Skel: Hey guys! Thanks for your touching reviews, bless you all for saying that :) This one's considerably fuzzier than the last – I think the intense emotion of Reticence makes this stuff far more entertaining.
But don't worry, I have some serious stuff planned too *wink.
Without further ado, this is 'Resolve,' being the sequel to 'Reticence.'
Chapter One
"Loki… You know full well that I have already pardoned you, and your thoroughness surprises and elates me… however I do believe you've earned my forgiveness a thousand times over. Why now do you try and seek it again, and by such troubling means?"
"That is not the only reason, Father. You know that. Besides, it is a punishment I have chosen personally – and what better atonement is there than one you have agreed upon? One you are happy to do by way of penance?"
"But… my son, it is madness! Whatever shall you do there? And your mother, abandoned already by her eldest son, to now be thrown into loneliness once again, it is a troubling thing for her, even though she is so strong-willed."
Loki chuckled softly: "Yes, but do you forget her youngest?" he added sarcastically: "I am certain that in his youth – and legitimacy - he will be able to provide her with all the love and joy Thor and I once endeavoured to do." He looked at his father seriously: "We are old now, father. Ready to begin lives."
The old king nodded absently, rare lines of worry creasing his brow. "If… you are certain … " Loki blanched as he thought he saw a small tear in the corner of Odin's eye – he was not ready for shows of emotion.
Loki gave a short sharp nod. "I take my leave of you father – you know as well as I do the art of stealth is not lost on me. I must make use of it wisely, before the dawn wakes my poor mother and friends."
Suddenly Odin embraced his son, his strong yet old arms encasing him. Loki realised he was slightly taller than his father –that's a pleasant surprise, he thought.
After a moment of shock, Loki placed his hands gently on his father's back, trying not to allow the bubble of emotion in his throat to burst. Yes, this was a far better idea than doing this over and over with all of his other loved ones on Asgard. Not that there were many, but still.
Breaking apart, he patted his father's shoulder awkwardly. "I thank you for your mercy, my Father, I know it is undeserved."
Odin shook his head, "you are my son. I will always treat you as such, no matter the circumstances."
Loki revelled in his words, heady with his father's approval. Letting his hand pass beside his face in a soft wave, he magicked himself to her room. With a deft flutter of his fingers, she lifted from the bed to float into his arms. Even in a coma, she was beautiful. Upon studying Midguardian Culture, he'd found many apt phrases to described things he'd never been able to word properly before. In this instance, one came to him: "distance makes the heart grow fonder."
Over the months as she'd slept on, after the initial bouts of worry and doubt, Loki had settled into a quiet peace with his beloved. As the length of her slumber grew, so too did his attendance to her, and his eagerness for her to awaken. It was as if her eyelashes had grown, her hair become fuller and softer to the touch, her skin more marble and porcelain and tender all at the same time. And her full lips seemed to be always planted in a pose of glorious peace – a Mona Lisa smile, as he'd learned to call it, which grew upon his heart like a wanted cancer.
He'd become introverted beyond cure, and chose instead to read to her. At first reading ancient tomes which he (and probably she) eventually grew bored of, he then moved onto more appropriate literature. He'd managed to procure some Midguardian poetry – initially tedious stuff that he'd ignored in prior years. But as he studied the art of her face and touched her delicate skin, the flawed, human poetry of Keats or Shakespeare began to reflect a murmur of the soul he'd once thought eternally dormant.
Holding her like a feather in his strong, lean arms, he then vanished to reappear on the Bifrost, his father standing on the edge with the cool night air whipping his cape about his legs. He turned to his son and smiled.
"Have a safe journey, my son."
"I will," the words caught in his throat.
Loki began to walk slowly towards Heimdall. The tension between them was still there, but as Heimdall was always watching, he also knew full well the transformation Loki's soul had undergone over the past months.
With a curt nod he strode into the chamber, clinging tighter to Darcy in his arms.
"Wait!" Odin called after him.
Loki turned to see the doors of the chamber framing his Father, a small silhouette against the growing light of dawn. He was staring after his son with a curious look on his aged features that turned Loki's heart to liquid.
"I love you Loki," he said simply.
He thought he might as well be a boy again.
