He stares at her hand, where it rests on his, and feels the tension mounting in his neck and shoulders. He wants to pull away but, at the same time, wants nothing of the sort. He draws a slow breath through his nose before he answers and, when he does, he doesn't quite look at her.

He recalls so distinctly Thor's insult, his accusation that Loki could not have carried her so far nor so long. They all think him so weak--

"It is fine, there is nothing to forgive," Loki assures her hollowly, his voice laden with exhaustion. He settles a hand atop hers and gently pulls her fingers off of his. He moves to rise, to swing his legs out over the edge of the bed and simply resign himself to the day.

"You should sleep if you can. Shall I bring you some tea?"