Oleg

Ten minutes to go to ground zero and Artyom was still desperately trying to escape. “I have never attended little girl’s birthday party,” he pointed out repeatedly, and actually pouted, big blue eyes wide and pleading. “Always a first time,” Napoleon said mercilessly, pulling on a charcoal Tom Ford blazer over his loose gray knit. “Mrs Siegfried invited us weeks ago, Artyom, don’t be a baby. You’ve had quite a while to gird your loins. We’re going to a party, not some sort of trench warfare. Smile.” Artyom scowled, which was admittedly normally an adorable look even for a tall, blonde Russian giant of a man. “I do not like Mrs Siegfried,” Artyom declared, clearly intent on being as recalcitrant as possible.

It's a lot easier to forget your past when it isn't being shoved in your face in the form of invading Chitauri. (Or: How Darcy Got Her Groove Back. And Her Name. And A Bonus Archer...or something like that.)