Gaining control of his quivering lips, he breathed: "And you, Father."
Then the sword sunk into the floor and Loki felt a familiar pull which threw him into the cosmos.
Darcy's eye-lids flickered, as the soft light coming in through the drawn curtain woke her. She felt considerably exhausted and drowsy, like she had the world's worst hangover … and her body was unbearably slow at catching up with her mind. Holding her head in her hands, she slowly sat up, her eyes screwed tightly shut. What had she been doing the night before?
With a jolt she realised she didn't know what she'd been doing the night before. Or even the week before… what the hell?
It must have been the hangover of all hangovers – maybe she'd found some Asgardian Liquor in her dorm stashed away secretly and decided to be irresponsible… or maybe she'd decided to go to one of the raging Uni parties she'd always avoided like death.
Rubbing her eyes mechanically, she cracked them open, then stifled a scream.
Her room was … gone. That was the only word for it. She was in a totally foreign place, observing totally foreign objects and shaking about in totally foreign sheets. Had she done the deed and slept with a random guy and ended up at his place the bitter morning after? She reached for her nether regions, hoping she was seriously incorrect. She let out a loud sigh of relief when she found everything in order. However her back ached like a bitch.
She rubbed her eyes again, trying not to look too closely at the pictures on the walls or the books stashed around the place. She wanted to get out of there as soon as possible and get the hell back home without reliving any strange memories.
As she moved to stand, she felt something tugging at her memory, and furrowed her brow as she felt some strange déjà vu pervade her thoughts.
"I really need to find out what happened last night," she thought worriedly. This was turning into some strange rendition of The Hangover.
Gingerly she placed her feet on the wooden floor, trying to calm her shaky nerves. Maybe studying her surroundings was a good idea. A huge Dali painting hung on the wall, and her eyes widened. Okay, so maybe not some random guy…
Stepping across the floor, she felt hollow, like she'd been sleeping for months with no food or physical exertion for far too long. Despite the delicious smell of French Toast emanating from what she assumed must be the kitchen, everything else smelt different. Her senses were kicking into gear with surprising force, and everything told her she was in the wrong place.
She realised with a jolt that she wasn't alone. Reaching for the closest weapon-like object she could find – a small umbrella on the floor – then thinking better of it and putting it back gently – how horrible to beat up some random with his own umbrella - she strafed the door and put her back against the wall, peeking through the crack the open door made.
The rest of the apartment continued on, a small lounge room with sparse furniture but mountains and mountains of books, faced her. There were more books than in the bedroom, which she'd thought was a library or study of some kind. She wondered happily if she'd finally managed to vodka-bang some Uni nerd – the ones with tailored waistcoats and slick hair and intelligent eyes which she found so attractive. And, judging by the Devil Wears Prada furniture, he was probably rich to boot. Score.
She huffed despite her situation – she always managed to miss those guys completely and end up playing reluctant tonsil-hockey and panty-drop with some burly airhead who she'd always regret the next morning. Maybe this would be a regret-less one?
"H—hello?" she said softly at the door. The smell was intoxicating – a scent she remembered from her early childhood years before her Dad had sprinted. She could hear the sounds of frying and… footsteps?
Slipping through the door trying not to make a sound, she padded softly across the floorboards into the living room. She gasped internally at how quaint the room actually was. A small alcove on the west side, facing a beautiful vision of a city – though which one she was reluctant to find out - yet the room was not imposed upon by the deafening roar of trucks and cars she'd been so used to in New Mexico. A small ornate table which looked like it belonged in a Paris alley-way was nestled there, overlooking the view. Books lined all the walls, making the room look like it was wallpapered with them. And the books! She found a whole section devoted to Keats, and another to Historiography, and another on Political Science which she never thought she'd see outside of the Uni Library.
Half deathly-afraid, half hoping, she wondered if the owner was some professor. Instantly a grisly, Einstein image flooded her mind and she gagged emptily.
"Well… it wouldn't be the worst thing you've done…" she whispered under her hand.
A soft clink echoed around the corridor and she assumed the kitchen was that-a-way. She spun around to see a window cut into the wall, with a tiny little kitchenette framed within it. Holding her breath she watched on as a figure moved into view, his back facing her.
