I...have nothing to say.
I've been reading too much Avengers fanfic lately. Like, an unwise amount.
And this happened.
I'm so, SO sorry.
No, this isn't a sequel to "Some persuasion", but...in my head it kind of is anyway. Same sort of Frank in a way.
(never mind about timelines sssh)
So it's been a good while since Loki and the Chitauri tried (and failed) to make a charming barbeque out of New York. And although it would certainly seem that the sensible course of action would have been to lock Loki up in Asgard (snake venom, stitched lips, trees and everything) and never, ever let him out again, it also seems that Allfather Odin has thrown the concept of sensible actions out of the window in an act of defenestration more heinous than the one performed by Loki himself.
Because he's opted instead for banishing his ill-behaved adopted moppet to the tender care of Midgard, there to be taught a valuable lesson through the medium of community service (oh god, why). The whys and wherefores of this decision are really not worth repeating here, as they are well-documented in this, Midgard's very own Third Archive, by a huge number of different historians. And despite the numerous discrepancies between the accounts (are Tony and Loki actually an item or what? Or is it Bucky and Steve?) the main facts are clear. Loki is on Earth for good, in both senses of the word, because he is at least a semi-reformed character. This is mostly attributed to his apparent friendship/partnership/relationship with the Avengers, particularly Tony Stark. Not all of the Avengers are completely happy about this, but really, you can't please everyone, and (as Tony points out with annoying regularity) Loki is helping. Okay, he may sometimes be helping make things worse before they get better, but they do get better and that's the important thing, right guys?
Right.
To Central Park, then, where Iron Man is currently zeroing in on what JARVIS assures him is a non-human threat, and Loki is preparing to teleport to the same location, though he's stopping to pick up a bag of popcorn first - these Midgardians aren't all bad after all, the snack food is astounding - before joining the show.
"Gimmie some music, Jarv," Tony says, coming down to land gracefully (for a change) among some decidedly non-panicky-looking civilians. "Wait. Scratch that. I thought you said 'threat'? These people don't look threatened. Relaxed. Chilled. Possibly kinda high. Yeah, that guy there, you know who I'm talking about. I was expecting more, y'know, running and screaming. What's the deal here?"
"Target is definitely of non-human origin, sir," says JARVIS, "directly ahead at a distance of about one hundred yards. Confirmed at least four separate civilian casualties -"
"Are you getting approximate in your old age?"
"It is harder to accurately judge a number of bodies when the cause of death is total dismemberment by axe blows."
"Point." Tony watches possibly-kinda-high guy trail off in the direction the HUD indicates the target lies, then blinks. "Woah, back up. An axe? You getting this, Reindeer Games? Maybe we should get your brother down here. You know, with his fanboy-level knowledge of ren-fayre weaponry."
"If you want to go whining to Thor about how you can't handle one axe-murderer," says Loki over the speakers, "be my guest."
"Low blow."
Tony walks forward, through the trees. And yeah, okay, there are bodies. Bits of bodies. Body mush. And blood. Everywhere. But there's still no running or screaming or widespread panic, which is getting past weird, considering those happy-looking ladies just strolled right through a big puddle of arterial spray in their four-thousand-dollar Jimmy Choos. Tony follows them, joining a general Brownian motion of humanity towards the blinking red target area on the HUD.
"You know, I'd be insulted by the lack of interest in Iron Man if there wasn't a super weird lack of interest in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, here."
"Indeed, sir."
There's a smallish crowd of people - typical lunchtime park folk, joggers and power suits, drop-out kids and dog-walkers - gathering around a slender, black-haired person who manages to stick out of the group like a sore thumb at a manicure convention. Seriously. Somebody's wardrobe only contains gift boxes from Victoria's Secret.
"Nice ass," says Tony, approvingly, and hears Loki scoff over the comm. The figure twists slightly, revealing a smooth length of blood-stained, tattooed thigh above the fishnet stockings - and the long red haft of a fire axe swinging from one gloved hand. Okay. Alien with weapon. Game on. "Hey, lady. Drop the axe and step away from those people."
The figure turns fully and smirks at him. Tony doesn't miss a beat. He is, after all, Tony Stark, international playboy and this is, after all, New York. These facts in conjunction lead to pretty much invulnerable unflappability. Hey, that should totally be a super power, because Tony would be all over that.
"OK," he says. "Sir. Xhir. Attack helicopter. Whatever. Hey you. Drop the axe."
"Oh dear," drawls Loki's voice. He's obviously now arrived and is close enough to get an eyeful of their latest invader.
