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On a warm night, a man falls from the sky. The trail of his body is a blue-white contrast against the dark sky, and he’s headed for the convergence of the East and Harlem rivers, in New York City. Director Fury knows, by way of his scientist team who were given a copy of Dr. Foster’s research, that whoever this man is, he came from the same place as Thor did, just a few days ago.
The man misses the water by ten meters and crashes on Mill Rock. When SHIELD shows up, an hour later, he’s inexplicably alive and unconscious, clothes slightly singed and torn. He is taken to the med bay in SHIELD’s headquarters, and there he stays for a whole day, not waking up, until the morning of the second day, when he does.
The man is confused and disoriented and refers to them as midgardians. He’s so weak he cannot sit without help (help he sneers at, Fury notes). The Director leaves the med bay to give space for one of his best agents to evaluate him. They’re in luck she’s just back from her latest mission.
"He's in hiding," Agent Romanoff reports. Just three days ago she was Natalie Rushman. "Whatever happened there is worse than what happened here. Apparently, Thor is the favored heir. They may come for him, even if he seems certain that they won't, but he's not going back on his own."
"So we can abuse that for our gain. What is the likelihood he'll accept willingly?"
"His perception of himself is shattered. He's too unstable for field work, but he'll be fine as a consultant. He's nowhere to go and he knows it's imprisonment either way. He'll accept."
Fury doesn't look at her, his gaze is focused on the screens that monitor the second god in as many weeks. He's starting to think he's getting too old for this shit and dearly hopes this week isn't as fucking wild as the last one.
"Have Coulson show him a contract."
Romanoff arches a delicate eyebrow. “I feel like I should point out he’s still responsible for the destruction of a whole town.”
“We’ll take his work as compensation and his payment discounted.”
Romanoff nods and leaves.
"Odinson," Coulson says once.
"Loki," the god replies. "It is the only name I can call my own."
Loki signs the contract, and Fury makes Loki, everything he is and everything he can do, a matter of the highest security clearance.
It doesn't work. Apparently, 'god of mischief' is more than a random title.
It's not even a fucking week after Loki's official integration to SHIELD as a consultant that the first incident happens.
"Director," and Fury gives this junior agent a glare that makes him fit for his name. She came in barging, didn't even knock. She gets points, though, because the glare doesn't make her flinch. "We have a... situation. In the fire range. You might want to come, sir."
Fury sets down the papers he'd been reading. "What kind of situation?"
The junior agent looks straight into his eyes and says, in a no-nonsense voice that clashes with her words. "It's the targets, sir. They're screaming."
"Screaming," Fury repeats.
"And bleeding. Every time they're shot. It's distressing some of the agents, sir."
Well.
The targets really were screaming, that much is evident as soon as Fury enters the range and his ears are assaulted by agonizing cries and whimpering. SHIELD uses paper law enforcement targets, the ones with human-ish black shapes against a white background and a bulls-eye in varying shades of grey. The bullet holes on them are leaking bright red liquid, not unlike artery blood. Holes closer to vital spots on humans are leaking the most and Fury resolutely orders his brain not to think of it as bleeding because it is fucking not. The paper is not absorbing any of it, and the red substance is dripping to the ground, pooling beneath the targets and filling the air with a subtle coppery scent. But that is not the strangest thing.
All the targets now have a tear, or a slit, were a mouth on a human would be and it's moving. Some are sobbing almost silently, some are outright wailing, others are moaning in pain. One target is silent, a bullet hole in its head and the leaking is a sluggish, lazy drip. Fury gets an idea; he doesn't like that idea.
"That one shut up when Agent Johnson shot its head," the junior agent, Stewart, explains, obviously noticing where Fury's gaze is. "We believe it's dead, sir."
It's a very ridiculous idea. The hell.
The range isn't empty. There's a bunch of agents milling around, some staring intently at the targets with plain confusion about their faces but most of them frowning. One of them, another junior agent, is very pale. They still part to let Agent Hill through, and she nods at junior agent Stewart.
"Thank you, agent," she says, and it's obviously a dismissal.
“Yes, ma’am.” Stewart nods and steps back.
Fury gets to the point. "Hill, what is this?"
