A/N: This one is just a little dark. I know many of you are concerned about the state of Loki and Jane's relationship… hopefully you can see between the things that are wrong to see that both sides actually do care. They're just a bit tragically flawed right now.
He supposes he should take it as a compliment that she sleeps now, only moments since he has parted from her. It helps that he knows that she has been sleeping almost as little as he does. He still feels a sense of disquiet as he regards her. If she were awake, he could say something or do something to deflect this awkward, quiet moment of after, but she isn't. Instead, he's been left relatively alone, forced to confront the fact that he has bedded a mere mortal who is somewhat more than just a mere mortal. She is, after all, the object of his adopted brother's affections, the one Midgardian scientist capable of understanding how a Bifrost is built, and his student of magic. It's a potent combination. He can't exactly abandon her or pretend that he doesn't care a lick about her welfare. He does, just not necessarily for the reasons she will want him to when she wakes.
There's a small part of him that disagrees. It's a traitorous voice that points out that she's actually quite lovely, with her luxurious hair spread out across the pillow, her pale skin illuminated by the moonlight that filters in through the cheap motel curtains. She's also capable, intelligent, and a quick learner. She is warm, and desperate to love. There is much within Jane Foster that deserves a second glance and perhaps more even than just that. Its entirely possible that if any mortal were ever capable of being his equal, it might just be her. It's a dangerous idea that he doesn't have time for.
It's a dangerous idea that makes his stomach turn slightly, for if its true, he may have done deeper damage to his own happiness than anyone else's. He pulls his gaze away from the sleeping woman and curses his own desires. He's never regretted such a thing before and it feels foolish to begin now, but he can't quite shake the sense that he has done wrong.
The room they are in has seen better days and Loki is feeling less than charitable right now. The woman requested something more comfortable and he had reached out for the nearest, closest thing that matched her description. There's a spell on the room that will keep the motel owner from handing out the key, which promises them continued privacy (though who comes to a poor, dusty town in New Mexico to stay in a rundown motel is beyond him). It still feels off. The strange security he feels in Jane's lab is absent here, and he knows he will not sleep without it. The battered furniture here has not earned his affection as Jane's couch has.
He risks a glance at the woman, who sleeps soundly on. Her lips are just slightly parted, swollen and red still from his kiss. She looks properly ravished, and if his eyes become somewhat darker looking at her, he has never been described as easily satiated. He knows this won't be the last time. He's just not certain yet how he will justify the continuance of this to himself. He's not comfortable with things like feelings, and he's dimly aware that he does, technically, have a wife. He also has more important things to do than debate the ethics of his actions.
For a moment, he is tempted to leave Jane here. The bed is more comfortable, and the motel is only a short walk from her lab. He shakes his head; it won't do. Jane is a creature of habit and waking anywhere else will only serve to disorient her and, quite possibly, leave her upset with him. He doesn't want that, not now that he's determined the shape of her body when it isn't obscured by the horrendous clothing she wears.
It's quick work to magic her into the tiny bed in the trailer she sleeps in. Its beyond him why she would choose such surroundings for herself, particularly when she has the funds available to improve her situation (conjured funds though they may be). Her clothes appear, folded, upon the top of what passes for her dresser. He's already armed for yet more tedious diplomacy.
It still won't do. Jane's naked form lies curled on top of the covers of her bed. She'll get cold in the night. It pains him to do it, but he leans down over the bed, despairing at the lack of space. With infinite gentleness, he eases Jane up, tugging the covers back beneath her. There is a long moment, when he has let her head back down to the pillow and is inching the fabric from beneath her legs, in which he realizes how foolish the endeavor is. If she were to wake, he would have nothing to fall back on. He was a god, he wasn't designed to suffer the indignities of tucking a tiny human into bed, not even after having his way with her. Perhaps especially not after having his way with her. There were, after all, at least a dozen Asgardian women who had never received nearly as much tenderness as that.
Loki shakes his head, again unwilling to consider the ramifications of his actions. His dealings with Jane all seem to run along that path anyway: easier to accept and move on from than to pause and consider. Trying to understand the concessions he has made to her would only serve to frustrate him. It would be a pointless exercise, a demonstration of how far he has fallen. He's fully aware of the fact that he has lost much of his bearing. It would be intolerable, except that it has been a benefit to his diplomacy. Focus, then, is the strategy to employ.
