Thor- The Science of Lies No. 37

She's wearing pantyhose.

Jane Foster- whose wardrobe consists primarily of flannel and blue jeans for her off days at home- is wearing pantyhose.

Pantyhose with hairspray on the seat.  Because it keeps them from riding up, her handler said.

'Well, Agent Coulson,' Jane would have liked to say.  'Thank you, I saw that movie too.  There is still no way in hell I am going anywhere dressed like this.  I don't care if it's for a mission or how many drug Kingpins we're trying to take down.'

To which she would have received a stern lecture about the importance of putting the well-being of others over her own desires for comfort, and how the fate of the world rested on her shoulders and her only concern should be getting the target either in custody or a body bag (the agency had no preferences), yadda yadda ya.

And so, Jane is stuck.

At least she doesn't have to wear cowboy boots and a thong and dance around a pole this time.  No, instead she has to dance with middle aged European guys who step on her toes and smell funny.  Hours will be spent this way, until she can locate the target in this mess of faces and identical suits.

She finds him after twenty minutes of one bearded bald guy taking up all her time.  He cuts into every dance she has and 'discreetly' sniffs her hair every chance he gets.  His hands travels further down into 'no-man's land' with each encounter.  The only plus is that he doesn't stomp on her feet like some other people she could mention.  After tonight, she's wearing fluffy bunny slippers and never dancing again for the rest of her life.

The target is by the bar, alone.  He's sipping something unidentifiable and toasting to the air over the empty stool beside him.  It's odd to find him on his own like this.  Even his bodyguards seem to have the night off.  Not that he needs them.  There are a few dozen dead agents in his wake who prove he does not.  

Knowing that, the agency is no longer pulling punches.  Jane Foster is the only known operative who has survived her encounter with Loki Laufeyson.  That alone elevated her from just another faceless desk jockey to a top agent.  It's made for some great opportunities and a hell of a pay raise, but if it ever gets out why Laufeyson spared her (and continues to do so), she's probably going to wind up in a metal box on some uncharted island for the rest of her life.

"I'm getting tired," she tells her partner in accented French.  No matter how many speech classes she takes, she can never get rid of that American drawl of hers.  "I think I'll get a drink."

"I'd be happy to pay for you," the bearded man says.  Jane has a feeling he's referring to more than the drink and she wants to vomit.  What does this moron take her for?

"I'd rather go alone, thank you."

She glances at the bar, and her stomach drops.  He's gone.

Scanning the room for him- or giving one of her guys in her crowd the signal- proves unnecessary.  Loki is a slippery bastard; he prides himself in it.  He moves with the shadows like a snake.  Before another word can leave Jane's mouth, large hands reach around behind her to her shoulders, and the bearded man blanches.

"I believe the lady no longer desires your company.  Be off with you, then."

The bearded man's mouth flaps up and down like a fish, but whether he's a crooked businessman or just an out and out crook, he knows better to cross Loki Laufeyson.  He's gone in a flash, and now Jane is alone, and her earpiece has been lowered without her noticing it.  No one will know he's here unless she gives the signal.  She'd do it, but Loki's lips are pressed to the side of her neck, and that's very distracting.

"You look lovely tonight, my Jane," he says, his mouth moving slowly up to her ear.  "Especially ravishing, if I may say."

"You may not," Jane says, though her legs and her will are weakening fast.  "And I am not your Jane.  I will never belong to you."

"But you already do, my love," he says, grinning against her ear like the devil he is.  "You have for some time now, and you always will."

"You wish."

He chuckles.  "Oh, how I love that fire.  I hope you never lose it."

Jane gives the signal.  She has to.  Another few seconds and she's going to completely lose her mind (and then most likely her head).  Her men are racing around the room.  Their pre-determined containment strategy starts with getting all the civilians out and ends with Loki in cuffs (or the morgue).  It goes against everything Jane has ever believed in that she hopes it will be neither, but perhaps she has a darker heart than she knows.

Loki knows.

"I'm afraid we'll have to cut this short."

Jane can't see her agents anymore.  They're getting everyone out.  Just as planned. "Yeah, we will."

Then the fire alarm goes off.  That is not part of the plan.

People begin to scream as water rains down and soaks their jewels and dresses.  The plan had been to use pretense and tell the guests that a threat had been issued, and though the situation was not urgent, everyone was advised to calmly and quietly head for the exits.  The questions inherent in that story and the alarms quite suddenly going off is enough to start a frenzy. This is chaos, and chaos is Loki's business.

Chaos is what has Loki capturing her lips in the middle of the madness, when no one is paying attention to them.  Only Jane will know, and only her lips will tingle long after Loki has departed, hanging off the rope ladder of his helicopter and waving goodbye.  Jane can never decide if their inability to shoot him down is because they really suck, or because he's just that good.

He's a rat bastard either way.

"Why did I fall in love with you?" Jane wonders aloud as she leaves the party and prepares to deal with tomorrow's fallout.

No matter how many encounters they have, she fears she is never going to know the answer.