Unbroken (Loki x Reader)

Chapter 33 - Letters Home

The first days in Maastricht were...quiet. 

Hesitant. 

Loki spoke each word more softly than he's ever spoken before. He walked with light steps. And kept a gentle hand on your arm, waist, hand at all times. Except when he was working on getting rid of the cobwebs in the corners of the windows, mopping the floors, or hand-stitching the moth-bitten holes in the bedding. 

All for you. 

Because you had sneezed on your first night, and blamed it on the dust.

In those first days he had refused to let you lift a single finger, instead slipping out of bed before you woke to put on the coffee, getting groceries while you napped, and returning before you noticed he was ever gone. He cooked dinner as you showered, and would hold you until you fell asleep, sometimes stepping into your mind to silently sing you sleepy melodies in Æsir. 

But as much as you appreciated his care, he wasn't himself. You could see the exhaustion in his face and the guilt that he still carried on each of his slightly-hunched shoulders. The worry in each smile made your own smiles fade, which in turn deepened the crease in his own brow.

So on your fourth night in your tiny city apartment you called him to your bed. There you made him sit on the edge as you reached for his feet and pulled away the worn, leather soles. You silenced his protest with a kiss as you pulled the elastic tie from his hair, and ran your fingers across his scalp - easing the tension of the day. And you whispered words of gratitude. Of love. Of rest and reassurance.

Loki slept soundly that night for the first time since leaving Galway.

And when he awoke the next morning there was once more a mischievous glint in his bright green eyes, and a light humor to his being. And he wasted no time in whisking you from bed and taking you to the city center to show you the beauty of the river that crossed right through the middle of town.

That was nearly a week ago. 

This morning, you had woken earlier that expected - rousted by tiny warbles of a winter robin that landed on the window sill. Loki was already cooking breakfast, and you had barely sat down to enjoy the fresh muffins he had baked before he kissed your cheek and bid you goodbye with little more than an "I'll return shortly, darling". By the time you managed to pull yourself up from the sofa and waddle to the front door, he had already disappeared from the street. 

You were left with the question of how to spend your morning. Beyond, of course, standing in front of the mirror all day staring at your stomach - now easily mistaken for an early third trimester belly despite only being three or four months along.

Fortunately you weren't bored for long. After checking the locks on the front door, you noticed a neatly stacked pile of postcards sitting on the kitchen counter, pushed against the wall and out of the way. 

You had almost forgotten about them. 

You rummaged through the kitchen drawers for a pen, finding one Loki had brought back from a local bar a few days prior. 

Now, sitting at the kitchen table, you stare at the postcards in front of you. You have so much to say, but aren't sure where to start. The Avengers know nothing of where you've been or what has happened from the moment Loki teleported you out of Stark tower. They don't know that Loki nearly leveled the Manhattan skyline in that godforsaken flyer. They have no idea that you were living in a tiny cottage in Ireland, picking vegetables from the garden while Loki worked in the city for a seamstress. 

And they have no idea that Thor found you. 

You should start with that. 

You first pick up Natasha's postcard - the one of a young girl, her back turned to the camera as she stares out across the ocean from the top of a crumbling bridge. You had thought of Natasha when you first saw it. You had wondered if she was ever that young girl, dreaming about the vastness of the ocean or of sailing off into the horizon. Or has she always been the girl standing on a bridge that's crumbling beneath her feet?