Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Please don't make any sudden moves, 

You don't know the half of the abuse, 

-Twenty One Pilots, "Heathens". 

 Chapter One:

Clint doesn't like hospitals.

"Like" might to be simplistic of a word, though. He's grateful for them, admittedly takes them for granted more than he should, but he utterly despises them. He hasn’t liked them since he was younger, and he doesn’t think that it’s going to change any time soon. He trained hard enough to not need to visit the infirmary often anymore in his desperate need to avoid the stupid doctors.

Needless to say, being trapped with doctors, nurses, and their annoying assistants every single day has driven him up to insanity and well beyond. Today marks the beginning of week four—day twenty-two—since it began, and he does not feel any more enthusiastic about it than he did at the start.

His sour mood is likely visible for a few miles out, but he does nothing to dampen it, nor attempt in the slightest to change. If he has to sit here and suffer, so does everyone else. They've learned nothing new anyway; there simply isn't a point to all of this anymore. He's still not sleeping, still has nightmares, has moments where he zones out into the memories, but he's recovering. He's managing. He would be coping better if they would just let him leave the inane S.H.I.E.L.D. base, but his protesting has gotten him absolutely nowhere.

Clint's focus is dragged out of his thoughts as a rather sharp prick of pain shoots up his forearm and he blinks rapidly to clear the remaining haze of his rumination and looks up at the nurse leaning over him with a needle pulling a small sample of blood from his arm. A blue fabric mask covers the lower part of her face reminding him strongly of a surgeon. It’s unnerving to realize that, despite the cover, he can still easily picture her wide smile perfectly.

Burning a hole in him with her sweetness, as always. From the time he's known her, her wrath of positive is aggravating on it's best days and sanity stealing on it's others. That’s that. No matter how much time he spends with her, Patrisha Smith never seems to get less galling.

She's always insistent on how these check-ups are "for his benefit" or "studying purposes", and it makes him want to throttle something.

What are they going to learn from his blood about something that was in his head? And magical for that matter? It gives him some comfort, he supposes—in the very, very far back distant part of his mind—to know that they aren't finding any sort of contingency plan Loki left in him, but he’d rather there was one so he could leave.

They aren't going to find anything because it wasn't science, it was magic. The line is thin, but there. Clint can never properly describe the sickly feeling of the magical worms digging through his brain and stuffing him out. Memories under the control is hazy, and he can’t pick out any distinct details save vivid flashes and the constant thrum of another entity in his head.

There was something else in his head.

"Now," Patrisha pulls down her mask, and sure enough, her stupid smile with far to much lipstick is present. She pulls back the vile of blood and sets it on a desk a few feet from the bed that he’s seated on. The vile rests beside other random equipment including a stethoscope, a thermometer, and a couple of other items he can’t name by sight.

She peels off her terribly smelling plastic gloves and grabs a clipboard clicking a pen covered in a wide variety of smiley faces. He hates clipboards.

"Are you experiencing any pain today?"

Beyond that of excruciating boredom?

"No." Clint answers, his voice is flat. This must be the hundredth time he’s heard this question, and he is completely and utterly done with it all. In his brief correspondences with Nat since he was checked in here, he’s quietly been insisting that he’s starting to hear them in his sleep.

He couldn’t say much more than that—to discuss what really happens here, because they monitor calls. This feels so much more like a prison than an inpatient care facility.

He can’t contact Laura.

Not without the threat of these demons learning who and where she is. He can’t risk it, even as much as he would love to speak with his family beyond he and Nat’s consistent usage of the ever secretive pet fish. These people must think him insane because he asks about his goldfish every time he calls Nat, but what else is he supposed to do?

He hasn’t seen them since before Loki, and Nat’s reassurances aren’t enough anymore.  

"Good!" Patrisha says enthusiastically, and flicks a check-mark into a box then grabs a stool, drags it over, and sits down on it facing him. Clint lifts his gaze away from her face to the obnoxiously white walls behind the nurse's head.

Is it a requirement for hospitals to have white walls? Personally, if he had a medical station, he would make it something less unsavory or more stainless. If someone bleeds out along a wall it must take forever to scrub out.

The paintings aren't his favorite either. He's been here so many times now that he could probably create an exact replica without consulting the original once, and his artistic skill levels are a little bit above stick figures. There's one in particular, located in the corner of this room, that he’s grown to have a love-hate relationship with. It’s a large waterfall pouring into a pond surrounded with animals that has a headline underneath that says in big, bold black letters, "PATIENCE". He for one has no idea what waterfalls and animals has to do with patience.

"How did you sleep last night?" Patrisha asks, and looks up from the rim of her large glasses to stare at him with wide eyes under a hefty dose of mascara and eye shadow. It doesn't blend in easily with the features of her face as a smaller amount would, and really just makes her eyes seem to pop out behind her glasses in a strange way.

Sleep. Ha. Funny.

Should he lie or answer honestly today?

Hmm. Choices choices.

The result will be the same either way; a month here has him properly experienced in that area. Last night he got the medal breaking record of three hours before jerking upright and called Nat in a panic, but he doesn’t want to admit that to Patrisha.

They might finally force the sleeping meds on him, and he’s worked so hard to avoid them the last month.

He hates drugs.

"Fine." Clint answers briskly to Patrisha's question. Patrisha's eyebrows curve downwards slightly and she sighs with the flare and dramatics of worthy of an Oscar.

"Mr. Barton," she starts, her smile straining—that probably shouldn’t feel him with as much vindictive pleasure as it does. He's made a name for being difficult, and he can only hope that they'll grow frustrated enough to kick him out not caring for his well being—Patrisha taps her pen against the clipboard before continuing: "You know that these check-ups are for your own health and being difficult isn't assisting you or me."

The latter is kind of the point.

"Yes," he says snarkily, and flashes her his own wide smile, "I am aware."

Patrisha's lips thin and her eyes narrow, but her smile doesn't drop; it is considerably more plastic now, though. She sighs. "As long as you know that, then I want you to be honest with me, alright?"

Does he look like a five-year-old who needs her to explain every nitty-gritty detail to him? He, contrary to popular belief, is not an idiot. Clint's forced smile grows more stretched, but he nods. "Alright." He echoes in agreement. The lie tastes slightly bitter on his tongue, but he doesn't retract it.

Patrisha, however, is oblivious and pacified. "Excellent!" She cheers, "How did you sleep last night?"

"On my back with a blanket on a hard cot that sort of smells like rotting tomatoes." Clint answers immediately, and leans back a little, folding his hands across his chest. Patrisha’s jaw clenches slightly, and a little crease settles in between her eyebrows.

"Mr. Barton—" She starts after several seconds, finally seeming to have reached the edge of her patience.

He’s annoying, but he’s not stupid. "Four hours, I think." He mutters. Patrisha nods and scribbles the number four onto the small blank line beside her asked question. Clint sighs and resists the disturbingly strong urge to bang the back of his head against the wall in frustration.

"Did you have any dreams?" Patrisha asks.

"No." He lies. What is there to say about it anyway? He hardly remembers the dreams when he wakes up save a faint voice whispering to him, and he knows that it’s Loki. That fact is sickenly a relief—a grounding—because he never heard Loki in his head during the invasion; it was just the hideous tendrils of magic, but his dreams love to twist the reality into something worse.

"Our technology specialists report that you called Black Widow last night and talked to her about a dream, was this from a previous night?" Patrisha inquires, stuffing her glasses up her nose.

Clint's fingers clench and he represses a long, frustrated yell. Oh, he wants out of here. S.H.I.E.L.D. can be a nuisance with moderating, but nothing like this healing center. It's supposed to be the most advanced that S.H.I.E.L.D. has which is why Director Fury sent him here.

But Fury sent him here under the impression it would be a few days or hours.

Not weeks.

It wasn’t supposed to become inpatient.

"Previous night." Clint grits between his teeth.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Patrisha asks.

"No." The word was supposed to be firm, but it instead comes out as a low hiss.

Patrisha is unaffected, "That's fine." She flicks at another box. "Your blood samples from last week show no signs of outside forces interfering, but we'll keep moderating it for a bit." She says.

Clint can’t help the visible slump of his shoulders. Great. That means that he has to spend more time here. Maybe it would be more endurable if he had a freakin’ end date, but he doesn’t. He’s stuck with the blood happy doctors until further notice. Nat keeps assuring him that she’ll get him out of here, but he’s really starting to doubt that.

Beyond physically strapping security down, dragging the nurses and doctors from the building, and turning off the power, there isn’t much that can be done in the way of security. He knows, he tried.

"Have you experienced any random headaches today?"

Yeah, and she's giving it to him. Clint rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and lets them remain there forcing out a breath. "No."

"Good." Patrisha clicks off another box. She looks up at him, "Have you experienced any mood swings or anything else you might label as "abnormal"?"

He doesn’t quite hide the roll of his eyes as well as he was hoping. Clint opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off as he hears voices speaking raucously from outside the door, probably further down the corridor.. Clint's eyebrows lift slightly and his bad mood is momentarily shoved to the side as curiosity takes its place. From what he can pick out, someone is arguing, loudly, with other people and there are many footsteps that sound rushed and getting closer.

What…?

Patrisha's smile finally breaks and it slips down into a displeased frown. “Will you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Barton?” She says and, without waiting for a response, she spins on her stool and rises to her feet before walking forward and grabbing at the handle of the door throwing it open. "What is going on out here?" She demands, her voice is still pleasant, but annoyance is obvious.

Hmm. Disappointing that the first thing she was actually annoyed at since they met wasn’t him.

"Nothing that concerns you." Clint feels his eyebrows lift to his hairline in surprise at the voice.

That is Tony Stark. He hasn't seen the billionaire since before he was shipped off to Wyoming and that was after they got Loki properly locked in the Raft. S.H.I.E.L.D. made a claim for him, insisting that since his faults were on their planet that Thor's father had no right to punish him and they did.

Odin hadn't fought them, but, for a brief moment Thor looked like he might before he simply sighed wearily and lead his muzzled brother forward with the rest of them. That was some four and a half (probably more) weeks ago.

Clint has half a second to process this before Tony is grabbing Patrisha by the shoulders, and turning her to the side so he can slip into the room. His hair looks a little neater than the last time Clint saw him. Instead of a Black Sabbath T-shirt and jeans, he's wearing a two piece black suit that probably cost more than Clint’s monthly paycheck. Sunglasses cover his eyes despite the fact that he's in a building and doesn't exactly have need to be wearing any. From what Clint knows of the man, it's very fitting of him, though.

Clint is suddenly very aware of his T-shirt with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo printed in the center and sweatpants that are both rumbled and look far less professional than Tony's clothing. He's wearing socks and boots though, so there is that.

Tony flashes him a wide smile—like they've been friends for years rather than barely know each other—and takes several more steps into the room. Clint can't see him looking at everything from behind the shades of the glasses, but assumes he is because a moment later he snorts and points to the painting of the waterfall and the animals. "What does that have to do with 'patience'?"

"That's the same thing I've been attempting to tell them." Clint says dryly. Tony's head turns to look more fully at him. Clint's probably a sight to behold with his bedhead, shadowed eyes and overall exhaustion that pours off him. He hasn't looked in a mirror for a while.

Patrisha seems to get a hold of herself and her lips thin and eyes narrow. She takes several steps forward to Tony and Clint sees a glimpse of the other agents waiting outside of the room, looking, in the least, miffed at Tony's sudden appearance. How did he get in here?

Okay, better question: why is he here anyway?

"Mr. Stark," Patrisha starts, all sweet honey has seeped out of her tone, "I beg you not to bother our patients. Mr. Barton has been through a very hard time recently and it would simply be a curtsy if you were to leave—"

Tony lets out a laugh, one that sounds all lopsided and wrong and he shakes his head slightly, "Sorry Madam, but I am here by order of Director Fury."

He is?

Patrisha's nostrils flare, "I highly doubt that."

"Not exactly my problem, is it Ms. Smith?" Tony snarks, and his head turns back to Clint. Tony's posture looks slightly tired, now that Clint is looking for it, and he's shoulders are tense. He doesn't look like he's been sleeping any better than Clint has.

Why is he here?

"But it's mine." Patrisha argues, "This is my patient and his health is my responsibility—"

"Lovely." Tony smiles, "You're concerned. Now get." Tony makes a shooing motion with his hands and Patrisha's shoulders raise as her whole body tenses. Clint doesn't see it, but can almost sense the eye-roll as Tony grabs Patrisha's shoulders and bodily shoves her out of the room before slamming the door shut, flicking the lock and turns back to him.

Ignoring the sudden paranoia that races through him at the locks, Clint forces his posture to relax before he leans forward slightly. Tony pulls off his sunglasses and Clint's eyes widen slightly as he sees deep shadows that probably can't be covered by any amount of makeup. Tony looks dead on his feet, pale and fidgety; seconds from flopping forward and sleeping for the next twenty years. What has he been doing ?

Well.

That explains the sunglasses, he guesses.

"Wow, she's a character." Tony says and shakes his head slightly; he lifts his right thumb back towards the door. "You have to deal with her daily?"

As much as he’d love to sit here and trade insults back and forth about Patrisha...he’s getting the impression that they don’t have time for small talk. "Why are you here?" He demands, straight and to the point. Tony can verbally walk his way around his real reason as much as he wants to, but Clint is going to drag it back to the main purpose.

Tony's lips press together slightly and he sighs before folding the sunglasses and putting them in the front coat pocket. "Avengers business."

Ah. What is it now? Thor have a sister that decided she wants to conquer Earth mercilessly?

Clint sighs through his nose, "Well, sorry, I haven't been given clearance for missions yet. I think that the guy in the room next to me would be willing to help, though, he’s an avid yo-yo-ist. Really effective."

Tony snorts, "I think that this takes precedence over 'clearancing', Barton." He says. Clint presses his lips together for a second before forcing his gaze up again. The multi-billionaire is staring at him through a slight squint and his arms are folded across his chest; he looks anxious. He's shifted positions so he's leaning back against the wall. It's likely an attempt to look nonchalant, but it just makes the strain on his shoulders stand out more.

Clint hums slightly and plays with his fingers for a moment before looking up at his "teammate". The Avengers had never been disbanded, per say, more like they agreed to only communicate with each other on missions maybe offer a quip here and there, and then, when it was over, they would possibly stop for food then go their separate ways again. There was no point of them getting closer. The world doesn't actually face major threats every other Thursday so "teammate" is a loose term. Associate would be a better name, or maybe distant-fellow-employee-working-towards-a-common-goal. Clint stares at Tony's brown eyes for second before sighing slightly, "I can't leave without a clearance."

"You can't or you won't?" Tony challenges half a heartbeat later.

"No, I can't." Clint presses, "They'll bodily drag me back in here; I've tried."

Tony's eyebrows lift slightly. "You're a master assassin and a professional spy, but you can't leave a hospital ?" Tony demands rhetorically. Yeah, it would sound stupid, if it was just a hospital. It's definitely not. "Humph, yeah, real impressive." Tony chides half a second later, tone flat.

Clint represses an aggravated sigh, "They put all the crazy people in here, alright? They've had too many slip through so they upped the security. They're listening to everything we're saying right now." Clint explains, voice clipped. Tony hums again, his stance shifting to looking strangely smug. What, he's happy that there is an inability for privacy here?

Tony lifts up his phone and waves it back and forth several times. "Ah, so they think." He assures, "Their programmers are terrible." He chirps. "I've been taking down the security since I stepped in here—well, Jarvis has." Clint feels his jaw fall slightly.

"You—?"

"Alright," Tony says and all facades of cheeriness immediately slip from his features, Clint didn't even realize they were there until the forced stance is gone. Tony seems to completely deflate from exhaustion. Has he eaten recently? Clint knows he looks terrible, but Stark takes all the cake leaving no crumbs behind.

Tony takes the needed steps to Patrisha's stool and plops down on it. His fingers idly tap on the seat for a second before he looks up. He seems to hesitate, pauses for a few seconds before saying: "Something's up at the Raft, the team's assembling to go check it out."

The Raft, as in The Raft?

Cold realization swims through his stomach: Loki.

No, no, no, no, no…

Clint opens his mouth to pour out his suspicion and demand answers, but Tony lifts up a hand, "Before you blurt it out; we don't actually know if it's Loki. General Ross," Tony's lip curls in displeasure at the name, as if saying it physically disgusts him, "just sent out an urgent call. Something's up, but he refuses to say anything until we get there."

We.

“We”?

He plans on taking him there? No. No. No and no. He's not willingly going to the place that Loki is held, he refuses to be any closer to the monster than he has to. On second thoughts, the medical facility is a fine place to spend the rest of his days.

Clint presses his lips together. "No."

"'No'?" Tony repeats, "No what?"

"I'm not going." Clint answers, briskly.

Tony's jaw clenches in slight frustration or something else before the multi-billionaire releases a breath. "Listen, alright; his scepter—" Clint can't repress his flinch. Half a second, and the man already knew what was bugging him, has he gotten that easy to read? "—is on the Helicarrier, with over five layers of security flying near Florida. The Raft is miles— states from that...Also, Miss Romanov is going." Tony adds the last part after a half a second and Clint feel his muscles lurch into tense adrenaline.

"She's what?" Is his partner stupid? Loki may not have the sc—his weapon in the invasion, but he's still, according to Thor, a skilled sorcerer and manipulator. He doesn't need mind control to do that. What is she thinking?

Idiot.

Tony ignores the outburst, seeming unfazed. He stares Clint in the eye for a moment before leaning back and his stance slips to the pretend relaxed again. Tony raises to his feet and Clint follows him with his eyes. Is he seriously leaving without a fight? No arguments? Tony watches him for another moment before grabbing his sunglasses and flicking them out. "You coming or not? I only have one shot to get you out of here."

Clint grits his teeth together in frustration for a moment. He does not want to go anywhere near Loki again. Something is just so terribly... off about the Asgardian. But...the scepter isn't there, Loki can't take his mind if he goes. Besides, he has to watch Nat's back. Nothing else. Ha, she'll be so happy that she did finally manage to get him out of here.

Clint stands. "I left my bow in my room." He says in answer. And his jacket. He didn't take any other personal possessions with him except a gun, but the gun was taken from him the moment he stepped into the facility; he refused to let them take his bow.

Tony shrugs lackadaisically, but Clint can see the barest edge of relief in his eyes at the veiled yes. He swings the glasses onto his face and pushes them up his nose, stuffing his hands into his pockets in a fluid movement.

"What? You have sentimental attachment to it?" Tony asks.

Clint hesitates slightly. Not really, but he doesn’t know if there will be other weapons provided to him, and he’d rather not take his chances. "It—" He starts, but Tony waves a hand a hand in reassurance, the two lettered answer apparently all he needs. Clint can feel his eyes on him through the sunglasses.

"Don't worry about it, we'll just swing by on our way out." Tony assures.

If they let them leave.

"How do you plan on getting out?" Clint asks as he rises to his feet and comes into pace next to Tony.

The multi-billionaire smirks. "Straight through the front door, Legolas."

Clint blinks, aghast quietly. "Are you insane?"

Tony shrugs, "Jury's out." The way he flips it out so casually suggests that this isn't the multi-billionare's first time receiving the title. "Come." Tony makes a waving hand motion with his hands. It's ASL for come, that most people don't realize that they're making and the sight makes something in him twist uncomfortably.

"Go get your stuff, I'll keep the leaches busy." Tony says and Clint gives him a side glance. He should probably correct the man on the title, but it's by far a more accurate title than "doctor" or "nurse".

"Where should I meet you?" Clint asks. Tony shrugs slightly.

"Right here’s as good a place as any."

Right. Clint gives an affirmative nod before Tony swings the door open and Patrisha immediately attempts to barrel into the room. Clint ducks out of her reach sliding through the small opening into the hallway. A group of at least thirty is present and in the back of his mind, Clint is slightly impressed with the number. It's pretty high. In the front, he quickly shoves himself against the wall moving out of the reach of their hands but not their voices.

"Mr. Barton—"

“ Mr. Barton —"

"Hawkeye—"

A hand grabs at his upper arm with nails and the force of it halts his escape. Clint grits his teeth together to withhold a cry of frustration and turns to look back at Dr. Timson Timson, the head doctor of this facility.

Tony got the attention of the head doctor.

Impressive.

Then again, does the Stark know how to do anything quietly? "Mr. Barton," Dr. Timson says, his voice is slightly pinched, " where do you think you're headed off to?"

"The Atlantic." Tony answers for him as Clint opens his mouth to respond. Tony pops up beside him suddenly and rests a hand on his shoulder, although it seems casual, Clint can sense there's something strangely threatening in the gesture, not towards him but Dr. Timson.

Dr. Timson sputters and he hears Patrisha give a sound of displeasure, "The Atlantic Ocean?" Dr. Timson repeats, as if for clarification.

"Yes, that's what I said." Tony agrees, eyebrow cocking upwards.

"He's not ready for missions!" Patrisha snaps, "He's barely coping! You can't drag him off to the Atlantic! No! I refuse to let you take him!" Patrisha says, waving her hands out in a wide arc as she speaks and Clint's stomach sinks.

He sends a pointed I told you so look in Tony's direction, but the billionaire doesn't look at him, gaze zeroed on Patrisha. Tony peels Dr. Timson's fingers away from his forearm, and then makes a shooing motion with his hands back at him.

"Go get your trinkets, Barton." He commands and Dr. Timson and Patrisha start up another violent ray of protesting that Clint ignores quickly walking down the hallway. If it had been any faster, Clint would likely have labeled it "bolting", but he forces himself not to run. Yes, the goal is to get out of here as fast as possible, but running might attract other attention that isn't wanted and further the people they'll have to weave through.

Clint makes it to his quarters without any incidents and grabs his jacket swinging it on zipping up the front before snatching his bow's case from under the cot and flips it open. The bow is there along with about fifty arrows present in the quiver. Although most quivers only hold about thirty arrows, S.H.I.E.L.D. enhanced the capacity of his when he joined so it would be more effective. Clint grabs the folded bow and attaches it to the small hook next to the quiver on the right before pulling it over his head the strap crossing over his jacket and the tips of the arrows next to the right side of his head. If they're going to have to stop Loki at the Raft, Clint wants to be prepared for it.

He walks towards the door then pauses looking back at the small room that's been his living space for the last few weeks. When this is over, will he have to come back here or will Fury give him clearance? That probably depends if he doesn't die in the battle.

Hmm, happy thoughts.

Clint closes the door and doesn't look back as he begins to weave through the halls to return back to where Tony was. Hopefully, the multi-billionaire didn’t ditch him here to suffer his fate. If he did, well...Clint doesn’t really want to think on that.

When he reaches the hallway a few minutes later, Tony has not abandoned him, but is still talking with the nurses and Dr. Timson somehow managing to fend them all from leaving the area without being obvious about it. As soon as Clint comes into their line of site, Patrisha quickly shoves Tony to the side and moves towards him, her hands twitch as if to reach out and grab his shoulder, but Clint forcefully evades it.

"Mr. Barton," Patrisha says, "you can't be serious about leaving at a time like this! We've barely seen any improvement in you, you're just not ready to be out in the world."

That is just...so, so encouraging to hear.

Clint buries a shout of frustration. Is he? He feels fine— well, he's coping. What they're doing here isn't helping him. It hasn't since day one until now. If they continue he may just spontaneously combust and the clean up would be nasty.

"He is." Tony says and swings an arm around Clint's shoulders again, dragging him forward. He stumbles at little on the first few steps, but gathers his bearings.

Tony weaves through the people who are talking rapidly behind them, their words blurring into one mass that Clint can't pick out any of the details of. They reach the door to the facility and Clint half expects a SWAT team to appear and drag them back in, but none does and Tony opens the door.

The gust of fresh air after so long of the recycled medical's stale is relieving and Clint wants to sit still and just breathe it in forever.

Focus, Barton; remember?

Right.

Clint takes a few steps onto the walkway he's only tread once on his arrival here and sweeps his eyes across the grounds. There's a parking lot to the left of them and a large garden-looking area to the right; Clint knows it is a garden because one of Patrisha's greatest prides about the hospital was that they "grow our own food here, isn't that fantastic!?". Beyond the parking lot is the bare desert of Wyoming stretching out for miles, the only population likely a snakes, cactus, and tumbleweed. Maybe the odd rat.

Parked on top of the asphalt, though, is a Quinjet. It looks a little different than the one's that Clint remembers flying a month ago, but Clint can see only improvements. The angle of the wings has shifted slightly, likely for getting better drag and the entire shape seems a little thinner for gaining speed.

More than likely Tony's doing.

Tony releases his shoulders as they step onto the parking lot before whirring around, annoyance seeming to pour off of him like a wave. Clint turns, too, looking back at the medical personal who have halted looking slightly startled. There's about a dozen nurses and a few agents with Dr. Timson at the front who doesn't look happy. He comes to a halt and rests his hands on his hips, glaring.

"You can't just waltz in here and take my patient, Mr. Stark." He says, angrily.

