Chapter Text
The front door flew open, bouncing off the wall once before slamming closed. Darcy’s disembodied voice called out, “Okay, don’t hate me, but I need a massive favor and since I helped you spy on your boyfriend last month, you totally owe me.”
Sif looked up from the newspaper she was pretending to read. It had shown up unexpectedly on their doorstep, and since she came of age in the Internet era, she’d never read the morning paper while sitting at the table sipping coffee, and she wanted to try it at least once. Now that she saw how poorly the articles were written, she was beginning to understand why newspapers were dying when she could find multiple excellent news sources online.
Darcy slipped into the kitchen, coming to a full stop as she spotted Sif’s paper. Her face scrunched up. “Is that a real paper? Oh my gosh, Sif, what are you, 40?”
Thirty-one, but whatever. Setting down the paper, Sif turned to face her much younger roommate. “What is it I’m doing for you?”
“Right,” Darcy said, sliding into the chair next to Sif. “See, I just got this fabulous internship that I can not turn down, but I have to report in right when my Greek Lit class starts. I’ll do all the work and read all the things; I just need you to show up for attendance purposes and take really good notes for me.”
Setting down her coffee, Sif made a show of cleaning out her ear. “Did I hear you right?” she asked. “You want me to go to college for you?”
Clasping her hands in front of her, Darcy tried to pull kitten eyes. “Please?” she begged. “I need this internship, and Greek Lit is my last general and it’s only offered in the fall. Please, please, please, please, pleeease?”
This was exactly why Sif had been hesitant to take on a younger roommate. College had been fun while it lasted, but she had no desire to return to the supposed glory years. But sometimes your older brother needed rehab for his hallucinogenic drugs, and who was going to pay for that but the little sister who actually held a job? Rehab was expensive, and Sif needed the extra income Darcy’s rent provided. Until this moment, she hadn’t been sure what 20-year-old Darcy was getting out of the deal.
“You’re kidding, right?” Sif said. “I’m, like, a decade older than everyone in that class.”
“But you’re basically the same age as the professor!” Darcy said, excitement increasing the volume of her voice. “So you’ll fit right in! Plus you’re really hot and look like you’re still below the 25 line, so nobody else will know.”
Somebody else would probably find that complimenting, but Sif just got irritated when people subtracted years from her age. She’d earned those years, dammit, and was starting to get the wrinkles to prove it. “Darcy,” she started.
“One class,” Darcy interrupted. “Just one class. If you completely hate it, I won’t make you go back and I’ll just take it next year.”
Picking up her cup of coffee, Sif said, “Or you could just take it next year anyway.”
“Pleeeeease, Sif?” Darcy begged, bouncing in her seat like a child who refused to go potty. Sif hid a smile in her mug.
With a shrug, Sif said, “I can’t do it, Darce. I work all day.”
“Which is why this is so brilliant! It’s an evening class! Tuesdays and Thursdays from 6:30 to 8.”
There were twenty dozen ways this could go wrong, so Sif didn’t know why she acquiesced. Boredom, maybe. Or perhaps her love for her fellow man hadn’t been killed off after all, and this was the good deeds portion of her brain reminding her it still existed. “Fine,” Sif said, “but in return you have to clean the bathroom every week.”
“Deal!” Darcy shouted, slamming her hand on the table, the force of which toppled the salt shaker sitting in the middle. “Sif, you’re the best and I love you!” She threw her arms around Sif in a brief hug before running back out the front door.
Darcy ran back in, the front door once again bouncing off the wall. They really needed to invest in a door stopper. “One more thing,” Darcy yelled from the door. “The professor is kind of a beast. Apparently his fiancée dumped him or something, and he’s turned into a walking nightmare. But he’s world renowned for--” Sif stopped listening, not caring for the inner details of Darcy’s professor’s life, and returned to skimming the paper. The last thing she heard was Darcy’s admonition about taking great notes or something because of killer something something, and then the young girl ran back out the door.
Blerg. The energy of twenty-year-olds was enough to make Sif regret all her life choices.
