This story is set in my Metal Heart universe, post MH, and goes along-side my upcoming "Tales of the Heroes of Midgard" series. But the Avengers and co. aren't really a big staple of this one; this focuses on SHIELD agents and a handful of Asgardians. Enjoy!

Nick Fury is in his robe, settling down to relax and read a good book before bed, when his doorbell chimes. What the hell? He cocks an eyebrow, glancing to the front end of his house. Nobody comes here without clearing it with SHIELD first. Nobody even knows where this place is!

Frowning, he sets the book aside and draws his gun out of the bedside table, moving towards the stairs with quick, steady precision. Then, he backtracks heading to the back of the house, quietly opening the porch door so he can circle the intruder around from behind –

He doesn't get that far. As soon as he opens the door, he's greeted by a stranger in gold armor standing on his back porch. He doesn't seem to have a weapon of any kind, but he's clearly powerful, and he's a big guy to boot. Fury's got his gun on him in half a second, fuming, wondering how the hell this guy got here, who the hell is he –

"Who are you and what the hell are you doing at my house?"

"I am Heimdall, Gatekeeper of Asgard," The man begins, and he – he fucking kneels. The hell? "And I come before you to request a boon."

"A… what now?" Frowning, Fury keeps the gun up, but he is beginning to see this probably isn't a threat. Asgard. Great. Like those immortal assholes haven't been causing him enough trouble lately.

"A boon." Heimdall, whoever that is, asks again.

"Uh huh." Snorting, Fury keeps his gun trained between the man's eyes, which are merely inches away from the barrel of his gun. Is this guy asking to get shot? Would a bullet to the head even kill an Asgardian? For a moment, Fury wonders if he's really in deep shit here, and considers pressing the button on the watch on his wrist that will bring SHIELD down on this place in full force.

"Fear not, I mean no harm. I come not as a vassal of Asgard, or in service to her King, but for my own desires."

"Is that supposed to mean shit to me?" This is very confusing. He can honestly say, with all the weird shit that has happened in his life, having a handsome – and yes he is very handsome – immortal warrior pop up on his back porch and kneel in front of him, well, that's a new one.

"It means that I am only here to speak for myself, and to ask that you grant me an honor which would lift my heart."

Fury keeps the gun right where it is. But he maybe, just maybe, might be feeling extremely out of his depth right now. "Okay. Fine. Ask away." This can't get any weirder right?

Heimdall smiles, the fucker, and the look is radiantly beautiful on his face. "Would you, Nicholas Fury of Midgard, grant me the honor of allowing me to court you?"

Well, damn. He was wrong.

Nick Fury never wanted to be a soldier.

War was such a small, simple thing on the television screen. Triumphant music playing, an inspirational voiceover leading the charge as courageous, brave Americans fought for good and freedom and everything American was meant to stand for. And always, standing at the front, was Captain America. Every week Nick would watch these men, these heroes; these soldiers win empty battles and easily defeat the enemy, and it was never questioned that what they were doing was right. What they were doing was good.

So, how could Nick not look at that, at the grand potency of that, and not want it? How could he not look around his life, his home, his neighborhood, his world, and want something better? To defend what good was there, and stomp the evil out, just like Captain America? No, he didn't want to be a soldier. He wanted to be a hero. Enlisting simply seemed like the best, perhaps the only, way to do so.

They sent him to Vietnam. Quickly, Nick Fury found that the greatest evil there was that which his fellow soldiers and he brought with them. War was no longer a simple thing in a little black and white box. It was red, bloody red, it was every color and sound right in your face and on your hands and –

Nick Fury came home to a country in chaos, to a generation in revolt, the ideal of the "American" life or what it supposedly was uprooted and revealed for the poisonous weed it was. He saw a man in a protest rally burn an effigy of Captain America. Couldn't say he blamed him.

His own soul was in turmoil. This was all a lie. All of it. The prosperity, the peace, the goodness. Nick looked around and the only good and justice was in that little television box, in somebody else's life, on another world somewhere. It wasn't here. He couldn't find it. He couldn't find peace anywhere. Couldn't find peace inside himself.

