So, we start jumping around a bit, because who recollects in chronological order, really, and it suits my purposes.
Response to this has been amazing, thank you so much, guys. Shoutout to all my reviewers; I actually read ninety percent of reviews at four in the morning, when I wake up for work, so sometimes they blur together, but I'd like to thank the suggestion that I tag the story with the Loki/Darcy pairing. I do so with hesitation, because this story is almost more focused on their distinct non-pairing, at times, but I digress.
Also, M rating is in the forecast, it'll be bumping up soon. Yikes.
That being said, I work retail, and, well, next week is Black Friday. I've also got schoolwork, but this is eating at my brain and I do what I can when I can.
Thanks a ton again, for reading. Enjoy.
Darcy had picked a Tuesday, after several careful weeks of learning and planning. Or was it plotting, when what you intended to do was slightly devious in nature? Guard rotation, downtime for surveillance equipment, the usual meeting times for the higher-ups of SHIELD, she had it all memorized to the best of her abilities.
Sometimes, she wondered if Loki would remember something like the day of their meeting having been a Tuesday, that she was the one who had tended him, and discarded the thought with embarrassment and no small amount of reproach. She was simply being a decent human being, doing this, showing goodness could be done by less significant beings than himself, that forgiveness was a thing and more than a second chance could be given.
That's what she told herself, anyway, on the days she wondered whether he would just go on another killing spree once free.
She also felt that magnificent mane of black hair needed a decent trim and combing, but that was neither here nor there.
Once the decision was made, Darcy was aware there was no turning back, and that she was likely committing treason, several crimes against humanity, and probably making an enemy of beings even beyond her own world. Luckily, Thor had wandered off to parts unknown, Jane with him, and Darcy wouldn't feel as guilty. Part of the plan was to not be caught, of course, but...Regardless, she told Fury she would like to start interrogations – well, conversations, of her own with Loki, with the Director's permission.
It was easily granted, as no one else had achieved any measure of success in the weeks since Loki's incarceration, silence and serpentine mayhem the only results so far. He assured her, however, that his own flavor of interrogation would continue, if and when he chose. She tried to hide the involuntary chill down her back at the thought of Romanoff wielding a pair of pliers.
She began entering the cell each day, burdened with a gloriously-expensive clipboard that was mainly for show, assorted fountain pens in a rainbow spectrum of ink, and a trusty can of root beer. These were a far cry from the earlier days, when she'd crept in, hesitantly requesting to change his wound's bandages. But just like those times, Loki greeted her with silence, a respectful nod the only indicator he'd noticed she was there; that, and his eyes tracking her every movement from where he sat motionless.
She really, really disliked the fact that he was still bound, within cell walls, she'd decided. When he shifted, the shackles around his wrists inched up and down his forearms, revealing angry red abrasions on the pale flesh. She had also come in, on several different days, only to be told she had the day off, paid leave and everything, because questions were being "asked" of Loki. She'd heard the gasps of pain and clinking of instruments from the next room on one particular occasion, demanding Fury tell her exactly how those questions were being asked. He'd said something about that information being classified, and sent her home with a warning.
Seeing the wounds that were likely an incessant pain, her mind filled with textbook passages. She'd studied torture and mental illness, and how one could lead to the other; lobotomies, electroshock therapy, blades under the fingernails, all highly-touted methods by which a desired mental cooperation or state was supposedly achieved. She wouldn't sit by while the Asgardian-slash-alien edition of those textbooks was written.
Loki seemed to notice her scrutiny of his bindings, edging his hands into his lap and pulling his legs up from his seated position on the pitiful bed. His head cocked mutely to the side, a question in his eyes.
With a start, Darcy came back to herself. "Oh god – ha ha, see the irony in that – anyways, I, um, I've come to talk, Loki." His name aloud felt weird on her lips, and she rather liked it. She moved to the small table in the cell, plopping down her clipboard and various stationary supplies, before flinging herself in the rickety fold-up chair. The lack of wheels sorely disappointed her, as it forced sitting still. She still found a way to rock it back and forth on its legs, probably annoying the hell out of the god, but he never indicated any irritation. Didn't indicate much of anything ever, actually, and she wondered if the potential boredom would be worth it.
