For Asgard!

"Oh, but Sif, it is not my own opinion but the reactions of others which makes me think I am unwelcome," he said, lightly. Not scolding her; just a gentle reminder. He didn't know how she could think he belonged on Asgard still, but he was not going to outright argue with her - just jog her memory a little. "When I fell from the Bifrost, I know that no one looked for me. When I saw my brother again, I was faced with grave accusations. You, even, greeted me with the edge of your blade. There is little to suggest I have a home there anymore."

He didn't know how much Sif knew - whether or not it was common knowledge that Loki had let go of his own accord, rather than fallen as if through some grave accident - but if she wasn't aware of the true nature of his actions on the Bifrost, he was not about to inform her just then. That was a secret he guarded even from Frigga, now, as he feared her rebukes or, worse, her distress. "I prefer it here. It has been long since I have been somewhere where so many people seemed pleased to see me. It is a strange experience. Perhaps that does make them fools who don't know any better, but I've no urge to correct them now."

Her touch was oddly electric; he ignored the way the back of his hand seemed to sing, still, with the sensation of her fingertips. He sat up a bit and took a drink of wine, instead. Her words about Odin were suitably distracting, though, not for the subject but for the fact that she was actually voicing such an opinion. He gave her a startled, but not disapproving, look, then shook his head. "Do you mean he should never have let me think I had a chance at the crown?" he asked. "Perhaps he entertained the idea, in his youth, before I disappointed him. Or perhaps it was always to be Thor, all along. Who knows. I doubt he will ever tell anyone." The words were not said to be an excuse for Odin's actions; rather Loki delivered them dryly, infusing them with doubt. He blamed Odin for a good many things, and time away from home would not heal that particular wound.

At the scratching remark, though, he just laughed. "A scratch, yes," he said. "But not a jab. And while I agree, I don't know if you're suggesting I have violent tastes or I'm likened to a hound who enjoys his master's attention. In both cases, that's a bit much, my dear Sif."