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Entry #8: SHIELD [In Which Loki Gets a Baby-sitter]

"Well, now what do we do with him?"

The usually calm and unruffled voice of the SHIELD Director now sounded tired, annoyed, and—surprisingly—a little bit nervous.

"You could feed him," Loki suggested, sounding as suave as usual. "The god of mischief has not eaten in over twenty-four hours."

"You stay out of this!" insisted Clint, turning red in the face and shaking a fist at the tall, pale person who was currently relaxing in the comfiest chair available. His hands were tied together, but he had folded them behind his head rather awkwardly and couldn't seem to wipe the irritating smirk off his mouth. Clint would have been more than happy to do it for him, but didn't dare. Not in front of the Director.

"The god of mischief would also appreciate more civilized behavior from the opposing party," added Loki with a stoic glare.

"And stop referring to yourself in third person!"

"Alright, that'll be enough outta you two," warned the Director, rubbing his forehead and glaring at them from across the table. "Since the prisoner seems to be lacking his otherworldly powers—"

Loki scowled.

"—we will keep him in containment for a day or two, and then simply assign one of our top agents to keep an eye on him 24/7."

Clint immediately began shaking his head. "Who?"

"You."

There was a pause, during which everyone in the room (excepting Nick Fury) assumed an expression of complete surprise and slight revulsion.

"I object," Loki declared, raising a finger but not bothering to get up from the easy chair.

"Same here," growled Clint, stalking toward Director Fury. "Get someone else to do it. I've seen enough of this extra-terrestrial lunatic to last me a lifetime."

"Then it's all settled," Nick finished, ignoring Clint's death-glare and Loki's insulted look. "Expect a guest at 3:30 on Friday. Until then, Mr. Loki—"

"Laufeyson."

"Mr. Laufeyson," Nick corrected himself without missing a beat, "if you will kindly come with me to the detention level?"

Loki rose to his feet, not looking at all in a hurry, and slunk toward the door. He threw an evil grin over his shoulder at Clint, who promptly reached over his shoulder for his bow. He would likely have impaled the god of mischief with an arrow had Natasha not grabbed his wrist. "Chill, Clint," she advised.

Clint did not "chill," still extremely put out and red in the face, but he did refrain from harming Loki. "Nat, I can't do this. I live in a one-story house in the New York suburbs! And that's when I'm not on a mission for Fury!"

"Loki IS your mission," Nat reminded him. "And if it will make you feel any better, I'll spend the first few nights on the living room couch. You look like you need some support."

"You take the guest bedroom. Lulu gets the couch," grumbled Clint. "Or the floor. I don't care which."

"Look," Nat soothed him, patting him on the back. "You have two days to prepare. We'll get the Avengers together and help prep your house. Deal?"

Clint grumbled something indecipherable.

"Good." Nat gave him one more hefty pat on the back and stalked out of the room, leaving him to sulk in peace.

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~Alassiel