Harley doesn't bat an eye at his increased size, the coldness of his hands, his red eyes. "Never," he tells her, and maybe the leap of his heart is just adrenaline, but he'll remember the exchange. "Mischief finds you, love. You don't have to hunt for it."

Loki tugs at the fur-lined cape around his shoulders. It's peculiar to watch, the way it shrinks to an appropriate human size once it's not on him any longer. He tosses it to Sif. "Here; your friend is injured. Keep him warm."

Turning, he catches sight of Palmer at a slight distance and nods a farewell, then runs in the direction the convoy vanished, which is also a visual trip. His legs seem to cut through the snow like a blade through water, leaving it to ripple and close in his wake. He's not gone far, though, when he leaps into the air, dissolving into a flurry of ice crystals, riding the wind up toward the retreating Fallen ships.