A/N: All right, guys, I'm gonna give it to you straight. This is a story idea that came to me in the middle of the night, after a long "what if?" discussion with a friend about Thor, Loki, and the Avengers. The plot—there is an actual plot involved!—takes place after the end of The Avengers movie. I am no expert on Norse mythology or the Marvel universe (I'm mostly going by the movies here), but I will try to do my research and stay as faithful as I can!

It could have been a lot worse, Clara realized as she picked her way around debris and overturned vehicles. Now and again her stomach seized up when she saw another body—a civilian, a cop, or once in a while even one of those hideous, horrible alien creatures. Only a few hours after the attack, and Manhattan was eerily still—or this particular street, at least. In the distance, she could hear sirens and shouts as fire fighters and paramedics tried to reach people, to help, to make sense of the mess.

She stopped to take another series of photos of the wreckage—storefronts ripped clean away, walls blackened by explosives, huge fragments of fallen statues. Everyone had seen it happen—it had been on the television, on Twitter, the radio, before their very eyes. But it was an alien attack. There was no making sense of that.

Grasping her camera like a holy relic, she kept walking, slowly, taking it all in. She stopped to shoot photos so frequently that it had taken her an hour to walk a quarter-mile. The enormity of what happened, and the relief that the danger seemed, at least, to be over, nearly overwhelmed her. That this city, her home for seven years, should be so broken…it was almost too much to think about.

She paused to pick a shard of glass out of her boot, wondering if she should wrap up her little photo excursion and go home. She had enough shots by now, surely.

A scraping sound interrupted her thoughts. She looked up to see the first sign of life on that block in the past hour. Across the street, a dark-haired, middle-aged man in a large apron was sweeping in front of what must have once been a store. Clara smiled at the beautiful absurdity of the sight—a defiant grasp for normalcy after such chaos and destruction. She lifted her camera and zoomed in to take a few candid photos of the man from where she stood, then she made her way across the rubble toward him. Over the odor of smoke and sewage she caught the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread, and her stomach growled in response.

She paused to dig into her pockets, but realized in her haste to leave her apartment she had brought her photography equipment and her Metro card, but forgot to throw her wallet into her camera bag. She didn't even have her phone with her. Clara sighed. She'd have to wait for a snack until she was back in her apartment. Too bad—whatever it was, it smelled delicious.

The man had seen her approach, then stop, then come forward again. Despite his suspicious expression, she smiled, holding her camera protectively in one hand and keeping her bag close against her with the other as she walked. He stopped sweeping to watch her. Avoiding his gaze, she glanced over the building. One side was a convenience store that looked like it had never even opened that day, and on the other side was a barber shop. Both were empty Above the open space where the man was sweeping, she saw a painted sign advertising "The best shawarma in New York City." Now she was even more disappointed about forgetting her wallet.

"Hi," Clara said to the man when she finally stood in front of him. "Are you still open for business?"

"No, we're closed," he said in a thick accent that might have been Turkish. "A lot of damage. Broken glass everywhere."

"I know," she said. "Well, whatever's going on in there, it smells fantastic. Would you mind if I got some pictures? There's this—"

"No pictures!" the man said. "Leave them in peace, let them rest. They don't want to be bothered." He lifted his broom slightly as though he intended to brush her away with the rest of the dirt and shrapnel.

Clara stared at him, confused. "Who's they?" she asked.

"Go on, don't bother them!"

Certain that the man might be a little insane, she stepped away carefully to continue down the sidewalk. She never made it past the open storefront, however. Glancing inside the shawarma restaurant, her eyes barely took in the crooked pictures, broken furniture, and floor scattered with rubble. In the middle of the room, several tables had been pushed together, and sitting around it, eating in comradely silence, were New York's heroes.

The sight was so incredible that all she could do was stop and gape, forgetting the crazy man with the broom, forgetting the horrors that the city had just witnessed. The group—the Avengers, hadn't they called them?—responsible for saving New York, and planet Earth in general, from certain doom was sitting there, in this nearly destroyed little restaurant, like it was no big deal.

