Out of Town Chapter 7, a thor fanfic

Madalayna: I would love to see some "ordinary" Asgardians in your sequel. Jane and Darcy seem like they would be more into getting to know the regular people and not just the pompous royals. It would be interesting to see how they react to the princes of Asgard's "friends" from Midgard.

iamartemisday said: If you're still taking prompts for Out of Town, how about Thor and Loki decide to take Jane and Darcy into town to show them around, and they all wind up getting separated.

samdram1: What about a drabble of Darcy and Thor bar hopping –or tavern hopping!

QueenJin: Darcy decides to try and drink Thor under the table. Loki helps her to cheat.

helikesitheymikey: Loki goes bad ass on a couple of guys who were hitting on Jane/giving Jane unwanted attention.

Wherein Darcy cheats and Jane steals. (Humor/Drama. PG-13.)

(Some of this drabble is from a Dark World deleted scene. All the best Jane parts got taken out. Not to mention most of Malekith's story. Plus extra Loki stuff. Where is our Director's Cut, Kevin Feige?)

Kjell, son of Kjell, has not been the proprietor of Ǫlker Tavern for very long (only fifty years, as his father reminds him nearly daily). So he can be forgiven, in his own mind, for not exhibiting the sort of confidence that made the Ǫlker famous in his forebears' hands. And if his mead is not yet worthy of Valhalla, his bilgesnipe dyresteg is developing a reputation of its own. (Kjell has always had more skill at the stove than the cask.)

Still, young though he may be, he has plans. Vision! Mead will come in time. The tales of his dyresteg will spread. His feather-light almond cakes will erase all memories of famous Alfheimian aphrodisiac confections. People will travel across realms to find out what delicacy he serves for the daily special. And Kjell will then be known only as Kjell, not Kjell son of Kjell.

(And Father won't be able to say a thing about it.)

So the day the Princes of Asgard enter the Ǫlker Tavern for the first time (at least since he's taken over), Kjell almost falls over behind the bar. Prince Thor! Prince Loki! Fandral the Dashing! Hogun the Grim! Darcy Lewis the Bestie!—

—wait, is he so lucky, dare he hope, dare he even dream—

Yes.

There he is.

Volstagg the Voluminous is in. His. Tavern.

This is his moment.

"Quick," Kjell son of Kjell whispers to Ylva (a woman half his height who has been wenching the tables since Kjell's grandsire was a Kjell son of Kjell), "open our finest cask."

Ylva merely looks at him. She has not spoken a word in centuries, but her white eyebrows communicate all.

"Yes, I know," says Kjell. "I never said our finest was good. Do it anyway."

Does he have enough ingredients for kronans kaka? By all the branches of Yggdrasil, let it be so.

It was a long night, but the insistent knocks at his front door finally rouse Arvid from his bed. Anyone else he would curse away — are guardsnever allowed their sleep? — but he knows those little fists. They are very difficult to refuse.

Still, he schools his face into a stern expression when he opens the door. "You've best have good reason," he growls at his nephews.

The eldest blinks up at him with huge, piteous eyes. "The lady took our ball," he explains, as the youngest nods vigorously.

"Is that all? Find your nerve and demand its return, little ones."

"We can't." The eldest glances from side to side, then lowers his voice to a whisper. "It's the mortal lady. Papa told us not to speak to her."

The youngest nods again. "Uh-huh. Papa said."

Arvid sighs. Why his sister married such a milksop as Dregnir, he will never understand. Before long the poor boys will be milksops as well. "And I suppose you'd rather I speak to her instead."

"Yes, please."

If only they were not so damned earnest. "You will come along," Arvid warns them, reaching for his cloak, "and you will learn. There is no excuse for being cowed by mortals, do you understand?"

"Yes, Uncle Arvid."

Fandral watches as Darcy Lewis tosses the empty mug over her shoulder. It hits the stone floor with a crash. "Round three?"

"Round three," Thor agrees. To the bar he calls: "Another!"

Volstagg — halfway through a dish of bilgesnipe that hopefully tastes more appetizing than it smells — sighs. "I," he says woefully, "am about to lose a great deal of coin, am I not."

Hogun shakes his head. "Just wait, my friend. No one can best Thor."

"Oh, I don't know." Loki settles back in his chair, smiling one of those smiles that bodes ill for everyone around him. "I have seen Darcy Lewis drink gold. You would be wise not to bet against her."

"She drinks gold? Why did you not mention this before we laid our wagers?"

"You failed to ask, Volstagg."

The next mugs of mead arrive. "I shall triumph, you know," Thor warns Darcy Lewis. "Take care not to cause yourself harm on the road to defeat."

Darcy Lewis raises her mead in some sort of salute. "Haven't lost a drinking contest since freshman year," she announces. "Bring it."

Then she burps.

Fandral thinks he might be in love.

"Quick!" Kjell son of Kjell hisses to Ylva. "Open another cask!" Who knew a Bestie — what is a 'bestie', anyway? — would not notice mead mediocrity?

