Powerlessness ( Loki x Reader )

XLI.

So many times.

So many times did I miss the chance to say I love you.

Moments when your eyes would flutter and your head would nod away; slumber a wearing spell drifting overhead.

I should have said:

I love you.

Times where the sun might fall beneath the clouds, and the room simmers darker. Shadows left where sun rays lead.

I should have said:

I love you.

Or when the clock ticked over near, where twelve threatened its breakening. Drowned in books already read.

I should have said

I love you.

But your tears are mine to bear. Your sorrow my evening drink. I find you, in my throat as I lay in bed.

I should have said:

I love you.

I wish I could say we've tried to make the best of this, but we haven't.

~ Loki ~

It's been four days since the last her and I spoke. The only peace I've gotten since then is the few solemn glances I might catch when we happen to pass in the central corridor. It's the only way I can get her to look at me, anyway.

I've migrated to the second-floor guest room. I thought that maybe if I had space then I could think clearly. But the nights have been cold, unforgivingly so. And the beds are like boulders. Brick like coffins that never close, only harden as I toss my arm aside and find nothing.

Occasionally, I might hear her weep through the grates. When my regret spills over guilt and my throat closes with despair. I know it's my fault. And I miss her dearly. But I can't face her. I can't. Not after what happened.

Memory or vision, my suspicions of her have only deepened. My trust has fleeted. And whatever image I've sketched up of bemusement, reverie, or even obliviousness; has been cast aside. Her oversight is... apparent. She's never been dumb or ill-minded but, she's much more than I took her for. And because of that, I feel I barely know her.

But often I wonder if it was what I saw or what I did that fuels my own cowardice.

It took a second. One impulsive, numbskulled second. I hadn't even noticed until she called my name. I had threatened her. I had put a dagger to her throat.

And like the big dumb fool I am, I couldn't even answer her question.

"Is that what you really think of me?"

How simple it would have been to instead answer her with honesty, and not spew out a big fat "I don't know." Like a mindless twit. And now look what I've done? She probably thinks herself a monster! She probably thinks I think her of a monster! What fool could be so neglectful? So absent-minded? So-

My attention grabbed by the nostrils, my mind was shifted to the inciting smell leaking through the bedroom grates.

She's cooking?

It smells wonderful.

God, I haven't eaten a meal in days. Only late night crumbs as my slumber fails me.

To be honest, the kitchen was an open sore. Raw and unhealing. Memories stocked up like buildings that only topple when I linger there for too long. Should it be the first time my heart races, or our bare backs against the marble floors; I find her as I enter and kiss her goodnight as I flee.