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Darcy Lewis is not a quitter.
When she was little and didn’t want to put away her toys or finish her broccoli, her mom would tell her, “Darcy Marietta Lewis, your momma ain't raising a fool or a quitter,” and that was that.
When the girls on her high school volleyball team wouldn’t talk to her because her boobs made a sudden appearance the summer between freshman and sophomore year, her mom told her “You go to all of your practices with your chin up, because when I was pregnant with you I swore I’d raise a daughter who’d never be a fool or a quitter, and you’re neither,” and that was that.
When her father left, all her mom said was, “If he wants to quit, that’s his problem. Us Lewis women don’t quit, do we honey?” and that was that. Since everyone knows that moms are always right -- except about boyfriends, college majors, and fashion -- Darcy promised her mother she wouldn’t be a fool and she wouldn’t be a quitter.
Not-quitting became an entirely different struggle for her the week after her mom died. Not-quitting meant contacting her professors, finding someone to look after her cat, cleaning out her fridge because who knew how long this would take, bumming a ride to the airport, a red-eye flight, using her key to let herself into an empty apartment, the first phone call she’d made to her father in six years ending with the words “there isn’t any life insurance money, asshole!” and her hanging up, funeral arrangements she wouldn’t have been prepared to make even if this had happened in another thirty years, the struggle of choosing “funeral shoes,” packing up her mother’s belongings and putting them into storage, another red-eye back to Richmond International, the long drive back to Culver, and trying to pick up where she’d suddenly dropped everything fifteen days previously. Most of those fifteen days were a blur, but she remembered staring down at her mother’s casket and promising her mom that she might be foolish sometimes, but that she wouldn’t quit -- not ever.
Changing majors didn’t count as quitting, if you asked her -- it’s just a readjustment of priorities to ensure success in the future. So “Post-Thor” -- as everything is categorized in her life these days -- and an undisclosed number of majors later, she’d stupidly decided that public relations would be the perfect major for her. She loved political science, but honestly the mouth-breathing, minutia-quibbling, actual-real-issues-ignoring asshats that comprised the Culver University Political Science department were driving her to drink, and she cared about her liver. Of course, she’d also dare anyone to spend more than twenty minutes in the presence of Pepper Potts without drastically reassessing their life choices. (It was one of the two, depending on when you asked her.) So no, Darcy Marietta Lewis was not a quitter.
But nobody’s perfect -- so instead of quitting, Darcy stalled. She was a professional procrastinator. She stalled like stalling was an Olympic sport and she was Michael Phelps, poised to set a new medals record with every event. Her college career was a study in rule-bending, creative-interpretation, and excuse-making that probably should have landed her a politically-oriented public relations position for a secret government organization long before it actually did.
Well, technically, she didn’t work for SHIELD, because SHIELD didn’t exist anymore, but Stark Industries might as well be its own branch of the government these days. Which was probably an improvement. See: Pepper Potts, reassessing life choices in the presence of. Darcy had seen a four-term Senator choke on his own spit because he was so enraged by Pepper’s maneuvering that he couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Someday, she was going to grow up to be half as awesome as Pepper. (She hoped.)
So yes, Darcy put things off to the point of absurdity. Which is how she ended up hiding in her new office, behind a very important looking manila envelope that was stuffed with papers of unknown provenance, hoping that an alien warrior goddess and the world’s greatest ninja assassin wouldn’t find her if she just looked busy enough. It wasn’t a particularly air-tight plan, but Thor had said he’d try to distract Sif with sparring and no one had seen Natasha in the last week, so she might not even be in the country.
Of course, not seeing Natasha didn’t mean she wasn’t there… somewhere. Watching you. Probably right behind you. Darcy can’t resist the urge to peer over her shoulder, and she sighs the tiny, relieved sigh of someone who now knows with ninety-three percent certainty that Natasha Romanov is not standing behind her. When she turns back to her abandoned manila folder, she nearly jumps out of her skin.
“JESUS CHRIST!” she screams at Natasha, who was somehow standing directly in front of her desk, in the space she would have sworn was empty twelve seconds ago when she turned to look over her shoulder.
“You’re late for training.” Natasha says, unfazed.