She asked him a few basic questions that everyone else had likely asked, and even some provocative ones about his failure and motives, gauging his reactions carefully as she'd learned. He seemed well in-check, balanced even. This wasn't the Loki from Stuttgart's broadcast, she secretly noted with no small amount of pride and satisfaction.
Well into the hour appointment, her hand froze mid-scrawl, realizing she'd been responding aloud to responses that were not, well, verbal. His telepathy felt almost natural at this point and she really wasn't going to get into that fact with herself, instead swallowing and casually glancing around the room. She'd learned his room was only visually surveyed unless official interrogations were taking place, audio unnecessary when he seldom had visitors and never talked. She was comforted by that knowledge. Slightly.
She probably still looked nuts on the cameras, and would have to chuck out these notes, insisting he refused to talk to her. She was damn lucky everyone considered her wayyyyy far beneath scrutiny. She was a name on a long payroll, who cracked jokes. That was all, and that suited her purposes just fine.
In any case, he was surprisingly candid with her, albeit via Headtalk, which she had named his one-sided telepathic conversations, and she learned a lot. He even tried her root beer once, giving a small thumbs-up that she nearly bawled with laughter at. He probably believed he was never getting out, and this would be all he'd ever have for company, and that thought sobered her.
Darcy began leaving books and other reading materials behind on "accident", which was sadly believable, given her attention span, but she was secretly pleased when she'd retrieve them the next day, visibly thumbed-through.
As her plan developed, she started leaving post-it notes in them for Loki, written in childish Spanish, pretending she was learning the language in her spare time and translating pieces she'd already read, when anyone asked. In truth, she'd learned that Loki's abilities included a sort of sense called "Allspeak", where he generally knew what was being said in any sort of language, especially written. He likely knew a lot of Latin as well from his already-lengthy existence, and Darcy had never been so glad for those three years of Spanish in high school.
A warehouse-worth of root beer cans later, they had a plan, even if it had been laid out in rudimentary Spanish, fraught with grammatical disasters, on colorful post-its that were burned within his fist as soon as Loki had seen them. The trickster had demanded several times to know why she was helping him, and she had never answered. She wasn't sure she could.
The day arrived, and she arrived at her office, dumping all her stuff in her office beyond the cell. She was dressed only in a long-sleeved tee and jeans, which she quickly regretted when she swiped her keycard to enter Loki's cage. It was perpetually frigid, something about his frost giant genetics affecting smaller spaces if he so chose, although she noticed the temperature typically rising whenever she entered.
Pausing halfway through the door, she craned backwards as if to check something on a screen in her office, and when she turned her head back, Loki was in front of her, as if on cue. She let out a gasp as his chilled palms, still bound, pressed to her temples. His expression was almost only halfheartedly menacing, some hesitancy visible in his actions as she started screaming.
A searing pain had filled her head, like every hangover she'd ever sported hitting her brain all at once, and when he abruptly let go, she fell to her knees, then sideways onto the cold cement floor. Her clouding vision noted a slight look of panic on his face as he watched her fall, before a green light was shimmering across him, morphing his form before her eyes as he knelt to snatch her keycard. For a split second, she saw herself standing over her, sans handcuffs and smirking, and then everything went black.
When she awoke, the only thing SHIELD could get out of her was an indignant "He stole my iPod!" and they quickly abandoned the Darcy line of interrogation.
She couldn't recall if theft of her device, which had been boasting several exclusive new songs obtained by questionable means, had been in her plan, and would afterwards wonder if she wanted to catch Loki more than SHIELD did.
She still couldn't recall the exact method of his escape, thanks to her request that the details be wiped from her mind in her defense. She had been the mastermind though, that knowledge kept intact; it was alternately a point of pride and chagrin to her, decades later.
A door closing startled her from her reminiscent doze, and Darcy opened tired eyes to see her ex-husband crossing to her beside. "Ian."
"Darcy. How are you feeling?" He clasped her cold hand in his warm ones, pressing a kiss to it. She tried not to wince, instead pulling her hand from his grasp with as much strength as she could muster. It's like her illness had somehow reinstated their marriage, and she would have none of it. Things died for a reason.
