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Routine has an awful habit of melting the days together, allowing them to pass by in a quiet but incessant rhythm. Frida grows stronger every single day, her tiny fingers grasping onto anything she can reach, her legs pushing and testing their strength.
Loki watches his daughter with an almost bewildered fondness, unable to believe that someone so small and precious belongs to him. To them . It feels like it was just yesterday when he first held her in his arms, and suddenly, she is a year old and he doesn’t have to hold his female form as often anymore and she’s crawling around the Sanctum Santorum like it is her kingdom.
Although, crawling isn’t exactly the word to describe her movements anymore.
Stephen is the first to notice, staring at her with a look that is both afraid and proud, caught halfway through the library as he works on checking the wards around the building. “She’s…She’s trying to walk,” he blurts out, like this is something impossible that no child should be capable of doing. Frida blinks up at him, clinging to one of the lower shelves, with an expression that dares him to question her actions.
From the other side of the room, Loki observes the interaction with a soft smile playing at his lips. “Are you sure? Looks like she’s just holding herself up from here.”
“No, no, no. This kid is up to no good. Watch her.” Frida lets out a small frustrated sound at her father, to which Stephen can only grin at. “Yes, I’m talking about you, you little terror. What are you trying to do?”
To the awe of both of her parents, Frida sets one foot forward with a mighty step. She releases her hold on the shelf with just as much vigor, only for her legs to give an awful wobble, leading to her plopping unceremoniously onto her padded bottom. Stephen reaches for her instinctively, that ridiculously overprotectiveness of his always wanting to make sure she isn’t hurt, but Loki hurries over to catch him by the wrist.
“Wait,” he says gently at Stephen’s questioning look. “Let her try again.”
Sure enough, Frida is undeterred and just as, if not more, stubborn as her parents. She plants her hands down, shifting her weight and pushing herself upright once more. Her bright blue eyes shine with determination, eager to show what she’s capable of. Both of her brows are furrowed in concentration as she fights to keep her balance.
With a knot in his throat, Loki kneels down and holds his arms out, urging her towards him. “There you are, sweet thing. Come on. You can do it.”
Frida shifts her weight again, her tiny foot once again lifting off the floor with a confident stomp. Then the other. Her face twists in concentration, lips pursed as she battles against treacherous gravity.
Afraid even the whisper of air might unbalance her, Loki doesn’t dare to breathe. He’s never known such a feeling before, this potent blend of pride and love and the overwhelming desire to see her succeed.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, coaxing her lovingly. “Just a little more.”
“She’s actually doing it…” Stephen mutters beside him, frozen by his awe. Frida stumbles, and he lurches forward once more, only for Loki to hold him back for a second time. He knows she won’t fall, and she doesn’t. Not this time. Instead, she finds her footing, her face lighting up as she seems to discover how to do this.
One step. Two. Then three.
And she’s off.
The gap between them closes and, with a loud giggle as she hurriedly totters over, she all but collides into Loki’s waiting arms. He catches her with ease, sweeping her up and holding her close as happy warmth floods his entire being. “Oh, you did it!” he breathes against her dark wisps of hair, laughter shaking his frame. “You marvelous little wonder, you!”
Stephen joins in the celebration, embracing them both until something dawns on him. “Well,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s it. We’re in trouble now.”
“Oh, my love. We’ve been in trouble ever since Miss Mischief was born. Isn’t that right?” Loki presses a kiss to his baby’s temple, feeling a familiar dampness in his eyes. Frida pulls back just enough to beam up at him, clapping her hands as though she understands perfectly. Her triumph is contagious, spreading between them and filling the space with something indescribable.
Something shifts in Loki’s chest as he watches her, something that grows along with his pride for his daughter. He can feel it, creeping in. A memory, vivid and unwanted.
A golden hall. A towering figure. A young boy, desperate for approval.
Loki shakes his head, pushing the thought away, but Stephen catches it before it can be thrown into the void. “Loki?” he asks, with that tone of voice that is so full of concern for his husband that Loki just wants to curl up inside its tenderness.
He exhales, forcing a smile back onto his lips. “Nothing. Just can’t believe we’re going to have to double the baby-proofing around the Sanctum already,” he says, but Stephen’s gaze is too sharp, too knowing. He doesn’t press, which Loki is grateful for, but later that evening, when Frida is nestled in her crib, breathing softly through her dreams, Stephen finds him on the balcony, staring out at the city.
“You’re thinking about him.” It’s not a question.
Loki stiffens. “Should I not?”
“I don’t think that’s for me to say,” Stephen answers as he steps closer, standing beside him and arms crossed against the chill of the night air.
Silence stretches between them. Loki does not know what to say and Stephen seems happy to give him all the time he needs to make a mess out of the wild medley of words inside him.
“He…was not the father I wanted,” Loki says eventually. He has to pause to swallow, knowing that once this door opens there is no closing it. “He was not the father I needed. I-I think of him, and I wonder what he would think of me now. Of Frida.” A gesture back inside, to where their daughter sleeps. “Would he see her as the gift we see? Or…O-Or just another mistake?”
Stephen’s hand finds his, fingers threading together. Loki is greeted with the familiar texture of scarred skin and the smooth metal of his wedding ring. “Even if he was here, he doesn’t get to decide that.”
Loki exhales sharply, but doesn’t pull away. “Mostly, I…I don’t want to be him,” he admits. “I don’t want her to look at me the way I looked at him. I don’t want her to suffer. I don’t want her to hate me.”
“She won’t. She doesn’t , Loki.” Stephen turns to him, facing him fully and gripping his hand tighter. Loki meets his gaze, searching for doubt and finding none. “You love her,” Stephen continues. “And she knows it. She will always know it.”
With a nod, Loki tries to absorb the truth of this, to allow it to settle into his heart and repair the damage that has been sitting there for centuries. He turns back to the city. The weight in his chest feels lighter now, even if it is not gone.
“Come to bed,” Stephen murmurs after a moment. “Or else there’ll be no getting you up tomorrow morning, and you’ll want to be there for when she tries walking in front of Wong. He’s gonna lose his shit.”
“Hm,” Loki smiles. “Very well. I am convinced.” He lets himself be led back inside, their hands still clasped together. And as he lays down beside his husband, he does try to let himself believe that he is not his father. Either of them. That he will never be.
Because where Laufey abandoned him to the cold, Loki will be there every single time his daughter needs him. Because where Odin ruled with expectation, Loki will lead with love.
And that, he decides, will make all the difference.