*
On Tuesday evening Sif made her way to Dr. Odinson’s Greek Lit class. Work had run late, so she hadn’t had time to change and was showing up to an evening college course in a pencil skirt and blazer, firmly holding a briefcase. She felt grossly out of place amongst skinny jeans, pajama pants, chocos, and messenger bags. Scanning the room, she searched for where she wanted to sit. Back in her day, Sif always found seats in classes by scoping out who looked the friendliest and like they might take class seriously but not too seriously. Today, every student had their phone out, surfing the net, snapping pictures for social media, or playing games while they waited, making it difficult to read faces. Cell phones had barely been invented when Sif started college—and now she felt like a dinosaur.
Giving up on finding a friendly face, Sif selected a seat smack in the middle of the auditorium. She pulled out her college-ruled notebook, a stark contrast to everyone else’s sleek laptops. “Dude, what is that?” some kid sitting two seats over from her said, pointing mockingly at her paper and multi-colored pens. “I didn’t realize society even still used paper. Where’s your laptop?”
Sif pursed her lips, wondering how much trouble she’d get in if she smacked his smart mouth. “My parents are poor,” she said, and the kid looked at her like she was an idiot.
“Get a student loan, then,” he said, and Sif couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes.
“I want to graduate debt-free,” she said sweetly. “Plus I’m not here to read threads on Reddit.” He scowled and turned away, which didn’t bother Sif at all. She scrawled the date across the top of her page, satisfied with her antiquated note-taking methods. She knew from work meeting experience that if she had her laptop out she’d be on Facebook instead of taking notes, and that was no way to get Darcy her college education.
It occurred to Sif she might need to get some hobbies.
The lights went out, and some idiot girl in the back screamed, laughter rippling amongst the rest of the students. The lights turned back on, and standing in the front of the room was the man Sif could only assume was Dr. Odinson. He was a dramatic little bean, she thought.
“Welcome to Greek Lit,” the man said in a beautiful British accent. Sif had to force her hand down before she fanned herself, because his voice was gorgeous. “Syllabuses are available online, and yes, the plural is syllabuses, not syllabi or syllapoda or whatever other asinine plural you try to assign to this word to prove your superior intellect. It’s a common English word, and therefore, as syllabus ends with an -s, you pluralize it by adding -es.”
He carried himself like he was the classroom god, and spoke like it, too. That should have been a major turnoff, but Sif had always had a thing for assholes, and against her better judgment, she was fascinated by this professor. “I don’t care if you show up to class or not,” Dr. Odinson continued in his musical voice, “and I don’t care if you pay attention or play on your phone. But if your phone goes off in my class, I will confiscate it and I will lob it against the wall so hard it shatters, and when you come crying to me about ruining mummy and daddy’s newest gift to you, I will snidely remind you my reaction was clearly outlined in the syllabus, with full approval of the department.”
Oh yeah. Major asshole. It was a good thing Sif had a boyfriend, or she would be all over this cretin.
...She definitely needed new hobbies.
Dr. Odinson spent fifteen minutes going over class expectations and schedules, none of which Sif paid attention to as that was Darcy’s duty. Instead she focused on the man himself, observing his fluid movements and appreciating how well his clothes fit. He was wearing a three piece tweed suit that made him look delightfully British and professorial. Sif imagined him with elbow patches and a pipe, and couldn’t contain her grin.
The man noticed. Halting his lecture, he zeroed in on her. “You, in the business dress,” he said. “You find something amusing?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Not in the slightest.”
His eyes narrowed, clearly displeased with her flippant remark, but he didn’t pursue the issue and returned to his lecture.
Once past the introduction, he delved into a detailed explanation of Greek society and how the gods played a massive role. Sif dutifully took multi-colored handwritten notes, and figured it was Darcy’s own fault if she couldn’t read Sif’s handwriting.
Sif’s eyes widened drastically at the end of class when Dr. Odinson handed out the reading assignment. Darcy had to read how much of The Iliad before next class? Sif quietly whistled, her noise lost amongst the anguished chatter of the students. She was so grateful she already had her degree.
