It was days later, months really, when Jane Foster realized she could see ghosts.
She was afraid to tell him. Thor. Her Thor. God of thunder, storms – all that jazz. She was but a mortal, albeit a very bright one.
She didn't blame herself for Thor's decision to give up the throne. Alright, maybe she did a bit. A very large bit. Either way, what was done was done. Or at least that's what Jane told herself, every night, as she lay in bed alone – Thor was quite chaste for being a total hunk – curled into herself in pursuit of comfort. Always looking for comfort, reassurance. A "you didn't do anything wrong Jane. It was his choice," would be nice.
Jane found it one day. Comfort, that is. She was exploring the grounds, arms swinging by her sides, an air of aloofness that was really just preoccupied thoughts ensuring her solitude. She knew she would never tire of Asgard, with its architecture and medicine and people that defied all human laws. Laws she had spent her life researching, exploring, improving. Jane didn't resent the knowledge that her precious laws meant nothing throughout the rest of the universe. She wasn't a resentful person.
Curious, yes. Jane's easy cadence faltered as a flash of gold caught her eyes, claiming her questioning gaze. A figure strutted towards the castle on her left, his strides bringing him closer to Jane's immobile position and the gaping entrance to the throne room. Jane released a gasp as she took in the man's familiar yet impossible appearance. His hair, an inky black, slicked away from his scalp in a style that seemed presumptuous yet appealing in the slightest sense of the word; his slim body a mere shadow of his brother's, yet attractively muscular nonetheless; his eyes that held memories darker than his heart, though that was truly debatable, locked on hers.
"Loki," Jane whispered.