"Oh, holy hell," Clara finally whispered.

"I told you to get out!" the man said, stomping angrily toward her. He smacked her boots and poked at her jean-clad legs with his broom. "Leave them alone."

"Leave me alone!" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some of the Avengers turn their heads to watch. She stepped back from the man, but did not run away. "What is your problem?"

"Hey, whoa, Deniz, it's okay."

Clara turned to see one of them get up from his seat and approach the broom-wielding man with his hands held out as if to placate him. Her eyes, already wide open at the sight of the Avengers, got even wider when she recognized him as Tony Stark—and Iron Man. Deniz looked at him and nodded before going back to his sweeping, occasionally throwing some dirty looks in Clara's direction.

"Thanks," Clara said. "I just…had to get a look."

"Well, I'm used to it," Stark said with a nonchalant shrug. He looked down and pointed at her camera. "Cool toy." He smiled, but became serious again and looked directly into her face. "So who are you with?"

"I'm sorry?"

"CNN, Fox News, Huffington Post?"

"Oh, well, actually—"

"ESPN? The Daily Show?"

She had to laugh at that one. "Actually, I'm just…here for myself. I mean, my blog."

He groaned as he turned his back to her. "Bloggers," he mumbled. "The worst."

"Hey, I happen to—"

"Save it, sister," Stark said, sauntering to the table and sitting back down in his chair. Clara finally began to feel embarrassed at having this exchange in front of the others. So much for making a good impression in front of celebrities—and these celebrities, besides.

She stood there in front of them, feeling completely idiotic but also unable to move. Stark went back to eating his shawarma as though nothing had happened. Beside him sat an enormous man with long blonde hair, wearing strange silver armor and a red cape, of all things. Thor, hadn't someone called him on the news? He had been munching on his shawarma with enthusiasm, but after Stark stopped to intervene with "the press," he watched her with as much suspicion as the man with the broom.

Next to him was another blonde man, almost as massive, wearing a patriotic costume that told her well enough that he had to be Captain America. The costume would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but for all that they had done for the city, she figured they could wear whatever they pleased. It helped that he was looking at her with a little more sympathy before he returned to his own meal. Next to him sat a redheaded woman in a black leather bodysuit, and beside her sat a man with short brown hair, also in a uniform made predominantly of black leather. Both of them had their backs to Clara and ignored her completely.

The curly-haired man on Stark's other side leaned toward him and mumbled something. Stark sighed and wiped his mouth with a napkin before responding.

"Look, Banner, if you want to give her a personal interview, that's your business, but all I want right now is to sit and eat my meal. It's a damn shame this place doesn't serve alcohol."

"I don't need to interview everyone," Clara finally said. "I just want some pictures. I mean, some quotes would be good too. Mr. Stark, I don't know why you hate bloggers, but I can promise you that everything I say will be purely complimentary. I've got readers out in the Midwest and California and across the world that would love an up-close look at what happened today and who pretty much saved the planet." She grinned and added, "And I swear, I'll only shoot you from your best angle."

It seemed to placate him. He smiled a little and tilted his chin several different ways, as though practicing for a photo shoot. She tried not to laugh; some people got so ridiculous when they were put in front of a camera.

"Have you figured out which is my best angle yet?" he asked her.

"Well, I was thinking—"

"Trick question, they're all my best angle."

"Right."

The black-clad pair stood up from the table. The red-haired woman nodded at Clara, but turned to the others and said in a low, even voice, "We'll have to take a pass on that and get back to Fury instead."

"You sure, Agent Romanoff?" Stark asked. "Might be fun. Agent Barton? You might have a good angle in there somewhere."

"I don't think Fury would be happy if S.H.I.E.L.D. agents encourage any more publicity," Agent Romanoff said. She looked at the silent Agent Barton standing beside her, and he nodded. They turned and walked out of the restaurant, glass and broken plaster crunching under their feet. Before they disappeared around the corner, Barton looked over his shoulder at the table.

"Enjoy your GlamorShots," he said.