(Ylva does not roll her eyes. Ylva does not need to.)

It is hardly difficult to discover the mortal's whereabouts — the people of the neighborhood give her a wide berth, preferring to edge around the boulevard than come within fifteen feet of where she stands. And when he gets closer, Arvid understands why.

He had expected the so-called bestie. By reputation that one seems more the sort to freely wander the streets and take that which is not hers.

But it is not she.

"This thing is amazing." The mysterious Jane Foster, a subject of more speculation than any other in memory, fusses over a child's toy and speaks to thin air. "I mean, the magnetic propulsion alone would advance Earth's science by decades."

Is this little slip of a creature truly the woman who has so turned the head of a Prince of Asgard? And not just any prince — Loki, the trickster mage, well-known for captivating with his silver tongue but never being himself captured? This woman — this dull little woman — is the one from whom Prince Loki is known to tolerate incivility with indulgence?

Her?

Recent events get stranger and stranger.

Arvid pulls himself to his full height as he approaches. Consort or not, mortals ought know their place.

"I am so taking this apart," the woman continues excitedly. "Loki, do you know where I can—" She looks up at last, blinking in apparent surprise as Arvid looms over her. "Oh," she says. "You're not him."

"No," Arvid agrees.

"Huh." She turns on her heel, looking around at the nearly empty street. She seems not to notice — or not be bothered by — the small crowd watching her curiously from doorways and alleys. "Where'd he go? Wasn't he just here?"

"I believe not."

"Oh, no. I must have taken a wrong turn. They were all heading to a bar."

"Which one?"

"Um… the one with mead. I wasn't listening. There's a building around the corner whose construction completely defies Newtonian law. But I really need to—"

And he'd heard she was intelligent. How wrong palace rumors can be. "All taverns have mead," Arvid tells her (with far more patience than is warranted). "And there are eight within a quarter mile of where we now stand. You'd be far better returning to the palace—"

"No, I just—"

"—and I'll take you there myself once you return the toy."

"Huh?"

"That ball belongs to my sister's children. Give it back."

The people pull even further back at his sharp tone, glancing at each other in surprise – and near fright. It makes Arvid's blood boil. A mere Midgardian should never inspire consternation among the Aesir, no matter whose bed she warms. The boys are watching; Arvid will teach them the correct way to behave in such a situation. Someone must.

Jane Foster looks down at the toy in her hand, then grins — sheepishly perhaps, but without a hint of true shame. "Oh. Oh! Right." And she tosses the ball to his nephews, who run off the instant it is again in their possession. "Sorry, I didn't realize. Is there someplace you can buy those? The mechanics are—"

Arvid has had enough of this. "Come along, woman," he says, taking her by the elbow and steering her forcibly towards the road that will lead them back to the palace. "There is nothing for you here. You can await Prince Loki in his chambers."

Asgardians should not have to make way for a mortal.

It's after the fifth mug of mead that Volstagg begins to suspect something is amiss. It's true — none have ever bested Thor in such a contest — but his friend's grin has grown a little looser, his laugh a little louder.

Darcy Lewis, on the other hand, shows no signs of effect whatsoever. Perhaps she is a witch. It would explain much. Witchcraft—

—is not a Midgardian talent.

Volstagg turns his attention to Loki, master of magic, whose amused expression is just a touch too amused. Every few moments his fingers twitch across the table…

"Malfeasence!" Volstagg roars, clapping Darcy Lewis on the back.

A shimmer of gold travels across her body as Loki's illusion breaks. The mortal's calm, collected facade vanishes, replaced by flushed cheeks, a slumped posture, and a grin wider and more foolish than even Thor's. "Whoops," she slurs, giggling.

Thor turns to his brother in horror. "Loki!"

"What?" The mischief-maker shrugs. "It's hardly sporting to pit a human's metabolism against that of an Asgardian."

"You cheated!"

"Oh, brother, lighten up."

"Furthermore, you pulled our friend into your games—"

"Acshully," Darcy Lewis says, "it was my idea." When Thor goggles at her in disbelief, she adds: "S'wasn't fair. An' I beat you at Jäger bombs."

"That was when I was mortal."

"See? See? S'my point!" She turns to the growing throng, waiving her mug and sloshing mead across the table. "Ohmigod, guys, did he tell you get about the Jäger bombs? Just had a leeeettle hangover an' thought he was gonna die—"

"She's perfect," Fandral says to Volstagg, eyes wide.

Thor is trying to shout over Darcy Lewis's tale, Loki is laughing until the subject turns to something called Goldschläger, Fandral is mooning with that lovestruck face of his yet again (hopefully this will turn out better than the fool's last enamorment – and the enamorment before that – not to mention the enamorment before that, when only luck and diplomacy averted all-out war with Nornheim) and Volstagg sees a lot of unnecessary strife in their future. In the growing chaos he is considering ordering another bowl of this surprisingly tasty dyresteg—

—when Hogun blandly mentions, "We've misplaced Jane Foster."