Agent Hill picks up her gun, aims it, urges him to watch and fires. The hole her bullet makes only grazes the human shape on the target, but still the torn mouth opens and screams. A short, high-pitched shriek that ends in a sobbing whimpering. Red drips down like a tiny rivulet.
"The closer they're shot to vital areas the louder they get," she states and when she turns to him her frown is just a tiny bit helpless. "I have no idea why. The agents were practicing for a while when the targets suddenly started screaming and bleeding."
Well. What a fortunate thing they've just acquired a magic expert, right? One who happened to be the God of Mischief. Fury gets another idea, he doesn't like this idea either.
"Fun," is Loki's answer to Fury's why.
Sending Coulson to talk to Loki is probably the best idea the Director's had that day. Unflappable, born-with-a-poker-face Coulson can probably keep a bluff on the god of lies. The talk goes well, no one dies, and after the agent calmly explains why it’s a bad idea to pull tricks that would compromise field agents, Loki offers not to traumatize them again.
They hope but still take his word with a grain of salt.
It happens again a little over a week later.
This time the section affected is the cafeteria, and by the time Fury gets there the kitchen staff is engaged in a fierce and messy war with what appear to be intestinal parasites. The things are long and yellow-ish pale and very thin, and they crawl on the floor, up the walls, and people's legs in movements not unlike those of earthworms. The staff scream as they wield ladles and pans, and the cacophony of sounds as they smash the things just adds to the overall chaos.
Everything, where the things are killed, is covered in a creamy pulp. They're very soft with no apparent solid structure, and people are slipping and shrieking in panic and disgust when they land on the smashed bodies. Fury takes out his gun, though he knows it's going to be a bit useless, given the size and the amount of parasites filling the room. He's going for the source, not the things themselves. He wants to know where the fuck they came from. Agent Hill, who arrived shortly after after him, follows his lead.
He grabs the nearest of the kitchen staff. "What happened here," it's not a question, not really, more like an order. The man has a mop in his hand and he's panting.
"The pots," he says, "we were making pasta, and then it just crawled out of the pots! It was suddenly alive and getting everywhere!"
Fury stares. Hill blinks, reaches down and takes one of the parasites between two fingers. This close, it actually looks like spaghetti. Hill squeezes, and it feels like squeezing pasta. The thing stops moving when it's severed and two strips of fucking spaghetti fall to the floor. Fury keeps on staring.
"Motherfucker."
He hears agent Barton, almost out of his hearing range, ask: "If it can crawl up the walls, that means it's well done, right?"
Just for that the Director makes him fetch Loki.
Fury thinks he's broken his own record. He's ranted and yelled and cursed for almost two hours and Loki, fuck that bastard, is sitting there with a carefully crafted blank face that somehow still radiates smugness.
He orders Loki to clean the kitchen by himself, without magic and have it done before dinner. Loki smiles with a pleasant smile and says he will, then strolls out. Fury knows he's getting old because that smile looked sincere as hell, when everyone and their mother know it's anything but.
Fury only finds out the Loki cleaning the kitchen is an illusion because Agent Barton accidentally stumbled upon the real god lounging lazily on the roof, seemingly asleep, when just a moment ago the archer was on the monitoring room watching that same god mopping up dead pasta.
The director knows better than to believe it was an accident.
That little shit.
At least the kitchen is clean and dinner is undisturbed. Thank fuck for small blessings.
It’s soon discovered that Loki’s knowledge of magical theory surpasses that of Victor von Doom. Even if diplomatic immunity means the man won’t be held for long, SHIELD now has a small army of deactivated doombots thanks to Loki. The god spends the better part of three days writing what turns out to be a rather interesting read on what magic Doom used, probable origins, and applications of its merging with what he still insist on calling midgardian technology. It makes some of Fury’s scientists really happy and the god himself mildly interested in said technology.
It’s a good inversion, Fury thinks, despite the mischief it comes with.
