She takes her warmth with her when she slips from his arms, stirring him from dreams of battle and the favor of her smile, and he holds still, steady, as she quietly pulls on the shirt he'd all but torn from her body in his haste to get his mouth on her skin. He is not the master of guile his brother was, but it is easy enough to feign sleep when he feels her eyes upon him, her hand soft where it brushes the hair from his closed eyes, a kind gesture. A genuine touch, and he has had so few of those in his life that he cannot help the loud throb of his heart even if he wanted to. For a moment, he fears it has given him away, but she steps back and takes her hand with her.
It is not until he hears the bedroom door click shut that he opens his eyes, listening to her quick footfalls as she moves about the apartment. He sits up and follows her path by ear. She steps around the couch and walks into the kitchen, her foot catching the floor board that has grown loose with age. It groans in protest beneath her and is ignored in favor of the refrigerator opening; she takes something out of it that crackles, something he does not recognize, and shuts the door behind it. She pulls on her shoes by the entrance to the hall, followed by her jacket, and then is gone.
A little more than confused, he glances at the glowing numbers on the clock by the bed, and the ingenious little contraption tells him it is in the earliest hour of a new day.
His legs are wrapped in the sheets they picked out together at an enormous indoor marketplace called Marks & Spencer. She'd thrown her arm out wide and said, smiling, "Pick whatever you want, as long as it says 400 thread count and doesn't have Pingu on it." It had been the first thing he could truly call his—on Asgard, his clothing, his decorations, his armor, and even his pets had been chosen for him. Perhaps he had been too eager, a fool in an aisle of down and linen, but she had only smiled as he did, happy at his happiness. He had chosen a black, yellow, and red "tartan," as she called it, and she said it was a good choice. He'd been hard-pressed to keep the smile from his face the rest of the day.
To have been in his position of power and not know autonomy is a frightening prospect to contemplate in the dark. Was there ever a moment before he came to Midgard that he had been himself, for himself and no other? His was a name recognized by all—not just for the bloodline to which he belongs, but for his many feats. His capabilities. His usefulness. His friends called him Lord. His mother called him Son. His father called him Heir. His people called him Sky Keeper. Hammer Wielder. Shadow Butcher. And none asked him of his desires. His dreams. They only asked him if he were capable of fulfilling the oaths he had been groomed to want since he was a boy at his father's knee, listening to Odin All-Father as he filled his head with promises of power. It was all he had known to want.
The moment he threw down a cup and was rebuked for it, he realized there may be more for him than a throne. His title, his deeds, his destiny—it all meant nothing if he could not find the man beneath the model.
After that, it was easy to unyoke himself from the kingship. All he would have to do is learn how to be himself. Starting with tartan sheets was a good first step in the right direction, her hand in his, guiding him.
But even in the sheets he chose in the room he has shared with her for three months, he feels small without her, and perhaps not a bit hurt that she can so easily leave him without a word. He does not own her, nor does he wish to, and she might be angry if he follows her now but it is a risk he is glad to take. In the silence of the night, he does not know who he is without her.
He leaves their bed, the cool night air wrapping around him with an uncomfortable familiarity, and he turns on the bedside light to find clothes, particularly the warm flannel shirt they also purchased at Mark & Spencer, but he cannot find it. As he pulls on the soft bottoms she calls sweatpants and he calls a very good invention, he stops.
He does not understand when she speaks of science, the whole of the cosmos shining within her eyes, and neither does he connect with the film references she sometimes throws into their conversations. He does not know how to drive an automobile. He is easily frustrated by cell phones and has already broken two. He is not of any use here.
What if this is not the first time she has left him at night? What if she already grows tired of him?
She—she would surely tell him if this were so. There has been no change in her demeanor to suggest such a thing, no reason for these wicked thoughts, and yet… it roils in the back of his mind like oil, thick and dark, coating everything pure.
This day, the next, a hundred years is nothing. It's a heartbeat. You'll never be ready.
His chest aches, but he forces himself to ignore it. He will ask her when he finds her.
Mjolnir launches him from the roof into the sky, and he closes his eyes to the feel of the wind in his face, seeking out the warm spring wind that lives in her lungs. When she breathes, laughs, talks, sings to herself, it is sunshine and new-green life that passes from her, fighting back the heavy moisture that forever clings to the air here. It is that which will guide him to her.
He flies aimlessly for a while before he feels it curl against his cheeks, beckoning him down to a place with a smell so familiar that he nearly loses his hold on Mjolnir in surprise.
Wetlands. The favored of his mother.
There is a gate meant to keep the world out and he easily flies over it, landing in tall grass that gives off a rich scent, soil and dead things giving way to new life. He breathes it in gratefully, and for a moment he is a boy again with the feel of fingers made for weaving the very clouds into wondrous things carding through his hair. He closes his eyes to enjoy the memory of his mother, and then remembers why he has come here.
His footsteps, while soft, disturb a bird with a grand crest of many colors from its roost, and it grumbles at him before ambling into the grass to find a new spot. He murmurs an apology so softly that even the cool night's breeze cannot grasp it, and he moves away quietly, his ineffective boots bought on the internet sinking into the soft ground.
