Hello everyone, and welcome to "Gods of New York", my biggest project so far! Expect quite a few chapters, many characters, shifting perspectives, Edda references and eventual hints of romance.

Also, let me express my admiration for Marvel's one-shot "Item #47" and both Claire and Benny. And just to make clear - Claire is not an OC. She's been featured in that little gem. Which, I believe, makes her a justified (not to mention awesome) minor character in the verse.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing. Feel free to say what you think, critique it mercilessly or to send me a PM.

Chapter 1 - in which Claire discovers the ambiguity of working for S.H.I.E.L.D., a god drops by, and thin lines between diplomacy, threat and interrogation become blurred.

Once somebody enters your mind, there is no going back to who you were.

There is a void left behind; an empty space that makes you feel uneasy, like an intruder in your own head. On the other hand, there is no longing for the person who created it. Just hatred that burns white and hot, sharpens your senses and makes your fingers itch for that special arrow, awaiting the one who did this to you. Only sometimes the hollowness takes over, bringing shadows of threadbare thoughts and memories that don't belong to you.

Just like now. And it's enough to distract even you.

You almost slip from the roof of a skyscraper, clinging to its edge in the last possible moment. The battle beneath you is raging, and except for familiar flashes of red, gold, blue or green you can't tell what's exactly happening. Hanging over the avenue, you send a few arrows in the general direction of your enemies - though your hands are slightly shaky, to your annoyance - before crawling back and rushing off to the next building, alien images still lingering before your eyes.

Attacked, you fall just to bounce back and send your opponent to the chasm with one precise kick. It's almost ridiculous how your wits and self-control fail; nobody has managed to surprise you during combat in years. Someone is laughing straight to your ear.

'Tired, Legolas?'

Explaining all the shit in your head would take hours, and besides, you don't even want to do it. Therefore, you don't snap back, you run, just run, not even certain where - but you know towards whom, and it's all that matters.

After all, you've been awaiting this day since the blue cold from the sceptre poured into your heart.

Several months earlier

Since the infamous item #47 incident, New York had changed a lot for Claire Wise. She would wake up to the smell of fresh coffee and Benny's enthusiastic ramble on his new fascinating lab projects. She would stroll down the streets and eye people proudly from the heights of 5'8'' plus heels, happily pondering upon how they knew nothing of her secret job. She would be greeted by Agent Blake's weary sigh and would flash a wide grin in reply. And even if she would find paperwork on her desk, it would be S.H.I.E.L.D. paperwork. Awesome and important. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. had made her feel awesome and important as well.

This time, however, she found a person in her office instead of a heap of papers.

Well, maybe there were some papers, but her attention was immediately drawn to the lean man standing next to her desk. He was staring absently at the documents she'd left there. She stopped, one hand frozen halfway between the doorknob and her bag, not sure what to do. Kindly ask him to leave? Threaten? Call the security? Pull out the rather useless gun?

"Hey, you" clearly wasn't the best option, but once she said it aloud, it couldn't be undone.

The man almost jumped at the sound of her voice. Claire noticed that calling him a man was, in fact, a slight exaggeration: in spite of his rather impressive height, he couldn't be older than eighteen. He still had childlish features and a mere suggestion of a stubble over his chin. Only his hands looked much older, as if he was used to demanding physical work. If not the hands, he could be a celebrity. Or any Nazi's blue-eyed, fair-haired wet dream. Or a sportsman, bearing in mind how agile his movements were once he's overcome his bewilderment.

Only she knew that none of these relatively convenient explanations were true. Her senses tingled, just as when she and Benny have found the Chitauri weapon. Not to mention that he'd gotten here somehow, and he certainly didn't have the keys. Either someone had let him in or he didn't need any keys. Claire couldn't decide which sounded worse. She glanced nervously at the glass eye of CCTV, hanging in the corner. The guys from security department were really asking for cuts in their salaries.

