would come away bloodied and that’s something new. Usually Thor doesn’t go for the ones with that kind of edge, with the prospect of danger in their eyes, no, that tends to be more Loki’s speed.
She still hasn’t noticed him, and despite the distraction she is, he’s still hung up on the truck and the suitcases and all the strange little details in the house that seem so foreign from his brother’s interests or style. Certainly Thor knows better than to let any of his one-night stands go rummaging around in his house, right? And besides, it’s not like Thor to have a girlfriend who lasts longer than a week or two, so who is she? What is she doing here? And most importantly, why was Loki the one called in to oust her while Thor ran away?
The woman looks seconds away from turning in his direction, and though he’s got a million more questions percolating in his mind, he brushes them aside, determined to get the edge in this conversation, resolutely refusing to be caught unawares by whatever comes next.
“The bathroom is where I'd start if you're looking for something.”
“Excuse me?” To her credit, the woman barely startles, though she whips around to look at him with a speed that's a bit surprising, scanning him with confusion.
“You probably slept over last night, right?” Unfortunately, he can’t quite seem to bleed the frustration from his tone, the combination of the awful weather, the traffic, and an absolutely stunning woman who’s probably halfway in love with his brother leaving him at the end of his rope before the conversation’s even begun, “I think Thor has a lost and found drawer in the bathroom if you're looking for something you left behind, but there’s no need to rob him out of spite.”
For a moment her mouth drops open before her confusion turns to offense then to genuine, terrifying anger.
“You think I what!? How dare you!" He nearly flinches at her tone, steely and completely cold, and it almost feels like he should be ducking out of the way lest her words pierce him through. “This is my house!”
Loki wishes he could respond but honestly, he has literally no words, unable to hide the way his jaw has dropped open and the confusion that has scrunched up his brows. In response, the woman blanches just a little bit, and when she speaks again, her voice comes out small and uncertain.
“Or at least…it was my house until about three hours ago.”
“Do you mean to tell me you live here?”
“Yeah, I’m Sif?” She says it as though her name should ring a bell and it does…kind of, but not enough for any memories to spark. "Thor's girlf— or, his ex-girlfriend, I suppose."
Her shoulders droop at the admission and though he knows it's probably in his best interest to feign sympathy, but he can't quite let go of his shock. Sure, he vaguely remembers hearing something about a girl who'd come home with his brother for the holidays last year, but he'd been so swamped with finals and internships applications and his J-Term classes that he'd begged off and hadn't actually bothered to meet her. Why waste time getting to know someone who was just going to be old news in a month or two or…so he'd thought.
“And you bought a house together?”
“We were renting it, but yeah.” Much of the girl’s— Sif’s— anger seems to have bled off for the moment as she slumps onto a well-worn ottoman, “We've been dating for the past two years? Moved in together after graduation? Didn’t Thor tell you any of this? You're Loki, right? His little brother?"
Two years sounds a bit dicey to him and fleetingly Loki wonders just when his brother had actually told her they were exclusive, but since he obviously hasn’t been paying close attention to his brother’s affairs, there’s nothing he can say to refute her claims.
“I mean he did always say you were swamped with classes and that you’re double majoring and preparing for the bar, so I understand if—”
“Sorry, you were living with my brother? Like, long-term? In a committed relationship?”
“Yes, is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes!”
He doesn’t mean to be rude, really he doesn’t, this whole situation is just so shocking, that he can’t seem to turn it off. Sif gapes at him, like she can’t believe how he’s acting either, her attempts at polite overtures returning rapidly to that anger he’d seen glimpses of before. He can feel the tension in the room rising to a breaking point; the perfect disaster of two tempers that go together like gasoline and a match, the initial sparks of frustration and surprise set quickly ablaze into an inferno.
“Well don't worry…Sif? Was it? You're not the first one to be taken in by my brother's…well, charms implies he's cleverer than he is, so let's just say his general appeal." He speaks with an undeniable innuendo and is almost pleased to watch the words burrow under her skin, “You’ll get over it eventually and when you look back you’ll realize that pretty as the picture may be, it lacks any kind of substance.”
“You’d really say that about your own brother?”
He shrugs carelessly, which only serves to make her further stoke her ire, “I don’t think it’s anything he doesn’t already know. Besides, if you’re as intelligent as you look, you should’ve figured out by now that you were an exception, not the rule.”
“You little—”
Her fists clench, knuckles going paper-white as she shoots up from the ottoman, her eyes glowing like burning embers as she stalks into his space. It’s a clear challenge and he can’t help but rise to it, ignoring the subtle yet enticing scent of rosewater and bergamot that accompanies her approach but then, she takes a deep breath, regaining some semblance of control, her smile going jagged and vicious.