Clara turned back to the other men sitting around the table. "Look, if it's really that much of a problem, maybe we can work something else out."

"Too late now," Stark said. "You promised good coverage. You're committed."

"Great." She sat down in the chair that Agent Barton had recently abandoned and gave a smile to the dark-haired man sitting next to Stark. He smiled back, somewhat timidly, and watched her as she set her camera on the table, then dug around in her bag until she found a discarded pen and an old theater program. It would have to do for taking notes.

"I'll let you finish eating before I start taking pictures," Clara said. "But for now…talk to me, guys. What happened today? Well, first, I better be clear about who you all are." Using her pen to point, she said, "Captain America, also known as…Steve Rogers? Correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, beginning to grin and seeming surprised that a civilian knew who he was.

Clara turned to the man on her other side. She could not remember seeing him on the news coverage of the alien attack, but he must have been involved somehow. "I didn't catch your name?"

"Dr. Bruce Banner," he said reluctantly.

Clara gasped when she recognized the name. "Oh my…well, yes, of course you are. I didn't think…" She laughed nervously. "You looked different on the news."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I try to let the…other guy fight those kinds of battles."

Finally Clara got up the nerve to focus on the man sitting across the table from her. She had been avoiding looking directly at him, although she knew he had been watching her since she started talking to Stark. It was intimidating, to say the least. He was obviously a powerful warrior with a fearsome presence, despite the somewhat anachronistic uniform. He probably could crush her skull between his hands as easily as she crumpled a napkin.

Even so, up close, the face beneath the blonde hair—currently tangled and streaked with the dirt, sweat, and blood of battle—and his thin blonde beard was quite a thing of beauty. She thought of the Norse gods she studied in an "Art and Mythology" class, and how intrigued she had been. Unlike the words and images in a textbook, however, this man was very, very real. So real, in fact, that Clara could see weariness and pain in his very blue eyes.

Her throat seemed to be dry. She swallowed and managed to say, "I think I heard someone call you Thor. Is that correct?"

"I am Thor Odinson of Asgard," he said, his voice booming even at a normal volume.

It took her a moment to think of a response, and even when she did, she came up with nothing better than, "Okay then." She cleared her throat. "And where is that, exactly?"

"Hey, what about me?" Stark said, shattering the spell that Clara seemed to be under. She looked at him with raised eyebrows. He was leaning back in his chair, hands spread out, apparently baffled that she could be paying attention to anyone else. The man's reputation as a diva was definitely deserved.

"Oh, I know all about you, Mr. Stark," Clara said. "You and your father were legendary where I grew up."

"Where was that?" he asked. Before she answered, she seemed to see awareness flash across his face. He leaned forward, squinting at her. Clara grew nervous; had he figured it out already? Of course she couldn't expect to conceal it, not with a group of superheroes, but she had hoped to avoid the subject if at all possible.

"What's your name, anyway?" he asked. "And who are you working for?"

"My name is Clara McKenna," she said. "And I told you, I'm working for myself."

Stark cocked his head. "You're Senator McKenna's daughter." He sat back in his chair, still looking at her. "I'd recognize that chin anywhere. You've got his nose, too. How is the old man?"

"Good, I guess. I haven't spoken to him in about…two years. Now, getting back to today—"

"Really? Two years? Something happen between him and the little princess? I'm guessing a falling out over Daddy's politics. You here to find out if I'm worthy of the support he's given to Stark Industries all these years?"

"No, I already thought you were," she said. "It's just not relevant right now. I just want to talk to the heroes of the hour and get some photos. I'm not here to talk about my father. If you want to know how he's doing, ring up his office in D.C. He'd probably love to hear from you."

"A government family," Stark said. "Is that how you knew who Rogers was? And recognized Banner's name?"

"Well, they weren't exactly secrets, were they?" Clara asked. "But yes, it was kind of hard to avoid hearing about stuff like that." She looked at Thor again, then realized it was a bad idea. It was almost painful, just how gorgeous he was. She found herself desperately wishing she could see him smile.

