It's Thursday evening, around eleven o'clock — Jane and Thor's date night — and their date hasn't even started yet. It's amazing how intergalactic crises can put a hold on romantic plans.

Eventually, though, enough is enough. The new galaxies will still be there tomorrow morning, still waiting to be discovered. They won't go anywhere, Jane promises herself, repeating the words that Thor has been saying all evening in varying tones of jest and annoyance. She switches off her tablet with a sigh, leaning back on her mountain of pillows.

"Alright, alright," she calls in defeat. "The electronics are off and stowed."

When she hears no response, she adds, louder, "My device is no longer in my hands!"

She knows that Thor doesn't like competing with her science, and if she's worried about geodetic effects and Kepler theorems she can't fully enjoy that way he earns his title as a god of fertility.

"And I'd like my device to be in your hands," she mutters to herself as she plays with the frills on her nightgown. Usually she wears large free science t-shirts to bed, but as good as they were for a giggle — Thor especially enjoyed the "renewable energy" one with a smiling lightning bolt — after a long day of trudging through data sets, feeling a bit feminine is all she needs. That, and Thor's exceptionally nimble fingers and tongue. Preferably somewhere below the waist.

When she still hears no response — and instead some clanging, like he is messing with her plumbing, again — she calls out, "Thor?"

There's a huff and some inaudible muttering.

"Just a minute," he calls back through the open bathroom door. She tries to wait patiently. After all, she did make him wait, so it's only fair. But it's more than boredom that's making her fingers trace circles on her bare thigh.

"Are you coming to bed anytime soon?" she asks, trying not to sound sullen.

"I'm afraid that's going to be a problem," the voice calls, and a figure steps around the doorframe. Jane looks up towards the top of the doorframe and finds only space; her eyes search downwards about two feet and land in surprise on a figure that is most definitely not her boyfriend, but a person who is shorter, with darker hair, fuller lips, and a much more feminine body shape.

The full lips open and it's Thor's voice that comes out: "I was worried something like this would happen when we allowed my brother back to Earth."

Jane is over to inspect in a matter of seconds, forgetting her frills and tingly thighs for the calls of Science.

"Is this… Sif?"

"No," Thor's voice replies from Sif's face. "Well, it is her form," he admits. He sounds weary.

"And Loki…?"

"I wish I could say this is the first time he's done this… but…"

Jane watches closely as the slender eyebrows draw together and the lips pout; it's strange seeing Thor's expression of this other face.

"I am sorry to ruin your evening," he adds, and like always he means his apology.

"Oh no, not at all," Jane replies, distracted. She reaches out to poke the breastplate and it feels real, even though she knows Thor was really wearing a cotton t-shirt. "I don't…"

After a moment lost in her mind calculating conservation of matter and Cartesian dualism, she blinks and seems to return to the present. An idea has occurred to her.

"You know, it doesn't have to," she says. "Ruin the evening, that is."

Sif's face responds with a scowl, a pensive scowl that definitely is one of Thor's trademark expressions.

"I do not follow."

"Well," Jane murmurs, trailing a hand down the armor until she reaches warm skin. "It doesn't have to ruin my evening," she repeats.

She smiles a bit awkwardly, wondering how blunt she's going to have to be with him. Fortunately, he follows and saves her the embarrassment.

Although he says it with a kind look, his refusal still hurts.

"I think not. That would dishonor the Lady Sif." He shifts and glances down at his borrowed body. "I am sorry, Jane."

"That's alright," she lies, her voice too high. "I'll just…"

The noise of the tablet booting back up is too loud, and Jane has to remind herself not to make a scathing remark about how at least something is getting turned on.

She gets through another two spreadsheets before she has to say it.

"Are you going to go talk to him?" she attempts after a long moment of silence.

"In the morning. Goodnight, Jane."


The SHIELD break room is never empty, but after she realizes Jane hasn't eaten since the night before, Darcy drags her boss there. Even if a late breakfast can't fix anything, it certainly makes things better. After nearly a week, Darcy knows every little thing helps. She doesn't have to ask what's making Jane even more scatterbrained than normal.