"Oh, you know, just great. Did a bit of aerobics, baked a cake, got a lot of use out of my day." Her tone was brittle, like her façade would break any second.
His brown eyes were focused on her reproachfully, and she regretted they weren't green nearly every time she saw them. It was a serious problem, this eye racism, she thought idly.
"The girls are coming by tomorrow." Her ex's British accent had always been rough, uncultured, a cockney edge to it that grated on her ears, made her yearn to hear a story crooned in the dulcet tones she had conversed with daily, so long ago.
"Lovely. Be a dear and hit my painkiller button, would you?" She was really in no mood to talk house with him, not now. He sighed, acquiescing with a sadness that sparked a very tiny feeling of regret within her. Fifteen years of divorce couldn't completely negative the eight happy-ish ones they'd shared. She'd have to apologize for her bitchiness before she went.
"Talked to your doctor. They said there are some small signs of improvement! They're calling in a Norwegian specialist to see you, see if he can work any magic." Her eyes flew open at that statement, and she eyed him warily, wondering if his wording was intentional.
"Anyways, I also brought you this." Ian proffered a baggy sweater, one of her favorites, her go-to when she needed something comfy to cuddle into. Her eyes filled with tears as he gently worked it over her shoulders, and she patted his hand awkwardly, managing to sniffle only once. "Thank you, Ian." He muttered something falsely assuring, pressing a kiss to her temple. Her eyes closed at the contact, a tear breaking free to trail down her cheek as he quietly left.
She felt like a sandcastle, the tide of her mortality lapping closer and closer, eating at her very foundation.
Closing her eyes, she half-wished for a strong wave.
Slamming shut her front door, which was probably more expensive than a year's rent at her last place, Darcy sagged against the wood, sliding towards the floor with an exhausted sigh. She sat there, slumped and glaring at a patch of hardwood flooring for several quiet moments, until a rustling sound from her living room reached her ears.
Reaching into her bag for her ever-trusty taser, she simultaneously pushed herself from the floor as quietly as she could. This was a SHIELD-sponsored apartment on the twelfth floor of a building neighboring Stark Tower, and she had no idea what sort of intruder had the balls and skills to be prowling on her death-defying terrace.
Flinging herself into her living room in what she hoped was some sort of FBI-based rolling crouch, Darcy only succeeded in looking like a complete idiot. To an empty room, by all appearances. Only the curtains across one window were moving, waving in a breeze coming through the opened shutter. What the-
"Miss Lewis." She shrieked bloody murder, turning and firing her taser at the nearest object. Her true target dodged, and she succeeded in rendering a twelve-inch Eiffel tower replica unconscious. Dropping the weapon, prongs and all still attached, Darcy pivoted, slipping her bag over her head to use as a bludgeon, if necessary, but her eyes caught a tumbler of whiskey, sitting on the coffee table innocently. A glance noted the bottle on a side table, uncapped, before her eyes moved to the couch itself, where her intruder was now reclining, clad comfortably in some sort of Viking casual wear. Leather was involved, and she gulped.
"Loki," she breathed, uncertain of whether to maintain her defensive stance or drop the bag and quaff a mouthful of her expensive scotch that he'd obviously helped himself to. One could never visibly tell which way the wind blew, after all.
"Please, contain your excitement at my unexpected appearance." He flicked a finger, and another tumbler joined his on the table. She wondered if she looked at the bottle again, if another inch would be missing. Fascinating, the sciencey-magical art of conjuring. His dry laugh ended that thought. "Everything has to come from somewhere." And there she had her answer, but-
"No. Nope, out of my head. I appreciate you're at least speaking aloud in my presence and deigning to actually employ that silver tongue, but no, get outta there. I've had a long day and I didn't come home for mischief god shenanigans to interfere in my primetime lineup, thanks." She made a decision, opting for casual conversation in the face of potential death and flinging her bag onto a matching armchair. Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, collapsing onto the couch beside him but decidedly ignoring the deity to her right.
Flipping to a channel at random, she came across a Lord of The Rings marathon on cable. "Sweet."
