Sol's Notes: Again, thank you so much for your support!

.3.

She'd made Loki lead the way to the house. Turning her back to him had never been an option, particularly not after the fact that she'd managed to successfully defend herself from his attack. Granted, he was far weaker than he usually was with his powers stripped from him. She knew that once he became used to this mortal body, however, he wouldn't be so easily subdued.

The full ramifications of the current situation began to hit home, prompting the dull, leaden sensation in the pit of her stomach to intensify. With Loki close, she could never let down her guard. She must always be wary of an attack, a betrayal. Worst of all, she had no idea how long he would be here. What if his banishment dragged on for months? It was becoming very hard to care about how all of this would ultimately affect Asgard. The idea of turning Loki over to S.H.I.E.L.D was more and more appealing every second.

In the house, he'd stood in the small entryway, still shivering, and watched with quiet amusement as she removed her boots and her coat. Throughout it all she maintained a firm hold on the baton, collapsed back to its compact form. Glancing up to see him watching her, she felt her face contort into an expression that stopped just shy of being baleful. He said nothing however, and bent to remove his own footwear as she pulled off her gloves and scarf. She stepped carefully past him into the house proper, striding quickly through the open kitchen and stepping down into the living room. The stove sat on the north wall with the woodbox to the right. A quick glance backwards informed her that Loki was slowly wandering her way, running his hands over his upper arms and looking around at the house. He was limping slightly, favoring one leg. Jane felt more than a little vindictive pleasure at that.

"How very ... quaint." His voice drifted over to her as he paused to look at some of the artwork adorning her walls, prints by Kinuko Craft that she'd put up in an effort to make the house feel more like a home. Making certain to keep him in her line of sight, she opened the stove and added more wood to the fire which was dancing low about the embers. Almost instantly the fire grew, the flames leaping and casting a welcoming, beckoning glow through the soot-stained pane of glass at the stove's front.

The heat it gave off was impressive; already she felt it easing the chill from her body. Loki, drawn by the promise of warmth had come closer. He dropped to a crouch only inches from the stove, turning his face to the glow. She eyed him uneasily for a long moment, but he seemed wholly concerned with absorbing as much of the heat as he possibly could. Ensuring she had the baton firmly in hand once more, she passed behind him, stepping up into the kitchen. She busied herself with the task of making herself something warm to drink while repeatedly casting glances over her shoulder. Her unwelcome guest had not moved; if anything, it seemed he'd shifted closer to the fireplace.

The water was ready quickly, and once she cradled a mug of hot chocolate in her hands she leaned back against the counter and considered the man kneeling in front of her stove. She didn't want to care that he was cold. She didn't want to care about anything concerning him. He's a liar, she reminded herself grimly. He's a murderer. He's a traitor. But he was also mortal, and the life of Odin and subsequently the welfare of Asgard depended on his well-being.

To say she was conflicted was an understatement of massive proportions. She was having an incredibly difficult time understanding why Thor would send Loki to her. Sending him to S.H.I.E.L.D would have made more sense—he'd be imprisoned, yes, but he'd be safe. Jane suspected that Thor wished to keep Loki's most recent traitorous ambitions—and the resulting strife for Asgard—from the attention of S.H.I.E.L.D. Given how thoroughly visitors from Asgard had shaken up Earth during multiple visits, she didn't really blame Thor from wanting to keep the latest issues hidden. She did, however, blame him for dragging her into the mess without so much as making an appearance in order to ask her.

Echoing her sombre thoughts, Jane's eyes wandered from the contents of her mug to Loki where he was situated in front of the fire. Even from where she stood, she could still that he was still wracked by the occasional shiver. Sighing, she turned, set her cup down and began to make a drink for him as well.

He looked up at her as she stepped down from the kitchen, mug in hand. Wordlessly, she held it out to him. His eyes moved from what she offered to her face and then back again. Lips curving upwards in a faint, sardonic smile, he finally reached up to take it from her. Irritated for so many reasons that she couldn't really pinpoint one to dwell on, she turned to make her way back to the kitchen.

His hand on her wrist stopped her, anchoring her where she was, and she rounded on him in alarm—she'd left the baton on the kitchen counter. His gaze, however, was focused on the hand attached to the wrist he'd captured. She knew with a certain kind of despair exactly what he had noticed.