Tony's eyebrow lifts slightly and he turns to Clint, "Is he serious?" After glancing at Clint's face he grips the bridge of his nose, "He's serious. Good heavens, Sir, I'm not taking him out for slaughtering. Shall I say it to you once more because your tiny, vacant mind can't grasp this: He has clearance from Director Fury." Tony huffs in annoyance before grabbing Clint's elbow and drags him the final few dozen feet between them and the Quinjet.

As they reach the landing pad, Clint can see someone at the top waiting in the ship for them. Clint pauses, but Tony walks forward without any hesitation and unintentionally drags him forward up the ramp. The medical staff is still talking behind them, less violently, more so in weak protesting. As they reach the top, Clint can see the figure clearly and feels his eyebrows lift slightly in surprise.

Bruce Banner.

It shouldn't be surprising, because Bruce and the Hulk are part of the Avengers team, but seeing him there is...weird. Clint never really had any interaction with the doctor during the invasion given the mind control, and Bruce showed up only long enough to trade a few remarks and then Hulk out.

He looks slightly stressed in his face, which is reasonable because of what they're headed off to do, but his stance is relatively calm. Dark hair is tangled around his face and glasses and he's wearing a red collar shirt with a heavy brown jacket, large pants, and a thick pair of boots. Around his neck is a yellow and blue scarf and Clint can’t repress the slight eyebrow lift.

Cold much?

Tony pats Bruce on the shoulder as he passes, pauses for half a heart beat before stating, loudly: "Quit fiddling with your fingers, you're going to rip them off."

Clint's eyes immediately flicker down towards Bruce's hands where the man is indeed twisting his right pointer finger aggressively inwards. At the comment, Bruce's hands still and he looks at Clint for a second. His gaze sweeps him over, lingering on his hair for a moment, before he outstretches a hand for him to shake in greeting.

Clint takes it and is instantly impressed on just how cold his fingers are. It's like wrapping his hands around an ice cube. Clint withdraws and offers a tight smile, "Hi."

"Hey." Bruce answers and Clint jerks his head as he sees something fly through the air from the corner of his eye. Clint dives out of the way of the projectile, but Bruce catches the gloves from midair and they both turn to look at Tony who is standing a few feet away, sunglasses off, eyebrows lifted slightly with amusement.

"Those are for Barton," he says and Bruce awkwardly offers them towards him. Clint takes the cloth them pulls them over his fingers. They're warm, but not uncomfortably so. Clint sweeps his gaze over the plane. It's empty save them and Clint is filled with a sudden curiosity as to who flew it here. Or how they knew where "here" was, anyway. Fury gave him clearance, though, that's probably how. Tony clears his throat to fill the sudden awkward void of silence and turns back towards the pilot's seat.

So Tony flew, then.

"Alright, buckle up, children." Tony commands. Although the exterior of the plane looks altered, the interior remains the same as Clint remembers it: The pilot seats at the front and two benches on either side in the back with supplies in lockers above the chairs.

Clint slides towards one of the benches sitting on it stiffly and quickly grabs the straps to buckle in per Tony's order. Bruce slides into the one opposite of him, somehow managing to look out of place and does the same with the seat belts. The engine of the Quinjet roars and the door to the plane closes before Clint feels the slight jerk as it takes off from the parking lot, likely leaving a large burn mark.

A part of him is vindictively pleased by this.

The flight is long and slightly awkward, but beyond a few attempts at small talk here and there, it's taken in total silence.

It's not until Clint can see the Raft in the distance that he attempts to break the silence, "Are the others meeting us there?" He asks. Natasha is most definitely not on the Quinjet (unless she can suddenly turn invisible) and they haven't stopped to pick anyone up on the way there. Not Thor, or Captain America.

"Yeah." Tony answers from the pilot's seat, "Well, I assume so, anyway." The last part is less reassuring than the first.

Bruce's fingers drum again for a moment and he looks up at the ceiling, tilting his head back to stare. Clint personally doesn't find it interesting, but Bruce is staring at the metal above them as though it just revealed to him the answers to life's greatest mysteries.

Clint glances away, so he doesn't get caught staring.

Tony lands the plane less than five minutes later and Clint unbuckles the straps and gets to his feet and as Bruce starts to undo the seat belt to his. Tony walks away from the pilot's seat and flips one of the containers doors down dragging out a briefcase. It's red and looks uncomfortably heavy, but the multi-billionaire doesn't seem to really struggle lifting it. His sunglasses are still off, likely in one of the pockets of his suit jacket.

Tony glances between the two of them before striding forward and slamming a hand down on the button next to the door to open it. The ramp lowers slowly with a slight groan of metal and Clint is immediately hit in the face with a blast of freezing air. He purses his lips together and releases a soft breath through his nose before pulling his leather jacket tighter around himself.

"Wow, it is much colder than they told me it was going to be." Tony exclaims and begins to trek down the ramp. Clint and Bruce follow after him, the gamma scientist grabbing at his wide jacket and pulling it tighter around his frame.

There isn't a storm, but there is clouds, and plenty of wind to make up for it.

The Raft's dark coloring reminds Clint of a road, but it's not made of asphalt, some sort of reinforced metal and stone from what he understands. How they got it to float is beyond him, but the main idea is that it's submerged under water so that way if the prisoners do escape there's nowhere for them to go except into the freezing water and float up to the top, dead.

General Thaddeus Ross is waiting for them, flanked by about a dozen men with helmets covering their faces and rifles in hands. They look impassive against the storm, despite the fact that General Ross's nose is bright red. Clint sweeps his gaze away from them and towards where a helicopter is parked, dormant.

Thor is standing beside the captain, both engaging in what looks to be unpleasant small talk judging by the way both look like they want to flee the conversation. Thor is in his Asgardian armor minus the cape and his hammer is hanging off his belt, still at his side. Unlike before, his hair is swept back into a ponytail with a few pieces hanging out, but they aren't as likely to be in the way.

Steve is in a slightly darker outfit, probably one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s, and his shield is strapped to his back. The way he's holding himself is tense, but beside him, Thor doesn't appear much better.

Behind the two of them is Fury and Nat. Fury is standing with his arms crossed behind his back, his coat blowing in the wind, but he seems unfazed by the cold. Natasha is leaning against the helicopter, her S.H.I.E.L.D. suit zipped up to her neck making full use of the collar it provides. Her short hair is flowing around her face softly and she catches eye contact with him almost immediately.

Clint exhales quietly as he sees his partner, and, as Fury sees them, he moves forward, the rest of his party following. "Took you long enough," Fury says as he reaches them his eye holding slight frustration, "what'd you do, stop for coffee?"

"And fries." Tony quips immediately, but offers no other answer. Fury's gaze shifts towards him slightly. Clint doesn't bother to offer any truthful answers and offers: "They were good."

“Hilarious.” Fury assures flatly.

"What's the situation?" Clint asks instead, and can see Nat staring at him. Her gaze holds a question that Clint can't decipher, and he doesn’t feel awake enough to do it properly.

"We don't know." Steve says; his expression tinges with slight frustration, "General Ross refused to give any of the details until you arrived, we were only about ten minutes before you."

Huh.

That's annoying. Clint turns to look at the General expectantly and folds his arms across his chest. He sees the others gyrate as well, although Bruce seems to shift slightly behind Tony. The multi-billionaire either doesn't notice or care because he makes no comment or moves. Ross moves forward the few feet between them and his nose twitches slightly.

"I assembled you here today because—" General Ross's loud booming voice trails off suddenly as he looks beside Tony and his expression tinges with rage before he jerks his hand out and points at Bruce. "What the bloody heck is that thing doing on my boat!?"

This is a prison, and Bruce is a person not a thing. Clint opens his mouth to answer, but Steve beats him to it. "You asked for all the Avengers, Sir." He points out. His tone is calm and carefully even; much nicer than any way Clint would have counteracted the claim.

"Yes, I did!" General Ross agrees, his voice raised to near shout, "But I have never considered him, or the thing to be a part of your little vigilante group!"

Bruce shrinks backwards and Tony's expression darkens slightly.

"Maybe I should just—" Bruce starts to say softly, but is cut off.

"With all due respect Sir," Steve says, his voice still that careful placidness, "Bruce and Hulk are both Avengers."

"But—!" Ross starts and Fury shoots him a glare.

"Save your breath," Fury commands, "we're not here to make our statements about who should and should not be on the team, General. We're here because you called us in and I would like to know why."

Ross's mouth opens and closes twice before he exhales. With clear effort, he pulls his icy stare away from Bruce. "Fine. Fine. You're here because his brother—" Ross points an accusing finger towards Thor, "—is trying to escape."

Clint's stomach sinks and raw panic seeps through his nerves. No, not now. It's been a month, why would he wait this long? How do they know that? Why can't he just stay where he is? Why does he have to keep messing with Clint's life? Was ripping apart his head not enough for him? What is—?

"How do you know that?" Fury demands. "From what I've heard, he's barely moved let alone planned a dramatic escape attempt."

"Ha. Yeah, we all thought that, too. He woke up last night and kept rubbing at his face, I assume it was some sort of spell in the making because a minute later there's a flare of red, and then the whole ship deals with the aftereffects of an EMP. The camera's on his cell are dead. I have twenty men stationed outside of the cell waiting for him to make his move, and I called you all five hours ago! He could have been long gone by now, where were you!?"

Fury's jaw shifts to the right in a slight show of frustration that wouldn't be visible unless someone was either looking for it or knows him well enough as his knuckles twitch, "You didn't mention what the urgent matter was, General, we had no reason to assume it was this."

Beyond the fact that they had every reason to assume this. Loki is here. That's a pretty good reason to conjecture it was this.

General Ross inhales sharply, offended, obviously, and raises his hand to retort something probably nasty, but the Raft rocks suddenly and Clint staggers, barely managing to keep upright. It's not the waves, those aren't powerful enough to be rocking the ship this much, not enough storm. That—

Loki.

Thor comes to the conclusion faster than him because he grabs Mjolner from off of his belt the second the Raft's fake-earthquake is over and turns to Ross, "I fear we may be too late. Where is he located? Perhaps we can stop him before he reaches the surface."

Clint exhales and swings his bow off the side of his quiver with his right hand jerking it out until it snaps to full length before he draws an arrow. He sees Steve grab his shield from off his back and Nat pull out a gun from his peripheral vision.

Yeah, perhaps they can stop him. Maybe they can keep him contained here . Realistically though? Likely not.

Wont stop them from trying, though.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two:

Something is wrong.

That much is beyond obvious, but it's not "wrong" the way that General Ross seems to be keen on. Correction: set into stone beyond hope of movement or even a slight wobble. The offsetidness of the entire situation makes her hesitant, but not as wary and paranoid as the general. Everything about this just screams in a different direction that what Ross is trying to point them in. Ross said that they'd been waiting for the Avengers to assemble for hours yet Loki has made no move to escape in all that time. Why?

If his goal really is just getting out, he would be long gone by now; hours is a long time to bide time. Unless he's no longer in the cell right now, which doesn't seem likely. No, he wants something from them, that's why he's waiting. He's not stupid, she saw the way that he played her on the Helicarrier, there's a brain buried beneath thick layers of crazy. Perhaps that's what's bothering her the most about this.

Why hasn't he left yet?

What is it that he's so intent on waiting for?

Revenge? Murder? What?

Natasha hates not knowing all the information. Yet here she stands, empty handed.

She, the rest of the Avengers, Fury and General Ross (he left his men stationed at the surface incase Loki gets past them) quickly trek through the Raft and beyond General Ross's whispered mutterings and the soft whir of mechanical parts that Tony's suit makes, there is utter silence. A stillness that seems to swallow them the further they move into the Raft, grabbing at their throats and squeezing daring them to speak. Chewing further than the edging frays. No, it's hungry and feasting.

There is something unspoken between them to not talk and Natasha presses her lips together keeping her eyes forced forward. She doesn't know what would be worse: complete and utter chaos with an unhealthy dose of death and Loki standing on the corpses or this silence stretching on for much longer.

They reach Loki's cell in under ten minutes and Natasha switches the safety off one of her guns as they reach the hall leading towards the door. The corridor looks exactly how she remembers it when they dragged Loki down here a month and some days ago save the fact that the backup generators are humming softly giving a soft red lightning to the hall. The hall is made of mostly metal, a depressing gray that stretches across the floors and ceiling without changing. Lights are station every ten feet or so leaving no area shadowed. Twenty men or so are crouching before the door, guns raised, breathing audibly and heavily. Stealth is clearly not a priority, or the sheer frustration of standing in front of the cell with no results has driven them to the loud breaths.

Natasha half expects there to be dents and maybe burn marks, or perhaps any sort of resistance against the door, but it doesn't look so much as scratched, let alone like a mass-murderer is attempting to break through the several feet of thick metal, as the General is insisting.

Natasha comes to a halt a few feet behind the men and Clint stands beside her, eyes sweeping over everything, but he doesn't seem to catch any details she didn't, because the tenseness in his shoulders remains steady. He's stressed and Natasha doesn't blame him. His fingers keep wringing around his bow, but the arrow drawn is completely steady and ready to be fired. His expression is blank, but he's braced for action, like the rest of them.

Natasha exhales a soft breath, one that disappears into the sounds of the others and General Ross's handgun lifts towards the door. Fury takes several careful steps forward, but Natasha can see his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Apparently he was also expecting something different; as all of them were. They were expecting violence, not this...placidness. This is Loki; the man isn't exactly a silent and subtle person. So why, why is it that he's waiting? And what for?

Fury turns to to glance towards the men gathered around the door, "Has he tried anything?" His voice is quiet, but the break from the deathly stillness that's swallowed them is strange and loud, no matter how soft his voice was.

One of the men lowers his gun, apparently the commander in charge of the squadron and Natasha sees him give a slight shake of his head. "No sir," he answers, his voice strained and laced with a faint British accent.

Well, that can be both a good and a bad sign. Augh! She wants answers, now.

Fury's lips thin and he turns back towards the door before with one hand on his gun he crosses the distance between himself and it. Natasha withholds her protests at his action, swallowing them behind gritted teeth. Fury knows what he's doing, he isn't an idiot. He lifts a hand up towards the door and flips open the pass-code glass lock cover.

Natasha flicks her gaze towards General Ross towards the left of her and barely catches the flitted panic that screams across his features for a second before it's masked or covered with anger. "What are you doing?" He hisses at Fury's back. Natasha wonders the same thing, but Fury offers him no answer. Instead, he presses into the keypad a stream of five numbers: 1,1,6,0, and 5. The keypad is scrambled every hour so the code changes, how Fury knew to acquire the numbers before coming here Natasha isn't certain, but she doesn't really care.

What is he doing? Yeah, Loki hasn't attempted an attack, yet, but that doesn't mean they need to give him better access to doing so! Brilliance, that's what this is, just utter brilliance.

"Hey, I saw that you couldn't get out of the cell and decided to help you along the way so we could get to our battle sooner."

"Really? Thanks! Let's get to it then!"

Natasha is cut off from her sarcastic inner monologue as the door gives a low hiss before the dozens of locks and other security features (most of which Natasha is unaware of what they are, only of their existence) open and the door slowly drags itself out revealing the contents inside. The power may be out, but the cell would normally still have the backup generators low lighting. This is not the case, all that is present is the thick inky darkness that she can't see into. Natasha's gun lifts up despite herself as she braces herself for the oncoming attack. A dagger, magic, him forcefully leaping outwards and—

Nothing.

Nothing?

Why isn't anything happening? Is he already gone? Teleportation, maybe? Can he do that? No one ever sat down in front of Thor and actually asked what the extent of Loki's magical abilities are, or if Thor is even fully aware of what it reaches to. Bad oversight that they'll need to fix when they find the crazy Asgardian again.

Fury apparently doesn't share her theory of teleportation because he shifts from his position to the side of the door, gun lifting with his right hand as he flips up a flashlight from his belt with his left. He flicks the beam into the room and although his posture was already painfully rigid, it tightens further. Natasha tenses and braces to leap forward and tackle the man if she needs to, but Fury simply turns to glance back at them, flicking the flashlight off as he does so to leave the cell bathed in the darkness.

Fury's posture doesn't indicate that he's expecting an attack and he wouldn't turn his back on an enemy unless he was positive they were neutralized. That makes Loki either missing or...something else.

"Thor, Romanov, you should see this." Fury's voice is slightly breathless and there's noticeable strain. His shoulders draw back, but he doesn't look braced for attack. See? See what? Loki makes no movement to leap from the cell and sharing a glance with the blond, Natasha takes a step forward. The Raft's guards split like she's contaminated with the Black Plague and Natasha quickly slips between them to the door. Thor is a half a step behind her.

His grip on his hammer is tight and Natasha can taste electricity building in the air. It's unpleasant and surprisingly tangy.

She presses her lips together tightly and squints into the darkness as Fury takes a step back. There's nothing prominent that would draw Fury's attention so much, but she waits for her eyes to adjust, patiently. Fury's not a man who would draw her scrutiny to nothing. All her senses draw on is the fact that very strained breath is meeting her ears, strained and...some sort of mewling sound. Not crying, just soft panicked moans or breaths.

"Here." Fury hands her the flashlight he was using before and Natasha takes it with a nod of thanks before she flicks the switch upwards and the strong beam of light shoots into the dark room. It's bare with a single bench/bed along the back wall with no bedding. It's vacant. Along the ground is little fragments of broken glass, most likely from the lights that aren't functioning and blasted into thousands of pieces across the metal floor. She lifts her wrist, raising the beam of light towards the ceiling and can indeed see the fractured shards of the light that no longer contains any glass and is a mess of burned wires hanging from the ceiling.

Natasha pulls the beam away from the ceiling towards the far corner on the right (where the sounds seem to be coming from) the furthest from the door and feels her eyes widen a fraction in surprise.

In the corner, knees pulled to his chest, hands ripping at the muzzle still present on his face is Loki. His body language is clearly one that reads "panicked!" and the sight causes Natasha to recoil a half step back. His eyelids are red, bleeding and leaking an ugly yellow at the corner and his eyes are a washed out murky gray flickering back and forth in a wild manner. Underneath his eyes are deep shadows that look painfully like bruises. Around and near his eyes are long scratch marks, like someone let a rather nasty cat at his head. His fingers are digging in what looks like a painful manner behind the muzzle in an attempt to tear it off.

It looks in a word: dreadful.

She can't muster up any sympathy, just cold detachment, but Thor beside her inhales sharply and the electricity in the air seems to dampen for a moment before striking back with a furthered fury. Thor turns, slowly, forbiddingly, towards General Ross and Natasha sees his fingers tighten around Mjolnir's handle. Angry. Dangerously angry.

"What did you do?" Thor demands, his voice is low but cold and sharp. Digging.

General Ross folds his arms across his chest, gun still clutched firmly in his arm, annoyed. "Nothing, you bloke, we haven't touched him since he was thrown in there."

Thirty-six days ago? No one has done anything with him? Hard to believe.

Apparently realizing this, General Ross adds, half a second later: "And why do you care, anyway? He's a mass-murderer, not your little brother who's going to go crying to you at every whim. Whoever you knew is gone replaced with that." General Ross points an accusing finger towards where Loki is curled in the corner and although the words weren't directed at her, she can still sense the sting.

Thor takes a slight step backwards like he'd been physically hit and his face flashes with an unreadable emotion for a second before the angry mask takes its place. He looks ready to tackle General Ross, but Natasha jerks her hand up and grabs his shoulder. He's considerably taller than her and could easily throw her across the room without a problem, but at her touch he freezes like she'd frozen his bloodstreams.

"Don't." She commands, her voice level. Thor turns to look at her his eyes flashing with frustration and she gives a slight shake of her head, "Don't." She forces further.

Thor backs down and Natasha turns to look forward. Clint is watching her face looking for answers and she isn't exactly sure what to say. Loki's eyes are a mess and infected? She isn't exactly sure what else there is to say, honestly. Maybe add a "it looks painful"? Tony and Bruce are standing side by side, Bruce is also staring at her, but his expression is more guarded. She can't tell what Tony is doing because of the suit, but Steve looks considerably calmer than he did the last time she spared a look towards him.

General Ross's gaze locks with her, "What is the problem, Miss Romanov?"

Natasha's mouth runs dry suddenly and she shares a look with Fury. He gives a slight nod of permission and she turns to look back at the rest of the gathered group, save Thor, who are watching her expectantly. She collects words along her tongue forcing them to form a understandable sentence rather than just a jumble of sounds. "He's...not going to attack us today."

General Ross snorts, "Yes, because that's believable. Do you take us for gullible fools?"

Most of the people in this room, no. Natasha shakes her head slightly, "Not usually."

"Miss Romanov," General Ross is clearly done with her humor, "What is the issue then, if the prisoner is not planning an attack? Why did the power cut?"

She has no idea. Maybe Loki was panicking or…the cell is supposed to be able to handle his magic, though, Tony assured it. The cell did, the light's didn't, nor any of the rest of the power in the facility, save the backups.

"We're not sure," Fury answers for her after a few seconds when Natasha doesn't answer. "He has some sort of infection in his eyes, you might want to get a doctor to look at that."

"A doctor?" General Ross repeats, spitting the word out like it will physically wound him if he doesn't. "I'm not sending a doctor in there only to be murdered by that." He swings his hand out to gesture towards the cell and Natasha flicks a gaze back towards the darkness that encompasses it. Loki looked far from being able to squash an ant, let alone murder anyone. If this is an act—which she is admittedly doubting—it is an incredibly good one.

"He needs a healer," Thor insists, his voice is drained of it's anger, but it doesn't make any less imposing.

"He needs nothing." General Ross protests, "If he's sick that's better for us, he won't be as willing to escape."

Thor looks aghast, "Better for you—!?" He starts to repeat, but the rising argument is halted completely at Bruce's voice: "I'll do it."

All heads swing towards him and although he looks strongly uncomfortable with the sudden attention, Bruce doesn't back down, instead he straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin a little. "I can check him, I'm a doctor." He insists, "And if he tries to murder me, the Other Guy won't exactly take that well, I don't think."

Natasha sighs through her teeth quietly. It's true, it doesn't make her like it any more, but it is the truth. Fury gives a slight nod and Natasha slips away from the entrance to the door.

General Ross huffs, "Oh, sure, that's brilliance." He grumbles.

"General Ross," Fury says, his voice spent of all it's patience for stupidity and said man flicks his gaze towards the other, "shut up."

Bruce takes several steps forward towards the cell, "Bruce—" Tony starts in protest, but the scientist ignores him and grabs the flashlight from Natasha's hand and moves into the cell shining the beam into the room, again. This would be incredibly easier of the bulbs in that area hadn't been broken by whatever it was that Loki did.

Natasha turns to watch Bruce curiously as he crosses the distance slowly, but swiftly. Bruce may not have finished medical school, but he was close (about half a year off) when he was introduced to gamma radiation study by one of his professors; sometimes Natasha forgets that if he really wanted to he could be a certified doctor...maybe, the Hulk might put a damper on some things, but he has the skill.

"Loki," Bruce's soft voice slices through the air like a knife and Natasha sees the Asgardian flinch at the sound. Bruce doesn't seem deterred by it and instead crouches in front of Loki. "I need to take a look at your eyes, alright?" Bruce puts a hand forward and Loki jerks away from him, curling his head in towards his knees to cover the area, but his hands are shaking and the hold is loose. Bruce's body language doesn't give off any frustration just concern. "I'm not going to do anything else."

Loki doesn't move.

There isn't any lashing, no fighting or any violence. That is supposed to happen, this, this is not.

"Loki," Bruce insists, his voice still that calm even tone, "I don't think you can see right now, but I assure you that I have no intentions of harming you."

Loki's head does not lift from it's position, Bruce's reassurances are falling on deaf ears.

Bruce leans forward and taps Loki's shoulder lightly with the end of the flashlight and Loki's head jerks up hands clenching and breath escaping raggedly through his nose. Bruce grabs Loki's wrists as the raven-haired Asgardian attempts to claw at the muzzle again and from shock or added strength from the Hulk, Bruce, amazingly, keeps the hands away from his face. Loki squirms slightly in the grip, the muffled mewling whine locking into his throat again, but he remains still.

The contrast between New York and now is...intense, whatever this infection did to his eyes has not exactly done any wonders to his explosive ego or pride. Bruce places Loki's hands down before leaning forward and lifting the flashlight up. It's not exactly a ophthalmoscope, but probably the most high tech medical equipment that Bruce is going to get. Bruce angles the flashlight around the corners of Loki's face and hums quietly before he leans back into his previous position.

Loki's breath is still ragged and Natasha can see that his hair is sticking to the edges of his face from perspiration. Thor twitches beside her as if he wants to move towards Loki's position and offer comfort, but is restraining himself from doing so. Bruce stands and flicks off the light before walking through the doorway.

"Well?" General Ross questions.

Bruce hands the flashlight back to her and pushes his glasses up his nose before stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I can't tell for certain without a CT scan and I have no desire to drag him to a hospital for one, but I don't think that his eyes are infected, just the skin around it."

Thor's shoulders sag in relief slightly and Bruce catches it from the corner of his eye as Natasha does. Bruce's lips purse together firmly and it looks like it takes some effort for him to release it. Not done with the diagnosis, then. "He has a lot of cuts along the sides of his eyes; he's been rubbing and scratching at them for more than a few days, at least two weeks I'd guess, judging by the age of some of them; I think they were bothering him for a while."

