2. the man with the golden gun. we're lying about the gold.
. . .
"You're looking quite well, considering." Loki arched a dark eyebrow as he leaned back further against the plush red leather of the darkened booth. The light of a single decorative candle flickered along his cheekbone. The extra inch of distance would do him no good if things went sour, but it made him feel better anyway. He put a smile on his face, set sardonicism aside in an attempt to look affable. Harmless. He interlaced his long fingers together, keeping them well in sight on the table. "Please think carefully before you do this, the suit isn't an illusion and Dolce & Gabbana apparently sells its wares dearly."
The man across the table from his kept his voice low and conversational. "Did you go to the Savile Row location? Not as good as some of the bespoke guys around there, but a nice starter choice anyway." He gestured for emphasis with the improbably large weapon. It creaked against the stabilizing rifle stand.
Loki made a noncommittal noise and examined the weapon. Its menacing black outline was vaguely familiar. "That's not the same..."
"Later iteration. Even less recoil, tightened up the targeting matrix. Our guys use it for small controlled demolitions when shape charges aren't sufficient to breach. Also it blew up this one half-cyborg guy when he tried to get cute with my team. There weren't even chunks." Agent Phil Coulson quirked a little smile. "Kind of gross, I admit, but we were pretty short on options."
"I do know how you're not fond of being cornered." Loki attempted to clear his throat, feeling the dryness click against his tongue. It had hurt the last time – not enough to stop him, nor even slow him overmuch, but nonetheless, it had hurt. And the suit cost him nearly half the false paper gold he'd acquired while staying under the radar of possible interested persons. Vanity, alas, a most pleasant sin.
"No."
He raised the other eyebrow to match the first. "I...don't suppose you'd care for an apology?"
"Nope."
He pursed his lips, considering tactics. "From what I've heard, you're rather big on second chances, Agent Coulson. Do I rate none of this largesse?"
"Loki, you killed me. You didn't skip a Christmas card, you didn't cheat at poker, you didn't even just go behind my back keeping secrets. You put a pointy stick through my heart and I died."
"That did happen, yes." He tossed it off with a shrug and a bright smile. "And here you are!" He cocked his head. "How'd that work? Normally your lot tends to, erm, stay dead. It's one of your better qualities."
"It's complicated." A woman poked her head in through the door of the restaurant, a similar large weapon cradled in both hands. She mouthed the agent's name. "We're still good, May. Just having a nice conversation."
"Any answers yet?"
"To be fair, I haven't really asked the question yet." Coulson flexed his arms. The weapon was also much heavier in the back end due to a change in how it was powered, but he wasn't about to tell Loki that. He tilted his head slightly. "So let's ask that question – how the hell did you find me?"
Loki nodded politely to the other agent – one Melinda May. His resources were slim, but he knew that much. She ducked back out. "Google," he said simply.
"I'm calling bull on that." Coulson let the weapon charge up with a flick of his thumb, enjoying the wince on the demigod's face.
"It's true. No, I didn't just input your name, but let's face it, machines are far more tractable than you humans, and even more simply built. I asked it to compile a few news articles, triangulated some things based on certain geographic events that looked likely, found a couple of patterns and then, ah, sent you the electronic letter."
"How'd you get the address?"
"You ordered a pizza under the name Pablo Jiminez through an online service. I looked in their database."
"Well, that alias is totally dead now," Coulson muttered, mostly to himself. Louder: "You can hack computers?"
"It's rather more like I ask questions and they tell me things because they don't know any better. It's not elegant, but it works in a pinch. I can probably refine my technique somewhat if I ever bother to give a rip for your technology." I had better toys in the cradle, he added, but didn't say aloud. He was making an effort to be subtle, there was no need to hammer on the fact that their civilization was so damnably primitive, it could be mistaken for a moderately organized ant farm anywhere else in the galaxy.
Patience, Loki. Needs must.
His teeth gritted behind the pleasant smile, fleetingly unsure if the thought was his own, or a slithering intrusion from the secret-keeper. Surely it was his own.
"Huh. And what, exactly, do you hope to accomplish with this meeting?"
