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Tempests and Time
Jane Foster had never liked storms.
As a child, she had hidden from the resounding crashes and jagged flickers of light, earnestly counting the spaces between noise and sound to judge how far away from the weather’s wrath she was.
One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi.
It was a child’s fear, and as she grew, she understood that. Understood weather patterns and dew points, humidity and atmospheric pressure. Understood that when high pressure meets low pressure, there is a meteorological disturbance.
But beneath her scientist’s brain, she could still feel the raw power in the wind, the fury in the rumbles of thunder. There was something wild and untamable out there, something unknowable.
She did not like it when things were unknowable.
So storms and all their attached emotions went to the place in her mind where she kept all the things that she could not quite work out to her satisfaction. Long-term relationships were stored there, as were people who were naturally graceful, along with the ability to know when she was beaten.
A place of unexamined things, rarely thought of, until she was forced to face them. Even then, she would deal with the uncomfortableness in the moment, before hurriedly shoving the unsettling business back to the dusty vault in her subconscious.
Take storms, for instance. A hot, muggy day would lead into a roaring evening, and she would cope with the niggling, childish fear by doggedly working through data or calculations until the rain had passed.
This system had always worked well for her.
Until one day it didn’t.
Until one night, she saw another world’s constellations, saw the heavens burst open, saw a demigod rave at the sky.
Thor Odinson did not fit into a dusty vault of things she didn’t understand. And he brought all the storms in the universe along in his wake.
Was she the high pressure or the low pressure, she wondered one night, weeks after he had vanished back into the cloudless day. Because the two of them had surely created a storm of their own.
She hoped.
Was it just her? It could certainly be just her. He was charming and graceful and had a way of looking at her that scrambled all of her carefully put together thoughts.
But perhaps that was simply a skill he had acquired over the millennia of his life. After all, she thought it was extremely likely that he was no stranger to female attention. Just look at him. Which she did. As often as was feasible, and often when it was not.
Like when she was driving, for instance.
Was it just his appearance? She couldn’t deny that it didn’t hurt. In fact, she had never, ever had such a physical reaction to a man’s looks before.
Then again, no man had ever been him before.
But then she would remember how he explained the nine realms with the precision that could only come from understanding a topic perfectly. Or how he walked, unarmed, into what should have been his death.
No, it was more than skin deep.
I will return for you.
So he had said, and so she believed. Ardently. With every fiber of her, she believed. She checked and re-checked her readings, her data points. He was coming back, and she would find him.
The first thunderstorm that she faced after he left made her dizzy with anticipation. Surely this was it. Surely the God of Thunder came with the lightning.
But then the sun came out and she was left feeling sick and hollow.
The pattern repeated itself when they left New Mexico.
The thunder. The desperate hope. The bitter emptiness.
It was as if she had turned into another person entirely. She was not the Jane Foster she knew, the one who lived for work, who never identified with a woman in a romance novel in her life. All of her nerve endings had been scrambled by fierce blue eyes and a devil-may-care smile.
Her life was now divided into two parts. Before and After.
Before, she did not dream of blonde hair on her pillow and solid arms around her. She did not ache when she woke. She did not cry when she accidentally broke a coffee cup.
She did not know what it was like to be kissed so thoroughly she couldn’t think.
She did After.
But life went on, as it always did, unwilling and unable to stop simply because she had become a different person in a few very short days.
With quiet determination, she set herself to living. She would go out. Would go on dates with men who were almost certainly not demigods. Would remember who she was.
Storms still made her turn her head, and she hated herself for that.
Until one day she turned her head and he was there.
Standing in the rain like he was made of stone, like he had always been there, watching her. Whatever had happened in the preceding hours didn’t matter - where she had been, what had happened to her, none of it.
He was here, the storm with him, and inside of her, the long years of waiting crackling through her veins like his own lightning.
She slapped him. Twice.
And then the storm died out as his fingers delved into her hair, his hand on her cheek. As he lowered his head, another storm flared. Between them this time, just as it had before. It was stronger and wilder and more unstoppable. How could she argue with it? It would be futile, stupid.
She was not a stupid person.
So she leaned into the storm.
And it took her places she had only dreamed of.
To a world that could not be real, except that it was. His birthright. His kingdom. His throne.
She had fallen asleep in his arms that first night. She would have thought that was impossible, given the circumstances.
On an alien planet, entirely new stars cataloging themselves in her mind as she stared out at them from her place on his balcony, all the while very, very aware of every place they were touching.
His chest, solid behind her, one arm at her waist, thumb absently sliding against her hip from time to time. His other hand laced with hers, using their joined fingers to pick out constellations for her.
Occasionally, his lips in her hair.
The night wore on, the low rumble of his voice in her ear, his warmth surrounding her. They did not speak of the aether as it shivered through her blood and what it meant. Not this night.
She realized absently that she was resting more and more of her weight against him. Her body was ready to collapse, tiredness washing over her in great waves, but she stubbornly fought it. He was here, finally, in her grasp, and she was not willing to give him up for something as mundane as sleep.
Eventually, he took the problem out of her hands by abruptly sweeping her into his arms, and she realized that he had been the only thing holding her up for some time.
She closed her eyes as he walked, arms around his shoulders, nose in his neck. From far away, she found herself hoping no one was going to see this.
