“More than just a might pissed off,” he said, eyes still narrowed. Loki, with a little more force than was characteristic of him, tugged her back toward the window, hoping that the change of architecture would distract passerby from any conversation. Especially if Magni got it into his thick head to go looking for Sigyn. “But speaking of your recent health issues,” he let go of her then.
“What were you thinking?! Running off in the middle of the night with a wound like that, which had clearly been bleeding, was probably a concussion... I told you I was going to call Eir to look at it.” Loki shook his head, in a mixture of irritation and disbelief. “But instead you run off, so when I finally wake up, I have no fucking idea where you've gone, I have to search to the whole damn house thinking maybe you've fallen down unconscious somewhere... only to then get back and see that you've painted all over my fucking bed... which is really nice, by the way, I like it, thank you,, but that's not the point!”
He paused for a second, to try to breathe and focus, meanwhile digging around in the secured pouch for the brooch of hers he had brought along. Once found, He grabbed her hand and put it in it. “Here. Thor found it under my bed in an attempt to shake me out of it to go on a rescue mission to find you. Which was pointless since Frigg already told everyone you were at Holda's.” Loki sighed. “Which, he compared to the one you painted on my bed, and long story short, I had to tell him everything.” At that moment, his rage came to an alarmingly abrupt halt.
Quieter, a bit calmer, he added. “So... enjoy your feast.” He was going to go finish getting drunk.