"Bothering him, how?" Fury inquires, lifting an eyebrow. "He have allergies?" The comment is meant dryly, but Thor still speaks up: "Only to certain foods and a mild allergy to viscum album." He answers.

"Viscum album?" Steve asks behind Thor and Natasha flicks her gaze from Thor to him the same question on her lips.

"Mistletoe." Bruce and Tony answer in sync. Natasha's eyebrow lifts despite herself. Viscum album is the scientific name for mistletoe, that's great, but why on earth does Thor call it that?

"We don't exactly have a surplus of that here." General Ross states sarcastically. "We're not growing it."

"Yes, exactly," Bruce says and glances at General Ross again before looking back at them, "it's not allergies." Bruce confirms. "His eyes are a murky gray in color, I'm fairly certain he can't see anything right now."

Thor inhales sharply and his gaze flickers back towards the dark cell, "My brother is blind?"

Blind. Blind? The word sounds so strangely wrong to be associated with Loki. It gives him a weakness, humanizes him when the psychopath is very much so not.

Bruce runs a hand through his hair, "Yeah, as far as I could tell, I didn't exactly dig through his hair, but I did notice a bit of swelling, I think optic neuritis is a more likely culprit."

There's a small pause, "Someone hit him really hard in the head?" Clint asks, dryly, "Yeah, right. He got blasted in the face by my exploding arrows and the most it did was mildly singe his eyebrows. You're telling me that someone smacked him hard enough to destroy his vision?"

Yeah...huh. It does seem far fetched now that she's thinking about it. Natasha presses her lips together and folds her arms across her chest, she wants to trust Bruce's diagnosis as a doctor, but it's looking a little strained now.

Bruce closes his eyes for a second, his expression washing blank before he says, quietly: "The Hulk is a little different then an explosion, though."

Oh.

Oh.

They all saw the aftermath of the "smack-down" as Tony was proudly proclaiming it; Loki's strain to sit up properly as they surrounded him. That probably would have smacked his head hard enough to cause this. Well, splendid, they've accidentally blinded the prince of another planet. What do they do? Send a note to Asgard saying: "We aren't very sorry that this happened, because he's a murderous psychopath that deserves this, but Loki has gone blind. :) -love, Earth". That couldn't be taken badly...at all.

Natasha presses her lips together and she flicks her gaze towards Fury. Splendid, what now?

"Is it permanent?" Thor asks, his voice quiet and he keeps staring towards the darkness that swallows his sibling from view.

Bruce presses his lips together and Natasha's stomach twists slightly as she realizes the answer before Bruce speaks it. "I couldn't tell," Bruce says, "we'd need the CT scan, but I'm guessing yes."

Thor's shoulders slump.

General Ross stares at the dark cell for another moment before he turns towards them, "Are you just going to leave it open?" He demands, his voice is sharp with disbelief, "Brilliant, let's let him walk out."

This man, Natasha has met many, many irritating people (Tony being high on that list), but General Ross's presence in total is aggravating. Loki won't be doing much walking in any direction without running into walls for a while, maybe ever. She is fairly certain that they had no plans to let him leave and why would they? As if to prove her thoughts, Fury walks towards the keypad and slams the button towards the bottom and the metal doors slide shut, putting six inches of metal between them and the crazy Asgardian.

General Ross's men seem to breathe easier and a few lower their weapons.

Just because the door is closed doesn't mean that Loki isn't less likely to attack, but the state his health was in will prevent him (most likely) from doing anything for a few days. Maybe a few weeks. She doesn't know how Asgardian healing works, Thor can still be wounded, his skin is tougher than human skin and doesn't get pierced by bullets, but he isn't indestructible.

Natasha turns towards Fury as he steps up beside her. They're in a sort of circle now, with Steve and Tony to her left, Bruce, Thor and General Ross on her right and Ross's men in front of them. The unspoken question of "what now?" hangs in the air.

They came here armed and prepared for battle, not to discuss head injuries.

Thor, unsurprisingly speaks up first, "What aid can be given to my brother?"

Aid? Natasha doesn't want to give any aid to that thing. She would much rather just let him rot in peace, thanks. He isn't exactly an innocent man who would make cookies for someone if they felt sad. He'd probably put toe-nails in it and poison. Clint's expression matches her thoughts, but neither one of them voices it.

Bruce frowns and Natasha can see thoughts rapidly moving around his brain, he's searching for an answer to the question that she's fairly positive none of them are actually positive on the answer. They can't pull Loki out and put him in an hospital to get the infection and the head wound treated and they can't exactly pull any doctors in from the States or anywhere else and put them in there. The most they can do is wait it out and hope the situation resolves itself.

"I don't know what we can do for him, Thor," Bruce says, his voice is gentle. Thor's face is a carefully blank mask, but Natasha still sees his eyes drop towards the floor, "We can't pull him off of here and I don't know how much we can do without actual hospital equipment."

"Which you are not putting in with him." General Ross says firmly, "He'll forge it into a weapon and murder us all."

That he would. Thor's expression says no different.

"What if we were to move him to a different location for treatment, I could watch him…" Thor starts to offer, but Fury shakes his head.

"No."

"But—"

"If we pull him off the Raft, where do we take him?" Tony asks, his question is rhetorical, but what they're all thinking. "We put him in here because it's the most secure facility we're all aware of; he's not exactly a gentle pet bunny."

"Do you think I do not know that?" Thor demands, his voice sharp. "Needless of what he has become, he is still my brother."

Is he? Loki isn't exactly right in the head, but maybe he's always been like that. Why does she care? She doesn't.

Thor's sediment for his sibling is both unwanted and not well timed. They need to think about this logically and familial bonds tend to get in the way of that. Like Tony said, Loki is not a bunny. Even with his...condition, he is still a war criminal and they can't drop all his charges just because the younger Asgardian got injured in the fight. The fight that he started. They don't even know if it's permanent Bruce is just guessing; can Asgardian's get permanently damaged? Or scared for that matter? Probably not if Thor's enhanced healing is anything to go by, but Loki is not his sibling.

Natasha clenches her right fist and forces it to relax. Her entire body is tense and she needs to loosen it soon, but this situation is making it difficult.

"Thor," Fury's voice chips into the small silence that has settled over them for a minute, "I think that leaving here would be the best course of action."

Agreed. Heavily agreed.

Thor's face twitches, unhappily, "My brother is in need of aid and you want to leave him here, as he is?" Thor's eyebrow rises slightly, but Fury doesn't back down.

"He's a worldwide threat," General Ross says, loudly, "we can't take him out."

No matter how much Thor attempts puppy eyes or pleads his brother's case.

Rather than put up a fight like Natasha was half expecting, Thor backs down and offers a silent sigh. "I understand," he says, his voice heavy and it's quite clear that he doesn't want to. "I apologize for my disagreement."

"No, it's fine," Bruce assures, stuffing his fingers into the coat pockets, "I get where you're coming from."

Natasha flashes a glance towards Clint and sees that though his posture is stiff, he seems otherwise okay. A outward appearance, likely. His jaw is clenched tightly and his eyes flitting, but the rest of his face is calm. Clint is gifted in cleaning his expression from his thoughts at will, however, so Natasha glances at his fingers.

Steady, tight and flexing.

Anxious, but not panicking.

Natasha averts her eyes.

"Well," Fury says snapping her back to the present, "this has been an enlightenment on your security, General, but otherwise a pointless trip." Indeed, this is great. She was pulled out of undercover work for absolutely nothing.

"It was worth the fries." Tony quips and Natasha can hear slight amusement in his voice.

"Avengers, you're free to go," Fury says before declaring this gathering well and truly over by putting his hands behind his back and striding forwards in the general direction of the exit. Natasha glances at the others before she follows after the director hastily making for the exit.

Natasha falls into steps with Clint, Steve and Thor ahead with Bruce and Tony behind them. "You okay?" She asks the archer quietly.

A quiet huff escapes her partner before a humorless smile twitches on his lips, "Just peachy." He mutters.

So, no then.

At least he's out of Wyoming, she needs to talk to Fury before they leave to make sure he stays out. It wouldn't do well for him to return, the facility is making him lose his mind more than Loki ever did.

Natasha opens her mouth to respond with something equally (if not more) dry, but General Ross's pounding footsteps and loud question silence her: "What do you mean 'an enlightenment on our security', Director?!" The general demands, his voice loud and not going to accept "nothing" as an answer.

What does he mean? He means the security is terrible, adequate for normal humans and other enhanced, maybe, but for Loki? If he had left the cell, actually attempting an escape, he'd be long gone.

Fury stops at the question, turns and lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. "I mean you should fix it."

""Fix it"!?" General Ross sputters, "It works perfectly!"

"So you felt compelled to call us, why?" Tony asks. Fair point. If the General had been truly confident in it; they would have never learned of this incident until it was well and truly over.

"It felt "compelled", Stark, because this isn't a normal occupant!" General Ross defends, his fists clenching tightly. The weapon he was holding previously is shoved at his belt, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to tackle anyone.

"Exactly." Fury says, "So you didn't upgrade at all?"

"We did increase it." General Ross hisses.

"Sure." Fury agrees, his voice dry, "Well try again, because attempt one was not a success."

General Ross gapes at him, offended, "My men—" He starts.

"Were clearly not properly prepared for action." Fury argues, "Do better."

Natasha can almost see the steam shooting from the General's ears, his fists clench so tightly that the skin over his knuckles stretches, but he forces out a breath that seems to calm him somewhat. "Fine," he growls, "but until I can meet your "all knowing" standards, you have to leave on more of them here." General Ross flicks a finger out almost accusingly to where Natasha and her team are standing in a large halted cluster.

Natasha recoils slightly inwardly. Here, guarding, with that in the basement and him the General of all aggravation as a supervisor? No thank you.

Clint opens his mouth, likely to argue, loudly and venomously, but Steve cuts him off, "I don't think it's a bad idea." He says, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "We should keep a closer eye on him until the lights and video surveillance are working again, at least."

Right.

"Cap's got a point." Tony agrees a moment later, though he doesn't sound exactly happy about it. General Ross shoots Fury a smug smile and Natasha's rousing desire to break his nose increases a tenfold.

Fury's expression remains clam, but Natasha sees brief irritation flit before he says, "Alright, fine but remember that this is my team and my assets, General. I need them and they leave." Fury warns.

They leave, and they do so, gladly.

General Ross waves a hand, "Fine, fine, but it starts now."

Splendid.

Fury stares at them for a moment, his eyes sweeping across their faces before he asks, "Who's going first?"

Natasha glances at the others, quietly hoping someone will volunteer. The looks on their faces indicate the same hope so there isn't much luck in the matter. The awkward stretch of silence lasts about twenty seconds before Tony clasps Steve on the shoulder. Natasha can almost picture his beaming smile under the helmet of his armor as he says, "Well you're the one who thinks this is a good idea, Cap, so you can have the first watch."

From the look on Steve's face, it would have been more appropriate if Tony had told him Christmas was cancelled.

Chapter Text

Captain America, despite the sizable disbelief otherwise, is a title; not a person.

Why is it so hard for people to remember that? He's not about to go shouting it from rooftops in his irritation, but that doesn't necessarily make it any less aggravating. He's long since stopped attempting to correct people, he's grown used to the fact that there is little to no distinction between himself and his alter ego. Doesn't make it any more pleasant, but it helps it be endurable.

Or at least it assists into being. This new fan with his hard stares and silence that he wants to fill with chatter may prove otherwise.

Steve will never cease to be in awe of how much the world transformed in less than a century, but the one thing he is assured on is that uncomfortable desk chairs are indeed something that is stagnant. His entire spine is stiff and going numb from hours perched on the chair, staring vaguely at the screens with an attempted long-standing focus that is starting to run out. He wants very little other than to stand up and pace the length of the room, perhaps the entire facility to stop the ache from growing worse. The last time he stood was about five hours ago, and the security detail that was with him then, Agent Warren had jerked up in alarm grabbing the nearest weapon from off a desk (the almighty empty cup) looking with all intents ready to battle to the death. Steve has refrained from shifting to much since then.

The intensity of the jumpiness in these men is intense, and one that Steve is quite surprised at. They deal with psychopaths all the time, what makes the difference from them? The Raft doesn't hold only one prisoner, how is it different from their normal? But Loki isn't archetype.

Steve wishes he'd brought a pencil, or a pen. There's not much to sketch in this small, cramped, uncomfortable security office, but it would be more to do than count the cracks in the wall and recall everything he can about the layout of his apartment. This boredom is excruciating to the point that it's nearly painful. Steve isn't someone who gets bored easily, he's content to sit and watch people for hours (ridiculously so, he used to do it before the serum when he was sick so often and staring that Bucky nicknamed it "people-watching"), but his patience is growing thin as his exhaustion increases.

It's been sometime since he slept properly (discounting his seventy year comatose) before the crash he was kept up by the outcomes of the war and now it is because of memories of it. He's bone-weary tired and beyond. He hasn't slept in about two (three?) days now. It's not pleasant. With the serum, he's fairly certain his body doesn't need as much sleep (a theory no one was ever willing to let him try), but that doesn't mean he doesn't want it. If he could just explain that to his mind, then sleeping would be much easier.

Steve releases a quiet sigh into the air and glances at the camera's again, checking to make sure nothing has changed since the last time he looked at it. Nothing has and this isn't surprising. The most strenuous thing that's happened since he was put on the security detail in the Raft nineteen hours and fourteen minutes ago was when a security officer traded another out, but brought coffee. Decaf, likely, with no sugar if the man's continuing grimaces are anything to go by. Just drinking it to keep himself awake by the sheer nastiness.

Agent Price, the man with him currently (according to his name tag), is staring again. He hasn't really stopped since he entered the room about an hour ago, but his piercing study has not let up for some time now. Agent Price has been attempting a lackadaisical attitude towards everything, but Steve can tell that he is inwardly dying to talk to him.

Steve is fairly certain that it won't be long now before he cracks.

It isn't exactly a goal of his to watch the man squirm, but there is little he can do about it without engaging in the conversation he doesn't want to have.

He's ready to start banging his head against the wall in frustration. He doesn't really want to pull up the Captain America persona right now, he'd rather just be a tired, exhausted, grumpy Steve Rogers, but he isn't sure if he's allowed to be at the moment. Captain America is supposed to be guarding, Steve Rogers is just the pessimistic tag along.

"I'm Jeffery Price, by the way," The sentence throws Steve back to the present and his focus snaps back into place. He lifts his head up towards the agent trying (and more then likely failing) to keep the slight surprise off his face. The man has been holding his tongue for so long Steve slightly feared he didn't have one. He saw the man's name on his badge dangling on the left side of his jacket so introductions aren't exactly a necessity.

"My name," Agent Price adds, almost awkwardly a second later as if that wasn't clear when Steve doesn't respond. Or do anything but blink at him.

"I, ah, saw." Steve says a second later, regaining control of his tongue and lifts a hand towards his own chest to point out the badge on the agent's. Agent Price's head flicks down towards the area, apparently to see what it is Steve is pointing at. He lifts his head a second later, eyes slightly wide as if amazed that Steve noticed. Yep, he's got eyes.

Agent Price stares at him expectantly and it takes Steve a second to realize what he's waiting for. His name. Right. It's common courtesy to offer your name in return for another's. "Steve Rogers," He says and lifts his fingers slightly in a wave.

But Agent Price knew that.

So does pretty much everyone on this base.

These introductions were useless.

Agent Price is practically buzzing with excitement, "Steve Rogers as in Captain America? The Captain America?"

Nope, the one down the street; he's just filling in as the proper one gets a corn dog.

Steve gives a slight nod in answer. Agent Price's expression lights up with happiness, "Wow, it is just such an honor to be in your presence, Sir," he says in a rush, "I've just—I learned all about what you did in school, way back in the day—and I just, I want to say thank you."

Steve's lips press together and he forces a breath between them, Agent Price would not be the first person to say so. "You're welcome." He answers, though the words are stiff on his tongue.

Agent Price taps his fingers against his knees and Steve mentally braces himself. "What was it like, back in the forties? Did you ever meet the President? Can you play any instruments? Were you scared when you faced Hydra? Did you think you were going to survive when you stepped into the plane? Was Red Skull intimidating? Did you ever—?"

Steve forces a deep breath through his nose and struggles to maintain a relaxed breathing pattern. He is fine, he is present, he is here. Steve digs his fingers into the arm rests of the chairs, he isn't going to slip into the memories right now even as much as his mind feels the need to.

Nope.

He's good, great even, breathing normally, easily, out in, out in, he's fine. He can hear Bucky's voice in his head quietly telling him to breathe deeper as his chest aches and he wants to do no more than curl on the floor in a tiny ball of misery. Out in, idiot, come on, don't die on me now.

Steve presses his lips together firmly and stills his hands to keep from running them through his hair in agitation. Agent Price is not shutting up, his stream of questions is unrelenting and dragging up memories he'd rather leave buried and rotting.

Far, far below the surface.

He's fine.

The war is over and has been for more than half a century.

A low thrum of vibration stills his racing thoughts and it takes him a moment to identify the source. His phone. It's nothing fancy, just a simple flip phone that S.H.I.E.L.D. gave him two weeks ago. He's been learning how to use it, slower than he wants, but he is making progress.

The buzz means an alert, did he miss a call, or text? Is there an email or something similar?

Steve pulls the phone out of his jacket's pocket, grateful that he'd brought a spare pair of clothing, and ignoring Agent Price flicks the phone open staring at the screen.

There's a text from a number he doesn't recognize reading: Meet me downstairs in the generator room. I need your assistance. —TS.

TS?

Who is TS?

Steve wracks his brain for a moment before the realization hits him a second later. Tony Stark. Oh. He's not the only member from the Avengers on the Raft? Tony is here. The thought is oddly relieving, though Steve has no idea why. They aren't exactly a team, they aren't like the Commandos, just a jumbled group of people who have been thrown together twice. They barely even know each other.

Still.

Relieved.

Steve glances up at Agent Price, talking to himself contentedly. Steve idly wonders if he's even aware that he (Steve) isn't responding to him or not before he opens the text message and replies with:

Where is it?

There's a brief pause of about twenty seconds before Tony replies: Elevator down the hall you're on, on the left, the entire basement is dedicated to the security/power maintenance, the giant thing in the middle: generator.

Steve stares at it for a second processing the words before pecking out a few more letters: Give me a few minutes.

Honestly, Loki has done very little since Steve got here, they'll be fine if he slips out for a few minutes; they survived an entire month. Steve knows he's just trying to find an excuse for the fact that he's just beyond thrilled to be escaping from this awkward, unpleasant one-conversation threatening to drag him in that he very much does not want to engage in.

Steve rises to his feet, his spine imminently lurching into protest (but it'll protest whether he sits on the chair or not) and stuffs the flip phone into his jacket pocket. Agent Price's incessant chatter stops abruptly and he lifts his head up towards him, inquiring eyebrow raised.

Steve's fingers point towards the door before his voice works properly, "I—" He clears his throat, "I am needed for something, somewhere else." He says. The way it comes out sounds more like a question and Steve mentally smacks his forehead.

That's specific.

He presses his lips together and gives a slight nod, "I'll be back soon."

Maybe.

He turns and crosses the distance to the door quickly as Agent Prince makes a slight squawking noise behind him of surprise or protest. He pulls at the handle and pushes it open bursting into the hallway and closes the door with such speed "sprinting" would have been a better word choice.

Steve exhales quietly into the hall, grateful that it's empty, for once, and turns glancing down the halls. On the right leads towards a fork where the right has Loki's cell at the end and the left leads somewhere Steve doesn't actually know. The left of him is indeed an elevator and Steve moves towards it, and stares at the buttons for a second. It's like a foreign language has been presented to him and he only has minutes to learn it.

This has changed so much from the forties.

But that's good.

It's fine.

Totally excellent.

Steve stares at the buttons for another long moment before hesitatingly pressing the 3. This should bring it to him. Fingers crossed. He folds his hands across his chest, tapping them rhythmically across his arms in the lyrics of a song he heard a couple of days ago...somewhere, probably a grocery store, and the elevator gives a slight ping before the doors open and Steve steps inside. He reaches his hand out and presses the B1 and it glows almost cheerily at his choice. That is the basement/lowest level (this building has no foundation ergo: no basement), right? Hopefully. Steve is so out of place here.

He squeezes his fists shut and digs his nails into his palms as the elevator lurches downwards; even though it doesn't exactly travel at the speed of light, he isn't a fan of the sensation. The elevator comes to a halt and the doors drag open and Steve is relieved to see blinking equipment and hear the low thrum of electricity pumping.

This is indeed the generator room.

Steve takes several steps into the room, almost tentatively, searching for Tony. What does he need his help with anyway? Is there some heavy lifting or something? Steve was admittedly a little desperate to get away from Agent Price to the point he didn't care what Tony wanted him to do. Now that he's had a moment to breathe, he can think clearer. Does it really matter? Tony wants his assistance and nothing noteworthy is happening upstairs.

Steve takes several more steps into the room and his eyes flit across the it staring at everything. He has very little idea of what any of it does. He doesn't even know if the fact that most of it is flashing with a low level light is a good or a bad thing. Probably a bad thing.

"Tony?" Steve calls into the air hesitantly. He's not sure if he should text him to say he's present or not, Tony might be busy or have headphones on or—

"Oh good, you're here." Tony materializes out of seemingly nowhere behind a large desk stacked high with boxes and other junk shoving a box into his hands. Steve grunts slightly in surprise at it, his hands clasping it out of reflex and surprise more than anything else. Tony flashes him a smile that seems both too stretched to be sincere and completely genuine before waving a hand in a "follow" gesture. His hand is covered in a black substance, dirt or oil or something else, Steve isn't sure.

Whatever it is, it reminds Steve of when he paints because he gets (or used to, he hasn't painted since before Bucky's fall-stuffing that out of the thought processes) paint all over his hands and face and clothing. How remains a mystery, but it is consistent. Tony begins to walk off, ducking underneath a lower hanging power-circuit-thing that probably has an official name Steve doesn't know and he remains standing still for another second, dumbly, before he scampers after the multi-billionaire.

"Sorry, by the way," Tony looks back at him for half a second, "Fury decided that were going to pair up in teams of two about seven hours ago, but I had to fly back to New York to grab some stuff to repair this baby." Tony comes to a halt and pats a large rather ugly looking piece of equipment affectionately that Steve assumes is the generator.

Teams of two? Oh. That's...good. Then they can all suffer together, what's the saying? Ah! "Misery loves company".

"It's...fine," Steve assures, though his voice trails slightly, unintentionally. He can't stop staring at everything in this room. The tech is amazing and he wants to run his hands on it and figure out how it works (but fail, drastically) or sketch it, and maybe just listen to it hum as he reads. The sound is oddly comforting. Bucky would have loved this.

Tony snatches a tool from the bucket Steve honestly forgot he was holding, the weight is so unnoticeable his mind stopped caring for it and it surprises him slightly. If Tony notices, he doesn't note it, instead he angles the wire clippers he's holding into a panel Steve hadn't realized was opened and gently pulls a thin yellow wire out.

The top edge of the rubber is burned slightly, but the wire itself seems to be in fairly good condition. Then again, Steve probably is the last person someone should come to asking if modern equipment is in good shape or not.

Tony grimaces slightly and Steve adjusts his hold on the box, filled with tools he's guessing originate from the multi-billionaire. "What?" Steve asks curiously leaning forward slightly to look at it. He doesn't see anything of significance.

Tony points towards the top of the yellow wire, "Do you see how these are uneven, cropped and blackened at the edges?"

"Yes." Steve answers.

"The wires burned beyond functioning; Loki overloaded the system with enough power to short circuit this entire generator." Tony explains, "Frankly, I'm impressed." He admits and grabs the yellow wire slowly tugging it out with such carefulness it could have been mistaken for a kitten.

Steve presses his lips together as Tony pulls the wire out completely before setting it on a smallish table to his left. There's another jumbled mess of broken parts and a clumped pile of wires and thicker cords all together in what looks like an impossible knot. Tony grabs another yellow wire from a neat pile lined next to each other in an even row, evenly spaced apart, these are new, the ones in the messy pile are not. Funny, Tony doesn't exactly strike Steve as a person who would be well organized.

Tony begins to stuff the wire down the panel then pauses looking back at him. "Can you hand me the…" he trails off for a second, obviously trying to figure out how to ask for something not by it's given name because Steve won't know it. Steve shoves frustration down as it spikes dangerously high and reminds himself that this isn't normal day stuff and if he's confused it's fine. Steve lifts up a random tool from within the box and Tony shakes his head, "It sort of looks like fingernail clippers." He says.

Oh.

Steve digs through the pile looking for the requested item. He shoves about half to one side, gaze restless. There! Buried slightly is a metal tool with longer handles, but a thin tip for gripping something, Steve guesses. He pulls the tool from the box and hands it to Tony who grasps it firmly before stuffing it between the thin space of the wires and the opening, his expression focused.