“And what about you, huh? The spare heir, right? Letting down dear, old dad with all those lofty aspirations outside the family business? Screaming that you’ll make your own way until you’re blue in the face and for what? He’s never going to be proud of you and yet, you just keep trying and trying and trying. Or at least, that’s what it seems like to me.” She smirks triumphantly as every word hits its mark with deadly accuracy. “So maybe I’m not the only one lying to myself here, am I?”
If he weren’t so furious, he’d almost be impressed that she seems to remember so much about him, that she’s drawn conclusions most would miss with an apparent ease, but he’s far too angry for that right now.
“At least I know how to be realistic.” He swallows back the bile in his throat. Loki has absolutely no idea what he’s doing, why these words seem to keep pouring out of him, but there’s something about her that makes it impossible to stop, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have no illusions about my place in my father’s eyes. You however, must be absolutely delusional to think that Thor wasn’t always going to dump you for the next hot new thing in a short skirt.”
Usually Loki is rather proud of his reputation for mischief, for his sharp wit and sharper tongue, but strong as his anger is in this moment, he can also feel a deep well of embarrassment pooling in the pit of his stomach. There is a difference between mischief and unfathomable cruelty and he has long been painfully cognizant of the line between the two, has experienced the sharp sting of what it’s like to be on the other side of it, and he knows that bright as his anger burns, he’s not just stepped across the line, he’s leapt over and kept running. Sif has too, to be sure, but she’s also just been dumped by his oaf of a brother and left alone to pick up the pieces. If his mother ever heard about this, that threat of boxed ears he’d so feared as a child would only be the beginning of his punishment and, what’s even more humiliating to admit is that, in this instance, he knows that he would well and truly deserve every bit of it.
“You’re an asshole.” She grits out, staring up at him, her whole body tense, like if he pushed just a little bit further, she wouldn’t hesitate to break his nose.
“At least I know it.”
No matter how much the logical part of his brain wants to try and ease the interaction and give them both time to cool down, he feels an urge to keep needling that’s impossible to ignore. They share a shallow breath, then another, and another, and that fury burns even brighter until, for a fleeting second, it feels strangely mutable, fire turned into a flood, chaotic and sweeping, just waiting to pull them both into its undertow. It’s thrilling and terrifying and apparently strong enough that they both notice it, taking steps away from each other in tandem, letting their eyes dart to opposite ends of the room.
“Well, this is getting us nowhere.” A heavy breath rushes out of her and again he feels that riptide trying to pull them out from anger and into something else far more destructive. Then she swipes a hand across her forehead, drying her sweat and the pulling sensation fades away, “Now, I have to finish packing in the next thirty minutes so you can either help me or get the hell out.”
“I’ll see myself out, thanks.” He shoots her a smirk while actively stamping out the part of his brain that’s screaming de-escalate! at the top of its nonexistent lungs. Sif rolls her eyes, standing the suitcase upright and rolling it right towards him, heading for the front door and that little part of him that needs to have the last word can’t resist getting one last jab in as she steps around him, “You know, Thor’s always had a thing for blondes but honestly? I think you'd make a much lovelier brunette.”
Sif doesn't punch him as she passes by— though it looks like she might for a second— instead settling for a shoulder check that’s hard enough to send him crashing into the doorframe, an exhalation of "miserable asshole!" bitten out under her breath.
The front door slams shut behind her, and he finds himself drawn to the window, watching for a few seconds as she maneuvers her bags like tetris blocks in an attempt to fit them into the cab of her truck. Quickly, he loses interest and before she can come back to scold him again, he’s on his way to the kitchen, scrawling a note for Thor on the tiny whiteboard stuck to the refrigerator.
Call me the moment you see this. You owe me, brother.
With a heavy sigh he slips out through the back door, timing his mad dash to the car for exactly when Sif storms back inside cursing the rain and his own short temper and her as he starts the car. Just as he pulls out of the driveway, he notices the umbrella laying open on the front porch as it dries. He lets out a frustrated growl, but doesn’t even consider going back to get it because frankly, after the last ten minutes he’d rather go ten rounds with a starving lion than willingly walk back into that house with Sif. Dragging a hand through his hair, Loki tries to scrub the interaction from his brain as he signals to turn onto the highway.
Ultimately, it’s best to just chalk the whole thing up to two very bad days intersecting and leave it at that, no point in dwelling on it unless he magically decides to go back and apologize or try to hold onto a grudge. In fact, odds are he’ll never run into Sif Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Is again, and this memory can be consigned strictly to the past.
Finally, his phone’s navigation finishes loading, cheerfully chirping that traffic has lessened and it’ll only take an ninety minutes to get back into the city at which point he can get to work on forgetting this day ever happened in the first place.
Once again he’s stuck slow moving river of lights and horns.
Only eighty-nine minutes to go.