![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: A Wolf in Mortal Clothing
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Thor
Rating: R
Genre: Angst/Drama
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Warnings: Swearing, pseudo-bestiality, references to torture
Disclaimer: I do not own Thor and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Agent Phil Coulson is not all that he seems. He is much, much more than a government agent and he has every reason to fear the opening of the Bifrost.
AN: This is officially the longest oneshot I've ever written in the history of ever. It was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
semiseverus on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
norsekink in response to an amazing prompt.
Part Two Part Three
The scientists had called it in. There were times when even he was surprised at how many people S.H.I.E.L.D had watching the night skies, and he was one of the two people who knew the real reason why they had them in the first place. They were calling it an ‘atmospheric disturbance’. It wasn’t the first time they’d used that phrase and had it turn out to be something harmless, but this time was different. The scale of the disturbance alone…
He feels as though something cold and heavy is weighing in his stomach. Jormungandr had told him to suck it up and check it out, but he could see that he was just as worried. That bothered him. His brother had always been unflappable, even when they were children. But it made sense; something like this could be dangerous for both of them. If Asgard found out that they had been freed there would be hell to pay. They were lucky they had gotten away with it for so long as it was.
If it is the Bifrost, and his instincts are screaming that it is, then they are in danger. If Odin has come then it is likely they will die for daring to slip free of their chains. If it is another, well, they are still in danger if it is reported that Jormungandr isn’t at the bottom of the ocean where he’s supposed to be.
No. He shakes his head and focuses on the road stretching out before him. He isn’t going to think about it. Not now. He can worry about it later if his suspicions turn out to be true. Right now, what he is going to do his job and be relieved that he doesn’t have to babysit Tony Stark any more. The man’s a pain in the ass; mysterious ‘atmospheric disturbances’ in New Mexico are infinitely preferable to watching him mope over his daddy issues. (That Stark thought he had a fucked up family was nothing short of hilarious.)
He wants to get it over with as soon as possible, so he only stops once at a petrol station. His car needs filling up and he needs junk food. Donuts are tempting, but he can’t decide which flavour to have. One of the things he likes the most about being human is the ability to eat just about anything. Jormungandr says he has a problem, eating crap like this when he’s stressed, and he cracks jokes about the puppy begging for table scraps, but he’s one to talk. He didn’t get as big as he is by having an allergy to seafood.
The knot of worry in his stomach only increases at the sight of the robbers. They’re easy enough to deal with – idiots of the first order and no match for him at all – but they’re something of a bad omen.
He takes both packs of donuts. Jormungandr can kiss his ass.
…
He parks the car on a small rise and steps out. Dust swirls up at the sudden movement and dances around him before resettling on his suit. ‘Land of Enchantment’, his ass. He’s not a big fan of deserts. The cicadas hidden in the scrub around him fall silent. He has that affect on wildlife. They know that he’s not what he seems; that he’s something far more dangerous than the plain-looking man in a suit that he pretends to be. Humans – as a rule – are the only ones who don’t notice that, though there are exceptions like Clint, Natasha and Hill. He finds it endearing, really, how the majority of the species try to ignore their own instincts and think that they’re better off for it.
He stares down at the crater in the desert, and the humans throwing a party around it. He can smell the barbecuing sausages from here, even through the thick fog of car exhaust and dust and desert heat. His nose twitches. There’s something else down there that tugs at the darkest recesses of his memory. The smell of ozone and magic. A nervous whine builds in his throat and he swallows it. In the distance a man moves out of his line of sight, and his eyesight is sharp enough – even in this form, where his senses are dulled though not to a normal human level – to pick out the shape of a hammer.
Mjolnir.
The whine turns into a growl. He pulls his phone from his pocket and hits speed dial.
Jormungandr answers on the first ring. He’s been waiting for this.
“Sir, we found it,” he says. The temptation to call him ‘Jor’ is almost overwhelming, but he’s not a child anymore. He’s an adult with a job to do, and that job is to protect his siblings and their adopted home.
“And?”