“I… was caught up in some paperwork?” Darcy tries.
“At least use fake paperwork in a language you can read, Lewis.”
Looking down, she realized that her fake paperwork in its very important looking manila envelope was indeed in… “Is this Italian?”
“It’s Catalan, but they have a lexical similarity of eighty-seven percent, so that’s an easy mistake to make.”
Closing the folder, she looks back up at Natasha, “Why do we have paperwork in Catalan? Or is that one of those questions I really don’t want the answer to?”
Natasha smiles -- which would have terrified at least half of the Stark Industries staff that had been purloined from SHIELD, and still made Darcy flinch a little -- and replies, “I think Director Fury had some of the paperwork translated to frustrate Stark, if he ever bothered to access some of SHIELD’s truly sensitive paper files.”
“That sounds exactly like something he’d do.”
“Stop stalling, Darcy. The training will be there in ten minutes and in ten days, so you might as well get it over with.”
“I don’t think I’ll still be here in ten days if I go, so I’d rather not.” Fidgeting with her pen, she tried to forget that this was at least partially her idea.
Since she’d taken this position, it had been made abundantly clear that she needed to be able to defend herself, with or without a taser. Three kidnapping/murder attempts in a single fiscal year was a bit much for even Darcy's terrible survival instincts. Natasha had generously volunteered her time, rather than let some sweaty meat-head from SHIELD’s introductory fitness training courses leer at her chest for two hours a day for six weeks. She'd even enlisted Sif as her assistant -- both because she was Darcy's friend and because apparently sparring with an indestructible, super strong goddess was somewhat less dangerous for Darcy than sparring with Natasha directly would be. After seeing her throwing down with Thor, Darcy had no objections to that decision. Besides, now she could stare at Sif's legs under the guise of learning, and hopefully not make things awkward.
“Is it the physical struggle, the possibility of pain, or your perception of your own capability?” Natasha sits on the edge of the desk in front of Darcy, and traps her restless hand against the desk with her own.
“I -um… what?” Darcy couldn’t help but notice that Natasha’s hand was warm against her own. That hand had killed, she knew. For some reason, that was reassuring rather than frightening.
“What’s stopping you?” She asks, simply.
Darcy looks thoughtfully at where Natasha’s hand covered hers, shielding it, before she replies, “I don’t know.”
“Then there’s nothing stopping you.” Natasha tells her.
------
Darcy stands, feeling sweaty and ungraceful, facing Sif on the sparring mat in the gym. They’ve been practicing basic high, middle, and low arm blocks for deflecting blows. When Darcy had complained about doing the same thing over and over for twenty minutes, Natasha informed her that these blocks were something she couldn’t learn by doing them once -- these were the sort of thing that needed to be ingrained, so that they were your first reaction before your brain even consciously registered a threat. A body that doesn't have to wait for its brain to catch up was faster, and more likely to survive. So apparently "muscle memory" is the phrase that pays for today. High, middle, low. High, middle, low. She would be chanting the order in her sleep, at this rate.
Sif, frustratingly, was not sweating. She wasn’t even “shimmering" like the last waiting-room Cosmo had told Darcy she ought to do while working out. Mouth getting ahead of her brain yet again, she blurts out, “Oh my Thor, have you been doing this for ten thousand years or something?”
Laughing, Sif increased her pace, “Nay, Darcy. I have only been a warrior for a small portion of my lifespan. Less than one thousand of your years.”
“Are you-,” she was cut off by Sif abruptly changing the order of the blocks, and she had to concentrate intensely for several minutes in order to avoid getting smacked in the face -- again.
“No seriously, Sif. Are you joking? What the hell else were you doing before this?” Middle, high, low. Middle, high, low.
“I was one of Lady Frigga’s handmaidens for many hundreds of years longer than I have been a warrior, though it suited me ill.”
“... Why? It’s like you were made to be a badass; why waste your skills?”
At this, Sif slows the pace of the exercise, before replying, “That is a rather more complicated answer than it would appear to be. If you will allow me to tell you a story?” She glances over Darcy’s shoulder at Natasha and apparently receives the approval she needs, because she looks down at Darcy expectantly.
“You know I never say no to Asgardian story time, Sif.” They share a smile over Thor’s inability to tell a story shorter than an epic in length.
