It is the 1950′s and Darcy is living in Paris. She thinks of herself as the modern woman, not that her parents back in America agree. Life hasn't been all wine and roses, but that is one bright spot in her life in the form of one of her neighbors.
She had never really seen him, nothing more than just the back of his head when he would head out into the city. He always looked so slick. His tall frame would be adorned in all black, his matching hair pulled back at the nape of his neck.
It wasn't really the sight of him that gave her a thrill, though she would be lying if she said that she didn't at all. It was how the man played music no matter what time it was. The others in the building complained, but Darcy enjoyed it. Mostly on Sunday afternoons.
Most of the week he played various songs, some classics and a few of the newer popular pieces. But on Sundays he played "La Vie En Rose." For the entire afternoon he would repeat the song over and over. She would sit her rocker by the window and close her eyes.
She would listen to the muffled song and daydream about the man. She didn't even know his name, only that the residents of her building called him the "Artist."
She would dream that she had been lounging in his apartment wearing nothing but that one black shirt she always saw him in. He would step over to her, hold out his hand and pull her into the middle of the room. There he would sway and twirl her, dancing slowly to "La Vie En Rose" as he whispered in here ears.
Or she would imagine that she was in the kitchen cooking up one her famous dishes. He would come in covered in paint, lean over her shoulder to look into the pot and lay kisses along the length of her neck.
And when she was feeling particularly scandalous, she would imagine that the two of them were tangled in his sheets all afternoon while the music played on from the other room.
When he turned the music off by sundown, Darcy would sigh and return her chair to the middle of the room. She would go into her kitchen and make something to eat before going to bed wishing that the day didn't have to end. She wondered many times what the man would think if he knew what went through her head. Or would do if she just knocked on his door one Sunday.
In the other apartment, Loki hummed quietly to himself as he added another stroke to the canvas in front of him. He took a step back, a small smile almost invisible on his lips as he took in his work.
Where once the canvas had been blank, it now practically glowed with the bright eyes of a young woman. His muse.
For years he had struggled to paint, nothing ever seemed to work. Now he found himself unable to put his brush down. The piece in front of him was to be his masterpiece. The canvas was covered in roses, their vines entangled in the pale limbs of a young woman. Her eyes shined with some secret Loki wished he could uncover, her lips plump and ripe enough to bite.
He heard the creaking of a rocker in the apartment next to him and went back to work. "La Vie En Rose" played on, and so did the dreams of two young would be lovers.
This is all because of a post on Tumblr of "La Vie En Rose" as played from another room, and this idea popped into my head and I had to get it out.
Also, Artist Loki!
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.