'My apologies for entering your office without your knowledge of permission', the kid said in a surprisingly soft, soothing voice. 'However, the matter that brought me here is rather... urgent.'

'Sure, everyone says so.' She dropped her bag on the nearest chair, not averting her gaze from him. 'And then they drown you in bullshit.'

He raised his brows, the expression of genuine puzzlement back on his face.

'I'm sorry?'

'Whatever.' Claire shrugged. 'What is this urgent matter? And who the hell are you, by the way?'

'My apologies', he repeated anxiously. 'But you didn't let me introduce myself. I am Forseti, of Asgard, son of Baldur...'

'Whoa. Wait, wait, wait.' She waved her hands. The name "Asgard" rang a bell - more than one, actually. She'd heard it in the headquarters before - usually followed by a nervous twitch of some kind. Not that she believed anyone could seriously have a mythical realm in mind. To the contrary; she was pretty sure that they picked it as a codename, along with Thor. Of course, she's seen the videos from the battle of New York on YouTube, she's seen the big guy with his hammer, but if they could craft Captain America's shield, how would be forging a hammer different?

The kid watched as Claire tapped on her smartphone, scrolling through webpages and desperately working on her disbelief.

'Just checking if we're speaking about the same Baldur', she mumbled.

'The son of Odin', Forseti suggested kindly.

'Yeah, figured that.' The agent finally put her device aside. 'So I guess it makes Thor your uncle and the Allfather your grandpa, doesn't it?'

If he looked bewildered before, she had no words for his expression now.

'I suppose one could say so', he replied at last.

Claire sighed. If he was an alien spy or an assassin sent after her, he was either so hopelessly terrible that she needn't worry or so good and convincing that her judgment just wouldn't matter.

'Let's assume I believe you', she began, though the result of battle between reason and intuition remained uneven. 'So what's with this matter urgent enough to make you forget about your manners?'

'I don't think you're the one to whom I shall deliver my message', he said in a firm voice.

'I'm just an assistant, after all', Claire replied bitterly after her dreams of doing something really, really awesome and important finally dissolved. 'Why would anyone give a damn about me.'

'You could be given the important task to inform your director about my presence', he told her with ever so slightly wry smile. Maybe there was a sharp edge to his sense of humor, after all.

'How funny', she muttered. 'Gimme a minute. It's not that I can call the director whenever I want, but I'll see what I could do.' She put on her earphone and dialed Blake's number.

'Agent Blake? It's your favorite coffee girl.' She grinned at the muffled grumble that Blake uttered. Forseti watched her quietly, furrowing his brows. 'I report that we've got, um, a self-proclaimed god on board. He doesn't look very godly to me - ', as Claire turned her head to the kid, their gazes met for a while of uncomfortable, awkward silence, ' - but I thought you'd like to know anyway.'

'Hold on, Wise.' Even more muffled grumbling followed, accompanied by frantic tapping and commands shouted at someone else, definitely not her. 'The case has been assigned to Agent Romanoff.' Blake made a pause for what sounded to be an attempt to smash his keyboard to pieces. 'Escort the... god to room 301. The security has been informed.'

'But...' Words stuck in her throat, none of them appropriate or polite. Questioning orders was out of question, as Blake told her at her first day of work, completely oblivious to the weak pun he'd created, but the feeling of an important issue slipping out of her hands was bitter nonetheless. She tried to swallow the disappointment. Without much success.

'No "buts", Wise', her mentor cut it off before she even began to complain. 'Just do it. And...', he breathed in sharply, 'we'll be keeping our eyes on you, but you'd better keep an eye on him.'

'Yes, sir', Claire nodded, fighting off the sensation of having a handful of ice cubes dropped right in her stomach. In spite of a rather bad fame she'd already earned, she could recognize a serious, honest warning.

She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples as the line went silent.

'We'll be going, kid.'

Forseti stood up.

'Where?', he asked anxiously, smoothening the sleeves of his jacket.