After the war, he had a chance to leave. To not re-enlist. To step out of the government, out of the military, and never look back. He stood in his room in his grandmother's house looking at the paperwork with tears in his eyes, his old Cap poster still on the wall beneath a vintage "Uncle Sam" recruitment poster and there was a vicious part of himself that wanted to tear it all down.

But he didn't. He re-enlisted, and he worked hard, worked his way through the ranks, as deep and dark as he could. Espionage became his priority. It was his talent, keeping his mouth shut, noticing what other people wouldn't talk about. He could read other people, know them inside out. It was what kept him alive all that time.

The further in he went, the more he lost; of himself, his old life, family and friends. They were tucked away into the old dusty corners of his heart, where he could look back on them from time to time, but he never sought those people out again. He fought, and he fought, and he played the game, and he kept pushing, and pushing.

He's done terrible things. In war, and at home. He's lied, cheated, killed, stolen. And he'd do it all again. Because this is how the game is played, now. These are the rules that have been laid down. He knows how it goes, he can strategize with the best of them.

Now, he's the Director of the most powerful espionage agency in the world, answerable to a select few. Now, he stands upon a cold distant precipice, so much power at his fingertips, and he never, never forgets, the feeling of standing on his own street corner feeling lost and homesick and alone. He never forgets a life of wishing for things that were never real. And he sure as hell never forgets the war.

Nick Fury never wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to help people, to be a protector, a guardian, a hero. But this world doesn't allow for heroes anymore. To protect the world from monsters he had to become one himself. He cut out his heart and soul and sealed them somewhere far away where he'd never remember what it was to be a fifteen year old boy with ideals and dreams. To ever wish to be someone who could stand in the light and be proud of who he'd become. Someone who might be able to escape all this one day, to have a family, to grow old with someone.

Those are simply idle fantasies he'll have to learn to forget.

Nick no longer holds any delusions of a possible love life in his future.

It just isn't in the job description. Sure, he has agents who have personal lives, families and lovers, but none of them are the Director of SHIELD. He will always have a target on his back, even if he stopped at this moment and walked away from it all. No one will be safe with him, ever, and that's presuming he'd have the goddamn time to actually have a love life, or care for a family.

The harsh truth is that he doesn't. So no, Nick Fury has never considered love or romance in his future.

Needless to say "courting" was never even in the picture.

The very next day, Nick is a billowing trench coat of anger sauntering through the Avenger's mansion, with a dreadful scowl fixed upon his face. Tony takes one look at him and makes a beeline for the basement, snatching a donut from the coffee table before scrambling away. Steve, being the responsibility worry wart that he is, catches up and offers his concern. But once he's informed that everything is fine, no, there's no danger, this a personal matter, he heads for the hills, too.

That is when Nick throws open the door to Thor's room, and sees him sitting facing Clint, cross legged on the floor, painting each other's nails.

"Oh, fuck me," Clint groans, shoulders drooping.

"Director!" Thor of course is oblivious. He's also beaming ear to ear and holding up his right hand, which is now painted red to match his cape. "You are most welcome here! Clint is teaching me of the traditions of my new home. Would you care to join us?"

"Thanks but… no thanks."

"You sure? I've got black?" The archer seems to have found his funny bone again, though his smirk is a little on the embarrassed side.

"May I ask why you're here doing… this?" As he takes a seat nearby, Fury gestures at the man. "Was there a bet involved? Did you get drunk?"

"I really truly want, with every fiber of my being, to avoid Loki, and this is the one place I'm positive he's never going to pop into." The raw truth in that statement dampens the playful mood, as does the pout that appears on Thor's face. "Uh, sorry, Thor."

"No, I understand." He nods. "And tis true. My brother has been avoiding me of late."

Well. That's a can of worms Nick Fury has no damn time for. "Look, I'm sympathetic and all, but I'm not here to chat. I need to know everything you know about an Asgardian named Heimdall."

"Heimdall?" Somehow, Thor manages to grow even more jovial. "A good friend, and a great ally! He is the Gatekeeper of Asgard, the most trusted of my father's warriors. He is a good man. Why do you ask this?"

Fury, eyes narrowed, has kept his keen gaze on Thor this whole time – but there's no lie in his face. There's never any lie in his face. Thor isn't just practically incapable of lying, he never even thinks to do so.