He has a pair of clear-ish glasses on his head (not on his nose) that are glowing slightly with small blue screens changing every so often. Tony doesn't really seem to notice them, which Steve finds slightly strange. He can't stand wearing glasses. He had terrible vision before the serum, but the glasses on his nose irritated him more than the awful vision did.

They begin to work in a companionable silence; Tony whizzes around the machine, flicking on levers, pulling out equipment and stuffing new ones in, if Steve asks about something Tony stops to explain it a slight amused expression on his face, but he doesn't get irritated or annoyed. Steve has only really seen the after-effects of Tony's moiling; the suit, Stark Tower, some bits of the Helicarrier, but watching him work is something close to hypnotizing. The man clearly knows what he's doing and the last time they were working together to fix the Helicarrier, Steve was a bit preoccupied to notice. And running high on emotion.

Especially in the lab.

He doesn't think he's ever going to understand fully why those words plopped out of his mouth the way they did or how they came out nasty. Steve can't stand arrogance, but he doesn't start fights. He doesn't back down when challenged, usually, but he's not the person to pick someone else apart just because.

Steve gnaws at the inside of his lip for a moment, worrying it between his teeth before releasing out a quiet breath, "Stark?" He asks, and Tony's head pops up to the side an inquisitive expression on his face. His expression clearly reads yes? so Steve doesn't bother waiting for him to verbally answer, "On the Helicarrier—with the um...I—" He starts awkwardly, but Tony apparently guesses what he was about to say and cuts him off.

"It's fine." He states, "The scepter was messing with all our heads."

"Right," Steve agrees, "But still, I'm sorry." He argues. There.

Tony huffs quietly. "Okay, apology accepted."

Good.

That's good.

"How do you plan on repairing Loki's cell?" Steve asks. He saw the shimmer of the broken glass from his position about twenty feet from it, the sparkle of it was intense. The shards were everywhere. If someone didn't have shoes on and walked across it, Steve doesn't think they would be able to find all the glass and pull it out.

Tony hums, "Oh. Um, Fury said he'd get Ross to move Loki out for a few hours as we repair; which means I've got to scrap together some lights and video surveillance that can withstand a direct lightning blast." Tony doesn't exactly sound happy about the fact.

"What do you think about this?" Steve asks curiously.

""This?"" Tony inquires.

"This situation, Loki's blindness, I guess." Steve answers.

Tony slams something back into place loudly and Steve jumps slightly. "I don't know," Tony answers, his voice is calm, so the slam wasn't from anger. "I haven't really thought about it."

Oh. Steve hasn't either. He wants to be sympathetic towards the Asgardian's predicament, but he doesn't know if he can be. Loki didn't exactly go around New York offering free candy to all the little children. The destruction wasn't as terrible as it could have been, but that doesn't make it any better. But still, it was supposed to be imprisonment not lose-your-sight-along-the-way. It was war though, casualties are to be expected.

Like death.

Like Bucky.

Steve pushes the thought to the side into his think-about-never box, burying it deeply.

"It's weird," Tony says, dragging Steve back to the present, "I was expecting something more...violent. After New York and all."

"Me too." Steve admits, "He was…" He grapples for he correct word for a moment before settling on: "calmer."

"Calm isn't the word I'd use, myself," Tony says dryly and Steve winces. Okay, yes, Loki wasn't calm, but he wasn't as wild. Less like a feral animal that will attack at an approach; this blindness has affected him deeply.

Silence settles between the two of them, not uncomfortable or awkward it's just...quiet. Tony softly works on the generator as Steve hands him more tools. It's better than being lost in his thoughts as he stares blankly at a computer screen, so Steve isn't complaining.

The stretch lasts for somewhere around thirteen minutes the only break being when Tony asks for the fork in the box before the door to the sort-of-basement room is thrown open with a loud bang and General Ross's voice roars, "What on this blasted planet are you doing, Stark!?" into the room.

His voice echoes slightly and Steve cringes as his hearing amplifies it by a surplus.

Curse his enhanced hearing.

Why can everyone not whisper?

General Ross storms several feet further into the room managing to work around the equipment with ease that Steve did not have. He stares at Steve for a long second with a disbelieving stare before his eyes narrow slightly and he points a finger towards him.

"Where were you? You can't just wander off because you're bored on guard duty!"

He didn't wander off, he was asked to join something else. Something that seemed just a little bit more important than watching a man slowly drain disgusting coffee through a computer screen. Steve opens his mouth to answer, but no words form along his tongue. He isn't exactly sure what he can say anyway. He can't admit that that sitting in the office wasn't the most interesting thing ever and definitely helped his decision to help Tony quite a bit.

General Ross huffs and turns towards Tony. This is a man who quite clearly is used to being listened to at every whim, the moment someone steps out of line in his perfect little square box of "what is acceptable" he is unhappy, then yells.

Steve can't say he's the best at following his superiors anyway.

"What are you doing to my generator, Stark?" General Ross demands, pulling his attention away from Steve as Tony stabs the fork into the generator and the machine gives a slight hum of protest. Tony doesn't answer, and instead rips the fork out from where he used it to stab wires together spinning it slightly as he lifts his hand and Steve takes the tool from him, placing it back in the box that's been distributed onto the desk sometime in the last ten minutes.

"Why on earth are you taking it apart!?"

Tony flicks an eyebrow up and says, dryly: "Not taking it apart," as Steve protests, "he's fixing it, Sir." in an odd sync that sounds more like an overall unhappy assortment of sounds directed towards the general.

"Why?" General Ross demands sharply, "We had it under control."

"Clearly." Tony says, his voice filled with sarcasm, then flicks a hand out towards the desk where the pile of messy wires and pieces of the generator has grown in the last twenty-two plus minutes Steve has been down here. The wires are singed and battery bits are hanging in odd angles making a disastrous mess that is likely to never be untangled through any of their lifetimes. "That is what control looks like? I had to pull that out because your guys were doing utterly awful."

General Ross's mustache twitches slightly in his displeasure and his fists clench, "Why are you blessing us with community service, Stark, when no one asked you to?"

Tony lets out a huff of amusement at that and shoves a few round bottle-looking things up, "Director Fury asked me to." He sounds actually surprised that General Ross wasn't aware of this. Steve wasn't aware of this, he just assumed Tony wanted to keep the Raft in working order so the guarding could end faster.

"And you just agreed from the goodness of your heart?" General Ross asks flatly.

Tony's expression flicks on irritated for a moment, but the flash is so quick Steve wonders if he imagined it. "No, I'm doing this because you have more than Loki in here and I don't have any desire to spend this weekend gathering super-villains up."

Ah. Fair point.

General Ross's jaw tenses and Steve finds his voice, "Sir," He says, addressing the general, "is this really necessary? You're still getting the generator fixed, but it's just quicker now."

Probably better working, too.

General Ross's gaze fixes on him, "You lot aren't supposed to be repairmen, you're supposed to be on guard duty."

With this said, and likely feeling his point has been made, General Ross spins on his heel and storms off muttering under his breath. Steve releases a sigh of frustration into the air trying to quell the guilt that's building in his stomach. Nothing happened well he wasn't there. It's fine. Tony needed his assistance so they can keep Loki in here better.

So why does it feel like he's done something wrong?

"Pleasant man." Steve mutters under his breath. He's not usually a person to distinctly not like people, but General Ross is, ah, quite a character to put it mildly.

Tony snorts, "You have no idea." He assures. Steve knows that the two have previously interacted together at least, but there seems to be something deeper going on here. People don't usually dislike each other as much as General Ross and Tony do on a second meeting.

Tony twists two threads of the wires together, then stares around the room for a moment. "Let there be light," he says and flicks a small switch towards the left of the generator and a low hum buzzes through it before the lights brighten intensely in the room and the hum grows deeper before there's a sparking fizz and the generator groans like it's been stabbed and the lights darken before giving a slight 'pop' as they die.

Steve stares at the lights vaguely and Tony lets out a curse under his breath before shoving back from the generator. "Yep, I'm going to have to replace the entire thing if Ross wants it to work for more than one afternoon. Whatever Loki did completely fried pretty much everything, this model is not the most up-to-date thing on the planet either. Almost as old as you." Tony jabs a finger in his direction and Steve rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling and lets them hang there for a moment in annoyance.

He's supposed to be in his nineties, not early twenties, yet here he is.

A loud buzz rings through the air and Steve lifts and inquiring eyebrow as Tony spins, eyes scanning over everything for something. "Where did I put the—ah ha!" His hand shoots out behind a piece of wire and pulls up a phone, touch screen and not any model Steve recognizes. Probably made via the multi-billionaire himself.

Tony flicks his gaze towards him, "Your ride's here."

"My ride?" Steve asks in confusion. What ride?

"Director Fury's having us stay in a S.H.I.E.L.D. base nearby until I can get Miss Moody," Tony points towards the generator with his thumb, "to work again. Bruce is here to trade you out, go get some sleep, Cap."

Sleep?

Sleep.

He wants sleep.

Steve blinks owlishly at Tony for a moment before remembering that he does, in fact, speak English. "I...thanks."

Tony shrugs, "Sure." He gives him a slight—but not rude—shove towards the the door to the room and Steve staggers a step before moving forwards towards it the promise of bed exiting him beyond what is probably healthy.

Chapter Text

Clint isn't fond of desk jobs. He prefers to be out in the action rather than sitting on a chair and watching paint dry, (he hasn't actually watched paint, but it's an expression) and the thought of sitting in the Raft for the next twelve hours doing nothing but staring at a computer screen doesn't appeal insanely. Unfortunately, he doesn't have much of a choice.

Natasha is at his side, short hair pulled up into a small ponytail to get it out of her face, expression carefully masked. She isn't exactly the most excited for this and neither is he. Field agents. Not desk.

Natasha presses the code for the keypad to the side of the door and it gives a slight beep before she grabs the handle to the security room and pulls the door open. Two sets of voices immediately jump out, both in a slight tired slur.

"—It must be really, really tiny." Tony says.

"It could just not absorb light." Bruce argues.

Clint and Natasha stand in the doorway for a moment, staring. Tony is sitting on the chair to the left, coffee in his hands, feet up on the computer desk, head tipped back against the back and eyes closed. There's a cup at Bruce's feet, it doesn't smell like coffee and Clint's guessing it's some form of green tea. Bruce is leaning against his knees, dark hair covering his face from view, glasses on his head (rather than nose) as he idly plays with the edges of his jacket sleeves.

"Hmm." Tony says in answer to Bruce's argument, "That...that sounds good." He waves a hand, "Whatever it was that you said."

"You forgot?" Bruce asks without looking up. How long have these two been up?

Tony hums in conformation to Bruce's question.

"Stark," Natasha says when another second passes and it becomes quite clear that these two aren't going to realize they're here without some prodding. Bruce's head jerks up in surprise as Tony leans forward, hazel eyes popping open and both turn to stare at them.

"Oh, good; replacements." Tony says and sips his cold coffee happily, "Dark matter can only keep someone up for so long."

Dark matter? They were discussing dark matter? Why?

"When was the last time you slept?" Clint inquires curiously. Bruce and Tony share a look before Bruce mutters a few numbers under his breath, squints, then shakes his head in disagreement with himself and looks up, shrugging hopelessly. Tony drums his fingers for a moment then looks up saying: "Three days?"

Oh. Yeah, that will get this effect. Tony staggers to his feet looking horribly off balance for a moment before he steadies and Bruce drags himself up to a standing position, the cup of green tea (or whatever it was) in hand and shoves his glasses onto his face properly with the other.

The two move towards the door and Tony pats Clint's shoulder twice as they exit despite Clint's slight tense and leaves with a "good luck" under his breath towards them.

Good luck on what? This isn't a hard job. They literally just sit and do nothing for hours. Thrilling.

Clint and Natasha step into the room and Natasha closes the door as Clint sits in the chair Bruce vacated and shrugs his jacket on further. Is the heating working properly? The temperature outside is a cozy below zero, but this doesn't feel much better.

Natasha doesn't seem affected by the chill, but that's just because Clint knows his partner greatly enjoys being cold. She sinks into the other chair and scoots it up to the desk flicking through a few screens before sighing quietly.

"Not much visibly." She notes, unhappily.

Clint draws his focus towards the computer and stares at the screens. There's the hall in front of Loki's cell, but not much else closer. There are men stationed outside, in the halls, but they can't see into Loki's cell anymore. Clint is grateful that they aren't in charge of the other prisoners, just Loki. There's a separate section of the Raft dedicated to the psychopath and one that Clint encourages, heavily.

If Loki escapes and needs to rally up allies, he won't get to it easily.

Clint can see a slight stiffness in Natasha's shoulders as she leans back into the chair, a picture of relaxation that is a complete and utter prevaricate. She's uncomfortable and doesn't want to be here any more than he does. Which is very low. Clint is, however, beyond happy to be out of Wyoming, though, so he'll happily take any desk job offered to him so long as it gets him away from Ms. happy-beyond-reason Smith and her group of hungry leech-vampires.

Despite his excitement to not be in Wyoming anymore, the hours pass slowly.

After six hours and twenty-six minutes, Clint is staring at the wall across from his chair, zoned out slightly in boredom as Natasha taps out the alphabet in Morse code, backwards with Clint occasionally telling her a letter to start on.

Clint is used to waiting for targets, on missions waiting is usually an important aspect, but Clint wants to tear his hair out in frustration. Bored and Loki aren't exactly words Clint would thought would be in the same paragraph, let alone page.

Natasha is on 'V' with her taps when she jerks upright suddenly, her spine stiffening with surprise and pain as she clamps a hand against her ear, eyes wide. Clint lurches up, locking his gaze on her in confusion. What's wrong? They're both wearing earpieces to connect them to the guards, but he isn't receiving anything and she looks in pain.

"Tasha, what—?"

"Clint!" Her voice is a gasp, her eyes wide and owlish before she slumps forward, hand falling off of her ear and Clint dives forward to grab her as her body, lax and unresponsive starts to tumble to the hard metal beneath their feet. Clint takes her weight easily and lowers her to the floor trying to stuff down the thrum of panic swallowing his stomach.

"Tasha?" He asks and flips her, tapping at her face to try and gain a response. Her eyes are closed, breathing deep and rhythmic. She's sleeping. Why on earth is she sleeping!? At least she's breathing, she could have been de—

Clint shoves the thought to the side and shakes his partner, "Wake up, Tasha, come on." He pleads, but she remains unresponsive in his arms.

What is going on!?

Is this Loki? If it is, Clint is going to excavate his organs, then leave the remains in a package outside his door with a big red bow. Natasha is off limits.

"Natasha, please," he whispers giving her another shake. Natasha's face doesn't even twitch, breath escaping her lips in a rhythm that's deceptively steady. Something moves from the corner of his eye and Clint jerks his gaze up recognizing a small dart flying from the vent. Instinct settles in before his brain catches up. He kicks Natasha's abandoned chair in the general direction of the dart, covering Natasha's body with his own.

He hears the sound of the needle slicing through the fabric landing a second later at the edge of his foot, off balanced from hitting the rim of the chair and lifts his head. This is an attack. Against them. Why? Is this Loki?

Footsteps pound outside and the door strains for a moment before it's thrown open and five men, masked in what looks to be something close to motorcycle helmets and wearing something similar to a S.H.I.E.L.D. issued clothing. He can't see their eyes, but feels their gazes zero in on him. Where the heck is General Ross's small army he always has on stand by?

The room seems to hold its breath for a second before the men leap towards him. Clint's eyes flit over everything for a moment before he kicks the chair towards the men and two smack into it the other three maneuvering away.

Clint leaps to his feet, pulling the dagger he has his upper left thigh and flicks the blade out. It's a admittedly pathetic weapon compared to their guns, but Clint has managed with less. One of the men fires a round of bullets that Clint dives to the left for and he ducks down from another round, glancing at Natasha. A slight hiss escapes through his teeth as two of the bullets graze his left arm. He didn't duck fast enough.

He can't get to his bow right now, but he needs weapons. His partner always has some on her person.

Widow bites. Where are her bloody—? Right, wrists. Clint grabs them from off of the bracelets, she has them on her belt as well, more of them, but he's short on time.

Clint flicks his hand up and tosses one of them at the man who first fired at him with his right hand. He lets out a loud yell, landing hard as the electricity courses through him. Clint flicks another in between the other two who weren't attacked by the chair before he leaps forward, dagger in hand towards the other two who are struggling to their feet. Clint slams one of their heads against the wall, knocking them cleanly unconscious before he turns towards the other and presses the dagger against his throat his arm twitching in pain from the bleeding wounds on his bicep. "What did you do to Widow?" He demands, lowering his voice dangerously.

The man just laughs, his voice sounds muffled by the helmet and Clint rips it off revealing sandy blond hair, but not anyone that he recognizes.

Clint presses the tip against his attackers throat, "What did you do?"

"Spoke to her," The man has a thick Spanish accent, but seems smugly pleased with himself. The man jerks his hand up, small knife in hand and Clint grabs his forearm twisting it, preventing the blade from smacking into his gut.

He's not going to give any information, just delay it.

Clint curls his right fist and slams it against the man's face, and his head hits the wall behind them with a loud clunk. Breathing heavily, Clint turns back towards Natasha, but pales as he sees the cameras, a low thrum of panic slipping through him.

Cats, cats, cats, cats, cats, cats!

The screen flickers black after another moment, but not fast enough for Clint to have missed it.

This isn't from Loki, it's for him.

There was men dragging him down the hall, away from the cell that they can't see into and Loki didn't look to be going willingly. He was a squiggling snake in their grip, sliding in and out as the men struggle to keep hands on him. They must have looped the footage, but stopped when they cut the power to it.

And he and Natasha completely missed that.

Now she's unconscious and he has no idea why.

Great.

He can't let them take Loki, the Asgardian is dangerous by his own hands, if he was directed by someone else? That would be repugnant. And it wouldn't even matter if he was directed, being out of the cell means he can abscond and escaping is bad for everyone. Especially if he has glowing weapons.

The scepter is not here.

Loki is still a sorcerer, just because his weapon is gone doesn't make him any less dangerous.

Clint worries his lip between his teeth for a moment before stuffing the few Widow's bites he has into his jacket pocket and crosses the room gently scooping Natasha into his arms, gritting his teeth in pain. He distributes her on the chair and her head tilts slightly, but it's the most he can do.

"I'll be back soon." He promises and gives her hand a quick squeeze of reassurance before he swings his bow off his back and quickly scampers over the unconscious bodies and steps outside into the hall where the low-light power is still present.

He takes off into a sprint towards the cell and crosses the distance in about a minute. Clint pauses at the end of the hallway, his muscles seizing.

The agents who were stationed outside are on the ground, unconscious or dead and more than a handful of men, some seven or eight are standing around a violently struggling Loki. He saw it on the screen, but there's something different about it in person. Loki's murky eyes are wild and jerking everywhere, but it's painfully obvious that he's not seeing anything. Loki is blind, this is the first time that he really realizes that.

He can't see what's going on.

His attackers are all large and bulky, armed to the teeth and clearly prepared for battle against the Asgardian. This was planned, that much is painfully clear. More than one of them are grabbing at his upper arms and trying to drag him back, but Loki isn't making it easy for them. Nor pleasant. His struggle is wild and violent, elbows ramming into noses and ribs as his hands—free from shackles that they are attempting to shove on him—never stop moving.

This is nothing like what he was when they took him to the Raft. Loki was...complainant? Calm? The word sounds strange, but it fits from what this is.

"Stop it!" One of the men hisses as his nose is once again rammed by the unhappy elbow.

"Stop struggling you—!" Another man starts to shout in frustration before Loki jumps up, using the men grabbing at his upper arms for balance and seeming to locate the speaking man solely by his voice smacks his legs up against him. He, the kicked man, stumbles back into the others, tumbling like dominoes and one of the men gripping his upper arms gives a loud growl of frustration before flicking out a baton and slamming it against Loki's abdomen. It would have broken any normal man's rib cage through and through or at least bruised it intensely, but the most it seems to do is violently wind the Asgardian. A loud wheeze jerks out through his nose and Clint's tongue untangles itself from the roof of his mouth.

"Hey!" He yells and the men stop fighting against Loki looking up at him, startled, clearly to see him there. He sees Loki still from the corner of his eye. Clint jerks his bow up and loses the arrow he had cocked and it hits the shoulder of one of the men closest to Loki, but not holding him.

He goes down with a cry tumbling into the one behind him. Clint draws back again, firing another as the remaining men, save two, forget their captive and draw guns.

Oh, yay.

How many times does he have to be shot today at before the universe deems it adequate?

He's not getting shot again, even if it is just another graze.

Clint dives to the side from a flurry of bullets and swings his bow back drawing again. The biggest man with a large rifle gets the next arrow. Alright, three down, four to go. Not a problem. Clint mentally braces himself before he races forward, slipping past another bullet and slams his bow against the faces of two men. He flings the remaining Widow bites he stole at the other two and they go down, jerking. He grabs one of the fallen handguns from another and lifts it up firing at the legs of those who still hold Loki captive. They go down, landing hard with groans, but not fatally wounded and without his captor's grip, Loki tumbles to his knees.

He's still wheezing, like he can't breathe right and Clint crosses the distance between them with a few steps and grabs at his shoulder, "Are you injured?" Loki jerks away from his touch like it's burning him and Clint mentally kicks himself.

Enemy, remember?

Not that he wants to be on the same side, but Loki under the captivity of someone else is dangerous and if he's about to die, Clint has no desire to start a intergalactic war by having killed one of the princes of Asgard.

Strange to think of him like that, a prince. He's just...very much a madman.

Clint forces himself into the present and grabs at Loki's shoulder again, "Breathe, it's Agent Barton." He says the last part after a small hesitation, but Loki has no way of recognizing him otherwise unless he reaches his hands out and feels it—which would be strange. Loki is half the man he was before now.

The thought doesn't feel him with as much pleasure as he thought it would.

Loki's wheezes don't stop, only get worse, but he doesn't pull away from Clint's touch again. His head turns in Clint's general direction, the glassy eyes searching for his, but failing. They settle on his chin, rather than his face and Clint forces his focus off of it. "Breathe, in out." He commands.

Loki attempts to follow the instruction, but the wheezing through his nose hitches and his chest heaves like he wants to cough, but can't.

Oh, gosh, he's going to suffocate. The man dispelled the air from his lungs and now the Asgardian can't retain it. Because of the muzzle. Is this really a bad thing? If he dies like this, it won't be anyone's fault, but his own. As soon as the thought crosses his head, disgust follows. He's not a murderer, he's an assassin, the line is thin, but there. He's not just going to let someone die out of spite.

Clint never thought twice about the metal contraption. Loki's words were definitely a threat and Thor recommended it, assuring that larger spells needed to be spoken, the look Loki had given him had been of slight frustration, but Clint didn't bother on digging for why. General Ross said that they hadn't touched him since they threw the trickster into the cell which means…

Which means...

Has it been on for more than month?

Has he had food, or water since the attack?

Clint shoves the thought to the side before making a split second, stupid decision. He removes his hand from Loki's bony shoulder before digging his hands through the ratty black hair ignoring Loki's tense and finds the latch for the muzzle. The keyhole quickly runs under his finger and Clint curses quietly before pulling his left hand back and grabbing a lock-pick from his boot.

He lifts a layer of hair up and shoves the thin piece of metal through the small hole. Loki leans forward slightly, looking uncomfortable, but Clint has little care. He grabs Loki's shoulder and violently shoves him back into the original position, "Don't move." He says, sharply. Loki stiffens, and makes no further movement away from him.

He works the thin wire through the muzzle and less than a minute later, the metal gives a soft hiss as it opens and Clint grabs the edges ripping it away from Loki's face. The Asgardian jerks forward slightly from the force and the muzzle lands a few feet to the left of him, near one of the fallen attackers. Clint recoils slightly in disgust as he sees that a plastic mouthpiece attached to the outer framework is stained an unnatural red.

Loki lets out a few coughs that sound like they're ripped from lungs filled with fluid and sucks in air deeply, releasing a few more coughs. His face is lined with the edges of the metal, thin lines of red raw skin that's open and bleeding in some areas, especially under his nose. It looks painful. Then again, Clint doubts it was designed with comfort in mind.

Or long term use.

Loki releases a few more hacks, spitting out blood and then his head raises towards him. Clint knows he can't see anything, but he can still feel the stare digging through him. Confused. Not angry, not furious, confusion. Clint shoves the thought to the side, and forces himself to take several steps forward.

Loki licks at his lips and opens his mouth, like he's about to say something, but he remains quiet.

Good.

Clint grabs at his arm, "Get up and shut up. Tasha's in trouble and though I'm more than willing to leave you here, whoever attacked seems to have your capture in mind. Congratulations, you've created yet another problem."

Clint says the last part dryly before he jerks the Asgardian to his feet. Loki is a good couple inches taller than him so it's an awkward transition, but Clint ignores it. Loki's breath escapes him raggedly through his mouth, but he doesn't protest, letting Clint drag him forwards and quickly back towards the room he exited some four minutes beforehand.