On her way out of class, Dr. Odinson tapped her on the shoulder. “I expect great things from you,” he said.
“Why?” she asked.
He gestured to her clothes. “You’re dressed for success. Impress me.”
Good luck with that. Darcy was a great person, but Sif had read more than one of her term papers and knew Dr. Odinson was going to be mightily disappointed. Saying nothing, she saluted him and made her escape.
*
Day two, Dr. Odinson spent half the lecture discussing why Agamemnon was a terrible leader and Achilles was correct in his assertions that he was being mistreated. Sif only intended to listen well enough to take notes, but that accent drew her in, and before long Sif wished she’d read the book so she could keep up with Dr. Odinson.
Curse Darcy. She was going to get Sif to read a classic, something she’d sworn off in high school.
“Where’s your copy of The Iliad?” Sif asked her roommate that night.
“I dunno,” Darcy said. “My desk?”
Sif found it on the kitchen counter, clearly unopened. She growled in frustration. “Darcy!” she bellowed, storming into Darcy’s room. “I am not attending this class so you can not do the work! Read the damn book!”
“Okay, okay,” Darcy said. “I’ve just been a little busy. Dr. Foster runs a pretty demanding internship.”
“Don’t care,” Sif said. “Read the book or I’m never going back to class.”
Which was how Sif found herself at the bookstore looking for her own copy of The Iliad. Dr. Odinson was particular about which translation she used, and she couldn’t remember which one he asked for. She should have taken a picture of Darcy’s copy.
Her phone dinged with a text from her boyfriend.
Haldor (7:02): hey babe where you at
Sif (7:03): the bookstore. Buying a book for Darcy’s class.
Haldor (7:03): ...oookay
Haldor(7:03): you wanna go to the bar when you’re done
Sif pretended she hadn’t seen that last text, because there was no way to tell Haldor she wanted to spend the evening (whole weekend, actually) reading a book written thousands of years before he was born. He was not going to be happy with her. She’d make it up to him later. Maybe the next bar they went to, she’d smile and not complain out loud about being there.
Maybe. That might be a tall order.
Figuring she could return it if she bought the wrong version, Sif grabbed the Robert Fagles copy.
“That’s the wrong translation.”
Her head snapped up. Dr. Odinson stood there, looking amused. Sif had to remind herself that she’d done nothing wrong; this wasn’t her class, so she had no obligation to read the texts. She was just there as Darcy’s notetaker. But under his faintly amused British smirk, she felt like a child being chastised.
Resisting the urge to shove the offending translation back on the shelf, Sif said, “I was just curious what made this one inferior.”
He clearly didn’t believe her, but played along. “The poetry is substandard,” he said, taking a second copy off the shelf. “Listen to the first stanza--
Rage--Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles,
murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses,
hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls,
great fighters’ souls, but made their bodies carrion,
feasts for the dogs and birds,
and the will of Zeus was moving towards its end.
“And then compare it to Fitzgerald’s translation,” he said, picking up a second version of The Iliad, clearly the copy Sif should be in possession of.
“Anger be now your song, immortal one,
Akhilleus’ anger, doomed and ruinous,
that caused the Akhaians loss on bitter loss
and crowded brave souls to the undergloom,
leaving so many dead men--carrion
for dogs and birds; and the will of Zeus was done.
“ ‘Anger be now your song’ invokes a stronger reaction than ‘rage--Goddess, sing the rage.’ The first feels like reading poetry, while the second feels like I’m at a punk rock concert. Also consider how each describes the Akhaian loss. ‘Countless losses’ describes the magnitude, but ‘loss on bitter loss’ expresses feeling, which draws a deeper connection from the reader. Fagles then refers to the dead as ‘sturdy.’ This is Greece; no one wishes to be described as sturdy.”
It occurred to Sif that listening to Dr. Odinson speak outside of class was just as magical as listening to him in lecture. Curse this man; she really was going to read an ancient classic. “Crowded brave souls does paint a lovely, if grotesque, picture,” Sif said, hoping he didn’t think her a complete simpleton.
