Loki’s Christmas Guest*
*Warning: has very little Christmas-related content
A particularly raucous — and raunchy — office Christmas party was playing out at full volume on the central television. The one to the right featured the usual maddened, last-minute shopping at a particularly wild American mall. The one to the left, of course, featured a rapid montage of mortals being trapped underneath the mistletoe: that was always Loki’s favourite. The chaos of the conflicting audio streams of the three monitors was the best music to his ears. (Certainly far better than listening to just one of the streams by itself: how the mortals could stand listening to so much of that unfiltered dreck mystified even him.)
The noise of someone pounding on the front door could be heard even over the delightful cacophony, however, and Loki wasn’t fool enough to think it was someone dropping over for a casual chat. The friendly guests knocked: they didn’t try to break the door in.
The obvious ill-will of their visitor didn’t stop Sigyn from answering the door, naturally. She was far too dutiful for that. Besides, she knew that Loki could handle anything any half-wit might want to dish out. And only a half-wit would behave in such an uncivilised manner as their current guest.
“Where is he?!”
Ah. Who else could it be, really? Most of the other gods in Asgard had calmed down over the centuries, but that hot-head…he was never going to learn.
“My husband is observing mortals in the hall,” Sigyn replied, her voice melodious as always, uncowed by their guest’s barbaric fury. Her constancy was both a blessing and a curse: sometimes, it irritated Loki so much that he couldn’t stand to be in the same world as her, and other times it made her the loveliest female he had ever set eyes on. Just at the moment, it was slightly annoying, but not worth more than an eye-roll or two.
As the interloper stormed his way into the den, Loki took the opportunity to revise his appearance a bit. Visitors from other realms might not do more than twitch an eyebrow at the sight of a comfy, microfiber robe and warm, furry slippers, but an Aesir? A risky prospect at best, and with that Aesir, a recipe for disaster. But by the time Odin’s most comical son entered the hall, Loki was ‘appropriately’ dressed: like his visitor, he suddenly looked as though it was still the Middle Ages.
“It’s all your fault!” Thor bellowed as soon as he arrived, beady eyes glaring at Loki above a fearsome scowl that was almost overwhelmed by the bushy, blond beard that hadn’t been groomed in eons, by the looks of it.
“That is usually your assessment for everything,” Loki agreed. “What, exactly, have I done now?”
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