It's been a month since Loki's official integration to SHIELD as a consultant, and Fury gets wind of the sixth death threat levelled against the god. These threats are no light matter as many SHIELD agents are very capable assassins. If they all band together they may even have a decent shot at success (maybe, because Loki is yet to piss off Romanoff, else the odds would be vastly different). Usually, the Director would have the threatening agent fetched to his office, where he would deliver a terrifying rant that, in a nutshell, is all about not killing assets, not even if the asset is a demi-immortal annoying son of a bitch who can recover from something as definitely fatal as freefall.
This time, though, this time Fury hears about the death threat a day after he's had his eye-patch change pastel colors randomly. He's even more irritated because he hadn't realized it until Coulson casually mentioned it, about midday.
He does nothing about the threat.
Loki's pranks continue to terrorize SHIELD.
Fury's fed up and gives Loki an ultimatum: either he ceases, or he'll be locked up. Loki does not cease, so Fury locks him up. Loki teleports out.
Loki pretends not to understand what the problem is. He sits comfortably in Fury's office and says he's actually being generous. He is the god of chaos and mischief, didn't he know? What did he expect when he took him in? Peace and quiet? No damage is being incurred. It's all just a bit a fun, an indulgence of his nature.
Fury hates his guts like he's never hated anyone's guts before.
Loki's pranks continue to terrorize SHIELD.
It's been two months since Loki's official integration to SHIELD as a consultant, and someone jokingly writes on the general announcements board:
S.H.I.E.L.D. PRIORITY PROTOCOL FOR EMERGENCIES INVOLVING IMPOSSIBLE INCIDENTS:
1. Blame Loki
No one disagrees, and it becomes another of SHIELD's unofficial rules.
"Loki can manipulate the monitors," Hill announces as she opens the door to Fury's office. "He can make his illusions appear only in the video feed, real time."
The Director frowns. That is the worst, security breach wise, that Loki's done. "What did he do?"
Hill struggles to hide a smile. "This one's actually fun for everyone. All the base is parading in front of the cameras."
Fury looks at her like she's lost her mind. Hill shrugs.
"I think he's feeling nostalgic."
Considering all the levels of mischief Fury's had to deal in the past couple months, he's actually surprised when he pulls up the video feed on his computer. The SHIELD building looks the exact same, but the people in it do not. They are all wearing clothes similar to Asgardian leather-heavy outfits. Agents are clothed in armor while the rest of the staff appear to be dressed in leather and thick fabrics for males and loose, flowing dresses for females.
The video feed rotates, and he watches his own office. Hill looks brutally efficient in a dark blue and gold armored skirt.
"Like I said." The agent shrugs again. "No one's getting traumatized over this one."
"It's a breach of security, Hill. Have Loki fix it as of now."
"Already sent for him, sir."
Fury nods and Hill departs. He looks at the video feed again and scoffs in disgust. He has a golden eye patch. So tacky.
It's been three months since Loki's official integration to SHIELD as a consultant, and, by the base consensus, the god has won Agent Romanoff over to his side. Loki shows her some of his best, deadliest knife techniques, and Romanoff teaches him how to use her guns. They talk of clever ruses, of weird tells, and of disguises they have worn. They enjoy themselves in hand-to-hand combat, especially when Romanoff takes Loki's illusions as challenges, rather than annoyances. And, worst of all, they hold contests to know who is the best liar, the best one at picking apart body language and other people's lies.
SHIELD suffers, but Barton and Coulson suffer the most, and when Fury calls Agent Romanoff to his office, she only says: "He's good for testing and honing my skills." And that's that.
The God of Lies wins every time, but the Black Widow is close enough to almost win every time. Fury always looks smugly at Loki, a small, subtle reminder that she hasn't had the thousand years of practice and experience that he's had. It pisses Loki off, and the contests decrease in frequency, much to SHIELD's relief.
It doesn't escape Fury's attention that Romanoff is the only one the trickster looks at with respect, so where the Director is concerned, it's his agent who has won the god over.
Intimate spaces, like the restrooms and shower stalls, are a favorite of Loki's when it comes to his fucking tricks and pranks. They've had haunted shower stalls, they've had the toilettes spit at them when opening the lid, they've had a goddamn jungle take over the best restroom, they've had the cold and hot water switched, they've had the toilet paper disappear as they reach for it, they've had towels run away from them, and they've had toilettes that only flush when two people look at them.
No one goes or showers alone anymore.
