a/n: so, this is going to be my first multi-chapter fic, the gist of which shouldn't be too hard to figure out from the title. i'll try and update as i go along, but it won't be a weekly thing - i'll be lucky if i can do it monthly. that said, my ideal marvel phase 3 - here we go.
Jane Foster's living quarters in the facility was painfully squalid; to call it a shack would be generous. A plain small bed, a few unpacked boxes holding her meagre belongings. The bed, by the looks of it, hasn't been slept in in weeks.
He sweeps a finger across the top of the headboard; his finger comes away coated in dust. Stark's tower had been resplendent with the blue furnishings the mortals consider the height of the tesseract's power, the ground polished until it shone, all of the city spreading out beneath the looming steel monstrosity; some prophets fancy themselves kings, others, like Jane Foster, prefer something akin to a vow of poverty.
When she enters the room, barely awake, the door slams shut behind her of its own accord. It is enough to snap her eyes wide open.
"You escaped." Is the first thing she says. Around them, his magic pulses, trembling with untried potential; oh, in a few short years, this will be child's play. "I don't—"
"I mean you no harm." He says, spreading his hands. That's not entirely true, but it is true enough. It is true enough to serve the purpose at hand; the best lies always have a kernel of truth in its heart. That is a lesson he learnt the hard way. "Thor is quite enamoured with you, Jane Foster." He smiles; a vicious cut of white teeth. "And I would never do anything to endanger my brother's happiness."
He can taste her fear, cold and brittle and metallic on the tip of his tongue. She keeps her careful distance; this is no girl. This is a woman who had travelled to the other end of the universe and had found it wanting, a prophet about to launch humanity to its zenith. There is a keen, bright intelligence in her eyes; cooler than Thor's battle-lust driven strategies, more human than Sif's careful analyses. Her fingers are twitching, rubbing against one another, and she keeps her distance.
"Are you going to kill me?" She asks simply. Forthrightness; how predictable of his brother.
He chuckles. She flinches visibly. "I'm insulted, Doctor Foster. What an artless tactic… no, no. I prefer less permanent solutions to the issue at hand."
Her words are carefully measured. "And what is the issue?"
He smiles.
He has learnt to appreciate humans, in truth. Their mercurial nature, their caprice; the constant urge to evolve—that is something that he has yearned for, retrospectively. It is only now, at the end of the tunnel, that he can look back and appreciate the incredible vast yawning chasm of humanity; the chasm that they have been racing to fill for upwards of ten thousand years.
Fire; the wheel. The discovery of iron, then steel, then fire powder which lead to all sorts of interesting trappings of death. Playing around with elements gave them the power to order millions of deaths, to create life from scratch, to infuse machines with the ability to think. There is only one more frontier.
What a great difference five short human years makes. It had taken his body twenty times as long to age from boy to man, and in five minuscule years the humans are now poised to take the universe.
Stark and Rogers at odds. War in the streets, SHIELD in disarray, and sides, oh, sides being picked. Five years, and Midgard is ripe for conquest; five years, and the humans are tearing themselves into shreds. Five years, and chaos.
Five years, and this time he is ready. He can taste it on his tongue; not victory. Never victory. No. It is something invincible; something absolutely certain, as sure as the death of stars and Yggdrasil itself.
Fate.
"What is the issue?" Jane Foster asks, eyes darting, and he holds out his hands.
"You may restrain me." He says. "And then, Doctor Foster, you may take me to Director Hill."