Sif speaks, “When I was younger -- perhaps equivalent to your age, Darcy -- Loki played the foulest of tricks on me. He came upon me sleeping in the woods in Vanaheimr and cut off my hair.” Sif reaches across the distance between them and guides Darcy’s hands higher, to better block her blows.
“Now, I have come to understand Midgard more thoroughly in my time here, so I understand this is not so great a slight in your eyes. However, Asgard is not Midgard, and ever has this been so -- no matter how close our ties might once have been. The esteemed Doctor Selvig has spoken with me at great length about the legends your world has about mine, and he tells me that the humans we once had our closest ties with are vastly different from what they were then, so this shall perhaps be a difficult thing to understand.
“In Asgard, as was once true among some of your ancient peoples, hair is considered a symbol of status and honor. Shorn hair is the mark of a slave, or a dishonorable man.” She pauses as Darcy begins to struggle to meet her strikes, and gestures for her to get water and sit for a moment.
Pathetically grateful, Darcy flops inelegantly onto the bench next to Natasha and presses a cold water bottle to her face, before asking, “So he tried to hurt your status, or like… tried to say you had no honor?”
Sif’s level gaze was unflinching, but also sorrowful, “He did not try Darcy. He succeeded.” She sits next to Darcy, arms braced forward on her knees. Darcy and Natasha wait silently for her to continue.
“Doctor Selvig tells me that there remains some history of the laws of the era when our people mingled, called the Grágás. This was, in part, based on some of Asgard’s own laws, as recorded in the Konungsbók. In these books, there are many writings that dictate the life of a woman within the law, but chiefly there are three decrees that a woman must follow: she may not wear the clothes of a man; she may not carry a weapon; and she may not cut her hair short.”
“Whaaaatt? That’s ridiculous!” Darcy gestures wildly with her now-empty water bottle.
“Just so, Darcy. But it was law.” Sif stands again, turning to help a reluctant Darcy to her feet. “So I woke in the forest, alone, with the wreckage of my hair strewn about me gaily, like discarded flowers after a festival, and I wept.”
Seeing Darcy’s look, Sif smiles, “You expected me to be angry, as befits a warrior?”
Darcy opens her mouth, then closes it and thinks for a long moment, before opening it again, “I would have been angry, so I suppose that’s what I’d imagine anyone’s reaction to be.” She settles into the stance Natasha had shown her, and prepares to meet Sif’s first blow.
“The Sif who stands before you today -- the warrior who is confident in herself and her abilities -- would have been angry, I believe. Or at least, I am today as I think back on such things. But the Sif then was nothing like the Sif you know now. I was a woman who was not a warrior, soft and gentle, and I was a lady whose entire life rested on the foundation of her honor and respectability.”
“And Loki was cruel that day -- in ways we have now come to understand are more his nature than the genial companion of yore ever was. He had cut off my hair, yes, but he had also done an ugly job of it. Ragged and patchy, well above my ears in length… there was no hiding it with clever tricks of clips and curls. My beautiful golden hair was no more, and I could not hide it. How would I face the shame, I thought? I sat in the woods weeping for several days, until a young Vanir man happened by and asked me what was wrong. It was Hogun, young and traveling his realm alone for the first time.”
“When I told him of Loki’s loathsome trick, he asked me why I wept instead of hunting Loki down and visiting justice upon him? When I said that I had not a sword, nor the skill to use it, he was very confused. For you see, Vanaheimr is not Asgard, just as Midgard is not Asgard. He did not understand that I was not allowed a sword, or the right of justice taken by my own hand on the field of battle. I tried to explain to him that these things were the domain of men, warriors, and that I must be satisfied with the justice my brother would take on my behalf, as he was my only male relative left to do so.”
At this, Darcy grins, “At least Heimdall takes the meaning of the word ‘badass’ to a whole new level, right?”
Returning Darcy’s grin, Sif continued, “Hogun then offered to escort me home, and to take justice on my behalf as well, if Asgard would not allow me to take it myself. I gratefully accepted, and we began the trek out of the woods to the point where I could summon my brother to open the Bifrost.”
