Sol's Notes: Thank you to everyone who reviewed. This is my first venture into the fandom and I really appreciate each and every piece of feedback. I hope you enjoy where the story goes.

.2.

Once upon a time—a very short time ago, in fact—Jane had been a victim. She'd played the part flawlessly. The credit wasn't entirely her own, of course; Fate had deemed her acceptable for the role and had thrust her unwittingly into it. Her initial experiences as a victim had included danger, yes. There was even the potential that she could have lost her life. In Svartalfheim, as she hung suspended in the air with the Aether pouring out of her and into Malekith while Thor lay injured on the ground, she had been certain that she was about to die. It had not been a welcome revelation.

Even after their return to Midgard, as they attempted to thwart Malekith's attempts at heralding in a universal dark age, she'd been aware that her life was miniscule and insignificant when compared to the broader view. And the broader view as she'd so recently been forced to realize, encompassed a great deal more than she'd ever considered possible. But they'd triumphed in the end. She'd loved Thor and he loved her and the worst was over.

It was what she had wanted to believe, at least.

Looking back, her outlook at that time had been laughably pathetic. In what reality would a relationship with a god from another realm ever be simple? She'd seen things, done things, been part of things that no other human had. Life was never again going to be normal.

She began to realize this as first one, then another, and then the last of Thor's enemies found her. Surviving epic battles fought in other realms did not a heroine make. She thought she'd had a handle on the world, even this strange new one in which she loved the god of thunder. She thought she could take everything—even the very frightening, very alien things—in stride.

The third time she was taken she was proven very, very wrong.

Afterwards, Jane was no longer normal. She was a survivor. She was a casualty. She was, to some, a liability. After the third rescue, cradled in the arms of a huge green creature driven only by rage that even at his worst showed more empathy than her third abductor had, Jane decided that she was going to be something else, as well. There was no real word to describe it, no real way to project it, but it had to happen. It had to happen because otherwise life would keep throwing the worst it had her way.

Jane was alive. And Jane would no longer be a victim.

.x.

It hadn't taken her long to return home again after finding Loki in the forest. She'd retraced her steps with a swiftness born from a number of emotions, none of them pleasant. Twice, she'd halted in her tracks and spun around, half-expecting to see the trickster right behind her. But she was alone, the only furrows in the snow from her passing, the only panted, steaming breath her own.

That he would eventually follow she had no doubt. No small part of her hoped he was too weak and too disoriented from all that had just transpired to make it on his own. She told herself she didn't care that Thor had entrusted his deceitful brother to her for safe keeping. She told herself that if Loki died out there in the snow that it wouldn't bother her. And while there was moderate truth to what she was telling herself there was, as always, the familiar undercurrent of uncertainty that she'd learned to hate more than anything.

She warred with herself internally. Eventually, one side won. She wouldn't go back for him. She would, however, prepare for his arrival. If he managed to make it.

Feeling bone-weary and numb, she trudged over to the door of her house. Casting another glance back over her shoulder to ascertain she was still alone, she opened the door and closed it behind her. The interior of the house was charmingly rustic, the walls and roof made of cedar. The entry where she stood now was small without being confining. Coats hung from a row of hooks on one wall and an open closet was situated within the other. Without removing her coat or boots, Jane moved towards the closet and dropped to a crouch. On the floor in the closet were a number of boxes and rubber containers, some empty, some still full of items from her previous life. She grabbed one with a masking tape label on the lid. Scrawled in marker in her own hand it read, unhelpfully, "stuff".

It only took her a moment of rummaging in the box to find what she wanted and once it was in hand she shoved the box back into the closet. She stood, turning back towards the door, and hesitated, staring down at the object she held.

A long time ago, in a life that seemed to have belonged to someone else entirely, Darcy had wanted Jane to purchase a weapon for self defense. Her logic was hardly flawed considering the events that had just transpired, but Jane had scoffed at the idea of carrying a gun. She didn't like guns. She didn't feel comfortable around them. And she definitely hadn't wanted to carry one around.

Darcy had, in her own characteristic way, completely ignored Jane's wishes. One birthday, she'd presented Jane with a non-descript shopping bag, the handles sealed together by a shiny red bow. Taking the bag, Jane had commented on the weight. Darcy had merely smiled and said, "You'll need it someday," before leaving Jane alone with the gift. Jane had expected upon opening the bag to see a gun. What she found had been a slender, metal black cylinder that was nearly as long as her forearm. She'd taken it from the bag and held it up for closer inspection. The metal was cool and grooved beneath her touch. She'd frowned. What was it?