It takes a few minutes or perhaps an entire age before he finds her standing at the water's edge, her red boots made pale by the moonlight. She is wearing his flannel shirt. Clutched in her hand is something abundant and green, wrapped in a plastic film that crinkles when she moves.
Why is she here of all places?
He wants to call out to her, to join her, but he contents himself with staying beyond her sight. Whatever the reason she is here, it—
"They call it Lady's Bedstraw," she says, her voice carrying through the hush, and he stiffens, caught, but she is not looking at him. "But according to Wikipedia, before that they called it Frigg's grass."
He stops breathing.
"I don't know how much of what I read about you was true, but… every place I looked said that swamps and fens were under your protection, so this seemed appropriate. That, and it was the closest." A pause, then, "Oh my god, I didn't mean—I would have driven as far as I could if my car wasn't in the shop, and taxis are so expensive here, and… I'd never been here, and the website made it look so pretty, and I had to wait until it was closed, because this… this is kind of private, and… I just thought… maybe, maybe it would be fitting. And it's Friday, so…"
She cannot—Surely she cannot—
"I met you for a really short amount of time," Jane says, "and I wish it had been under… under such different circumstances. Meeting the parents is supposed to involve more awkward baby pictures and less… less destruction. I know I wasn't supposed to be there. I know humans aren't—Odin made it clear I wasn't wanted, and I'm pretty sure he compared me to a goat, but you… you. You were so nice to me, and you took my hand and you saved me. You didn't—"
Her voice breaks, and so does his heart.
"It was my fault. You would still… If it weren't for me, he would still have a mother." The words fade into a whisper, and then surge back, high and tight like a leather band ready to snap. "Oh god, I killed his mother. His mother. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I hid like you told me to, but I—I could have done something, anything. I could have—anything. I could have done anything, and I didn't. And I'm… I'm so sorry."
Her shoulders curl inward as she weeps, and she must be able to hear his ragged breathing from where he stands behind her; all she would have to do is turn around and the tears scalding his eyes would be there for her to see.
Jane takes a shuddering breath and lifts her head, hands swiping at her face. "I just—I don't know where gods go when they… but, if you're watching, if you can hear me… I want you to know that I'm going to take care of him. Well, maybe not take care, because he can take care of himself, but… He won't be alone. Not with me. With us. He'll be happy. I'll make sure of it. I promise. I love him, just… just so much, and I'm never going to stop. Not ever, okay? He's it for me. It begins and ends with him. He'll have me for as long as he wants, and needs, and when he gets bored, because I'm kind of useless in the face of, you know, Asgard and gods and battles, and we've got nothing like that here… I won't… I won't make it bad. I'll step aside. You should just… you should know that."
She crouches down gracefully, wrapped in his too-big flannel, and places the bouquet of yellow blossoms on the line where the water meets the earth. She sways a little as she stands, and then tilts her head back to look at the stars.
"I hope you got to… I'm going to say this wrong, but Sess-rúm-nir. I don't know where gods go when they… But I hope you got there. I hope you're at peace." She breathes out spring and sorrow and light, and her shoulders droop. "I'm sorry."
A moment passes, and then another, and she turns to leave—and then she sees him and stops. Her mouth opens and closes, her wet eyes dart around as if she could somehow find the means of escaping him, and when he stalks down to the little beach she takes a step back. Away from him.
"You—" He cannot get the words past his teeth. He does not know them anyway. There is no possible way to describe what has transpired this night, and until the heavens grant his tongue the knowledge, he will remain silent.
So he wraps her in his arms and buries his face into her hair, inhaling the chemicals of her shampoo and old sweat and something uniquely her, that spring wind, and allows himself to grieve with her, this mortal woman who loves him. Whom he loves more than anything in this or any universe.
"Thor," Jane whispers into his chest. He cannot help but bring his face to hers, their wet cheeks pressed together in shared sorrow. "Thor, I—"
"There will never come a time when I do not want or need you, Jane," he murmurs into her mouth. "And when the time comes that you must depart this world, I will follow, and we will be reunited with my mother in her vast hall. You will have your chance to know her again, and she will have the chance to know you—the only one I would see take her place upon the throne of Asgard."
Jane makes a noise in her throat, the child of laughter and tears, and holds him as if she means to never let him go.
He has never known who he is more than he does now.
Notes:
I was watching Thor 2: The Quest For More Money and it really kind of burned my ass that Jane had no expression during Frigga's death and funeral. If the writers had done her character justice, they would have called for Jane to have some kind of reaction to these events. I decided that if I wanted something to be done, I'd have to do it myself.
Friggjarstjarna, meaning "Frigg's star," was an old name for the planet Venus.
Galium verum, also called Lady's Bedstraw, is a flowering perennial that was once used as a sedative during childbirth. The Scandinavians called it Frigg's grass for that reason.
Thor finds Jane at the WWT Wetland Centre in London.
Posted to AO3 in March 2014.