"How many times is this?" Darcy asks instead, picking at her bagel.

"Six!" Jane squawks, flapping her arms indignantly. "I mean, the first time it happened, I was kind of intrigued…"

"I bet you were," Darcy says with a wink. Jane ignores her and plows on.

"But the second night and the third…!" she shakes her head. Her breakfast is uneaten. Her hair is all over the place, and she is wearing the same clothes from yesterday, three layers of ratty free t-shirts.

"It's getting ridiculous," Darcy agrees, smearing more cream cheese on her bagel. "You need to get laid. And deserve to."

"Damn right I do," Jane says, nodding emphatically.

"So just take care of it yourself," Darcy suggests through a full mouth.

Jane's eyes widen and she begins picking at the coffee stirrers, straightening the creamers left on the break room counter. She lowers her voice and admits: "Thor doesn't like that. He says it makes him feel left out if he's not there…"

"I'm not saying kick him out of the room—"

"And he thinks it's inappropriate if he's in her body and I'm… and he's…y'know…" She trails off, pink around her ears.

Darcy blows air through her lips like a horse. "What a ridiculous double-standard. We both know that when he's back in his body, he's not hesitating to handle his own hammer."

"Darcy!" Jane shushes her, jerking her head towards the figure at the kitchen's round table. The 1940s haircut is recognizable from across the room, and the flag regalia is pretty hard to miss.

"What, I said hammer," Darcy objects.

"He's not that out of it," Jane whispers, giving her a pointed look.

"Fine," Darcy mouths. "Anyway," she continues at her normal tone, "I think you deserve to do as much…" — she searches for a euphemism — "… muffin baking as you'd like."

Jane is scandalized — apparently too much to object — and stares at her with wide eyes.

"I mean," Darcy continues. "If a guy ever told me how to… bake… my own muffin, I'd dump him."

There's rustling over at the table; the newspaper folds up sloppily and the chair pushes back, squeaking across the linoleum.

"And," Darcy calls out, her voice several decibels louder than necessary, "I'm very good in the kitchen on my own — my own muffin — baking my own muffin — with my hands — in my kitchen — my muffin…"

That is definitely Steve Rogers' cue and he rushes out of the SHIELD Level 3 kitchen. His face is so red that it clashes with his red stripes; Darcy grins.

"Darcy!" Jane chastises her. "You need to stop doing that!"

"What, he's hot," Darcy replies through her bagel with an over-exaggerated shrug. This is an excuse in her mind.

"Well, he's never going to say 'yes' to your little overtures if they're so…"

"Tchaikovsky 1812?" Darcy supplies, using her hands like little fireworks to demonstrate her own lack of subtly. When Jane looks surprised at the reference, she adds, as though offended, "What, you don't know what music I have on that iPod of mine."

Jane glares and returns to obsessively straightening the kitchen supplies. Again, Darcy has gotten distracted.

"I'm sorry you're being cock-blocked by an Asgardian trickster god," she forces herself to say with a straight face.

At this, her boss looks up, but with a puppy-dog expression.

"Do you want me to go talk to him," Darcy continues, more of a statement than a question.

"You're the best Darcy!" Jane coos, squeezing her in a rare hug.

"Gosh, I know you're horny but can you please stop trying to grab my ass?"

There's a crash outside and another patriotic blur streaks by. Before Jane can yell at her again for being insensitive, Darcy rolls her eyes.

"What, does he not know how hallways work?" she gripes.


It isn't hard to track Thor down — Level 4 weight room, where he has frightened away all the trainees as he hefts ridiculously full barbells around.

"Whaddup," Darcy says, announcing her presence as she drops unceremoniously down on the neighboring bench.

"Hello, Darcy," Thor replies darkly. He looks like he means business. His hair is tied back in a ponytail, for goodness' sake. It would be funny, except he also looks like he is ready to murder someone.

