We're barreling towards the end now, folks. Not sure exactly how many posts are left (being as they are drabbles and all), but I'll give a warning at the penultimate.

Also, I'm pretty sure I'll never write a Lokane fic that doesn't involve Jane smacking Loki. It's just too iconic.

Wherein Loki gets slapped and most people are heavily armed. (Drama. PG-13.)

Fernanda and Isabella, as the respective owners of the two (out of five) most successful eating establishments in Puente Antiguo, have a certain understanding. This understanding is primarily founded upon the fact that they don't compete with one another; Izzy serves pancakes and coffee from five AM to three PM, and Fern serves pretzels and beer from five PM to three AM. Works out great. Everyone's happy.

Correction: everyone's happy as long as no one bothers Fern before noon.

So she can be forgiven for growling "This better be good" into the phone when Izzy — with whom she's usually on such good terms — decides to call at the ungodly hour of nine-thirty.

"Fern. Did I wake you?"

Of all the— "What do you think, quedada?"

"There's no need to be rude."

"The hell there isn't. ¿Que carajo quieres?"

"Can you take a look out your window?"

The apocalypse had better be going down out there. Fern gets out of bed, untangles herself from the phone cord with a series of curses (yes, she still has a rotary, sue her), and peeks out of the blackout curtains. Her condo above the bar gives her a nice view of the street — and, incidentally, of Jane Foster's lab.

That's a lot of guns.

"Looks someone's here for the batshit brothers," she comments, frowning.

"How many cops do you see?"

"I don't think they're cops."

"You know what I mean. How many?"

Fern does a quick headcount. "Seven. Five look like they're invading Iraq." The most heavily-armed one is talking with the balding guy in shades. The porn stars are having some kind of fight. Thor and Darcy look like they're about to come to blows. Fern'd like to know what's being said, but unfortunately conversations don't carry as well the sounds of sex.

And is that other rulacho actually carrying a bow?

"Right. Can you see behind my place from where you are?"

"Yeah, un momento." She leaves the receiver on the nightstand, walks down the hall, enters the bathroom, climbs into the tub, pushes the shower curtain aside, and opens the window. Perfect view down the alley.

And, for that matter, of the people in the alley.

Puta madre.

"We're not going with them." Jane's trying to keep her voice down, but she's not succeeding very well; luckily, everyone here is bickering enough that theirs just kind of blends into the mix. "Not with Coulson, not with Rumlow, not with anybody. Not when there's an anomaly on the horizon." Finally — finally — her algorithms are all consistent; an Einstein-Rosen bridge will be appearing soon. Very soon. She is absolutely not abandoning her research now.

She would have thought Loki would be with her on this.

"They have an Infinity Stone, Jane Foster; with it, we won't need the Bifrost."

"That's not possible. There's no rock that can rip a hole through space."

"I assure you, there is." Loki's eyes are feverish; he's been striding around like a maniac since Coulson showed him the pictures of whatever this thing is. He barely even noticed when the armed-to-the-teeth agents showed up. "Father lost the tesseract a thousand years ago. Had he known it was in the mortals' possession— We will return it to him, Jane Foster. And when we do, he will forgive my brother and I for our transgressions and restore our powers to us. It must have been what he wanted all along."

That doesn't sound right to Jane at all. "So, what? You'll just go off with these creeps? That's what Erik did, and he never came back! You can't trust them!"

"I do not trust them, Jane Foster, but neither do I fear them."

"Then you're an idiot!" Loki hisses at this, but Jane barrels on: "Have you seen those guns? They're practically cannons!"

"We will take the stone and then leave them behind. You need fear nothing; I will keep you safe."

"No, you won't, because I'm not going!"

"Do you imagine I would allow you to stay, Jane Foster? You're mine."

The crack of Jane's hand against Loki's face temporarily silences all the arguments going on around them.

Loki stares at her in disbelief as his ice-white cheek turns red. Thor winces; Darcy whistles low under her breath, and everyone else looks away politely.

Jane doesn't know exactly what to say; she's never hit someone before. Not like that, anyway. And it doesn't look like anyone's hit him like that, either.

Maybe someone should have, before now. Maybe he wouldn't be so fucking egotistical and possessive and generally asshole-ish if they had.