“Never underestimate the power of well chosen words,” Dr. Odinson said, looking fondly at the translation he so cherished. Sif felt a brief moment of jealousy; that look of fondness stemmed from long association with something beloved. Haldor looked at her like a beer buddy he got to kiss. She did not regret ignoring his bar invitation.
“And for the love of all that is holy, do not grab a prose translation,” Dr. Odinson concluded, looking back up. “They’re all insipid and an insult to man’s intelligence.” He’d said as much in class, which Sif had written down in purple ink for Darcy.
He replaced the Fagles translation and handed her the Fitzgerald translation. Before she could protest, he said, “I know you’re here to buy it. Don’t bother lying about it.”
“It’s not what you think,” Sif said, accepting the novel. “It’s just that in class you made it sound so interesting I had to know what you were talking about. I’m not actually a student, you see, but now I kind of wish I was.”
“Not a student. Right,” he said drily. Sif shrugged; he didn’t have to believe her.
With a murmured thank you, Sif made her excuses and headed to the register. The magic of the moment lingered as she left Dr. Odinson behind, a smile on her face. If school had been this much fun when she was in college, she might have applied herself more. With a professor like Dr. Odinson, she might even have switched majors from business to the classics. Or at least minored in it; she still wanted a job, after all.
“Not many people come through here with that book and a smile on their faces,” the cashier said, ringing up the book.
“They just need a reason to love it,” Sif said.
*
Haldor (6:58): you left me hanging yesterday baby
Haldor (6:58): come out with me tonight
Sif sighed as she put her phone back in her pocket. She’d just made it to book 5, where Diomedes represented a type of Achilles to come. Dr. Odinson had prattled on about this moment for twenty minutes, and she really wanted to read it. Going to the bar wasn’t her idea of fun anyway. She’d rather sip a glass of wine at home on the couch, in a clean and quiet environment, not a crowded, loud, often smoky area.
But she did owe Haldor. She hadn’t seen him in several days. And anyway, he liked dancing, so maybe while he slithered to the dance floor she could excuse herself and read quietly at the bar.
Sif (7:04): fine
Sif (7:04): meet you at Asgard’s in 30
Haldor: woot!
Yeah, she could definitely read while he got plastered. Sif sighed; he was in his thirties. When would drinking like a frat boy get old for him?
Her predictions were correct, and within half an hour of arriving at Asgard’s, Haldor was sloshed and shimmying it up on the dance floor. Sif quietly sipped her mineral water and read the absurd scene where Diomedes met Glaukos on the battlefield and switched armor. Haldor popped in periodically, offering sloppy kisses and slurred proclamations she mostly ignored.
As the evening progressed, the volume of the music increased, as did the amount of people present. After being jostled one too many times, Sif gave up and closed her book. The last time she’d spotted her boyfriend, he was going at it on the dance floor with some brunette who didn’t seem to mind his flailing limbs. Sif couldn’t even see the dance floor anymore through the crush of people. Slipping through the crowd, she made it outside and headed to a nearby coffee shop. Haldor would eventually text her when he was ready to leave, at which point she’d make it back to the club.
The coffee shop, called Deja Brew, was a bit too hipster for Sif’s taste, but it was quiet and close, and that’s what she needed. Ordering her usual black coffee, she found a corner and holed up with her book.
Shortly after 10:30, feeling a bit peckish, Sif ordered a pumpkin muffin. In a moment of spontaneity, she also ordered one of their specialty fall coffees, pumpkin white chocolate mocha. Taking her muffin back to her seat, she waited for her name to be called.
A moment later, her order was called out but with no name. Before she could even stand, someone from outside slunk inside and took the drink, surreptitiously handing over cash. Sif stared. It was Dr. Odinson. What were the chances? Panicking, she grabbed her book and held it up to cover her face--because that was sure to not attract his attention, waving his favorite book in the air. To make matters worse, the barista called out her name. “Sif!” Cautiously, she lowered the book and made eye contact with the professor. His eyes went wide, and Sif swore he was more embarrassed than she was.
