A Falling Bluebird

Air Time

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Loki was escorted back to their corridor, after a stop at the armoury to remove his weapon. Whilst there, he had a quick search for any helmets, but none of them had the necessary vision guard.

When he entered the odd cell, his two teammates glanced up at him. Hon Dör's expression was inscrutable as ever behind her mask, but Moth looked relieved. "You're alright," They said.

"Yes," He replied, still not completely used to how this creature, who barely knew him, was so caring. "I'm unharmed."

Moth's smile widened into a warm grin. "We are glad."

Loki waved the strange concern away and gave himself a quick check over. None of the now half-healed wounds were deep enough to be concerning or impede mobility, but it would be a good idea to tend them, just in case. He sat and shed the armour until he was left with his slashed-up leather shirt and pants, rolled sleeves and trouser legs up to reveal the thin cuts.

About them was the slowly-becoming-familiar blue skin, showing through his broken illusion when the almost-solid skin he had conjured broke. It was a complex working, and made powerful and permanent due to the rune it was bound to, coupled with a small blood sacrifice. He focused on making sure the wounds wouldn't become infected and watched as they swiftly closed. Wiped the remaining blood away, and it was as if he had never been injured, except for the gashes of blue now marring him.

Loki unrolled the worn leather, then stared at the multitude of slits in his clothes. In the heat of battle, he had quite forgotten he couldn't magically repair things anymore, and that he only had one outfit to wear.

Moth had a vaguely concerned expression on their face, then turned to Hon Dör. "Luke has ripped his clothes," They said.

"I have eyes," Hon Dör grumbled, but glanced over at Loki. "There should be a needle and thread in the med kit."

An eyebrow rose of its own accord. If a wound was serious enough to require stitches... He really shouldn't have been surprised and he pushed it aside as he scanned the corridor for that small box. He found it, shoved far away and went over, rummaged around for the promised tools. After finding them, he got to work on stitching up the tears, neat and careful rows of small black lines. It was methodical and mindless, and Loki felt himself relaxing at the familiar task. Despite how Asgard had frowned upon him for this particular skill, it had served him well, and was worth the chiding and occasional beatings to have learnt it.

He could feel Hon Dör's judgemental eyes on the back of his head, and he barely suppressed a snarl. "Never met a man who could sew?" Voice cold and pointed, his shoulders tensed.

"I've never met royalty that could sew," She corrected scathingly. But then she seemed to soften. "Most people are not as bigoted as those in your 'Nine Realms'."

It felt as if the muscles in his back were about to snap, even as he tried to appear more relaxed. He studiously continued with his stitches, carefully patching his clothes.

Hon Dör was silent for a bit, and he could hear her shifting behind him. "You are easier to read than you think you are," She said eventually, then returned to her fiddling.

Loki didn't manage to relax for far too long after that, his clothes decorated with many unnecessary stitches in careful patterns, spreading out from each now-fixed cut. He ran a finger over them, feeling the thread form bumps and traced elegant swirls.