The Old Scars | Loki Hurt/Comfort

Safe Space

Still Loki's POV:

"Shh, we're gonna be alright, don't worry, I'll take care of you."

Memories fading away and adrenaline loosening its grip on my tensing muscles, I allow air to reenter my lungs. Now that she's so close, the indescribable, yet so soothing scent Y/N always has is subtly replacing the sharp smell of sanitizer and antiseptics dominating the room before.

Are you just letting this happen? Do you really accept being hugged and comforted by this mortal? What degradation when it seemed you couldn't sink any lower.

Shut up.

So, you really enjoy this? Why would you need her, why would you need this? Why would you need some cardiac monitor attached to you?

Because... Because...

If there's a reason, feel free to utter it.

Get out of my head. Leave me be for once, please.

You know I never will.

After two very light pats on my back, Y/N carefully retreats a bit and sits down on the edge of the bed.

Banner apparently takes that as his sign to wait outside and silently closes the door behind himself as he leaves.

The number of present pairs of eyes being reduced to only two feels like another brick being lifted from my chest.

I don't know what it is about her face, but the expression it depicts is an unsolvable miracle to me.

Her eyes are glistening ever so slightly with sadness, yet they are wide open, taking in their surroundings clearly. The brows support this expression, signaling sorrow but not misery. The corners of her mouth are pointing up to an almost invisible extent, but somehow this subtle smile is there, reassuring and optimistic, not indifferent or mocking.

As if reaching for a fragile object, she extends an arm and softly puts her hand on mine. I forgot I am still pressing them to my mouth.

"I think you don't need to do that right now. You're safe"

She speaks without the tiniest hint of teasing in her voice.

After a few seconds of either disbelief or paralysis, maybe both, I put my hands back down.

The silence becomes weightier every second.

"So now?"

I ask the inevitable question. Y/N inhales deeply, watching my fingers fidgeting with each other.

"Want to have a word?"

She wants to talk. What could her topic of interest be?

You dull creature, she wants to talk about what's just happened, about yesterday, about the day before, to find out the motives of your doings. This is not going to be small talk.

You can't let her interview you like some criminal, or worse, a patient. Bottle it up, seal it, and never open it again.

Those thoughts and memories have a destructive force not able to be stopped by any bottle or whatever container in the entire world. They can never be locked away forever without eventually leaking out.

Realistically, why would she want you to talk? She has to be trying to lure you out for some reason.

But why, what could she even gain from some words?

What she could gain? From some words? Absurd, how desperately you're trying to fool yourself. That's ridiculous, you are aware of that, aren't you? You, the God of Mischief, the master of words, have become so indifferent to the gravity of sharing information?