It's no secret that Loki loves snakes, and Fury knows at least half the base fantasizes about throwing the god in a pit full of them. He has them appear in trash bins, out of clogs, out of pots, out of shelves, and even out of fucking glasses that are midway to being drunk from. Today's prank involves both favorite things.
Against the unofficial protocol, Agent Barton's braved the showers alone. Fury's first thought is to think whatever his agent gets he has it deserved, even if Loki is really to blame, because all SHIELD agents are trained to adapt to circumstances. Right now, the circumstance SHIELD has to adapt is this: there's a mischief god abound, and for some creepy reason he really likes to target lone people on restrooms and showers.
Predictably, Loki plays a prank on Barton. Not so predictably, Barton likes the prank a bit too much and encourages Loki to extend it through all of SHIELD, not just to all the showers. The base is currently experiencing a shortage of water.
Fury opens a tap and out come black gummy snakes, piling on the sink already filled with purple gummy snakes. The director stares with a pinched expression on his face. He turns the tap off when some of the candy roll off the pile and onto the floor.
Reaching past him to open the tap just a second, Agent Hill demonstrates the color of the candy changes with the person opening the taps. Hers are navy blue. She gestures at the sink filled with purple candy and the director remembers the shower room half-filled with gummies of the exact same shade of purple. He knows what Hill is going to say before she does.
"Barton's gummy snakes are purple. He's letting the faucets on because he wants to hoard the candy."
"Of course he is," he drawls. Fury's starting to lose the ability to be truly pissed at anything Loki does. He's suddenly startled by the idea that maybe SHIELD's resident god has been desensitizing him since the beginning.
"I don't know why, though," Hill adds, "agent Jones reported they taste like water."
Fury does not care. He sends Coulson after Loki and Barton, and Hill after Jones, because his agents should know eating magical candy is not a smart thing. He orders all the candy destroyed, but it becomes an impossible task when the shower room, the restrooms, the kitchens, and pretty much everywhere with a tap on it that Barton could open, suddenly flood with water after the candy regresses to its natural state.
There's no gain telling Loki to clean this mess. The god will nod and smile and everything will be cleaned and dry with the wave of a hand. That is not satisfying in the least. Instead, Fury has him locked in the R&D department with the most fearless of SHIELD researchers and has him explain to them the metaphysical plane in which the rest of the nine realms are (to people who were given the order to be as annoyingly and frustratingly questioning as they could without putting their emotional integrity at risk).
Agent Barton is the one left to clean everything, with Agent Romanoff shadowing him from room to room telling him why he thought it was a good and fun idea to encourage the god of mischief and why he was so very, very wrong.
Fury congratulates himself on such a good choice of a punishment, because Loki behaves for two whole weeks.
It's been four months since Loki's official integration to SHIELD as a consultant, and someone lends the god the Harry Potter books. Fury is going to find out who did and have them sent out to their sister branch in Russia for that, never to be seen or heard of again.
"Her name is Norberta," Loki says. "She's not a Norwegian Ridgeback, but I believe the name to be apt for her."
The gigantic, black lizard yawns and little wisps of bright orange smoke trail out of its nostrils.
"I decided to use my day off to travel to Muspelheim and acquire her," he adds. The lizard's head comes up to just below Loki's waist, and the god pats its head like one would a dog. "She's still young but she will be a fine fire-breather in time. She's a worthy pet."
It gets loose in the base and starts small, neon orange fires everywhere. Parties are made to hunt the thing down. Long-time discord is quickly traded for alliances and efficiency. SHIELD loses one day of productivity, and everyone is high on adrenaline. All SHIELD personnel are equipped heavily and with thermal sensitive goggles, because the thing can mimic shadows but it has a fire core that never changes its temperature. The ambience quickly turns tense and very quiet. Fury has sealed every exit until the thing is either captured or killed, so everyone's on edge.
Soon it's learnt that bullets, knives, and arrows do nothing to the thing. Loki says only a very specific spell can harm it, so it needs to be captured. Loki gets yelled at pretty much every time he's seen, but he appears to be enjoying himself, which only fuels everyone's frustration. He doesn't try to join any party, and no one invites him in. Out of the entirety of SHIELD, Barton is the only one who actually seems thrilled with the hunt, but that may be because the ceiling is his territory, and the lizard can't fly, fucking thankfully.
