[ She's very quiet. Still, with her head tucked beneath Loki's chin, looking off into the dark of the room. She'd clung to him with a particular fierceness earlier; more teeth, more sound, the crescent moons of her nails dug harder into shoulders, arms, a thing of blazing passion, like she wanted them to burn brightly enough together to leave an afterimage lingering to see any time they closed their eyes.

And now quiet. The kind that means she has something in her mouth, she just hasn't said it yet.

A few breaths later, before he can ask, she does: ]

I have to go home. To Val Fontaine.

[ Her fingers find his collarbone, stroke it gently with their tips. Slow, repetitive, something her nervous hands can do. ]

I received a letter from Maman. Papa is ill. He did not wish her to tell me, but she did.