Baring her teeth in a half-hearted attempt at a smile, she finger waved and hoped he’d make a quick exit. No such luck. Whether he wanted to talk to her or was just rooted to the spot in shock, Dr. Odinson didn’t so much as twitch.
The barista was staring at her, holding the drink expectantly. There was nothing for it, then. With a sigh, Sif approached the counter and accepted her drink. “What are you doing here?” Dr. Odinson demanded. “This coffee shop isn’t anywhere close to campus.”
Squaring her shoulders, Sif turned to face him. “I live in this area,” she said. “And I’m not a student.” Realizing the man was holding the same drink as her, Sif narrowed her eyes. “Are you embarrassed to be drinking a girly drink?”
“What? No,” he said quickly, clearly flustered. “I take my coffee black.”
“He lies,” the barista said. “Loki’s a regular and always orders our season specials.”
A slow smile curled Sif’s lips, and Dr. Odinson didn’t seem half as intimidating as he had ten seconds ago. “You’re hiding your unconventional choices,” she crowed. “You have an image to maintain and don’t want students to know you drink something so unmanly!”
Dr. Odinson said nothing, but his pink face told Sif she was right.
He turned abruptly, striding towards the door. “I’ll see you in class,” he called over his shoulder, making a swift exit.
Feeling high on life, Sif followed, stopping just outside the door to call after him. “I’m really enjoying the book!” she yelled. He stopped mid-stride, body quivering as if uncertain whether to keep going or turn and face her. “I swore off classics after high school, but it’s kind of good. So thanks!”
She didn’t give him a chance to respond, slipping back inside, a large smile on her face.
Sif made it back to the club before Haldor missed her; he was still dancing with the brunette from earlier. Sif probably should have been bothered, but she was too happy to care.
It had been a good night.
*
Three weeks into the semester, Sif did something she’d never done before and stopped by a professor’s office hours. In class, Dr. Odinson insisted Achilles was the hero of the story, but Sif was having a hard time seeing it. The man was barely in the book. He had a whiny meltdown in the first couple of chapters, stayed absent for the entirety of the middle, and only showed up again to kill the real hero.
Technically she didn’t need to understand, as she wasn’t the one who had to write the paper, but she was curious. Interest in schoolwork was a whole new ballgame for her, and Sif wanted to take advantage of the feeling before she slipped back into academic apathy.
Dr. Odinson’s door was half open, his office empty of students. Sif wondered if anybody ever showed up, or if she was something of an anomaly. Knocking on the frame, she pushed the door open the rest of the way. The office was full of bookshelves, holding books and items that looked old. The walls held Dr. Odinson’s university degrees. His desk had a computer, a leatherbound notebook, a fountain pen, and an upside down picture frame that looked like it had seen better days. A smashed picture of the ex-fiancée, perhaps?
Dr. Odinson greeted her as she took a seat, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “How may I help you?” he asked, and Sif made the mistake of meeting his eyes. They were deep blue and intense. Instead of making her feel like she should duck and cover, those eyes made her want to invite him out to coffee.
Remember the fiancée, she sternly told herself. Even if she was available, which she wasn’t (remember Haldor she scolded herself), Dr. Odinson was fresh off heartbreak. That was never a good time to get involved.
“I, uh, don’t understand,” she said, pointing to the book she held. “You said it was all about Achilles, but he’s barely in it. Convince me.”
Dr. Odinson raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to write your thesis and make your arguments for you?” he asked. It took Sif a moment to realize he was asking if she wanted him to help her cheat.
“What? No!” she said. She wasn’t even going to write the paper--that was Darcy’s job. “I just think you’re wrong. I’d write a counterargument about Hector being the real hero. He’s actually present throughout the book, and is a good man. Just look at how he treats his family--from his wife and kid to his brother Paris, the weeniest of them all.” Dr. Odinson huffed the tiniest of laughs, and Sif tried to pretend she wasn’t pleased she’d evoked that response.
“You’re not wrong about Hector,” Dr. Odinson said, “but you’re ignoring the premise of the entire story. Everything hinges on Achilles…”
For the next 40 minutes he tried to explain Achilles’ role while Sif argued back that Hector was twice the hero Achilles would ever be. It was quite the heated discussion, and he almost threw her out twice when she dared to insult his precious demigod. By the time they were done, Sif was beaming.
