A/N: Hey, guys! I'm starting a new fanfic based on the Avengers/Thor movies. I hope you all enjoy it. Per usual, I do not own the rights. **Updated on 5.16.15

Those blue eyes pierced my soul. In that moment, I saw worlds of pain and anger; sadness and resentment. I had never wanted to comfort another person more than in that moment.

I watched as a tear rolled down the pale face, glistening in the sunlight. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the drop made its way down his cheek. Such loss. Instinctively, I raised my hand.

"Doctor Grant!" The voice broke my focus from the screen before me.

"Sir?" Chief Security Officer Blythe glared down at me, his gray eyes cold. Blythe was a hard man, with a stern mouth and hawkish nose. Even the graying hair on his head seemed to disapprove of me. Blythe was also my boss at the Criminal Review Department.

I had joined S.H.I.E.L.D fresh out of college, thinking I was doing my country a service. Offers had been following me my entire student life, I was in demand. I had chosen S.H.I.E.L.D because I believed in my country and wanted to help in any way I could. All the classes in psychology, however, couldn't have prepared me for what I had gotten into. Nervously, I fiddled with the chain around my neck, the small four leaf clover heavy between my fingers- a gift from my late father. He had been so proud when I told him. If only he knew.

"What do you think you're doing?" His voice was gruff, laden with accusation. I looked into his gray eyes and felt my stomach clench with anxiety. I had never been fond of attention, particularly when that attention meant I had done something wrong.

"Reviewing the New York footage, sir."

Blythe's jaw stiffened and I noted the subtle shift in expression from annoyance to outright anger. I was overstepping my boundaries and he didn't like it at all. He was a military man, placing respect and obedience to superiors above all else. "Your assignment was to write a report with suggestions for the survivors, not watching footage of the Asgardians."

"I just thought that if I could watch everything, I might make better suggestions-" My logic was sound. I had combed through hours of footage before I had been caught and it had helped my insights significantly. How was it possible to make suggestions to improve and rehabilitate a life if you were uninformed of the events had wounded them?

It was the wrong thing to say, however, and Blythe fully intended to inform me of such. "You thought wrong. We didn't hire such a promising psychologist to play around. Do your job." With a disapproving 'tsk!', he wheeled around on his heel and strode away angrily. Swallowing hard, I closed the tab on my monitor, but not before taking one final look at that bereft face.

Loki had attacked Earth with an army of aliens known as the Chitauri. Devastation and destruction had followed in their wake, countless lives were lost. The team known as the Avengers, assembled by S.H.I.E.L.D themselves, had managed to stop the mayhem, but at great cost.

Strangely, however, when I watched the footage I wasn't as angry with Loki as I had assumed. Normally, I tried to compartmentalize my feelings. When studying and analyzing human behavior, it was rather helpful to not enter into anything with bias. Still, Loki had killed innocent people and it was an emotion rather difficult to suppress.

To my surprise, I had noticed the typical signs of emotional neglect. The anger, the rage, the sadness, the seeming lack of care for life and lives of others, arrogance, a need for attention in all the wrong ways. This was a person who had been neglected as a youth and had been twisted and warped as a result. Of course, he had made his own decisions. He had chosen to allow himself to be the victim and it had resulted in the mass destruction of recent months.

I sighed and pushed my unruly mane of hair out of my face, rubbing my eyes to shake the thought from my mind. This was always the problem when studying criminals, more often than not, you found something broken in them and began to empathize. Sighing once more, I continued my notes on the task at hand. When five o'clock arrived, I practically leapt from my chair.

"Hey, Olivia!" I groaned when I recognized the voice shouting after me on my out of the building. Phillip Munson was a nice enough man. He wasn't particularly attractive or intelligent but he was nice. Still, I had noticed a pattern of obsessive behavior him, which was a major detractor. It's always something, isn't it?

"Phillip, how can I help you?" I made it a point to sound rushed. The problem with being a psychologist, was that I was consistently finding flaws in other people. Particularly men. I had been trained to find these flaws and try my best to fix them. Most of the time, however, I didn't feel like fixing anyone away from work.

"I was, er, just wondering if you'd had dinner yet?" The hopefulness in his tone was all too apparent.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I have plans." He need not know those plans were eating a frozen dinner and watching Gilmore Girls reruns with my cat.