"Oh dear? What 'oh dear'? I don't like that British 'oh dear' thing." Especially not delivered in that double-entendred tone of voice that is half genuine oh-shit and half oh-this-is-going-to-be-hilarious, he doesn't add.
"It's Frank," is the only explanation Loki offers, still with that goddamned half-smirk in his voice, and really, Tony is going to have to insist on an upskilling in team communication skills because that isn't helpful at all.
"Frank? Are you kidding me? Huh. I wouldn't have pegged him as a Frank. Maybe a Sharon. Or a Tarquin. Do I want to know why you know this guy? What am I saying. Of course you know this guy. He looks like a hooker you'd hire for a Bar Mitzvah just to see the reaction."
"Well, you know," says Loki, and Tony could kill him because here he is standing manfully in the blood of the slain and all he can hear in his earpiece is crunching as Loki gets stuck into the popcorn (really, what is it with these Asgardians and food with "pop" in the name?) "us alien princes have to stick together."
Tony groans. Because prince means intergalactic politics and intergalactic politics means S.H.I.E.L.D. and S.H.I.E.L.D means Fury. He's about to sass Loki about the fact that there's going to be serious competition for the nickname "Princess" from now on, when Fury himself cuts in over the radio.
"Stark -"
"Don't you ever knock?" Tony interrupts. "I could have been watching porn in here. Hey, actually, haha, funny thing, given the current view I'm not sure I'm not watching some weird kind of slasher porn right -"
"Stark," growls Fury, and he obviously still hasn't got around to that sense of humour transplant that Tony would totally invent for him, "shut up and get that sparkly motherfucker off my streets. Right now."
"I don't know. We could do with a little sparkle in Midtown."
"He's an alien who has murdered innocent citizens," says Fury, laying stress on the word 'innocent' as if it has deeply and personally offended him. Tony would give good money to hear him say 'kawaii'. "I want him up here before this situation escalates."
"Really? You want Priscilla, Queen of the Desert on your flying cruise ship? Because I gotta tell you, I'm not funding the installation of a Kitty Cat Lounge -"
"STARK!"
" - or a Liberace piano." Tony's foot nudges a dismembered arm as he shifts his weight, and he sobers, face hardening. "Okay. Okay. Loki, give me everything you've got."
"Frank N Furter is the crown prince of the planet Transsexual, in the galaxy of Transylvania," says Loki, "and he - I can hear your truly heroic efforts not to snigger, Stark, and for once I suggest you curb yourself for your own safety - and he is well known for being both irresistibly charismatic and insane."
"Terrific."
"And quite alarmingly promiscuous."
"Really."
"Don't even think about it," adds Loki, smoothly. "I doubt you'd survive."
Tony stops breathing for a fraction of a second, because woah.
"Son of a bitch. You slept with him, didn't you?"
"I really couldn't say," purrs Loki, archly, and Tony really wishes he could see his face right now.
"Okay then," he says, "I'll ask him. Hey, Frank!" And he pops the visor, ignoring the chorus of shouts from Loki and Fury that are making the inside of the helmet practically vibrate with their vehemence. "Is it true that you've tapped Loki of Asgard? Cos I have a couple of questions -"
The alien's heavily kohled, feline eyes fix him with an intent, lascivious stare. He's surrounded by people, people gathered at his feet, people touching him almost reverently, and god, Loki must be having massive super villain envy, right now, Frank's got humanity kneeling at his platform heels. Those people are stroking him, and he's covered in blood…
"Stark," Loki hisses, somehow managing to make his voice heard even over the escalating volume of an enraged Fury, "Replace your helmet if you value your free will."
Tony should be preparing a suitable retort. A real zinger. Referring Loki back to…you know, that thing he did with the glowstick and the arc reactor and…wasn't there some kind of erectile dysfunction joke? Had that been him? Oh well, it was hardly important, Frank was here now, and really, he ought to be getting along over there. He's not sure why his feet are taking a small step forward, except that wouldn't it be great to get a closer look? And a touch. Yeah, definitely get his hands on the guy.
"Tony!" snaps Loki, and for once the shock value of hearing his first name in that voice jolts Stark into paying more attention. "Close your visor! JARVIS, close the visor!"
There is a gentle click as the faceplate re-engages. Tony takes a long breath, like a man coming up from drowning. The air seems sharper in here, a tang of artificiality. What the actual fuck.
"What the hell was that?" he manages. It's quiet in here again. Even Fury seems to have shut up, thank Christ. "Magic?"
"Pheromones," sighs Loki, and hell no Tony had better not hear an edge of wistfulness in that voice. "Your beloved science. Biology, not magic."