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He hadn’t meant to stay. Loki vaguely remembered telling her that he had only come back, which was technically true. He had stayed long after she had drifted off to sleep, flipping through the various books she’d loaded on his phone with some interest, and it had taken him over an hour to admit the truth.
He was afraid to sleep.
There had been few dreams in the Tower, dulled by the pain medication he’d taken the first few days, but they had begun to resurface. The walls he’d carefully constructed were cracking, put up too hastily; the last few nights had made that clear. Eventually he had slipped gingerly from the bed, flipping on the bathroom light and leaving the door open a crack, giving himself just enough light to rummage through his duffel bag and find a pair of more comfortable pants.
He’d changed rapidly and turned off the light, standing quietly to ostensibly allow his eyes to adjust to the darkened room. Moments had passed, and then, in the second before his pride had taken over, he’d silently lifted the blankets and crawled in behind her, molding his body to hers and burying his face in the warm curve of her shoulder. Sleep had taken him almost immediately.
No dreams. Not one.
He woke the next morning with her head on his chest and his mind quiet. She didn’t stir as he stretched gently and worked his way from beneath both her and the covers. He tucked the blankets closer around her, then made his way to the bathroom, grabbing his bag along the way. His mind already working, he showered and dressed, smoothing one hand experimentally across the already-fading injuries on his torso. No need for further bandages, so he pulled a shirt on and finished his routine.
There was still no sign of movement when he emerged into the dim room, so he pocketed his room key and made his way down to breakfast. A stop at the front desk on his way back up, and then he put the breakfast he’d acquired for her as well into the small refrigerator. He stood for a moment, listening to her soft, even breathing, and Loki wanted nothing more than to rejoin her, to curl around her and let her body fill in the pieces of his that he’d never even known were missing. He shook off the thought and turned to the other bed.
Loki rapidly stripped the comforter and blankets from the other bed, hanging them carefully over the back of the chair and leaving only a single pillow and sheet. He lay down on his back, head on the pillow and the sheet pulled up to his waist, hands clasped on his stomach, and went to work shoring up his mental walls.
It wasn’t the ideal solution; Loki was experienced enough to know that, but he was in no position to do much of anything else. The forgotten memories were still fresh, still too raw, and he had more important things to worry about. A few images escaped here and there, and he mentally surveyed them as dispassionately as possible before ushering them back behind the thick barricade. They wouldn’t stay back forever; he was sure of that, but he hoped that with careful tending, the walls would hold, and by the time he was ready to open the doors again, he would find nothing but husks and ash.
The process complete, he opened his eyes, checking the time automatically. Hours had passed, and as he glanced over to the warm lump on the bed next to his, he saw that she was still deep in sleep. He smiled a little, grateful that her body had finally gotten its way. Adjusting his position slightly, he closed his eyes again. His work wasn’t quite done.
He wanders through memory, and through the palace in Asgard. The rooms and hallways are as familiar to him as his own reflection. He pushes open the doors to his old rooms, quiet and unused in his absence. He lets his hands brush across his belongings as he walks past, shadows that hold little interest for him in this moment. All except for one.
The box rests where he left it a lifetime ago, and he runs his fingers across the designs on its surface, deeply carved and chased with silver. He picks up the casket, small and surprisingly heavy, carrying it to the writing desk nestled next to the largest of the windows, and sits down.
The lid opens on silent hinges, revealing an interior lined in silk, the green so dark it is almost black. In reality, the box is not empty; it carries a boy’s memories, scraps of spells mingled with drawings, letters and trinkets. But here it is swept clean, ready to receive far different treasures. He rests his elbow on the desk, hand and fingers lifted, and remembers.
-She hangs in his embrace, arms pinned behind her back and tangled in one of his; Loki’s free hand is splayed across her stomach and he cannot understand what she is saying. The words are drowned out by the sight of a single drop of sweat sliding down her neck, centimeters from his lips, and it takes everything he has and then some to keep his tongue from following it to her shoulder. He drops her as though she has burst into flame, turning away quickly toward the wall of the training room and scrambling for his bag. It is a long moment before he turns around to see her looking curiously at him. “What?” he asks, draining half his water bottle in two long swallows. “I got thirsty.”-
The memory has gathered, pulling itself into a perfect, iridescent sphere that perches on the tips of his fingers. He stares at it a moment, only to forget it the second he puts it in the box.
-She shifts against him in the darkness, and he clenches his fists. The headache is leaving, pain slowly climbing free of his skull. His skin is hypersensitive, as it always is during these times, but he was not prepared for the way it tingled and sang as she slipped her arms beneath his shirt to reach the injection site. He wonders if the prints of her fingers are burned into his flesh. It feels as though they might be, but it is hard to think past the familiar heat spreading from the base of his spine.-
This sphere is a little different; the light is golden-pink where the other was green. He tucks it next to the first and forgets it is there.
-”Stay,” she says, her nails on his skin, her voice raw, her lips against his collarbone, and he hates himself for the split second that he wavers.-
A darker hue. Understandable. He cradles it gently among the others.
-”Nothing for it, my friend,” she says with a grin, straddling his chest in the training room with two mock knives in her hands. One hovers at his throat, and he feels the other against his belly. Her magic swirls around them both, clean as rain and sharp as ice. He wishes he could dig his fingers into the floor, treacherous as they’re threatening to be. “You’re still dead.”-
He smiles as he puts that one in the box, clear and silver, then forgets it immediately. He lifts his fingers and begins again.
***
Loki glanced over the top of his book as she shifted, smiling at her when her eyes opened. She looked back sleepily.
“Morning,” she managed after a moment, and he chuckled as he returned to his book.
“Try again, little one,” he said, turning the page.
Aeslin found the clock after a few attempts, turning its face toward her and blinking at the time. “Huh.”
“Wake up, sweetling,” he replied with a crooked grin. “It’s time to go to sleep.”
She slithered from the bed with aplomb. “Seven thirty is not an acceptable bedtime,” she told him with a haughty lift of her chin. “It’s… it’s embarrassing, is what it is.”
“Then it’s…” he trailed off, allowing her to think as he took in the picture of disheveled perfection in front of him.
“Snacktime? I’m starving.”
“You’ve been out quite a while. I didn’t want to leave you alone for any real length of time, so I’m afraid we’re completely out of anything resembling food, and that includes pretty much everything in the car. We’ll need to restock tomorrow. I spoke to the front desk, though, and got us another day. I wasn't sure if you'd be up in time to check out.”
A sympathetic look. “Sorr-” she got out before he theatrically slammed his book shut across the last bit of the word.
“Rule five,” he said sternly. “No apologizing for things that are first, beyond your control, and second, part of your healing process. That includes oversleeping, substandard eating habits, bad traffic, random emotional outbursts and anything else that you have no business being sorry for because they’re completely valid issues.”
“We have rules?”
A shrug, and he reopened his book, looking for the page he’d been on. “Worth a shot. Seems to work for you and Maris, and we’ve already got a few, if you recall. May as well continue.”
“Fair enough.”
He crossed his ankles on the ottoman and settled back. “Hurry with your shower, then,” he said, “because neither I nor my stomach believes kettle corn and Hot Tamales count as a decent meal.”
“Okay, Grandma.”
“Go, wench,” he told her, and she grinned as the bathroom door closed behind her. He shook his head, a smile on his own face as he went back to his borrowed book.