Arc 3, Chapter 1, Steve's Party: Namor, Jane, Loki & Thor

[clint_barton]

Namor hits on Jane; Loki exacerbates the problem, Thor vs. Namor fight start.

Sure enough, Namor finds Jane sitting where Thor left her, seated in the worn lawn chairs that sideline the main crowd. He finishes his water as he makes his way towards her, pausing to drop the empty bottle in a bin with “recycling” hand-written neatly on the side (thank you, Steve). Despite the flurry of activity, the atmosphere around her is steady and tranquil. So calm, in fact, that she doesn’t seem to notice him approaching, doubtlessly still basking in the afterglow of her intimate conversation with Thor. No matter - he’ll just have to do his best to be more distracting than the blond behemoth.

When he speaks, all traces of his previous shortness have been replaced with the serene tones of a royal at the height of diplomacy. “Dr. Jane Foster?”

Jane is curled up in the chair previously occupied by Thor when Namor approaches; she’s looking off into the middle distance, her lips quirked in a contented smile. There’s a half-empty glass of water in one hand, though she appears flushed, as though from heat or spirits or something else entirely.

She’s not so far gone as to ignore a direct address, however, and she sits up when Namor speaks, runs a hand through her hair. Being a scientist, she’s trained to observe, and Namor’s unusually angular features—along with his elfin ears—do not escape her quick eye. She’s unperturbed: after the events of the past few months, she’s begun to accept that there really was more to heaven and earth than dreamed of in human philosophy.

“Ah, that’s me,” she says brightly, rising from the chair and offering her hand. “Are you one of Steve’s friends?”

“One of his oldest. I am Namor McKenzie, King of Atlantis - though on the surface I am better known for managing a small environmental group called Oracle.” It was not a small environmental group, not by a long shot; try massive corporate entity. This was about as humble as his introductions got. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Dr. Foster.”

Accepting her hand, he gently raises it in order to press a light kiss to the back. The gesture is smooth and formal, and though it is inherently more intimate than the usual handshake, he doesn’t make a show of it. He knows human women are complicated when it comes to chivalry, and he has no desire to scare her off by being overly dramatic.

“I apologize if my approaching you is forward, but I could not ignore the opportunity to make your acquaintance. Steve has told me a great deal about his activities in New Mexico; you are a bright spot among them.” Although his ever-present stoicism is still intact, his tone and expression are earnest. He maintains his hold on her hand as he speaks, though it’s feather-light - she can relinquish the contact whenever she wishes.

If Jane did not have just about irrefutable proof that her new boyfriend was the god of thunder and that he had a brother who was also a god and that they both lived in their own eternal god-realm, she might have been staggered by Namor’s declaration that he was the ruler of yet another heretofore assumed mystical land. But hey. If Asgard exists, why not Atlantis? Why not Shangri-la or the Fountain of Youth? As an astrophysicist, Jane’s work is in unraveling the mechanics of the possible, in finding the truths that underlie the laws of the universe. But she also believes that her theories can prove the allegedly impossible, too. Jane has even begun to suspect that the laws she grew up learning and that the principles she applies to her findings are, if not wrong, then at the very least seriously underdeveloped.

She’s not thinking about this when Namor takes her hand, though. As the soft, dry warmth of his lips presses to her skin, her sole reaction is a hazy murmur of “Oh,” followed by a distinct, unbidden blush in her cheeks. She’s charmed, but her fingers slip from his once he’s finished the introduction. The heat (it must be the heat) has made her sluggish and dreamy, but her lips are tingling with Thor’s kiss, and his confession continues to echo in her mind, as faint and sweet as a distant church bell.

She glances over at Thor and smiles. He’s talking with Steve and Tony and he looks more comfortable and relaxed than he’s been in weeks.

“Steve’s a great guy,” she says, eyes flicking back to Namor. “I’ve never met anyone so … wholesome. But it’s refreshing, you know?” She shrugs, and there’s a slight hint of resignation in her voice when she continues, “And as far as any activity goes, well, my part in it has pretty much stagnated. I can’t move forward without my research, and S.H.I.E.L.D. still has the bulk of it on lockdown.”

It occurs to her that Namor is not in the market for a jargon-laced ramble about her notions of space and time, so she changes tack hastily before he can respond, adding, “And I’ve heard of Oracle, actually. Some of the graduate students in my university’s biology department are always fighting for internships there. I’m sure they’d work twice as hard if they knew the King of Atlantis would be their boss.”