"I can't say I've ever heard of this gentleman before, though," she added. This gentleman? she thought to herself. The hell is this, a Jane Austen story?

"S.H.I.E.L.D. was more careful about concealing my previous visit to Earth," Thor said. "I fear it cannot be so avoided this time."

"Visit to Earth?" Clara repeated. "So you…don't live on this planet?"

"Midgard is under my protection, but Asgard is my home. I will be returning there soon."

"I see," Clara said. She couldn't help feeling a little disappointed to know that he was not going to be around for much longer. "Well, if you don't mind, I'd love to talk to you a little bit before you go, about Asgard and everything. I was going to post photos about what happened here today, maybe a little bit about who the Avengers are. But any extra material would be great…again, if you don't mind."

"Again, chopped liver over here," Stark said, waving a hand in her direction.

In response, Clara lifted her camera and snapped one photo of him. She looked at the LCD panel and grinned; contrary to his insistence that he had no bad angles, candid photos were not particularly kind to Tony Stark. She leaned toward Dr. Banner and tilted the camera toward him. He looked at Stark's wide-open eyes and the strange effect of a temporary double chin and laughed.

"That one's good enough, you think?" Clara asked.

"It's perfect," he said. "His best look yet."

"Smile," Clara said, lifting her camera again, but this time placing Dr. Banner in the viewfinder. She took better care with this one, pausing long enough to let Dr. Banner prepare. She didn't want to piss him off with a bad photo and prompt the "other guy" to come out. Fortunately, it was a flattering picture—she did not have to worry.

Chuckling over Stark's photo helped everyone relax, especially when Clara promised him a do-over. She took paired photos, individual photos, and group photos—even a few shots with the restaurant staff. Even Stark forgave her for the first bad picture, and offered to take one of her with the others. Her desire for a picture with Thor was even greater than her fear of letting another pair of hands touch her camera. But Stark was a technological genius—it was probably better off in his hands than anyone else's, even Clara's.

The only one who did not seem able to relax and have fun with the impromptu shoot was Thor, and it bothered her more than she knew it should. Finally, as she was showing Rogers how she used her camera—without letting him lay a finger on it—Thor stepped forward, speaking louder than he had been doing so far.

"Enough of this," he said. "We have work to do now. The Tesseract must be contained, and I must prepare my return to Asgard."

Despite his interest in Clara's explanations of her camera, Steve Rogers practically snapped to attention when Thor spoke, prepared to carry out the necessary duties. She clutched her camera to her chest, wishing she could think of something to say to keep the fun from ending.

"Banner and I'll go back to Stark Tower and make sure Selvig has what he needs," Stark said. "Meet us at Central Park with the war criminal when you're ready to go. What about you, Uncle Sam," he asked Rogers, "how about I get you a less spangly outfit?"

"A regular pair of pants would be nice," Rogers said. He turned back to Clara. "It was nice meeting you, ma'am. I hope I get to see those pictures sometime."

"Hold up," Clara said, digging into her bag once again. Yes! There were still some business cards left. She handed one to Rogers. "Here's my card. It's got my website on it, so you can read my blog and see the photos as soon as they're posted. If they don't need too much Photoshop, I should get some up later today or tomorrow."

Rogers took the card politely, but his smile was blank. Clara wondered if he understood a single word that had just come out of her mouth. How sad, she thought, to come from an age without blogs and Photoshop.

"I'll explain it on the way back," Stark said, clapping the Captain on the back. He shook Clara's hand. "Good times, McKenna. Tell your dad hi for me, if you ever speak to him again."

"Thanks for the laughs," Dr. Banner said, also shaking her hand before leaving with Rogers and Stark. "But if you decide not to use any of my photos, that's okay by me."

The three men disappeared around the corner as Agents Romanoff and Barton had done, leaving Clara standing in the middle of the restaurant with Thor while a couple of waiters were busy making an attempt to clean up.

"So," Clara said to Thor, "you're leaving today?"

"Yes."

"You've had quite an eventful visit."

