Summary: Blue-coloured presents are one of Darcy's favourite things.

Chapter One

Presents and Revelations

Darcy Caitlin Lewis didn't like Christmas. In fact, Darcy Lewis hated Christmas.

It wasn't because of the joviality that smothered New York's streets in snowflakes, coruscating lights and crusading Christmas carollers, nor was it the delighted squeals her younger siblings and cousins elicited when Darcy gave them their presents. No. The reason that Darcy hated Christmas was because of the presents.

In fact, it was one present in particular that she had grown to hate. It would appear underneath her Christmas tree every year, or wherever she was, without fail. It would always be wrapped in an azure shimmering paper and tired with a pretty golden ribbon. It never bore the gift-giver's name. Instead, the gift-tags would be addressed to Darcy, wishing her a 'Merry Christmas' followed by an acerbic or witty comment about her present.

The first year that this happened was the first Christmas after Thor had returned to Earth. It had been three weeks after the London calamity with Malekith, or as Darcy liked to call it: 'The Time That Erik Decided to Wear Pants Again', and nineteen days since Jane had snogged Thor brainless on their London apartment balcony.

Darcy, being Darcy, had organised a traditional Christmas dinner to educate the Big Guy about earthly customs.

"If you're gonna stay here Space Man," Darcy had said. "You're gonna have to learn about the best thing ever: Christmas!"

Thor had laughed heartily and said: "We have been celebrating Yule time for centuries, Lady Darcy. Are they not the same?"

"Yes and no," Darcy had said slowly; and as Darcy had continued to detail the differences between Pagan and Christian traditions and why Christmas had replaced Yule as the major winter celebration to the Thunder God, Thor had become indignant, demanding to "meet this Jesus God" so he could show him what it meant to disrespect Asgard's most religious celebration. Jane had laughed sympathetically, while Darcy had told him: "Good luck with that buddy. He's been dead for 2000 years."

Christmas dinner had proceeded nicely. There had been turkey and cranberry sauce, crunchy marinated potatoes, eggnog, plum pudding, glazed ham, roast pheasant and much, much more. There had been enough good to convince Darcy that the food baby she had was twins.

Erik had made terrible dad jokes throughout dinner while Thor had smothered Jane with saccharine words, which had made the physicist blush several shades of vermillion that Darcy hadn't known had existed. Ian, well, he had been Ian—all puppy-dog eyes and bumbling cuteness, and not much more.

Once dinner had been finished, or in Thor's case: devoured, Darcy had yelled "present time!" before rushing to the lounge room where she had proceeded to hand out gifts left, right and centre. Thor had been overly excited at the prospect of receiving presents, especially when he had unwrapped his present from Darcy: a bottle of mead, a Viking cap and a set of miniature figurines of the Avengers coupled with a Christmas card from his fellow Freedom Fighters.

Rambunctiously, Thor had hugged Darcy, who had patted him timidly on the back in return and crooned over the heartfelt messages—"Merry Christmas, from Natasha"—from Rogers, Barton, Banner and co.. Afterwards, Darcy had been pretty sure that Thor had broken one of her ribs (later her doctor had told her three of her ribs were merely bruised and Darcy had gotten to take a month off work, which Darcy had spent watching a lot of Netflix and eating Ben & Jerry's).

That was when Darcy had found the blue-coloured parcel underneath the tree. It had been small; three by three inches at most and one to two inches tall. Darcy had not remembered seeing anyone put the present underneath her tree and when she had opened it, she had known that she totally hadn't gotten herself a Christmas present that year. She had been too poor for that shit.

Inside a white leather box had been a silver bracelet with a matching charm, which had been inset with a small blue gem. It rested on the blue velvet lining of the box, glistening in the apartment light.

It had been very beautiful.

"That's a lovely bracelet," Jane had said when she had clasped the jewellery around Darcy's wrist later. "Who's it from?"

"I dunno." Darcy had shrugged. "I was hoping you could tell me."

"Well, I certainly didn't get it for you. And—"

"Erik wouldn't know what pretty looked like even if it hit him in the face." Darcy had paused contemplatively, then had added: "Unless it was a physics equation."

"Darcy!" Jane had exclaimed, affronted by her backhanded insult. "Physics equations happen to be very beautiful."

Darcy had rolled her eyes and had looked at Jane imploringly, who had eventually acquiesced.

"Maybe you have a secret admirer?" Jane had suggested. Her brow had been knitted in that thoughtful way that made Jane look so goddamn adorable.

