They traverse the long corridors leading to their rooms, guided by the green lights that line their path. Many faces pass them along the way - diplomats, ambassadors, dukes, baronesses. This planet is a popular tourist destination. Loki nods to those he feels are worthy of his acknowledgement and ignores those who are not. Jane greets every one of them with a warm smile, regardless of whether or not she has been properly introduced to them. She does not play political games, does not pick and choose who to reward with her favor or punish with her contempt. It is enough that someone makes eye contact with her. She babbles on with unmasked excitement, a steady stream of words he has already heard or already expected flowing from her flapping mouth. The meal was incredible. The fruits were exotic. The company was pleasing. Didn't he think it was wonderful, that they were so willing to share their knowledge? Wasn't the queen so hospitable?

It is both extremely irritating and completely endearing.

Humans are adaptable creatures, but so, too, is his kind. He is a Jotun that survived passably as an Aesir, after all. He supposes that his ability to find affection for her even in the midst of her endless prattle is an adaptation he has cultivated to keep himself sane. If a fly incessantly buzzes at one ear and one cannot swat it away for whatever reason - it's too quick, too agile, too protected by an ill-conceived prank - then one must learn to enjoy the music of an insect's hum, mustn't one?

What is merely a brisk pace for him is fairly a jog for her. She stops to chat with a Darbian delegate along the way with whom she has grown somewhat acquainted. Loki does not care to speak to him, so he continues on, prompting Jane to huff and apologize on his behalf. She won't be convinced that what is rude to her race's culture isn't rude to other's; she also won't be convinced not to care. The slap of her sandaled feet on the tile marks her jogging to catch up to him moments later and he considers walking faster, if only to hear her stomp her foot and hiss his name in frustration. Instead, he stops and patiently awaits his mistress.

"Seriously? You are such an asshole!"

"You always refer to me as the same part of the human anatomy when you are annoyed with me, Jane. You've met countless other species by now - couldn't you be more creative?"

He offers his elbow to her and, after a glare, she viciously hooks her arm through his.

"Fine. You're a Ciegrimite asshole."

"Metanephridium."

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

"Or not, as the case may be."

By now, she is smiling, but only grudgingly.

"Or not." She agrees as they finally reach their door. It opens with a hydraulic sigh.

Once inside, she passes him and frees her hair from the intricate knots and buns in which it had been tied, in keeping with the local fashions. She hums in relief as her hair tumbles over her shoulders in messy waves, pins, hairnets, and all other accoutrement flying in every which direction. As she rips off her dress, a satiny confection of feather and ruffles, he, too, divests himself of his formal clothing. Unlike her, all it takes is a thought and his Asgardian attire is gone. She stops in her fabric mutilation long enough to watch his nude back departing into the washroom.

When he emerges, freshly bathed, she is wearing undergarments; a thin, sleeveless Midgardian shirt and "panties". The look she spares his bare torso is appreciative, but her focus is consumed by her preparations for her departure. Her suitcase, the same red, tattered thing she has used for years and refuses to allow him to replace, lies open on the bed and is already mostly full. All the metal, plastic, and circuitry together must be two-thirds of her weight. He seats himself in one of the chairs in their room and watches her with steepled fingers until she deigns to notice him. Her brows raise when she notices he is clothed.

"Why are you dressed? Aren't we going to sleep?"

Sleep is a clever euphemism for how they usually spend their last night together. While he is pleased she is anticipating it, his plans for the night differ slightly.

"Not yet. I've a surprise for you. Finish and dress yourself."

"What kind of surprise?" she asks warily as she fumbles with the zipper. He makes a mental note to procure a new valise for her usage. It irks him that she is so content with the subpar simply because it is familiar to her.

"You're not very good at allowing yourself to be surprised."

She rolls her eyes and moves her things to the floor. In her distraction, she forgets that it should be too heavy for her, that she should require assistance. He makes no mention of it as she strides across the room to the wardrobe, wrinkling her nose at the many dresses provided. What passes for casual fashion here would be costume on Midgard.

"Can I at least get an idea of what to wear? I hope we're not going for a run."

"Something that covers your legs would be a start. As lovely as they are, I wouldn't want you to cause a riot."

She mumbles something under her breath about his being a smart-metanephridium as she plucks one of the less ornate dresses from the hanger and sheds her smallclothes. He would offer to dress her, but she would be angry with him for offering. Her fierce independence often skirts the line of inconvenience. She is a child who insists on pouring herself milk - I can do it myself! - before spilling it all over the banquet table.

As she changes, she glances at him suspiciously over her shoulder, no doubt hoping for some sort of banner to appear over his head announcing his intentions. All she receives instead is his blank amusement. She shares meals, her body, her laughter with him, but never her trust. In all their years, he has never once laid an unwelcome hand upon her, and yet, she still does not trust him. This is because she is a smart woman and Loki both applauds and resents her for it.

She has chosen a brown dress for herself. He assumes because it is the least complicated of the rest of her borrowed garments and not due to the color. It dawns on her that he has seen her in every state of dress and undress in every shade and hue except for this one. He cannot fathom why not. It is the shade of dirt, but on her, it is so much more. It summons all the gold in her to the forefront, highlighted in errant strands of her hair, in the light tan of her skin, and in the flecks of her irises. He wonders if this is a reflection of the apples he still occasionally feeds her, or if this coloration is all her own. Still yet, it may be just another symptom of his uncomfortable infatuation. He considers complimenting her appearance, but stops his mouth before the words can leave it.