He rips the door open and immediately scans it for threats, a knot of anxiety loosening as he doesn't see any beyond the fallen men on the floor. Natasha is still where he left her: leaning back in the chair, head rolling slightly to the left red hair falling across her face. Her breaths are deep and even, she looks peaceful. It's an illusion.

Clint kicks the chair he was sitting on a few minutes ago forward and bodily shoves Loki into it. The Asgardian stumbles into the seat slightly and Clint releases him turning back to Natasha.

"Tasha?" He asks and grabs the armrest of the chair leaning down in front of her.

Gah! He doesn't understand what's happening.

Think, Barton.

Sleeping. The only way someone can force her into sleep like this without chemicals is Red Room. Natasha explained about it during one of their missions a few years ago, about two years after he found her. Red Room had code words they would speak to get them to follow commands and one of those was to sleep instantly at the whisper of a few Russian words. Natasha never told him what they were, only how to wake her.

Clint wracks his brain for a moment searching for the right mash of Russian words before he leans towards Natasha's ear and whispers, "awaken, Spider, your master commands it" in Russian. Her breath quickens abruptly before she sits up quickly nearly colliding their foreheads together. Clint grabs her upper arms to steady her, "You're safe." He assures, still in Russian. She lifts her eyes towards him, wide and round. "Safe." He repeats.

Her gaze looks beyond him towards the room and the men laying in various positions across it, a frown on the edge of her lips. Her gaze rests on his face again, composed, but Clint can see that she's still anxious.

Red Room is supposed to be behind them.

She's not supposed to be affected by it anymore.

How did their attackers know about it, and for that manner, who are they?

"What happened?" She says, English, she's doing better, but there is still a vulnerability to her. If she hasn't gathered herself as much as she can, she'd still be speaking Russian. Her gaze sweeps across the room once more before landing on his face. "Are you okay?" She asks and her eyes flits across him, lingering on his ripped jacket sleeve. He can't feel the pain, masked with adrenaline, but he doesn't imagine it will be pleasant when he does.

Okay? Ha. Yeah, laughable, but he's not dead so…

"Fine," He reassures, "we got attacked."

"Loki?" She guesses, Clint pauses, his gaze flickering back up towards the dark haired Asgardian. He knows about Red Room, but only because Clint had to tell him. But why would he resist his own escape? That doesn't make sense.

"Behind you." He says and Natasha's head whips around to look over her shoulder where Loki is sitting, still and breathing deeply, hand pressed against his face to stem some of the worst bleeding.

Natasha turns her head back and stares at him before lifting up her hands and, in ASL signs, "Why is he in here!?"

Good question. Clint has no idea.

He doesn't want Loki to be taken captive or escape via the hands of their enemies, and sticking him in here where they can watch him seemed like the best idea at the time. Now? He's regretting it. Immensely.

Her hands lift again, though Clint notes that their shaking slightly. She doesn't want to have to deal with Red Room and it's not fair that she has to. Whoever attacked better hope that they can't be traced otherwise Clint may be going on a weekend cockamamie murder spree.

"Where is his gag?" Still ASL. Loki can't see them speaking, so their conversation will be private. Good thinking.

Clint lifts his hands, "He was suffocating."

""Suffocating?""

Clint bites his inner lip. "I'll explain later."

Natasha looks back at the Asgardian again, her eyes wary and mistrustful. Clint can't say his expression looks any different. Loki hasn't moved, still hunched in on himself slightly, hand pressed against the cuts. It does not look like the posture of a would-be-king, more like a defeated man. Clint shoves the thought to the side.

Natasha's hand movements catch his eye and he flicks his gaze back to her, but missed the sign. He spins his pointer fingers around each other then presses his hand against his open raised palm, "Sign again?"

Natasha repeats her signs, "Do we need to restrain him?"

He doesn't know! They don't exactly have any handcuffs in here, and seeing how Thor easily lifted cars, he doubts the metal would hold Loki for long if he decided to walk away. Augh! At the same time, it feels just wrong to not do it and simply hope that Loki stays put. He won't. In the tunnels, from what Clint can remember hazily, Loki didn't sit down or stop moving unless someone forced him to.

Clint shoves the thoughts to the side and buries the feelings of panic that rise because Loki is in the room with him. He's fine. If Loki tries anything, Natasha will easily remove his head from his shoulders and then they can all go home.

He doesn't want to leave Loki free to reign terror down upon them, but he's not moving right now.

Clint lifts his eyes to his partners and gives a slight shake of his head. They won't do anything unless Loki gives them a reason to.

Natasha doesn't look any happier with this than he does. Her fingers raise for the start of a question, but it's halted as footsteps pound outside of the door. Clint glances at the men laying on the floor and swings his bow up, a deep ache shooting through his arm, rising to his feet as Natasha rips a gun off her holster, clicking the safety off. They shift in front of Loki's form and Clint wants to laugh how bizarre this is. They are protecting Loki from being captured by these men. Not giving him to them on a silver platter like Clint would much rather do. Clint sees Loki tense slightly from the corner of his eye before a man rushes through the doorway, gun raised swinging through the room looking for threats, then lowers as he recognizes them.

General Ross.

Oh, good, timely, this fellow. He would have been helpful five bloody minutes ago!

"What happened?" He barks. His voice is demanding and Clint sees two dozen or so men behind him. Well, at least they're not dead.

"Where were you?" Clint demands, exasperatedly, lowering his bow and sees Natasha do the same with her gun. Her tense posture doesn't exactly relax, but it's better than nothing. This was supposed to be a boring desk job.

"The doors were locked, we just managed to get them open. What's going on, we were breached, was—what the bloody—!" General Ross's voice dies as it raises in a high pitch and Clint squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

So he saw Loki, then.

Honestly, Clint is starting to have the same reaction.

Clint forces his eyelids apart and releases a breath as he stares at General Ross's face, the man's eyebrows are raised almost comically high and his lips curled up. A subtle movement of clear displeasure. His gun lifts in between them towards Loki's forehead and he sees several men outside take command from their leader's action and raise their guns.

Safety is flicked off and he see's Loki twitch at the sound.

They were all locked in a room. All of them, which means that everywhere else was also unavailable to the other guards. He was literally the only thing between this mission being a success or failure. Who are these people? They'd have to have a good layout of the Raft to know where the guards would be and where Loki was.

These aren't the average bumbling idiots.

Hopefully S.H.I.E.L.D. can get something out of everyone that's unconscious here. If not, they can always send them to Wyoming, a few weeks there and all of them will find it hard to stop talking as they begged to be released.

"What is he doing in here?" General Ross demands, voice rising. "Are you insane? Do you know what he's capable of?"

Cold fury ripples through his stomach and a humorless laugh escapes his lips, does he know? Yes, he is fully aware. General Ross doesn't understand it at all. He's watching from outside when the inside is a nasty battle. His eyes narrow slightly and his fists clench in his frustration, "Yes. I know."

General Ross's stormy gaze moves towards him, "Then why is he here and not in his cell, Agent Barton!?"

Because if he was still there, he would be gone with his would-be-kidnappers.

"There was an attack," Natasha cuts in before Clint can snap out a less pleasant, but no more truthful answer. "He thought it would be better if he was in here." Her voice is calm, but there is a threatening edge to it.

"In here!" Ross demands, his voice is still raised and he jerks his gun slightly in frustration. "That's like tossing a lit match into a gasoline tank and hoping it doesn't blow up! Fury said you were his most trusted confidants, the smartest on your group. What is this? Had a moment of stupidity and oops! Next moment you have half the population wiped out!?"

What does he think that this was? A move made because he enjoys Loki's company? Clint takes a step forward in anger, but Natasha's hand latches onto his shoulder keeping him in place. Her fingers are cold as they wrap around his jacket sleeve, but he stops, forcing out a breath.

He's not going to throttle Ross, even as much as he would like to.

Natasha releases him with a warning look, don't be an idiot.

"Loki's capture was the goal of their," Natasha gestures vaguely towards the fallen men, "break in. We don't know why."

General Ross doesn't look any happier about her assessment and his gaze raises to their faces staring intently at their eyes. Frustration bubbles in him as he realizes what the General is doing: Looking for the clouded blue from that the scepter gives.

"We're not under mind control, General." He grits between his teeth.

General Ross looks skeptical and glances to where Loki is sitting and rather than with a smug smile of pleasure that Clint half expects, his face is blank and he's slightly edged in on himself as if being smaller will somehow protect him from the verbal anger. Coward. Wasn't this what he relished in? Wasn't this what he was so happy about a few weeks ago? What changed? General Ross's lips curl, "I don't know if I can believe that, this was probably an escape attempt made to look like a kidnapping."

With what army!?

It's...absurd. The way he was struggling against those men...that was, as much as Clint hates to admit it, it was real. It wasn't acting. General Ross is paranoid beyond belief that this is somehow manipulation from Loki, apparently the Helicarrier incident struck him deeply. General Ross is terrified of the same effect happening to him, Clint realizes. This wasn't that. It just...wasn't.

"Sir, I really don't think—" Clint starts to say, but Ross's frame seems to snap out and he whirls on him.

"Don't think, eh!? Yeah, you've done quite a bit of that so far. I'll get you kicked off that little "Avenging" team for this ignorance! You're worse than Stark!" This statement is spat out like it can physically wound them. Clint recoils slightly and General Ross storms forward in between himself and his partner grabbing Loki by the front of his shirt and dragging him from the chair.

Clint tenses, prepared for stabbage, but Loki just seems to be startled because his eyebrows twitch up slightly and his frame tightens, unhappily. "And you!" General Ross growls towards him, "What was this, eh? You're second escape attempt!?"

Loki's lips press into a thin line, but he doesn't answer.

"You plan on making another? Let me tell you something; you aren't ever getting out of here, try as you might, you aren't getting out. So what's the next plan, we'll foil it right here." General Ross's anger grows across his features before he shakes Loki aggressively.

Clint's muscles are so taut, it's starting to get painful.

"Answer me, psychopath!"

Loki's silence doesn't break, but the general's patience does and he tosses Loki, sending the blind Asgardian toppling to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs and without looking back turns to stare at himself and Natasha.

"And what about you, Agent Barton?" He demands, his voice sharp and deadly as if he's made a connection he hadn't had before and is pleased with himself, but disgusted to whom the connection is for.

What about him? General Ross continues before he can voice the question: "You were never cleared for missions, were you?"

Yes...his point?

"What of it?" Natasha asks behind him, taking a step closer to his shoulder silently offering support. Clint's fingers clench into fists as Ross's gun swings towards where Loki's crumpled form is, as if the single swing of his arm will answer any question presented to them.

"You're trying to get him out of here! Trying to free your master, Barton? Trying to help the monster behind your strings?"

A cold wave of fury washes through him.

Does the general honestly believe he aligned with Loki because he chose to? That he would rescue Loki after what he did to his head? That everything was for show? He pretended to have the tendrils of magic crawling through his head and eating at him, the haziness that followed for hours after he was released? Yes, it was definitely by choice.

He'd willing rescue Loki because they're best pals.

Natasha may have been quick enough to stop him from leaping at the general earlier, but she doesn't catch his fist before it collides with Ross's nose. A sickening crack echoes through the air as the general stumbles back hand on his nose and he hears guns clicking and shifting towards him.

His left hand is shaking with pain and he clenches his fingers to quell it. General Ross wipes his nose, blood on his hand and looks up eyes wide, "Are you insane?" Clint hisses, ignoring Natasha's look of disapproval, "I would rather have my ears cut off and fed to me than willing work for that again!" He jerks his right hand out towards Loki, and forces a calming breath, but it doesn't help.

What if Loki did somehow force him into helping? What if it was all an elaborate plan so he could see where Clint's loyalty is and he walked ran right into it whooping?

He's going to be sick.

General Ross stares at his hand for another second before he looks up at him, "You wild, uncontrollable pr—"

Clint's seen Fury dissolve entire arguments with two words, seen Natasha stop attacks with a single move, but as far as he can recall back to, he doesn't remember anything silencing a room better than Loki's single word: "Barton."

His voice sounds like he's been swallowing mouthfuls of gravel, had a cold for the last six months, swallowed some spikes then topped it off by inhaling thirteen tons of smoke through two breaths. All in all: terrible. It's gravelly and quiet, but Clint can still hear his accent in it. The off-center-not-quite-British, but nearing it voice that's been haunting his dreams for weeks.

Clint stills.

Didn't he tell the trickster to shut up?

Didn't he tell him to not do anything? Why is he talking to him, Ross shoved him (not like Loki would know that) and, and—

"Barton." More strained, forceful, it sounds worse than before. Clint forces out a breath, a deep exhale and turns to look back at Loki's crumpled, defeated form. His hand is scrambling, as if he can't tell which is up or down before it slams to the ground palm first and he shoves himself to his knees head tilted in their direction. He's squinting, eyes flickering back and forth in a desperate attempt to see something that's clearly failing.

What is he supposed to do? He's not about to bow down and pledge undying loyalty to the Asgardian or...whatever else it is that Loki wants. Clint stares at him, watching for some sort of trick but there isn't anything beyond Loki slowly lifting his hand up to wipe blood from his face with the edge of the dirty sleeve.

The guns cock further and several red lights linger on Loki's forehead. General Ross turns towards Clint, frowning, but a sort of smug sneer on his lips, "He's recruited you again, Agent Barton, welcome back."

No.

No.

No!

Please, oh, please. His breath escapes in a ragged hiss that doesn't come out right and he can't breathe. This can't be that all over again, he can't have walked into some sort of an elaborate trap that now he's trapped in. He can't be stuck.

He's sinking, the cold is seeping into his chest as the edge of a weapon is tilted against it. His arm aches, his head is hurting. He wants out. He wants it to stop, he has to—

Look at the inept idiot as he tries to escape.

Doesn't he know he is trapped now?

Welcome to peace, my friend, here we offer rest.

He doesn't want this rest, he wants to be out to help Fury against whatever came through that portal, the person, there was a person, right? Yes, a tall man, with crazy hair that reminded Clint vaguely of an angry Christmas tree. Out. He wants out. But does he? Someone is speaking, his brain is struggling to understand, but what they're saying makes so much sense.

Stupid little Hawk, thinking he could escape us, we're hungry, always hungry for more,

Laura—

And Tasha—

He can't do this again, he can't—

And you are a feast.

Natasha's hand clamps down on his right shoulder, gripping him as if the muscles in her fingers alone will rescue him from dying. He's not breathing right. Gasping. He needs air.

Air.

Air, air, air.

His partner's hand doesn't lift, grounding him to now, reassuring him that he's not there, it's only a memory. She turns her head slightly, "Since you seem to have this under so much control, we'll be around if you need us." Her voice doesn't have sincerity, and she slides her grip down to his elbow and grabs him, dragging him towards the doorway.

A sharp look towards the men in front of it gives an opening and Natasha pulls him through the small gap and into the hallway towards the left. Clint forces himself to take a breath, and then another the ragged breathing all that he can hear.

He is fine.

It is just a memory.

Breathe, you idiot.

She drags him into a room, empty, but recently vacated and shoves him into a chair as she closes the door with her foot and then releases him. He doesn't want her to, he wants to grasp her to keep him from slipping under again, but he doesn't want to force her.

She becomes a slight flurry of movement for a moment, standing on desks and pulling things down before she flips her phone open, dialing a number and shoves it into his hand as it rings. Confusion washes over him. Who could she possibly have—?

"Nat?" A voice rings through the speaker and relief washes through him a slight strangled sound escaping his throat at his wife's voice.

"Laura." He breathes her name softly and presses the phone against his ear hearing her give a slight hitch of breath.

"Clint?" Her voice is hopeful, reassuring and there.

He nods, though she can't see, "I'm here."

"Clint," He can hear tears in her voice, "you okay?"

He isn't. Their conversation isn't anything of wondrous amazement, but it helps. It relaxes his racing heart, the ugly threads of panic that threaten to eat him whole, and allows him to properly breathe for what feels like the first time in days. As they speak, Natasha drags out a first aid kit and busies herself with cleaning and wrapping the bullet wounds. It aches, but it stops bleeding.

He doesn't want to stop talking to Laura.

But he has to.

They have other things to attend to.

Clint exhales through his nose slightly as they say their goodbyes after nearly fifty minutes before hanging up. He holds the phone in his hand for a moment, quietly grateful for Natasha's quick thinking before looking up at the redhead. She claimed one of the empty chairs about twenty minutes ago and has been sitting there quietly since. Her eyebrows are knit together in concern, but the edges around her eyes soften as she sees his relaxed face.

"Thank you." He says and hands the phone back to her.

She gives a nod and takes the device back from him before shifting in the seat she claimed earlier and clasping her hands together watching him closely. "You okay?" She asks. Is he? He's been running off of adrenaline and high levels of stress since Tony came to get him in Wyoming and he doesn't exactly know what he's feeling anymore.

Drained?

He gives a slight shrug, "Not terrible," he assures, "you?"

Natasha's gaze flickers to the floor and her lips press together tighter, but she exhales and gives a slight shake of her head, "It was supposed to be over." She whispers and looks up, "Red Room." She adds after a moment, "I—"

Natasha's phone gives a loud buzz as Clint's burner follows in the pocket of his jacket. Their eyes meet with some hesitation before they both reach for their respective phones. Clint presses the power button and the screen flickers to life with a single text from a blocked number:

Rooftop.

Natasha lifts her gaze up towards him, "Fury," she says in answer to his unspoken question and he rises to his feet giving her a this conversation is not over look before Natasha flicks her fingers across the screen to text a reply. "I just told him we're on our way."

He nods and mentally braces himself, drawing together his scattered pieces and pushes open the door for Natasha before following after his partner.

Chapter Text

His opinion of the Raft remains about the same as the first time he stepped onto it: it's a large building of dreary. The color scheme is an unhappy gray and black that reminds him of military bases, clouds, and all around general unhappiness. He doesn't like the realization that if things had gone even slightly differently, he would be here. This would also be his prison, where he'd be trapped.

He hates this place.

He hates how he wants to scream "no!" every time he's forced to be here.

Hates that the sight of it makes his stomach drop and his breathing quicken with fear that they won't let him leave when he's supposed to.

Ugly. Unhappy, disgusting, yuck.

This is where he—a dangerous being—is supposed to be. And, unluckily for him, Ross would want that more than anyone else.

There are times in his life where he wishes that he was furry, not because the color scheme would be nice, but because of warmth. Bruce has never retained body heat well and usually feels like he's resting between zero Celsius and literally anything under that. He's always grabbing some sort of jacket or long sleeves to help with the issue, but the extra cloth rarely helps. It's different than when he's transforming or transformed; when that happens, then he's hot and wants to curl into a ball of miserable warmth then not move for as long as he's physically able.

A normal body temperature would be nice, but alas.

The Raft's location is, he has long decided beforehand, going to freeze him to death. He'll just be a frosted over corpse resting on the top of the roof with an unhappy expression on his face. He hates cold.

Bruce tugs his thick jacket around his frame tighter and buries his head into his scarf, leaning back against the helicopter's door, casting an lugubrious face towards the sky where clouds are cheerily covering what little warmth the sun would offer them. He's sitting in the elevator to fight off most of the bitter wind, but his left leg is leaning out as he leans against the opened door.

It's about five in the afternoon on the East Coast of the U.S., but here, it's probably closer to four in the morning. Not that it matters, much, because at any given point of the day it is cold. Miserable, lamentable, cold.

Bruce casts his gaze away from the clouds towards where his teammates (save Natasha and Clint) are. Steve is sitting on the other edge of the helicopter looking like he got ran over by a tractor, but otherwise okay. Tony is standing next to it, near Bruce, fiddling with his scarf, but doesn't seem to mind the cold terribly. Thor is standing next to Director Fury, oblivious, apparently to the gelid, if his only-armor-and-nothing-further is anything to go by. He wants to curl up in a blanket and not move for several hours.

Warm.

Bruce presses his lips together, releasing a breath into the air that he watches slowly rise up towards the sky. His glasses are in his coat pocket, the fogging glass having started to drive him a bit insane so he put them away to prevent it as much as possible. It's nice to be able to stare at things without feeling like he's standing in a thick overcast of brume.

He turns his head slightly as he hears footsteps and watches as Clint and Natasha walk towards them. Natasha's hair was in a ponytail (if he remembers right from several hours ago—he was a little tired) when he left and is now a mess around her face, the ponytail nowhere to be seen. Beside her, Clint's eyes are slightly red and he doesn't look a hundred percent, but from the accounts on the attack that he heard, the fact that he wasn't really injured is impressive. His jacket covers anything he might have sustained on his arms, but he otherwise looks fine.

They (Natasha and Clint) come to a stop in front of the helicopter, eyes sweeping over all of them before both give a slight nod in Fury's direction. Their meeting is supposed to be inconspicuous (something about information that Fury only wanted to give to them, honestly, Bruce isn't sure. He's running on three hours (maybe) of sleep), but they do need to leave someone here in case the people come back to finish their kidnapping job or Ross's great predictions about Loki come true.

The Raft can't submerge without full power, which is one of the reasons that Fury pushed for Tony fixing the problem. Them meeting on the top of this prison is about as secretive their going to get at the moment. S.H.I.E.L.D. must be so disappointed, they can't do their usual amount of paranoia and secrecy at this moment.

Bruce would very much like to go back to bed.

He sits up a little straighter as Fury steps forward, trying to get himself to pay more attention. Fury pushes his hands into his coat pockets, staring at them for a long moment with his single eye before he releases a breath into the air. "As soon as the Raft was attacked an hour ago, S.H.I.E.L.D. was notified, good work, Agent Barton," he says the last part as an almost offhanded comment to Clint before turning to look at the rest them, "and we found the source. Well, Hill did."

Okay, good, that's really good.

Are they going to hunt them down? Or? What is Fury's point in bringing this up?

"It was S.H.I.E.L.D."

Bruce feels as blood drains from his face. It was…

It was...

What?

Why? Did Fury authorize it? Why on earth would they be trying to get Loki out, this is the place that's best for him to be right now. The most secure prison (most of the time, except with someone overloads the generator) anywhere. It's just stupid that they would—why? Is Fury planning on taking Loki somewhere else and is now asking for their help? Bruce isn't going to agree. This is the best place for him right now, and probably ever. They can't just uproot and move him, seriously! "Heinous criminal" ring no warning bells? Does Fury have an endgame in mind, what is the point of this?

Natasha's only reaction is her eyebrows lifting slightly, but Bruce can tell that she's perturbed, "You authorized this attack?" There's something unspoken in her voice that promises bodily harm if Fury is to answer "yes".

"No, I didn't." Fury reassures, giving her a look Bruce can't elucidate before appending: "But someone did."

Tony's hands cross over his chest and he shares a look with Bruce before asking, "So who? I thought that it was you and the council in charge of S.H.I.E.L.D.."

"It was." Fury says, his voice tinging with frustration. "Until this." He pulls a folder out of his coat pocket, lifting it for them to see the cover, fastened towards the top is a little pin that Bruce recognizes expeditiously, causing his breathing to hitch. Steve's eyebrows shoot, his expression darkening, Tony's back goes rigid, Clint and Natasha's eyes both widen and Thor looks confused.

Hydra.

That's Hydra's insignia.

None of them were alive during World War ll except Steve, but they all grew up in the legacy of it. What Hydra did, their weapon source, everything. Captain America is legendary because of the fight he put up against them.

They died when Steve crashed the plane.

It was over. Goodbye, good day, farewell, but, now…

Bruce's lips smack together and he can't get any words to form properly in his throat or along his tongue.

Hydra.

This assault was Hydra. Not S.H.I.E.L.D., not some unknown or uncared for organization, Hydra.

"I do not understand," Thor says, his voice is quiet at their horror, "what does this mean?" He gestures towards the folder. Fury turns to look at him, slightly surprised. Sometimes, it's honestly easy to forget that Thor isn't native to this planet and hasn't been a part of their history in the last century or so or even learned of it yet.

"Hydra: an organization bent on taking over the world and willing to do whatever it takes to get that." Fury explains. Yeah, that's a pretty good summary.

Thor nods slightly, but the confusion on his face lingers somewhat, "Why were they attempting to apprehend my brother?"

Excellent question, Bruce has no idea. Honestly, he has no idea why you would want Loki out in the world or...anywhere but Asgard and the Raft. As Tony so eloquently put it a few days ago, 'not exactly a pet bunny'.

Bruce's lips thin and he stares at Fury, awaiting an answer. The director looks impassive as he says: "I don't know."

That's excellent.

"What do you mean?" Natasha demands, clearly unhappy with the answer. She, like the rest of them, wants more and is going to push until she gets it.

Fury turns his head to meet her eyes, "We have theories, not answers. I haven't bought it before my superiors, as far as their aware, S.H.I.E.L.D. hasn't even been notified of the attack yet."

Bruce gnaws at his inner lip for a short moment, but the question that's on the edge of his tongue is spoken by Clint first: "Why?"

Fury looks unhappy and his gaze flits towards Steve for a second, "I fear corruption. How do you think Hydra got ahold of the Raft's blueprints in the first place? The knowledge that the generators dead? Who would be on guard and when? I've had my suspicions for some time, but now I'm sure: Hydra has infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. somehow."