“You are the first student who’s ever come in and argued with me over characters,” Dr. Odinson said, eyes bright. He wasn’t quite smiling, but Sif would bet good money he’d grin after she was gone.
“And you’re the first professor I’ve ever wanted to argue with,” she said. “I’m actually enjoying this class. Who knew old books could be interesting?”
“Old books are best enjoyed with hearty discussion,” he said. Hearty discussion with a British accent, Sif silently amended. “I daresay I’m looking forward to reading your paper on the matter.”
“Yeah, about that,” Sif said, on the verge of confessing she wasn’t going to write one, but changed her mind before she finished her sentence. No need to out Darcy. “Writing’s not my forte, so don’t get your hopes up.”
Escorting her to the door, Dr. Odinson said, “If you can think it, you can say it, and if you can say it, you can write it. Have some faith in yourself.”
She did; it was Darcy she had no faith in.
Outside, Sif unlocked her phone and looked up the number for Deja Brew. “Hi, do you deliver?” she asked the barista who answered. “Because I need a pumpkin white chocolate mocha sent to campus…”
*
It was Friday night, and once again Sif was alone at Asgard’s bar while Haldor was off somewhere doing something with someone. She wasn’t quite sure when their relationship turned into together-but-separate, but she was really starting to hate it. She was kicking herself for leaving her book at home; she should be reading the second of four Aristophanes plays Dr. Odinson assigned. She’d read Lysistrata already, and laughed so hard she cried. Darcy walked in on the tear portion and nearly started World War III before Sif convinced her they weren’t tears of heartbreak.
Now she was stuck at the bar, nursing a glass of red table wine. It was terrible, making it perfect as it matched the mood of the evening.
Someone slid onto the barstool next to her, a blonde man twice Sif’s size. He smiled at her, wide enough that all his teeth were showing. “Hi,” he said in a British accent that reminded her of Dr. Odinson. “My brother says you look miserable, so I bet him $50 I could get you to smile. I need the money, you see, since I left my wallet at home and I need him to cover my tab.”
Sif laughed without meaning to, and the good looking stranger fist pumped. “Yes!” he shouted. “Thank you! Now I don’t have to ask him to cover me. That’s humiliating, you see, since he doesn’t want to be here and I made him come anyway.”
Sif could sympathize. Turning, she said, “Where is your brother?” The man pointed, and Sif turned farther to see a booth in a dark corner. There was a man there, hidden in the shadows. Squinting, she tried to make out his features. A burst of light from the dance floor briefly illuminated his stony face, and Sif gasped. She should have guessed from the accent. Turning back to the blonde, she demanded, “That’s your brother?”
“Yup,” the man said happily. “Loki’s the best, but he’s been staring at you since we came in and it was getting old. I’m Thor, by the way.”
This man was the polar opposite of Dr. Odinson. Where the professor was lithe, this man was built like a linebacker. Dr. Odinson had dark hair and pale skin, Thor was blonde and tan. Dr. Odinson had a voice that made women (Sif) swoon, while Thor, though also accented, somehow sounded ordinary. Not to mention her first impression of Dr. Odinson was he was an ass, while she pretty sure Thor was a golden retriever in disguise.
“I’m Sif,” she said. “I know your brother.”
“Excellent! Come join us and I’ll get him to buy your next drink.”
Had it been anyone else, Sif would have politely refused. She wasn’t into sitting with strange men while they bought her alcohol, but this was a chance to interact with Dr. Odinson in a non-academic setting, and she wasn’t going to pass that up.
Not waiting for Thor, Sif made her way to the Odinson booth. She couldn’t see his expression as she approached, hoping it wasn’t too annoyed. She sat opposite the professor, and Thor shoved his brother over. “Yes, I’ve always wanted to be squished with you at a bar,” Dr. Odinson said, contempt dripping from his voice.