"This did not happen in Asgard. Nor Svartalfheim."

The hand in question, the hand that was missing the smallest and index fingers, twitched as she attempted to wrench free. He didn't relinquish his grip and managed to hold on firmly while still balancing the mug of steaming liquid in the other hand.

"No, it didn't." Her words were an exhale of ire and tension.

"How, then?" He'd moved his gaze upwards and it had centered intently on her face.

She shook her head. "Doesn't matter."

He loosened his grip and she took two steps back instantly. He considered her another moment before turning his attention back to the fire, grasping the mug with both hands and bringing to his mouth. Scowling, shaken, Jane stepped back up into the kitchen to retrieve her own drink.

"You are not as I remember you." His words floated over to her just as she'd taken a sip of her own drink. His back was to her as he knelt in the warm light emanating from the stove. "Missing fingers aside, of course."

"Everyone changes. The last time I saw you, you were still a god."

She'd foolishly hoped to rile him, to nettle him. Instead, her pointed remark was met with a small laugh. He rose to his feet, turning to face her, still holding the cup in his hands. Again he wore that expression, that smile of gently mocking amusement at her expense. "Thor has not seen that injury, has he?"

There was a long pause before she answered. "You know he hasn't."

He dipped his head in agreement to her words. "I suppose I must shoulder some of the blame for that. I did my best to keep him quite busy during my reign. It wouldn't have done to give him too much free time to think about things that could have interfered with my designs. Not," he amended dryly, "that thinking is one of my brother's most notable strengths."

It was hard, so hard, to stand there and listen to all the hurtful, callous things he had a habit of saying without reacting the way she wanted to. The baton sat on the counter beside her. She could still remember how exhilarating it had felt to use it on him. The fact that it had also made her ill from guilt was a memory that faded more and more with every word he said.

"I advised my brother to end this little romance, you know. Mortal lives are fleeting, the life of a candle compared to the life of a star. You are all of you so vulnerable. He was most adamant that he wished to see it through. Even when I devised ways to keep him from returning here, he clung to your memory with admirable devotion."

"Your ... injury," he went on, "how do you think Thor will react once he sees it? Once he realizes that he has failed to protect you as he swore he would? The truth of your mortal vulnerability will strike home. He'll be forced to realize that the two of you are separated by more than just realms."

"I already know this." Her voice surprised her, even and calm. In her mind there were a thousand thoughts—old and new—reeling about, echoing what he'd said. "I know what I am. I know what he is."

"Then why this reluctance you show towards our present situation? I assumed you would be eager for an opportunity to aid Thor, even in this manner. And as for your treatment of me thus far ... if you recall, it was I that saved your life the last time we were in each other's company. Twice. Not to mention the times my brother has so gallantly protected you from harm. Though Thor would never dare mention it, you are indebted to those of Asgard."

Her nostrils flared as she sucked in a deep breath, struggling to control the urge to throw her half full mug across the room, directly at his head. "That debt," she said tersely, "and any debt I have ever owed to you or Thor or Asgard has been repaid. In full."

"Stay here," she said sharply, just as he opened his mouth to deliver some other form of insulting or condescending remark, "Or don't. I don't care. If you stay, you can sleep in the small bedroom down the hall. There's food, if you're hungry. I'm not your cook. I won't clean up after you, either."

Holding her mug so tightly she feared it might break in one hand and grabbing the baton in the other, she walked out of the kitchen and headed down the hall, pausing at the first door on the left that led to her office. She paused and said without turning to look at him, "And stay out of my way," before stepping into the office and turning on the light.

.x.

The third of Thor's enemies to find her had been coldly and creatively cruel. Her femininity and mortal vulnerability had not spared her any torture, physical or mental. That enemy had nearly killed her. There had been times, lying broken and bleeding on a cold concrete floor, when she wished it had been so.

This enemy had not come to Earth alone, but had led a small army. For the second time in as many years, New York had been the epicentre for battles more alien than human in nature. Jane had not been the only hostage. And if she hadn't known Thor, hadn't loved Thor, she wouldn't have suffered as much. It was his love for her that made it so bad—if he'd simply dismissed her as easily as Loki had advised, she would have been useless. But Thor had truly cared for her and so she had became someone useful, became a valuable pawn in a game meant to inflict only pain and devastation.