"Has Asgard been contacting SHIELD?" Clint, interest piqued, has stalled in his artistry with the nail polish. "What's going on?"

"No, it's –" Sighing, Nick puts a hand on his face. What was he thinking? This is a horrible idea. "It's not SHIELD business. Forget it." He stands to go before anything else can go wrong, but he's stopped by a hand.

"I know we are not quite friends, Director Fury, but I would help thee if I can."

Another sigh. How can anyone turn down such heartfelt kindness? "Your friend popped up in my backyard yesterday evening."

"He what?" Clint, leaping to his feet, is halfway to his bow already, as if he can go back in time and leap to his ex-boss's aid. Thor, too, looks concerned, and is perhaps remembering that for all intents and purposes, Earth and Asgard aren't exactly friends.

"Was anyone else with him?"

Fury shakes his head. "No, just him." Turning around, he continues. "He told me his name, and about being Gatekeeper of Asgard. Then he started spewing all this bullshit about a – a boon – and courtship or some shit."

The room has gone silent.

"Courtship that's, - what?" Clint lets out a baffled laugh. "Like the stuff from a Jane Austen novel right? People doing all this fancy formal shit before they tie the knot?"

"I do not know of this Jane Austen," Thor turns to tell him. "But on Asgard, courtship is a valued tradition. Not all participate, but many in the royal and noble bloodlines do so."

"That includes your buddy Heimdall?"

Thor nodded. "Yes. What did he say to you exactly?"

The room is a little hot. That's it. Because Nick Fury does not blush.

"He – asked me for the 'honor' of allowing him to court me."

The room is silent again, but that's only because Clint looks to be hurting himself with the effort of keeping in his laughter.

"Barton," Fury starts through clenched teeth. "Say what you're thinking and I'll find a way to make you regret it."

"I'm sure you will but – ohmygodd - !" That is when, incapable of holding it in any longer, Clint doubled over and let out an incoherent stream of chortling and half-finished sentences. And Fury turned around and left.

In his office on the Helicarrier that night, Fury remains, embroiled in work long after his typical hours. It's not that he's avoiding going home, of course not. He's just getting ahead. There's always plenty do to for a super spy after all.

Except for the fact that, well, there's really not all that much extra work to do right now. With the Avengers around, the typical threats SHIELD faces has been cut down almost by half. Even with the added Mutant "crisis" trouble has still been at an all-time low for the decade. There's not much for Fury to do but twiddle his thumbs.

Well, he wanted the Avengers to be heroes, didn't he? Damn if he didn't get his wish.

So, Fury leaves his office in a huff and storms the decks instead, scouring the ranks for something, anything to do. Leaving vicious critiques and quaking recruits behind wherever he went, Fury stalked the whole ship for two hours. Until Maria Hill found him.

"Is there a reason you've been terrifying half the agents on this ship?" She asks, arms crossed, barring his way forward.

"Not half," he retorts. "They're all scared out of their wits but some of them are well-trained enough to hide it."

"The point being," Maria, ignoring his attempts to side step her, keeps up with his pace, "why are you still here skulking around?"

"My ship, my business." He snaps back.

"It's SHIELD's ship, which also makes it my business."

But she's not asking for SHIELD, they both know that. No, this is as close to "friendship" as these two will ever come. Veiled attempts at concern, concealed as they must always be. Anything closer, anything more open, creates risks.

Finally, Fury slows to a halt. "It's complicated."

"Un-complicate it."

A joke; something he would always say whenever the science types tried talking over his head, giving him "it's complicated" or "it's complex mathematics" or otherwise trying to avoid explaining in detail what they – or the people they answered to - didn't want him to know. He knows the game. So does she.

"I may have had an Asgardian warrior pop up out of nowhere in my backyard and ask to – I can't believe I'm fucking saying this – court me."

Agent Hill doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink an eye. No, she just raises an eyebrow. "You, too?" In the stunned silence which follows, Maria tells him to buck up and go home, and stop venting his frustration upon the poor newbie agents.

It's not that Nick doesn't want this.

Sure he does. He'll be the first to admit that the job is lonely, and he's human after all. He's got desires of his own. What he wouldn't give for the time and energy to go out and meet somebody for coffee once in a while, or even just a weekend fuck from time to time. It would sure do wonders for his temperament.

