RATING: M
GENRE: Edwardian AU (based loosely on the television series "The Grand"), Non-Magical AU, Drama, Angst
WARNING: Infidelity
SUMMARY: For twenty years, Loki has been lying in wait, looking for the opportune moment when his prey shows weakness.

A/N: This was written for an angst challenge on Tumblr years ago. The prompt: "How do you stop loving someone who has stopped loving you." This is considered a sequel to a fic written by my friend, audrey-ii (AO3 handle). Special thanks to my friend, hvittsalt, for helping me with the Norwegian. Translations are in the end notes.

SOWN IN TEARS, REAPED IN VINDICATION

Thor sits at the bar, broad shoulders hunched as he stares at his glass of akevitt. Loki watches from the shadows (as always—lurking, observing, collecting). He's mildly surprised to see his brother in this—what had he called it? oh, yes—den of iniquity. Surely the fair-haired paragon of virtue would seek solace in a venue more befitting of his light and goodness.

But then, something's happened, hasn't it? Something important.

After Thor knocks back his liquor, grimacing at the burn, and motions for another, Loki makes his approach. (There is only so much one can gain by watching, after all.) He slides through the crowd of hedonistic revelers, holding up a hand when one or two begin to entreat him. No distractions tonight, not when there is such fodder to be had from his vaulted brother.

He takes a seat next to Thor, orders the same drink. He waits a beat, waits until Thor acknowledges his presence with a sidelong glance before asking, "Hva uroer deg, bror? Virksomheten går bra, gjør den ikke?"

Thor grunts a bitter laugh. "You know it is, thanks to your generous support," he answers in English. After nearly twenty years of marriage to a foreigner, he slips between his native tongue and hers as easily as Loki does—even if his pronunciation is still accented. (Never quite going the extra mile, Thor. Always doing just enough. Such a useful little defect of character.)

"I'm glad to hear that my investment is flourishing." Loki brings his glass to his mouth, lets the spice and citrus of the akevitt roll over his tongue. "And Jane? The children? They are well, too?"

Thor's jaw clenches, muscle cording over bone. "They are quite well, yes." A half-truth, most certainly, by the sarcasm discoloring his words.

Loki wants to pounce on that thread of intrigue, but he's long mastered the subtle art of encouraging his brother in increments to reveal his secrets (his weaknesses). "And yet you are troubled. Have you done something?" (Say yes.)

Thor looks at him, eyes full of glassy helplessness. "If I have, I wish to know it," he confesses with a desperation unbecoming of the strong, noble son of Odin. "She's moved out of our rooms, and I don't understand why."

"That is grave news, indeed." Important news. Loki furrows his brow in sympathy. "But perhaps this is only temporary. She has always been rather impulsive." Not entirely true, but the best lies are a simple matter of misdirection, and setting husband and wife against one another has become more instinct than habit.

"No," Thor says, shaking his head as he downs his drink. "She no longer loves me. Tell me, brother, what am I to do with that?"

Oh, but what Loki could do with this revelation. Will do. Not yet, though. He keeps his expression neutral. "Did she say this to you?"

"Not in words," Thor admits with bowed shoulders, "but certainly in deed. It's never been the same—not since…"

"Ah." Loki nods in somber understanding. Not since loss of little Alf-Peter. That was a rather convenient thing—not that Loki wished for their youngest boy's death. (He's not a monster—not completely.) "There you have it. She is only grieving."

Thor frowns at him in obvious disbelief. "For seven years?"

"Who is to say how long it takes for a mother to mourn," Loki replies, but Thor is no longer listening.

His attention is back on his empty glass. "Hvordan slutter du å elske noen som har sluttet å elske deg?"

Pathetic. Thor playing the heartbroken, jilted husband—when he hadn't loved her on their wedding day and likely hadn't truly loved her until he found himself without her undying devotion. This is the quixotic hero who always had everything and deserved none of it. How the mighty have fallen. (Loki regrets nothing.)

"Perhaps, if I speak with her," he says, "she can be made to see reason."

Thor looks up, face softening in wretched hope. "If you can accomplish such a feat, I will be eternally in your debt."

