Heeey not that you have to do this but let me throw a wrench in the happiness and ask how would Loki act if there were complications during the birth? (If you hadn't already done this?)
i’m so mad at how long this took. Frigg’s birth. FINALLY. she’s been floating in existence for ages, now she can actually be BORN and i’m actually HAPPY WITH THIS
warnings: birth. death. life again. blood. crying. pain. general angst. a happy ending. complications and (spoiler) kind of child death, but only for a little bit. everything ends happily with everyone alive.
disclaimer: i am not a doctor. i have never given birth before nor delivered a baby. forgive me if this isn’t perfectly accurate. okay enjoy
Elliot is five now and Loki still can’t believe it; he’s raising a child. With someone. And honestly, doesn’t seem to have screwed anything up too badly so far.
I mean, he must be doing something right—he’s only about a month away from getting another one.
It was a…different pregnancy.
See, Elliot was right on time. His birth went as expected, he arrived the day before your due date, you went to the hospital, everything went smoothly (for the most part. Loki still won’t forgive himself for his own behavior, but you’ve been slowly working to mend that tear).
By the end of the night, you and Loki had a beautiful, tiny, healthy (blue) baby boy.
Your daughter—Sleipnir, you’ve jokingly decided to call her until you can settle on an actual name—still has about three weeks to go.
Everything has been heightened, with this one. The pains and aches are ten times worse, the cravings and morning sickness and drowsiness have reached catastrophic levels, and you’re huge.
You feel huge, ready to pop, which is only worse than the reality of the fact: this baby must be planning on being bigger than your first, plain and simple.
The days are dragging and so are you, slugging along towards the finish line when this baby finally decides she’s had enough. You move slower than the speed needed to feel useful in any way, shape, or form, and Loki does his best to slow to your speed, too—the two of you struggle out of the house every once in a while, a dashing prince and an upright snail with its shell on backwards.
“Any day now,” Loki always smiles. He says that from morning till night, he has been for the past two weeks. “Any day now.”
Then he kisses you and tucks you into his arms, a firm hold on your enormous belly until you get too hot and sweaty and annoyed being so close to him and wiggle away to kick the blankets off.
The nightmares started with four weeks until the due date.
After the first one you thought you were in labour, waking up in a cold sweat with a sharp pain in your stomach—you screeched and smacked Loki awake and Elliot came running—but a few moments of gaining consciousness reminded you that you had simply been stabbed, in your dream.
False alarm.
That’s okay, Loki had said, rubbing your back and kissing your temple, sound every alarm. Any day now.
Can’t wait to hug blueberry, Elliot had helpfully added.
A couple nights later you dreamt you managed to actually birth this child, but when the doctor handed her to you, she was nothing more than an unrecognisable lump of cerulean flesh. No eyes, no mouth, just something alive and pulsing with little pudgy arms that reached right for your face.
Loki had to wake you up from that one.
You’re screaming, he whispered. You’ll wake Elliot, is everything alright?
You burst into tears and made Loki put you back to sleep with a spell.
More and more nights passed and sleep became more and more scarce; every time you closed your eyes, some new horror would take place: you popped your belly with a needle and it flew around the room with the squeal of a deflating balloon, the baby was born beautiful but Loki couldn’t see her, Elliot yelled “blueberry!” and ate the baby, the baby was born made of solid ice and you dropped her, sending her across the floor in a trillion tiny shards of ice.
You decided on no more sleep.
Now with only a few more weeks until something has to happen with her, you’re massively sleep deprived and begging Loki to take you to Asgard for the birth.
“It’s too dangerous,” he says, pushing you back into bed. “The baby is too developed for that kind of travel while still inside you.”
He always says that.
Deep down you know he’s right, but you’re terrified and refusing to admit it. So you lay with your back turned to him every night and he lets you, knowing how mad you are, and just traces down your spine when he thinks you’re asleep.
You don’t sleep anymore, but you don’t say anything.
Three weeks until the due date and you can’t bear the exhaustion anymore, which has only coupled with a biting cold that follows you everywhere to make matters worse.
It is you, you know it, it’s inside you and you can’t escape it no matter how many blankets you hide under, and eventually you simply…slip away, off into a deep, freezing sleep that slows your heart and nearly stops your breathing altogether.
Something is hurting today, squeezing and pulling and punching. Maybe just your daughter eager to get into the world.
