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*
Once they were beyond the storm, Loki didn't know what to expect.
He certainly didn't expect to confront a vengeful Sylvie, partly serious in his endeavors to not having He Who Remains killed, and then regaining his senses. The universe desired this—it desired to be freed from a tyrannical cosmic grip, and it still does.
Sylvie forgave him the moment Loki nodded, de-materializing in a green glow.
Her sword jammed into He Who Remains' chest, taking his life.
They've roamed out of the office, or wherever it is, that He Who Remained lurked to spy on and control the TVA.
Loki gazes to the ornate, gold-splintered balustrades high above, the archways, and the window-lattices. Everything seems to be carved magnificently from the asteroid's exterior. A midnight-blackened sapphire. It is a palace fit for a distant and lonely-hearted ruler.
"I could use a hot bath," Sylvie says, nonchalant.
She swipes her fingers over a pillar, rubbing them together and inspecting a layer of dust.
"Agreed."
Loki turns, watching her as she lifts her other hand and crunches noisily into He Who Remain's apple. Sylvie doesn't pay him any mind, frowning and looking suspiciously to the ceiling where there's an upper floor. Or so Loki supposes there must be.
"D'ya think there is one?" she asks, and then promptly spits out her mouthful of overly sour fruit.
Sylvie grimaces, wiping off her tongue on the back of her hand.
"The means of bathing? In here?"
Maybe it's his tone of voice, but she gives him a curious but slowly smirking look.
"Is that really so ridiculous?" Sylvie drawls.
Loki folds his arms loosely behind himself, chuckling.
"Mm," he hums, echoing Sylvie's smirk faintly. "I suppose there may be only one way to find out…"
*
The only available option is the spiraling staircase.
(After his capture by the TVA and after this newest universe-splintering mishap, Loki has had more than his fill of elevators.)
Sylvie goes on ahead, reaching the top of the staircase while holding out her sword protectively in front of her.
She whips her head into each doorway, expecting a fight with the one waiting to replace He Who Remains. Her muscles tense. It's the same sort of corridor as the downstairs entrance-hall… it's vast and bleak, with a centuries-old and mystical air of tremendous eeriness.
She disappears down another, and Loki follows.
There's a feeling…
A feeling he may be following Sylvie around for the rest of their lives…
Loki questions if that should be a warring notion… doing so opposes his ambitions to lead…
Within one of the chamber-rooms, he discovers Sylvie perched up on a long supper table. Her legs dangle over the edge.
"Why are you moving like that?"
Loki squints his eyes, considering Sylvie's observation.
The heel of Loki's palm digs into his lower back.
"Well… I suppose you did throw me rather hard earlier," he mutters. There's nothing hostile in acknowledging their duel of sorcery and swords, and Loki bends himself backwards until there's a loud audible pop. How long has that been dislocated?
Sylvie pulls her hand from picking the contents of a nearby tray. She hops down, sucking the bright, candied glisten off her fingers.
One by one.
Loki blinks himself out his daze, losing count of what finger ended up in Sylvie's mouth, and feels her hands jerk him around to face away. "Ow!" he complains, wincing and glaring over his shoulder as Sylvie's fingertips barb into him. "Ow, stop—Sylvie—"
"Come off it." Sylvie's expression tightens. "I hurt your back. Do you want me to help or not?"
Loki offers, "How about gently?"
"No," she monotones, losing her interest and walking off.
Loki's lips twitch apart.
"Sylvie—"
"Found it!"
There's more darkly carved stonework leading into another interconnecting chamber, and what appears to a lavatory. Save for any evidence of a toilet. Loki skims his right hand over a massive, gilded crack to the wall, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully.
A bathtub…
In the middle of the End of Time…?
(But, yes, surely he has seen far stranger matters.)
Sylvie inspects the tub, also carved out but gleaming as if recently polished, cranking on the water.
"It's hot," she murmurs.
Loki becomes suddenly very aware of how pungent he smells. His shoes coated with viscous-black gunk. His clothing worn and torn, dripping with perspiration. Sylvie isn't much better—her golden-brown curls and her face has been smudged in Lamentis-1's ash.