Her room was not far from his, and she made herself pay attention as she heard him open the door to the chamber. A brace of candles was burning in one corner, the sheets turned down invitingly.
He carefully laid her down, hand behind her head, and she thought of all of the times she had dreamt of him carrying her to bed. For a decidedly different purpose.
Her cheeks heated as she met his eyes, and the rueful grin he gave her told her his mind was in the same place.
He kissed her forehead. “Goodnight,” he whispered. “I will see you in the morning.”
She tangled her fingers in his tunic. “Stay,” she breathed back, even as she fought her heavy eyelids. “Just for a little while.”
His smile turned soft, and she shifted over as much as she could, knowing she had won. He stayed on top of the silk counterpane as she burrowed beneath it, her head in the crook of one arm, the other draped across her.
Settled, she closed her eyes again, a hand pressed to his chest.
“I missed you,” he breathed softly. “Every day.”
There were many things she could have said, some harsh, and all true. But they were in the eye of the storm now, quiet and content, and she would not ruin it. “I know the feeling,” she murmured back, and she could feel that he was smiling again.
When she woke, it was morning, and he was gone.
For perhaps an hour, it was hard to believe anything other than what he told her - that he would find a way to save her. That it would all be all right.
His hands, utterly dwarfing hers, illustrating his explanations. And then his lips, warm and welcoming and so much more careful than they had been the last time. Even so, she felt the restraint he was using.
And then the whole world crashed down around them.
Every second of that day was burned into her memory with surgical clarity. Frigga. Thor’s rage. Odin’s devastation.
Her own guilt.
She was at a loss. What did she do? What could she do? She wanted Thor to come find her, to hold her, as shaken as she was, but that was entirely selfish. God, did he even want to see her again? She was the reason his mother was dead.
So she paced in her room, hands trembling as she deliberated.
The sun sank down slowly, and she tried to remember the names of the constellations he had told her just the night before.
A quiet knock came through her chaotic thoughts. She turned, just as he was pushing open the door.
He looked…she wasn’t sure. Outwardly calm, but fragile. She could nearly see the emotions coursing through him. Could nearly see the storm.
Cautiously, she took a step forward, and he caught at her hands. “You’re cold,” he murmured, sounding like he was in a dream, bring her fingers to his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, watching him closely. “I’m so, so sorry. This is all my fault.”
He frowned at her. “No,” he said. “None of this is your doing.”
It was, though it didn’t seem…prudent, perhaps, to argue with him tonight, so she didn’t. “What comes next?”
He sighed, deeply. “Tomorrow, at dusk, we will…” He cleared his throat. “We will send her on her way. Send her home.”
His voice broke slightly on the last word, and she ceased thinking, rising onto her toes to get her arms around his shoulders. He bowed his head, face turned into her hair, his whole body taut and trembling.
The storm on the verge.
He sucked in a deep breath, and then another.
The storm hit.
When it passed, they were both on their knees, the shoulder of her dress damp. Later, she would find bruises from his fingertips on her back. She hadn’t felt him make them.
She slept in his arms that night, too. Both of them beneath the covers this time, legs tangled.
She woke before he did, the soft light of dawn bathing him in gold. His sleep didn’t look peaceful, not really. More like he was just exhausted.
Carefully, she traced the planes of his face with her fingertip. The high, Viking cheekbones. The sharp blade of his nose. The bow of his top lip.
His eyes fluttered open, found hers. She could see the precise second when he remembered what had happened the day before. He tucked her back into his embrace, and she had a feeling he was hiding his face, embarrassed by his breakdown.
She stood at his side that night, as they sent Frigga to the hall of her fathers. He had wanted her there, and so, of course, that’s where she was, but every second, she expected someone to slap her across the face and accuse her of being reason why the queen was dead.
When the first blazing arrow was loosed, Thor took her hand.
And the next day, they left Asgard.
When the dust had settled, figuratively and literally and all other ways imaginable, she was left with empty, aching arms again. He had kissed her, still carefully, and promised to return as soon as he could.
Treason did sound like it would take some time to work out. At least, she hoped it could be worked out.
It only took her a day to realize that if he was gone for any length of time, she was going to be ruined. Had she thought it was bad before, with the memory of one kiss? Now she had nights in his arms to relive and to yearn for.
Nearly two years had gone by before she managed to go on one very awkward date the last time. How long would it take her to recover again? Five years? Ten?
And then the next morning arrived, and she felt the storm. Saw the Bifrost.
He had kept his promise, in a much better fashion than he had last time. The time for careful was over.
She managed not to run into his arms, but it was a near thing.
He kissed her. Deliberately and deeply and passionately.
Her knees buckled, and he held her closer.
When he raised his head, the smile he gave her was like the sunrise, even as the clouds thickened above them.
Later, she came to a decision.
Everyone else having diplomatically exited the house, she was curled up in one corner of the couch. Thor, in normal clothes, was stretched out, his head in her lap. Their fingers were loosely laced across his chest, and she could feel the beat of his heart. Steady. Solid.
Outside, the rain picked up, wind lashing the windows. His lips curved up with the first deep roll of thunder.
Perhaps, she admitted, storms weren’t so bad.
Lightning flashed, and he reached for her.
Yes, she decided, brushing her mouth delicately across his once, twice, there was something to be said about the unknowable.
And then she stopped thinking for a very long time indeed.