They catch it with a reinforced steel net and a bait consisting of peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches.
It doesn’t surprise anyone when Loki states he wants to keep the thing. Much yelling ensues.
The god only agrees to return the damn beast when Barton steps in, quotes something from the thrice damned Books, and Loki answers in kind, apparently re-enacting a whole conversation. Fury is nursing a headache and it only grows when Barton informs him, later, that the lizard turned out to be an illusion.
Fucking trickster gods.
He's going to get all the information Loki has on his head and then send him back to Asgard. That little shit is not worth this pain.
Then, of-fucking-course, Loki proves he is worth his weight in gold when they show him the tesseract. He explains what it is, that it was stolen from Daddy's much prized vault, and why it's a fool's errand to mess with it. Loki says it can bend the fabric of space, be used as a gate, as a portal, and that no material available to them would be able to hold its power for long.
The god refuses to experiment with it. Stresses how portals made with its help are not very reliable and that, of course, theirs was not the only side that could be opened. Insists how paths made with it could reach shady, unpleasant places and whoever dwelled upon them. Warns them how tinkering with it could very well send up a beacon to other beings, invite them into their realm.
In the end, it is the god's presence there, proof that unearthly civilizations have already a way into their planet, that sways both the Council and Fury against his advice. Still, the Director has Loki studying the Destroyer and tasks him to come up with ways to reproduce its power in more compact weapons. If the trickster god hadn't already shown him many times how very deserving he is of his moniker, Fury might have believed the quiet regret in Loki's eyes when he is shown the remains of the sentinel.
Loki works with as much determination and attention to detail as he does with his pranks. Fury hates to admit he's impressed with the big ass guns Loki helps design and build, so he only offers a curt well done to the god. Loki is smart enough to read behind the two words, and the smug smile the god responds with shows it so.
Loki and Tony Stark meet when the engineer saunters his way into the base, proving he cares shit about security protocols. The Director realizes their meeting is a huge, huge mistake when Stark flirts and Loki smiles. It's even worse when Loki discovers Stark also likes the motherfucking Books, because the assholes bond over it and then, eventually, the Voldemort incident happens.
(Over the monitors, because Fury is not letting those two out of his sight, he hears Stark say: "Oh, hey, your magic's green, you know what else is green? An avada kedavra. You even have the paleness to go with it." He doesn't think any of it, not until after, and hindsight is such a bitch.)
Loki starts spending a lot of time with Stark, doing what he describes as a study in parallels between Midgard's science and Asgard's magic. Fury is torn. On one hand, it's a damn useful thing, discovering if the two are related and actually compatible. If they are, he believes the practical applications to be useful as well. It has the bonus benefit of keeping the god away from both boredom and SHIELD's general population. On the other hand, Loki is spending a lot of time with Stark, outside of SHIELD's surveillance. The director is sure nothing good can possibly come from such an explosive association, so he's already waiting for the storm.
It hits them one friday night. Stark hosts a costume party and invites Loki.
Apparently, the engineer says something about not wanting Romanoff there, because Loki invites the agent and makes it into a game she'll win if Stark doesn't identify her. The god also invites Barton, because Barton is an idiot who enjoys Loki's mischief and Barton invites Coulson. Agent Coulson reports the party and who's going to Fury, and the Director decides he's going to crash it, because he’s not going to give up this chance to watch over both the trickster and Stark.
The party is held at the newly opened Stark Tower, in one of its huge conference rooms. Stark is dressed in a long, overflowing black tunic and round, clear glasses. He's waving a fancy stick with one hand, the other supporting a drink. Next to Fury, Barton laughs. The Director scowls, of course the motherfucking Books would come to torment him here, too.
The first couple hours are just Stark standard and he braves them with a drink he doesn’t touch. The Director watches the guests, amuses himself by making it a game of spotting his spies in the crowd; so far he’s glimpsed Barton four times and Coulson three, but he has not been able to locate Romanoff yet.