"Not getting blasted through the back wall, for one," came his first response, quicker than his thoughts and touched with glib humor. "Failing that," he continued more evenly, "I thought to offer my help."
"Your help?" Coulson's expression went blank while he tried to collate his thoughts on the topic. Nope. This was an impossible concept. The demigod was clearly lying out of every orifice.
"You seem to be having a spot of trouble of late, and through no fault of my own this time. It comes to pass that I myself am, shall we say, in between jobs." Loki spread his hands apart like an offering.
"You're kidding me," he said flatly. What if he's not kidding?
"For once, not in the least."
Oh, he is totally screwing with me. "What do you get from this?"
"It's what you get, really." A modest smile.
Coulson huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "What we get? What, a genocidal maniac willing to, I don't even know, lick envelopes and entertain my plane with parlor tricks before you turn on us?"
"A reforming genocidal maniac looking for redemption by any means necessary."
"That's it. I'm pulling the trigger." He braced the weapon and set his eye to its sight. Missing at this range was an impossibility.
"Wait!" Loki flung a hand up in the air, palm out, his words in a rush. "Impertinence aside, the core of my words are truth. You have the bindings, copies of what he used to contain me after my invasion of your city. You know best how Lorelei was chained. Use these tools if you must feel better about our circumstances, but know this. Destiny is also described as a chain, and I mean to prove that as a lie."
"Explain." His finger rested lightly on the trigger. Just a three pound pull and the weapon would do the rest. "Fast."
The palm curled into one upraised finger. "All roads lead to damnation for me, I think you'll have little problems disagreeing with that. I want another option, and I'll do anything to get it. There are things worse than death. There is annihilation." He put his hand down and waited to see if his last ploy bought him any ground.
Coulson hesitated. Second chances. God damn it. "I don't believe you for a second."
"That's probably wise." Loki shrugged, unoffended. "I barely grasp that you're more than a decently evolved ape. I suppose we all have our little biases to overcome. I'm at least willing to try."
"Against every bit of my better judgment, and knowing that every single person in my team is going to give me a deserved and absolutely staggering amount of crap for this, we're going to try it. Because you're right. I do believe in second chances." He lifted his head up to examine Loki one more time. "But I don't forgive you. You haven't earned that, and I don't know if you ever will. On two conditions."
"Certainly. Name them."
"One. We start with the bindings. Your activities monitored in all ways at all times. We're going to learn the circadian rhythms of an Asgardian up close and personal. You eat a cracker, I want to know if you nibble them, crack them in half, or just jam them in your mouth. I want each crumb left behind from that cracker monitored for any cute stunts you could pull."
"Right." A bit of the good cheer had gone out of Loki's voice, but he took the demand with a stoic expression. "And the other?"
"I'm gonna enjoy a taste of schadenfreude anyway."
"Wha-!"
Three pound pull. A resounding whirring noise, the hum of a thousand pissed-off bees, and Loki was flung back not just through the back of their booth, but through three other booths as well. He wound up embedded in the deceptively cheap plaster and plywood wall, some burnt curls of wood-painted paper looping down to bonk him on his stunned head. Loki blinked once, then again, not really seeing. "Ow," he said. Oh, yes. That still hurt. That hurt like a... he scrounged around in his numb brain for something to describe the sensation, found a suitable phrase in the local lexicon.
That had hurt like a motherfucker.
Phil Coulson watched the demigod twitch slightly, just enough tact in him to not start grinning at the sight. Damn, that was nice. The restaurant had cameras in the dining room. He should get a copy of the footage for home.
Politely, he said, "I'll damage out the suit through what few people I still have access to, get you a replacement." He considered for a moment, then cleared his throat. "And, I should probably help the owner here with his insurance claim."
A soft whine answered him from the distant floor.
"I'll have May and Agent Triplett bring you to the bus when you're up."
Another whine.
He slung the weapon strap over his shoulder and strode out of the damaged bistro, giving May a sheepish little smile when she stared at him with that familiar, unreadable look.
She's probably going to think this is another symptom of me going crazy.
And... she might not be wrong.
He cast a last glance over his shoulder. God damn, but that had felt good.