She bit her lip. He looked decidedly yummy from this angle. Dishevelled black hair down to his slight shoulders, off-black business shirt, tucked into a leather belt and black pants. His figure was lithe and she could tell from the forearms which peered out from under his folded sleeves that he was muscular despite his wiry frame. He turned infinitesimally to check a recipe, and she glimpsed his profile: long, aquiline nose, pale almost translucent white skin, and flawless eyes which sent her reeling.
Scoooooooooore.
Oh my fucking God, oh my fucking God, she couldn't control her arms. They patted at her clothes, stroked her hair, tweaked her nose, rubbed her eyes – this was the best morning-after of her life. It was such a shame she couldn't remember any of the events before which led to this Mr. Darcy being in her life.
Oh God, please let this be real, please don't let this be some kick-ass dream I'm going to wake up from, she thought. She debated whether she should go and speak to him, but was afraid he'd evaporate.
Against her better judgement she couldn't resist – with an ass and face like that his voice must be luscious. She had to hear it.
Her socks sent no noise across the floor as she tip-toed up to the window. She was completely unsure how to approach him – she couldn't remember a thing except that ridiculously boring lecture she'd died in. Something about him told her she should recognise him, but her mind was mush.
Touching the sill of the window-wall tentatively, she cleared her throat. The crackling of the butter in the pan increased, and she cleared it louder.
He spun around.
.
"Darcy…" the God breathed. He said my name!
"Uh…" Darcy squeaked lamely. Her knees were suddenly jelly, her eyes unfocused. Come on Darc, get yourself together! Play it cool…
He seemed to be staring in total shock, his eyes wide green saucers which watched her face like a cat at night. They weren't cold, but she could see some tendency in there for arrogance. Whatever, she didn't care so long as he knew her name and said it like that.
"Darcy," he said again, moving out of the kitchen and into the living room. He was tall. Ridiculously tall. His head brushed the doorframe as he entered, and he had to duck swiftly to avoid getting knocked out. Her heart stuttered a little as he came closer, his hands held out in front of him.
Wait, what? He was holding his hands out like he were trying to catch a wild animal. His eyes were wary, his footsteps obvious and calculated. Uh, it's okay bro, I'm not gonna bite.
Hmm… or am I? Maybe I already have… Darcy bit her lip as a hot flush came over her cheeks. She couldn't help instantly imagining all the awesome things she wanted to do to him between the sheets. All the different places she wished she could see – his chest, his biceps, the base of his neck, and other things which she tried not to think about. Too late, and she heated up into a fire-engine red as her eyes flicked to his crotch, then back to his face.
Oh God I hope he didn't notice that. He seemed to be intent on not scaring her or something – he was stepping closer now… yay.
"A—are you…" he didn't finish, choosing instead to cover his mouth with long, pianist fingers. A strange emotion passed through his Jade eyes, flickering between joy, remorse and fear.
"Uh… "she said again, her voice softer, "are you… you know… all there?" she gestured to his head. Something about his serious demeanour told her jokes were lost on him. To prove it, his brows creased with concern and confusion, then after an awkward moment, he smiled beneath his hands in awe.
"Darcy…" and he suddenly moved to embrace her. She could feel herself melt into the contours of his chest as he towered above her – his hands moving up and down her back in the most comforting gesture she'd ever felt.
"Y—yes okay…" she said awkwardly, "I get it. You know my name." How strange this guy was. She hoped he wasn't some creep, because being around him was her new favourite thing to do apart from playing sims and listening to Radiohead.
He chuckled warmly and she could hear the sound resonating through his ribcage by her ear. It was the most pleasant sound she'd ever heard.
"Oh Darcy, I am so happy you are well," he crooned into her hair. She could feel a sensation above her, like something was about to touch her. Was he stroking her head? She whimpered internally.
"Uh yeah… totally fine," her hands were still clinging to his glorious-smelling shirt. It was that typical cologne-smell mixed with something else heavenly that tickled her nose as she inhaled deeply. Was it really hot here or something? It was like a fucking sauna.
After what felt like an age, he broke away from her and looked into her face. Was that a tear? She felt considerably awkward now. This dude was the strangest.
