Disclaimer: I do not own any characters of the MCU. I just wish I did... Ah well. Happy reading! (And Happy St. Patrick's Day!)
Chapter One: A Walk in the Park
The man was sauntering down the street, whistling good-naturedly. It was a bitingly cold March day, but he was, as always, immune to the chill.
Everything about his appearance whispered money, from the heavy grey wool coat and the gleaming black shoes to the delicate green scarf looped casually around his neck. Beneath the outwear, he wore a black suit. Close clipped blonde hair and sharp cheekbones made him striking rather than merely handsome. He could have been anyone; a stock broker, a lawyer, a professor - all professions in keeping with the polish and charm that practically radiated from his person. It was all for show, of course. None of it was real – the coat, the shoes, the hair, the suit. But he had always been fastidious about keeping up appearances, a trait that was doubly important today. He didn't want any uninvited attention on these visits to the city. Behind black frames, burning green eyes took in the city, never missing a detail.
He was in quite a good mood; his latest plan was inspired, if he did say so himself. And really, these quick trips were so thrilling, always on the verge of being caught. It always managed to get his blood pumping, adrenaline even now coursing through his veins. It was no mean feat, after all, to pop down to Earth and back without anyone being the wiser.
A bitter gust ruffled his hair as he turned into Washington Square Park, relishing memories not now long past. Today had been particularly successful. He had managed – at last! – to arrange the meeting that would send all the little pawns scrambling. A few more day trips – carefully planned so as to avoid suspicion back home – and he would have his prize. A small token, really; he had long since claimed the throne. Still, one ill turn deserved another, and he had never been one to let his enemies rest peacefully. In pieces perhaps, but never in peace.
Chuckling, he began to work his way through the mostly abandoned chess tables. It was here that he noticed something rather odd. In spite of the chill, there were a few pairs at the tables, old men desperate for the watery hope of sunlight. Two tables over, however, was the anomaly. It was a lone figure, huddled against the wind to stare intently at the chessboard. Though he could only see a rather lumpy shape of a body, the hands were delicate; feminine, graceful hands that indicated the owner single handedly lowered the median age by thirty years. She was playing alone, moving the pieces steadily across the black and white squares. The men nearby gave her a wide berth, watching with some strange mix of respect and trepidation.
The man cocked his head to one side, a devilish smirk oozing across his hard, angular features.
"Well," he murmured, voice floating through the frosty air, "that's worth look."
He had been staring at her only for a few moments before she spoke.
"If you're going to hover, stop blocking the sun," she said abruptly, eyes never moving from the board.
He hid a flicker of surprise; mortals so very rarely noticed when he was making an effort to be discreet. Curiosity piqued, he sat down opposite the strange, marshmallow-clad woman.
"There. That better?" he drawled.
"Not really," the woman replied, cobalt eyes never leaving the board. She proceeded to ignore him, fingers tapping her coffee cup idly.
"Come now. Are mysterious strangers so boring that you prefer to play imaginary opponents?" he asked playfully after several long minutes. In truth, her lack of response niggled at him.
"Don't be stupid. I'm obviously here to work on my tan," the woman retorted, moving the final piece into check.
"Clearly," the man said drily, taking in the layer upon layer of winter coats, hats, and scarves.
At last the woman looked up, eyeing him lazily over a coffee cup. "Yes. Now, how can I help you, Mr…?" she asked, a half-smile playing around her mouth.
"Kingsley," the man said smoothly. "I rather fancy a game, if you've the time, Miss..."
"Branson. Kera Branson," she said absentmindedly, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. Yet she made no move to rearrange the board. Instead, she continued to watch him thoughtfully. After a few moments, she raised an eyebrow. "So, Mr. Kingsley... Really now…" she murmured to herself, mellow voice swallowing a chuckle.
Loki cocked his head, considering. It didn't sound like a question; he had the oddest sensation that the woman knew he was lying. Grinning to himself, he nodded. This would be interesting.
Forty minutes later, and Loki was staring at the board. Though outwardly pensive, he was anything but; in truth, he was part incensed, part flummoxed, and very much intrigued.
The woman had played him, undressing him like a novice. As at the beginning of the match, he had the peculiar feeling she knew his plan. Every trap, every feint had been deftly disarmed or curtailed. By the time he had begun to play in earnest, it was too late; she had claimed his knight and both bishops, and from there proceeded to march up and down the board. She sat across from him now, eyes sweeping up and down the board before returning to rest on him, head half turned as if struggling to hear. This seemed to be her habit, having spent most of the game fixated on him rather than the pieces. Loki took the time to return the favor.
Far more of her was on display than had been originally. Her hats rested on the table, long forgotten, as was her first overcoat. Nutmeg hair fell from a messy bun, taunting a too-small nose. Her cheeks were flushed, burned by the harsh wind. Her eyes were currently amused, as if they knew a secret he didn't.
With a long-suffering sigh, he tipped his king. The woman didn't seem at all surprised with the move.
"What, no snappy rejoinder?" he asked, standing up to stretch.
"Nope," she said, eyes sparking wickedly up at him.
Loki harrumphed, but felt a wolfish grin tug at his lips. "Well my dear, to the victor goes the spoils. Name your prize," he said gallantly, forcing the charm into his voice while his mind began turning over the next possible game. Next time, he would not be so easily taken in. Next time, he would crush her.
The woman paused for a moment, as if distracted. Then she laughed outright. "Next time, you bring the coffee," she said, grinning impishly.
"Indeed. I look forward to our next game together, Miss Branson," he murmured darkly, not quite able to hide the menace behind his wide smile.
Well, there it is. Thoughts/ comments/ concrit always welcome. Hope you enjoyed!
I'm still playing with the voice for this. POV will be rotating, typically by chapter. Thanks again!
Shout out to the best beta there ever was - THANKS EM!