But who can a super spy trust in the long term? Who would be safe when all was said and done? Nick Fury can't ever let his guard down, he can't ever stop being the Director of SHIELD. It's all too risky. Too time consuming. Dangerous for everyone involved.

It would be foolish to get his hopes up.

Nick goes home, frowning and grumbling all the while. It's the expression of one ready to quit the universe, to throw up the white flag and be done, but the look belied a very different range of emotions. Hope, despair, nervousness, excitement, a barrel of contradictions he hadn't felt the like of since he was a boy. It was foolish, stupid, to be so hung up on this, on a fairy tale. A handsome warrior god from a far-away land swooping down from above to "court" the lowly mortal? Yeah, Nick laughs, right. He must've been dreaming.

What kind of warrior God would look at all of humanity and pick him, anyway?

He's a weary old man, after all, a battered and scarred ruin long emptied of any human feeling, a mere vessel for action and decision bereft of the joys and wonders of the soul. He doesn't have the luxury of all of that. If for the merest second he took a moment to truly feel, to remember what it was to really be human, he might just break. Might even cry.

Instead, he reads. Inserts himself into these tales in which the heroes always win and good always triumphs without ever having to compromise themselves, their light. Where the dichotomy of good and evil doesn't allow for a man such as Nick Fury to exist. And it is in that forgetfulness, in that blissful emptiness in which he does not exist, which lets him relax and simply feel for a while – without feeling all the pains and aches of his life, and the days to come.

Collapsing in his living room, Fury lets his head hang for a moment, allows himself to feel tired. The aches seep into his bones. Old wounds tremble. He's starved, but much too exhausted to cook anything or even stand and hobble to the phone. So he slumps back into the chair, reaches to his side table, and picks up the book he was reading the night before.

For a few minutes, he's entranced by the words and their movement, by a fantasy far away.

Then there is a knock at the door.

Fury freezes; his eye goes wide, and he glances towards the front. It couldn't be. He stands and sets the book aside, grabs his gun. But before he starts moving he hesitates. This is all feeling very familiar. Is he just going to repeat his actions? No, Fury decides, frowning, he's going to take a more direct approach. He's going to face this guy and tell him to fuck off and end this foolishness once and for all!

So, gun in tow, Fury storms to the front door, throws it open, and –

He's not there.

Suddenly, Fury finds himself grimacing and gesturing angrily at empty space, a gun drawn on thin air, and finds himself frustrated further with the empty display. Now, he's all worked up with no one to vent it on.

Fuming, Fury slams the door and turns around – and there's a three course meal sitting on his kitchen counter, fresh and steaming hot.

He's got his gun up in no time, scanning the room for anyone at all, but there's nothing. Just a magically appearing dinner plate and a card next to it. Fury ignores both of these, pointedly, for forty five minutes, as he canvases his yard and all three levels of his house something near to ten times. Then, and only then, does he return to the kitchen. And promptly sweep the food and the card into the trashcan.

The next morning, he finds a pile of pancakes and a heap of bacon with a glass of orange juice, on a tray on his bathroom counter. He tosses the whole thing out his window, and the satisfying sound of shattering glass cools his irritation for a while.

But it keeps happening. Every day around mealtimes something shows up out of nowhere. It's never just a small meal, either, but rather a feast he could never hope to finish even on a good day. A whole roast turkey with potatoes and green beans one night, an entire pizza and a 12 liter of soda another. It continues, day after day, for two weeks.

Then Fury goes back to the Avengers Mansion.

"You," He starts through gritted teeth, pointing at Thor, "have got to make it stop!"

"Make what stop?" Tony, from his place slumped across the living room couch, perks up. "What's stopping? I swear I'm not at fault this time."

"He's yelling at Thor, not you," Natasha tells him with a dry smirk. She's on the other end of the couch, Tony's feet in her lap, switching channels with the TV remote. Once she settles on Scyfy channel, which is planning a back-to-back marathon of the Resident Evil movies, she sets the remote down and starts messaging Tony's feet.

"Oh, good," Tony replies, letting out an obscene groan.

"Make any more uncomfortable noises and this stops."