"Flick it!" Darcy's voice had called from the other room.

Still frowning, Jane had done as ordered. She felt something within the cylinder shift with the movement, but nothing else happened.

"Harder!"

She flicked her wrist hard. And the cylinder she held in her grip extended instantly, becoming as long as her arm. The very end was capped with a hard black tip. The parts that had just extended consisted of two joined lengths of tightly coiled springs. It was a weapon, a baton.

As far as gifts from Darcy went it wasn't the weirdest she'd received. She was also beyond grateful that it wasn't a gun. Darcy had come back into the room to demonstrate how it worked. The springs allowed for extra recoil, which meant that the impact hurt more than if you'd hit someone with something unyielding. Jane, amused, had carefully tested it out on her intern. The resulting yelp and plethora of curse words had let her know that Darcy had been correct.

"Promise me to carry it always. Put it in your purse," Darcy had insisted once she'd forgiven Jane for the minor injury. Jane had promised and done just that. When she'd returned home later that evening, however, she'd taken out the baton and put in her sock drawer. It had remained there ever since, until she'd found it again on the eve of her relocation.

She'd never, ever advocated violence as a solution to anything. But she'd learned that tears and screams and pleas didn't solve much, either. Her lips thinning into a resolute line, Jane wrapped her gloved fingers around the baton's grip. Swallowing hard, she opened the door again and left the house again.

.x.

The yard was empty, just as she'd left it. Her truck, a silvery grey half-ton crew cab, sat in the driveway, covered by a thin sheet of snow. For a moment she hesitated, unsure of what to do next. Her nerves were humming with anxiety, uncertainty, and no small amount of fear. Loki, who'd tried to dominate and rule over Earth, who'd tried to kill Thor and so many others, was somewhere nearby. And just because he was mortal now didn't mean he couldn't hurt her. Her conviction wavered. She could easily go back into the house, pack a bag, and leave. She didn't have to stay. As far as she was concerned, she owed those of Asgard nothing. Loki was not her problem.

But she didn't want to leave. This was home. This was her stronghold, the only place she'd felt truly secure in so very long. Clinging to this newfound grim resolve, Jane stepped off the deck and strode across the yard to the woodshed, where the axe still lay with its blade buried in the chopping block. Splitting wood, she'd found, was an easy way for her to focus her thoughts and gain clarity. And clarity was something she could really, really use at this moment.

How she knew, she wasn't sure. But she stopped in her tracks, halfway to the chopping block, and slowly turned. Loki stood there only several feet away. Even with his arms wrapped tight around his chest for warmth, he didn't look bereft of power. He didn't look lost. Clad in the gold and green she remembered him wearing in Asgard, his inky hair crowned by a dusting of snow, he still exuded the blithe arrogance and authority that made him what he was—

A criminal. A villain. A threat.

Upon closer inspection, Jane saw evidence of his newfound mortality. He was breathing hard from the exertion of the walk through the snow. Every exhale became a short puff of steam, unfurling away from his face to be caught and shredded by the wind. His cheeks and nose were red, exposed as they were to the elements. Even with his arms folded tight across his chest, she could see the way his shoulders shuddered as his newly mortal body struggled to retain heat.

"Jane Foster," he said after a moment.

She'd forgotten the sound of his voice. Thor had told her once that Loki had a nickname among the Asgardians: Silvertongue. She understood entirely where the moniker came from.

She remained silent, unsure of what to say, her only motion—unseen—to tighten her grip on the baton.

It was he that moved, instead. He came closer, every step deliberate and purposeful as he followed the path she'd already broken through the snow. Her first instinct was to back away, to keep backing away, until he was no longer in sight. She was acutely aware, however, that the events that were about to transpire would set the stage for things to come. And she would not, could not, be perceived as a victim again. Setting her jaw, she locked her eyes on his and waited on his approach.

He halted only an arm's reach from where she stood and spread his arms to the side, a parody of a welcome embrace. "Not quite the warm reception my brother promised me. He was certain you would be more accommodating, considering we are almost family. Tell me, did you intend I die out there where you found me?"

As she deliberated her answer, as the seconds ticked past, one corner of his mouth inched upwards into a small smile that managed to be both charming and mocking.

"The possibility had had crossed my mind," she replied finally.

His smile manifested itself fully, wide and brilliant with a cruel edge. "Thor was certain I would fare well here. Where else could I be better watched over, better cared for, than under the tender ministrations of his illustrious Jane Foster?"