'Not very far from here, only upstairs.' She waved her hand towards the ceiling. 'Seems they've found you a better babysitter.'

As far as she could tell by the look on his face, he also was a bit disappointed.

'I believe I could have grown fond of you', he said quietly.

Claire blinked.

'Er. Well. Thanks.' She clasped her hands together. 'Who knows, maybe we'll meet sometime? How long are you going to hang around?'

'I only wish I knew.' His lips curled in a nervous smile.

'Maybe you'll find out', she muttered, leading him to the corridor.

He complied, stopping only to look more closely at what Claire considered mundane office facilities, such as water dispensers or elevators. But then, maybe gods didn't have any of those.

She found it hard not to think about him as of a harmless teenager; he seemed so vulnerable, so naive, so lost. Even though his movements were unbelievably swift and precise, Claire couldn't imagine the so-called god in a frenzy of battle or whatever it was that Norse deities did. Her imagination offered her a picture of the kid on a Vogue cover instead.

Agent Romanoff was already waiting for them, calm and unmoved. As if she dealt with gods on a daily basis. Claire felt almost grateful for this, gladly passing the burden of control over the situation to someone who seemed to manage it with ease and grace. She walked to the woman and stretched out her hand.

'I'm Agent Claire Wise. Pleased to meet you.'

Natasha's expression remained the same, invariably unaffected, as if she didn't wonder how did this surname correspond to a girl whose use of item #47 was a display of unmatchable stupidity.

'Pleased to meet you, too', she replied in an indifferent tone, not shaking her hand, and turned to Claire's companion.

Natasha had met only two Asgardians, but it was enough for her to recognize a pattern that she could also see in this kid. He had equally regular features and bright, glowing eyes that immediately made her think of Thor. There was also this familiar air, the sensation she couldn't put her finger on - yet she knew that it surrounded Loki as well, even if twisted and corrupted - the air of royalty, as if every one of them held a firm grip over this world. That was what made other people bend their heads and kneel; an overwhelming impression. Not looks. Not physical power or magic. Only this.

And the kid possessed it, too.

'Introduce yourself', Romanoff demanded.

The godling bowed his head courtly.

'I am Forseti, son of Baldur, and I am merely a messenger.' He smiled politely; surprisingly enough, the smile reached his eyes. 'My duty is to become a... diplomat, as you would call it. I shall speak on behalf of Asgard.'

Behind his back, Claire made a silent mock of "we come in peace".

In spite of Forseti's flawless manners and kind voice, Natasha felt the familiar grasp of alertness.

'As far as I know, we have formed an alliance with Asgard. And though Thor has left the Earth, we considered this alliance rather stable', she said, watching him cautiously.

'We certainly hope so', Forseti replied. 'However, the recent occurrences have darkened its future.'

Black Widow leaned towards the godling, her acute senses fixed on him.

'Can you explain?'

'We are afraid that somebody on Midgard might have given shelter to a fugitive of Asgardian origin.' He chose his words carefully; each of them was smooth, free of any additional meaning or space for second-guessing. Natasha's gut feeling almost screamed out.

'Agent Wise', she said suddenly, holding back a smirk at the ridicule, 'you can go back to your assignments now.'

For the second time this day, a strain of complaints and curses stuck in Claire's throat. However, if with Blake she could try convincing him with her babbling, with Agent Romanoff she probably wouldn't stand a chance. She didn't dare to try.

'Yes, ma'am', she said, even if a bit too loud, and left the room, resisting the urge to slam the door.

Natasha crossed her arms, careful not to make any assumptions. Even those that were intuitive. Or just obvious.

'A fugitive', she repeated after him, emphasizing the last word. 'How do you know this fugitive is hiding here?'

Forseti gave another immensely polite smile.

'I suppose you already know his ways, Lady Romanoff. His pride wouldn't let him just disappear without a trace. Loki Laufeyson had escaped his prison and made sure none of us missed it.'