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

Chapter 42

"I thought dinner was on the table." You try to squeeze past her, but she steps in front of you, blocking your path.

"Are you hungry?" You hesitate, then nod. It's a lie, but there's no way for her to prove that. "Fine." She opens up, hand extended out behind her as if to point the way to the dining room.

When the two of you reach the dinner table, Dad and Erik are sitting there in silence. The warning bells go off in your head almost immediately. "Where's Carlie?"

"I told her she could take her dinner into the den. Watch TV."

You smile tightly at Dad, understanding the subtext: they sent Carlie away so that she wouldn't have to sit through the impending confrontation. "Right. She must love that."

He nods.

For a long, long moment, nobody speaks, or moves, or breathes, until Erik mercifully breaks the silence by placing (read: almost slamming) his hands on the table. He lets out a long, low, uncomfortable whistle. "Well, this is tense as hell."

You turn your practiced faux-smile on him, determined to get through this apparent intervention with all the poise and passive-aggressive diplomacy of a thousand Lady Amaras. "My apologies. I had no intention of making things tense." You survey the expressions on Mom, Dad, and Erik's faces, pleased to note that they're all dumbfounded by your response, your bearing, your leaning into the "like, British"ness that Erik accused you of your first day home.

Dad clears his throat. "Well. Would you like to sit?"

"Very much, thank you." You pull out Mom's chair for her, before settling into your own. "Erik, would you be so kind as to pass the potatoes au gratin?"

"This is ridiculous."

"Pardon?"

"Cut the bullshit, (Y/N)."

"Erik," your mom hisses, "language."

"Mom. This isn't (Y/N), it's a fucking robot!"

You chuckle. "I hardly think adopting good table manners qualifies me as a robot."

He falls silent for a moment. "It's scary, (Y/N)," he finally says.

"Scary? Me?" The chuckle turns into something slightly more hysterical, your incredulity peeking out through the passive-aggressive veneer. "I'm not sixteen anymore, Erik. Learning how to be more polite is a part of growing up. It's normal."

"This isn't normal. It's not just the 'table manners.'" he says, putting the last two words in air quotes and a semi-mocking tone. "It's everything."

"Everything."

"Yes, (Y/N), everything." Mom presses two fingers to each temple, as if warding off a migraine. "We're worried about you."

"Yes, I've gathered that much."

"There's a difference between maturing and being brainwashed," she continues.

"Brainwashed?" you sputter.

"The way you've been speaking, the way you walked, only ever wearing green—"

"Are you really still on that? I told you it's not a big deal."

"And you're just..." She puts her head in her hands, giving up. Dad chimes in:

"We're so out of the loop, Bean." It's so unfair of him to use your nickname against you now. It totally works, though—you feel tears beginning to prick up behind your eyes. "You've been there two years, but your letters make it sound like there isn't really much happening."

"I..." You stop. "What about the television segments? Don't they help at all?"

"Those segments show next to nothing, (Y/N). You know that."

"Maybe she doesn't." Mom throws her hands in the air, clearly at her wits' end. "I mean, God, I wouldn't be surprised if that monster doesn't let them have any contact with the outside world whatsoever."

"Monster?" It genuinely takes you a moment to understand. "You mean Lo—I mean, you mean His Majesty?"

"So you're on a first-name basis with him now, huh?"

You bite your lip, the venomous words you'd planned evaporating as you try to figure out the least inflammatory thing to say next. "He's not a monster."

"You can't be serious."

"I am."

Mom stares at you, mouth agape. "Have you completely forgotten how you ended up in that prison to begin with?"

"It's not—"

"The battle? The lottery? And, and now you've been there for two years, you can't wear anything that isn't his colors, can't see your family; and, to be frank, you were sixteen when you left. A child. The fact that he would even ever consider marrying a sixteen-year-old—"
"Mom! It's not like that!" You pinch the bridge of your nose as you search for the right thing to say. "I'm not sixteen anymore. And yes I know that eighteen is still young, but... but..." Your frustration is threatening to bubble over with each new word that leaves your mouth. "You know what? That's not even the point. Because it's not like that, nothing romantic has happened, it's just...I'm just...he's just my friend. That's it."

She laughs, though it sounds more like a noise of pain. "After everything he's put you through, put us through, how could you want to go back, let alone call him your friend? He's not your friend, (Y/N). A man doesn't hold a woman hostage for two years because he just wants her to be his friend."

"He isn't holding me hostage! He told me I can leave whenever I want, and..." You stop short, realizing the gravity of what you just admitted.

"He what?" Mom asks, her voice deadly quiet.

Oh, shit.