“Uncle is paying a visit.”
Jormungandr’s response isn’t shaped by human language. There’s a furious hiss and he pulls the phone away from his ear slightly. He can understand easily enough. Make sure Thor leaves without discovering anything.
It should be simple. Their uncle was always a fool and the children of Loki all inherited their mother’s brain. “Understood,” he says, and hangs up.
The knot of worry hasn’t eased.
It should be simple, but it won’t be. Thor was a fool, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
He’d never forgotten the day of his imprisonment and Thor’s part in it – the burning sensation in his ribs as Thor wielded Mjolnir against him, to subdue him enough for Odin and Tyr to bind him in place. Thor had left the fight early, he remembers, to restrain Mother. Mother had heard his screams of pain and come to save him, only to be held back and made to watch as he was bound to the earth and his grandfather drove a sword through his muzzle, pinning his head to the ground and making the copper taste of blood bloom across his tongue for the second time that day.
It’s one of his few memories of life on Asgard. Centuries have passed since that day, and he has since learned to embrace his human life but even after all this time, he still fears his uncle.
It galls him.
…
He dreams of Asgard that night, for the first time in centuries, and wakes with a start. Clint slumbers on next to him, sheets pooling in the dip of his lower back, baring his muscular shoulders to the moonlight that slips through a crack in the blinds. Fenris rubs a hand over his eyes and tries to erase the images of his early childhood from his mind. It will do him no favours to recall the warmth of Mother’s arms around him, or the grass under his paws as he raced Sleipnir through meadows, or the feel of his ribs splintering under one of Mjolnir’s blows. He exhales slowly and slips out of bed, padding silently through to the kitchenette and the coffee machine. He won’t get any more sleep tonight.
He isn’t sure what Jormungandr thought he was doing, sending Clint with the scientific team and field agents. It’s possible he was trying to send him a source of comfort, but that would imply that his brother was capable of understanding affection to a degree far greater than he’d ever credited him with. Jormungandr is cold-blooded through and through.
But if that was his intent then it has backfired. Clint doesn’t know, of course. How could he tell him he’s anything other than the human Clint believes him to be? It wouldn’t matter if he did. Clint wouldn’t believe him, anyway. He’s Phil, now. Philip Coulson, not Fenris Lokisson. He is an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D of average build and appearance, and an indeterminate age. He’s so regular-looking that it’s impossible for him to be anything but what he appears to be.
He knows how dangerous it is to be different.
…
Jane Foster’s laboratory is filled with equipment. So filled, in fact, that he had to call extra trucks from the temporary base he’d had set up around Mjolnir that morning. He watches as her life’s work is packed away into boxes and crates and taken away. She’ll be angry, he knows, when she finds out, but he has to know everything about the Bifrost’s activation.
They have Mjolnir, but Thor is still missing. That frightens him more than he cares to admit.
When she arrives, it is with a cry of “What the hell is going on here?” She’s a small woman, and a fairly attractive, with long hair and a neat frame. Physically, she’s weak. Only her brain holds a threat, but he’s heard that said about Mother too often to not take her seriously.
“Miss Foster, I’m Agent Coulson with S.H.I.E.L.D,” he says. As he introduces himself, his gaze slips from her, to the young woman behind her.
His nose had caught the scent as soon as she’d walked through the door. Nothing she does will ever be able to hide it from him: the sweet smell of death and decay clings to his sister. Hela recognises him, he knows it. He sees her eyes flash with amusement and for a moment he sees her glamour shift, revealing her true face. The grinning skull doesn’t frighten him, just as he has never feared Jormungandr’s sinuous coils.
He is the only one who notices. The junior agents are preoccupied with their work, and Foster and Selvig are preoccupied with trying to save theirs.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me? You can’t do this!” The hysterical pitch of Foster’s voice is painful to his ears. He fights back a wince.