He stroked her face and she leant into it automatically. His touch was so gentle, like he were trying not to break her. She sighed, hoping she didn't look too much like a swoon-addict.
Her mind reeled: "Um… so …. What the hell?" she laughed nervously, his fingers still on her cheek.
He suddenly stiffened, retracting his hand – no! come back! - and staring at her in shock, like he'd done something wrong. "Oh Darcy!" he cried out, "I completely forgot." To her dismay he stepped back and regarded her with a completely different air – that same arrogance she'd seen in him before seemed to grow all of a sudden. He looked down his nose at her.
"I trust you slept well?" he said, clearing his throat. Yep, this dude was definitely off the scales with strangeness. She felt a nervous anxiety in her stomach as she seemed compelled to like that arrogance about him, despite the dangerous aura he gave off in waves.
"Y—yes," she breathed, "but… um… what happened?" She watched him, trying to read his expressions. He'd turned into something very cold and distant all of a sudden.
"You've been asleep for a while…" he said absently, looking at the books on the floor by his feet. "Quite a while, actually."
She narrowed her eyes, "how long is a while?"
He seemed cornered. She thought she heard him mutter something inaudible which had the words: "…planned this… totally off guard… tell her?" in it. Her eyes narrowed even more.
After a while, she asked again "How. Long. Is. A while?"
He sighed, still not looking at her. "T—three months."
She felt a sudden urge to hurl her guts out.
"Oh," was all she whispered as she slowly sat down on the immaculate white couch. Her body felt completely still with shock but her world was spinning.
"Three months?" she breathed, bringing her hands to her mouth and feeling strange tears prick at her eyes. "Three fucking months."
"Yes," he was still staring at the books. I'm over here dipshit, the one having a mental breakdown on your fucking sofa!
"And… I've been here… at Netherfield Park… all that time?" so she was still making jokes – that was good, at least she wasn't catatonic.
"W—what?" he was very puzzled. He mustn't be the joking type she thought. Mind you, now wasn't the best time to be making digs at his very 1800s British-cottage-apartment-thing.
"Never mind," she stood up stiffly. She'd better go then, if he so obviously didn't want her there. She tried not to linger on the feel of his strong arms about her. Instead she focused on his cold aloofness which seemed to say everything: get the fuck out of my house.
She wandered back into the room – which actually was a study, with a makeshift double bed propped up against the corner, surrounding by books and strange furniture. She saw a duffel bag which she assumed was hers.
As she reached for it, searching around for any more of her stuff, she noticed the IV stand. Strange details started sifting through her consciousness. The loose night-shirt draped over her otherwise naked form, the dishevelled patch on her arm where the drip had been wrenched out in her drowsy waking up, photos of her mother and family on the nightstands…
And another photo.
Standing in front of golden spires and towers which gleamed in the sun, stood Darcy with her arms around a very, very happy Jane Foster. Her creased eyes were filled with blue joy, and Darcy's own shaded by sunglasses.
She stared at the photo for a very long time. Memories suddenly filled her. Asgard – Asgard in the summer.
She felt the strange man's presence behind her as he walked into the room. She must have looked a sight – night-gown on, malnourished frame, pallid cheeks and tears in her eyes as she stared like a freak at this framed photo on the nightstand.
Everything started flooding back. Her internship, Jane, Thor, Asgard… coming home from a lecture to find…
Her mind seemed to go blank as she tried to remember what happened next. It was like there were huge holes in everything. She wondered if she were on medication.
Suddenly a portrait filled her memories – a tall, slim, wiry figure with jade eyes and slick black hair. A portrait in the All-Father's palace, framed and hanging in the corridor of the dining hall…
The Plaque beneath it: Loki Odinson.
She gasped and turned around sharply, staring at the tall, black haired figure who watched her warily, but from a distance.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
He visibly retreated internally, his eyes widening and his mouth narrowing into a hard line of worry. He seemed to be searching for the right reply; straightening the centre of his shirt, realigning the buttons fretfully.
"Who am I?" he repeated, but Darcy just folded her arms impatiently. He regained control of himself and stood up straight, staring down at her with that same strange arrogance. Did he have bipolar or something?
With a gentle sigh, he said in his lulling, British-accent: "I am Loki. Loki Odinson."