He sighed, looking even more exhausted than before. Despite his insistence that they get going, Thor did not look like he was in much of a hurry. Clara felt sorry for him, even if she did not know quite what was going on. Obviously he was fatigued from the battle earlier that day, but there seemed to be something else on his mind.

"In truth, I dread our return to Asgard. I know that my brother must face justice, but it will not be an easy sight."

"I know how that feels," Clara said. "My sister got a DUI once, and my parents flipped. I think they were more worried about the bad press, though. Senator's daughter and all." She saw the confusion on his face, and realized that she must have been speaking nearly a foreign language to him. Between Thor and Steve Rogers, she wondered if anyone today understood what she said.

"What is this senator you have been speaking of?"

"You don't have them on Asgard?" she asked. "Well, they're part of the government here on Earth. Well, in the United States, at least."

"A ruler?" he asked.

"Yes, sort of."

"Then we have something in common," Thor said. "My father Odin is King of Asgard."

Clara chuckled. "Well, my dad's not exactly a king, but I think he'd like to be. He tries to be in his own house, at least. That's partly why I had to leave. Politics was never my thing." She was startled to see Thor frown, a shadow cast over his brilliant blue eyes.

"Then your father sounds more like my brother," he said gloomily.

"Really?" she asked. "What did your brother do that was so bad?"

He turned and held out one arm, hand open, in a gesture that drew her gaze to the outside and the destruction littering the city streets.

"All that you see here," Thor said, "is his doing. He is the one who sought to rule the Earth and sent the Chitauri here to fight his battles for him. And all this because of an imagined slight from childhood. It is my duty now to bring him home and see that he receives justice."

Clara felt the blood rush from her face in shock as she listened to what Thor told her. It was unbelievable that this man—or whatever he was—who had fought a hero's battle to protect the earth, had done so against his own brother. It was equally unbelievable that such a hero had a sibling capable of that much wickedness.

"I only hope my father will have mercy in the end. Loki's mind is unbalanced, but I believe his heart may yet be spared."

How can someone capable of this destruction have any heart at all? Clara asked herself, though she knew better than to say it out loud. She and her parents had criticized her sister well enough for her deeds, but she would have busted the heads of anyone outside of the family who dared to speak against her. She had a feeling that Thor might be the same way about his brother, and she was not willing to risk having her head busted—not by those hands.

"Well…" Clara said. "I'm sorry to see you go. I'm sure the Earth could stand to have you around for a little bit longer. Everyone needs a good hero, right?" She smiled—winningly, she hoped.

Thor smiled back, and it almost knocked her off her feet.

"In spite of the fighting, in spite of the destruction I must leave behind," Thor said, "I have rather enjoyed this hour. I wish that we could have met in times of peace, Clara McKenna." He reached out his hand, and she gave him hers, thinking he would shake it as the others had done. Instead, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it lightly. She somehow felt butterflies in her stomach and all the way up her arm. When he released her, he bent down to pick up the enormous hammer that had been resting on the floor by his chair. He turned to go, not outside, but further into the restaurant.

In an instant, she had an idea. It was crazy. Absolute madness. She was not usually the impulsive type—though she had her moments—but today she felt she had to take this chance.

"Wait!" Clara said. Thor stopped and turned toward her. "Are you going to Asgard now…tonight?"

"I am," he said. "I will fetch my brother, and the Tesseract will take us home."

"Take me with you," she said.

Astonishment flashed across his face, quickly replaced by a furrowed brow as he frowned.

"You do not know what you ask," he said.

"I don't," she said. "But unless you think it would be the worst thing in the world, don't tell me no."

He paused, looking her over, and Clara felt more self-conscious than she had that entire day. Suddenly she realized how absurd her request was. Aside from the fact that she did not know him before an hour ago, and that she was essentially asking to be taken to another planet, she was also wearing dirty jeans, combat boots, and an old T-shirt. Her auburn hair was up in a ponytail, her makeup minimal at best. She was in no condition to travel anywhere with a celebrity, a hero—much less the son of a king—but she did not take back her request. If he was not planning to come back to Earth soon, this was her only chance, appearance be damned.