Bruce is startled, but not as much as he feels should be proper amount. S.H.I.E.L.D. is supposed to be unbreakable, incorruptible, yes, but a person can only mistrust their companions so much before they turn to something else for an answer.

But Hydra?

Idiots.

He doesn't trust governments anymore, not after what happened with the Other Guy. He's unsettled, yes, but he's not terribly surprised and it. The guilt sinking into his chest at this realization says that he should be.

The Other Guy is angry a thrum in the back of his head, protesting that S.H.I.E.L.D. was supposed to be their ally, someone that would root for the Other Guy, but now they've lost that and they'll be hunted again. He doesn't want that.

Neither does Bruce.

But he also doesn't want to deal with the violent rage that the Other Guy is threatening and forces a breath through his teeth.

Out. The Other Guy protests, punish.

No. Bruce insists firmly.

Out, the Other Guy urges, protect.

No. Bruce forces, he can protect them by not ripping apart the Raft and getting himself and the Other Guy tossed in here.

He lifts his gaze up slightly to watch his teammates, Tony, beside him, is tense, his posture so straight it looks painful, but he's watching Bruce carefully, as if searching for any reason to intervene. It's a nice thought, really, but if the Other Guy decides he's going to come out with force, nothing can stop it.

Bruce takes another calming breath and gives Tony a slight nod of reassurance that everything is fine.

Steve's lips are parted slightly and his expression is conflicted, but not angry. Clint and Natasha seem to have developed telepathic communication and Thor's lips are thinned, his expression slightly stormy. Fury may not have given the best summary of Hydra on the face of the planet, but it was apparently enough for Thor to put two and two together that the equation equals bad.

"That's great," Tony says, though his tone suggests the opposite of his sentence, "what are we going to do?"

What can they do? Bruce didn't exactly get a weave-out-corruption-in-secret-government-agencies PhD in college. He definitely should have taken the extra credit course on that they had to the side—Where do you even learn how to do that?

""We" aren't going to do anything," Fury corrects and confusion flickers through Bruce. Then why on earth are they here? Moral support? "I called you for a different purpose, but I wanted you to be aware of this." He shakes the folder again and the pin glints in the light happily. Bruce can't help the slight wariness he feels at the sight of it.

Hydra. Alive. Now.

The Other Guy murmurs in the back of his mind, noting his displeasure.

"Then what are we here for?" Steve demands, his voice has a slight edge to it. He doesn't seem any happier about this than the rest of them. It probably isn't the greatest feeling to realize that you died for nothing, Bruce would guess.

Fury's face twitches slightly and he stuffs the folder back into his coat pocket, "We're here, because I need you to take Loki out of the equation; they can't get him, he's too much of a wild card right now and I need you to solve that as Hill and I come up with a solution for our infiltrated problem."

'Take Loki out?' Is Fury asking them to assassinate the Asgardian? In front of his sibling? Is he insane!? Bruce is not a willing murderer. He does not agree to this.

Thor's expression darkens slightly as he, apparently comes to the same conclusion as Bruce and his glower shifts towards Fury's head. Bruce would have felt a strong amount of discomfort at that stare being direction at him, but Fury doesn't even twitch. "Are you asking us to slay my brother?" He asks, his tone dangerous.

Actual surprise seems to flicker across Fury's eyebrows and he shakes his head, once, then again before answering: "No, this isn't an assassination request. If I wanted that, I would have just contacted them." He flicks a hand out towards Natasha and Clint standing side by side and they share a look. "I need you to move him somewhere else, take him captive away from this place," he glances at Thor again before adding, "not murder."

Not murder. Good. Kidnapping? Isn't that literally what Clint just tried to stop?

Thor relaxes slightly at the reassurance, but Tony's posture shifts to frustrated. "Great, so we kidnap a psychopath and hold him where?"

No where is exactly secure, they aren't trying to free Loki, that much is clear from Fury's speech pattern and body language. They are just supposed to move him, likely so that S.H.I.E.L.D. is no longer aware of where he is. Are they to make this look like an escape? It would be a fitting story for what's going on right now.

"Can you take him to Asgard, Thor? It would be easiest." Bruce suggests, Asgard is another planet, Bruce would like to see Hydra try and get at him there.

Thor, however, shakes his head, "I can't. The Bifrost is still broken and Sif—an Asgardian warrior, took the Tesseract, my father needs months of recovery to build up enough strength to take me back. The only other way into Asgard is known by solely Loki and I have my doubts he'd be willing."

Probably take their heads off first and plant them above a mantle.

Well, there goes that plan. They should just put Loki on Gilligan's Island, no one can find it or get off. A perfect trap to keep someone prisoner. It would be ideal if it wasn't fictional. They can't put him in a normal prison, that's bound to get back to S.H.I.E.L.D., but they can't just drop him off somewhere and hope he remains there.

This is why they agreed on the Raft in the first place.

Steve's lips thin before he releases a puffy breath into the chill air, "The only place we're going to hide him without it being obvious is plain sight."

Yes, but where?

The top of the Statue of Liberty? The Greenwich clock? A Halloween store in Kansas?

"Stark Tower." Fury suggests and Tony stills, all eyes sweeping towards him. The multi-billionare's expression clearly says no and Bruce can feel himself beginning to protest. Stark Tower isn't a prison, it's...the most home-like area Bruce has had for for several years. Since before the Other Guy. Tony's invitation to stay there was one of the biggest mercies that he's received since before the gamma-explosion. Letting Loki stay there doesn't bring happy bubbles into his stomach.

"Think about it," Fury insists, "It's out in the middle of the open, in plain sight and about the last place I would search for him. He was openly and publicly defeated there, with an ego as large as his, it isn't an obvious choice."

"Yes, but—" Tony starts to protest.

"Stark," Fury says, "I wouldn't ask this unless I was desperate, and I am. Hydra isn't something to take lightly, and Hill and I aren't even sure how deep it is. It would be for a few weeks, a couple of months at the most." He reassures.

Months? Bruce doesn't want it to be days or even hours.

Tony expression flashes with frustration for a moment, but he exhales a deep breath and taps his fingers against his folded arms. "Fine, a few weeks." He agrees. "I don't have any more desire to be thrown from a window again than the next person, so what are we supposed to do about security?"

A baseball bat?

"If Loki's missing, there's no reason for any of you to still be here, all of you can join the party." Fury says and gestures towards the rest of the Avengers. Tony and Bruce share a slight look of surprise. Tony has floors for the other Avengers, Bruce has seen them, but Tony didn't really ever expect them to be used for more than a crashing station.

Security? With all of them there, it should be fine. If all else fails, Bruce can just let the Other Guy out and smash him again—and destroy another part of his brain? Take something else beyond his sight? Bruce shakes the thought from his head.

"I'll bring the party hats." Natasha says, her voice is slightly dry, but her expression doesn't look joyful.

Bruce stares at the other Avengers for a moment before clenching his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. Tony snorts slightly and his fingers twitch, but he doesn't return a quip which shows his levels of frustration at this.

"Great." Fury says, "I don't care how you get him out, so long as it can't be traced back to you and it's in the next three days, so happy planning."

000o000

The next night, with the promise of a terrible blizzard on the horizon as cover and gear from Tony's workshop in New York, Bruce sits in the pilot seat of a Quinjet as his teammates prepare for the infiltration behind him. Thor and Tony are on guard duty right now, and as far as Ross is aware, Natasha, Bruce, Clint and Steve are back at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base north of here, sleeping. Not planning a kidnapping and hovering about a hundred feet from the Raft waiting for the signal from Tony and Thor that they can move in.

Bruce isn't coming with them, if he stresses and accidentally releases the Other Guy, their cover is blown and they'll have a large new area of problems to deal with. None of them want to risk it, including, startling enough, Hulk. This is a stealth mission.

The armor that they're strapping on behind him is similar to the ones that Hydra used two days ago, enough to be confused with on camera, but not by eye. This plan is risky and utterly stupid, but if they can manage to pull it off, Bruce's levels of respect for Steve's ability to come up with strategic plans like this at a moments notice will have risen a ten fold.

They're supposed to be confused with the agents who are currently in custody at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base that they (the Avengers) disappeared from. If they tried once, who's to say they won't do it twice?

Bruce steeples his gloved fingers together under his nose and turns to look back at Steve, Natasha and Clint as they finish adding weapons onto their person, stuff in the ear pieces and grab the masks Clint stole from the agents earlier. He looks at their faces, grim and stoic, but with a slight weariness. This looks like the last thing any one of them wants to be doing at the moment.

"Are you sure about this?" Bruce asks after a beat.

Steve glances at him, grabbing one of the helmets and staring at it for a long second, "Honesty: No, I'm not." He admits and stuffs the black/green item over his head, tightening the strap under his chin and Natasha and Clint mimic the action.

They look strongly similar to the Hydra agents, it should work. Probably.

The Other Guy gives a disagreeing grunt and Bruce inwardly sends him a glare.

Bruce fingers the earpiece in his pocket for a moment before grabbing it and pushing it into his ear, the device giving a little hum in greeting before static clears and he can hear Thor and Tony quietly talking. It's mostly nonsense and something about the differences between bread on Earth and Asgard from what Bruce can determine.

"On time." Steve says a few feet from him and although it was transferred through the pieces that Thor and Tony are both wearing, it doesn't show through their conversation, it carries on, relaxed and lazy as ever. Bruce is admittedly impressed. 'On time' is the code for: ready and evanesce is go.

Evanesce being this: The kidnapping.

Bruce exhales through his teeth, forcing himself to breathe properly and listens closely for a second before Tony manages to throw, "proceed" into his and Thor's conversation as if it was meant to be there rather than avoided the whole night.

Steve looks back at him, raising his hand and giving a "go" signal and Bruce turns, grabbing the handles for the Quinjet and slowly pulls them up, bringing the ship into movement again before letting it glide towards the base, hidden by the clouds.

This isn't going to work, they're going to get caught and S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra will know that they know and something worse is going to happen.

Bruce pulls the ship up, hovering above the Raft and slams a hand down on the button to lower the ramp, hearing the metal creak as it does so. Blistering cold wind smacks against his back and Bruce grimaces, but forces himself to ignore it as best as he's able.

Cold, his body reminds.

Be quiet, Bruce growls.

Very cold, his body insists. Blanket?

Bruce glances back at the Avengers behind him as Steve gives him a slight salute before taking a running leap and jumping from the platform arms outstretched as if to take flight. Bruce wants to smack his head against the dashboard at the stupidity; they're twenty feet above the ground, but Natasha and Clint follow a moment later, both looking all too happy to have echoed the movement.

The medical part of his brain immediately lists every injury they can attain from it, starting with death to broken calves and ending with a big pile of internal bleeding and miserable groaning, but he hears Steve hit the ground with a rolling grunt, Natasha and Clint doing the same. At least they didn't try to land on their feet.

"Evanesce is go." Steve breathes quietly into the comm and Bruce takes his cue, pulling the Quinjet higher up and making sure the cloaking is working. His part of the this mission is over until the end, now he just gets to wait and listen.

Tony will have turned off the security on the top deck, replaying the last fifteen hours in a loop, so Bruce and his teammates are practically invisible at the moment.

Natasha gives a slight grunt and Bruce tenses, but there's a sound of a fist meeting a flesh and a man's groan before a crumpling body follows. During the next five minutes as Steve, Clint and Natasha slip into the Raft, Bruce decides with assuredly that listening to fights is not something he really wants to repeat in the future.

He can't see anything that's happening and if something were to go out of the plan, he couldn't do anything. He hates this. He hates being useless. He wishes he could do something other than twiddle his thumbs.

Clint grunts slightly and a loud thwack follows, likely adding to the long list of unconscious men that the three of them have. "Now," Clint grits out and a loud screech of metal (a door maybe?) rings out, "Now!" Bruce is certain that if they weren't being as careful as possible about this, that Clint wound have yelled Tony's name in his frustration.

There's a click from Tony's end and the Raft's alarms start blaring loudly, the "escaping" prisoner has been released. They're halfway through now, and Clint, Natasha and Steve are nearly towards Loki's cell, all they need to do is lock Thor and Tony in the security room and then drag Loki out and they'll have succeeded.

Almost there.

Bruce tightens his grip.

A loud slam of metal screeches followed by an electric fizz as the keypad to enter the room is destroyed. "What the!?" Tony shouts and his footsteps sound before there's a rattle on the door, "Thor, get over here."

"What appears to be the problem?" Thor asks, rising to his feet and crossing the distance towards the door.

With the two of them "stuck", Steve, Natasha and Clint move forward, then come to a halt, and he hears Natasha release a quiet breath that he nearly misses through Tony and Thor's increasing frustration and worry.

"In." Natasha murmurs a moment later, and Bruce tenses. There isn't any immediate shouts of pain as someone is brutally murdered, or a gust of energy from magic hitting his teammates. They move forward and there's a slight scrambling noise before Loki gives something like a rattled moan and then it grows muffled, but the sounds of struggles don't.

There's a thick sound of leather hitting a body part and Clint swears, "Stop it," He hisses; Loki gives a muffled cry of alarm and the sounds of struggles come to an abrupt halt, both Clint and Steve grunting as they grab Loki's weight from toppling into an unconscious heap on the ground from the dosage of Flunitrazepam that Bruce gave to them. Chemistry does wonders.

"We've got the fabulist." Natasha says and their footsteps are quicker as they drag Loki from the prison and past the security door.

"What was that sound?" Thor asks Tony as Natasha and her company pass.

"What sound?" Tony demands, "I didn't hear anything."

"The dragging." Thor answers, his voice spoken faster before there's a loud smack and metal hitting an opposing wall. "Stark," Thor says, his voice raised slightly, "they've got my brother, they have Loki."

"What?" Metal clanking as the suit assembles around Tony and the rest of the team (save Thor and Tony) picking up the pace with Loki, before breaking into a run. Tony slams a hand down on device Ross gave them in case of emergencies that they can communicate through.

"What?" Ross's voice demands, distantly, stressed and breathless. He's running. Running towards the "escaping" prisoner, if Bruce were to guess.

"They've got Loki," Tony answers, his voice rushed, "Thor and I are in pursuit."

"Whose got Lok—!?" Ross's question is cut off and Tony and Thor break off into a run after the rest of the team, releasing the button and leaving Ross in the dark.

Two minutes pass with only the sound of breathing and occasional shouts towards one another Bruce (having calculated the time in his head) pulls the Quinjet over the Raft as Natasha, Steve and Clint break onto the rooftop, Loki swung over Steve's shoulder in a fireman's carry.

"Go, go, go!" Steve commands, breathlessly and grabs the grappling hook from his belt shooting it towards the sky, Natasha and Clint's following. The three latch against the still-open landing dock and give a whining sound as they drag all four of them towards the edge of the platform. Bruce slides from the pilots seat and quickly works around the scattered junk across the floor towards the edge and grabs Loki from Steve, dragging him into the Quinjet. The Asgardian isn't nearly as heavy as Bruce was expecting and doesn't struggle with the weight as Natasha front flips into the jet and races towards the pilot's seat, sliding down and jerking the controls forward.

Bruce lurches slightly, but doesn't go into a tumbling mass of helpless limbs over the edge. Clint and Steve pull themselves up and over the metal a second later and Bruce grabs Loki's unconscious form in his arms shoving him onto one of the benches, pulling out the straps for the seat belt to keep him upright as Natasha wrenches the Quinjet into the clouds, disappearing from the Raft's scanners and any view their disabled camera's may have. The Iron Man suit's slight whine grows in volume for about a minute before Tony lands in a stagger inside the Quinjet with some force at the speed he was traveling at. Thor is a moment behind, hammer lifted and skids to a stop inside the Quinjet nearly smashing into the far wall.

Natasha slams her hand down on the button for the hatch for the plane and it grinds shut, swallowing the worst of the bitter wind with it and though nothing is verbal, they all seem to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

They didn't get caught.

Bruce wants to release a slightly hysterical laugh of relief into the air, but remains quiet. The mission was successful, as far as Ross and S.H.I.E.L.D. are aware, Tony and Thor are in pursuit of a hostel plane with Loki on it. Not that the Avengers successfully managed to kidnap the psychopath and are currently en route for New York.

This is insane.

But it worked.

Bruce stumbles the few feet between himself and the opposing bench from the one Loki is strapped into, sinking into the seat and slouching against the back of it, his hands subconsciously beginning to pick at the back of his fingers at his agitation.

"Right," Tony mutters and the suit unfolds from him into it's portable case form that he puts on the ground before plopping next to Bruce on the bench, looking by all accounts like he got ran over by a tractor. None of them look much better, though, Bruce would imagine.

Clint pulls the helmet off his head, tossing it towards the pile of equipment in the corner that's steadily getting both larger and messier. His eyes are tinged with darkness and he rubs a hand against his abdomen almost subconsciously reminding Bruce abruptly of the sound of leather hitting something else he heard. Loki kicked Clint in the stomach. Oh. "I can look at that," Bruce offers, his voice is quiet, but he doesn't want to raise it up any further than it is.

Clint lifts his gaze up, staring at him with slight confusion, "Doctor, remember? I can look at it." He says. Not a medical doctor, almost, but his skills have been stretched and refreshed since the Gamma-incident.

Clint's expression flickers with something that Bruce can't place; distrust or wariness and he shakes his head, "It just bruised." He says, "No thanks." He doesn't give Bruce time to form a proper response together as he moves towards the front of the plane to sit next to Natasha in the co-pilot seat.

Bruce's lips form a slight frown and he stares at the back of Clint's head for a moment, but shifts his attention as Thor moves towards the bench that Loki is slumped on, taking a hesitate seat about a foot away from his younger brother. Loki is unconscious and likely will be for another hour; one of the largest faults of the previous attempt at Loki's capture was that they didn't bring anything to put him under or at least make him easier to restrain. They probably assumed that Loki wouldn't be affected by any of their (Earth's) drugs, but the lax body in front of him says otherwise. It just took a larger dose than a normal human when they tested it on Thor this morning, with Thor's permission. Thor's metabolism is ridiculously fast and burned through most everything previous that Bruce was whipping together in minutes.

Bruce is just glad that it worked properly.

Steve takes the seat on Bruce's right, pulling the green/black helmet from off his head, shaking his head to release some of the hair plastered to his face. Steve holds the helmet for a long moment before raising his arm and pitches it. The helmet lands with a loud clatter in the junk pile.

If any of them were crazy about organization they would likely die a little on the inside as they walked past the accumulation. Luckily, no one has made any attempts towards cleaning it, so Bruce has assumed they are all either too exhausted to care or just don't give it any solicitude.

Steve sits back pressing his palms against his eyes for a long moment releasing a deep breath; Bruce lifts his gaze towards the captain curiously. "Good work, team." Steve says a second later, pulling his hands back from his face. His voice doesn't have much ardor and is stretched.

"Thanks." Tony says for the rest of them. Bruce can't get his tongue to work properly suddenly and honestly wants to climb into a nice warm bed and not move for the next few days. Can this wait that long? No. It will not wait. Things rarely do.

The Other Guy grumbles unhappily in the back of his mind.

Shush.

Bruce presses his hands together and rests his chin on top of it, staring at the bench across from himself watching Thor and Loki's boots. They are surprisingly composite from where he's sitting, and he has his doubts there's any Velcro. There's at least three separate buckles on Thor's, then lace and Loki's have latches connecting the front part together with the back, lace behind that and areas to tighten with thin straps on the sides. Complex. Bruce is suddenly grateful for his boots that just slide on and off.

Time passes in an almost agonizing leisurely and Bruce can only feel his muscles growing more taut and the rest of his teammates' uneasiness grow. Steve's head tilts back after about twenty minutes, eyes closed, but his breathing doesn't indicate sleeping, Tony pulls out his phone and taps it quietly, Clint and Natasha trade out the co-pilot and pilot's seat and Thor rests Mjolnir on his right staring at the floor with surprising focus.

Everything is quiet for the next fifty-six minutes until Loki lets out a slight restless noise in his throat and all of them tense, looking towards the dark-haired Asgardian. Loki's hands lift towards his head slightly, pressing his fingers against his temples, giving his head a slight shake. Long, raggedly cut hair pours across his shoulders at the action. Loki's fingers rub a circle into his forehead and the action is strangely normal on him. Headache, most likely.

Loki's head lifts a fraction, his dark hair falling in front of his face in an almost tired manner, it isn't slicked back like it was on the Helicarrier, but parts down the middle and layers unevenly around his face. There's a faint outline as to where the muzzle was present for an unknown time in his dark locks. Bruce watches as Loki's eyelids peel apart and the murky gray flits back and forth before settling forward. His fingers clench into his palms and he licks his lips before saying in a low voice that croaks slightly: "Whatever it is you want, I do not have it."

"Loki," Thor says, before anyone else can respond, "we do not want anything from you."

Loki's head tilts in Thor's direction, his eyebrows lifting slightly, but the rest of his expression is placid. Almost disturbingly so. His lips part and he makes a slight "ah" noise before squeezing his eyes shut and leaning his head back against the wall behind him. His posture looks strangely defeated. "Has the director finally opted how I am to die?" He asks, voice even.

"No," Steve answers as Thor's lips part to respond to the question, "this isn't an execution."

"Is it not?" Loki murmurs, his fingers flexing in and out.

Bruce's lips thin. No, not an execution, just...an aggressive prison transfer.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has…" Steve pauses, clearly debating how much to reveal to the Asgardian, "it's...down for the moment and Fury asked us to transfer you. You're staying at Stark Tower until they can get themselves working again. We're not smuggling you into escape, you're not going anywhere we don't want."

Hopefully.

"Hmm." Loki hums and his lips part, "Do you presume this to take long? I have a myriad life sentences to live out."

Bruce shares a look with his teammates. Honestly, they have no idea how prolong this is going to be. It could be a few days to a couple of months. Bruce hopes it isn't the latter, a few weeks at the most. He isn't sure how long he can stand this without losing his mind or unleashing the Other Guy from the build-up of stress.

"We don't know." Steve answers truthfully, "Not long."

Maybe.

Loki's murky eyes open again and Bruce stares at them for a long moment. He can't stop looking at it, they used to be a vibrant blue that seemed to see into his soul. Now it's an unhappy fog that stares blankly; there is no perception through his gaze, just an unvarying vacant. Loki's head tilts towards Thor slightly and the blond's gaze lifts to his siblings by instinct before Loki asks a question in something that is definitely not English.

It sounds like some sort of mix between Norwegian, Norse and Old English. Thor's expression furrows for a moment, but he answers in the same tongue "Banner" appearing in his reply. This isn't English, most definitely and both Thor and Loki seem to speak it with ease. It's their native tongue, Bruce realizes after a few more seconds of Thor speaking. It never really occurred to Bruce that Thor would have a native tongue other than English, but it makes sense. Asgard is another planet why would they speak only English? The way Thor forms his sentences together sometimes is grammatically structured different then modern slang.

Loki's eyebrows meet slightly and he asks something else. Thor responds, hesitantly and Loki's fingers clench, lips thinning and he tilts his head back against the wall, again, eyes shifted up at the ceiling.

There's silence for about a minute between them before Tony asks, "What was that?"

Thor turns to look at him, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise almost as if embarrassed to have been caught speaking whatever language that was. "Oh. My apologies, it was Aardent, it is the language of Serenity, Asgard's capital. It is not spoken on your planet anymore."

Clearly.

"And you know English?" Tony asks, obviously just as intrigued by this as Bruce is.

"Yes, it is the common-tongue among Asgard's cities," Thor answers, "but Loki and I, as members of Asgard's nobility were given the All-Speak as children. It is a spell that allows us to speak and understand any language on instinct."

That would be helpful.

Tony nods, but doesn't ask any more questions and neither does anyone else. The journey back to New York is taken in stiff, agitated, uncomfortable silence. Steve's breathing evens out beside him, the super soldier somehow managing to fall asleep in this tense situation that lasts for about an hour. Tony trades Natasha out from the pilot seat after hour three and she moves back towards the bench and folds her arms across her chest, stares at Loki for a long moment, but leans back and closes her eyes.

Loki doesn't even twitch; his body remains stagnant and still, the only reassurance that he's still alive being the rise and fall of his chest. Bruce almost half expected him to poke and prod at them verbally, pushing at them until he's got them all contemplating murder, but after his words in Aardent, he doesn't speak further.

Bruce is slightly curious as to why his name was brought into the conversation, but doesn't want to ask. He's not entirely sure he even wants to know what they were discussing, anyway. Probably not murder, Thor's expression didn't look stressed enough for that.

As New York finally, blessedly appears on the horizon, Tony turns to them, letting Clint take the controls, "I have rooms prepared for all of you except Reindeer Games. I don't have a prison in the Tower and suddenly needing to construct one would draw attention so he's bunking with Thor."

Loki's expression twitches slightly as Thor's eyes widen considerably, but Loki doesn't put up a fight or begin a long rant and list with a chart, graphs and data aligned perfectly on why it's a terrible idea. The most he does is give a quiet sigh. Okay then. Apparently the younger Asagrdian prince is just as exhausted as they are or is simply apathetic about it.

