For Zesiro Cross
There were marshmallows. Not, like, a couple scattered about. Oh no. There were hundreds. Harry heaved a heavy sigh, hands on his slim hips, and observed the fluffy white carnage in his kitchen. Behind him was an equally mystified man, with an eye patch and a scar. Though perhaps mystified wasn't the best word for it; vaguely annoyed and 500% sick of this shit might be a better descriptor. All the married men wanted was tea; was that so much to ask? Evidently it was, because as it stood Harry wasn't even sure he could walk across the kitchen without slipping on sugary goodness and falling to his death, though he was equally certain that the fluffy monstrosities would break his fall and prevent any serious damage.
"Harry," Nick began, but Harry raised a hand and cut him off.
"Wasn't me." He muttered decisively, beginning a careful descent into the madness that was his cooking space. All he wanted was tea, he thought mournfully, eyes locked on his cabinet stocked with the beautiful leaves that would bring him such intense happiness. But no, his foot had to be stuck to the floor by some sticky sugary mess, left there by god knows what.
And that was unfortunately accurate, Harry realized suddenly with a put upon sigh, because there was really only one person who would have the gall to fill Nick Fury's kitchen with marshmallows.
"Maybe you should call your Avengers, husband mine, because we might have a trickster god on our hands." Harry commented lightly, kicking viciously at the sugary treat smushed between his toes.
"Loki." Fury muttered, equally as vicious as he pulled out his phone and punched in the cheesy text message that Tony had chosen as their call to action.
Maybe it was extreme to sic a group of superheroes on his old friend who was just playing a prank, but if you got in the way of Harry and his tea, expect war.