He came toward her then, his face serious. Clara stood her ground, but felt her knees tremble a little and her pulse quicken.

"If you want to come with me," he said, "you must do exactly as I say, and I will keep you out of danger. I will bring you home to Earth when you wish, but with the Bifrost gone, there is a chance that our magic will not work, and you will not be able to return."

Even without knowing what the Bifrost was, Clara felt how serious and terrible this warning was. But this, she knew, was also a one-time-only chance. Maybe it was insane to think he was telling the truth about Asgard, but after everything she had witnessed today, she was willing to believe almost anything. And she couldn't back down now.

She nodded. Something in Thor's expression changed—softened—and she dared to hope that maybe he was pleased she was coming with him. Silly of her, of course…

"Then wait here. I must fetch my brother so we can retrieve the Tesseract and return to Asgard. Do not speak to him, and if you can, show him no fear. Stay beside me."

This was starting to sound like an increasingly terrible idea, but Clara only said, "All right." Thor disappeared into the back room of the restaurant—a strange place, she thought, to conceal such a dangerous criminal. She looked around, just then realizing that the employees seemed to have vanished. With a shrug, she began to pack up her things into her camera bag.

What am I doing? she suddenly thought. This is insane. "Take me with you"? That's what you ask of a guy supposedly from Asgard, wherever that is? Even if he is one of the Avengers. And all I've got is my camera and the clothes on my back. I don't have any money, or my cell phone…or even a toothbrush. Would I even get reception? Do they have toothbrushes on Asgard?

She heard footsteps, tearing her back from her frantic train of thought. Looking up, she saw Thor coming toward her with another man, and the very room seemed to freeze.

This is Thor's brother? The news media had caught a few seconds of footage, but it had not conveyed him well at all, or his dreadful presence. His mouth was covered by some kind of muzzle or gag that somehow reminded her of Hannibal Lecter. His hands were bound by a set of elaborate cuffs, made of a material she did not recognize. These restraints, however, only made him more terrifying. She shivered at the sight of him, every muscle tensed and waiting to flee, no matter what protection Thor had promised.

While Thor was blonde, bearded, and muscular, his brother Loki was a complete opposite—slender, with hollowed, clean-shaven cheeks, and long black hair. His face was covered in cuts and bruises; Clara wondered which of the Avengers had gotten to him. Even his clothing was a contrast to Thor's—a long black coat of some kind, trimmed with green cloth and brass-colored metal.

Guess nobody dresses practically on Asgard, Clara thought irrelevantly.

As they came forward, she unwittingly looked into Loki's face. Those two green eyes were filled with enough utter contempt and savagery that, had he not been gagged, any words would have been unnecessary anyway. She knew Thor had warned her not to show fear, but she was pretty sure she looked petrified nonetheless.

Finally she broke her stare to look at Thor. He jerked his head toward the exit, motioning her to follow them. Slinging her camera bag across her shoulder, she followed, trying to stay as close to Thor as she could while keeping as far away from Loki as possible. Finally Thor stopped walking and stood with Loki in the middle of the devastated street.

"Hold on to me," he told Clara, never loosening his hold on Loki with one hand and the hammer with his other. "As tightly as you can—lest you fall."

She did as he said, thinking how delightful the idea was only five minutes ago. Now the second, third, and fourth thoughts were flooding her mind. Too late, she told herself. Much too late.

Once she had a firm grasp on his armor, he began to swing the hammer like a lasso, and a split-second before it happened, she realized what they were about to do. She clenched her eyes shut and felt herself being dragged upward. She tightened her grasp, opened one eye, and screamed. They were somehow in the air, flying, and Manhattan was shrinking below them. Closing both eyes again, she pressed her face against Thor and willed her stomach not to empty itself. Before long, however, she felt a descent, and in a moment they had landed…at the edge of Central Park.

Her feet finally on the ground, she staggered back a few paces before recovering from the brief but harrowing flight. When she looked around, she felt another wave of self-consciousness: each of the Avengers were there as well, waiting for them.