Having sharpened senses is as much a curse as it is a blessing. Humans make such a lot of noise, and have so many smells. Centuries of trying to hide his reactions to them have given him the perfect poker face. Most of his colleagues put it down to just him being a good agent; they don’t need to know that inside he is cringing at something their senses are too dull to notice half of the time. He can only be relieved that his current form has dulled them to the extent where it is merely uncomfortable, rather than agonising, to be around loud noises.
Only his vision isn’t perfect, but having never seen in colour he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to miss about it. At least Clint seems to find it funny that he can only see in monochrome and doesn’t mind the odd question when a description is needed for his reports – in fact, he relishes the opportunity to tease.
He backs off from the woman, watches as Selvig tries to talk her down with faint smile on his lips. He, at least, understands the severity of the situation: he has come into contact with S.H.I.E.L.D before, through a passing connection to the Banner Incident. He fails, understandably, to calm her. Foster is furious. She has every right to be.
“We’re investigating a security threat,” he tells her. “We need to appropriate your records and all your atmospheric data.”
They need to know where Thor landed. They need to know where he is. They can’t have their uncle roaming Midgard unsupervised even if he is without his hammer.
They need to know why he is without his hammer.
He holds out a cheque to her. “Here. This should more than compensate you for your trouble.”
She snatches it from his hand and crumples it in her fist, stares at it and at him in disgust. He’s familiar with the look; it doesn’t bother him anymore.
“I can’t just buy replacements at Radio Shack! I made most of this equipment myself!”
“Then I’m sure you can do it again,” he says. He’s not surprised that they’re one-of-a-kind machines. He’s seen a lot of those lately, and the woman truly is brilliant.
“And I’m sure I can sue you for a breach in my constitutional rights!”
“I’m sorry Miss Foster,” he tells her. He even means it. “But we’re the good guys.”
She’s desperate now, pleading. “So are we!” Close to tears, but they’re of anger rather than sorrow. She’s a lot stronger than she looks. “I’m on the verge of understanding something extraordinary, and everything I know about it is either in this lab or in this book, and you can’t just take it away from – hey!”
The book in question is snatched from her hand because he can have it taken away from her, and she has to be restrained by Selvig. That she is close to understanding this ‘extraordinary’ thing is exactly the problem. If she were to get too close it could draw Asgard’s attention to Midgard and that is the last thing they would want.
But still, it’s a shame. He thanks her for her cooperation, and meets his sister’s gaze over her shoulder once more. Hela doesn’t look happy either, but she will understand when he explains. He
hopes. At the very least, she’ll be able to keep an eye on Foster for him.
…
He’s halfway back to base when his phone beeps with an incoming message. He fishes it from his pocket and opens it up to read. U stole my ipod. Not cool, Fen. Bad dog.
He feels his lips twitch as he replies. Uncle paying a visit. Got to keep an eye on things.
She texts back within moments. I no. Met him wen he got out of Bifrost. I tased him. Jane hit him wit her car. Twice. Wat a douche. Dint even no me ;) There’s an accompanying picture of Thor stuffing his face with pancakes.
Watch her for me?
Kk. U o me a new ipod tho, muttface.
He loves his sister, really. She’ll get the iPod.
Two hours later he hears from her again. Heds up bro ur in truble. Thor incoming.
He might even make it an iPad.
…
He does not raise the alarm, but he does have Clint perch high in his nest overlooking the base. It makes him feel better to have his lover defending him from above, and high out of Thor’s range (provided he doesn’t reach Mjolnir; provided there is a reason why he has been separated from it). He allows everyone else to go on as usual. The scientists run their tests and gather data. He doesn’t particularly want them to, but it would be strange to ask them not to – on top of that, Mjolnir is one of Asgard’s greatest weapons. If they can analyse its abilities, they can replicate them, and they will have another weapon to utilise against the All-Father if he should come for them.
Lightning flashes and thunder rolls through the sky. He closes his eyes and tries not to shiver.
Clint’s voice crackles through on the radio. He’s incapable of maintaining radio silence. “You’re paying me overtime for this, right? Because lightning sucks. If I get hit then you’re sleeping on the couch.”
