Aviculae Arts

Sylki comm done

(back to using Sylki as my default here....)

Sylvie never sleeps very much at a time, even now that she has Loki. They're still very much on the run, and she's been running on minimal sleep for a very long time. She's fine. She doesn't even sit down to wait, instead pacing back and forth until an unexpected wave of exhaustion hits her in the form of nearly knee-buckling dizziness. And of course, because apparently she really can't hide anything from him, Loki notices her wobble.

"Are you alright?" He asks, coming over to stand beside her.

Sylvie crosses her arms. "I'm fine," she lies, because there's this fuzzy feeling in her head, and she's not a fan of it. When was the last time she rested? She's utterly exhausted, about on her last bits of strength, but she'll be damned if she's about to admit that in so many words.

Loki raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You should rest," he says, "We have the time."

Sylvie tries to glare at him, but gets the impression it falls flat. "I told you, I'm fine."

She starts to turn away in order to put an end to the conversation, but she wavers again and in an instant, Loki's hand is at her elbow to steady her. Instinctively — and when had she developed that habit? — she grabs onto him in return, and that's when she notices in the close proximity that he's quite warm, and she's decidedly not. Sylvie can't help the tiny shiver that runs through her, then, and she's not sure if it's more from cold or tiredness. Loki frowns and rubs her arm with his thumb, then sighs.

"Come here," he says, and guides her over to sit down. "When was the last time you slept?"

She shrugs, and despite herself, Sylvie doesn't protest, but she hesitates for just a moment, uncertain, before she gives in and leans close to him. Loki puts one arm around her back as she shuts her eyes — she's not sleeping, but she wants the grittiness in her eyes to go away. They fly open, though, when she feels Loki's hand come up and brush some hair from her face.

"Sorry," he whispers, a little sheepish.

Sylvie lets her eyes slip shut again and turns her face more against his shirt. "'S fine," she mutters, and after a moment she feels his shift in position again and his fingers begin to slowly, gently card through her hair. She tries not to fall asleep, tries to commit the feeling of his touch — warm and tender in a way she's still unused to — to memory before she does.

A sequel to this.