The Myriad Misadventures of a Midgardian Queen-In-Training || Loki x Reader

Chapter 38

"No?" You stare incredulously. Her arms are folded, eyes steely, her entire being in full-on Mama Bear mode. Like she's ready to protect you from..from what? "It's just a basic safety measure, there's nothing—"

"Do you feel unsafe here?"

"What?"

She turns her icy gaze upon you, arms still crossed. The position brings you back to being sixteen, back to the moments where she'd shoot you this Look in response to a whine or bratty comment. You almost shrink back.

Almost.

"Mom, don't—"

"No, Erik. It's fine." There is an edge in your voice that surprises you; it leaves Erik visibly shaken, and your mom with her expression unchanged save for the slightest hint of surprise behind her eyes. "You were saying?"

"Do you feel unsafe here?"

"Of course not."

"Then you don't need a bodyguard, let alone two."

"You're being ridiculous. It's not just me; all of the contestants have a security detail accompanying them on the trip at all times."

"Because he says so, is that it? His Royal..." Her eyes dart back to Rodney and Charles for a second, and you know she's fighting back some unsavory word choices. "His Majesty doesn't think you ladies are capable of protecting yourselves?"

You almost snort at that. Loki has seen you fend off far worse than pushy crowds or overzealous fans, but your mom has no way of knowing that.

"Or is he afraid something might happen while you're in your own home?"

"Mom—"

"He's kept you away from us for two years," she chokes out, cupping your face gently in her hands. "The least he could do is allow you some privacy with your family."

You pause. Look back over your shoulder. "If I asked you to sit in the car for a little bit while I get settled in, you wouldn't tell on me, would you?"

The guards both nod. Deep down, you know they're probably lying—they were assigned to you at random just this morning, after all, and thus have zero to no incentive to show any loyalty to you whatsoever, let alone loyalty to you over Loki. But if Loki confronts you about this later, you can just explain to him. Tell him the truth—that your mother missed you, and she's right to want some alone time with you after two years. He'll understand. After last night, after the last two years of slowly building trust with him, you know in your heart that he'll understand.

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"Is this all you brought?"

Rodney and Charles, bless their souls, were at least kind enough to haul your luggage all the way from the car to your old bedroom, before they retreated for a bit. You have the full day off to relax, supposedly, so you printed them each out a map of the town and sent them out to explore. They'd still have to sleep in your house, of course, but even the limited privacy seemed to appease your mom, at least a bit.

So here she is with you, helping you unpack while Erik sits in the computer room, trying to get ahead on readings. And, true to your earlier packing dilemma, you brought nothing with you but dresses, because you had nothing but dresses. You did your best to pack the plainer ones, but even then, with their rich fabrics and delicate, hand-sewn details, even your simplest day dress is nicer than your old favorite jeans. They certainly fit better. You haven't grown all that much since leaving, but most of your old clothes seem at least a bit tight.

You nod sheepishly. "You've seen the footage on TV. I have some snow pants, and riding pants for the stables, but mainly we wear things like these to go to lessons and dinners and such."

One of her eyebrows leaps up. "And such?"

"What?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"You talk fancier now," Erik calls out from the other room. You feel your cheeks flush a bit.

"I do?"

Mom pauses a moment, then nods. "Nothing wrong with it, it's just...different."

"Different how?"

Erik has come to join the conversation, leaning in the doorway. "You stutter less, that's for sure. And you sound a little, like, British, or something."

"I have...I don't have a British accent."

"Not a British accent," Mom explains. "Just some of the jargon. 'And such.'"

"That's not a Britishism." You feel defensive. "And such is a perfectly normal thing to say."

"And, like, you hardly say 'like' anymore," Erik points out.

"More than I could say for you," you mutter.

Now he's defensive. "It just makes you sound older."

"I am older."

He scoffs. "Yeah, by two whole years. You're still a teenager."

"I never said I wasn't."

"Look, I didn't say it was a bad thing—"

"I need some air." You storm out of the room, unsure of why there's suddenly a pit in your stomach.

"(Y/N)—"

"I'm going to go see some friends," you call out over your shoulder, just before the door slams.

By all accounts, you should be happy—this is what you wanted, right? A normal family reunion. If bickering with your snotty older brother over something this stupid isn't normal, you don't know what is.

It's because you're afraid that your worst fears are being confirmed, the little voice in the back corner of your brain points out. That you don't belong here at home anymore.

You hate to admit it, but it's true. That is what you'd been terrified of. Because if you feel more at home in the palace than in your own home, and more comfortable baring your soul to Loki than to your own family, what the hell are you going to do once the competition is done?

More importantly, how the hell are you going to survive the next two weeks?