Two Days

Disclaimer: I do not own Thor.

Prompt: Romantic/Fluff moment

"If you would only hold still."

"I would if you weren't torturing me."

"This could have been finished long ago if you didn't fidget so much."

"How can I not? You're-" There is a sharp gasp followed by hissing through clenched teeth. "Killing me."

They will be married in two days, she thinks. She's hopeful that this wound will be closed by then. She tugs on the thread, forcing the skin to close and earning her another angry, pained look. No amount of magic could close such a wound, she assured him. He'd still made her try, use all the incantations she knew, begged her to try and do anything that didn't involve stitches. Yet, she was right and, in the end, he needed stitches.

"I hope you realize you brought this upon yourself." She'd applied numbing ointment before setting about her task but he swore it was still vividly painful.

"I did not," he says, fist clenching when she makes another careful stitch.

She stares at him. "You thought sparring with Thor was a good idea. You thought tricking Thor was a good idea." Her gaze returns to her work, a deep, thick gash just above his knee where Thor had sliced, swinging the sword in rage, and Loki, not expecting it, hadn't jumped out of the way.

Then he is still and she's amazed by his silence. He is quiet, no longer complaining about the pain, whispering, "I know."

She finishes, knotting the string. She knows it will scar because despite her efforts, they always seem to scar on his body. "I've finished." She relaxes, examining her work, while he remains laying. In two days, she thinks, she'll be retiring here, coming to his room, calling it their room, rather than slinking back to her own room. In two days, she'll be the wife of a prince, a position many desire but few would be willing to go through with if it meant marrying him.

He exhales, fingers uncurling, suddenly at ease. She stands, searching the basket she brought along for something to deal with the bruises that had begun to blossom on his skin, pulling aside a vial that she knows will help his split lip.

"You should be going to the healer for this," she says, considering the usefulness of a salve before setting it back.

"Why?" He laughs. "So I can have them laughing at me and praising Thor in the same breath?"

She's heard it before. When Thor would help Loki to the healer after the older had been particularly rough on his younger brother, Loki had always believed they disapproved of him. Though, she admits, he wasn't wrong. In a world where being a strong warrior was expected, weaklings were not tolerated. Loki, being neither physically strong or an honorable warrior, was often only accepted because of royal lineage.

"This isn't proper," she says, returning with a jar in her hand. Betrothed or not, it was considered in bad taste for young men and women to be alone. Every time they met, there was someone standing watch, whether it was one of their mothers or a handmaiden. Someone had to be able to report that nothing inappropriate had occurred between them.

"When did you care what was proper and what was not?" He smirks and she laughs. For each time that they were observed, there was an encounter when they had not been. She believes it's the only way they could come to terms with each other. Their parents had arranged the match long ago and they both had their doubts upon their first meeting. And being kept in stifled, scripted conversations had not improved their beliefs on each other. Her mother insisted she keep her eyes down, be the quiet girl that she was expected to be. His mother had told him, though he insisted it was ordered, that he should keep his tongue in front of her, leading him to be silent, often appearing brooding. It had been their moments alone, their moments when he spoke what he thought and she didn't appear to be the weak little maid that they softened their views of each other.

"Now," she says.

"I cannot believe that." He sits up, kissing her.

"They're more careful of what we do now," she says, applying the salve to his forearm. "What if your mother came in here?"

"She would know that I am marrying a compassionate, perfect-"

"Girl with no sense of decency and custom who she would promptly have your betrothal broken to." She wipes her fingers on the edge of her dress.

He laughs, taking the jar from her fingers and setting it aside. "She thinks higher of you than that. I am quite sure that my mother is under the belief that I'm not worthy of marrying you."

"Because you are not," she says, matching his smile. "I am constancy, faithfulness, loyalty and you, my love, are mischief incarnate."

He grins. "But what is life without a bit of fun?"