The perimeter alarms go off before he has a chance to respond, and there’s a succinct “fuck” from his radio as the heavens open and rain pours downwards. It’s the perfect atmosphere for a god of thunder.
He allows himself that brief shudder, and turns his attention to the security cameras. He wants to see what Thor does to his men and Mjolnir’s reaction to it.
He hates the rain.
“There’s a massive electromagnetic surge coming from that thing,” Agent Sitwell, his second in command, tells him when he reaches the observation centre. “Systems are barely coping.”
He knows without studying the data that the surge is off the charts. The smell of ozone is overpowering and he can feel power and magic crawling over his skin. If he was in his true form, he knows his hackles would be up. As it is he’s trying not to growl as he radios through to Clint. “Barton? Talk to me.”
It’s all professionalism now. “You want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you going to send more guys for him to beat up?” At least as professional as Clint ever gets. He wouldn’t be Clint if he didn’t have snark.
“I’ll let you know,” he replies. He’s already on his way to Mjolnir. He wants to see, no he needs to see, what will happen. He needs to know if Thor has truly been banished without his powers; if Odin would do that to his son as well as his grandchildren.
“You better call it, Coulson, ‘cause I’m starting to root for this guy,”
He does not want to hear that. It causes a growl to start, low and deep in his chest – too low for human ears to catch, but enough to make the people next to him take an inadvertent step back as it crawls along the edge of their senses and terrorises the deepest parts of their brains. He doesn’t answer Clint back. He doesn’t want to think what he might say.
He reaches the balcony overlooking Mjolnir, still embedded in rock in the middle of that crater. The ozone is so strong here that he almost gags on it. He tightens his grip on his radio and stares, unblinking, downwards as his uncle tears through the thin plastic wall and approaches his weapon.
He can’t quite help the sneer that curves his mouth. Thor is exactly as he remembers him from his childhood. Even covered in mud and dressed in Midgardian clothing, he is somehow shining and bright. He moves with confidence that everything he does is right. He swaggers to the hammer, a cocky grin on his handsome face, and Fenris hates him.
The last time Thor came to Midgard, he did so to pick a fight with Jormungandr. Jormungandr hadn’t been chained down like he had, and had grown to monstrous size in the deep oceans of his prison, so of course he was an ideal target for one of Thor’s childish hunting trips. He was too boring, unable to move, and Hela was too small and seemingly weak.
They had fought and battled for days before Odin had finally let Mother step in and put an end to it. By that time Thor had been badly burned by Jormungandr’s venom, but he had not been the only casualty. There was a reason why Jormungandr wore an eye patch. He’d been blinded by their uncle for no reason other than boredom and a need for ‘sport’.
“You better call it.”
He closes his eyes briefly. He has to control himself. He can feel his magic gathering and preparing to shift forms and it frightens him – this is the closest he’s come to losing his temper in a very, very long time. But he knows that he can’t. As tempting as it is to go down there and rip Thor’s throat out with his teeth and avenge himself on the one who should have helped Mother protect him, he can’t.
“Wait,” he says into the radio. “I want to see this.”
Even over the pounding of the rain, he swears he can hear a bow-string relax slightly. Not all the way. Clint would never relax completely while he is in the firing line.
And it’s true. He does want to see it. He’s tense and jittery and too close to losing himself to centuries-old rage and hurt, but he needs to control himself and watch. He’s not a pup anymore. He can control himself. He has to.
Thor reaches for the hammer, curls his fingers around its handle, and pulls. And pulls again. With each fruitless tug and strained grunt, he feels himself relax. He watches Thor pull and pull before finally giving up, staring at his hands in disbelief before casting his eyes to the sky above and screaming in anguish. It is he who is the abandoned child, now.
He realises that he is shaking. With relief, with a sudden lack of fear. He feels powerful and secure once more as his world rights itself. He feels vindicated.
Thor will be easy to hide from with his powers bound as they are.
He raises his radio to his lips, changes the settings to broadcast to everyone. “Alright, show’s over. Ground units move in.”
His uncle is on his knees in the mud, defeated and helpless, and he feels no pity.