"A secret admirer who breaks into our apartment to leave me presents? I should check my panties draw to make sure nothing else is missing," Darcy had quipped. "Seriously Jane, I have a boyfriend."

"Who you're just toying around with because you don't have the heart to let him down." Darcy and Jane had both frozen in shock.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Jane had gushed immediately. Her hands had been cupped remorsefully in front of her mouth. "I am so, so sorry. I really shouldn't have said that."

"No. It's okay. It's okay, Jane." Darcy had reassured Jane with a hug. "It's fine, Jane. Really. It's fine."

"Really?" Jane had asked, eyes wide.

"Really, Jane," Darcy had said firmly, but Darcy had not been able to convince her heart that it had been fine. That night Darcy had taken Ian aside and had broken it off.

"I don't wanna string you along anymore, when all I really want is something like," Darcy had trailed off and Ian had furrowed his brow in concentration.

"Like theirs?" Ian had asked. He had gestured towards Jane and Thor, who had been cuddling on the lounge room couch. They had been watching a replay of Carols by Candlelight on the TV and Jane had been answering all of Thor's questions about her life with Science!-Jane enthusiasm. The coupled had been so enthralled with each other that the entire world had been oblivious to them.

Darcy had nodded guiltily.

"Yeah," Darcy had paused. "I'm sorry."

Ian had shaken his head.

"No. I'm sorry," the intern's intern had said sincerely. "I'm sorry I can't give you that fairy tale, but I hope you get it one day, Darcy."

"Thanks, I hope you do too intern."

Ian had smiled, then kissed Darcy on the check before he had returned to the kitchen to continue his conversation with Erik about physics-inspired tie patterns.

Darcy had returned home to New Mexico a week later.

The next year when Darcy had sat by herself in her dormitory at Culver University on Christmas morning, she had made sure to read the gift tag thoroughly.

After much analysis of the words (To Miss Lewis, a gift to complement your eyes and your mind) Darcy had come to the conclusion that she had been absolutely no closer to discerning who her present-giver was. Nor had she been unnerved that they had know what her eye-colour was. Instead, Darcy had been vexed by the present—another charm for her bracelet, inset with an emerald gem this time; and a leather-bound copy of the Emma by Jane Austen.

This had frustrated Darcy because all she wanted to know was who kept giving her such awesome presents.

The third year that the present had appeared underneath her Christmas tree had been the year that Thor and Jane had (finally!) gotten married. Darcy had made sure that she had opened the azure present last, despite her all-consuming urge to rip it open. That year she had received a third charm, inset with a garnet, and a cerise-coloured scarf. Its fabric had been a blend of the finest silk and Darcy had loved it.

That year Darcy had vowed to herself that she would kiss whoever gave her these presents.

On the fourth Christmas Darcy had been backpacking through South-East Asia. That Christmas morning she had woken up to find a neatly-wrapped blue parcel placed at the end of her sleeping bag. Darcy, perturbed by how the parcel could've gotten there, had shoved it to the bottom of her backpack and had vowed to herself she would never open another one of those gifts ever again. This person had to be a professional stalker.

Darcy had lasted five days.

Her curiosity had triumphed and Darcy had furiously opened the paper to find another charm, inset with an orange topaz; and a golden bridge comb. Along the comb's bridge sat four strawflowers, each petal exquisitely carved. Darcy had loved both gifts very much and this had made her angry. Not because she still hadn't know who was her gift-giver, but because she had liked them.

When the fifth Christmas had rolled around, Darcy had decided that she would pull an all-nighter in an attempt to catch this present-giving fiend. So, she had perched herself on her living room couch with a tub of mocha-flavoured ice cream and every season of Sex and the City. She had gotten through two and a half seasons before she had fallen asleep.

The next morning Darcy had woken up to find a large, shimmering blue present on her coffee table. Its gift tag had read: 'Nice try Miss Lewis. Merry Christmas.'

Frustrated by her foiled plan, Darcy had opened the present aggressively. Shreds of blue paper had fallen to the floor as Darcy had uncovered a feathered cloak and another charm to add to her collection. The cloak had smelt musty and later, when Darcy had tried it one, she had realised that it was made of falcon feathers.

Not long after, when Darcy had been folding her new cloak and had realised that her bra was missing (her favourite polka-dot bra), Darcy had noticed a note pinned to the inside of the cloak. It had read: 'I went to great lengths to obtain this cloak for you. As payment, I took a personal item of yours. I doubt it will be missed.'