Huddled in one corner of the couch under an all-encompassing heap of blankets, neither Loki nor Elliot know where you’ve gone—mini-mountains of blankets have become the norm around the house—and they panic while you dream.
Oh, bliss.
You’re back in bed, warm, rested, empty, and staring into Loki’s mesmerising eyes.
“I love you,” you try to tell him, like you just came to that conclusion, but your voice comes out in a muffled gurgle, thick underwater. Another concentrated pain hits just then, but you ignore it.
He nods, slowly.
“Don’t leave me, Loki.”
This time, a shake of the head.
His hand finds your shoulder as your eyes immediately well with tears, a once comforting gesture that this time freezes your skin over with a biting ice. A pained whimper leaves your throat over the crackling of your frozen skin.
“Beautiful girl,” Loki finally whispers.
He brings his fist crashing into your shoulder, and your arm shatters into a million pieces.
Smiling, he flicks a piece of ice from the dip of your waist.
“Don’t break me,” you plead, unable to move but trying to wake yourself up. Just a dream, just a dream.
This time his hand cups your chin, fingers digging into your jaw as you freeze over and lose the ability to speak, and he leans closer, letting his lips brush your frozen ones: “beautiful, broken girl.”
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
His hand tightens one notch too tight and you shatter, half your face hollow and broken and melting in Loki’s palm.
You break beautifully, he whispers, and you feel yourself floating back towards consciousness. Hush, my sweet…shh…
Nearly to the surface but you’re still underwater, losing air and fighting to reach the top and you finally do, wrenching your eyes open to the light and gasping for breath.
Loki’s stroking a hand from your temple to your cheek, staring intently at you.
This is awake, you recognise, and Elliot pats your belly like a bongo, humming quietly to himself.
“Are you alright?” Loki moves more of the blankets over you; despite your sweating, you’re freezing. “I tried to bring you out of that one as fast I could.”
Yes, you want to say, thank you, but your throat is dry and you still feel like you’re underwater. Hell, your sweats still feel wet and you still feel broken.
Broken. Break.
Broke.
Still underwater.
You choke up a mouthful of water from the dream and grab a fistful of Loki’s shirt.
“My water broke.”
Loki blinks in stunned silence, Elliot sings “bum buh dum dum dum” and keeps patting your belly.
“That’s very clumsy of you, momma.”
“Now?” Loki asks incredulously, finally finding his voice. “It’s still too early—”
You shake your head, fingers scrabbling against his chest as your breathing quickens. “Now, Loki. Now, now.”
Now becomes a concept much too terrifying to accept—now is too early. Now is too soon.
Now should’ve been on Asgard, but now it’s too late.
Hospital, Loki hears himself suggesting, mind going numb at the thought of it. Hospital means driving and doctors and needles and cuts from paperwork and cold, drab white rooms with vomit pink curtains, a paper cup of water and sitting hard on the almost-linoleum floors.
The hospital would have been fine—in three weeks.
“No other option,” you grit out, eyes clenched shut and holding tight to your belly. “She’s not waiting for me.”
The first time you went through this process, your water broke at work and Loki was there in an instant, shouting at people to get out of your way while you giggled all the way down the elevator and into the car, too giddily excited for your baby to recognize much of the pain.
It helped keep Loki calm, too, allowing for him to drive to the hospital with few issues (maybe a little fast, but that was expected) and even as your contractions worsened and you slumped lower and lower in the passenger seat, you kept looking over at him and catching his eye. He’d lift his eyebrows—swerve around a corner—and you’d blurt out a laugh, cover your face with your hands, and take a few deep breaths.
This time, the smiles and excited laughter aren’t so present. Minus Elliot, whose mouth opens wider as he slowly comes to realise what the two of you are talking about.
His dad can’t quite seem to find the right angle to help you up—but you’re fighting against him, pushing his chest away instead of pulling him closer, eyes clenched shut and teeth gritting together.
Here, you ask, no…hospital—here? TAKE ME TO ASS-GARD—then you shout TRAITOR and break down in sobs, curling back around your belly.
“Elliot,” Loki smiles, a hand smoothing over your hip. “Could you give us a moment? I’ll call you if we need help.”
The little boy nods with a bright smile, flashing Loki a thumbs up before scurrying into the hallway—where he sits with his ear to the door, his head starting to throb.