Next
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Thor
Rating: R
Genre: Angst/Drama
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Warnings: Swearing, pseudo-bestiality, references to torture
Disclaimer: I do not own Thor and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Agent Phil Coulson is not all that he seems. He is much, much more than a government agent and he has every reason to fear the opening of the Bifrost.
AN: This is officially the longest oneshot I've ever written in the history of ever. It was written for
semiseverus on norsekink in response to an amazing prompt.Part Two Part Three
The scientists had called it in. There were times when even he was surprised at how many people S.H.I.E.L.D had watching the night skies, and he was one of the two people who knew the real reason why they had them in the first place. They were calling it an ‘atmospheric disturbance’. It wasn’t the first time they’d used that phrase and had it turn out to be something harmless, but this time was different. The scale of the disturbance alone…
He feels as though something cold and heavy is weighing in his stomach. Jormungandr had told him to suck it up and check it out, but he could see that he was just as worried. That bothered him. His brother had always been unflappable, even when they were children. But it made sense; something like this could be dangerous for both of them. If Asgard found out that they had been freed there would be hell to pay. They were lucky they had gotten away with it for so long as it was.
If it is the Bifrost, and his instincts are screaming that it is, then they are in danger. If Odin has come then it is likely they will die for daring to slip free of their chains. If it is another, well, they are still in danger if it is reported that Jormungandr isn’t at the bottom of the ocean where he’s supposed to be.
No. He shakes his head and focuses on the road stretching out before him. He isn’t going to think about it. Not now. He can worry about it later if his suspicions turn out to be true. Right now, what he is going to do his job and be relieved that he doesn’t have to babysit Tony Stark any more. The man’s a pain in the ass; mysterious ‘atmospheric disturbances’ in New Mexico are infinitely preferable to watching him mope over his daddy issues. (That Stark thought he had a fucked up family was nothing short of hilarious.)
He wants to get it over with as soon as possible, so he only stops once at a petrol station. His car needs filling up and he needs junk food. Donuts are tempting, but he can’t decide which flavour to have. One of the things he likes the most about being human is the ability to eat just about anything. Jormungandr says he has a problem, eating crap like this when he’s stressed, and he cracks jokes about the puppy begging for table scraps, but he’s one to talk. He didn’t get as big as he is by having an allergy to seafood.
The knot of worry in his stomach only increases at the sight of the robbers. They’re easy enough to deal with – idiots of the first order and no match for him at all – but they’re something of a bad omen.
He takes both packs of donuts. Jormungandr can kiss his ass.
…
He parks the car on a small rise and steps out. Dust swirls up at the sudden movement and dances around him before resettling on his suit. ‘Land of Enchantment’, his ass. He’s not a big fan of deserts. The cicadas hidden in the scrub around him fall silent. He has that affect on wildlife. They know that he’s not what he seems; that he’s something far more dangerous than the plain-looking man in a suit that he pretends to be. Humans – as a rule – are the only ones who don’t notice that, though there are exceptions like Clint, Natasha and Hill. He finds it endearing, really, how the majority of the species try to ignore their own instincts and think that they’re better off for it.
He stares down at the crater in the desert, and the humans throwing a party around it. He can smell the barbecuing sausages from here, even through the thick fog of car exhaust and dust and desert heat. His nose twitches. There’s something else down there that tugs at the darkest recesses of his memory. The smell of ozone and magic. A nervous whine builds in his throat and he swallows it. In the distance a man moves out of his line of sight, and his eyesight is sharp enough – even in this form, where his senses are dulled though not to a normal human level – to pick out the shape of a hammer.
Mjolnir.
The whine turns into a growl. He pulls his phone from his pocket and hits speed dial.
Jormungandr answers on the first ring. He’s been waiting for this.
“Sir, we found it,” he says. The temptation to call him ‘Jor’ is almost overwhelming, but he’s not a child anymore. He’s an adult with a job to do, and that job is to protect his siblings and their adopted home.
“And?”
“Uncle is paying a visit.”