"And yet," he continued conversationally, turning on the spot to get a more thorough look at his new surroundings, "when I arrive, when my mortal nursemaid finds me, she turns on her heel and leaves me behind to freeze."

His choice of words grated on every nerve she had. With an extreme force of will she managed to unclench her jaw and force words out from between her teeth. "I suppose I'm not much of a nursemaid, then."

"No." He swung back to face her. He tilted his head to the side, considering her. "It is almost as warm a reception as you gave me last time, do you remember?" He paused, his quicksilver smile flickering into existence yet again. "You have yet to strike me."

But I want to, she thought. Instead, she asked the only thing that mattered. "Why are you here?"

She watched his expression change, a mercurial shift that brought into life lines of rage and frustration that marred the skin of his brow. A heartbeat later he was smiling once more as he leaned towards her, speaking as though they were friendly conspirators. "I am afraid I was caught misbehaving again. My brother is not nearly as forgiving as he used to be. I suppose I should be grateful I am not dead."

"I guess you can't die twice, can you?"

He uttered a short, humorless bark of laughter. "No, indeed. Though you have to admit, my first death was entirely convincing, was it not?"

"Why are you here?" She demanded again, determined to get to the cause of this unwanted intrusion into the life she'd just become accustomed to.

His mien became completely serious. "Thor did not care for my disguise. Or for what I labored to do while wearing it."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, Jane Foster, that I have worn the face and mantle of the Allfather this entire time. I ruled Asgard as I was meant to rule, as was my birthright!" His voice had risen, the intensity in each word so powerful that she found herself unconsciously backing a step. His eyes on hers were lit from within by a furious light, brightening their glacial hue. "Asgard was mine. And I would have had the other realms, in time. I would have brought them all to heel."

Of that, Jane had no doubt. She'd harbored some hope—scarce, faint—that Loki's appearance on Earth meant that he'd changed. That he was wasn't still hell-bent on subjugating entire worlds. That he wasn't dangerous. Because if Thor had sent him here while he was still a threat ...

She didn't want to know what conclusion that thought would lead to.

Her heart was racing. Being this close to Loki was like orbiting an unstable star, mesmerizing to watch but marred by the imminent threat of an explosion. Retreating would only invite further intimidation, however, and she'd already resolved that wasn't going to happen. So she remained where she was, tension singing along every nerve in her body.

Greatly daring, she said, "Thor realized your game?"

His eyes narrowed. "I would not be here if he had not."

"And Odin? Did you kill him?"

She watched shadowed emotion flicker in his eyes at the mention of that name. "No. I spared him. A mistake I am not inclined to repeat. I let sentiment interfere with my judgement. I will not do so again."

Aware that she was playing with fire with each successive question, Jane decided to push for more information anyways. She needed to know what had happened, why Thor had decided to send his brother here. "What did you do with him, then?"

Again, that smile—edged, elfin, deceptive. "I must not spill all my secrets to you, Jane. Not yet, at least. Though I am certain my brother would be most impressed with you if I were to do so so quickly."

Jane was silent for several moments, struggling to gather her thoughts. The fallen god stood motionless before her, his eyes wandering from her face to survey what lay beyond. Her throat felt tight and dry; as she cleared it, Loki's eyes snapped back to hers. "After all this, Thor let you live?"

His lip twisted. "Thor let me live? My idiot brother was wholly unaware of my deception and allowed me to continue ruling all this time. It was because of who I am—because of what I am. I have grown and I have changed. I am something greater. Thor did not let me live. And had it come to that, he would have discovered that I am not so easily slain!"

Though she didn't doubt that there was some truth in his words, she also knew he was omitting something, something key component that would give her the whole, entire truth of the story. The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them, her own frustration and anger giving them heat. "But he could defeat you, couldn't he? He made you mortal ... just like me."

She should have predicted his reaction. He surged forward and seized her by the collar of her coat, jerking her up so that her face was directly beneath his. "I am no mortal!"

She was no fighter. He was, though not in the same way as Thor. In Svartalfheim, as she'd lain helpless and exhausted on the ground after the Aether had left her, she'd watched Loki singlehandedly take on six of the dark elves without even receiving so much as a flesh wound. He'd done so with such skill as to make it seem effortless. Loki was dangerous. Loki was deadly. And she had just made the questionable to decision to fight back.