Once freed, he pulls the coverlet over Jane's sleeping form. She's a distraction, nothing more. A lovely one, with pleasing proportions and an aptitude for magic and an understanding of the universe that keeps her entertaining. Still, it is hardly a situation that requires reflection.
At least, this is what he tells himself. He is, after all, a god of lies.
The days lose track of themselves, and though he is certain it hasn't been more than seventy-two hours since he's last seen Jane, she doesn't exactly seem pleased when he appears in her lab. She sits, rather listlessly, upon the battered couch, staring into space. He's not used to such a reception. Jane Foster is usually buried in research papers or digital data that streams across her laptop screen, and while she is presently surrounded by books, they aren't her usual fare. She looks at him with a distance in her eyes that make him wonder if perhaps he hasn't been gone much longer.
Loki is tired though. Seventy-two hours of hopping through space and meeting with diplomats, royalty, and military commanders, is a wearying amount of time. Considering that he didn't sleep the last time he was here, its been closer to a Midgardian week since he's properly rested. He suspects that he looks worse for wear, as well. It wasn't just the last delegation he met with that seemed concerned about his skin tone.
Jane pulls herself up from the couch, taking the few steps towards him. She seems hesitant, subdued in a way that he isn't familiar with. Perhaps this is just the wreckage of what he started that last time he was here. The niggling concern that he may have done damage to whatever partnership or arrangement they had rises more fiercely within him. He notices that Jane looks almost as weary as he does. There are hollows under her eyes, and for a mortal living in the desert, she is almost wretchedly pale.
"Are you," her voice is faint, its tone strung tense as a hunter's bow, "Are you married?"
Jane refuses to meet his gaze, her slow steps halting just out of his reach. Her fingers are knotted together, tangled in the frayed yarn of the cuffs of her sweater. He watches her twist the ugly fabric, her nerves screaming at him across the gulf between them.
"Yes," he replies in an almost terrifyingly even tone. For him, it hardly matters. He may be married, but the union itself has no meaning beyond having kept him out of the dungeons. He can't see any reason to lie, besides. Mortals aren't exactly constant themselves.
The slump of her posture suggests otherwise, however, and Loki feels his forehead furrow at her reaction. "Oh," she whispers, dismay leeching from the single syllable and filling the room with a suffocating stillness. "So…" she swallows hard, her head leaning to the side as if regarding the toes of her bare left foot. Jane is nothing if not brave, so she'll soldier on with her questions. She always does. "So Sigyn is real then?"
There's a long moment as curious surprise writes itself across Loki's face, though Jane does not look up to see it. "She is," he tells her, uncertain how the woman who had turned him down related to the previous question.
"And you had kids with her?" Jane's voice is little than a squeak, but Loki still makes out the words. Words which send a smirk across his lips.
"Ah," he laughs, his eyes properly looking at the books Jane has surrounded herself with in the time he has been gone. She seems to have made a study out of him, and the fragile lies and truths than form her world's mythology. He laughs again, taking a step towards her coffee table and pulling up the nearest tomb. He flips through the pages, and memories return to him as he skims the words that twist events in ways that are nearly beyond belief. He grimaces though, when he catches the line about his true parentage. Even myths start somewhere.
He slams the book closed with one hand. "That," he announces to a startled Jane who has finally decided to meet his gaze, "Was a very long time ago." His smirk widens, "It may also have been slightly embellished. Possibly not just by your primitive ancestors." He is certain that the mischief shows in his eyes, but now, reminded of the terrible lies he spread about the fair Sigyn who had the nerve to turn him down, it all seemed terribly funny. Particularly the part where the lies were still in circulation down here, when Sigyn herself had forgotten the entire event centuries ago.
But clever Jane isn't so easily placated. "But you are married," she states, with a wary finality in her eyes.
