As far as the world knew, Nicholas Fury was a dead man, one of the many casualties of the destructive events in D.C. His death was well publicized, if only a bit less than the death of the organization he ran.

Of course, neither Fury nor SHIELD was truly dead and buried. Only a few people on the planet were privy to that particular secret and, Phillip J. Coulson, reluctant Director of SHIELD, was one of them.

But for someone who was supposed to be covertly taking down HYDRA remnants in Europe, Fury was incredibly up-to-date with what was going on back in the States. In fact, it had been him who had called Coulson up at about two in the morning – ignoring time zone differences as easily as he had ignored the objections of U.N. councilmen – and broke the news that an alien spacecraft had landed on top of Avengers Tower.

"Your first alien invasion as Director and their first glimpse of humanity is Tony Stark," he had said, and Coulson could hear the pity in his voice. "God help you, Cheese."

He knew from the start that his main purpose in this scenario was damage control. The Avengers were heroes, there was no doubt, but they weren't – except perhaps Rogers – the kind of image of humanity that SHIELD wanted to convey to extraterrestrial life.

That was before Pepper had called him to tell him that no, the aliens were not hostile, yes, Tony had been the first to make contact, and yes, they had all gotten rip-roaring drunk. "Natasha has drank three aliens under the table so far, including the raccoon," she reported. "Steve just looks very disappointed and sober. Everyone else has problems getting up from the floor." A pause, and a loud zapping sound. "Also, the raccoon seems to be sobbing and destroying parts of Tony's lab."

"I can't believe I didn't see this coming," he said blankly.

"Yes, well, I think you should come by while they're still relatively coherent," she suggested. Coulson agreed, and the two exchanged goodbyes, but not before he heard - in the background - drunken cheering and the sound of a large amount of liquid hitting metal floor.

"Those idiots," said an unfamiliar, distant female voice in the background. The call cut off with a beep.

Phil Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose, saw the fifty pictures of the talking tree and raccoon duo that Clint had sent him over the period of two minutes, and re-evaluated his life decisions. Somewhere in the underworld of an obscure European country, Nick Fury was laughing his ass off.