"I can't help that you have magical hands."

"My hands aren't magic." She smiles at the comment, though. "You just overwork yourself too much. Take it easy."

"Says the super spy who never sleeps."

"I sleep. Eventually."

While the two of them are having their inane conversation, Fury has continued yelling at Thor for the same amount of time. Thor, who appears for all intents and purposes completely unbothered, just very confused and somewhat concerned.

"How do I make this guy back off?" Fury finally finishes, lifting a hand to his forehead. "Where's the cancel button on this courtship thing?"

"I do not believe this is courtship," Thor starts, ignoring Tony's surprised squawk of "courtship!?" followed by Natasha cursing in Russian and insisting he stop squirming. "While food does have a place in our rituals, the… persistence and repetitive nature implies, to me, that this is an attempt at apology."

"Wait, he's sorry?" Fury gives a huff, almost laughing. "What happened to the 'honor' of courting me? He lost interest so soon?" It figures, he lets himself think, ignoring the sharp stab of pain behind his rib cage.

"Can we rewind to the part about Fury being courted?" Tony, who is all but ignoring Natasha, tries to turn and face the two of them, but the spy's death-grip on his ankles makes it so he's become something of a pretzel shape.

"You misunderstand." Thor continues. "He is not apologizing for his desire. Heimdall must be under the impression that he has wronged you, and is attempting to redeem himself. In Asgard, preparing a fine meal for another is the greatest form of sincere apology. It takes time and dedication, and personal knowledge of the person's tastes."

"I'm not here for a cultural lesson, Thor," Fury sighs. "Just tell me how to make it stop."

"You must eat one of his meals, of course." The Asgardian replies with a tone that makes it sound oh so obvious. "Such an action implies trust, and forgiveness, as you have accepted the gift and acknowledged your faith in the other person, for you have eaten of a meal you have not prepared."

"Seriously! I'm right here!" Tony, now attempting to crawl off the sofa and join the conversation, has been waylaid by a determined teammate.

"You asked me to help with your muscle pain, I am going to help with your muscle pain!" Natasha insists.

"Forget I asked! Let go!"

"Stop prying into other people's business and be still already!"

"So, that's it. Eat a meal, the apologies stop." Sighing, Fury lets out a laugh. "Sounds easy enough."

"That should end the courtship as well, I imagine." Thor continues. "If you have accepted his courtship. Or did you turn him down?"

Fury freezes. "Is that important?"

"A courtship offered must be accepted or declined, in no unclear terms. Such ambiguity has lead to many tragedies in Asgard's past." Thor, now frowning himself, raises an eyebrow. "You… did respond to his request?"

Nick Fury does not fidget. He just frowns a little, and ignores the rising feeling of immaturity inside him. Right now, he feels very much like a young man in front of his elder, not a government agent talking to a co-worker. Granted, Thor is much older than him… technically.

"Well, Nicky?" Tony grunts from the couch, fighting a chokehold. He's got a hand tied up in Natasha's hair, and despite their rough tones of voices, both are grinning ear to ear. "Did you break your poor suitor's heart? Put him out of his misery?"

"I… did not respond. Verbally." He starts. That doesn't seem to be enough for any of them, as they're all still staring, even Natasha, waiting for more. "… I shot at him."

"You shot him!?"

"At him!" Fury insists, throwing out his hands. "What was I supposed to do? A fucking alien teleports into my goddamn backyard and – and starts requesting boons and all this medieval shit – yeah, I shot at him!"

"And then what?" Thor asks.

"Then – nothing." Fury throws up his arms. "He backed off and disappeared in this gold glow, the Bifrost I imagine. I haven't heard or seen him since."

"Then, I imagine he believes his suit to be denied." Thor replies. "All you must do, is partake of a single meal he offers you. This will right any wrongs between you, and restore his honor. Then you shall hear no more of him."

Fury returns home that night, keeping Thor's words in mind. At dinner, yet another finely made meal appears on his kitchen counter, out of nowhere. All he has to do is eat it and this will all be over. It's as simple as that, he tells himself, standing in his enormous, empty house, three stories and twenty rooms and so many acres of land for one man and all the belongings of a long, lonely lifetime. He stands in the kitchen and stares at the countertop. Imagines what Heimdall might have looked like, making it. What it might have been like, to see him make it, here, in this kitchen, in this home. Together.