It did not go according to plan. The third enemy had hoped to lure Thor to Earth by hurting Jane. But Thor had been fighting other battles—as had Heimdall, she later surmised. She had to think that because she couldn't bear to think that she had endured what she had with Thor being aware of it all … and choosing not to come.

The earthbound members of the Avengers had been the ones to eradicate this enemy. The victory did not come without a cost. Erik Selvig, kidnapped along with Jane simply because he'd had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, had died. Hundreds of others had died as well, collateral damage. And by the time she was found, Jane had nearly been dead too.

It had not been Thor to carry her out of the wreckage of the building where she and others had been held captive. It had been the Hulk. The massive, terrifying creature fueled by rage and hatred and every other negative emotion had found her bleeding and barely conscious amidst great chunks of rubble after the enemy had been defeated and the invading army routed. Carefully, gently, the Hulk had shifted fallen slabs of concrete out of the way and carefully, gently, he had picked Jane up, raising her into his arms.

From that point on, full memory escaped her. She recalled some of it in tattered, hazy bits. She remembered hearing Fury's voice, insisting the Hulk focus more on savaging the remnants of the enemy army and less on saving her life. We'll fly her out, Fury had said. We'll call medics. The Hulk had ignored the order. He'd also ignored Tony Stark's offer to take her and fly her to the nearest hospital. The enormous green creature that everyone was so afraid of had clutched her close in a tight yet tender hold and had bounded into the air, clearing several city blocks in one leap. And once he'd plummeted to his destination, he had gently delivered Jane Foster into the capable and awestruck hands of the hospital's staff that had gathered outside.

Later, when the surgeries were over and her injuries on the mend, she remembered drifting out of merciful sleep to find Bruce Banner sitting in the chair across from her hospital bed. When she'd managed to reconstruct the recent chain of events while fighting off painkiller haziness, she thanked him in a weak, wavering voice. His soft voice and kind eyes as he replied had broken through the last tenuous defense she had, and she'd wept. And Bruce Banner, pulling his chair up close, had clasped the fingers of her good hand with his own and held on tight while she fell apart.

"You don't owe him anything," he'd told her a couple days later. He'd been a frequent visitor during her recuperation, bringing her flowers one day and newspapers and magazines to read the next. Now, sitting in the same chair, leaning back with his legs outstretched, he'd regarded her with his solemn dark eyes from behind the lenses of his glasses.

"I mean that, Jane. You don't owe Thor anything. Not after this. He should have been here. He should have been the one to pull you out of that building."

"But he wasn't," she said softly, hating the way the words twisted her up inside.

Bruce shook his head. "He wasn't. I don't know what's going on up there in Asgard. He could be fighting dragons or giants or other gods, I don't know. But Jane—this relationship you've got going with him ... if he's not going to be here when you need him, it's going to get you killed."

"I know," she whispered, fighting the burning threat of tears and the painful knot in her throat.

"I'm not trying to be a jerk. I'm worried, very worried, for your safety. You almost died. If I—if the Other Guy hadn't found you when he did ..."

"I know, thank you, thank you so much for what you did—"

"Jane." Bruce had paused and sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair in distressed frustration. "I'm telling you this because something has to change. Thor's been AWOL the last two times you've been in trouble and that is not a good sign. Something has to be done. You need to change your name and move or go into some kind of protective custody with S.H.I.E.L.D. You need to be very, very careful from now on."

He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. On his face she could read his earnest concern for her and it tore her up on the inside to know that he cared as much as he did. He was a kind man, a gentle man, despite his ferocious alter-ego. Staring into his eyes as he entreated her to go into hiding, she found herself wishing she'd met him years ago, before she'd stumbled across Thor and lost her heart on a careless whim.

Weeks later, when she was finally release, she'd taken Bruce Banner's advice to heart. She began to set a plan into motion. Something had changed within her. Something had needed to change.

The Jane that left the hospital was not the same Jane that had entered it.

.x.

It turned out she worked well under stress.