Tony stares at Loki for another moment, as if waiting for the protesting to begin, but it doesn't and Loki's body language suggest it's going to any time soon, "Ask Jarvis, my AI—um," he pauses glancing at Steve then Thor for a second, "a computer(ish) butler and he'll help you find anything if you get lost."

"Thank you." Natasha says, speaking for the first time in hours. Her voice is sincere and Tony gives a slight nod in answer. The sun is beginning to set here, inaugurating the night and allowing the next day to land on the stretch of its fingertips. Sleeping will come first because of the time, but it will also bring tomorrow and the struggles that follow it.

Chapter Text

"Sleep little Natalia, your master commands your rest."

No one is reported dead, missing, or otherwise damaged over the course of the next two days and Natasha is more surprised than she wants to admit at this. Loki hasn't brutally murdered them, stabbed someone's eye out or (to her knowledge), even ventured from the room he and Thor are sharing.

Two days.

It's been two days and still no violent deaths or attacks.

Natasha isn't sure how to deal with this...doliceness. It's not right, not what she was expecting, but not entirely unwelcome. She's half convinced Thor has murdered his younger sibling and buried the body, and that is why it is so quiet. Why it is so still.

"Sleep little Natalia, your master commands your rest."

Round and round her head, this voice goes, in a choppy Russian that doesn't cease. Taunting her. She is only pretending freedom as she stands in a cell, screaming to be released.

Round and round and round.

"Sleep little—" Zatknis'. 

The bed is too comfortable for her to sleep on. She's not accustomed to resting on something that doesn't feel a little above a patted rock when she lays her head down and the sudden transition has her muscles seizing and refuses to let her body unbend. Her mind is wandering to much for actual sleep, but she could have at least relaxed her muscles.

Unfortunately, they do not believe in this idea.

Strongly.

Her brain is slightly mushy, but thrumming with adrenaline and stress. She would much like to whack her head against the nearest pole or solid surface to envelop it, but beyond give her a rather nasty headache, she has her doubts it will offer further supplementary. And, as wonderful as that would be, she has dubiety it would feel her with euphoria.

Natasha's lips part slightly and she releases a shaky breath into the air. Her eyes are glued up towards the ceiling and she can't stop the tumble of thoughts from spinning around in her head. It was supposed to be over after Clint offered her the second chance, she conceded that it was still implanted in her brain, but no one but Clint knew that; or at least, that's what she thought.

"Sleep little Natalia, your master commands your rest."

Red Room, she's not their's anymore.

She shouldn't be affected.

No one else knew.

"Sleep little Natalia, your master commands—"

Wrong!

Hydra had cognizance. They were aware of her, watching her, mingled within S.H.I.E.L.D. and she didn't even detect a whiff of their presence. She's supposed to be good at smuggling out perfidy, but she was sightless as to their doings. They could've written, "hail Hydra" on their foreheads and she would have stared at it blankly, shrugged and seen no problem for all the ignorance she had.

She's not going to sleep, that much is quite clear to her now.

She hasn't had much luck over the last two days since they dragged Loki here, but she could usually get a few hours; tonight there is nothing. Nothing but opened eyes and the ceiling, ever ready to greet her stare.

Natasha peels her hand away from over her eyes and cranes her neck to see across the room where the digital clock is resting on top of the desk. The digits read 6:37AM in a red so deep it looks angry. Six. She made it to six. She can get up now without it feeling wrong. She couldn't get her restless body onto the bed until four AM last night, but all she's done since then is lay on the mattress and pretend that she'll fall asleep soon.

Her body is thrumming with too much adrenaline; she's going to be sick.

Natasha releases a long breath of malaise into the air before throwing the covers off of her and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Almost immediately, the mattress seems to grow a thousand times more comfortable, begging her not to leave it alone for the next who knows how long. Natasha shoots it a dirty glare before rising to her feet, stretching out her shoulder blades slightly then lifting her knuckles up for inspection.

They had guns when they attacked two days ago, but Steve insisted they didn't use them, so hand-to-hand combat was usually how they took on the guards. There weren't any casualties this way, headaches yes, bruises, yes, but no expiry. She was wearing padded gloves, but there was far more guards than they were expecting and she severely bruised her hands. Her limbs have stiffened from when she laid down a few hours ago, unpleasantly, so she's probably going to be reduced to hobbling for about five minutes as she re-adjusts to the soreness.

This is why she has her own fighting style, rather than trying to mimic others. It wasn't supposed to be traceable, so she, Clint, and Steve had stared at the Hydra agents that attacked, watched them before doing there best to copy that rather than their usual modus operandi. Clint didn't have his bow and Steve his shield, so it was more slightly awkward for them than it was her.

Natasha flexes her fingers, grimacing slightly at the pain the bruises shoot through her hand. Her pale skin is darkened at the knuckles, not quite as purple as it was a few days ago, but it still doesn't look pretty. No broken skin, and the swelling has gone down, but it still hurts. Natasha clenches her fist in again before she turns to the duffel bag she tossed at the foot of the bed a few days earlier. They grabbed everything they needed from the S.H.I.E.L.D. base as they left two days ago, so they didn't have to go back and leave Loki unguarded more than necessary. She doesn't have many possessions she doesn't mind leaving being at a moments notice, so her packing job wasn't the hardest the world.

Natasha pulls the first pair of clothing that she sees from out of the bag and tugs off the loose clothing she's been in for the last day or so. She shoves her hand past the borrowed suit from the S.H.I.E.L.D. base, dragging on a new pair of clothing and tossing the used clothes next to the uncomfortable black suit towards in duffel bag staring at it unhappily for a moment. It is not comfortable or easy to move in, not like her actual S.H.I.E.L.D. issued suit.

Natasha pulls on a thin hoodie over her black shirt before shaking her messy hair slightly rather than attempting to brush it or stare at a mirror. It probably looks like she was in a violent wind gust or is attempting to recreate styles from the nineteen-seventies. She doesn't really care, actually.

Natasha turns and strides from the luxurious room that she's honestly a little out of place in and into the elevator. Water. She wants water and a different location than these walls. The rooms are basically small apartments with kitchens and enough living space to be considered more than a room. She's honestly surprised at Tony's generosity.

"Where are you heading, Miss Romanov?" Jarvis's thick British accent asks and she stares up towards the ceiling for a second, pressing her lips together. She's worked with Jarvis before, when she was undercover as Tony's P.A., but she never really got used to him. It's strange knowing that he's everywhere in the Tower and is in control of more.

Natasha hesitates, staring at the floors for a second pulling back the directions to the communal room Tony had talked about briefly when they landed before pushing the floor she's fairly certain it is on's number and states, "There." She isn't sure how to ask to get to that room anyway; possibly: "the one room that Tony talked briefly about—you know, that one."

"Right away, Miss." Jarvis answers, though she can hear something close to an amused note in his voice.

The elevator gives a slight ping as it reaches the floor and she takes several steps into the room staring for a moment. The large open space never seizes to amaze her, and reminds her just how much Pepper missed her calling as an interior designer when she became Tony's P.A.. It's a large open area with glass windows, a sizable kitchen towards the back, a room leading into a dining room connecting the kitchen and dinging room; towards the front is a lounge-ish area with a coffee table in the center, and large rug that looks to fluffy to actually stand on in between the couches.

Natasha turns towards the kitchen to track down a water bottle or a cup, but freezes slightly as she sees another person is present in the room. She should have asked Jarvis if anyone was present before coming down here.

Natasha's feet feel rooted and she attempts to step back before they can see her, but Steve turns from his position of downing a water bottle to look at her his eyebrows rising slightly in surprise. Natasha presses her lips together; was a change of scenery actually that important? Why couldn't she have just remained in her room and continued to avoid everyone except Clint?

"Romanov," Steve says in greeting, downing the remains of his plastic water bottle and twisting the cap on, giving her a small thin smile.

Natasha forces herself to relax outwardly, and returns a tight smile, "Captain."

Steve waves a hand slightly, "Steve, please," he says and Natasha stares at him for a second. His hair is slightly damp, along with his shirt. He's wearing shoes that are good for moving quickly in and his limbs are holding themselves as if exhausted. His eyes are shadowed; he didn't sleep well. He was running; just returned.

Natasha frowns slightly and moves forward, grabbing one of the stools in front of the kitchen island and sits on it, clasping her hands together and resting them on top of the counter, staring at him. "Did you enjoy your run?" She asks.

Why were you running so early and for so long?

Steve expression flashes with brief surprise, "How did you—?" He starts and then looks down at himself for another moment and apparently comes to the same conclusion she did. "Right." He mutters under his breath, "It was fine. Did you sleep okay?" He asks, and Natasha blinks in surprise slightly. She wasn't expecting him to ask that.

"Not really." She admits, didn't sleep for more than ten minutes honestly, the rest of it was just a tired daze.

Steve nods, "Yeah, me either."

Has anyone slept well since Ross called them in about a week and a half ago? Natasha knows she slept better in her undercover work in London than she has since Fury dragged her back in. Steve doesn't look much better, one misplaced breath in his direction will tip him over into unconsciousness.

Natasha wants to guess nightmares for Steve, but she doesn't want to ask verbally because it might seem a little rude to do so as they don't know each other awfully well. They're closer than they were before the Raft incident, but not exactly best friends.

Natasha stares at Steve for another second as he starts to tap his fingers against the water bottle in a slight pattern. Anxious. "Will you get me a water bottle?" She inquires, hoping to drag Steve from wandering to far off into his mind. Steve snaps back to the present and stares at her for a second before nodding and releases the water bottle he has on hand onto the counter and moves to the cabinets pulling one of them open.

He doesn't guess, so he's been stealing water from here a lot. How many times has he gone running in the last two days? Steve grabs one of the bottles and turns around sliding it across the kitchen island towards her. Natasha grabs it nodding her thanks and twists the cap taking a long mouthful of the blessed liquid. Nothing will quite compare to cold water.

Natasha rests the water bottle on the island, and a silence stretches between them. Its unpleasant, but neither one of them appears to know how to break it.

Both of them turn as the elevator comes to a halt somewhere close to three minutes later and Tony strides through the doors, murmuring a quiet, "Thanks J." before coming to an abrupt halt as he sees them. His eyes flash with uncertainty for a moment before he takes several more steps forward and slides behind the counter, opening a cupboard and grabs a cup before flicking on the coffee machine.

Natasha and Steve watch him, noiselessly.

Tony turns to look at them, eyebrow raised slightly at their silence before he says, rather loudly: "Good morning."

"Um, morning," Steve replies and his fists clench as if slightly embarrassed to not have said anything beforehand. Natasha gives a slight twitchy finger wave and Tony hums slightly before opening the cupboard again, flicking through various boxes and comes to a halt at a round one tugging it out and setting it on the counter. His gaze sweeps across the directions for a second then he leans down and grabs a kettle turning to fill it with water from the faucet.

Natasha and Steve watch him as if never having seen anything alike it in their lives. Her lips purse at the realization and she averts her gaze, staring at the counter top.

"You guys are welcome to the food in here, by the way," Tony says, causing Natasha to look up at him again. There is food in their apartments, but Natasha has mostly been stealing Clint's, this room has just felt slightly off limits for taking anything. Tony glances at the kettle again before stating: "I don't really eat any of it and I have no idea where Bruce gets his."

Natasha would have to agree with him, she watched him for weeks, it's amazing the multi-billionaire can still function properly with how little he actually consumes substance. Bruce doesn't seem like the person to just pull food from another dimension, so she fairly certain that he keeps his apartment stocked.

"Are you alright if I make pancakes?" Steve asks, his voice oddly hesitant. Natasha flicks her gaze up to him, slightly surprised. Pancakes? Strange. She would have really pegged him as a baker, but he likely wouldn't have asked unless he knew what he was doing.

Tony's eyebrows lift slightly, but he shrugs, "Sure, I don't have a recipe or anything—"

"I do." Steve assures and Tony nods.

"Have at it," he gestures vaguely to the cupboards, encouraging Steve to start digging through them. Steve shifts towards them as Tony lifts up the container he grabbed earlier and Natasha spots the label, 'green tea', plastered on the front in big, yellow happy letters.

Is that a new favorite of his? Natasha can't recall him drinking that once in all the time she's known him. Apparently seeing her staring, Tony guesses her line of thought and says, "It's not mine. Bruce threatened me into making it for him, and I sort of like my arm so…" He shrugs and turns grabbing the coffee from the machine and takes a large mouthful of it. Bruce threatened him? Bruce?

"Do you either of you want any?" Steve says, then adds a moment later, "Pancakes."

Natasha shrugs slightly, "Sure." She didn't really plan on eating anything, and doesn't trust people's food usually, but something about the way Steve offered it assures her it'll be safe.

Tony pauses dumping a tea bag into a cup and stares, his eyebrows lifted slightly, "Um, what day of the week is it?"

Natasha mentally calculates for a second, surprised she doesn't know on instinct before answering, "Wednesday."

Tony frowns, "I probably should agree then."

Terrible eating habits, her mind supplies, right.

Steve grabs some ingredients from the fridge, manages to hunt down a bowl, sugar, flour and baking powder then rests them on the island in front of her. Steve turns to Tony who is stirring at the green tea cup while simultaneously drinking from the coffee and staring at something on the phone he has resting on the surface below him. "Where are your whisks?" Steve asks.

Tony glances at him for a second then points towards a drawer on the far left, close to the oven. Steve nods to himself slightly and moves to pull the drawer open. Inside are spatulas, whisks, a can opener, pizza cutter, soup labél and other cooking utensils she isn't sure of their names. The extent of her cooking abilities isn't impressive.

Steve tugs out a whisk then opens the drawer beside that one, looking for something else. Inside is a collection of broken cooking supplies, forks, teaspoons, spoons and other junk. Why is Tony collecting cutlery that's beyond repair? 

Steve's lips thin and he closes the drawer, moving to pull several others open. The others fair no better junk wise and Steve finally seems to give into defeat and turns to Tony.

"Where are your measuring cups?"

Tony looks up from the text he's typing for a second before rapidly increasing speed and sending it. He sets the phone on the counter and frowns for a moment before shrugging helplessly. "Try there." He points towards a cabinet and Steve moves towards it, pulling it open where the long sought over measuring utilities are present. Steve tugs several out as Natasha takes another sip from her water.

Tony's phone buzzes with a doorbell sound and he grabs it flicking it open and his expression darkens considerably.

Natasha's curiosity spikes. "Who are you texting, Stark?" She asks.

'Who is about to be murdered?' would be a better question from how frustrated Tony's expression is.

"Pepper." Tony answers, beginning his reply as Steve gives him a side glance as he cracks a few eggs.

"That's your girlfriend, right?" Steve asks.

"Fiancée." Tony corrects. Natasha's eyebrows lift slightly in surprise and she stares at Tony's phone as if it will present Pepper to her for her to see. She didn't realize they were engaged now, she thought they were still dating.

"Oh," Steve says, his voice quiet for a moment before he adds, "congrats."

Tony nods absentmindedly, still texting. He pauses for a moment before his phone gives the sound of a doorbell again (Pepper's notification sound if Natasha were to guess) and he looks down at it, lips pursing. "Good sir," Tony mutters under his breath, "thou art an idiot."

Natasha watches him, slightly bemused, "What? Who's the idiot?" She asks.

Tony lifts a hand, "S.I. board member. Pepper's in the process of digging his grave currently and I'm trying to talk her out of actually committing a homicide."

Natasha's lips thin. He, the board member, probably won't make it; anyone on the wrong side of Pepper usually doesn't. Get on the wrong side of Pepper to the point she vents to Tony and they are nearly guaranteed not long in their position of power. She pities the poor man.

Ding-dong!

Tony's eyes flit across his screen before he releases a long raspberry of frustration. "Looks like I'm heading into S.I. today for longer than I first thought." He says and answers the text before pocketing his phone.

"You're going into work?" Steve asks, clearly surprised. Natasha is as well. Don't they need to stay here and keep Loki from leaving? Not that the Asgardian has done much to warrant them remaining always, but caution is rarely pointless.

Tony stares at them for a second, surprised, "Um, I co-run a multi-billion dollar company. I kind of need to leave. Besides, if I suddenly drop off the map that will give Hydra a reason to suspect us. I'm sort of the only person with a day job." He doesn't say the words with an aura of arrogance, but the way he presents them makes her feel like a reprimand child.

Yes, he has a job currently because his superiors didn't suspect Hydra in S.I., did they?

She can't return to her's until that's sorted, and it could take months.

Lucky.

Natasha shoves the bitter, unhelpful thoughts to the side. Tony presses a hand against the cup of the green tea, feeling it's warmth.

"Jarvis," Tony says, "has Bruce eaten breakfast yet?"

"No, Sir, he has not." Jarvis answers. Steve seems to jump slightly in surprise as Jarvis speaks and turns his head towards the ceiling, forgot about the AI, Natasha would guess.

If Tony noticed Steve's jump, he doesn't say anything, "Oh, good, he too can participate in Steve's cooking. Tell him I have his tea and invite the others, will you?"

"Indeed, Sir." Jarvis assures.

Community breakfast? Natasha isn't sure what she thinks about this. It could be awful, but at least she doesn't have to cook anything.

She can successfully burn water.

Steve's fingers flick in anxiety. "I don't think the pancakes will be that good," Steve says, "they'll probably taste like rotting rats."

Tony laughs and leans back against the counter, "But at least it will be homemade rat-tasting pancakes."

That makes it better?

Steve pulls out a frying pan from one of the cabinets and sets it on the stove, and only hesitates for a second before finding the knob to turn it on.

Natasha climbs off of the stool and turns to the cabinet she saw paper plates in briefly before grabbing a handful and turning to locate the silverware. After about a minute of searching, she locates it and moves towards the dining room area, tossing the plates onto the table in a pile resting the forks on top of them.

"Wow, it smells like happiness in here." Clint's voice exclaims behind her and Natasha turns to watch him enter the room, hair sticking up in odd angles and shadows smudged under his eyes. He's in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt that are more than likely what he slept in last night.

He carries himself as if smacked by a planet, but his eyes are alight with laughter. No haunted note: there were no nightmares last night. An exhale of relief escapes her.

Natasha sits down at the table as Steve murmurs a "thanks", and Clint opens the fridge gathering a handful of toppings in his arms. He, quite obviously, has more enthusiasm for this breakfast than she does. And he hates waking up early.

He sets in on the table, gives Natasha a slight nod in greeting then turns to Tony, "Where is your peanut butter?"

Tony's nose wrinkles in disgust, "You want to put peanut butter on pancakes? That is disgusting."

Clint smacks a hand across his chest as if he'd been stabbed, "Oh, wounded." He moves towards the pantry and disappears inside calling out, "Have you even tried it, Stark?"

"No," Tony answers. "But it's just wrong."

Natasha's lips curve up slightly as she watches them banter.

"Can't say that 'till you've tried it!" Clint calls out and emerges from the pantry can in hand then grabs a handful of spoons/knives to use for spreading.

Tony folds his arms across his chest, "Abomination." He insists.

"What is?" Bruce asks and Natasha looks up as he pauses inhaling deeply at the sweet smell of Steve's pancakes.

Clint takes a seat at the table on her left as Tony hands Bruce the green tea he made earlier and Bruce sits at the end if the table. The table can fit eight easily and ten if someone were to squeeze.

Steve steps into the room, plate piled with the food and Natasha inhales the scent deeply. She hasn't had pancakes since she last visited Laura, which was several months ago, but Steve's smell oddly homely. There's a maple edge to them with a tinge of cooking cake.

Tony takes the seat across from her and they begin to eat the magical pancakes. Steve stands up to flip a batch, and as he returns Clint says to him, happily, "These are amazing."

Steve's lips thin, "Thank you, it was my mother's recipe...before…" he trails slightly and a solemn edge settles over the table.

Clint frowns slightly before stating:"Yeah, well, this is much better than Nat's."

Natasha's face heats up slightly as her memory jumps back to the time Laura attempted to teach her how to cook one of their pancake recipes and she accidentally lit the stove on fire. Twice. Cooper thought it was amazing and drew her a picture of the Barton's house burning to the ground and Natasha standing in front of it, the words "Aunty Nat tride to make pan cakes agan." squiggled as a label on the bottom. Laura hung it on their fridge for about a year before it was mysteriously removed by an unknown hand and never seen again.

She took it.

Natasha smacks Clint's arm, offended.

Tony's eyes wheel to her, laughter escaping him. "You can speak more than nine languages, but you can't cook!?"

Unless she's being supervised by Clint, no, no she cannot. In her defense, it's not like Red Room or S.H.I.E.L.D. thought it was important for her to learn!

"Can you?" Natasha retorts.

"She lit a kitchen on fire." Clint says, almost proudly before Tony can answer, and she whacks him harder. He laughs as he rubs the abused area.

"Clint!" She protests, her voice a loud hiss. She does not want them to know that! It's humiliating.

Bruce's eyes turn to her, "You what?"

Natasha's tongue tangles in her throat and she glances at her partner. She's going to kill Clint, she decides, with the blunt end of a spoon.

A loud thwauk snatches the laughter from the table, and all of them jerk towards the noise, Natasha gripping her fork as if it's a weapon and stills. Thor is picking a stool off the ground as Loki stands beside him, more than having likely smashed into it. She didn't hear or see them enter because she was focused on listing the most painful ways for Clint to die in her head.

Tony told Jarvis to invite everyone.

Natasha didn't realize that meant Loki.

Thor is wearing sweatpants, a loose T-shirt with a long gray jacket over his shoulders that looks strangely out of place on him. It's unlike the usual forty pounds of armor that gleams in the sunlight. Loki's hair is more messy, but he hasn't changed from his leathers.

Both Thor and Loki look exhausted.

Thor sets the stool upright and Loki releases a breath through his teeth that sounds strangely defeated before lifting his hand up slightly. Thor wraps his fingers around Loki's bony wrist and guides him forward towards the table.

Thor's expression, though slightly grim and concerned stretches into a wide, strained smile as he sees them. "Good morn!" He says, cheerily.

It was until Loki appeared.

Clint's posture tightens as the siblings get closer.

No one says anything to Thor's greeting, watching the two siblings wordlessly. Thor drags out a chair and Loki's hands reach for it, missing the first time before he finds it. Once the raven haired Asgardian is seated, Thor leans across the table and grabs two of the plates and forks.

Tony clears his throat awkwardly, "Er, Steve, they're burning." Tony flicks a hand back towards the kitchen. Steve's eyes widen with realization before he leaps from the table and rushes towards he pan.

Natasha has no desire for Loki to be here. She was actually enjoying herself slightly before he tripped.

Everything is tense and awkward.

Clint's hands dig into the wood and he doesn't eat anything else, Bruce watches Loki, a strange look in his eye. Tony pulls out his phone and his fingers fly across it, though what he's doing Natasha isn't sure. Steve and Thor are the only people to eat anything after Loki enters.

Loki doesn't. He sits, eyes forward, tinged with a slight glassiness, posture so upright it looks painful.

He doesn't even try to eat Steve's pancakes. If he isn't going to, why did he come in here in the first place? He was hungry but then realized he's above their petty mortal food? He looks slightly nauseous. Definitely above them.

Wow, she is strangely defense of Steve's cooking. This is pathetic.

Thor turns to Loki, nudging him slightly and Loki coils up further. One more prod and he'll snap in half.

Good.

"You need to eat something, Brother." Thor says.

Loki's lips thin.

"Loki." Thor presses, "You haven't eaten since we got here, you have to—"

Loki's expression flattens and he shoves back from the table rising to his feet, cutting Thor off with a frustrated susurrate, his voice still slightly croaky from lack of use: "How do you expect me to eat it? I can't see it."

Loki stalks off, ramming only into the counter and Thor sighs quietly, but looks embarrassed.

Natasha hasn't thought much about blindness limitations for everyday life. Loki can't see the food so he can't find it on a plate.

He can't see clothing to change it or see if it's backward or inside out.

Or his hair.

Or find matching socks.

"I apologize." Thor says and they all look at him. "He is not adjusting well, I'll talk to him."

More accurately: Thor will talk at him.

000o000

Despite Thor's reassurances, over the next four days, Natasha doesn't see Loki once. Nor does anyone else save Thor, and it puts her on an uneasy edge. Two, loud, not-English arguments are over heard by Steve and herself along with something that sounded like shattering glass."Talking" had, apparently, turned into throw-expensive-pottery, according to Tony, who said that Jarvis stated it wasn't a window breaking, but rather Loki grabbing one of the pots in the room and throwing it. It shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces. Pepper is quite fond of stylized pottery, and Natasha imagines she wasn't too happy to learn about that when Tony told her.

Although things grow more tense between the two siblings, Natasha would have to admit that the relations between the Avengers get slightly better. They are by no means, best friends or maybe even friends, but they've eaten three other meals together and Natasha has successfully gotten Bruce to show her how to make green tea without burning down a kitchen. She can boil water without lighting something on fire now; she's quite proud. The tea tastes absolutely awful and she has no idea how Bruce can stomach it without vomiting, but she can make it. It's nothing like black tea.

