A/N: I cannot sufficiently emphasize how important it is to not listen to the Game of Thrones soundtrack when writing kid!fic. It just ends badly.

Forgive my lapses in style, here. First time writing in months. (Stupid new job.)

There comes the day — the long-awaited day — wherein the All-Father calls his only son before his throne and says It is time. Mjolnir sits on a pedestal at the throne's side. Gather your friends. Return when you are worthy.

I will, Father. Before you realize I am gone.

We will see.

"Get out."

"Jane."

"Don't 'Jane' me." She throws her pillow at Loki's head; he bats it aside without a glance. "I didn't say you could come in. This is my room."

(It is very nearly his; she cannot recall the last time he slept elsewhere.)

"This is how you want to leave it?" The smile that curves his thin lips doesn't touch his eyes. He is angry with her. Good. "Who knows when we will next see each other."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Thor's."

"Don't lie!"

These words stop Loki in his tracks, turn him very still. As Jane knew they would. The rest of Them do not deserve truth — They are cheats, They are deceivers, They are false — but she and he do not lie to each other. To the rest of the realms. But not each other.

And he is lying to her right now. "You're the one who told Thor not to bring me," says Jane. "I know you are."

"He would have realized the truth in time anyway."

"But you could have talked him out of it. You can talk Thor out of anything."

"Perhaps," says Loki. "But I do not wish to. Not this time."

The injustice burns so brightly that Jane feels she might catch fire. "Sif—" she spits the name "—is going. Volstagg is going. Hogun is going. Even Fandral is going. You can't tell me I'm more useless than Fandral."

(It's not fair; she knows that even as she says it. Fandral is a cunning warrior. But why should she be fair? No one is fair to her.)

Loki moves to stand before her; she refuses to look higher than his leather-clad knees. A hint of blue threading glimmers in the black. (No one was told, but everyone knows. Those who whispered No-one's-son barely dare to breathe Laufeyson in its place. They slide away from him in the halls. She and he don't talk about it.) "And what," he says impatiently, "is the difference between you and them?"

She grits her teeth and does not reply.

An ungentle hand on her shoulder, then she is flat on her back as he hovers over her. "Here." Loki taps the curve of her ribcage, just under her arm. "You remember when Volstagg was struck in the training yard. The sword cut him here. Three inches deep. How long did it take him to heal?"

"Four days," she mutters.

"And here." He grabs her thigh, his touch cold through her nightgown. "Hogun took a mace here on Vanaheim that shattered the bone. How long before he walked?"

"A week. I can throw a knife better than any of you—"

"How many beatings has Thor taken in the training yard? And Fandral, and Sif? And I? Hundreds? Thousands?"

Jane scowls. "You sound like Odin."

It was a low blow, but after a pause, Loki's tone remains even. "Here." His weight presses her into the mattress; his lips touch her collarbone. "Here, when you tried to race Thor and I across the palace and fell down the staircase. How long before you healed?"

"I don't remember," she lies. (He lied to her.)

"Really? I do." Another brush of his mouth, his hand traveling higher on her thigh, and Jane suppresses a shiver. "Two months. For nothing more than a crack. You are mortal, Jane, and you cannot come with us."

The Prince of Asgard's first choice is instant. If I could pick a three dozen companions, Loki would be among them; if I could have but one, it would be him.

Loki kneels and declares himself honored. The All-Father nods in approval. (Kings that will rule in unison; brothers in all but name. What he has planned since he found a squalling blue babe on a Jotunheim rock.)

Later, though: I ought to have consulted you first, my friend. You need not feel obligated.

I cannot let you flail blindly through the biggest quest of your life alone.

Not alone; Sif and the Warriors Three will stand at my side. If you wish to stay—

And why would I wish that?

I am not a fool, Loki. There are things you may hide from others which you cannot hide from me. I will miss Jane dearly, but you… A pause. Perhaps if she were to come along—

You overestimate my dependency. A quest across worlds, finding ways for you to prove yourself worthy of the greatest weapon in the nine realms? I'll be far too occupied to miss her.

And Jane?

Oh, she'd find it all terribly dull.

Every time they are together — how many now? Hundreds, surely — Jane has to fight from dissolving into giddy giggles. They must have invented it, the two of them. It cannot be so for the rest of the worlds. All that stops she and Loki is the farce of obeying Odin's command to remain apart; what of those who are free to meet whenever they wish? They can't feel like this. No one would ever get anything done.

But not even heady pleasure can assuage Jane's frustration. Idunn's apples lengthen her life; they do not make her Aesir. She is always going to be weak, less-than, a curiosity meant to fulfill a vision, the mortal pet.

(She cannot survive on Jotunheim.)

Loki traces idle paths up and down her arm; his chest rises and falls under her cheek. "Why do you not ask me to stay?"

"You'd say no."

"You could still ask."

"Well, I won't. Someone has to make sure Thor is okay. Someone other than Sif and the Warriors Three." They may seem devoted, yes, but They are still They, and no one who is They can be trusted. And Jane still hates Sif. She thinks she always will.

"I see." His fingertips press harder; a nasty tone enters his voice. "Thor's safety matters more to you than my presence."

