Chapter Text
(Setting - some time before the events of Thor 2011, Asgard, lower levels of the royal palace.)
Ow. Loki thought to himself, a nail protruding from the plasterboard catching him uncomfortably in the groin and tearing into the soft hide of his breeches. Now he would probably need to have that mended, and it was a new pair too.
It was dusty, dark and suffocating inside the wall, and faint scuffling coming from somewhere to his right indicated the possible presence of vermin. Involuntarily his nose wrinkled at the thought, and then again but for another reason. It was too dusty. In a moment he would sneeze, suddenly he was certain of it. And then the trouble he’d gone to, to conceal himself from the sobbing woman, would all have been for nothing. Not to mention how faintly ridiculous he would look extricating himself from the wall under her startled gaze. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea.
If only he had enough wriggle-room to lift his hand to his nose, Loki lamented. He could pinch the bridge and prevent the sneeze which, as such things do when ignored, was rapidly becoming a serious struggle. Perhaps he could employ his seiðr? But now his eyes were watering and the tingle of his magic was only making things worse.
Loki could taste gritty plaster on his tongue; it dried his saliva and cleaved his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He revised his earlier assessment: this had been a terrible idea. Desperately he considered employing long-distance teleportation, but, he still hadn’t perfected it and there was no telling where he’d end up. Thank goodness his brother wasn’t here, was all Loki could think. At least his humiliating exit from this claustrophobic cavity between the wall surfaces would only be witnessed by a single nameless citizen...
A muffled but boisterous shout interrupted that train of thought. Oh of course, how predictably typical. Yes, there it was. His brother’s unmistakable baritone, approaching and growing louder. And, oh joy: Loki now detected the high-pitched nasal whine of that valkyrie-wannabe the Lady Sif; who since childhood had insisted on following his brother (and therefore him) everywhere.
Judging by the alteration in Thor’s tone, he’d now spotted the weeping woman and was intent on investigating her plight. Loki’s sneeze was still building, threatening epic proportions. He raised his streaming eyes to what would be the ceiling if he could actually see anything around him and prayed for control… To himself, probably. Wouldn’t the God of Mischief be the perfect deity to come to his aid in an instance like this? Now he was losing his mind as well, he thought sardonically. Mind and dignity both, all in the same afternoon. Well that was just perfect.