“Take me to Asgard,” you hiss.
“I can’t.”
“TRAITOR!”
“It’s not safe—”
“This isn’t safe! She’s practically frozen to me, I’m—I’m so cold.”
Loki’s voice drops to a gentle murmur, only the mild timbre of his words making it through the door. Why do you hate me?? you’re crying, and nothing Loki says or does can console you, leaving Elliot on the other side of the door spiralling deeper and deeper into the worst of Loki’s panic and your rage.
His little hands start to shake and he takes a couple deep breaths, trying to ignore the gut-twisting pain shooting through his small frame.
“Momma?”
“I bet you planned this—”
“Mommy…”
His dad tries to soothe you but the pain is worsening and your daughter wants out, now. She’s moving quickly, an angry little thing already, not waiting for you.
“Just breathe, love. Just stand with me, let’s get you to the car—”
“Shut up,” you snap at Loki, stopping his sweet nothings and pointless reassurances in his throat. “Just have her here.”
Elliot tries to call for you again, trying to warn you because this already hurts and he got sent outside to feel your pain all alone, but you’re feeling it worse and more concentrated as Loki rushes to process what you’ve just asked of him.
“No, but the hospital—”
“Shut up,” you hiss through painfully gritted teeth. “Here. I can’t stand.”
“You would rather…” his hand stops on your hip and holds tight. “Here? Really?”
“You’re a god,” you grit out, eyes clenched shut as your daughter goes cold, “you know everything. I’m not gonna make it to a hospital. Get her out of me, Loki.”
—
Something cracks through the room amidst Elliot’s sobs.
“Fu—damn it,” Loki hisses, and wrenches his hand from yours.
Swollen and turning the most grotesque shade of yellowish-purple, his thumb is bending the wrong way.
“You broke my thumb,” he grunts from between your knees, blinking back tears.
It’s been years since anything actually hurt him, much less broke something, but you were shivering so violently and clutching onto his hand so tightly that it only took one push to make you snap his thumb.
“Sorry,” you choke, unable to find it in you to care too much. Later you’ll croon over him and kiss his bruises but for now, you’re pushing his child out of you. And she’s cold, so one finger can’t possibly be that bad.
The broken finger brings the whole birthing process to a quick pause as Loki scrambles to make some kind of splint for his thumb before getting back to you.
“Deep breaths,” he says under his breath, “deep breaths.”
Both of you follow his instructions, Loki’s lips moving rapidly in muttered incantations, trying to keep you from freezing over completely and the mess to a minimum, dull your pain, make this go as smoothly and correctly as possible.
A slumped, sobbing little pile on the other side of the door, Elliot has had to go forgotten for the moment. Three weeks too early, the baby is so tiny that the slightest wrong movement or slip in focus could end her life before it starts.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs when your head starts to roll limply back onto the floor. A deep breath splits him in two and he sends the duplicate to your side, already exhausted just from trying to keep you conscious enough to push.
“Keep breathing,” it whispers, stroking a hand along your frozen cheek, “almost there. Stay with me.”
Another push and you taste blood; must’ve bit your tongue amidst all the teeth chattering. Elliot goes quiet behind the door, then shrieks.
“MOMMA, BLOOD!”
“L-Lok—Elliot, get—”
“Shh, I’ve got him. Keep pushing, deep breaths.”
He hides his wince of pain and splits once more, sending a third bit of himself out the doorway to comfort the little boy while the other two keep trying to get this new baby into the world.
Your throat is closing in on itself, slowly but surely asphyxiating you and your fingers scratch at Loki’s broken hand, reaching for the real Loki, scratching his arm when no words will come out. He can only spare a single, quick glance up at your terrified face, eyes bloodshot and lips cracked from the dry iciness of the room.
Your head lolls, eyes rolling back in your head as you choke.
“Stay with me,” he pleads, squeezing your knee with a blood-covered hand. “Almost there.”
One last push and Loki shouts something in a language you can’t understand, but there’s a new weight pressing on your lower stomach for half a second, a blinding flash of blood-red light on the backs of your eyelids, and the world goes dark.
“No,” Loki croaks, and you hear one shrill, tiny cry from his arms, a heartbreaking sob from your son behind the door, and everything falls silent.
“No.”
—
She’s tiny.
Barely bigger than the palm of his hand.
