[ Looking at his hands as he is Loki will not see it, but she is smiling with warm affectionate indulgence because there is the little line on his forehead that she associates with those times her husband would like very much for no-one to notice his nonchalance covers something earnest.
He doesn't care about the answer to his first question, not really. Or, at least, not anywhere near as much as he does the second. And so that is the same too.
She cannot smooth it away with her lips as she so often has the other, and so words will have to do. ]
Only inasmuch as the firstborn of House Asgard was responsible for badgering him until he capitulated and agreed to be dragged down to the barbarous South to join him in fighting at the Grand Tourney in Wycome. Or, perhaps, inasmuch as having seen the way his brother fought made my lord's clever grace all the more stunning in compare.
[ She tilts her head slightly, watching. Waiting to see if there will be a quick little snuck look to gauge if she laughs at him, or if he will drop his head a slight further to more closely examine his fingers because he is not quite sure he knows how to hear it if it is true, or if he will do something altogether new. ]
The difficulty of deft hands and subtle mind is that the more skilled one is, the less it is noticed... But I was watching. And when I loved House Asgard's second son, it was due to no other but himself.
[ She will hold there for a moment, quiet and vulnerable and true, and then show mercy and release him from having to respond by taking an exaggeratedly prim drink and tilting up her chin to sniff with haughty theatricality. ]
And I do not think he is a traitor. [ She drops the act in favour of a simple impish look. ] Were he, I should have gotten a finely wrapped cloak to turn in the post so I might fashionably join him.
no subject
He doesn't care about the answer to his first question, not really. Or, at least, not anywhere near as much as he does the second. And so that is the same too.
She cannot smooth it away with her lips as she so often has the other, and so words will have to do. ]
Only inasmuch as the firstborn of House Asgard was responsible for badgering him until he capitulated and agreed to be dragged down to the barbarous South to join him in fighting at the Grand Tourney in Wycome. Or, perhaps, inasmuch as having seen the way his brother fought made my lord's clever grace all the more stunning in compare.
[ She tilts her head slightly, watching. Waiting to see if there will be a quick little snuck look to gauge if she laughs at him, or if he will drop his head a slight further to more closely examine his fingers because he is not quite sure he knows how to hear it if it is true, or if he will do something altogether new. ]
The difficulty of deft hands and subtle mind is that the more skilled one is, the less it is noticed... But I was watching. And when I loved House Asgard's second son, it was due to no other but himself.
[ She will hold there for a moment, quiet and vulnerable and true, and then show mercy and release him from having to respond by taking an exaggeratedly prim drink and tilting up her chin to sniff with haughty theatricality. ]
And I do not think he is a traitor. [ She drops the act in favour of a simple impish look. ] Were he, I should have gotten a finely wrapped cloak to turn in the post so I might fashionably join him.