Tempting, but no. Thor's unending gratitude is not the prize Loki seeks. (It never was.) He waves the bartender over, instructs him to give his brother whatever he wants, and then leaves Thor to swim in his misery.

Jane isn't in their apartment, as Thor said, but has taken up residence in one of the hotel suites. Loki doesn't knock—he doesn't need to—as the door is open, servants bustling in with her things. He leans against the jamb, arms crossed, studying her as she directs the chaos. Age has done nothing to her beauty but sharpen the edges once blurred with youth. She is the specter which has haunted him these past twenty years, driven him to the brink of madness, inspired him to a level of cunning and machination which his paltry envy of Thor never could.

She wipes a bead of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, says something to one of the maids, her gaze falling on him, and as ever, he feels truly seen. This, he thinks, is what draws him to her. Her eyes pierce his meticulously crafted façade, and he likes being known—even if she despises the crepuscule she finds there.

"What do you want, Loki?" she asks, lips thin with disapproval. (So lovely, her contempt. Why should Thor yearn for her affection when there is this to be had?)

"Your husband is working quite hard to get drunk in my establishment," Loki replies stepping into the room uninvited. "Care to enlighten me?"

She casts a surreptitious glance at the servants who make embarrassingly poor attempts at pretending not to listen. "It's none of your concern."

Loki raises his brows. "On the contrary, he's sent me to be his emissary in this unfortunate business."

Her responding laugh is brittle. "You didn't come here for Thor."

"Deres arbeid er ferdig her!" he snaps at the others, and they spare only a heartbeat before shuffling from the room. He closes the door behind them, the lock falling into place with a clank. The empty-headed imbeciles will talk; let them. Reputations have long since ceased to be of any worry to Loki—particularly good ones.

Jane says nothing. Whether she recognizes the futility of protesting or she unconsciously desires the coming incendiary confrontation, she's a fool for allowing him entry in the first place.

"You're right." He turns to her, smile stretching wide across his mouth. "I didn't come here for him." He closes the distance between them with unhurried footfalls, glad that her defiance keeps her from retreating. "I came to finally enjoy the fruits of my labors."

She scoffs, though the rise and fall of her chest has become quick, shallow. "You think because Thor and I are having troubles that I will fall into your arms?" Rancor bleeds into her voice, pinches her face. "As if I could ever love you."

His smile doesn't drop; he's impervious to this vitriol. She sees but she doesn't understand. "Oh, Jane," he murmurs, cupping her cheek. When she doesn't jerk away from his touch (telling, that), he caresses a line up her jaw with his other hand. "I don't need your love. I only need you."

He's so close, so close to sating this gnawing decades-old hunger. His bones vibrate with anticipation.

She slaps him hard across the face. "Dra til helvete!"

He laughs, dry, clipped. "Jeg er allerede der."

He captures her wrist when her hand flies again, grips her waist and yanks her into him. He smothers her objection with a brutal kiss, crushing, deep, wet. Teeth clashing against teeth. Because he wants— needs—to devour her. The resistance she puts up is tissue thin, perfunctory at best, and soon she is meeting him lust for lust. And as much as he's savored her intransigence, how unexpectedly honeyed her capitulation is.

She is his—despising him, even as he divests her of gown and shift, but his.

When he was a boy, in a futile attempt to quell his consuming jealousy, Frigga once told him that having is often not quite so pleasing as wanting.

But as Jane lies beneath him, slick with sweat and back arching as she cries out, Loki knows his mother was wrong.

Having is everything.

(Thor's devastation most of all.)

~FIN~

TRANSLATIONS:

Hva uroer deg, bror? Virksomheten går bra, gjør den ikke? = What upsets you, brother? Business is going well, is it not?

Hvordan slutter du å elske noen som har sluttet å elske deg? = How do you stop loving someone who has stopped loving you?

Deres arbeid er ferdig her!= Your work is done here!

Dra til helvete! = Go to hell!

Jeg er allerede der. = I'm already there.

A/N: Thank you for taking a chance on this unhealthy, unhappy thing. This pairing gets the brunt of the darkness that dwells inside of me! If you want to share your thoughts, I'd love to hear them!