Darcy had growled and had been torn between throwing her presents at the wall or laughing at the hilarity of the situation. Instead, she had cried.

When the sixth year arrived, Darcy had decided she wanted to forget all about blue presents and Christmas. Instead of spending a quiet Christmas Eve at her Brooklyn apartment watching Carols by Candlelight with her kitten Kara, Darcy had hit the town with her workmates for a night of tequila shots, extravagant cocktails and tabletop dancing.

This is where we find Darcy now: stumbling, drunk and fumbling around in her bag for the keys to her apartment door.

"Monkey balls!" cursed Darcy. It was two a.m. And she really, really wanted to go to bed and take her damn heels off. The margaritas were wearing off and she could feel the blisters around her heels.

"Where are you keys?" Darcy crooned into her handbag. "You know you want to let me in."

It was no use. She shouldn't find her keys and consequentially she wouldn't get to her bed or have some bittersweet late night coffee or even stroke Kara. Darcy collapsed unceremoniously onto the hallway floor. With an exasperated sigh, she begun unlacing her stiletto heels. Then she leant against the door. It creaked open.

"What the—"

But her voice broke off as imaginary hands pulled her inside. The door slammed shut behind her and Darcy landed with a loud THUMP! In the middle of her apartment lounge room. Darcy heard the locks slide into place. Fear froze her heart.

It was dark and cold, and the only light that illuminated the room came from the Christmas tree lights behind her, which coruscated between tinsel and baubles. Their light cast long shadows around the room. As Darcy's eyes adjusted to the dark, a gigantic shadow loomed over her.

"Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing in my lounge room and how the hell did you get in here?"

The words fell off her tongue before Darcy could censor herself and it made her want to punch herself in the face for being so stupid. It wasn't her smartest move considering she was on the floor, but Darcy refused to not know who her potential murderer (she was living is Brooklyn for Christ's sake) was, if it ever came to that.

"Language Miss Lewis," drawled the shadow, extending a hand to her. "That is no way to greet the one who opened your apartment door."

Darcy eyes the hand sceptically. The shadow sighed.

"I don't bite," said the shadow. "I promise."

"Thanks, but no thank," answered Darcy. She pushed herself onto her knees and up onto her feet. Then pulled down the gem of her dress and scrutinised the shadow before her.

Its hand had returned to its side and it stood still with its head cocked to the side inquisitively. It had a tall silhouette, probably around six-foot-one, with wide shoulders, skinny hips and long legs that descended to the floor. From its outline, Darcy discerned that he, it was a safe assumption considering its height and husky voice, was wearing either a long jacket or coat.

"Just so you know," continued Darcy obstinately, "I would've snuck in through the window."

"Liar," retorted the shadow. "You're too short to reach the fire escape ladder, let alone your apartment window."

"Stalker." Darcy let out a huff and crossed her arms. "And you didn't answer my question banana brains."

Darcy was pretty sure the shadow rolled its eyes, but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't wearing her glasses and she had lost her contacts when she had decided to show her friend, Janice, who never wore contacts, how easy it was to take contacts our and put them back again in the nightclub bathroom. Darcy's contacts had fallen down the basin drain. Sue her.

"How I arrived here is none of your concern Miss Lewis," answered the shadow coldly, moving past Darcy and towards her Christmas tree. Darcy turned on her tiptoes, her large eyes following the shadow.

"It's Ms. Not Miss," commented Darcy nonchalantly.

"Why?" asked the shadow. It stopped in front of her Christmas tree now, its back to her—a solid block of darkness that crouched in front of her tree. She heard a rustle of plastic leaves and as the shadow stood up, Darcy noticed that a present was missing from the pile.

"Miss implies that I'm singled and unmarried—"

"Which you are," interjected the shadow calmly.

The shadow hard turned around and was walking towards her now, holding a small parcel in its right hand.

"Besides the point," snapped Darcy with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Ms suggests that I could be married or engaged or—"

"Perpetually husbandless," finished the shadow smugly.

Darcy's eyebrows rose, disappearing underneath her fringe.

"You're becoming more charming by the minutes," drawled Darcy, unimpressed by his candour. The shadow stopped in front of her. "So, you're stealing my presents now?"

He ignored her. Instead, he held the small parcel out towards her.

