Why or why does Loki appeal to my Mr. Darcy complex? And why do I distinctly identify with Darcy Lewis? It's like the writing equivalent of a haunting, this couple...

Not mine, property of Marvel and all their awesomeness.

"When you first met him...all those millennia ago...was it love at first sight?"

The romantic in Darcy can't help but ask the question, no matter how ridiculous her pragmatic side thinks she is for doing so.

Sigyn, to her credit, smiles at the memory it conjures. "Quite the contrary, actually." She smooths invisible wrinkles in the long hem of her tunic. Darcy liked her immediately because she was a goddess who wore pants and boots and her hair in two long braids down her back. Dresses are for suckers, anyway.

"You hated him?" she asks, even more curious.

"She loathed me," a melodic voice answers from the garden's shadows. The two women watch as Loki steps forward from under the boughs of a willow tree, dressed down for an afternoon of leisure instead of his typical armor meant for mayhem and mischief.

Sigyn laughs and the roses near her bloom brighter, bigger. She leans in towards Darcy. "He thinks himself a man of mystery," she says in a stage whisper, "but he's as easy to read as a child's picture book."

Darcy cackles at that and Loki's arrogant smirk falters. He stares at her with wonder in his eyes, quickly replaces it with disinterest when she looks at him. Sigyn, however, sees the expression and remembers it from long, long ago. It warms her heart.

"Do you recall what I said to you when we first met?" she asks him.

"The Ostara festival in what later became Norway?" She nods. He turns his gaze to Darcy. "For reference, Ms. Lewis, all I said to dear Sigyn was that her dress did wonders for her complexion and accentuated her fairest assets."

Darcy quirks an eyebrow at him in an expression he's come to appreciate. It's disbelief. "Assets, as in T and A?" she asks.

Sigyn laughs loudly, holds her hand to her breast as the humor leaves her breathless. "Oh I do like you, Darcy." She sobers, points to Loki. "Now, then, ex-husband, what did I say to you in return?"

Loki sighs like a man carrying the heavy burden of defeat. "You called my parenting in to question and displayed a great dislike for my tunic."

She smirks, turns to Darcy. Her blue eyes sparkle in the sunlight, a cat's gleam to them. The goddess of fertility, Darcy assumes, is allowed her own brand of mischief.

"Darcy, allow me to translate: I called him a right bastard and suggested his frock of choice should be a death shroud."

Darcy stares at her, agape, then glances at Loki. He looks just embarrassed enough at Sigyn's retelling of their first meeting that she can't help but laugh at him. Her giggles surround the garden and, in spite of himself, a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, Mischief Man, that's fucking hilarious," she says.

"I am so glad you find my public mortification amusing, Ms. Lewis."

Darcy stands then, and crosses the short distance to where Loki hides in the shade of the willow's branches. He tenses at her approach, readies himself for whatever electrical shock she's about to deliver. He'd never admit to fear - especially fear of a mortal girl - but Darcy Lewis incites a certain level of apprehension in his rational brain that he respects enough to consistently entertain. He often reminds himself that she's felled Thor - and himself - with a small, handheld toy.

When she reaches him, she looks up at him from under those beautiful, too-long lashes and he focuses on breathing. The God of Mischief, demolished by a mortal woman's bedroom eyes. What has become of him, he wonders.

She hovers her hand over his chest, just over his heart, and then makes a fist. She knocks against his chest three times.

"What on earth are you doing, Darcy?" he asks, unsettled just enough to call her by her given name.

"Checking to see if it's hollow," she says and thumps his chest again. He should, reasonably, move away...but he can't help the curiosity. She brings herself closer, then, so she can rest her ear against where her hand once was. He's overwhelmed by bergamot and pine, strong team and the northern forests in autumn. When she leans back to look up at him, her smile is far too knowing for his comfort. "Look at that, Tin Man," she says. "The Wizard gave you a heart."

It would take no effort on his part to kiss her right then; just a simple act of bending down and lifting her chin. He's just about to do so when Sigyn clears her throat, reminding them of their audience, and the moment shatters.

He steps back from Darcy and glares daggers across the garden at his former wife. Darcy does her best not to appear disappointed, but he's seen that expression on her face before, as well, and he dislikes that he is the cause.

"Darcy, perhaps you and I could visit the library," Sigyn says and this catches Darcy's interest, her love of books following her all the way to another realm. The wind catches the scent of her as she moves back towards the bench; it wraps itself around Loki and he loses himself in it.

"Loki, I believe there is a feast later this evening," Sigyn says and he nods, unsure of why she feels the need to remind him. "After dinner, you should show Darcy the gardens on that side of the castle. There is a much grander willow there." She winks at him and his mind becomes befuddled. Why must all the women in his life leave him continuously dazed and confused? "It is a quiet hiding spot, if I remember correctly."

He thinks of the spot she means, remembers their time spent there many, many years ago, and suddenly catches her meaning. He catches Darcy's hand before she wanders away. "It's a lovely grove," he says, bringing her fingers to his lips.

"I look forward to seeing it," Darcy says with a wink that reminds him just a bit too much of Sigyn.

"Until this evening, then," he says, releasing her hand and straightening.

"Can't hardly wait," she says with the kind of breathless anticipation that makes Loki wish he'd worn looser pants.

He watches her make her way back to Sigyn, who smiles at him knowingly. It takes all of his princely manners and godly reserve to not stick his tongue out at his former wife, but he manages it.

Barely.