Disclaimer: I don't own Thor.
Summary: Step away, she is not yours to have. LokiDarcy, oneshot
Another Thor fic! Another LokiDarcy! I believe this is the first time I've used second person POV on this account, so it's a little experiment. I hope that y'all like it. It's not going to be very long, but yeah. Thanks so much for giving this a shot!
You are different.
Or, at least, you like to think so.
That is your particular delusion. You like to think that everything is more about you than it really is. In reality, everything is about your brother. Everything is about your father. You are just an afterthought. The trickster in the band of warriors, headed by the god of thunder. The one that enjoys magic and carefully calculating each and every move. The one that plays chess when others play checkers.
But you are different.
You have to be.
Midgard is different than your home. The people are loud and unruly and rude. The air is tainted with smoke and pollution. The climate is humid, the sun is bright, the food is often fatty and non-satiating. Everything about this place screams leave here and go back to where you came.
Which you would love to do.
But you can't, obviously.
There are many things that you do not understand. You do not understand why you are here and your brother is back in Asgard. It seems a gross miscalculation, that the one that really wants to be here is not and the one who doesn't want to be here is. Irony in its finest, cruelest form, you suppose.
So you are stuck.
There are many things you can do to pass the time. Walk around. Glare at people. Make problems for the Midgardians. The latter part happens to be rather fun, you reluctantly admit. Nothing overtly violent, of course. Just changing people's hair color and whatnot. However, the usual things that brought you so much joy before now only barely graze the surface.
There are other things, though.
Surprisingly, you've been deposited on Midgard in the same vicinity as that group of rag-tag humans that were hanging around your brother. Scientists, or something. The are rather interesting, you find. Jane Foster, who is Thor's. Eric, who is as brilliant as he is stern. Darcy, who…
Well, you can't really think of any one word to describe Darcy Lewis.
You aren't sure what that means, exactly. Maybe your extensive vocabulary just decides to take a holiday every time her name drifts across your thoughts - and that seems to be rather often. Too often, if you are honest with yourself.
You know that she is shameless, sarcastic, and sardonic. She rambles a lot about silly, mundane things, things that you couldn't understand for the life of you. And not just because they are Midgardian, but the language itself needs some kind of code for you to decipher what she's saying half the time.
You know that she likes scarves, for some reason. She likes watching awful movies and making fun of them. You know she is rather funny, with her witty quips and self-deprecating remarks.
You know that her laugh is pleasant to listen to. You know that she doesn't like people being too close. You think it's charming when she gets this clueless look on her face, when Jane starts describing something that is far from her grasp.
You laugh at her, mock her.
You love getting a rise out of her.
You want her.
That last part, well, you aren't sure if you like it or not.
You try to deny it. A part of you feels confident - if you want her, go get her. A part of you feels foolish - she's from Midgard; you are not your brother. A part of you wants to trump them all - let it be; just go with it.
And then the last part, the most important portion of thought - stay away from her; she is not yours to have.
In fact, all of those thoughts are ridiculous. You know that it is not as simple as going and getting her. She is not an object for you to own. You know that being from Midgard doesn't matter, you just want it to. You know that if you were to…do…anything, it would be the last thought pattern that you would want to follow.
You continue to follow the last bit of advice.
Step away, she is not yours to have.
Because she isn't. You don't deserve her. You don't deserve anything, especially her.
You don't let anyone know - they can't know. They'd think you weak, cowardly, a fool.
And that is the last thing you are.
You have more baggage than most. You are certain that a Midgardian male could bring her happiness. Happiness is not far from her, most of the time.
But seeing her with one of those Midgardian males is a completely different story - you find that is something you hate.
But for some reason, she doesn't bring by any other men. Sometimes, she looks at you and you think that you might just be the reason for that, and that both disturbs and intrigues you.
"Nice scarf, Harry Potter."
You repress the startled response that would have been instinctual and stare at her, unsure of her reference. You are unsure of a lot of things, but she is by far the most prominent in that category.
She reaches out and touches the end of the green-and-gold scarf you have draped around your neck. You tense, ever-so slightly, so slightly that no one else would have been able to pick up on it. But she does.
"Easy," she says, amusedly, "I'm not going to strangle you with it."
"Perish the thought," you drawl wryly.
The elicits a laugh from her, which makes the corners of your lips curl upward just slightly.
There is just something about that, the way that she can so easily amuse you, that makes you want to reach out…
And before you realize what is going on, you do.
Your fingers graze her wrist, gently tugging her hand away from the threads of your scarf. There is a moment you let them linger, but then think better of it. You release her wrist as quickly as you took it.
She stares at you for a moment before giving you a grin, all teeth and no subtly.
Not yours, not yours, not yours…
You return her Cheshire grin with a small smile of your own.
Perhaps, one day, you won't have to.