Like, Loki as this dead-serious artist who can’t take a joke and just wants to get through the day without dealing with other people’s dumbassery, and somehow he ends up in a precinct of comedians and practical jokers.
Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are like the Marx Brothers, making back-to-back zingers that have been out of style for 70 years. Lieutenants Stark and Rhodes are the gag-gadget guys: fake vomit, whoopie cushions, canned confetti snakes, disappearing ink, the works. Detectives Barton and Romanov are the cruel souls who bring in empty pizza and pastry boxes and fill them with healthy food. There is no such thing as law and order in this city. Everyone who’s supposed to be enforcing the law is criminally insane.
But it’s the only job Loki could find, so he deals with it as best he can. He’s young and baby-faced (still in college, working on getting his Masters in art), and everyone teases and treats him like a kid at first. Then they see him in action, and their sarcasm turns to respect. It’s like he can actually reach into the witnesses’ minds and draw these photorealistic faces in mere minutes.
After six months, Loki’s sketches have led to more arrests and apprehensions than any forensic artist in the precinct’s history. (He’s also a wizard with facial reconstruction software.) He’s got a 99% positive identification record. It’s inhuman. Side-by-sides of his sketches with actual suspects’ mugshots are pinned up on the “Case Closed” bulletin board (but not by him; he’s too insecure about his work, even if everyone raves about it).
No one is prouder of Loki than Chief Thor Odinson. He looks like he’d be a major mofo to work for—a scowling, steely-eyed hardass who could probably bench press a garbage truck—but he’s actually a really nice guy. Stern but kind, he cares about people and wants to help them, and he has a hard-on for justice. Criminals fear his name. He’s a great manager and everyone in his precinct admires and respects him.
He likes to stop by Loki’s desk and tease him good-naturedly. “Draw me like one of your perps, Jack,” he says, batting his eyes and striking a pose.
Loki, who by now is used to the ribbing, smirks and replies, “Take your clothes off and I will.” Pause. “Sir.”
Seuxally-charged banter becomes their thing. Then it’s replaced by actual conversation. Questions. Compliments. Curiosity.
For a year they orbit each other like a pair of comets, drawing closer and closer, pulled by each other’s gravity. They finally collide on a cold, rainy Christmas Eve at Thor’s house, on Thor’s couch, kissing and petting and grinding against one another like a couple of teenagers. (Well, Loki is only 24, so it hasn’t been that long for him. Thor, on the other hand, was a teenager when Nirvana was still together.) They end up in bed after crashing against walls and doorframes as they pull each other’s clothes off, having the best sex of their lives.
“I never thought,” Loki pants, riding Thor’s cock in smooth, rhythmic motions, “that I would end up dating a LEO.”
“That’s good—unh—‘cause I’m a Cancer.”
Loki goes still, then he begins to laugh. Thor grins.
A precinct of comedians. Maybe they’re not so bad after all.
(Just wait, they’ll make a trickster out of him yet.)