Jormungandr’s response isn’t shaped by human language. There’s a furious hiss and he pulls the phone away from his ear slightly. He can understand easily enough. Make sure Thor leaves without discovering anything.
It should be simple. Their uncle was always a fool and the children of Loki all inherited their mother’s brain. “Understood,” he says, and hangs up.
The knot of worry hasn’t eased.
It should be simple, but it won’t be. Thor was a fool, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
He’d never forgotten the day of his imprisonment and Thor’s part in it – the burning sensation in his ribs as Thor wielded Mjolnir against him, to subdue him enough for Odin and Tyr to bind him in place. Thor had left the fight early, he remembers, to restrain Mother. Mother had heard his screams of pain and come to save him, only to be held back and made to watch as he was bound to the earth and his grandfather drove a sword through his muzzle, pinning his head to the ground and making the copper taste of blood bloom across his tongue for the second time that day.
It’s one of his few memories of life on Asgard. Centuries have passed since that day, and he has since learned to embrace his human life but even after all this time, he still fears his uncle.
It galls him.
…
He dreams of Asgard that night, for the first time in centuries, and wakes with a start. Clint slumbers on next to him, sheets pooling in the dip of his lower back, baring his muscular shoulders to the moonlight that slips through a crack in the blinds. Fenris rubs a hand over his eyes and tries to erase the images of his early childhood from his mind. It will do him no favours to recall the warmth of Mother’s arms around him, or the grass under his paws as he raced Sleipnir through meadows, or the feel of his ribs splintering under one of Mjolnir’s blows. He exhales slowly and slips out of bed, padding silently through to the kitchenette and the coffee machine. He won’t get any more sleep tonight.
He isn’t sure what Jormungandr thought he was doing, sending Clint with the scientific team and field agents. It’s possible he was trying to send him a source of comfort, but that would imply that his brother was capable of understanding affection to a degree far greater than he’d ever credited him with. Jormungandr is cold-blooded through and through.
But if that was his intent then it has backfired. Clint doesn’t know, of course. How could he tell him he’s anything other than the human Clint believes him to be? It wouldn’t matter if he did. Clint wouldn’t believe him, anyway. He’s Phil, now. Philip Coulson, not Fenris Lokisson. He is an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D of average build and appearance, and an indeterminate age. He’s so regular-looking that it’s impossible for him to be anything but what he appears to be.
He knows how dangerous it is to be different.
…
Jane Foster’s laboratory is filled with equipment. So filled, in fact, that he had to call extra trucks from the temporary base he’d had set up around Mjolnir that morning. He watches as her life’s work is packed away into boxes and crates and taken away. She’ll be angry, he knows, when she finds out, but he has to know everything about the Bifrost’s activation.
They have Mjolnir, but Thor is still missing. That frightens him more than he cares to admit.
When she arrives, it is with a cry of “What the hell is going on here?” She’s a small woman, and a fairly attractive, with long hair and a neat frame. Physically, she’s weak. Only her brain holds a threat, but he’s heard that said about Mother too often to not take her seriously.
“Miss Foster, I’m Agent Coulson with S.H.I.E.L.D,” he says. As he introduces himself, his gaze slips from her, to the young woman behind her.
His nose had caught the scent as soon as she’d walked through the door. Nothing she does will ever be able to hide it from him: the sweet smell of death and decay clings to his sister. Hela recognises him, he knows it. He sees her eyes flash with amusement and for a moment he sees her glamour shift, revealing her true face. The grinning skull doesn’t frighten him, just as he has never feared Jormungandr’s sinuous coils.
He is the only one who notices. The junior agents are preoccupied with their work, and Foster and Selvig are preoccupied with trying to save theirs.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me? You can’t do this!” The hysterical pitch of Foster’s voice is painful to his ears. He fights back a wince.
Having sharpened senses is as much a curse as it is a blessing. Humans make such a lot of noise, and have so many smells. Centuries of trying to hide his reactions to them have given him the perfect poker face. Most of his colleagues put it down to just him being a good agent; they don’t need to know that inside he is cringing at something their senses are too dull to notice half of the time. He can only be relieved that his current form has dulled them to the extent where it is merely uncomfortable, rather than agonising, to be around loud noises.