He goes to bed. Leaves the dinner plate untouched, and doesn't eat a thing.

In the morning, he doesn't find any meal prepared for him. There's no note, no plate, no sign of anything. For a terrible, heart-wrenching moment, Nick wonders if Thor had been wrong, and perhaps he had simply ignored Heimdall so long the man had given up on apologies. Then, he asks himself why those thoughts bother him so, why he's suddenly feeling tight-chested and out of breath.

He goes to work, shoving all his thoughts aside, cursing himself for allowing such a foolish distraction for so long.

After work, on his way home, he receives a text message.

FRIEND FURY. The message comes a number he doesn't recognize, but a quick check reveals the phone is in the Avengers Mansion. TIS I THOR. HOW ARE YOU THIS DAY.

Fury doesn't send text messages. He has nobody to send them to. His contact list contains emergency numbers, co-worker phones, things he needs for SHIELD business. In fact he's not sure he's ever sent a text in his life.

Fury stares at the screen for a minute, before delicately typing: Fine. What do you want.

He keeps on heading home, walking out of the SHIELD building towards his vehicle, ready to be gone, away from all this. His phone beeps again: I HAVE SPOKEN TO YOUR WOULD-BE SUITOR. SHOULD YOU WISH, HE WOULD DESIRE TO MEET WITH YOU AND DISCUSS YOUR SITUATION PROPERLY.

Suddenly, a flash of heat lights up his skin, tingles and burns pleasantly. A foolish, childish reaction. This isn't something he should encourage. He shoves his phone back into his pocket, ignoring the message. Five minutes later, he sighs and pulls it back out.

He sends the message: All right, tell him where I'll be. Then, he names a local restaurant he's always liked, and stuffs the phone back in his pocket.

This way, he can tell Heimdall to his face to leave him alone. It's the proper way to do it after all. End things formally, face to face. That's the only reason he's agreed to this. Definitely.

It's called The Hibernian, and it's an Irish Pub. Not exactly Fury's favorite place to eat. The Irish are known for their drinks, not their food, after all, and he's never been much of a drinker. But if he's about to turn this guy down, he at least wants him to be comfortable. Asgardians love bars, right? It's not exactly Norse, but it will have to do.

The building is a tall, dark mahogany monstrosity on the side of the road, an antiquated sight next to more modern shops and cafes. Inside, the light is dim and the rooms loud, filled with the echo of sports games coming out of TV screens and the cacophony of the tavern scene on a weeknight. It's subdued, but lively. All the furniture is old and wooden, and every wall is lined with bookshelves. The atmosphere, being in a warm, homey place surrounded by books and good conversation; that is what really draws Fury here.

He sits in a back corner, orders a coke, and waits. Twenty two minutes later, he sees the man he's waiting for enter the room.

Clearly Heimdall made a detour somewhere, because he's not wearing his Asgardian armor anymore. No, he's in jeans, jeans that appear to be a few sizes too small or simply designed to be a tight fit. They fall low on his hips, the edges of the bottom rolled up over designer dress shoes that Fury knows had to have come from Tony Stark's closet. His shirt, meanwhile, is a fine pristine white button up, the first and last buttons purposefully left undone. This man would look for all the world like just another patron at the bar, if not for the shimmering gold eyes which meet Fury's dead on from across the room.

Take it in, old man. Fury tells himself firmly as Heimdall approaches. Enjoy it while it lasts, because this is going to end.

"Good evening, Director." The voice of a God if ever there was one; a powerful, resonating tone touched by silk. Heimdall takes a seat across from Fury, his posture firm and resolute, shoulders back, knees apart, his hands on his thighs. "It is a pleasure to see you again, one I dared not think I would have."

"Yeah, well," Fury clears his throat, feeling suddenly somewhat awkward. "I don't take kindly to be taken by surprise."

"Yes, that much I have learned." Heimdall laughs, goddamn the man, it's a beautiful sound.