Thor pointed at Sif. “I can’t sit next to her,” he said. “She doesn’t know me, and I’m the size of a small house. We can’t have her feeling trapped.”
“She wouldn’t feel trapped if you hadn’t intruded upon her solitude.”
“But we made a bet!”
Dr. Odinson turned to face Sif. “Pardon my brother. He always makes ridiculous bets when he forgets his wallet.”
Sif hid a smile as Thor said, “You knew?”
Dr. Odinson rolled his eyes. “Even if I hadn’t, you announced it to the entire club when you told Sif here. You’re not familiar with an inside voice, brother mine.”
Thor raised a finger and shook it once. “True.”
Sif was completely intrigued by this side of Dr. Odinson. In class he was brusque, at the coffee shop he was embarrassed, and in his office he was argumentative. She wasn’t quite sure what to call this side of him. Relaxed? Joking? Pleasant? In any case, she liked it. She liked fitting together the jigsaw pieces that made up Dr. Odinson.
“Is this all right?” she asked. “I’m not breaching any student-teacher lines, am I?”
Dr. Odinson looked faintly amused. “I thought you weren’t a student.”
“I’m not,” she said, “but I still don’t want to get you in trouble with the university.”
Definitely amusement, and it deepened slightly. “I won’t be buying you the drink my brother promised you, but he’s welcome to make good on that pledge.”
“I’m confused,” Thor said. “Not on the drink issue; we’ve already established I can’t pay, so I’ll just have to give you an IOU.” He made good on that promise, grabbing a napkin and stealing a pen from Dr. Odinson so he could scribble IOU one drink since Loki’s being a wanker and won’t pay up. He signed it, dated it, and handed it to Sif. She pocketed it. “I’m confused about you two. Are you a student?” he asked Sif. “Because I thought for sure you were about our age.”
“I’ve been told I am,” Sif said, “though I can’t confirm or deny it as the class syllabus didn’t give Dr. Odinson’s birth year.” Well, it could have; it’s not like she read the lengthy thing. But Sif was reasonably confident it wasn’t in there.
“Eighties,” Thor said. “I’m ‘85, he’s ‘86.”
“Eighty-seven,” Sif said.
Dr. Odinson blinked. “Really?” he asked.
Sif didn’t get a chance to respond as Haldor suddenly crashed into their booth, throwing his arms around Sif and giving her a possessive kiss. Attempted to, anyway; Sif only gave him access to her cheek. Drunk Haldor was not her favorite kissing partner. “Babe, I see you’re making friends,” he said, his words less slurred than usual. Addressing the Odinsons, he said, “‘Sup. I’m Haldor.”
“Thor, Loki,” Thor said, pointing his thumb at himself then at his brother. Dr. Odinson looked at Haldor much like Sif imagined Menelaus looked upon Paris. Sif hid a smirk in a cough. “We’re just chatting with the lady.”
Haldor flicked his head upward in acknowledgement before turning back to Sif. “If you’re bored, babe, we can go.”
Sif rolled her eyes. “I’ve been bored all evening. You can’t claim you care now just because I’m talking to some friends. Thor and Loki--” she loved how scandalous it felt to use Dr. Odinson’s first name, and made certain not to glance at the man in question lest he look upon her disapprovingly-- “were just discussing with me the ramifications of Hector’s death at the hands of Achilles.”
As expected, Haldor’s eyes glossed over at the mention of reading. He wasn’t unintelligent, just deeply uninterested in Sif’s newfound reading material. Also, Sif knew he wouldn’t consider academic friends actual rivals for her attention. “Right. You get back to that.” With a quick kiss, he disappeared back into the mass of bodies that was the dance floor.
“Charming,” Dr. Odinson said at his departure. Sif shrugged. Haldor was comfortable, familiar. They’d been together so long she’d forgotten what it was like to be without him. (A traitorous part of her wondered what it would be like to be without him. Sif tamped that down.)
Thor’s eyes were still following Haldor; he frowned. “For a bloke who came running over to make sure you weren’t getting too friendly with the local meat, he’s getting awfully chummy with that bint.”