Only his vision isn’t perfect, but having never seen in colour he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to miss about it. At least Clint seems to find it funny that he can only see in monochrome and doesn’t mind the odd question when a description is needed for his reports – in fact, he relishes the opportunity to tease.
He backs off from the woman, watches as Selvig tries to talk her down with faint smile on his lips. He, at least, understands the severity of the situation: he has come into contact with S.H.I.E.L.D before, through a passing connection to the Banner Incident. He fails, understandably, to calm her. Foster is furious. She has every right to be.
“We’re investigating a security threat,” he tells her. “We need to appropriate your records and all your atmospheric data.”
They need to know where Thor landed. They need to know where he is. They can’t have their uncle roaming Midgard unsupervised even if he is without his hammer.
They need to know why he is without his hammer.
He holds out a cheque to her. “Here. This should more than compensate you for your trouble.”
She snatches it from his hand and crumples it in her fist, stares at it and at him in disgust. He’s familiar with the look; it doesn’t bother him anymore.
“I can’t just buy replacements at Radio Shack! I made most of this equipment myself!”
“Then I’m sure you can do it again,” he says. He’s not surprised that they’re one-of-a-kind machines. He’s seen a lot of those lately, and the woman truly is brilliant.
“And I’m sure I can sue you for a breach in my constitutional rights!”
“I’m sorry Miss Foster,” he tells her. He even means it. “But we’re the good guys.”
She’s desperate now, pleading. “So are we!” Close to tears, but they’re of anger rather than sorrow. She’s a lot stronger than she looks. “I’m on the verge of understanding something extraordinary, and everything I know about it is either in this lab or in this book, and you can’t just take it away from – hey!”
The book in question is snatched from her hand because he can have it taken away from her, and she has to be restrained by Selvig. That she is close to understanding this ‘extraordinary’ thing is exactly the problem. If she were to get too close it could draw Asgard’s attention to Midgard and that is the last thing they would want.
But still, it’s a shame. He thanks her for her cooperation, and meets his sister’s gaze over her shoulder once more. Hela doesn’t look happy either, but she will understand when he explains. He
hopes. At the very least, she’ll be able to keep an eye on Foster for him.
…
He’s halfway back to base when his phone beeps with an incoming message. He fishes it from his pocket and opens it up to read. U stole my ipod. Not cool, Fen. Bad dog.
He feels his lips twitch as he replies. Uncle paying a visit. Got to keep an eye on things.
She texts back within moments. I no. Met him wen he got out of Bifrost. I tased him. Jane hit him wit her car. Twice. Wat a douche. Dint even no me ;) There’s an accompanying picture of Thor stuffing his face with pancakes.
Watch her for me?
Kk. U o me a new ipod tho, muttface.
He loves his sister, really. She’ll get the iPod.
Two hours later he hears from her again. Heds up bro ur in truble. Thor incoming.
He might even make it an iPad.
…
He does not raise the alarm, but he does have Clint perch high in his nest overlooking the base. It makes him feel better to have his lover defending him from above, and high out of Thor’s range (provided he doesn’t reach Mjolnir; provided there is a reason why he has been separated from it). He allows everyone else to go on as usual. The scientists run their tests and gather data. He doesn’t particularly want them to, but it would be strange to ask them not to – on top of that, Mjolnir is one of Asgard’s greatest weapons. If they can analyse its abilities, they can replicate them, and they will have another weapon to utilise against the All-Father if he should come for them.
Lightning flashes and thunder rolls through the sky. He closes his eyes and tries not to shiver.
Clint’s voice crackles through on the radio. He’s incapable of maintaining radio silence. “You’re paying me overtime for this, right? Because lightning sucks. If I get hit then you’re sleeping on the couch.”
