“Just this once, then. Just for today.” He wears that smile again - the smile she can’t refuse, that convinced her to suggest this in the first place, and she returns it with more warmth than she’d intended. She is supposed to be angry at him, after all, after he’d presented her with this ‘surprise’ and acted as though it would be the most normal thing in the world for her to enter court tomorrow clad in his colours.
And she’d agreed, initially, buoyed by a desire that never seemed to leave her - the desire to wipe Loki’s smug smirk from his face and put paid to his clever plans when he would seek to entangle her with them. He’d thought she might have a gown made from the length of fine green he’d brought her, but she had gone one better and replaced the crimson leathers of her court armour with the stuff. Even her greaves are sheathed in green, the dark shade of her high collar picking jade-coloured stars out of her wide eyes and she looks, as ever, perfectly spellbinding.
She’s not so sure now, however, that she might stride into court with her usual confidence when she matches so closely with Loki now. They had never intended to be so obvious…
Sif runs her fingers lightly over the layered plate meant to replicate her abdominal muscles, then to the steel rosettes at her hips and the deep green that encircles them and swings about her thighs.
“And what’ll I tell them?” she wonders aloud, letting the spare cloth slip between her fingers. Loki steps up behind her and winds an arm about her waist to draw her close against him, his chin resting on her shoulder, his cheek against her own. His skin is warm and his smile gentle as she reaches up to twine her fingers in his hair.
“Tell them you lost a bet. They’ll believe it.”
Sif snorts. “Aye - only on me would green be unlucky.”
“Not so,” disagrees Loki, “You’ve worn it before and the stars favoured you each time, do you not recall?”
“I do,” she replies, softness incarnate despite the steel that encases her slender frame, “How could I not?”
“Sometimes I think you force yourself to forget the days we’ve stolen,” he admits, and in the mirror sees her brow crumple as she turns to capture his jaw with her hands and pull him down to touch her lips against his.
“You’re a clever one,” she tells him sternly, “So tell me. If I wanted to forget you, why in Ymir’s name would I garb myself in the colour that all associate with you, and spend my nights at your side?”
“Absolutely. But more than that, you fool. I would not be parted from you.”
“…well,” he clears his throat, lightly presses his forehead against hers, “That’s good, then.”