“Mother of unholy things!” Summer swore. “Gods of all th—” The paroxysm seized her unawares, jerking her spine into a bowed arc and clamping her teeth together on the end of the phrase. One hand, clawed with tension, reached out, flailing at nothing. Her breath hissed out between her teeth, choking on a cry.
Loki’s gaze turned desperate as he clutched at her. ”Summer!” he demanded, frenzied. ”Summer, come back to me!” If he panicked, that would be worse, wouldn’t it? She would feel it…
He forced himself to calm down and held her closer. ”I’m so sorry…” he muttered, beginning to feel the familiar pangs of self-loathing.
“D-don’t,” she managed, once the seizure had run its course. “C-can feel that too. Ah god it /hurts/!” Biting her lip, she strained against a resurgence, fists clenched. “‘s not your fault, L-loki. I called it … t-to me. Should have ex—expected this.” Every breath shuddered in and out, shaped by force of will.
Finally, finally, the spasms ran their course, and she sagged against him, limp and aching. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” she whispered.
His hands reached out towards her face, shaking a bit. He pulled them back to hide that unfortunate weakness. ”No, I should not have involved you in my…” he shook his head. ”Please…what can I do?” he asked quietly. Helplessness was not something he could tolerate.
Summer rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the lingering ache. “Are you good enough to give me a massage? I’ll beg, if you want. Gods, OW.” A swift circling of her head on her neck yielding a series of pops and a sigh of relief. “And don’t let me hear you telling me what to choose again. I could have let you go. Remember that, and don’t say you involved me.
“If nothing else, please just hold me for a moment, and let me pretend you care.”