For the first time, Natasha interjects, “So you can’t just open the Bifrost wherever you want on Vanaheim?”
“Nay. There are many laws regarding travel by the Bifrost, and each realm has it’s own that must be adhered to. Vanaheim, like Asgard, has designated places for such things.” Sif met Natasha’s sly smirk with a wide smile of her own, before continuing. “So it is likely as you suspect -- Thor opens the Bifrost wherever may suit him in Midgard because you have no laws against it.”
“It’s probably so he can have Heimdall tell him about Tony’s eyebrow twitch after he ruins his lawn. Again.” Darcy adds. They all laugh loudly for a moment, before the pattern of blow and block resumes, and all is silent but for the rhythmic meeting of Sif and Darcy’s arms.
When Sif continues, it is a welcome distraction for Darcy, who is well past ‘shimmering’ and back into sweaty and gross territory. “Hogan escorted me home to Asgard, and protected me from bilgesnipe and the like, but there was no protection to be had once I was there…” She trails off.
Natasha makes a questioning noise, as she forces Darcy’s elbows upward, into the correct stance once more.
“Suffice to say that Asgard was not welcoming, and there was much dramatic posturing and my brother fought many men who believed one so dishonored was surely vulnerable. After witnessing such battles, I felt compelled to hide myself away, so as to bring my brother no more shame.”
At this, Darcy snorts, “Something that wasn’t your fault brought your brother shame? Man, am I glad I don’t live in Asgard. Shiny floating buildings don’t make up for that kind of bullshit.”
Smiling, Sif clarifies, “The Asgard of now is more… progressive than the Asgard of yore, Darcy. I still would like for you to visit my home with me.”
“Oh, I’ll totally still go, but I’m going to practice my stink-eye first. And I’ll probably wait until we’ve moved from blocks to strikes.”
"Preparation is the shield and practice is the sword, as my people have long said." Sif agrees.
Carefully, Natasha prods, "What made you stop hiding?"
"Thor, eventually. He sought me out to ask if there were reparations he could order Loki to make, and would not accept my answer of no. He came back every few days and asked and asked. Eventually, his desperation to make amends on his brother’s behalf led him to offer a replacement for my hair made by the finest dwarfish smiths. I had no notion that such a thing was possible, so I did not say no. For what could I say to an impossible promise such as that?"
"But he did as he promised. Loki was sent forth to Niðavellir and many weeks later he returned. Not only with my hair, but with Gungnir, a spear that never misses; Mjӧlnir, of which you know; Skidbladnir, a ship with eternally favored by the wind; and Draupnir, a golden ring that multiplies itself endlessly. It was a glorious return, and Thor came to present me with my hair with such pride, that I accepted gratefully."
"It was... difficult, returning to the world of ladies. There were whispers. After several years, I could not stomach the court intrigues any longer, and I sought out Lady Frigga's counsel. You would do well to remember, Darcy, that the noble Lady Frigga is both canny and kind. She is also from Vanaheimr, which you might remember I said is not like Asgard in many ways. She told me to speak with Thor."
Distracted by the story, Darcy successfully deflects Sif’s blow, but misses the leg-sweep from Natasha, and lands squarely on her ass on the sparring mat. “Dirty pool!” she exclaims, pointing accusingly at Natasha.
“Realism,” is Natasha’s reply.
“Goddamnit, Nat. ‘Realism’ can’t be your excuse for everything all the time. I’m restricting you to one per day!”
“Including or excluding Tony?”
“Excluding. That man needs someone to force-feed him a reality check at least twice a day.”
To Sif, she says, “Sorry, don’t allow my utter failure to interrupt.” She reaches up for a hand up.
However, instead of helping Darcy up, Sif sits down across from her on the mat. Natasha joins them, at a slight distance, ever observing.
“Thor is great and mighty, as you know.” Darcy nods, and Sif continues. “He has always been thus, but the All-Father sent him to Midgard to learn many hard lessons because he was also sometimes misguided. It was not until his time spent here, as a mortal, that Thor became good as well.”
“Jane says he needed a timeout.” Darcy contributes.
Natasha’s laughter is startled and wild as it bursts out of her mouth. After a moment, Sif and Darcy join her. As the laughter fades, she says, “I’m sorry, go on. I just spent a moment imagining Thor in a corner of Avengers Tower, pouting like a small child.”
