concavepatterns:

Oh, isn’t this a
sight.

With a twisted sense of glee, Loki rocks back on his heels,
admiring the crumbling buildings and plumes of smoke rising in the distance as
he gazes out the pristine, floor-to-ceiling windows of the Avengers headquarters.

Midgard’s
so-called mightiest heroes, reduced to a lot of
whining, squabbling infants. The discord within the group comes as no
surprise, truly. Midgardians have always been such simple, aimless
creatures. They
require direction. Order. The firm hand of a God to rule them into meek
submission.
Left to their own devices, they would undoubtedly orchestrate their own demise and
it seems, Loki muses, that they are already well on their way to
accomplishing such
a feat.

The conflict has left them preoccupied, vulnerable, and in
combination with the absence of Thor, who has journeyed to Vanaheim in order to
quell the realm’s own brewing hostilities…well, this certainly presents an
interesting opportunity to Loki. One that he has seen fit to take full
advantage of.

While the children are at play (or war, as they have deemed it, and at that Loki scoffs, for what do
they truly know of the pains and glory of battle?) he took his leave from the
throne in order to return to Midgard, cloaked in a glamour of invisibility, of
course. It will certainly do him no favours to be discovered while he still bares
the face of Odin more often than not.

Yes, to the belief of Midgard and Asgard alike, Loki Odinson
– Loki Laufeyson – Loki Friggasson (heavily he carries the burden of many a
title, none truly fitting and none, he tells himself, truly wanted) remains deceased, and until
necessity should dictate that he reveal himself, Loki thinks it advantageous to
remain a ghost; watching from the shadows and ruling under a false visage.

At least, that is what he had intended.

“Dude, aren’t you
supposed to be dead? Like, again?”

At the window he freezes, back rigid and lips thinning out into
a hard, tight line. Surely those words were not meant for himself?

A quick glance at the wide pane of glass before him reveals
no reflection, confirming that his glamour is still in place, and Loki allows
himself to release a small portion of the tension in his shoulders, knowing
that he remains well hidden from view.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” the voice behind him complains
petulantly. “I thought princes were supposed to have manners.” A rather rude, feminine snort follows that particular statement and Loki finds that he can hold his tongue no longer.

A hot surge of anger invades his chest and with narrowed
eyes he turns away from the window, regarding the short, dark-haired woman who stands
with arms crossed over her chest, wearing a frown as she glares up at him with
equal contempt.

“You can see me.” To conceal his surprise he phrases that remark as a statement rather than a question.

“Yeah,” she replies
slowly, enunciating the word in a way which says, quite clearly, that she very
much believes him to be an imbecile.

Loki grits his teeth, blood boiling as he takes one single,
dangerous step towards her.

Her expression does not waver, though
he can hear her pull
in a sharp breath, pulse fluttering wildly where those rich, dark
tresses have been swept over her shoulder, baring the delicate column of
her throat.

“Does he know?” She does an admirable job of keeping her
tone level, but Loki can detect a slight, breathless quality to it that makes
him smile darkly.

She speaks of his former brother of course, and at that he
feels a stir of annoyance in the pit of his stomach. Even in his supposed death, he is offered no relief from talk of
the favoured sibling.

“He does not.” He takes another step forward, head tilting
as he studies her pensively, demanding, “Tell me, what are you? A witch? An enchantress?” How can she so easily see through his glamour? Surely there must be an
explanation.

She ignores his barrage of questions
in favour of announcing, “You know I have to tell him.”

“You will tell no one,”
Loki snaps and for a moment, the force of the threat silences her as she stares
up at him with large, blue eyes.

But then she blinks, wets her lips, and his brief moment of
satisfaction is lost.

“Oh?” She arches her eyebrows, appearing wholly unimpressed,
and Loki clenches his hands into fists in an effort to resist the urge to wring
that lovely pale neck. “Just out of curiosity, given the whole ‘playing dead’
thing, how are you gonna stop me?”

And that is how he finds himself kidnapping the mouthy,
infuriating, and unexpectedly fascinating mortal known as Darcy Lewis.