"Ow," Sylvie complains, arching an arm.
"What is it?"
That's when Loki notices the fabric-like gash to Sylvie's top. Her armor doesn't cover the joints between shoulders and arms, Loki realizes in a pang of horror. "You're bleeding," Loki points out. He touches Sylvie's elbow, keeping her still, and fretfully examines it.
Sylvie twists her head, this way and that, but she's unable to glimpse her own wound.
"Did you do that…?"
"No," Loki says defensively. After a moment, it occurs to him. His stomach feels hot and clenched up. "Yes, I believe so."
Instead of scowling, or rightfully being furious about this, Sylvie remains calm.
She silently gazes over Loki, before flattening her palm to his cheek and leaning him into her.
It happens fast.
So fast.
Loki's heart feels like it's galloping.
Sylvie… smiling so brilliantly wide and unlike in any way he's seen from her… she nuzzles her forehead to Loki's other cheek. The affectionate gesture fades. She drops her hand and heads for the bathtub already full. There's a hint of mischief clinging to her.
Allfathers…
Loki cannot move, let alone speak what's on his mind, as a pleased Sylvie cranks off the water.
She unhooks her leather arm-gauntlets and eases them off.
Breathe.
He remembers to breathe, gulping in air and muffling it out lowly.
Once Sylvie gets to the interwoven strap-work of her armor, flinching and exposing her wound further, Loki takes a step forward.
"Allow me," Loki whispers, getting her attention.
He senses her hesitation, and he waits until Sylvie's head inclines. Go ahead.
The buckles, no matter how small, receive Loki's care. Loki is the one to hesitate when Sylvie quickly yanks off her top, her prominent back-muscles rippling. She's bare, without the slightest scar marking her, and the inside of Loki's mouth goes dry.
Sylvie grunts, crossing her arms bashfully over herself. Even while faced from Loki.
"How bad is it?"
Loki eyes her, deeply mesmerized.
Allfathers, 'tis a blessing I am not worthy of…
When there's only his silence, Sylvie raises an eyebrow, turning her head until Loki glimpses her profile.
"Loki—"
Her voice firm, nearly a command in itself, and Loki feels his pulse heightening.
"Right," he says hoarsely. "Of course." Loki dares to steps in, breathing out, checking Sylvie's wound himself. Minimal bleeding. His hand hovers to Sylvie's naked, pale skin, ghosting, but not touching. Not with all of her heat emitting. "It may need to be cleaned."
She tuts.
"Lovely."
"Yes," Loki agrees, missing her sarcasm. His eyes becoming blue-haze.
He dutifully turns, hearing Sylvie removing her dark, filthy trousers and ridding herself of them. Water sloshes repeatedly, as her feet go in. One by one. Loki chances turning around. She's got her bare back to him once more, seated in the gilded-and-midnight tub visibly steaming.
"Would you…" Loki announces, gesturing aimlessly between the door and nothingness. "Would you like me to…"
She shrugs.
"Do whatever you like."
Sylvie can only listen when there's more nothingness, and then Loki's footsteps approaching.
"Then, we should take care of your wound," Loki says absently, rolling up his sleeves further up and kneeling behind her. The ground feels feverish. Electric. Thrumming with the impact of newly broken realities just outside of the Citadel. The universe desired them together.
He searches the counter nearby, lips thinning.
For a plane of existence so unknown, and otherworldly, it has something here like shampoo bottles created on Midgard.
(He knows how the Midgardians conduct themselves. Along with their hygiene habits, or lack thereof.)
Loki frowns down at a container of L'Oréal Paris, setting it aside.
Finally, he locates a bar of soap.
Scooting back, Loki discovers Sylvie scooting herself forward and allowing him to dampen his hands.
He doesn't focus on how much Sylvie has on or doesn't have one. That is of no consequence.
Loki lathers his hands with soap, gently sweeping aside the ends of Sylvie's curls, feeling her like a ticklish sensation. Her shoulders clench. He washes out Sylvie's half-healing wound, relieved by the appearance of soap no longer pinkening in bloody residue.