Darcy decides to jump right in: "So Jane tells me that you've been having some troubles…"

When he doesn't say anything, she adds, "… at nighttime… in the bedroom."

"I understand," Thor interrupts her. He thunks the weight down on the ground, rattling the entire floor. "And yes, we have had… troubles."

"What's the deal?" Darcy asks.

"Loki enjoys his tricks," Thor says, and that murderous look manifests in the way his eyebrows become a single long line.

"And he does this often?" she prompts him.

"Unfortunately. He enjoys playing with forms."

This is a distracting concept, but Darcy knows what is at stake and goes into problem-solving mode.

"Is there any way to get him to stop?" she attempts. "What have you done in the past?"

"Physical violence always tends to work," Thor admits. "I once used an axe when he mocked Fandral… and a mace that time on Vanaheim… and I did shove him up against that wall when he took the Captain's form."

He seems pleased at the idea that something so simple could solve his problem, but Darcy is distracted and all but does a double take, squeaking out, "Excuse me?"

"Oh yes," Thor replies, chuckling. "My brother greatly enjoys parodying great men."

"So does he know exactly how great of a man Cap is…?"

"I do not follow," Thor admits.

"Yep, glad you don't," Darcy replies, eyes wide. "Okay, good talk."

"Yes?" Thor asks, leaning back in toward his barbell.

"Yep-excellent-much-okay," Darcy replies in one word, beelining out of the gym.

"Where are you going?" Thor calls after her, sounding concerned.

"To talk to your brother," she mutters to herself.


The level of Stark Tower devoted to Loki has enough security to keep out the entirety of SHIELD — and Darcy is pretty sure that's what it's made to do. It also keeps Loki in, thanks to Jane's handy combination of Asgardian handcuffs and ankle tracker devices. He has been on magical house arrest for almost a month without incident — unless you count his unnecessary creative interventions on Jane and Thor's sex life.

Darcy knows the code because Jane knows the code, and Jane knows the code because she has to make alterations in the tech occasionally. This is not something she should probably know, and she has been saving a visit for when she feels she can use it best. Now might be the time.

The door slides open and Darcy is ready with her taser, the charging noise buzzing. It's strange, but the noise comforts her.

No one is in the main hall. This throws her and she almost turns to leave, a bit confused to see nothing but clean tiles and empty walls. No dead bodies or bloody swords anywhere. Is she in the wrong apartment?

"How good of you to come," a voice calls, and before she can second-guess herself, Darcy follows it. He is in the living room, reclining sumptuously on a stark white couch. Darcy gulps, the taser flopping aside as her hand goes limp. People warned her about the genocide and the manipulation and the rage, but no one warned her about the leather pants.

"Hello," he says cordially. "I don't think I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

"Darcy." She cocks an awkward hand in a sort of half wave and he returns to his book.

"I assume it isn't necessary for me to introduce myself," he replies as he turns the page.

"I might enjoy it," Darcy replies honestly.

He looks up and affords her with a full grin, a Cheshire cat one and Darcy knows she is in trouble.

"Why is that?" he asks pleasantly. His voice says: I am going to enjoy this. Darcy shivers, and it's not entirely out of fear.

She blurts out: "I hear you do good impersonations."

Loki smiles, leaning forward, and it's the evil smile she's heard about. There's no warmth in his eyes but the dimples could fool you.

"Any ones in particular?"

She is certain he can hear her gulp from across the room.

"Uh well Sif for starters…"

"Oh yes." He leans back onto the couch and reaches for his book, immediately disinterested. His voice is faraway as he tells her, "I assume my lovely brother must have sent you."

"Yeah and he told me about some others like... the… uh… Captain America?"

The green eyes slide over to her and a ghost of a smile makes his lips twitch.

"Did he?" he asks pleasantly.

"Yeah."

"Don't you Midgardians have some expression about curiosity and the pussy."

"I want to call that a Freudian slip," Darcy mutters.

