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

Chapter 40

If you thought that your first day back home was rocky, then the two weeks that followed are an absolute avalanche.

It starts with the clothes. Remember how you'd thought you hadn't grown that much since leaving? Turns out you were wrong. By a lot. Or a few inches, at the very least—all of your old pants ended high on your calves, even the ones that you'd had to roll up a few years ago. And tight, too. Thanks to the years of tightlacing, your waist was about the same size as before, if not a little smaller, but for the most part, it turns out you'd gone through all kinds of growth spurts. You credit the fact that you didn't notice to Meg's keen eye and wicked sewing skills. She updated your wardrobe with new dresses pretty frequently, so it makes sense that she would keep an eye on when your clothes needed to be let out, or lengthened, or both.

And when Carly gets home, she and Mom both agree that this would be a perfect opportunity to take a girls' trip to the mall. Somewhere deep, deep in the recesses of your memory, this seems to make sense. School is ending soon, so Carly would want some new clothes for summer. And sales, those happen around this time of year, right? So long away has fogged your memories a bit, but some vague outlines remain.

It takes some coaxing, but eventually Rodney and Charles agree that the royal transport vehicle can stay behind, as long as the two of them can tag along, which translates to your two beefy, six-four bodyguards being crammed into the backseat of the minivan, clown-car style. They don't complain, so you can hardly object. You're aiming to be as inconspicuous as possible; to that end, anything is better than being chauffeured around in a black limo with flags on it.

So you roll into the mall, all five of you—your mom, the calmest she's been since you arrived home; Carly, practically bouncing off the walls with excitement (thankfully, she isn't asking you too many questions yet); Rodney and Charles, who are...well, they're doing their best; and you, wearing clothes borrowed from your mom, surprised at how much you miss the now-familiar feeling of five layers of underskirts, and becoming increasingly aware of how many double-takes and whispers your garnering from the people pass. Nobody's approached you yet directly, but from the moment you leave the car, you're turning heads. It shouldn't come as that much of a surprise. After all, you don't wear makeup on an everyday basis in the palace. Nobody does, except for parties. Your—well, Mom's—clothes may be modern, but your face still looks the same. Plus, being followed around by bodyguards is probably kind of a tip-off.

Through the redecorated food court, past storefronts you barely remember, until Mom grabs your elbow and gently leads you into a store with clothing that must be age-appropriate. You're relieved to see that, out of all the stores in the mall, it's one of the emptier ones.

A salesgirl hurries over; the tag on her uniform gives her name as Tammy. "Hi, welcome to..." She trails off, and you bite your cheek to hold back the anxiety as her eyebrows lift. "Are you..." She shakes her head. "Sorry. You just look so much like (Y/N) (L/N). You know, from The Choosing?"

The tension dissipates almost immediately; it's all you can do to keep from sighing audibly. "Right. Yeah, I get that a lot."

"You must. I mean, you're, like, a dead ringer." She cocks her head, taking you in for another moment, then spins away. "Anyways, welcome to Tara's! If you need any help finding anything, let me know."

"Thanks." You smile and walk away as quickly as you can without seeming rude. All you want is to have a quiet afternoon at the mall with your mom and your little sister; the last thing you need is for Tammy to spend a little too long looking at you. For her to recognize you for real.

**********************************************************************

"How about this one?" You come out of the dressing room and do a twirl, feeling silly (and strange, without the sensation of a skirt swirling at your feet) but happy. The store has gotten more crowded since you arrived, but if anything that seemed to help your quest for anonymity.

Carly clapped, but you could see confusion on her face. Your mom didn't look at all enthused. Rodney and Charles were waiting outside, but you imagined they would be showing a similar level of excitement, if they'd been here.

"What? What is it?"

Mom purses her lips. "They all fit you so nicely."

"But?" you prompt.

"Why are they all green?"

Coming from Carly, it comes across as blunt, but not unkind. You look down at the mossy shade of your shirt, and then glance back at the pile of stuff in the dressing room behind you. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"It's just..." You smooth your hands down over the soft fabric at your hips, feeling suddenly self-conscious again. "Sorry. Guess I just got used to it. Back at..." You don't need to finish the sentence. You've been home for almost a full weekend, and still nobody in your family has really brought up the palace, or Loki, or the competition itself. You have to admit to yourself that you're a little afraid of what will happen if you do.

"Right." A little crease appears Mom's brows. "I didn't realize...you all wore green on the segments, but I thought perhaps that was just for the camera."

"Well... I mean, sometimes we dress in different colors for balls," you offer. Carly giggles, and you recall your earlier argument with Mom and Erik, about your speech patterns changing. "I mean, parties. But, yeah" —you've found that throwing in some teen jargon has the tendency to soften up your parents and Erik a bit, even if it comes out a little more awkward and unnatural sounding than before— "yeah, for the most part, our wardrobes are all, like different shades of green."

"Hm." Mom crosses her arms. "Interesting." It's clear from her tone that interesting isn't quite the word she was thinking off.

You respond with hands on hips. "Interesting? Really?"

"You know what I mean."

"No. No, I don't."

"(Y/N)."

"Mom. You don't have to, like, censor yourself around me."

She sighs. "It's creepy. A little cult-like, to be frank."

You snort. "Wow. Didn't realize you felt that strongly about the color green."

"I'm surprised they don't allow you a bit more variety in your clothing choices, that's all."

She's right. She's entirely right, really, but you still feel the words sting you, and you spit back, "I have a closet there the size of my bedroom here. I'm not exactly suffering for a lack of options."

"Wow, a closet bigger than your room here? Here, in your home? Sounds like a great place." She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, tossing her hands up a bit manically. "Maybe you'd rather go back than stay here for the next two weeks."

"Maybe." You want to slap yourself as soon as you close your mouth. You see from Carly's sudden stillness, and Mom's wide eyes, that the word hit them just as hard, if not harder. "I mean—I don't—"

"I'll take these to the checkout," Mom mutters. She sweeps behind you and picks up the clothes in the dressing room, even the things you haven't tried on yet. When you try to tell her as much, she holds up a hand to silence you. "It's fine. We can return what doesn't fit, but I think it's time we go home. The mall is closing soon."

That's a load—the mall doesn't close for another few hours, at least. It's barely dinner time. But you don't argue. The last thing you need to do is say something that makes the situation even worse; though, as you watch Carly trot out after Mom, leaving you alone in the dressing room, you're not sure if things can get much worse than you just left them.