He lets her fingers fall easily from his, rich blue eyes focused on her reaction - he is not disappointed. He had, admittedly, approached her on a mere competitive whim; as such, he’s surprised to find himself genuinely intrigued by the energy and confidence underlining even her most passive gestures. When her eyes shift to Thor, he does not need to follow them to know what they seek out. He does not find this knowledge discouraging; to the contrary, it fuels his sincere interest in Jane Foster with a resurgence of the initial competitive drive. The precision of her seemingly disjointed thoughts adds to her charm, and he appreciates the directness of her observations and information. She obviously has a quick mind and very few empty thoughts, and Namor has always been a fan of efficiency.

Soon enough, however, she backpedals and steers the conversation back towards him. He’s not surprised - most humans eventually do the same out of some obscure social obligation, though Namor’s never quite understood it. He does, however, understand that most women find it ingratiating when you keep the spotlight securely on them. “I am sure they would. If you know of any students worth looking at, I would value your recommendation highly. Your reputation for being passionate and unbiased in your research precedes you; surely anyone you endorse would share such qualities, and they are rare and priceless gifts in any scientific field.”

The words are extremely heavy on the flattery, but it’s slightly tempered by the fact that the delivery is objective and professional. As he continues, however, his tone warms to something less formal, and the faintest smile touches his lips. “And surely this passion of yours inspires some curiosity about my kingdom, though you are more accustomed to looking to the skies than the oceans. I understand that you are close to Thor; it is unfortunate that he can only tell you of his Asgard, but you are denied the opportunity to see it with your own eyes. If you ever wish to visit Atlantis to sate your academic curiosities in the meantime, say the word. I would gladly escort you.”

Some part of her is aware that Namor’s laying it on thick, but she’s lightheaded and bleary; his words therefore register shallowly, and seem to mark him as a generous and welcoming man. Any underlying motives are hidden from her by the sleepy film that’s settled over her mind, by the sudden weakness in her limbs. She sways where she stands and takes another sip of water.

“He would take me there if he could, I’m sure,” she says. “But he can’t even go back there himself. His brother is in charge and the guy is slightly hostile.” Jane’s eyelids flutter; she can’t seem to manage the thread of her thoughts.

“Um, thank you, though, for your offer … offers. I would love to see Atlantis sometime, but right now I—I think I need to sit down.”

For the most part, Loki has done nothing but observe the party. When Stark arrived, Loki ensured that the fresh liquor met the same fate as the other drinks, but that was all; he has since limited himself to watching and waiting. He eavesdrops on their insipid, friendly conversations. He examines their body language and the subtle shifts in their faces: the ruddy cheeks, the loose smiles, the eyes bright with indiscretion. Even those with a tolerance for the boozy poison are swiftly affected, and the buzz is only the beginning.

But the mild amusement isn’t enough, especially not after he spies Thor and Jane together. Especially not after Thor tells the woman that he loves her, and they lean in to kiss, and it’s excruciatingly slow and they’re both grinning so deliriously, so stupidly. They grin with such disgusting joy that Loki wants to ignite every drop of alcohol on the tables and in the partygoers’ blood and then walk away with the whole scene ablaze behind him.

That desire is fleeting; it screams in him briefly and then dies out. Loki burns though, as he stares at the exchange between his brother and Jane Foster; he imagines himself in Thor’s place and the yearning for such a reality is so intense that he clenches his fists and cuts red half-moons into his palms. He takes a few purposeful steps forward, but then Thor abruptly lets go of Jane and leaves his chair. He has decided to mingle with the crowd, and he passes right by Loki, close enough for Loki to cut his brother’s hair, or his throat.

He does neither. He lets Thor go, and turns back to Jane, who is slumped in the chair and unknowingly, innocently drinking a bottle of water. Her dark hair is wild; her lips are swollen from kissing.

Loki stands directly beside her, but makes no move, and before he can come to any decision, someone else is suddenly there. Namor. The King of Atlantis. He comes on fast and strong, and although Loki is not a mind-reader, Namor’s intentions are clear to anyone with even an ounce of perception. There would be no rest for Jane tonight, apparently.

Irritation turned to inspiration as Loki considered the possibilities of what was unfolding before him. Thor has not gone far; he is greeting his passel of friends, including his late antagonists from S.H.I.E.L.D. He drinks steadily throughout.

Loki focuses on his other problem for the moment, whispering a suggestion to the wind around Namor’s ears, something to galvanize Namor from wanting to taking.

Go on, the compulsion says. Do it.