It's a look that doesn't sit well with him. The fire demon has taken too much from him already, and Loki will not lose whatever this is with Jane over something as ridiculous as a forced marriage. Or, somewhat forced marriage. His smirk melts into something just a little bitter as he drops the book back onto the table and closes the distance between himself and Jane. He looks down at her intently, using a single finger to draw her chin upwards until her caramel eyes are focused upon his. He can't stand to see her stare at the floor when her eyes should be on him.
"Does that really matter?" he asks, his tone holding just slightly more venom than he had intended it to.
"Shouldn't it?" Jane replies, her expression wrinkling into frustrated displeasure. "I'm not that woman," she says, her entire being radiating hurt, "I don't want to be…"
"My mistress?" he supplies flatly. He's really getting quite bored with these momentary outbursts of morality that Jane seems to spawn. She'll be doing just fine, and then suddenly she falls back into some sort of morass of guilt and virtue that he truly cannot stomach. It's as if she hasn't quite accepted that he is with him, the god of lies and mischief, and not Thor, the god of ridiculous self-absorption and righteousness.
"Yeah," she agrees lamely, her head leaning away from him again so she doesn't need to meet his eyes, "That."
"There was a time you humans would have been thrilled to be the mistress of a god." His tone is growing more annoyed and Loki knows that this may not end quite how he has hoped. Far be it for him to back down, however. He'd rather go sleepless and without sex than bow to Jane's tremulous hold on morality.
She's looking at him now, rage in her eyes. "Let me get this straight," she spits, her hands rising and pushing against his chest, "I'm supposed to be thrilled to be your mistress, just because your species lives long enough for you to have known my primitive ancestors and been worshiped by them as a god?" She shoves him back, and though he could have ignored the pressure of her hands, Loki lets her propel him a half-step back. He's slightly amused by this temper tantrum she has apparently worked herself up into over the last few days. She's glaring up at him, that terribly appealing ferocity suddenly there in her eyes.
Loki smirks, he's fascinated by this side of Jane. Worked up like this, she almost seems to border on dangerous herself. It's really something of a turn on…
"You aren't my god," she hisses at him.
It's a short circuit in his brain, and Loki pretends that he can't help the way he reacts. He seizes Jane's hands in his own, wrenching her wrists in a way that throws her forward into him. He towers over her and he sees the flash of fear in her eyes as she writhes helplessly against him, locked in place by his iron grip on his wrists that tremble just behind her back. "That isn't what you said the other night," he replies darkly, licking his lips maliciously.
Jane is more than she appears, for even like this, her eyes dart towards his mouth before flickering back to his gaze. The moment of fear is gone from her eyes, and she looks only confused and aroused now. Even the anger has slipped from her expression, though he can feel the heat of her body upon him, even through the enchanted leather of his diplomatic armour. "Loki," she whispers, her tongue darting out to lick her own pink lips.
"Does it really matter?" he hisses, leaning his head forward so that his mouth is level with her ear. His hold on her wrists borders on punishing, and he only loosens it a fraction at the tiny whimper that Jane lets slip. "Does it matter, Jane?" he murmurs again, licking slightly at the shell of her ear. "Would that really be enough to stop you?" She wriggles in his grasp even as she moans ever so quietly. Her hands are twisting in his now, and he already suspects that she isn't trying to free them to push him away again. "Would it help if you knew it was a loveless marriage?" he coaxes, "Would it help to know its simply a marriage of political convenience?"
He trails kisses down the slope of her neck and jaw, smiling at her less-than-earnest attempts to resist. He perfected seduction over a thousand years ago; they both know that she won't resist him for long. Not Jane, who is just a little in love with her loneliness and the risks only she among all her kind can take. She finally breaks her wrists free of his hold, and just as he has predicted, she uses them to pull herself closer into his embrace.
"Yes," she whispers, her tone broken and raw, "Yes, it helps." She's just a little breathless and her eyes are wide with something akin to panic as she forces their eyes into meeting, "It still doesn't make this right."
Loki smiles bitterly at her. Jane is terribly naïve. "My Jane," he says softly, "There is nothing that could make this right."
She sheds exactly three tears. Neither of them acknowledge the existence of the tears at the time. Its only later that Loki holds them like drops of poison in his heart.