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“Oh, how nice.” Sif says, with a soft sigh, and Loki turns his head toward her, examining her expression with a knit brow.
“'Nice'?”
Sif avoids his gaze and steps further into the room.
“I like it.” she amends, but Loki has heard the first response and latched to it. He pauses at the doorway, watching as she turns to take in each wall, the floor, the windows. All of the things she had asked for are there, he knows he has not missed any of her demands for the space...
“Is the colour not your suit?” he queries, watching intently as she runs her fingers over the dark wood of the dresser. “We may have it repainted if you do not like it, Sif. They are only walls.”
“No no, the colour is lovely.” she says, with a shake of her head, offering him a half-smile over her shoulder before turning back to the furniture. “Was it your choice?”
“It was.” he murmurs, through the fingers that are curling at his lips.
“It was a fine one.” She insists, as she tugs open the drawers of the dresser. (She smiles when she faces him, but examines the contents with such a lukewarm expression....)
“All the things from the list are there are they not?” he asks, leaning upon the door frame.
“They are.” She offers a smile toward him again, but does not stay as she turns her gaze away and gathers one of the quilts from the largest drawer, unfolding it to examine.
She hates it. She must...
“Thank you, it has all been organized so well.”
”Is it the carpet?”
“What about the carpet?”
“Is it the carpet that you do not like?” he says, voice sharpening as his irritation bubbles up through it. Sif sighs.
“Loki, there is nothing wrong with the carpet.”
“Sif, simply tell me if you are unhappy with it.”
"I am not the liar between us, husband." She fires back with a teasing lilt, apparently determined not to give his accusations an inch. “Will you not take my word when I say I am pleased with it?”
“You said it was ‘nice’.”
“It IS nice!”
Loki feels anger swelling in his chest. Nice is not…. Why did she put this task to him if she did not trust him in it? Is it the fabrics? The size of the space? The bookcases? (She had promised him that she was alright with the bookcases!)
"You are right, you are a poor liar." he says tersely, temper boiling over as his thoughts chase each other. "Your attempt at it does nothing to spare my feelings you know. I would rather your honesty."
“Oh will you stop! I am not LYING to you! There is nothing wrong with it! It is all fine!” Sif huffs, tossing the quilt across the chair in the corner with more force than necessary. She turns toward him, cheeks hot with the surge of her frustration. “I am content with the room, Loki, honestly!”
There is a beat of silence, the tension between them heavy, before his head dips and the heart of it spills out. (How pliant she has made him in so few years together.)
“...I did not want you to be only ‘content’.” he murmurs, disappointment hollowing his tone and Sif makes a soft sound from the back of her throat. Loki knows that sound, knows the guilty flinch that comes with it intimately. It is not so satisfying as he had thought it might be.
“Loki..."
"You will spend much time here, for many years to come." He reminds her gently, stepping into the room, trailing past her to the side of the crib. He runs a hand along the rail, brings to life the gentle glow of the sedirstone inlaid there with a brush of his fingers.
"I wished for you to love it, to be excited to bring him home to it."
She sighs, sinking against the side of the dresser in his peripheral vision.
"...if we bring him home."
Sif's voice is small, but it carries a ten ton weight, and at once Loki can feel the crushing pressure of it upon his shoulders again. He inhales sharply, bracing himself up against the smothering tide of grief that is still sweeping its way through as he turns to her.
“Sif-”
"It is not the room." She insists, wetting her lips in the way that she does when tears are attempting to slip. "The room is right - the room is perfect - I just…”
“Stop.” He steps close and his hands cup her face, thumbs pressing gently to her lips. Her throat works, swallowing against the emotion thickening her voice, her bright eyes flinching shut for a heartbeat. Loki strokes her cheeks, bends in to kiss her mouth softly.
“You cannot think of the past always, Sif.” he says gently.
“I cannot seem to help it.” she murmurs, and lets her forehead rest against his. He draws one hand along her cheek, rests it at the nape of her neck.
Loki’s other hand moves to settle on the curve of her belly, his index and mid finger tapping gently in the familiar spot just below her ribs where their son’s feet like to rest. The ‘thump thump’ of little heels answers the faint spark of magic that he offers and he can feel the shiver through Sif’s shoulders once again as the breath she has held rushes out of her. (Every time with such trepidation...)
“You see, he is with us now.” he murmurs and Sif nods, makes a weak noise of affirmation. She does not speak properly and he does not ask her to. He pulls her gently in, instead, until her head touches his shoulder and her arms slide around him in return.
“It will be alright.”
“You cannot know that.” she says softly and he squeezes the hand at the nape of her neck, kneading gently until her shoulders relax a little more. So strong, his Sif, but not in all things.
“I will have faith if I like.” he says primly. “Certainly I must if you will not. You know it is not my natural state to be hopeful, but for this I will be. For this I can be hopeful, Sif, because I am sure of it." He presses a kiss to the shell of her ear. “He will be well. I feel in my bones he will be well, Sif.”
"Would that I had your confidence." She murmurs, but the words seem to ease her all the same and she sinks her weight into him a little more. Her face finds the familiar notch of his neck and shoulder to bury into and she lays a nuzzling kiss upon his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt.
"...it is a beautiful room." She says after a long few moments, her fingers trailing in gentle circles along his spine. "He will be happy here."
Loki smiles as he presses a kiss to the crown of her head.
“So he will be.”