Nonchalantly, she leaned forward, propping her feet on the table and unzipping her boots, kicking them to the carpet. Her socks followed, and she wiggled her toes in relief, snatching up the tumbler of whisky and taking a drought. "Mm. 1982. Good year."
"You wouldn't know," the voice beside her accused, and she arched a brow. "You would, I guess?"
There was a pause, then- "No, actually. I have not concerned myself in Midgardian dealings since the dark ages until…more recently."
"Scotch is supposed to prompt distinctly un-awkward conversation," Darcy continued on, befuddling Loki even more. She grinned into her glass, glad to have thrown off the Master of Unpredictable so quickly after he'd done the same to her. She could roll with spontaneity, though. "Want Chinese?"
She felt his stare, and turned to meet it, waggling her now-empty glass. "Scotch on an empty stomach is a terrible idea, even you should know that." He bowed his quietly in affirmation, eyes downcast.
"I often feel as if we are merely continuing a postponed conversation, you and I, mortal girl," he suddenly admitted, fidgeting with the cuff of his dark green tunic. "You have a remarkable gift for casual conversation in the most tumultuous of circumstances."
"I'm, scratch that, the scotch is gonna take that as a compliment, handsome, despite the whole mortal jab," she called casually, padding into her kitchen for a takeout menu, hopefully not giving away the fact that she'd nearly stopped her own heart with that endearment. What the fuck was she saying? What was in this stuff? "Was there something you needed, anyways?"
"Besides a healthy dose of your terrible jests?" His voice sounded from directly behind her, and she spun, to find herself trapped against the counter, her forehead nearly hitting Loki's chin. He grinned, and the expression was a surprising collage of danger and glee. Maybe they were one and the same, with Loki. She choked on air as he leaned past her, leaning past her to place his empty glass in her sink, and with a shimmer of light, was back across the room.
"Stop doing that," she chastised after clearing her throat. "Be nice like you were in the cell, quiet and no tricks."
His face darkened, and she held her breath, anticipating the drop in room temperature before it happened. "Do not speak of my incarceration."
Rolling her eyes, she pointedly retrieved a sweater from the back of a kitchen chair, shrugging it on and flinging her dark locks from beneath the collar. "I totally did a night in juvie back in high school, so chill. Um, or not," she stammered, as her thermostat dropped another couple degrees.
"I merely wanted to offer proper thanks," he admitted a minute later, starting to pace her living room as he switched topics in a remarkably Darcy-like fashion. "For your actions during my, ah, stay at SHIELD headquarters. I recognize the honor in your actions, going against your superiors to…aid me, and I feel our last meeting was interrupted."
She was going to give herself whiplash, her eyes shooting all around the room as she contemplated the idea of her apartment being bugged.
"If there were any electronic devices, they have been disabled since my arrival," Loki assured her, pausing by a window to look out at the city lights sprawled beneath them. "I imagine your creative tongue will have an excuse for their malfunction, if it comes to light."
She was squinting at him, arms folded across her chest. "You broke into my apartment to give an eight months' late thank-you?"
For once, his eyes didn't meet hers, skittering across the room and landing on a framed picture of her and Jane, smiling and laughing at a festival back in New Mexico. "I am not here to harm you, if that is what you fear."
"I'm not afraid of you," she deadpanned. "I'm starving and need a shower and sleep, though, if we're cataloging my current grievances."
"I still owe you a great deal." His quiet words somehow felt louder to her, and she waited for elaboration. "There is…There can be something of substance among humanity, I see that now." His emerald eyes flickered towards her uncertainly, and she reveled for a moment in the persistent lack of blue in his irises. "Thank you, Darcy Lewis. I'm sure we'll meet again." With that, he was gone, and Darcy was left staring alternately at the much-depleted bottle of Scotch, and her tased Eiffel tower, toppled to the ground with prongs still intact.
"That happened, right?" She wondered aloud, wishing she had some sort of confirmation.
She found it, in a strange gold chain left on her pillow, a tiny emerald pendant the only adornment.
"I feel like some sort of kept woman…kept minion," she corrected as she mumbled to herself, wandering into the bathroom to get ready for bed. "Please don't have an evil plan."
She started wearing the necklace every day, even buying clothes that would set it off against her skin.
Thanks for reading! ~Bon