Just as he thinks of her, a black-haired woman passes by him, brushing his sleeve. He turns to look at her, and she gives him a Black Widow smile, predatory and full of teeth. Fury huffs and nods, and Romanoff loses herself in the crowd again.
Not long after that, Stark finally addresses his guests.
“Hey, everyone, here!” Stark calls from some sort of wide podium at the end of the room. “I have a surprise for all of you. A very special guest has agreed to entertain us.”
No, thinks Fury, eye closed and pinching the bridge of his nose. But he knows he can’t do anything to stop it. He’s going to flay them both alive if they make him drink from the glass he’s taken as accessory.
“Let’s welcome,” Stark continues, “and someone give me some dramatic music here,” from hidden speakers an epic, haunting melody starts and it gets on Fury’s nerves. “Ladies and gentlemen, He Who Must Not Be Named, the Darkest of Dark Lords himself, Voldemort!”
A bright green light blinds everyone for a second and then, well, there’s really Voldemort on the stand. Pale faced, noseless and swathed in an ocean of black with another fancy stick in one of his hands.
Next to him Barton, who appeared as soon as Stark spoke, lets out an impressed whistle. "That's the most convincing Voldemort I've ever seen. Are we sure Stark didn't hire Ralph Fiennes? Because I really think he would."
“Bold, are you not, little thing?” Voldemort speaks, and it’s not Voldemort’s voice. This voice is deeper, raw and full of malice that is almost physically felt; a voice changed, transformed, but familiar under its disguise.
“...the fuck,” Barton gapes, “that’s Loki.”
“Nice costume,” pipes Coulson, stepping into Fury’s unoccupied side.
Fury sips his so far untouched drink. He feels like he’s going to need it.
On the podium, now obviously a prepared stage, Stark-as-Potter and Loki-as-Voldemort start to heat up their rapport, Stark acting all cocky while Loki is working up a spitting rage. And then:
“Please,” Stark laughs, “you have read the stories, you know your end, I will be your downfall.”
“You dare call yourself my downfall?” Loki howls. “You, who are nothing more than a child eager to fill a place too big for himself! I will end you, Avada Kedavra!”
From Loki’s stick, a bright green ray of light comes out to strike Stark just below his neck. He has a second to contort his face into a horrified gesture before he’s dropping like a stone onto the podium, right before Loki’s feet. When Fury looks around, everyone is quiet. There’s a few, slow claps that fade just as soon as they started, but most of the attendees are very confused. Loki’s acting is chilling, and Stark is still unmoving.
Fury hisses orders to both Barton and Coulson, and as the spies move to place themselves in strategic positions, he really, dearly hopes the god hasn’t gone rogue.
Loki then turns to his audience, a terrifying smirk on his white lips and black tunic flowing eerily behind him. “Is this not,” he says, pointing one long finger to Stark, who Fury still hopes is very devoted to his role as a corpse. “Your natural state?”
The temperature is dropping and the corners of the room start to frost over. The farthest illuminations suddenly give out, and the shadows grow and move. Loki laughs, deep and vast, a completely insane laugh as he points his stick upwards, and a green snake coils out of it just to coil again in the ceiling around a skull. The shadows are now coming off the walls, looking like a bundle of ripped, black fabric and someone screams, “Dementors!”
Just like that, pandemonium breaks. Everyone is pushing and screaming and running for the gates, glasses are dropped and the floor becomes a field of slippery wine and broken glass. It’s goddamn dangerous, and Stark seems to realize this, the genius, because he’s jumping up and trying to get everyone’s attention.
Out of the corner of his eye, Fury spots Romanoff retreating from where she’d perched, gun in hand and ready to shoot Loki, had it been necessary.
A blaring, abrupt noise sounds from the podium, where Stark and Loki are, and the chaos stop for a second. But a second is all Stark needs.
“Hey, hey, people,” he says, hands raised up in a peace offering. “No need to panic, no one is in danger, please calm down.”
The shadow things are no longer in view, all lights are on, and the temperature is steadily rising.
“It was all a choreographed performance,” Loki adds, in his normal voice, all apologetic charm, “plus some magic tricks and clever illusions.”
Some people laugh nervously, with shame, but Fury cannot exactly blame them. He knows Loki is actually, probably, very capable of making the illusions just as real. He knows the danger was not a trick, not really.