Sequestered away in her office, she'd been easily able to lose herself in the research she'd started shortly after the fall of Malekith, research S.H.I.E.L.D had expressed avid interest in. Her mind wanted a distraction and was ready to focus on familiar territory. She'd still been completely aware that Loki was in her house, but concentrating on her work took a little of that edge off. The desk was situated so that she faced the door, which made it easier to concentrate knowing she could see him coming. The baton, which she now regarded as something of a necessity, was on the desk next to the printer.

When she finally looked up from the screen, rolling her head back and forth to ease the tension in her neck, she was almost surprised to see that night had fallen. Outside the small window in the bedroom-turned-office was the heavy, unrelenting darkness of a moonless winter night. Sighing, Jane saved her work and closed her laptop. Standing, she grabbed the baton and made for the door.

The rest of the house was dark, and she paused warily before stepping out into the dark hall. She'd been alert to any sounds coming from the living room and heard, twice, the sound of Loki adding more wood to the fire. It was beyond strange, the thought of a creature such as Loki stoking the fire in her living room. She shook her head slightly, amending that thought. Everything was strange now.

The only light in the house, aside from that in the office, was the orange glow of the fire through the soot-stained glass pane in the stove. She could make out the silhouette of Loki, still situated in front of the fire. Jane moved down the hall and out into the kitchen, flicking the lights on as she went. As the lights in the living room came on, Loki half-turned his head in her direction but made no sound. He was seated, cross-legged, on the floor. The heavy polar fleece blanket that was usually folded across the back of her couch was draped over his shoulders.

Jane frowned. He was so close to the fire that he had to be sweating. They'd been indoors for hours now. He should be more than warm. Feeling a twinge of concern and hating it, she stepped down into the living room and approached him. "Are you still cold?"

"I find that I have a newfound appreciation for your Midgard winters. Even time spent in the remotest reaches of Jotunheim did not affect me thus."

His voice was low and soft. Jane's frown deepened. That he'd caught a chill was obvious. Mortal now as he was, his body was as vulnerable as hers. And yes, she'd been out in the cold too, but she'd been appropriately attired. Fighting off remorse as she remembered him lying in the snow below her, arms raised to fend off her blows, she said simply, "I'll be right back."

She retraced her steps heading out of the living room and moving back down the hall, entering the first door on the right. Flicking on the light in the bathroom, she moved to the large square bathtub in the furthest corner, plugged the drain, and began to run the water. With her fingers held in the stream to gauge the temperature, she cast a glance around. The house was small—three bedroom, one bath—but was nearly new. All appliances and fixtures were nearly new, as well. After living as long as she had in cheap, tiny apartments, she'd quickly learned to love the open concept of her new home. The bathroom in particular had delighted her. The large tub, situated as it was in the corner, was raised slightly above floor level and was accessible by three stairs. In the corner across from the tub was a door-less walk in shower, set within a tiled alcove. A vanity with two sinks shared the same wall as the doorway, with the toilet being in the other corner.

Once the water had reached a temperature that was almost uncomfortably hot, she withdrew her fingers, shaking them free of excess moisture. At the bathroom door she paused, considering. She didn't like any part of Loki being here. She really didn't cherish the idea of him soaking in her tub. On top of that, he had nothing else to wear other than what he'd been cast down to Earth clothed in. She had a temporary solution to that particular problem, although it presented a malicious kind of irony that tightened her stomach into knots. She blew out a frustrated breath. The truth was she didn't have much of a choice in any of this. Loki's well-being was paramount as far as the future Asgard was concerned. And, regrettably, she found she didn't want to be responsible for even more trouble and strife in Thor's home realm.

Further down the hall, the second door on the left was her bedroom. Turning the light on, she crossed the carpeted floor to her closet. There, in the very farthest corner, hung an oversized man's terrycloth robe. It was dark blue. Pulling it off the hanger, Jane clutched it tight for a long moment, vividly recalling the times that Erik would come to visit her and Darcy and appear in the mornings in this very same robe, hair in sleepy disarray as he clutched his morning cup of coffee. She almost put it back in the closet until she bitterly reminded herself that the only alternative was to have Loki roam around her house clad only in a towel. She had enough distractions as it was.

