A/N: Forgive my absence! I'm so sorry, I really am. But a new chapter is here now! Enjoy!

And thank you for all your reviews and alerts, you wonderifous darlings! :D


He dangled one of her boots in his hand. Soft, supple black leather. Well-worn. As if she were accustomed to it.

A smile formed. She'd miss the boot in the morning, he knew. But it wouldn't take her long to realise the reason for its absence.

With a smile, he sent it to his current dwelling.

He'd carefully shielded his mind, and had in fact never left her apartment, still indubitably curious. He remained invisible, of course, and he watched as all manner of emotions passed across her face – anger, confusion, incredulity, embarrassment. Her hands clenched. Her brow furrowed. And her eyes raged. It was as if she could not decide what to feel or what to do. Camille simply sat on the couch, her body tense with her train of thought. Her arms curved around her legs, hugging her knees to her chest, and she closed her eyes, her chin resting on her kneecaps.

He did not dare try to read her mind – something which irked him. He had never been hesitant to do anything before. He had never been so uneasy around a mere mortal.

Inwardly, he cursed his uncertainty. He was a god! God of Mischief! God of Lies, of Chaos! Son of… of…

He closed his eyes as a sharp, tugging pain grieved him.

"Laufeyson," he whispered. "Not… not…"

Anguish seized him, but with a skill that was centuries well-practised, he pushed the emotion aside.

Instead, he returned his point of focus to the mortal girl.

"Camille."

The word tasted odd on his tongue. It rolled around lazily, with a hint of allure.

Amusement quirked his lips, and he tapped his mouth with a finger.

It was then he noticed her hands.

Or, to be precise, one of them. The left one.

It was slightly smaller than the right, and seemed… weaker. The way it clutched the right appeared unnatural.

He tilted his head, intrigued.

Oh, Camille. My poor mortal girl. What happened to you?

That thought had never really departed from his consciousness. Neither did he know why he was so concerned.

She suddenly stood, stumbling a little. She pulled off her coat, throwing it carelessly on the sofa. Her hands hung by her side, and as she walked from the sofa to the next room, realisation hit him.

She's… she's maimed. She limps, her left arm is crooked, the hand at an unnatural angle…

Memories suddenly flooded his being.

Angrboða… oh, Hel…

One particular memory pushed itself forwards.

He cradled the little child in his arms. Half pale-skinned, half blackened, almost blue. She was malformed, a bony, jutting form. She weighed almost nothing, and to all Asgardians she might seem ugly.

But to her father she was the most perfect little creature he had ever seen. He kissed her forehead, and a soft moue fell from her pink lips.

His eyes met Angrboða's, and he smiled.

"She's beautiful."

He returned to reality, blinking, and instinctively he followed the mortal. She stood in what he assumed to be her bedroom, and he laughed.

The room was littered with little pieces of her life. Her desk was covered in sheets of paper and various writing instruments, and he raised an eyebrow as he caught sight of a book lying face-down.

Prose Edda… Norse mythology?

A wry grin pulled at his mouth.

So she does have an interest. Hmm…

He walked around the reasonably-sized room, his eyes noticing everything. The glass of water next to her bed. The mirror with jewellery hung around it. The unmade bed. The stacks of books.

He glanced at her as she tried to take off her jumper, getting her elbow caught. She struggled, and he heard her muffled voice as she cursed.

His lips twitched, and he waved his hand.

No sense in making the girl suffer for longer.

Camille finally tugged the jumper off, and Loki's eyes widened as he took in her flushed face, her wild hair.

It was true that Loki had never truly desired Midgardians. Having purely regarded Midgard as a realm to conquer and not admire, it had not occurred to him to find the female gender alluring.

But now…

He averted his gaze as she stripped entirely, only glancing as she left the room.

He longed to touch her soft skin, to explore her.

The force of his craving shocked him, and he shut his eyes as he heard water running.

Usually, he'd delight in toying with mortals, deceiving eyes, startling them with a falling object or quiet laugh.

He couldn't with Camille. She'd know instantly it was him; she was too perceptive to believe otherwise.

He groaned, and ran a hand through his ink-black hair.

"Damn that girl," he cursed.

The water stopped, and he heard her yell.

He was beside her in a heartbeat, and he fought a laugh as she hopped around, clutching her toe.

"Fucking bloody hell!" she hissed through her teeth. "Ow, ow, ow!"

A smile emerged as he watched her, and, shaking his head, he leant in the doorway.

He continued to study her as she prepared for bed, and leisurely pursued her back into the bedroom.

His lips pursed at the seemingly shapeless clothes she pulled on – a red t-shirt, black bottoms.

Oh, they do not suit you at all. No, this will not do.

She whirled, and for a heart-stopping moment Loki thought she had heard his thoughts – until she passed him and went to her desk, picking up the Prose Edda and angrily flicking through it.

"That bastard," she muttered. His eyebrow shot up.

I was nothing but gentlemanly, he mused. What cause did I give her to say such a thing?

She made a sound of frustration, and her hands covered her face, the book dropping to the carpet with a soft thump.

"It wasn't him. It can't be. They don't exist. They're myths, for crying out loud!"

But all myths have elements of truth, her mind reminded her gently. Dad taught you that, remember?

Fury suddenly enveloped her, and she grabbed a marker from her desk and began to scribble on the whiteboard above it.

I AM NOT GOING CRAZY. I REFUSE TO. HE DOES NOT EXIST. HE. IS. A. MYTH.

Loki was profoundly amused by this, and he was sorely tempted to write below her furious scrawl. But he restrained himself, knowing it would only alarm her further.

Camille slammed the pen down, and nearly dived into bed, she was so livid.

She turned out her light and sat there, her knees up to her chest once more, breathing heavily.

Why am I being so emotional about this? It's irrational. For god's sake, stop it!

Oh… 'god's'. Ha. Ha. STOP IT, BRAIN. STOP IT.

Irritably, she lay down, and shut her eyes.

Loki sat beside her then, and his hand reached out as if to caress her cheek, but he thought better of it and retracted it with a small sigh.

"Sleep well, Camille. Dream impossible things," he murmured, knowing she could not hear him. Induced slumber was so very convenient, at times. Particularly when he himself induced it.

He rose, and, glancing over his shoulder to check she was quiet, he picked up the strange pen she had used not minutes before.

He wrote beneath her rant, a slight grin upon his visage.

He stepped back to admire his work, and chuckled, turning to view the motionless mortal. His gaze softened.

"Rest, my lady," he whispered. "I will see you come the morn."

He allowed himself one final look, and vanished.


A/N: Did you like? I will try and update sooner, I promise!

Lightning xoxo