"Oh, okay. Er, see you tomorrow, Doctor Grant." Ah, the return to using my formal title. Embarrassment. Shame. Inferiority.

"I will see you tomorrow, Phillip." Phillip scampered off and I exited the building. I looked both ways before crossing the street to the subway station. Washington D.C. was as different from Texas as could be imagined but I had grown accustomed to it in the time since I had moved there. A stray curl fell into my face, making my skin itch. Annoyed, I pushed it away, glancing at my watch. Five ten. Sawyer would be missing me.

Sawyer was the main male in my life; he was also my cat. The yellow tabby had been living in a dumpster behind my apartment building. After having posted 'found' posters around town to no avail, he had become my constant companion. A shudder ran through me as I briefly imagined myself becoming the stereotypical crazy, cat lady: old and alone, with no company save for a small army of cats. No, that wouldn't happen.

Exiting the subway station, I rounded the corner to my building. As I made my way up the six flights of stairs to my door, the familiar shouting returned. The breaking of dish ware followed soon after. This was typical of my neighbors in 6A. Every day, at eight in the morning and at five fifteen in the evening, a row would ensue. I tried my best to ignore them as the latch unlocked at 6B. Sure enough, Sawyer was waiting for me at the door.

"Hey, mister! How did the day treat you?" The cat mewed in response. "Are you that hungry?" Answering my question, Sawyer ran to the kitchen and sat by his food bowl.

"Okay, okay. What do you think, chicken and giblets or seafood feast?" Sawyer began his evening ritual of sliding between my legs and I picked the former. I could hear the 'clink' of his collar against the porcelain bowl as I changed into my sweats. Ah, the clothing of kings... I tossed my Salisbury steak into the microwave and queued up my DVD player.

"Where were we, Sawyer? Season two, disc three?" His orange eyes studied me quickly before returning to his dinner. I pushed play as the timer dinged in the kitchen. When I sat down on the lumpy sofa, Sawyer jumped beside me. "This is our life. Isn't it exciting?" My sarcasm was lost on the feline. Maybe, someday that will change. I sincerely hoped that was true. While I was waiting, however, I always had my cat and my television. That would just have to do.

I took an appraising glance around my small apartment, its small, dirty windows looking directly into another apartment building. The TV sat on a makeshift stand I had made from shipping palettes, a messy stack of DVDs towering beside it. The aging beige walls took on a rather unappealing pinkish hue in the evening sun and I noted with some disdain that the paint was beginning to chip in places. The brown shag carpet was stained from previous tenants and I intentionally avoided the mysterious greenish patch in the far left corner.

The apartment was far too small to have a dining area and my eyes swiveled to examine the tiny kitchen, its eggshell refrigerator sticking out like a sore thumb. The bright orange cabinets could easily be dated to the 70's and I sighed as I looked at the ancient stove, eternally filthy from years of use.

My bedroom was hardly that, the only thing separating it from the rest of the apartment was a floor to ceiling metal screen that had been installed sometime during the 60's. As with the rest of the apartment, the bathroom was old and decrepit and I felt a twinge of irritation at the amount of time it was taking maintenance to repair the leak by my toilet. It was far from my dream home and I found myself shoveling mashed potatoes into my mouth with some degree of frustration.

The evening seemed to pass in a crawl and the longer it went on, the more bored I became. I'd spent the majority of my life in one place. I had never even been out of the country. As my thoughts gradually began to deteriorate, I suddenly remembered the fridge. The fridge. That magical and all too wonderful device that stored some of my most favorite items. Decided, I strode purposefully to the fridge and opened the door. Love is an open door.

There it was, in all its alcoholic goodness. I eagerly snatched the bottle of zinfandel from the shelf and shut the door. Who needs a glass? I took a deep swig and tasted the tangy and fruity flavor of the wine. Who needs adventure? The idea to get horribly drunk suddenly seemed like an excellent one. Who needs friends? I flicked the TV off and heard the continual shouts from my neighbors. All I need, is alcohol and the Killers.

As I sloppily slurred along to Mr. Brightside at the top of my lungs, the familiar feeling of loneliness began to descend upon me. Instead of wallowing in the sensation, I decided to take another long, deep swig of zinfandel. You're going to regret this tomorrow. The logical part of my brain chided. Yes, yes I was. But tomorrow could take care of itself. What was the worst that could happen?