The newborn should be squirming, should be crying and screeching in need of her mother, but she lays limp in Loki’s hands.
“No,” he whispers hoarsely. “No, no, breathe. Breathe.”
His fingers press gently on the slicked skin of her belly, once, twice, three times; he turns the tiny body on her side, trying again to get the little chest to lift with air.
No movement.
“No, nonono, no, no.”
A quick slice of the hand cuts the umbilical cord and it falls from her fragile neck. Loki cradles her close, staggering to his feet and holding her to his chest, bloody hands trying to bring the life back to her lungs and pressing her to his heart, trying to remind her’s how to function.
“Please,” he whispers, shakily running a hand over her tiny, slick head. “Stay with me, no, stay with me...”
You’re unconscious on the floor, lying in a pool of your own blood and Loki can’t be with you both, his duplicates phasing out of existence as he loses the strength to keep them up. Elliot yells again when the one he was with disappears, banging his little fists on the door, and Loki slumps against the far wall, staring at you with tears streaking his face.
You look dead. The baby in his arms is, and he can’t bring himself to look at her.
He hadn’t even gotten to see her eyes.
“Come back to me,” he pleads, trembling fingers running down her tiny body, ten toes, ten little fingers that should’ve curled around his, a little button nose and a dusting of dark hair on her head, blood on her cheeks.
Skin blue as the deep ocean, cold as a corpse.
“Breathe—”
Her fragile form presses against his chest and he holds her closer, trying to warm her, press her to his skin, to his pounding heart.
“Please. Breathe, breathe.”
The baby’s arm drops from his grip.
“No, no, stay with me…”
Should’ve gone to the hospital. Should’ve gone to the hospital.
It might be better if you don’t wake. He can’t face you after nine months of hell with nothing but a dead body to show for it.
Elliot’s finally given up. Loki can see him, lying in a heap against the crack under the door, silently shaking and staining the hardwoods with his tears.
His house falls silent.
For a moment he just sits there. Defeated. Alone. The tiny body of his daughter in his hands, your unconscious form bloodied on the floor.
Should’ve known better.
Frigga.
Frigga would’ve known better.
“Mother,” he chokes out, eyes closing as he cradles the lifeless baby to his heart. “Frigga. Allmother, all–all I had—help me.”
The last pleas fall into the silent house, soaking into the walls and fleeing through the windows as Loki repeats it, over and over and over:
Help us. Help us.
Let us have our daughter.
The very air in the room stills. Only dry sobs, with no tears left to spill break the brittle silence.
Don’t wake up, Loki finds himself hoping as he stares with an empty gaze at your unconscious body. I can’t explain this.
Elliot can feel it, he knows it hurts him, but it’s a good thing he can’t see this horrid scene, this murder scene in their home. His father slumped in a corner with dead eyes, a tiny, bloody baby limp in his arms. His mother in a pool of blood, unmoving.
Loki closes his eyes.
He’s seen enough.
Frigga. Please.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Then, a tiny cough.
Another cough and the tiny body shudders in his hands, curling in on herself, little hands curling into fists, her mouth opens in the tiniest scream—
His daughter cries, and it’s the most beautiful sound Loki has ever heard.
“Oh,” Loki chokes, tears stinging his eyes, “oh, my—”
Cradling her to his heart, he finally breaks. He’s shaking, trembling, laughing and crying all at once as he listens to his daughter cry, feeling her tiny hands reaching blindly, her little belly lifting with each shaky breath.
“Loki.”
It’s a hoarse croak from across the room, and you manage to lift a hand towards him.
“Oh,” is all he can choke out again, “you—”
His laughter mixes with your daughter’s cries and he crawls towards you, clutching the baby to his heart and running a shaking hand over her to wash her with a spell.
“Frigg,” Loki whispers hoarsely, grabbing your hand with his free one, broken thumb be damned. “Can we name her Frigg? Frigga—Frigga saved—”
“Frigg,” you breathe, and Loki lays the wriggling newborn on your chest. “Frigg, oh, you’re perfect…”
Loki carefully helps prop your back up against the couch, clutching your hand and pressing his forehead to yours, eyes clenched shut.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Frigg. A perfect name for the perfect child, a tiny, mewling little girl clutching at your chest and Loki can’t look away, stunned by the ease with which she shifts to her more human form when you cradle her close.
