audreyii_fic: because there would be fallout from douchebaggery and also embrace ALL the tropes!
Wherein most of New Mexico 'ships Lokane. (Humor. R.)
There is no therapist in Puente Antiguo.
There should be, mind. But there's not. Not in a town with a population of two thousand, one hundred and twenty-five (give or take; about a thousand of those live out on ranches and reach civilization once in a blue moon). But this is worse, in a lot of ways. It's twenty miles to the nearest Wal-Mart. It's three long, dusty hours to Albuquerque. All two thousand, one hundred and twenty-five of them have got to live together without shooting each other.
There should really be a therapist.
Instead, there's Fernanda. Better known as Fern. Or, apparently, 'serving wench'.
If it wasn't for the fact that the batshit brothers were the most interesting thing to happen to this place in about a decade — and possibly the best paying — she'd brain them with her baseball bat.
And, okay, it doesn't hurt that they're both easy on the eyes. Fern's fifty-five, not dead.
"Another!" calls Thor, and Fern hurries to get him another Coors. He's mostly stopped smashing his mugs on the ground, but without Darcy Lewis here to keep his ass in line, who knows what could happen. It's just him and his brother, the local porn-celebrity, looking even moodier than usual.
Loki's out of beer too, and Fern refills it without asking. They're on their fourth pitcher but don't seem to be worse the wear for it. Whereas Kalúha puts them both under the table.
Most fucked up thing ever.
Before she can walk away, Thor waves her closer. "You, wench," he says, and Fern wonders where she left that baseball bat. "You are a woman of Midgard, are you not?"
They're lucky they're good-looking. "Last I checked, rulacho."
"Excellent. Then perhaps you might explain where my brother has erred in his courtship."
"There is no 'courtship'," mutters Loki. "And I've not erred. It is Jane Foster who is in the wrong."
"And yet somehow you have not been successful in making that clear to her. If your silver tongue has failed you—"
"Oh, do shut up."
"—then we must seek answers beyond ourselves."
Loki snorts and takes a swallow of Coors. "Is that not why you associate with Darcy Lewis?"
"Ah." Thor looks away. "Yes. Darcy Lewis seems also to be… displeased. It is a mystery."
"There is no mystery, brother. Mortal women are simply irrational."
Fern hates moments like this, where one half of her wants to find out what the hell is going on — she is the town therapist, after all, she's got a responsibility — and the other half wants to kick their asses. Both of them are in good shape, but the day Fernanda Guzman fails to throw a man out her front door is the day she burns her liquor license.
Curiosity wins out. "All right," she says, leaning her elbow on the bar and propping her chin on her fist. "Tell Fern all about it."
They do.
Holy hell, what pendejos. "You," she says to Loki, "are never getting laid again."
Someone yells "No!"; another person calls: "Fix it, Fern!"
"I can't fix it!" she shouts back. Honestly, she'll be disappointed to lose all the free porn too, but there's nothing to be done about such a fatal mistake. Especially since they're both still insisting it's not their fault. "This is too hardcore a fuck-up!"
The chorus of groans around the room says it all.
"More idioms," Loki grumbles, reaching for a handful of peanuts from the community bowl. "What is this phrase, 'getting laid'?"
"It refers to copulation," Thor answers as Fern pinches her nose. "Or so says Darcy Lewis."
"Ah, yes, the ever-wise Darcy Lewis. I'm certain she—" Loki breaks off, then looks up in what can only be described as alarm. "What? Never?"
"Never ever," Fern assures him.
Another round of boos.
"But I've done nothing wrong! I have every right to forbid my consort's contact with a former lover! Your ancestors well understood such a basic— how can such an insignificant realm change so greatly in a single millennium?"
Fern hopes they're not the kind of insane that'll snap one day and blow up Main Street. "Okay, explain this 'consort' thing."
Loki just rolls his eyes, so it's Thor that fills her in. Sort of. According to him — after Fern pieces through the pompous language and generalized bullshit — it sounds like a consort is some kind of kept mistress-thing. "It is a lofty position," Thor says, refilling his beer. "My brother has done Jane Foster a great honor."
"Uh-huh. I'm sure you're a fantastic sugar-daddy. But let me tell you a little secret about ladies: we really don't like being ordered around by dumbass neanderthals."
They both stiffen at the insult. "You will speak with courtesy to the Princes of Asgard, wench," growls Loki, glaring at her like she's some kind of serf. "Mortals have lost their tongues for less disrespect."
Fern reaches over the bar and smacks him on the side of the head.
"Ow!"
Thor stands so fast his stool falls over. "How dare you strike a son of—"
She smacks him too.
"Ow!"
One of the regulars turns away from the pool table. "You want your bat, Fern?" he calls.
"No, I got it. As for you—" she points at the batshit brothers "—I don't know where the fuck you think you're from, and frankly, I don't give a shit. But in this town, when you tell a woman who she can and can't talk to, you get an ass full of buckshot. And when you talk about losing tongues in my establishment, you get brained upside the skull and banned for the rest of your natural lives. Comprenden?"
They nod meekly.
"You boys got a place to sleep for the night?"
"The laboratory roof has not been forbidden to us," says Thor.
"Good. Then you really only have one option: get over there, go to bed—" she turns to Loki "—and pray that Jane Foster's ex is an even bigger asshole than you."
"Y degastas el petate!"
"Can it, Manuel."
Loki still looks sullen, but that's better than mutinous. Thor, though— "And what am I to do about Darcy Lewis's displeasure?"
"Get her some chocolate or something. And dodge the taser."
Thor winces. But at least he has decent enough manners to take Fern's hand — yeah, the one that smacked him — and kiss the back of it. "If our efforts are successful," he says, "the bards will sing ageless songs of your wisdom."
They are so full of shit. Good thing they're charming. "Don't think that's getting you out of your tab."
"Tab?"
"You have to pay for all that beer."
The brothers glance at each other. "We have not the card of currency," says Thor.
Oh, for the love of—
"It's on me." Chester slaps down two twenties on the bar — probably money he saved from canceling his cable — then gives Loki a thumbs-up. "We're all rooting for you, man."
The whole bar cheers.
Fern pours herself a shot and seriously considers selling out and moving to Phoenix.
"I am most grateful," Loki says acidly. "Come along, brother."
Most of the talk after the batshit boys leave is of how Jane Foster's ex-boyfriend can be run out of town as quickly as possible. The general consensus settles on waiting to see how he feels about windows.
Two thousand, one hundred and twenty-five residents of Puente Antiguo, and no therapists.
Someone has got to fucking do something.