Forcing back a grin, Darcy adds, “You laugh now, but that’s exactly what Puente Antiguo was like for the first three-ish days.”
Sif smiles indulgently, before continuing, “The Thor I turned to had not learned the lessons of Midgard, and thus needed to be approached more carefully than the Thor we now call comrade and friend. Please do not think ill of him for something that he has since apologized for?” She waited for Darcy’s answer.
“Of course not, Sif. Thor is my bro.”
“Thank you, Darcy.” Sif shifts from her kneeling position to match Darcy and Natasha’s cross-legged style before she goes on. “To save my brother-in-arms the embarrassment of a detailed recounting, I will say only this: I asked Thor for aid and he recommended that marriage would solve this dilemma of mine -- the rumors and cruelty of the court, as well as the perceived loss of honor. It is with great amusement that I look back on his offer now, but at the time it was the last thing I could bear to hear. The only way to repair what had been done was to bind myself to a man? He even suggested that he or his brother would be the best candidate for correcting such wrongs!”
At this, Natasha made a sour noise, and Darcy just stuck out her tongue and said, “Thor is an idiot.”
“Verily. I departed swiftly, for as the crown-prince I could not very well strike him for his suggestion, well-meaning as it was, and I could no longer speak with him on this matter. I returned to Lady Frigga and explained what had transpired, and she sighed deeply before telling me that it was clear she must speak with her son directly. As she left to do so, she pressed into my hand a small, curved blade. ‘For courage.’ she told me.”
“Please tell me that she went and yelled at Thor for being a douchecanoe?”
“The All-Speak does not give me a translation of that word, Darcy,” Sif tells her, with a long-suffering sigh. “I have never learned what Lady Frigga said to Thor that night, but I know that the next day he approached me and told me of another solution to my dilemma: I could forsake the life of a lady and handmaiden and enter the world of warriors, to be judged on my own merit. This was something forbidden, something I never thought was within my grasp. I knew it would be arduous, but the thought that I might see justice taken by my own hand for the slights against my family, as my brother had done for me… It was an irresistible offer. I declared my intent to commence training with him the next morning, and that was that.”
Darcy clapped joyously, “And then you became the biggest badass ever!”
“It was not so simple as that. There was the matter of the laws of the Konungsbók, and the nature of the Aesir is reluctant to accept change, no matter how minor. I had to petition the All-Father for the law to be changed, though I believe Lady Frigga aided me that day as surely as she had the night she spoke to Thor. This time it was her husband she persuaded, through guilesome ways I know nothing of beyond the most obvious stratagem: she compelled Loki to speak on my behalf. His silvertongue was set to the work of repairing the damage he had wrought, and I was given the chance I yearned for. Then I began to train, and my training lasted many years before I had reached even a small measure of the skill that I possess today.”
Darcy sighed, “I wish I was as badass as you, Sif. But I guess I can settle for not making a fool out of myself in a crisis.”
At this, Natasha snorted gracelessly and stood, reaching down to pull Darcy to her feet. “You’ve shown some promise already, Darcy. Not everyone begins to train before they can read, and not everyone has thousands of years to practice. You’re doing well.”
Sif added, “Any woman may be a warrior -- it is only what is inside her that determines if she shall.” Sif smiled widely at her, “It is fitting that you should train as a warrior, you know.”
“Um… why?” Darcy was beginning to feel overwhelmed by their confidence in her.
“Your family name, of course. the All-Speak gives me it as ‘famous war,’ so it is destined that you shall wage war most admirably!”
“I’m not sure that war is really my jam, Sif.” Thankfully used to Darcy’s slang after much trial and error, Sif merely smiles.
Natasha says, “Her middle name is Marietta.”
Sif laughs loudly, as Natasha smiles.
“WHAT?!” Darcy demands, arms crossed over her chest.
“Little rebel, indeed.” Sif embraces Darcy. “I suspect that you shall never abandon your battles, Darcy Marietta Lewis, whether they be wars of words or of swords.”
“Damned straight! Us Lewis women don’t quit.” she says, hugging Sif tightly in return.