Sif was fairly certain she knew what that meant, but followed Thor’s line of sight to make sure. It took a moment as the swaying masses kept blocking her view, but when she finally caught sight of her boyfriend, he was wrapped around the brunette he’d been dancing with for the last few weeks. She grimaced; maybe she’d find out what it was like to be without Haldor sooner than expected.
Abandoning her wine, Sif said, “Excuse me,” and made her way outside.
The cool fall air felt good against the flush of her cheeks. Taking in several deep breaths, Sif leaned against the bar’s brick exterior. She wasn’t stupid; she knew Haldor had been dancing rather frequently with that girl. She even knew what kind of dancing they were doing. But it didn’t matter, because he was hers and she was his. He’d have a bit of fun, but not too much fun, and then come crawling back. In return, he didn’t mind when she let her eyes linger a tad too long where they shouldn’t (she resolutely did not think of a certain classics professor). Difference was, she knew better than to touch.
It wasn’t Haldor’s wandering hands that bothered Sif so much as it was sitting with Dr. Odinson and his brother while they got an eyeful. It made her feel small and pathetic.
Whipping out her phone, she sent a text.
Sif (10:48): get your hands off her
Sif (10:48): i’m going home
Sif (10:48): i can’t believe you would come mark your territory then go straight back and
Sif (10:49): you know what screw you
Turning her phone off, Sif marched home and went to bed, where she definitely did not dream of intense, judgmental blue eyes.
*
Haldor was at her door the next morning bearing muffins and black coffee. Darcy let him in; Sif would have left him on the doorstep. He held up the muffin bag. “You’re right; it was a dick move,” he said. “Truce?”
Sif shook her head. “Answer me this: when I stay in and read, what are you doing?”
Guilt crawled across Haldor’s face, and Sif knew the answer before he spoke. “Exactly what you’re thinking I’m doing.”
She didn’t know what to feel or what to say, so Sif grabbed the muffins and bit into one. Chocolate. Her favorite. Ripping off a chunk, she threw it at Haldor’s head. “You could have had the dignity to break up with me first.”
He shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t want to lose you.”
“Please tell me her name is at least Bambi or Barbi or something else equally stupid.”
“It’s Lorelei.”
That was so much worse. Who named their kid that? “Well, I hope she’s worth it,” Sif said, and pointed at the door.
Haldor took a step closer, eyes pleading. “You just spent so much time reading those dumb books,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do.”
Sif snorted. “Don’t pin this on me; you were fraternizing with her long before I started attending this class.”
He took another step forward, almost close enough to touch. “I know you’re mad now,” he said, “but you’re not that mad. We could still work this out.”
It was almost sweet that he cared. Almost. But Sif couldn’t keep lying to herself; she and Haldor had been rocky for a while. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself. And, if she was being perfectly honest…
But she wasn’t ready for that level of honesty, not yet, not in the face of losing someone she’d been with for years.
“I don’t want to,” she said. Haldor’s face crumpled, and she rolled her eyes. “I swear, Haldor, if you start to fake cry--”
He smoothed out his features, shrugging. “Had to try.”
Pointing at the door again, she said, “Get out.” This time he backed up toward the door. Sif hadn’t pictured their breakup, but if she had, she would have expected deep heartbreak, rivers of tears, and probably a lot of yelling. She hadn’t expected to feel so tired. Or so grateful that he brought breakup muffins.
With one hand on the door, Haldor looked back at her and said, “I love you, Sif.”
She sighed. “I know.”
“Always will.”
“Really don’t care right now.”
And he ducked out the door, closing it gently behind him. Looking down at the half-eaten muffin, Sif said, “I thought I would care more.” The muffin didn’t respond. She huffed, popping another piece into her mouth.
*
At Monday office hours, Sif let herself into Dr. Odinson’s office and slapped Thor’s napkin on the desk. “I’m free for that drink,” she said. “But I don’t want a drink. Tell your brother to buy me a book instead.” Turning over the napkin, she pointed to where she’d written in red ink the title of the next text she had to read for class.
Dr. Odinson looked up at her, giving her a slow smile.
“That can be arranged.”