"Pardon?"

"I—just—pussy..." she mutters hopelessly. "Never mind."

There's a silence and he looks at her, baffled, as though doubting her sanity or her IQ.

"So can you do it?" she finally asks.

He scoffs at her.

"I hardly think that the Avengers are keeping me here to perform party tricks."

"I don't think they're even keeping you at all," Darcy admits. He looks intrigued, so she continues, "I get the sense you don't do things you don't want to do."

"And why would I want to do this for you?" he asks.

Darcy trails her free hand down the buttons of her blouse and watches as his eyes follow the movement.

"No reason," she says, trying to be nonchalant.

It's a stalemate: they stare at each other for a long moment.

The stillness is broken when he sits up, shifting his green blouse, and suddenly Steve Rogers is staring at her in his star-spangled outfit just like this morning, but it's definitely him, especially the way that his eyes are measuring her like a cat eying a mouse.

"How's this?" he asks with an overly saccharine smile — and it's not his voice anymore, either. Darcy tries to suppress another tingle going up her spine. "Care to have a rousing discussion about American values and this great star-spangled nation?"

"Not particularly." Her eyes are wide and her voice betrays how awed she is.

As he turns to look at her, she has to remind herself that it isn't Steve Rogers that is looking at her like that.

"I-I was wondering," she continues, rolling her lips between her teeth, "how… complete… your impression was?"

He grins again and she adds, stalling with false bravado, "Just so I can fully judge…"

Before she can react, he is standing and has unbuckled the belt. Without any fanfare he drops both layers of clothing to the ground.

Darcy is pretty sure her jaw might fall off her face.

"I assume this is what you were referring to?" he asks coolly, smiling a perfect Disney prince smile with all of Steve's perfect Disney prince face.

She nods mutely, unsure of whether she can form coherent sentences.

Constrained by the pants around his ankles, wearing someone else's skin and an American flag costume, Loki should look ridiculous — but he seems at ease and glances leisurely down at the appendage receiving such intense scrutiny from his new acquaintance.

"I've heard you like to make unnecessary innuendos about such body parts," he says in his own voice. "I do as well."

He leisurely unfastens the breastplate of the Captain America armor, tracing fingers on the bare flesh.

"I suppose certain phrases come to mind, with my expertise," he adds.

"Hung like a horse?" Darcy blurts out. Loki glares at her sharply through Steve's eyes, and she knows she's going to pay for that oblique reference to his mythology.

"I always find that battle is the best comparison," he snaps.

As she stares, he shifts his hips, enjoying the way she follows the movement and flushes. There is a moment of silence, and he regains his composure now that she has lost hers.

"Selecting a sword is not only about shape and length," he continues, "but it's about heft. Something you can't tell just from looking at the blade."

Steve's blue eyes slide up to her face where they rest for a moment as his hand stretches to test his own girth, his own response, his own length.

Although a witty response is somewhere in her brain — something about impaling and handling and sheaths — Darcy is not even capable of stopping herself from emitting a low whine.

There's a snap followed by a sizzling noise.

"Oops, I must have…" she trails off, realizing that she gripped the taser too hard and it went off, violently attacking the couch.

She watches as Steve's eyebrow quirks, and his tongue wets his lips, his hand never straying from the steady rhythm at his hips.

"Oops," he repeats, in Steve's voice. His eyes are half-lidded and a lazy smile pulls at his perfect lips.

His steady pace picks up, and his breath matches. She can see the curves of his bare chest heaving as he pants, and his full lips are open and it's just her name he's saying over and over in Steve's voice and that could be enough for her.

"Care to join me?" he asks, in a strained tone of Steve's voice she's never heard.

"Would I." Darcy snarks, the weight of her sarcasm marred by the way she can't seem to get any breath in her lungs.

She glances over to the mirror to fix her hair, when suddenly she realizes the double meaning in the Trickster God's words.

It's the attractive and beardly face of Thor that mouths her words, "I am so going to hell for this."