i have to get off this planet

As one of the new lead Foreign Affairs Specialists, your past few weeks have been spent on planes, trains, and everything in between, making sure that Stark Industries’ name hasn’t been smeared across the globe just because of what happened in New York.

For the most part, it’s still fairly respected—but countries are scared. New threats are looming, threats even the most structured governments haven’t the slightest idea how to handle, and they are turning to a once-secret organization and a group of six or seven individuals to protect them all.

You have one ex-villainous fake boyfriend—and a titan—to thank for that.

It’s a fat, fat report by the time your team makes it back to home base.

Jet lag doesn’t make compiling a presentation-worthy data report any easier of a task than it already is, and by your fourth night in front of the computer watching the clock tick past midnight, you’re craving those three hours of sleep you’ll get worse than ever.

One more day until you have to present this to the execs, and you’ve only covered seven of the eleven countries needed.

That damn cursor just keeps blinking at you, a tiny little middle finger from the words you haven’t written.

You flip it off, too, for good measure, then save and shut it down for the night. Morning. Whatever time it is. The conference isn’t until two in the afternoon tomorrow, so you can finish it at work.

A foggy shower does you in for the day—you almost fall asleep against the tile, only to realize upon getting out that you left your pjs in your suitcase.

Figures.

They’re fairly clean, so you pull them on and scoop your dirty clothes off the bathroom floor. Laundry. Add laundry to the to-do list.

Loki’s knife falls out of the pocket of your pants, clattering onto the tile and narrowly missing your toes.

“Damn it,” you hiss, picking it up and tossing it on your nightstand on the way to the hamper (or the general hamper-corner-area). You’d forgotten it was in your pocket.

You had kept the knife in your pocket during your travels, just for a tiny bit of security while navigating new places and taxi rides and nighttime walks back to hotels. It’s on the small side, as far as knives go, but you’ve grown pretty fond of it.

You have no desire to ever actually use it, but feeling it against your thigh felt safer than your keys between your knuckles ever did.

Its weight in your pocket, or the cold handle in your fist under a foreign pillow, gives you a surprising sense of security—considering its former owner.

You fall asleep soon after your head hits your pillow, watching the fading moonlight glint off the silver blade.

—

“Consensus showed that 89 percent of international organizations have no intention of cutting ties with Stark Industries.” You swipe a hand to bring up the last slide. “However, 95 percent of those organizations are requesting personal call buttons and 24 hour service from the Avengers. And that...is a call for Tony to make.”

There’s a smattering of light applause around the conference room, and you smile politely as you close out your presentation.

All things considered, it wasn’t terrible. Maybe a little too casual for the amount of investors and executives you were speaking to, but oh well.

Tony claps you on the back as people start to trickle out of the room, grimacing when you try to hand him your folder of research.

“No, thank you...Happy, have a binder.”

The unhappy Happy lurking in the corner takes it from you, sparing Tony the horror.

“I’m serious about the call button,” you tell Tony, shoving the rest of your notes in your bag. “Government officials are spooked. Most, weirdly enough, didn’t already have plans for alien invasions.”

“Most don’t have clean renewable energy for their entire country, either.” He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Ahead of the times.”

“Watch that industrialist attitude, Stank.”

“Right. My bad.” He smacks himself in the forehead and you grin.

Good to be back.

“Listen,” he continues, “I know you’re jet lagged, but you delivered a killer presentation today and I need a drink just after hearing it. We’re all going out tonight, nothing crazy, just...a night off. You should come. We’ll talk logistics on that call button.”

Never thought you’d get to the point of being invited to the Avengers nights out, but after all that...Loki stuff a couple months ago, and all the time they’d spent grilling you about him, the team has been trying to reach out.

Call it sympathy, guilt. You need it, after kissing an intergalactic criminal.

But not tonight.

“That’s really nice of you all.” You offer him a small smile and shoulder your bag. “But I’m pretty busy tonight, maybe a rain check?”

Tony nods and holds the door for you—Happy trails close behind, after trying to take the door from Tony with little success.

“No worries, no worries. Just take a break every once in a while, alright?”

“You got it.”

You trudge back to your office, up the elevator, down a million hallways, and finally dump your bag on your desk, flopping into your chair.

Letting out a giant sigh, you rub your eyes and pull out your phone. The sun is nearly set, leaving just the tiniest sliver of rose gold light bouncing off the gleam of your screen as you type.

What do you want for tonight?

Nothing for a moment, then:

Something new.

That’s unhelpful.

You haven’t tried sushi together yet. That’ll work for tonight. Rubbing your eyes, you search for the nearest place with decent sushi, give them a call, and place your order.

Twenty minutes later, your hands are too full of food to open the door to room 203, so you resort to kicking it.

You’d just dropped your forehead against it with a groan when it opens, and Loki laughs.

“You look worse than I do.”

“Bullshit.”

“Definitely.”

You give him a halfhearted glare, shoving the bags into his one unslung arm. “Here. Something new.”

He peeks inside, his nose wrinkling. “Smells quite the opposite, actually.”

“Don’t cast your judgement until you’ve tried it,” you chide, rubbing at the back of your neck as he scrutinizes the food. “Are we just gonna sniff it all night, or...?”

Loki blanches and steps back, opening the door for you. “Come in, come in.”

You follow him inside with a small smile, shutting the door behind you.

“I can’t wait to see how you get along with chopsticks.”

—

“So. Five years, huh?”

Perched criss-cross on the beige hospital room sofa across from his bed, you stuff a slice of crunchy roll in your mouth.

Loki’s jaw tightens, and he doesn’t look up from the roll he’s been dissecting with his chopsticks.

“Barely a blink, in my lifetime,” he says, taking a hesitant bite of seaweed. You heave a sigh and hold up your chopsticks.

“You’re completely ruining the sushi,” you chide, picking up another slice. “Eat the whole thing, all at once. It all goes together, I promise it tastes good.”

He scowls—his mood is rather poor tonight, though you’re not sure if something happened, or he just really doesn’t like the sushi.

He stuffs it in his mouth, glaring tiredly at you the entire time he chews and swallows it.

“Better, right?”

He just grabs another piece and shoves that one in his mouth, too.

You take an anxious bite of your own dinner, suddenly aware of the space between you—the sudden coldness in the room, the quiet reminder that this man is a god, and you’re criticizing how he eats with chopsticks. “How—uh, how was your day?”

“Fine,” is all he says.

You stare at your food, chopsticks limp in your hand. These dinners are still fairly new, becoming routine only since Thor spoke to you after you’d returned from your trip. Your company is helping, Thor had said. He’s getting better.

You’re trying to be optimistic, but you’re not seeing the improvement.

“Do you want me to go?”

Loki blinks up at you, his mouth full.

You don’t know which answer you’d prefer, to be completely honest.

He shrugs, then goes back to eating.

You set your chopsticks down with a quiet, disbelieving laugh. Why you keep expecting manners from him, you’ll never know.

You pack up your box of sushi and crumple your napkin in your hand, and right as you move to stand, Loki speaks.

“How was your trip?”

He’s glaring daggers at his dinner, his fist tight around his chopsticks, and you have to laugh.

“That was painful.”

He scowls. “I’m not exactly known for my charisma.”

Before Thanos, you can’t help but think, he probably was.