Even though they had been friends for a long time it was still rare to see Sif like this. Like him she had an exterior shell that was difficult to crack, or which she held up like a shield when it suited her, which was often. She was a warrior first and foremost, after all, and it was unusual to see anything less.

He really ought to reach for the second bottle of wine and open it, but instead he looked at her stretched out in the sunlight, admiring the familiar planes of her face, and, of course, the rest of her - for let it never be said that Sif was an unattractive woman, and though she was just as beautiful in her armour and half-beaten to a pulp, in too-small sweatclothes she was also nice to look at.

"I am new to the belief that one should be at ease every now and then," he said. "But I am becoming an avid disciple of said belief." It was true that he felt less of a strain, now, than he did when he was trying to keep his mind heavily occupied - not that he was losing his edge, but rather the continued act of thinking and musing and brooding, the hourly grind of his intellect, was weighing heavy on him. It was easier to relax with company, he had learned; he could blame part of the success on Sif.