For a brief, cold moment, Jane imagines the dagger beneath her pillow in her hand. "Don't twist my words like that. You're the one who doesn't mind leaving me." He snorts, and she adds: "Don't make Thor the bad guy, either. He's your best friend." (Thor is the only one who never lied to them. Thor didn't know.) "Why even go, if not to watch his back?"

"I have my reasons."

Jane raises herself up on her elbow. Loki's smirk — the shape of it, the turn, the way his eyes crinkle — looks exactly like she knew it would. She knows his face better than her own. "Don't lie to me again," she warns.

"I'm not lying," he replies innocently. "I'm simply… not sharing."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Tell me."

"No."

She kisses him. Fiercely. Distractingly. He is not the only one who can make a point with actions instead of words. But it does no good.

In the morning they all ride to the end of the Bifrost, glorious warriors off for glorious adventure, leaving Jane behind.

Heimdall no longer watches Lady Jane. Not since the day he told her of how she came to Asgard. She has not trusted him since, and he would not force his Sight upon her. (Sometimes she shines too brightly to ignore, though, flashing in the corner of his vision like a supernova. Much hinges on this mortal.) The child who came and sat at his feet for hours is dead and gone.

But the girl in her place — colder and harder — returns to him in the weeks after the Prince's questers depart. Rarely speaking, she begins her own watch.

Heimdall is not sorry for the company.

How long have I been gone from Midgard? she asks one day.

Long enough to be born and die three times over; long enough for a single leaf to wither and fall.

That doesn't make sense.

Time obeys few laws between realms, Lady Jane.

How old am I?

A young woman by many measures. A child by many more.

I thought you might say something like that. Can you see them?

I can.

She is silent; she does not ask the question in her heart. Heimdall answers it nevertheless. He longs for you, Lady Jane.

Who does? I don't know what you're talking about.

And this is what marks her as a child.

(Heimdall does not tell her how Loki Laufeyson has begun to vanish from his Sight. Of this, he speaks to no one.)

Jane thinks it may be boredom that ends her years.

She has never really noticed before, but as time drags on, it becomes clear that she has no friends. There has only ever been Thor and Loki, Frigga and Heimdall. Even if she wanted new acquaintances, she cannot make them; she is the mortal pet. No one cares.

(She does not need Them to care. Once Loki returns, neither of them will need anything at all.)

Some days she throws her knives in the courtyard until she thinks her arms might fall off. If she were not human, Midgardian, mortal, she would train for days without tiring. She would not have been left behind because it takes her longer to recover from a fractured collarbone than it takes Hogun to recover from a shattered femur.

With more power she would do whatever she liked, go wherever she liked (Jotunheim), be with whomever she liked. No one would stop her.

No one would dare.

If Idunn's apples can't help her, maybe something else can.

Jane leaves the courtyard and turns to the library instead.

I understand, child, Frigga tells the girl who is her daughter. She comes to her every day; she will not see her languish in loneliness. I miss them as well.

Unsurprisingly, Jane Fosterdóttir bristles with (pain) indignation. You don't understand.

(But she does. They are not so circumspect as they think; some of Loki's concealment spells have been shored up by Frigga herself. It is now, too late, that she sees the glimmer of truth in Odin's high-handedness: they love each other, and in doing so shut out the worlds.)

Frigga has been a mother for many years; instead of speaking further, she waits.

Her patience is rewarded.

They should have taken me.

They could not.

Because I'm just a mortal.

You are just nothing, Jane Fosterdóttir.

Oh, right. I forgot. I'm also a project that you and Heimdall pulled from another world. Watching me until I play my part. Like Loki. We're just… just… things to you and Odin and everyone else. You should lock us both down in the vault with the other relics.

You have grown as talented as Loki at twisting words, dear one.

Don't call me that! You're not my mother! I had a mother, and a father, and you should have just left me to die on Earth with them! What good is a human here on Asgard, anyway?

Much good, Jane. You will see it in time.

It took her so long — weeks, months, years, who can tell, Jane certainly can't — to get used to sleeping alone.

But that flies out the window the moment her bed shifts with another's weight. By the time Loki's arm is wrapped around her waist and her head is tucked under his chin, all of her adjustments have been forgotten.

"Took you long enough," she mumbles.

"Far too long," he agrees. "Far too long. I wish you had told me to stay."

"You're a jerk and you wouldn't have listened."

"So you haven't forgiven me yet."

"No." She will yell at him again in the morning. "Is Thor okay?"

"He is. Our mission was a success; he lifted Mjolnir not ten minutes ago."

"Did anyone die?"

"Unfortunately not. I suspect there will be a feast tomorrow. Volstagg may even stop complaining about being hungry."

"I guess it was all worth it, then."

"Indeed. Not for that, of course. For other reasons." His lips brush her temple. "I've discovered a few things that might interest you, as a matter of fact."

"Really."

"Oh, yes. There are pathways between worlds that do not require the Bifrost to cross. Even Heimdall is blind to them. There is—" he pulls her closer, breath stirring her hair "—a great deal of… potential in that."

Excitement is beginning to wake her. A curling, feeding, black kind of excitement.

"And how have you been whiling away my absence, Jane Fosterdóttir?"

"Watching. Training. And then reading." Jane smiles against Loki's skin. "Tell me— have you ever heard of the Infinity Stones?"