It is almost criminal… how soft she feels compared to her hardened demeanor…
As he rinses the soap, cupping hot water in his palms and letting it spill, Loki witnesses as Sylvie's golden-brown hair soaks, curling a little more.
Such small details about her…
And yet, he craves to know every single one.
"Loki…"
His fingers halt, pressing lightly onto Sylvie's upper arm.
"You don't have to… treat me like there's something precious there… I know what I am."
Sylvie's voice goes up a pitch, following an odd quiver. Her head shakes.
"I know it isn't there…"
"Oh," Loki breathes, smiling even if he is out of sight. "You see, I am going to have to disagree. Quite adamantly."
Loki's thumb digs smoothly into Sylvie's neck-joint, massaging in circles. Without warning, she curls into herself, resting her head onto her kneecaps. He does not acknowledge the show of vulnerability, rinsing her off, marveling at the simplest touch.
Wherever Loki's fingers go… he plants the tiniest kisses with his closed mouth, burning Sylvie into his immediate senses.
*
It's another moment or two before Sylvie lifts her head.
Her eyes dry.
Loki keeps his sights above her collarbone when she adjusts herself within the water, facing him. Even if the jagged gold-patterned bathtub's rim conceals most of Sylvie's front, she trusts him. Ogling her would be ill-advised, and Loki wouldn't imagine it.
(Not just out of unease when handling Sylvie's wrath.)
He surmises what Sylvie means to do, her eyes darting from Loki to the huge, bloodstained rip in his TVA shirt.
Loki slips open the buttons.
It's never been him feeling exceedingly shy about his body, but Loki did prefer to be covered rather than uncovered against the distrustful but eager eyes that followed him. Sex, love, devotion—foolish fancies, to be certain. Loki had been so certain of that before.
Sylvie has been different.
As different as another Loki could be to a Loki.
She uses soap and water on Loki's grime-crusted injury from a TVA agent, rubbing in a little less gently than Loki had been to her wound. Sylvie's empty hand positions onto Loki's sternum. Her nails roam into the curlicues of dark hairs on him.
"You should properly wash," Sylvie says flatly. "You reek like a corpse."
Loki snorts.
"How romantic."
"It's true."
"That is what you desire?" Loki asks neutrally, pulling away.
Sylvie crinkles up her nose. "It wouldn't hurt to think about—OI!" she bellows, wide-eyed as Loki suddenly climbs into the tub, grinning fiercely. Including in his garter-belt held, dark socks and his filthy slacks. The bathwater gushes out, accommodating Loki's size.
"WHAT ARE YOU—?"
Loki kicks some of the bathwater in Sylvie's direction, uttering a laugh. In the process, he slips. Right onto his bottom. More of the tub's water flows onto the lavatory's asteroid-dark floor. A completely drenched Sylvie makes an outraged noise resembling a snarl.
Instead of conjuring her sorcery, and blasting Loki from her and into a wall, she wrestles a further grinning Loki and curses him. Her eyelashes drip.
For a time, they forget.
They forget about the ideas of modesty and pride, and their emotional restraint, trying to playfully subdue each other in this cramped tub.
One of Sylvie's arms pins Loki, holding him mercilessly..
"I yield!" Loki rasps, bursting out laughing again. "I yield! I yield—Sylvie—!"
"You're an idiot," Sylvie declares, eyeing him with resigned fondness, her own lips curled up. It makes something in his chest flutter, threatening to fly, when Sylvie's mouth wetly claims his. She leans her head over Loki's shoulder, kissing him at a close, narrowed angle.
Loki leans backwards into her, tilting his head and reaching to possessively cup Sylvie's flushed-hot cheek.
Their opening lips part, inhaling.
Loki can feel one of Sylvie's fingers running over the bump of his neck, tracing the shape. He allows himself a small shudder of sensuality, watching as Sylvie's eyes darken in lust. "I hope you're happy," she murmurs, pretending to be unamused.
They survived a pruning; they managed to fool He Who Remains and destroy his reign of terror; they can face what comes next.
Together.
Together and always.
"Delighted, really."
*