They depart from their room with Jane's arm in his, just as they entered it, but this time, there is no buzz of conversation. She pointedly avoids looking at him, instead watching the twists and turns they take and peering at the night sky through the vine-ridden high arches bracing the corridors. When they arrive at the docking bay, she stiffens.

"Where are you taking me?"

He rolls his eyes at her pronounced apprehension and adds a scoff for good measure before releasing her arm and approaching a nearby attendant. She fidgets where she stands, clearly contemplating running. She does not fully understand the parameters of the spell, as he has never completely explained it to her. No matter where he takes her, she will always return to Midgard on the first day of her spring. Always, unless she decides otherwise.

He informs the attendant of his earlier arrangements to borrow a vessel. A lie, but one so plausible that it might as well be a truth. He is granted his request and he nearly drags a recalcitrant Jane to the small ship offered. Her poorly disguised interest in the transport overrides her misgivings and she boards behind Loki. It is as sleek on the inside as it is without, with its diminutive size sacrificing nothing in the way of chrome luxury. Her shoulders slowly ease themselves of their tension as she absorbs her surroundings. Whatever nefarious assumptions she might have had surely flee at the realization that this is a vehicle meant for pleasure, unsuitable for long voyages and unequipped with weapons - not that he has need of external weapons, should he want to cause some sort of damage.

Jane follows him slowly as he makes his way towards the front of the ship. Loki isn't familiar with this model, but their ships, especially the leisure skiffs, all have similar designs. The cockpit isn't so much a pit as a depression. Windows encircle the entire ship, giving a full view of all surroundings. He seats himself at the pilot's chair in front of the console and she wanders behind him, inquisitive eyes drinking every minute detail.

"Do you actually know how to fly this?"

"Yes, Jane, I actually do."

"How?"

He smiles at her as she takes the seat next to him and at his gesture, buckles herself in.

"I have a good deal of knowledge in a great many things. Surely, you know this by now."

She hums in what may be sarcasm. He sees the beginnings of excitement in her eyes and in the upward curve of her lips which soon spread into a full smile. This is her first time being piloted by him, but she has ridden spacecrafts before and he knows for a fact she enjoys them.

"It's kinda funny. You, dressed like that, in this super Star Trek-y, futuristic ship."

"I have no idea what 'Star Trek' is."

"I know."

She turns her fond grin away from him and looks forward, toward the opening bay door. Her grip on the armrest is white-knuckle tight. He starts the skiff and coaxes them from their resting position forward, aligning them with the visible sky. The engine purrs as he collects speed; the faster they go, the wider her smile grows until they jettison toward the stars. He can hear her breath over the roar of the drives, followed by her gasp as they breach the ozone. He gives her a moment to coo her amazement - which never seems to fade, no matter how much he shows her - and process the satellites and trade ships surrounding them, all overlooking the vastness of space. Then, he engages the drives once more, drawing from her a squeal of surprise.

When they stop, Jane's eyes widen and she leans forward in her seat, straining against the belt.

The third moon is uninhabited, and for good reason. Besides lacking a suitable atmosphere, which could be remedied given the technology available, the entire surface is covered in turbulent volcanoes. Jane knows this because he has told her. She looks to him, then back to the view of the grey-black in front of her, a shaking hand rising to cover her mouth. He reaches over and unbuckles her belt. Slowly, she stands.

Red eyes swirl at the tops of mountains before one by one, they burst, spewing and spilling their boiling innards over their sides and up above them. Jane recoils from surprise and the expectation of danger, of which there is none. Their distance keeps them well away from the heat, but they are close enough so that the molten rock casts a ruddy light in the interior of the ship. Suddenly, she leaps from her seat, running around the console. He follows her, stopping a ways behind. She is still, hands and face pressed to the window.

And then she laughs. She laughs loudly, breathlessly, endlessly, with no cadence or melody. She sways, she jumps, she dances, her brown skirts painted red and orange, earth and fire. The gold he saw in her before is now molten. She is pure discord, bursting at the seams of a slender container. A moon burns and bleeds before her and she revels in the chaos of nature, of forces beyond the control of magic and science both. In this one, singular moment, Loki's vision of her has crystallized. She is equal parts clever and brave, burdened by an insatiable curiosity, limited by her innate desire for good. She is arrogant in her intelligence, but humbled by knowledge, unyielding in her desires, but soft in her compassion. She is the best of him and the best of Thor. With every new realm he has taken her and every new food, knowledge, and idea she has consumed, she has become more than human. More than him, than Thor, than Jotun, than Aesir. There is no one in the universe like Jane Foster.

She turns toward him then, her tears multifaceted in the light. At first, Loki is afraid that somehow, this has displeased her, but then she smiles and he knows the tears to be of joy. He walks to her and rests his hand on the small of her back. She leans into him and though her voice is a hoarse whisper, he hears every hushed syllable.

"If I...if I stayed one more week, would you tell Thor?"

"Yes," he lies over the taste of victory.

She faces him, wrapping her small arms around his waist, rubbing her tears into his chest.

"Thank you."