But maybe not.

It doesn't matter.

All Jane can think to do is grab Loki by the sleeve and pull him over to her work table. She'll apologize later; her guilt won't matter if he gets in the back of a black government sedan and she never sees him again. "Please," she says under her breath. "Please. We're so close. Whatever this cube thing is, we don't need it. Everything we need is here." She points at the papers, the graphs, the reams of data that are the result of three and a half years of her life. "Don't trust them. Trust this. I promise, I'm going to get you home."

Loki glances down at a photograph of the night sky. "And if you do, then what?" he says quietly. "Father would banish us again. I would still be without magic. Thor would still be without Mjolnir."

"You were okay with that an hour ago!"

"Because I believed there would be no other option. This is what I must do, Jane Foster. I will retrieve the tesseract, and prove myself a worthy son of Odin." His left hand flexes. "And I would have you join me… if you please."

So, here they are. Loki, or her research. A crazy alien she's only known a few months, or everything she's spent her life working towards.

It amazes her how hard a decision it actually is.

"No," Jane finally says. She steps away from him, putting her hand on her spectrometer to steady herself, just in case she forgets why. "Go if you want, but I'm not coming with you."

There's a reason Clint picked up the name 'Hawkeye'. Even stuck in the middle of a bunch of domestic fights after taking a beating from a Rock of Ages reject, he notices things no one else generally does. It's how he's stayed alive as long as he has.

For instance, he notices that Loki looks like someone just killed his puppy. He notices that Coulson (even though his expression is still bland and his argument with Rumlow has all the appearance of cordial disagreement) has flicked the safety off his holstered gun. He notices that the other agents have ash on their uniforms.

Also, he notices there's movement in the alley across the street.

Aw, shit.

Rumlow turns away from Coulson before things start to get ugly (too quickly, that is) and speaks directly to his targets. "It's time to go," he tells them. "Get into the cars, please."

"We will join you if you give your solemn word that we are to see the tesseract," says the blond one — Thor. "At once."

"That's the plan."

The brothers step forward.

Darcy Lewis just crosses her arms mutinously. "Nope," she says. "Not until you give us back Erik. One of those hostage trades or whatever." Thor touches her shoulder, she shrugs him off. "Don't even. I can't believe you're falling for this."

"We must go. Mortals have no notion of the true power of the tesseract. By this course of action, we will protect the entire realm."

"Yeah, delusions of grandeur are totally what we need."

Jane Foster doesn't say anything. She just curls her hands around the edge of her table, protecting the stuff on it like S.T.R.I.K.E.'s weapons can't cut through her five-foot-two body like butter.

Rumlow sighs. He'd hoped the call from Selvig would smooth the way more than this; in spite of his reputation, he never wants things to turn south. But someone's got to be in charge of the dirty work, and, like it or not, that's him. "S.H.I.E.L.D. is not issuing a request," he says to Foster and Lewis. "This is your last chance to comply before we begin with the persuasion."

Sunglasses block Coulson's expression, but anyone who knows him would recognize the tiny change in his stance. "I have trouble believing Director Fury authorized Phase Two-level 'persuasion', Agent Rumlow."

"You can call Fury when we reach the base." Coulson won't reach the base. "For now—"

Three things happen at once.

First: Someone across the street screams.

Second: Barton, bow notched in the blink of an eye, shouts, "Coulson! One o'clock, weapons aimed at civilian residences!"

Third: All the equipment in Foster's laboratory goes off in an explosion of flashing lights and ear-piercing beeps.

Yup. Gonna be one of those days. "Delta team," Rumlow says into his earpiece, "move in."

The guard can barely breathe by the time he drops to his knees before the throne. It's a long run from the Bifrost to the Palace. "My Queen," he gasps, "I bring a message from the Gatekeeper. He wishes to inform you that the Princes are in danger."

The tap of Gungnir against the stone floor echoes through the entire hall. "Then you may tell the Lady Sif," the Queen says, "that her request is granted at last."

"Yes, my Queen."

"And guard?"

"Yes, my Queen?"

"Tell her my sons — both of my sons — are to be retrieved. At any cost. If not, Midgard shall learn the wrath of the All-Father can pale in comparison to my own."

"Yes, my Queen."