He waits until the last guest has left before he starts yelling at the idiotic god. He is not alone, just a few yards away, Ms. Potts is yelling herself hoarse at Stark.
For three blessed days in a row, SHIELD knows peace.
Just a week before Loki hits the five months mark as a SHIELD consultant, the base suffers another breach in security. All phones, land or mobile, redirect to an expensive British sex hotline. All computers in the facility, whether they were already there or have entered it, find their desktop wallpaper changed to a very bizarre, highly explicit image featuring one lady of Nigerian descent, one gentleman with Asiatic features, and a strap-on in the shape of a big tentacle, colored bright pink. There are leather straps, an ornate golden bed, and what appears to be green silk blankets involved as well.
Fury positively hollers for Loki.
Loki is appalled. The god, damn him, denies his involvement. Claims to have far more taste and class. Fury knows better than to believe him, of course, so he yells and Loki gets angry and they yell at each other, both of them trying to cut the other with sharp insults and loaded words. SHIELD's base might be on the brink of absolute annihilation when Agent Romanoff places herself at the periphery of their shout match and calmly declares Loki might be right. They look at her, suddenly silent and when Fury snaps a what?, she states it doesn't correspond to Loki's style as he's previously shown. Intercepting secure lines and messing with protected computers is something a smart human can do.
"Someone," she adds, "who has shown no regard for security protocols and who likes to think of SHIELD as a playground."
Fury watches Loki as the trickster's frown gives way to reluctant awe. He barks out a laugh and his grin is almost evil as he whispers, almost delighted, "Oh, Tony." The god vanishes in a greengold ripple of light, and the sound of air rushing to fill a suddenly empty space.
Fury sighs, his head pounding, as he makes to call Stark so he can yell at him. Romanoff moves, but the call connects before she can speak.
"Hello, this is Sally," a sensual voice in a British accent comes out of the speaker and Fury promptly disconnects the call. He'd forgotten about the fucking hotline.
Twenty minutes later, just as he has his IT department set to fix this, immediately, Loki teleports back into his office. He has Stark and Barton held by their collars.
"These are your true culprits, Director. Tasteless and vulgar tricks befit men with no class."
Stark squirms, but it’s no use against Loki’s iron grip. “It was Barton’s idea.”
Barton is outraged by this betrayal. “But I didn’t go and tell you to do it, did I? That’s all on you, Stark. Man up.”
“Hell no, hawkling. If I’m going down, then I’m taking my instigator with me.”
“Well, Director,” Loki smiles like a predator who gets to play with its prey, “whatever will you do with them?”
For one insane moment, just one second, Fury considers leaving them to Loki’s mercy. After all, whatever the trickster god comes up with, will be better and more creative than what he does. Then Fury regains his sanity and orders the god out.
Loki is perplexed. “I believe, that as the intended target of a most uncouth defamation, I reserve the right to at least be present as you assign them their punishments.”
The way Loki says punishments makes Fury think of medieval tortures, for some reason, and so he’s more firm in ordering Loki out. The god scowls and pouts and almost slams the door on his way out.
Because Loki is as childishly petty as he is disgustingly clever, everytime Fury opens a drawer on his office he finds a bright pink strap-on in the shape of a tentacle casually resting atop important documents, among office paraphernalia or wedged between folders.
Loki is apparently nowhere, and the fucking things keep appearing for a little over four hours.
It's been five months since Loki's official integration to SHIELD as a consultant, and Fury is done. He won't send Loki to Asgard, the little shit is still useful, but the Director doesn't have to be the one to put up with him.
"Ship him off to Stark Tower; let that fucker deal with this fucker," he says to Coulson.
He pretends not to notice when SHIELD collectively sighs in relief.
It's been eight months since Loki's official integration as a SHIELD consultant, and Amora comes raining down from a broken sky, alien army in tow. There are catastrophic brotherly reunions, yelling, and magic fights. Amora is defeated, and Loki secures his place on SHIELD.
Fury remembers fondly the days when he used to swear he'd send Loki to Asgard as he argues in favor of the god staying on Earth. He wins. It doesn't feel like a victory.