She left her room and ducked into the bathroom to check on the tub. It was nearly half full. She laid the robe down on the vanity and headed back out to the living room. It didn't look as though Loki had moved. Coming to a halt at his side, she said, "There's a bath running. Should get you warm."

The look he slanted her was one of mingled contempt and amusement. She cut him off before he could say anything. "Or, you can stay here and be cold all night. It's your call."

"For a nursemaid, your bedside manner is somewhat lacking."

Anger blazed up within her. As he rose to his feet, carelessly discarding the blanket so that it fell to the floor in a heap, she stepped up to him. "Really? Tell me, Loki, where would you be right now if not for me?

"Most likely still out in the snow." He waved a hand dismissively in the direction of the door to the house. "Though I would thankfully be without the impressive array of bruises you've given me."

Jane made a strangled noise of helpless ire. One corner of his mouth quirked upwards at the sound, but he said only, "Lead on."

Jane tried to ignore the fact that it sounded very much like the order he'd give a servant. She shook her head. "You first."

His smile grew, but he said nothing, merely nodded once before moving away from the fire. She followed him from the living room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. He crossed to the tub and glanced down into it before letting his gaze scan the rest of the room.

"Towels." Jane said curtly, pointing at the rack hanging next to the tub. "When you're done, you can put that on." She pointed then to the robe on the vanity. "It's warmer than what you're wearing."

He'd crossed to the vanity, picking up the robe for closer examination. "A man's robe. This is not, I trust, something my brother has worn during one of his visits?"

"No."

His eyebrows shot upwards. "Another man's, then? Who does it belong to?"

"It belonged," she said in a voice that came out strangled despite her best efforts, "to Erik."

"Ah! Doctor Selvig! As far as mortals go, his mind was most intriguing, a trove of scientific discoveries. Tell me, how is he? Has he recovered fully from our ... alliance?"

"He's dead."

"Regrettable. He was a mortal of true intelligence. A rarity."

For a moment she stared at him, incapable of moving for the strength of desires that swirled through her. The desire to claw his eyes out. The desire to slap him until she drew blood. The desire to bash his head into the tiled green floor until his skull cracked. His eyes were on her face. She knew he was likely very aware of everything she wanted to do to him in that moment.

Reigning in the fury that she felt at that moment was one of the hardest things she had ever done. She forced it down, swallowed hard, and moved to the vanity. Opening a drawer, she rummaged around until she found a bar of soap. She somehow doubted he'd be interested in her bottles of floral and fruit scented body wash lining the tiled surface around the tub. As she straightened, she inhaled sharply. Loki stood directly before her, his long nimble fingers working at the fastenings of his clothing. She found herself staring straight at the exposed expanse of his lean, pale chest.

With a smile that was perfectly calculated to be devastatingly charming with a mocking edge, he asked, "Would you care to help me disrobe, nursemaid?"

Jane felt her face flush several different shades of red in the span of a heartbeat. She felt embarrassment, yes, but mostly a very warranted urge to stab him with something. So lost in the wash of emotions was she that she did not respond at all. Her expressive face gave way as always to what she was experiencing and Loki read it all.

"At a loss for words? Surely I'm not the only male to have made that offer. Surely you and Thor ...?"

Mutely, she backed away, hurling the bar of soap at him. He caught it with ease and advanced on her a step, his head to the side as he considered her with one eyebrow raised in unwelcome speculation.

"Your room," she said tightly after a long minute, having mastered her emotions enough to meet his eyes squarely, "is up the hall, on the right."

She turned and exited the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The sound of his laughter followed her out. She stood where she was for a long span of seconds, breathing deep and fighting hard to regain the calm numbness that had served her so well throughout most of this trial. When she felt the color in her cheeks recede she began to move, heading out into rest of the house. She locked the front door and turned out the lights in the kitchen before moving to the stove. She stocked it full of wood and turned down the damper, ensuring it would burn slowly for the duration of the night. She shut the lights off and moved down the hall. She stopped at the guest bedroom, reaching into to turn on the light before entering her own room. Once inside, she closed the door quietly and locked it.

She turned off the light and felt her way through the dark to her bed. Lying down on her side, still clothed with the baton still held tightly in her good hand, she kept her eyes fastened on the door and wondered how she'd ever be able to sleep.

.x.