Title: Lying Tongue
Author: Girl Who Writes
Word Count: 629
Summary: She wonders what it is like to spill lies and half-truths all the time, to surround himself in people who can never trust him. How fragile a shell of falsities must be, and how brittle he must truly be if this is how he has chosen to protect himself.
Notes: Another little experimental Sif fic. I'm trying to build up to a multi-chapter work or two. I'm still working on my personal headcanons and world building for Sif and for her relationship with Loki.
More parentheses abuse because I love writing my parentheses fics. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for reading!
Disclaimer: The MCU belongs to Marvel and Disney, and I make no profits from this fan-based venture.
She never spoke a lie to him.
He is the Trickster, the lie smith, the silver tongue. They did not need to furnish whatever they had together with more lies.
(The problem is, when all you say are half-truths and dishonesty, you forget what the truth sounds like. He never trusted what other people said, not to the bone.)
He looks for the flaw in her words, for the twist in carefully chosen words, never realizing that she does not weave with words like he does. That she means what she says, she just doesn't always put what she feels to words.
(Her head resting against his shoulder in bed, their black hair spilled together on the pillow, one of her legs thrown across him, his fingers tracing shapes on her thigh. The candles burn low, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head. This is contentment.)
He does not believe the words she does offer, constantly convincing himself that he is the second choice, as if he has not known her their entire lives, knows that she has never been one to settle for anything but her first choice. He sees the dark red of her family as the unspoken confession, when she wears it into battle, into the training yard, into his rooms.
(It was him who asked for secrecy, for discretion, and that is the only reason she does not sweep into the hall in a gown the colour of emeralds – a gown that hangs forgotten amongst her things. She cannot prove her loyalty and keep their secrets. Perhaps she should have insisted he court her formally, publically, but he is already like mercury through her hands and she will take no more than what he offers.)
How many lies did he speak to her?
They are endless.
He can string words together like pearls to build her up. And he can shatter her on the floor with a whisper, a response. She is immune, now, to his glares, the way he paces like a predator, but his words are blades that always fly true.
(In another time and place, she would see it funny that he is immune to her clumsy turn of phrase, but it is her body, the way that she uncoils in anger, that makes him pause.)
She wonders what it is like to spill lies and half-truths all the time, to surround himself in people who can never trust him. How fragile a shell of falsities must be, and how brittle he must truly be if this is how he has chosen to protect himself.
(And then she wonders if he tells himself lies, too. If his greatest trick, after all, is that he manages to lie to himself.)
When she sees him brought home, in chains and a muzzle, she says nothing. She will not cheapen his silence with her words.
(Her blade at his throat speaks for her, the flash in her eyes. He chuckles, but even she can see the cracks spreading through his façade.)
Around her, people speak of him in hushed voices, as the butt of jokes and something to threaten small children into good behavior. She hears of the tortures he suffers away from the eyes of the court, and when it is expected of her to speak up, to commit to words of his treachery, it is easy to speak of her anger and betrayal. But never hatred. Never a conviction that he might be irredeemable.
(She will never speak a lie to him, but she will leave so many words unsaid between them. And when he finally realizes that the only lies spoken to him are done by his own tongue, she will be there to offer her constant truth.)