With her free hand, she shoved him hard, away from her. The other hand flicked out to the side, the baton snapping to its full length. Staggering slightly, he retreated a step, his eyes darting to her hand, to what she held. She advanced on him, knowing that to falter was to fail and charged into him with enough force that he had to struggle to maintain his balance. As he corrected his stance and reached for her again she lashed out with the baton. The first blow landed along the length of his thigh, eliciting a hiss of pain. She struck again but he caught her wrist in one hand. The expression on his face was terrifying, but she'd gone too far to back down now. She lifted her free hand to deliver a slap but he intercepted that blow too, catching her by the elbow.

He grappled with her. In any other reality, he would have snapped her arm like a twig. In this reality, stripped of his powers and wearied by his earlier exertions, his strength was flagging. With one foot she stomped down hard on his. He sucked in a pained breath, his grip on her wrist loosening, and she jumped to take the slight advantage. The baton striped against his side, his shoulder, and his forearm as he raised it to ward off her blows. He tried to knife around her and almost succeeded, but his movements were slow, uncoordinated—he wasn't accustomed to this mortal flesh and the limitations that came with it. She saw another opening and took it, striping the baton across the back of his knees. He fell, trying to catch himself by fisting one hand in her coat before toppling completely as she struck him one final time.

He'd rolled to his back, arms raised protectively over his face. She stood over him, the baton held in a trembling, white knuckle grip. Both of them were breathing hard. Jane felt sick to her stomach, a roiling, terrifying nausea. She'd never deliberately struck someone with the intent to wound before. To make it even worse, she was experiencing exhilaration in a way she'd never felt it before. She hadn't been submissive. She hadn't given way. And she found in an unwelcome revelation that a part of her had actually enjoyed attacking him.

It was difficult to hear anything given the way her pulse thundered in her ears, but she heard a quiet sound and struggled to identify it. A moment later, she realized he was laughing.

"So," he panted, chuckling still, lying on his back in the snow and lowering his arms slowly as he realized another hit wasn't coming. "Little Jane does bite. It seems I am truly at your mercy."

It was hard not to strike him again. Staring down at his face, creased now by that infuriating, mocking smile, she asked the question he'd thus far refused to answer directly. "Why did Thor send you here?"

The smile died, bit by bit, until his face was nearly expressionless. She could still see the anger though, in the thin, tight line of his mouth. "Fortune favors my brother as she never did me; he guessed my game and exposed to all of Asgard that I was not the Allfather. But not before I had set certain plans in motion. I have been sent here to prevent a war. I, who should have led it!"

She almost asked who he had intended to war against, but realized an instant later that for Loki, the only conquest that would suffice would be one of universal proportions. Instead, she asked, "Why didn't Thor kill you?"

"Ah," Loki said, a bitter amusement coating his voice, "I am still alive because without my knowledge the Allfather will remain as he is: lost. But I could not remain on Asgard, not with the threat of war looming so very close. There would be far too many opportunities for me to turn to betrayal again. The magnitude of this war dictates that all of Asgard's warriors be involved. There would be no one left to ensure that I am properly jailed. And so my brother chose the only option he felt open to him. He tore my powers from me and sentenced me to imprisonment here, in the last possible place in the universe that I would prefer to be."

Jane thought hard on that as Loki slowly got back to his feet, his eyes glued warily to the baton she still held in her gloved hand. It made perfect, dismal sense. In a world that had just started to right itself around her, the man she'd loved had chosen her to act as jailer and caretaker for a traitor, trickster, and murderer. That Thor, whom she had suffered for, yearned for, and needed, would thrust her into a role of this magnitude without asking her first was a crippling insult. What was at stake in this situation was dire and obvious: if Loki were to die, Odin was lost.

In that moment, she found she hated Thor for putting her in this position.

Loki was standing again, arms wrapped tight around his chest once more. He was shivering violently. Jane felt, despite everything, a momentary pang of remorse. She quickly subdued it before taking one step in his direction.

"To be perfectly clear," she said, every word ringing with iron certainty, "I don't want this anymore than you do. I resent it. If circumstances were different, I'd leave you out here to freeze without a second thought. But I won't."

"Now," she continued even as he opened his mouth, no doubt, to deliver some bitingly sarcastic remark, "you're mortal. Which means, you're as vulnerable and insignificant and puny as I am. Keep that in mind. If you touch me again, if you try to hurt me, I will find a way to get rid of you. I will call S.H.I.E.L.D and let them know you're back on Earth. I'll broadcast your location for all to see. You don't have any friends here. Are we clear?"

"Perfectly." Infuriatingly, he was smiling again. Bowing slightly, he swept one arm outwards, in the direction of the door to her house. "Shall we?"

.x.