The thread of conversation flickers out as Namor takes in Jane’s rapidly increasing state of - he’s not entirely sure what. He would assume inebriation, but the water she lifts to her pink lips disproves that theory. He knows surface women tend to react strongly to him, but even he’s sensible enough to realize that the response is far too dramatic to be entirely of his doing.

He’s just beginning to think she should take a seat when she voices the same opinion. A second too late - the instant the words are out, her balance fails her. Namor’s reflexes are quick, one hand moving to slide around her waist, the other catching her under one arm in order to hold her upright. Rather than righting her posture, he allows the downward motion to continue - now gentle and controlled - and guides her to sit on the lawn chair just behind her.

The hand previously at her arm moves to softly cradle her chin, and Namor lifts her face to make eye contact, brows knit in a mixture of concern and vain consternation at the interruption. Her eyes are far off, and though he is leaning close, he doubts she’s even aware of his presence.

He opens his mouth to ask if she is alright, then hesitates; a lightning quick flash of confusion passes over his face as his thoughts abruptly shift gears, leaving him to catch up. When he does, he finds himself distracted by her lips, still flushed and slightly parted; her warm, if distant, response to his advances. Suddenly, the desire to touch those lips is diamond sharp in his mind, and Namor has never been the type to resist his instincts. As he leans forward, the hand on her chin slides languidly to the back of her neck, through her tussled hair - and then his lips are on hers.

Jane gasps against Namor’s mouth; her hands fly immediately to his chest and she pushes, though without much strength; the action could be interpreted as impassioned surprise by a casual bystander. She’s enervated, and her actions feel muffled, muted, as though they are happening outside of her body and far away.

Namor is no stranger to a kiss, and it’s possible that Jane might have enjoyed the careful depth of the kiss and the gently firm way he’s holding her under a (very) different set of circumstances. As it stands, her dulled mind rings with alarm bells that she is too drained to heed.

“Sincerest apologies, Jane,” Loki murmurs as Namor acts on his compulsion. “But at least your suffering this time will be brief.”

He crooks his finger at Thor, and his entire hand shimmers with the green glow of his sorcery. Another whisper to the air currents: turn around.

His brother’s head whips back to Jane—and the erstwhile Namor—mere seconds after Loki’s spell. Before the full image registers in Thor’s brain, Loki has cast a second spell, a weaker version of the empowerment incantation he used to free Thor from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s confinement. The green glow leaps from his fingertips and sinks into Thor’s chest, temporarily granting him strength enough to make his punches count. Loki knows that they will fight, because he knows his brother, and he’s made some decently educated guesses about Namor, too. Loki has made the battle fair—and ensured that neither of them will escape it uninjured.

After all, this is a party, and someone has to provide the entertainment.

From beneath the tattered wreckage of a few party tables and shattered glassware (and Tony Stark himself) Thor is having the time of his life. The pair have successfully demolished at least half the party in a senseless drunken rampage, which to Thor feels like being back in Asgard with the Warriors Three— or at least as close as he can manage.

He moves to flip Tony over, attempting to knock the wind out of him long enough to secure a grass-stained, vodka soaked victory, but pauses the moment his thoughts empty like an overturned cup, leaving only an overwhelming urge to turn and glance behind him.

And he sees Jane— his Jane— lost and lovestruck in the arms of that smug, swaggering Alfheimesque reject, Namor.

Within seconds he’s on his feet in a full sprint, roaring in outrage and warning as he charges, aiming for a hard tackle and hoping whatever momentum he carries is enough to make up for the strength he lacks.

It doesn’t take long for Namor to register a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm on Jane’s part; the strength of his compulsion to ignite her passions dwindles slowly as this information sinks in, and he breaks the kiss to study her expression, the barest hint of irritation on his own features. He rarely misreads signals, and this is not a situation he is accustomed to - passionate rejection he’s used to, but never such an absence of feeling.

Drawing away from the kiss allows his focus to broaden just in time for him to notice a threatening howl to his right. When he turns and sees Thor in a full battle charge, he flashes an arrogant smile and stands, stepping away from Jane in order to engage the enraged ex-god.

He’s about to make a remark, no doubt something scathing about how Thor should reassess his limitations before starting a fight he cannot finish - but then Thor hits him with the full force of a large truck, and for a moment he actually feels genuine, indignant shock; he’d been expecting the strength of a human, and hadn’t even bothered to brace himself against the impact. As a result, Thor’s momentum remains almost entirely undiminished when he slams into Namor. It carries them both straight into the wall of the house behind them - and then straight through it. The music is loud, but the sound of a load-bearing wall and all of its very solid elements being punched through like a paper bag is slightly louder.