"Take it," said the shadow tersely, like a petulant child who was being forced to apologise to their younger sibling. Darcy tentatively took the gift from their hand and cradled it in her hands. "It's your Christmas present."

Even in the dim light and devoid of glasses or contacts, Darcy knew the parcel was wrapped in that familiar shimmer azure paper, tied up with a pretty golden lovingly rubbed the organza ribbon between her thumb and forefinger, savouring its smooth centre; a texture that she had memorised over the past five years.

"Open it."

The shadow's command broke Darcy's reverie. She blinked, confused. Then a thought entered the young woman's mind: who was this gift-giving fiend?

"Can you turn on the light please?" asked Darcy sweetly.

The shadow stiffened in the dark.

"No," it said.

"Please?"

"No."

"Can I turn the light on then?"

"No. Just open your present."

"And what? Blindly see what is inside?" mocked Darcy as she shook the present in her hands. It rattled. She gasped. "Oh! That's it! You got me night goggles for Christmas, didn't you? How considerate of you! I really wanted them this year. Even wrote a letter to Santa and everything. How kind—"

"Stop talking Ms Lewis," growled the shadow.

"—I mean, it just seems perfect," continued Darcy. "Night goggles. Every woman nee—"

"I tire of your prattle."

And the lights, like magic, turned on. They bathed the room in white light and stars swirled around Darcy's head as her eyes adjusted to the thick leather and fern-green in front of her.

"You!" exclaimed Darcy. Her feet stumbled backwards; five steps and her calves hit the coffee table and she tripped backwards, her ass hitting the wooden furniture with a sharp smack. "Fuck."

Loki pursed his lips disdainfully, like a mother who craved to wash their child's mouth out with soap. Darcy would've given him a piece of her mind, if she wasn't still in shock.

"Yes, it's me," sneered the Norse God. "Happy now?"

He close the distance between himself and Darcy. In one swift movement Loki grabbed her arm, pulling the brunette to her feet.

"Now, open your present."

Darcy shook her head, dazed.

"How? Just how?" asked the woman, the words spilling like dreams.

Loki pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled something about "mortals" and "stupidity". It was obvious that he was losing his patience, but Darcy was just so overwhelmed by the God of Chaos and Mischief's presence that all logic had leap out of her head and disappeared into the night.

"It's simply really: magic," grumbled Loki. "I'm sure you've heard of it."

"But how?"

"It was easy to concoct a spell that mimicked death," continued the Trickster, exasperation tinging his voice. "All I needed was a plan that I could manipulate to my own desires, which my brother readily, and unwittingly, provided." Loki absently pulled at the cuff of his right sleeve. "I still can't believe he fell for it," added Loki after a moment. "Thor's gullibility knows no bounds."

"Not that," dismissed Darcy impatiently, then asked aggressively: "How do you still look like that?"

"Like what?" asked Loki, slowly.

"So young," whisper Darcy in awe. And it was true. The God looked as if he hadn't aged a single day since Darcy had hacked S.H.I.E.L.D.'s security and seen that New York footage nine years ago. His skin was still like stone marble, his jawline like a Grecian sculpture. There were no shadows underneath his eyes, unlike Darcy's, which haunted her mirror every-fucking-day. To say that she was jealous was an understatement.

Loki opened his mouth to answer, but Darcy cut him off:

"And magic isn't going to cut it, pretty boy."

Loki smirked.

"Idunn grows apples in her garden for us."

"And they give you eternal youth?"

"Yes and no," drawled the Trickster, appraising the woman before him. "They delay the ageing process and allow us to live beyond our average lifespan. I have no need for them yet."

Then Darcy slapped him across the face. Hard.

"That's for never thinking that I might've wanted one." She slapped Loki again. "And that's for not giving me one for Christmas, at least once you bastard," finished Darcy with a huff.

Then she pushed past him furiously and stormed around the coffee table, to her blue couch, where she deposited herself and her present unceremoniously. Loki stared at the brunette, a smile curling his lips.

"I like you."

"Whatever," dismissed Darcy and the Norse God grinned. Darcy pulled her azure-coloured present towards her. "Let's open this, shall we?"

Author's Note:

So, after reading many others' wonderful stories, I decided to tip a toe into the Tasertricks writing sphere. This is the result and I'm hoping that you enjoy it. It will be a slow start as I try to set it up for an inter-realm adventure. Any constructive criticism is completely welcome. Hope you had fun reading that. Have a good one guys! :)