eswareinmal | (no subject)

WHO: Cho and you
WHAT: visiting the coma patient?
WHERE: "Cho's rooms" in the palace (even though she hasn't actually spent a single night there until now).
WHEN: From the end of Loki's ice plot on GHB1 through GHB6 (and possibly extended a bit longer, idk)

NOTES: Let me know what day they're visiting either in your tag or the subject line.
WARNINGS: I honestly can't imagine any cropping up.

Cho hadn't come down from Loki's ice tower under her own power. By the time they'd actually overcome all obstacles, she'd been badly injured and running on magic and willpower alone. The confirmation that there was no danger had been her undoing. Another of Loki's stupid pranks. And she's succumbed to the pain and fatigue, her magic catching her right at the brink of death and slowing her body's natural reaction in order to mend it. She'd been carried back to town, still and barely breathing, skin and lips blue and ice cold, and Loki had immediately foisted her off on the first peasant who looked sturdy enough to carry a hundred pounds of sorceress and miscellaneous gear without dropping her on her comatose head.

The man had taken her straight to the palace, and her assigned staff had been only too happy to take responsibility for her. They'd dressed her in the most ridiculously frilly dress the palace seamstresses had made for her, brushed her hair out into a shining black cloud around her, arranging it and her clothing to cover the horrible dark bruises that marred her skin and spoke of the extent of internal bleeding. As long as the nasty bits of life were hidden, the villagers seemed more than happy to pretend they didn't exist.

Now she was laid her out carefully in bed as though she were only sleeping. With the windows thrown open, butterflies had begun to gather in her hair and small birds had taken up residence in the canopy of the bed. Tiny woodland creatures found their way into the room, bringing with them wildflowers gnawed off at the stem.

She looked every inch the beautiful fairytale princess. Probably because she couldn't move or talk.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The first he is conscious of it, he's pushing her off of him, twisting away from her, his aching body protesting each and every movement. Still has the tingle of her lips on his. He hurts, all over, from exhaustion and injury, and he is trembling simply because his muscles aren't strong enough to keep him still.

He breathes.

"What," he snarls, "is the meaning of this?"

Edited 2012-11-17 05:41 (UTC)

Cho's consciousness filters in slowly. It has a very long way to travel, after all. She becomes aware of the beat of her heart, the weight of gravity pulling her to a planet, cool lips moving softly over her own. And then she's awake, groggy, in pain, staring into red eyes just as shocked as hers. Loki.

The last thing she remembers with any certainty is the maze, the tower of ice, Loki's cold and uncaring face. Bastard. Cho's mad at herself, at her body, for feeling safe here. She's mad at him for being in her bed, mad at him for existing, furious with him for having the gall to act like he's the injured party here. "Bastard," she hisses, her skin going colder as she moves too quickly.

She's woken up early, not yet ready, but Loki's magic touching her own, it slams her back into her body, calls her home. She pulls the heat from the air around her, bringing the energy to the places inside her that are still weak, still healing. Her leg comes up automatically, kicks him hard in the center of his chest. And he doesn't move. He's heavier than he looks, and she is lighter.

So, though her kick connects solidly with his rib cage, Cho is the one who goes flying off the side of the bed with the force of it. To be engulfed in a seemingly endless pile of frilly, itchy fabric. "What the hell am I wearing?" Loki's anger did not move her staff, but at the sound of her voice, they scatter. Should have known she'd stop being the perfect doll the moment she had free will again.

Loki, ordinarily, is quite good at thinking on his feet, adapting, comprehending. But this quick chain of events -- the kiss, the impact of her feet against him, the mess of hoops and frills and absurdity that she becomes -- renders him entirely speechless.

He focuses on her. "Did you kiss me?"

"You're in my bed." Her voice seems to come from the inside of a puffy pink bath scrubbie. She looks like a taffeta dandelion. There's a struggle, a bit of grunting, the sound of tearing fabric, but for the most part she doesn't move much, doesn't emerge from the mountain of poof even though it shakes with her efforts. "You kissed me." Hoops have tangled with each other, snagged on draped fabric and gotten caught against embroidery and jewels, and she's stuck. "I hate my life," she mutters softly to herself, voice laced with frustration and pain.

“I didn’t kiss you,” he snarls, offended at the very idea. What need would he have to steal kisses from the comatose? “Blame the servants -- your servants, as I had nothing to do with this.”

He eyes her.

“I suppose you should blame them for that, too.” Referring to the dress, of course.