They're quiet for a moment, just looking at one another. Heimdall's much more handsome up close. He has such warm eyes, and a soft, inviting smile. Fury almost can't imagine such a kind and welcoming face barring the door of a nation. Yet, he can. He has seen the power in this man's stance, the fire in his eyes. Yes, he can imagine Heimdall as a warrior. Suddenly he wants to see it himself.

It takes him a moment to realize he's just been staring all this time, and that Heimdall's smile has become a smirk. Then the waitress appears from nowhere, and neither of them have the time to comment.

When she's gone, Fury finds his voice.

"So, does this count as accepting your apology?" He starts.

"It shall, if you have forgiven me." Heimdall inclines his head. "You are not Asgardian, though I find I see in you all the traits our people consider most honorable. But I fear in forgetting our differences, I have further offended you. I apologize."

"No, it's – fine." He finds himself saying, hardly knowing it's himself. He sounds so unsure. Since when does Nick Fury speak with anything but utter surety, without the meanest scrap of self-doubt? "I get what you were trying to do. Thank you. And I do accept it."

Heimdall beams at that, and Fury certainly does not feel his heart skip a beat. That was just a palpitation. And an elevated heart beat for no apparent reason. He obviously needs to see a cardiologist about this.

"And what of my request?" Heimdall begins again. This time, he's the one who seems almost tentative, nervous. "Have you considered it?"

Now, Fury can't help but laugh. "You – you're still interested?" Heimdall gives a firm nod, and he looks like Thor, when he's being so heartfelt and sincere that seems so silly but it's ridiculously endearing. Apparently it's a shared Asgardian thing. "After I shot at you? And ignored you for two weeks? And threw all your gifts in the trash?"

"You doubted my sincerity, and I do not fault you for it." Heimdall just smiles. "If such displays were enough to deter me, I would not be worthy of courting you at all."

How is this man even real? Fury finds himself wondering, dumbstruck and wide eyed. How can he really be sitting here, a goddamn Disney Prince if there ever was one, saying this shit to Nick Fury of all the people in the world?

"But," Heimdall begins again, gaze drifting to the table top. "I would respect your wishes. If you do not desire this, say so, and I shall leave you be."

"You make it sound so simple." The Director scoffs. "As if this isn't the most ridiculous shit. You're an Asgardian! A human life is a blink to you, and I'm hardly a spring chicken."

"No, you are not a chicken at all." The utter befuddlement on the man's face stops Fury in his tracks.

"It's – it's a phrase. I mean, I'm not young anymore."

"Ah," Now, he appears somewhat embarrassed, smiling nervously. "I see." It's… endearing. This age-old warrior, acting like a fumbling teenager. Wearing human clothes that are much too small, hunching over a table in a ridiculous tavern. And he's doing it all for him. To court him! This handsome, powerful, immortal man wants to court him.

It's impossible to believe. It's a dream, and it's happening right before his eyes.

"Director Fury?" Heimdall seems concerned now, golden eyes narrowed upon him.

Fury was speaking a moment ago, wasn't he? Yeah, he was. Only he's lost his train of thought now. So, he thinks of something to say. And it comes naturally.

"It's Nick." He says. "Short for Nicholas."

Heimdall's smile brightens, and with the spark in his eyes, he almost seems to glow. "Very well, Nick-Short-For-Nicholas."

"No, that's not –"

"I ask again," He continues. "Would you allow me the honor of courting you?"

When Nick Fury was a kid, he wanted to be a hero.

Good, evil, it's not so clear-cut in reality as in the movies. In his many years, he's had to allow travesties, to prevent catastrophes. Murdered to save lives. Stolen to protect what's valuable. He wouldn't call himself a good man, and he knows damn well history won't, but he's at peace with his life most nights.

But there are times, in those lulls between here and there, coming and going, the moments when there's nothing to do but let your mind wander and wait, that he considers the impossible. Retirement. A family. Friends. Somebody to come home to, anybody at all.

He tries not to think about those things too often. It hurts, more than he'd like to admit, thinking of what he can't have.

Because of his job, he and his loved ones will always be in danger.

But how much danger can human threats ever pose to an Asgardian?

Because of his position, he'll always be keeping secrets, putting the job first.

The Gatekeeper of Asgard probably knows a thing or two about secret-keeping and putting his duties before his desires.

Because of his life, he'll never have the time.

And yet, here they are.