The perimeter alarms go off before he has a chance to respond, and there’s a succinct “fuck” from his radio as the heavens open and rain pours downwards. It’s the perfect atmosphere for a god of thunder.
He allows himself that brief shudder, and turns his attention to the security cameras. He wants to see what Thor does to his men and Mjolnir’s reaction to it.
He hates the rain.
“There’s a massive electromagnetic surge coming from that thing,” Agent Sitwell, his second in command, tells him when he reaches the observation centre. “Systems are barely coping.”
He knows without studying the data that the surge is off the charts. The smell of ozone is overpowering and he can feel power and magic crawling over his skin. If he was in his true form, he knows his hackles would be up. As it is he’s trying not to growl as he radios through to Clint. “Barton? Talk to me.”
It’s all professionalism now. “You want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you going to send more guys for him to beat up?” At least as professional as Clint ever gets. He wouldn’t be Clint if he didn’t have snark.
“I’ll let you know,” he replies. He’s already on his way to Mjolnir. He wants to see, no he needs to see, what will happen. He needs to know if Thor has truly been banished without his powers; if Odin would do that to his son as well as his grandchildren.
“You better call it, Coulson, ‘cause I’m starting to root for this guy,”
He does not want to hear that. It causes a growl to start, low and deep in his chest – too low for human ears to catch, but enough to make the people next to him take an inadvertent step back as it crawls along the edge of their senses and terrorises the deepest parts of their brains. He doesn’t answer Clint back. He doesn’t want to think what he might say.
He reaches the balcony overlooking Mjolnir, still embedded in rock in the middle of that crater. The ozone is so strong here that he almost gags on it. He tightens his grip on his radio and stares, unblinking, downwards as his uncle tears through the thin plastic wall and approaches his weapon.
He can’t quite help the sneer that curves his mouth. Thor is exactly as he remembers him from his childhood. Even covered in mud and dressed in Midgardian clothing, he is somehow shining and bright. He moves with confidence that everything he does is right. He swaggers to the hammer, a cocky grin on his handsome face, and Fenris hates him.
The last time Thor came to Midgard, he did so to pick a fight with Jormungandr. Jormungandr hadn’t been chained down like he had, and had grown to monstrous size in the deep oceans of his prison, so of course he was an ideal target for one of Thor’s childish hunting trips. He was too boring, unable to move, and Hela was too small and seemingly weak.
They had fought and battled for days before Odin had finally let Mother step in and put an end to it. By that time Thor had been badly burned by Jormungandr’s venom, but he had not been the only casualty. There was a reason why Jormungandr wore an eye patch. He’d been blinded by their uncle for no reason other than boredom and a need for ‘sport’.
“You better call it.”
He closes his eyes briefly. He has to control himself. He can feel his magic gathering and preparing to shift forms and it frightens him – this is the closest he’s come to losing his temper in a very, very long time. But he knows that he can’t. As tempting as it is to go down there and rip Thor’s throat out with his teeth and avenge himself on the one who should have helped Mother protect him, he can’t.
“Wait,” he says into the radio. “I want to see this.”
Even over the pounding of the rain, he swears he can hear a bow-string relax slightly. Not all the way. Clint would never relax completely while he is in the firing line.
And it’s true. He does want to see it. He’s tense and jittery and too close to losing himself to centuries-old rage and hurt, but he needs to control himself and watch. He’s not a pup anymore. He can control himself. He has to.
Thor reaches for the hammer, curls his fingers around its handle, and pulls. And pulls again. With each fruitless tug and strained grunt, he feels himself relax. He watches Thor pull and pull before finally giving up, staring at his hands in disbelief before casting his eyes to the sky above and screaming in anguish. It is he who is the abandoned child, now.
He realises that he is shaking. With relief, with a sudden lack of fear. He feels powerful and secure once more as his world rights itself. He feels vindicated.
Thor will be easy to hide from with his powers bound as they are.
He raises his radio to his lips, changes the settings to broadcast to everyone. “Alright, show’s over. Ground units move in.”
His uncle is on his knees in the mud, defeated and helpless, and he feels no pity.
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