"Hey! Hey! Let me go, you asshole!" The human's efforts to wretch her arm from Arvid's grip are laughably useless. "I have to find my friends!"

"I'm certain they'll manage without you."

"You don't understand!" She stumbles over a cobblestone; Arvid hauls her back to her feet and keeps going. "The three of them have this way of getting into trouble when they drink. They forget to pay the bill, somehow there'salways a fight, once they actually got shot at—"

And Arvid had heard the Bestie was the loud one. "That mouth of yours must truly be skilled," he snaps, "if Prince Loki is willing to tolerate it flapping all the time."

Jane Foster flushes dark red and twists her arm yet again. "How dare— did you just—"

"Mortal, we are almost to the palace. If you cease struggling we'll be parted from each others' company that much sooner."

"I think not," says a new voice. "You'll be parted now."

Arvid may be out of patience with this ridiculous woman (living in the palace, favored, raised above the Aesir, those people who once fought Frost beasts to save her unworthy ancestors as they huddled in their frozen caves), but he is no fool. He releases Jane Foster's elbow and sinks to his knees on the street. "My prince," he murmurs.

"Loki!" Arvid dares not raise his eyes, but he can hear relief in the mortal's tone. "Oh, good. I got turned around."

"So I see. My apologies for not realizing earlier, but events became rather, ah…"

From the distance there is shouting. And crashing. And the smell of smoke.

The mortal groans. "Not again. How does this happen everywhere you guys go?"

"I really don't see what all the fuss is about. On Asgard it's considered nearly impolite if a gathering doesn't end in broken furniture."

"And fire?"

"…the fire was unexpected, I'll admit. But someone had to distract Darcy Lewis from sharing certain tales with half the population of the realm."

"So you set it."

"It was Thor, actually. Unsubtle, but effective — rather like my brother himself." Steps on the pavement — then the prince's boots come into Arvid's field of vision. They stop just beneath his nose. "You seem to have found some disturbances of your own, Jane Foster."

The mortal scoffs. "It was not my fault. I got lost—"

"Distracted, you mean?"

"—lost, distracted, whatever, and I kind of took these kids' ball by accident—"

"Of course you did."

"—shut up. Then this jerk decided to drag me back to the palace."

"Yes. That part I saw." The toe of Prince Loki's boot touches Arvid's chin, raising his head. The prince's face, like his voice, is disturbingly impassive. "What is your name?"

"Arvid, son of Ake."

"Arvid, son of Ake. Do you know, I slit the throat of the last man who handled my consort in violence?"

The murmur through the crowd nearly drowns out the mortal's sputter of horror. "You what? Who?"

"The soldier who led the attack on your laboratory and our village. And if you expect me to feign remorse, Jane Foster, you wait in vain. He's hardly the only one to die in battle that day."

"Oh. Him. He blew up half of Puente Antiguo. But, uh… you're not going to slit this guy's throat, are you?"

"Whyever not?"

"That's… um… not how we do things on Earth."

"And we're no longer on Earth, as you may have noticed."

"Well… yeah, except…" The mortal's voice drops, too low to be heard by the people, but not low enough to hide from Arvid's ears. "You're just trying to scare him, right? People don't really just… kill each other in Asgard. Do they? I mean, when there's guns out, that's one thing, but…" She trails off.

Loud, presumptuous, and ignorant. At the very least Arvid will be flogged for his insult, and it is very much within the right of an Asgard royal to take his life. If he had handled Frigga thusly, the King would have not given him time to draw breath.

But the human is no queen. She is an oddity that the second son of Odin has chosen (briefly, one hopes) to indulge. And even if it means his life, Arvid will not kow-tow to a mortal of Midgard. His nephews could still be watching nearby.

He waits, stoic, for the blade.

A moment later the boot beneath Arvid's chin disappears. "As you say, Jane Foster. I am only scaring him." And Prince Loki laughs. "Be grateful, son of Ake, that I find this woman's disapproval to be both tiresome and inconvenient. But don't imagine you'll go unpunished."

"Oh, he better not. In New Mexico jerking a person around like that is at least a misdemeanor."

"I seem to recall Darcy Lewis mentioning something like that, yes." Prince Loki raises his voice, loud enough for the crowd to hear, and says: "Perhaps some time in a dungeon cell will teach Arvid son of Ake his manners — and remind him of his place."

"Plus," adds Jane Foster, "he can tell me where to get one of those magnetic balls."

Arvid grits his teeth — and wonders for how long these indignities to the house of Odin can possibly stand.

Kjell, son of Kjell, can't hold back his tears as he douses the last smoldering embers from the formerly-largest table in Ǫlker Tavern. "It's beyond imagining," he says to Ylva for the fifth time. "The Princes Thor and Loki! The Warriors Three! The Bestie Darcy Lewis! Brawling in my tavern! And Volstagg the Voluminous said he likes my dyresteg! Do you think I ought put up a sign? I think I will put up a sign."

This is the greatest day of Kjell's life.

If Ylva has an opinion, she does not share it.