Kneeling by your side, your hand in his clutched to his heart, he keeps his forehead against your temple and sends a silent thank you to the only mother he ever knew.
“Loki,” you murmur, the baby nuzzling against your neck, “she’s so beautiful. So beautiful.”
He can only choke out another teary laugh, nodding and squeezing your hand, not ready to let go yet as he kisses your forehead.
A quiet moment passes just soaking in the fact that your little girl is breathing, you staring at her tiny movements while Loki lets himself catch his breath against your cheek. Right now, he can’t hold you tight enough.
You manage to tear your gaze away from Frigg and catch sight of Elliot laying against the crack under the door, and a pang of guilt twists your heart.
“Loki,” you whisper, reaching up to stroke his tearstained cheek, “Elliot. Go get Elliot.”
He nods, eyes still tightly shut as he cradles your face in his hands and kisses you with a sharp inhale, breathing you in. When his eyes open, they have a new spark to them and he pulls himself to his feet, shaking his head with another disbelieving laugh at the sight of his wife and his daughter, alive, together, breathing, hearts beating.
“Elliot,” he finally calls out, turning to open the door and stopping short when he sees his son curled up on the floor. “Elliot. Oh, kærr, come here.”
He bends and scoops the little boy into his arms, hugging him close as Elliot buries his face in Loki’s neck.
“You have a new sister,” Loki softly tells him, rubbing his back and carrying him over to you. “What do think of the name Frigg?”
Your son just sniffles and hugs Loki tighter, not letting go even when Loki carefully sits besides you and Frigg, conjuring a warm blanket for the newborn.
“I know it’s not Blueberry,” you add, carefully wrapping her and keeping her as close as possible for the most body heat. “But I think it’s pretty good. What do you think, kiddo?”
“S’like gramma,” he sniffs, little voice muffled in Loki’s neck. “Right?”
Loki manages another laugh. “Right. Frigg. Just like gramma.”
Elliot eventually lifts his head, rubbing his red eyes with the back of his hand and leaning against Loki’s chest, staring at his new sister.
“She’s real little.”
“She’s early,” you reply with a smile, thumb stroking over her soft head. “She should’ve been here next month, but she got too excited to meet her brother and couldn’t wait.”
A tiny smile tugs at Elliot’s mouth.
“Hi, Frigg.”
Loki catches your gaze, the softest of smiles playing at his lips.
“I’m gonna be your brother,” Elliot continues quietly, and sits up on Loki’s lap to look at Frigg a little closer. “You’re so tiny. Can I hold her?”
You chew your lip, glancing back up at Loki. “She needs all the warmth she can get right now, what do you think…?”
Loki just nods, carefully taking the bundled baby from your arms, laying a hand on her head as it glows gold. “I’ll take care of that,” he replies, and brushes his lips gently over her head. “Sit down here, Elliot, right next to mom.”
Elliot does, scrambling to sit crisscross against your side, arms reaching for Frigg. “Ready, ready.”
“Careful,” Loki warns him, gently placing the newborn in Elliot’s arms. “Support her head, right, keep your arm just like that.”
Elliot’s cheeks are puffed out as he holds his breath, focused strictly on perfecting the way to hold his baby sister, staring at her tiny nose and shut eyes.
Not bothering to hide your smile, you lean in close, your hand under his arm to help support her head, just in case. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Elliot lets out his breath slowly, brows furrowing.
“Nah, not really.”
Loki’s eyebrows shoot to his hair and you burst out laughing.
“She’ll look completely different in a couple weeks,” you laugh, planting a kiss on the top of Elliot’s head. “She’s about to get really, really cute, don’t worry.”
Smiling softly, Loki shifts around to sit on your other side, draping his arm over your shoulders and leaning over to kiss your temple. “She is beautiful,” he whispers, stroking the back of one finger over her tiny cheek. “She is. We made that.”
“Frigg,” you whisper back. In the arms of your son, she sleeps quietly, tiny eyes shut tight. “Thank you, Loki. For everything.”
He takes your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the back of it.
The makeshift splint on his broken thumb rubs rough against your skin.
“Loki!” You grab his hand and he winces. “Your thumb, oh, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—”
“It’s fine,” he laughs.
“No, it’s not, oh my god, I’m so, so sorry—”
“My first broken bone in a thousand years.” A finger under your chin, he tips your head up and catches your lips with his. “I’d say it was worth it.
― ― ― ―
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