Things are still tense between them, but it doesn't feel like gaping gorge now. Just a small ravine.

Natasha wouldn't label it as trust, but maybe "hesitant relaxed".

Natasha flips the screen on her phone up slightly, her gaze idly scanning over the reports that she's searching through, looking for some sort of mention of the Avengers. She's reading through S.H.I.E.L.D.'s report on the attack that took Loki, and so far she hasn't come across anything. Loki is still M.I.A. and S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't sure where he is, or who took him. They're in the clear at the moment, amazingly. Fury is obviously pulling some strings or their plan went off without a hitch.

Natasha hopes for the latter.

She hasn't had any updates from the director on the whole worming-out-Hydra process; she's assuming they're making progress, but she doesn't know. According to the S.H.I.E.L.D. database, Black Widow reported back to her undercover mission in England three days ago and won't be pulled out for another two months. Hawkeye is joining her today.

Natasha wishes this were actually the case. Instead, she's stuck in a multi-billionaires tower, basically on house arrest as she keeps a psychopath from escaping while simultaneously trying to not to go non compos mentis herself. She hates this.

It wouldn't be quite so terrible if she could leave to go get some fresh air, but Fury cautioned them against it; stating they need to keep them out of this as much as possible. They can't risk the chance of being recognized. Natasha is a master at disguise, she wouldn't be, but she trusts Fury's judgement. The director isn't an idiot.

Natasha turns her head slightly from her position on the couch as the elevator pings to a stop, and her eyebrows lift slightly a greeting on her tongue as Thor steps through the doors, but it freezes as she sees the look of murder on his face. Thor releases a breath and grabs at his long hair giving a sharp tug of vexation a slight growl hissing through his teeth.

Natasha presses the power button on her phone and pockets it into the hoodie she stole from Clint earlier, watching as Thor begins to pace slightly.

He's angry.

Why, remains a mystery, though. Natasha's betting it has something to do with Loki.

"Is something wrong, Thor?" She asks her eyebrow lifted slightly. Thor freezes, turning to look at her surprise clear on his face. Ah, didn't know she was present, then.

"Ah, I am well, Lady Romanov." Thor assures, though his tone suggests anything but.

Natasha's eyebrow hitches upwards.

Thor releases a breath and resumes his pacing, gaze flickering towards the ceiling in brief annoyance, "It is my brother."

What a surprise. Really, she's shocked.

Thor turns to her, "He will not eat."

Confusion washes through her. "Why?" She asks.

"I don't know!" Thor exclaims raising his hands slightly in irritation, and Natasha hears thunder rumble quietly outside. It's been stormy for days now and it doesn't show any sign of stopping. The summer heat has been lessened intensely and honestly, she isn't complaining. She has a strong aversion for heat.

Natasha frowns, "He hasn't eaten anything since he got here?"

It's been six days.

Thor nods, "He will drink water, but that is it. I don't know what to do, he refuses to talk to me." Thor gives his hair a sharp tug, again, "He needs to consume sustenance."

Yes, everyone does, but there's something almost frantic about Thor's tone, "Or...?" Natasha inquires, brushing a stray hair behind her ear.

Thor turns to look at her slightly, "Sorcery is taxing, Lady Romanov, what Loki did to your prison was a small feat of magic by his standards," a small feat? He overloaded the Raft's generator with so much power Tony had to replace everything, "but he still needs to retain energy or he could poison his blood."

Natasha's eyebrows lift, "He could what?"

Thor runs a hand through his hair, "Loki would never speak to me of it much—I...I did not care for it, but my mother was a powerful sorceress herself, she taught my brother, and constantly got after him to make sure he was retaining what he lost. He uses energy from himself and living things—mostly verdure, to manipulate with his sorcery. Using too much energy from himself without retaining it will cause the sorcery to feast off his blood and kill him."

Oh.

Well.

That just makes it seem like such a thrilling hobby.

"Loki isn't an idiot, far from it," Thor says and his fingers clench, "he knows this, so I do not understand why he refuses to eat anything!"

Thor looks ready to grab something in a throttle hold, and Natasha's gaze flickers to the coffee table between the couches where a small cup filled with pens is. She leans over and grabs one from within and looks towards Thor, "Catch." She says lightly and tosses the pen towards him. Thor's gaze flickers briefly towards her and his hand rises to catch the object. He looks up at her, brow furrowed, "Throw it." She instructs.

"I...what?" Thor asks, staring down at the pen as if it is a complicated math problem he can't remember any of the formulas for.

"Throw it." Natasha repeats, then adds in explanation: "It releases stress." It's a habit that Clint picked up from Laura (woman of throwing things when she's angry) and showed it to her. Pens are usually available wherever and they make a satisfying thwack sound when they hit a solid surface.

Thor eyes her for another moment before apparently not seeing a problem with it, draws his hand back his muscles coiling and releases the pen. It shoots across the room in a blur too fast for Natasha to track with her eyes and smashes against the wall across from Thor, (thankfully not a window) exploding into dozens of tiny plastic pieces with little splatters of black ink everywhere. Natasha's eyes widen.

Thor does not have the strength of a normal human being; he will break pens if he throws them.

Probably Steve as well.

That is a mess.

Oops?

Thor exhales raggedly through his nose as Natasha swings over the edge of the couch and moves to inspect the damage. The ink isn't quite as bad as she first thought, but it is still likely going to stain the white wall and hardwood floor. Natasha's lips press together and she looks up at Thor who has now apparently realized the broken pen and is staring at the ground in horror.

"Did it help?" Natasha asks, leaning down to pick up the largest pieces.

"Yes." Thor answers honestly, moving forward to assist her with the cleanup. "I did not expect it to be so flimsy."

Natasha releases a huff of laughter, "It's not." She assures, looking up at the Asgardian with a slight smirk, "You have a good arm." These Office Depot pens were not made to withstand an Asgardian chucking them across the room in frustration.

Thor's lips thin.

Natasha pats him reassuringly on the arm, "It's fine, I don't think anyone here uses pens except maybe Steve, so I doubt we'll get into any trouble; but if anyone asks, we had nothing to do with this." She says and gestures towards the ink stains. Unless someone asks Jarvis. Thor grabs the edge of the blue long sleeved shirt he's wearing and scrubs viciously at the ink.

It doesn't help, just smears it.

Laughter threatens to escape her as Thor's expression grows from concentrated to increasingly horrified and desperate. Natasha grabs his wrist, "It's not coming off, the ink is supposed to be permanent."

Thor's face falls further and his hands rise to pull on his hair again.

Sympathy claws at her stomach suddenly as she stares at him. This situation with Loki must be stressing him more than Natasha or any of the others realized. Loki and he are siblings, they have been for at least a thousand years (Natasha isn't sure how old Thor is and it seems a tad rude to ask). Thor is just trying to look out for his younger brother, but the universe seems quite determined not to let him do that.

Natasha gnaws at her inner lip for a moment.

Thor is her teammate and she wants to help him. There is no obligation for this, she realizes, she wants to.

"I can try and get Loki to eat something," she offers. Thor's gaze whips up towards her, blue eyes wide.

"You will?" His voice is slightly quiet and startled.

"Yeah," Natasha says casually, "and if he doesn't agree willingly, I can force it down him." She shrugs, "I don't have an obligation to be nice."

Thor's expression floods with relief, "Thank you, Lady Romanov," he says and scoops a majority of the broken plastic into his palm, "I can finish cleaning this up," he offers, "if you will…" he trails.

Natasha dumps what she had gathered into Thor's open palm, "That sounds good." She agrees and rises to her feet staring at the broken pen fragments, "Good luck with that." She says and wipes her hands along her pants to remove some of the worst ink splotches that got on them before moving towards the elevator leaving Thor to his task.

The doors open and Natasha steps inside, "Where to, Miss Romanov?" Jarvis asks.

Natasha stares towards the camera located in the left corner for a second, she never knows how to address the AI. It seems slightly disparaging to not look at him, but he doesn't have a body to stare at. "Thor's floor." Natasha says after a second.

"Right away." Jarvis answers, and the doors close the elevator sliding down as it sinks towards Thor's floor. This is one of the many reasons she is grateful for Tony' s AI, there is no guessing game as to who's floor is whose, Jarvis knows. The elevator comes to a halt, but the doors don't open and Natasha looks towards Jarvis in confusion, "If I may advise caution, Miss Romanov." Jarvis says in warning, "Mr. Silvertongue has been…" Jarvis pauses as if looking for the right word before settling on: "throwing things today."

Oh.

That's sublime.

"I'll be fine, Jarvis," she assures the AI, and she can almost feel Jarvis's immediate stare of disagreement before the doors open and Natasha steps inside the apartment. It's similar to her's, large and open with a hallway leading to other rooms. She can see that one of the doors on the right in the hall is open, pouring light into it. It's an office(ish) area in her apartment, but Thor appears to have turned it into a guest bedroom for Loki from what she can see.

Everything in the space is painfully clean and positioned with precision obviously for the intent that someone could know where it is once they've mapped it in their head. Strangely, in the kitchen there is a blanket placed in front of the stools next to the island.

Jarvis warned her that Loki has been throwing things, but the only evidence of this she can find is a few books from the bookshelf on the far wall missing. There is no place they appeared to have landed, just gone. It would make more sense if Thor took them.

Natasha turns her gaze towards the living room area that has a sofa with blankets thrown over the edge (where did Thor get so many blankets?) and though it's not facing her, she can see the mop of messy black hair that looks worse than a few days ago poking over the edge. Loki. She can't see what he's doing, but his posture is rigid, and his head lifted.

His head turns slightly, but not enough for his face to be directly in her line of vision. "Good day, Miss Romanov." He greets.

Natasha is more startled than she cares to admit at the words. She gave no indication that she was anyone beyond Thor. How did he—? It doesn't matter. She's not here to verbally spar with him, she's here because Thor might implode from anxiousness if she doesn't.

"It's night." She corrects, washing her voice of any emotion that might've slipped onto her tongue.

Loki makes an amused sound in his throat that doesn't appear to have come from actual laughter. "Is that so?" He murmurs. He twists around on the couch, probably by habit to look at her, but his eyes are still washed out, murky gray that doesn't see anything. The infected scratches around his eyelids have faded to a dull red, but still look painful. Any trace of the cuts the muzzle gave him is long gone, but it was four days ago. His hair isn't slicked back, but rather hangs around his face in a tired sort of way, with a loose curl.

His eyes are hard to look away from.

Dull, lifeless, gray.

Natasha drags her gaze from his.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Loki's voice is dry, and though it's likely attempted to bite, it only sounds devitalized.

"Thor." Natasha says and Loki huffs quietly. "He said you aren't eating anything."

Loki's fingers still, their restless picking at his right palm with his left hand ceasing. Natasha watches him for another moment, but his face is blank. There isn't even minuscule expressions, just blank. Natasha is more impressed than she cares to admit.

"Do you need your eyes to hold something?" Natasha asks, and Loki's eyebrows lift slightly, unimpressed.

"No." He says, "I fail to see how this is relevant."

Natasha turns to the fruit bowl resting on the counter and grabs a banana from within it then walks across the room standing in front of the couch and tosses it onto Loki's lap. He jerks slightly, then turns his upper body his hand feeling the banana for a moment before his lips purse together, a shaky breath escaping through his nose.

"I am not eating it."

"Why?" Natasha challenges, "I'm not above force feeding."

"Of that I have no doubt." Loki murmurs, almost to himself. He lifts his head, his eyes flitting for a second before landing on her hairline. When he talks, he usually can settle his eyes on someone's head, which is impressive. Loki's hands clench around the fruit. "I'll be sick."

Natasha folds her arms across her chest, "How they claim you a good equivocator, I can't fathom." She says and Loki's expression flickers with something she doesn't understand, maybe annoyance? "Eat the fruit." She commands.

Loki's fingers clench tighter and his eyes close, "I can't."

Yes, she's got it, he's grappling for excuses, that doesn't make her believe him any more. Fine, he wants to play this game, she'll throw in all the cards, "You're right, you can't." She agrees, "Your lack of sight has also stolen your ability to prevent blood poisoning."

Loki's expression grows irritated.

"Eat." She presses.

Loki doesn't twitch.

"Fine, I didn't really want to have to stuff it down your ungrateful throat, but—" Loki, with a hefty dose of impudence grabs the banana and peels it (from the bottom, more than likely by accident) and stuffs a bite of it into his mouth. Natasha gives a self satisfied small smirk to herself, grateful Loki can't see it.

There, Thor, she got his kvetching brother to eat something. Does she get a medal?

Loki's face pales slightly, but he takes another bite of the fruit, and about two minutes later Natasha steals the empty peel from him. She has her doubts that he'll be able to find a place to dispose of this and she doesn't really want Jarvis to add "banana peel" to the list of things Loki has thrown today.

She slips into the kitchen and tosses it into the rubbish bin then moves to the sink to wash her hands off with a hefty dose of the foamy soap that scented pine wood at the sink. Thor was probably hoping for more than just a banana, but she honestly doubts she can get Loki to eat the five course meal and dessert that is being requested.

Natasha turns slightly as she hears a quick, but soft patter of footsteps rush past and barely sees a slight blur of Loki's leathers before a door is ripped open, slammed and she hears the distinct sound of someone vomiting.

Her hands still, her eyes widening and her gaze shifts to the hall.

He wasn't lying about being sick.

Natasha turns off the sink and the retching sounds ring for another minute or so before she hears something she's fairly certain is moaned tears and there's a loud thwack. Throwing things. Natasha stills, and stands there for another second, uncertain. She is by no means going to comfort Loki who she isn't even sure is actually...crying, but she doesn't know what to do.

She doesn't want to tell Thor about this, it isn't in her place.

Natasha stares at the hall for another moment, before retreating to the elevator. When Thor asks her how it went, his expression hopeful, something akin to guilt settles in her stomach as she lies and tell him quietly that she wasn't successful.

Chapter Text

If you got issues, I got tissues.

-Unknown.

Breathless.

Weightless.

Sightless.

The strain is going to make Mark 7 rip apart by every seem it possesses and leave him to the cold elements of space to freeze and rot. He'll be a floating, frosted corpse that will never be recovered; but it doesn't matter, he can't let this hit the city; can't let it kill the thousands of people hiding from the attack; can't let it smash into the buildings and leave only further chaos and loss.

He refuses to.

Mark 7 is curving upwards, and the weight of the missile has never felt more uncomfortable than at this moment—not that it's weight in general is at all a wondrous magic pony strapped to him (its not; and never will be), but he didn't realize it was so heavy. He's curving up towards the wormhole, straining the speed to its limits to reach through the entrance.

Up.

Up, up, up.

He has a moment—a final inhale of Earth's air— to brace himself before shoving through the wormhole the Tesseract created not an hour before and he explodes through the gap. It's tingly, and gelid; the suit wasn't made for space, he's cold and can't retain his breath.

The missile. Right; he is not here to sight-see. His hands release the deadly weapon numbly as precious air escapes him.

He can't breathe.

No oxygen.

He wants to breathe, desperately.

The call to Pepper fizzes out, Jarvis's voice stops with static and all he can see is the Chitauri ship; floating in space, thousands of more soldiers prepared for the assault on his planet. And he is alone. Alone to face this threat, to stop the army before they reach Earth, but it is just him. They're going to die by the alien's hands.

Dead, dead, dead; all of them.

His final lungful of oxygen escapes him, and as soon as it's gone he wants it back because now his chest is collapsing. His skin is grating against the arc reactor and it's never felt more out of place inside his rib cage.

The missile slams into the Chitauri ship and the bright light swings through Tony's vision, but there is no sound to follow it. He can only see it; watch with a sort of strange, detached fascination as the ship implodes from the center, ripping apart in the orange-fire light. There is no sound.

Is he deaf?

All he can see is the black beyond the explosion; the nothingness. It stretches on and on and on. He's going to be trapped here. His suit is freezing from the temperature and now he's falling. Air is whizzing past him, making his head hurt and his ears pop in the most painful manner he's ever experienced. His arc reactor is digging into his chest; straining for room among his collapsing lungs. No air, no air, no air. He is going to die.

Is he?

He's plummeting back towards Earth. He's going to make it if Natasha closes the portal at just the right moment; but the chances of that are very slim. It would take nothing short of a miracle for him to slip out of this alive, and he knew that when he took the missile into his hands. But he's still descending, and distantly he knows he's going to make it. That he'll be okay; that he isn't going to keep falling for the rest of his existence (which, without air. and this chill, promises to be short).

He never falls through the wormhole. No sunny blue sky greets him, no voices over the comm; no Jarvis to chatter at him for being the biggest idiot on the face of the good Earth. Just the empty void of nothing that is crushing him and stealing his air, his sight; his limbs are going stiff and he's cold. So cold.

He is going to suffocate.

He cannot retain the air.

There is nothing but the blackness all around him, he is never going to make it back to Earth. Falling, and falling, and falling, and falling, and—

And—

Tony jolts into reality, a strangled yell untangling itself from his throat; jerking forward into a sitting position. His hand grasps around the shirt covering the arc reactor, humming softly against his skin, but the exterior is cold. Like his fingers. Like space.

His fingers are shaking, his breath is wild. There is still no air.

He cannot breathe.

Why can he not breathe?

"Sir?" Jarvis asks, his voice is soft, but Tony still flinches to the sound, his eyes wild and darting across the familiar, but foreign space. Where is the Chitauri war ship? The blackness? Where is he? Why is it so hard to breathe? Where is the Mark 7? What is happening?

Tony scrambles to the side of the bed in an attempt to answer the questions pulsing across his mind, but his limbs flail and he stumbles towards the ground in a dazed panic, his heart smacking against his rib cage. It is as if someone is attempting to teach another person tennis, but the teacher is terrible and the student even more so. The balls keep thwacking against his chest and making his skin shift uncomfortably to the rhythm and his arc reactor shove back to make space. It is aching beyond words. One of his hands takes his weight before he can slam headfirst into the carpet, thankfully, but he's less certain it has to do with actual thought and more so reflex. His legs are tangled helplessly in the sheets of the blankets.

Tony slams a hand against his chest.

Breathe. He needs to breathe.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

His first attempt comes out a series of wild coughs that makes his arc reactor grind against his skin and his bones ache. Augh! He clenches the fabric of his shirt tighter as if he can give the humming object inside his skin a good rattle so there's enough room throughout his diaphragm for air to escape and enter through.

His thoughts are a swimming mush of chaos, but he thinks he can hear someone talking to him.

But he's in space, trying to get the missile through as he gets colder and colder and—

Tony inhales raggedly, his ears clearing as the oxygen escapes into his deprived lungs. He sucks in several more breaths before he can pick out the distinct baritone of Jarvis's steady, repeating speech: "—ew York City, Stark Tower, it is currently Tuesday, August 28th at four twenty-nine AM. You are in New York City, Stark Tower, it is currently—"

Tony sits up, hand clutching against the arc reactor, but breath no longer impossible. He waves a hand in Jarvis's camera's location to silence the AI and leans back against his bed frame, clutching his fist around his shirt, his feet free of their blanket captors.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

His heart is still beating wildly, smashing uncomfortably in something it's attempting to call a rhythm that is so far from that, Tony could laugh.

This is so pathetic. It's been sixty-five days since the actual day of the attack and he still can't sleep normally; still thrumming on adrenaline and trying his best to work himself into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. It's a stupid repeating cycle that he can't stop because the nightmares are worse when he breaks it. Pepper isn't happy with it, but he can't explain. Every time he tries, his tongue gets frozen on the roof of his mouth and his throat runs dry from the lack of words coming to him. How can he explain the feeling of freezing in space? Seeing just how big the army was, air escaping him, and unable to move as his body retains gravity and falls to the portal? How? How?

"Jarvis, are you there?" Tony asks, lifting his head towards the camera. It's stupid, he knows the AI can't go anywhere, but Jarvis is an intelligent being and Tony respects his ability to be present, no matter if he knows that he'll be there anyway.

Sure enough, less than five painstaking seconds later: "Indeed, Sir." Jarvis answers, a touch of concern on his voice. "Would you like me to call Ms. Potts?"

Pepper? Now? She's at a sudden conference in Tokyo to keep her away for as long as possible as they deal with the Loki situation. Tony didn't want her near it, and she had agreed to leaving so he wouldn't be so distracted. It would be around two or three in the afternoon there and she's busy. Besides, he doesn't know what he would say to her, anyway.

"No," Tony grinds out. His voice sounds haggard; it's both disorienting and disgusting.

"Sir, maybe that would be for the best." Jarvis argues. His tone is starting to take up the argue-with-me-if-you-dare that Tony finds aggravating. The AI may be programmed to follow Tony's word like law, but that doesn't mean he won't fight along the way on occasion. Somewhere along the lines of code, Jarvis turned into a mother hen and if he's being honest, Tony's never felt the need to remove it. It's annoying, for certain, when he nags at him to sleep or eat, but it's reassuring as well. On the bad days, though, he swears Pepper and Jarvis team up against him and force his life to be miserable.

Tony doesn't enjoy admitting that he's lost many arguments with Jarvis; almost more than Rhodey and Pepper combined.

Would calling his fiancée be for the best? Probably, but he doesn't want to bother her, all he would like to do is throw a expensive plate at a wall and watch it shatter in his frustration. Why is he incapable of sleeping? It is a basic, normal, human function necessary for life. Why is it stolen from him? What did he do wrong to deserve this? He was just trying to help. This is what he receives as a reward? Insomnia? Nightmares? Restlessness?

Amazing. No really; utterly amazing.

"Don't call Pepper." Tony commands to his AI awaiting his answer.

He can sense Jarvis's stare of disapproval.

Tony's heart thuds against his chest again in his growing anxiety and Tony hisses between his teeth, clutching at the area. His eyes squeeze shut for a moment and his mind jerks again at the sudden blackness.

The darkness of space, the swallowing nothingness, his breath echoing in his helmet, it going black—

Tony jerks back, leaning forward and claws at the carpet. New York. He is in New York. The Tower. Fine. Alive. Breathing. Warm. Everyone isn't dead. He stopped the missile and amazingly made it through the portal before it closed.

His eyes rip open and he throws himself onto his unsteady legs; he sways like he's never walked on his own two feet in his life before, but he does his best to ignore it. He can't stay here, he has to see the city, he has to make sure he's not just imagining this; needs to make sure that he's in New York. He has to be sure, he trusts Jarvis indefinitely, but he has to see with his own eyes.

Tony staggers to the elevator, the doors opening automatically via Jarvis and his bare feet announce their displeasure at the cold of the metal. He can't bring himself to care. "Where to, Sir?" Jarvis inquires, his voice is still tinged with the concern, but now there is almost something irritated about it. Irritated for Tony disagreeing with his decision to call Pepper. Tony doesn't regret it; no stare or tone of disapproval is going to change that.

His throat is tight; words don't form properly. "The most windows," He manages to grate out, "The room with the most windows."

"Of course, Sir." Jarvis says and the doors close before the elevator begins to rise.

Tony presses a hand against the wall. Why can he not breathe properly? What is wrong with him? This is beyond poignant. He's not a child, he shouldn't be affected by nightmares for Pete's sake! He hardly has been in his life, and he doesn't understand why it is suddenly a thing. He was quite happy with existence without them, thanks.

The doors open and Tony staggers out into the space that the normally functioning part of his brain recognizes as the communal room, his feet moving almost by their own accord. The windows on the far left of the room spread from the floor to the ceiling, gleaming in the light of New York. This isn't exactly the room he was thrown through one of them, but the glass positioning is vastly similar.

Tony moves several more steps into the room, the lighting of the city calming his racing heart.

See Stark, you idiot? New York is still there.

He wasn't magically dragged back to space by some unknown hand in the middle of the night. The actual statement once formed into words in his thoughts, sounds even more stupid than as a wordless fear in the back of his head. Dragged back into space? By what? The wormhole that welcomed the Chitauri into Earth has been closed for more than a month. For more than two. It's not coming back. They don't even have the Tesseract anymore after some Asgard-Lady came to take it along with the scroll from Odin with permission for Earth to do as they will with Loki and the Asgardian's official disownment. Loki's scepter is far away a little off the coast of Texas and isn't going to open any portals soon.

Tony forces out a breath, and another. It's strained in his chest and the oxygen doesn't seem to sit right anywhere.

Calm.

Calm.

Calm.

"You have seen the Void." Tony's head whips up, startled at the voice and his muscles seizing. He's still wearing tracking bracelets, right? His gaze flicks towards his wrists, and he spots the metal contrasting against his skin. Yes, he is. Great. Good. Excellent. Tony stares and doesn't bother to hide it. It's not like he'd see it anyway.

What the heck is Loki doing in here? Thor's supposed to be in charge of keeping him from murdering them in the middle of the night, that's why they're bunking—is Jarvis aware he's in here? If he's not (he can't be) then Tony's going to have to upgrade his sensors; which begs the question: how did Loki sneak past his AI anyway? Sorcery? Probably. They need to find some way to restrict that soon, but Tony has no idea how to do that. When he was assisting with Loki's cell, he and the team of workers just prepared it to the best of their ability to withstand a nuclear blast from inside. Tony and the others have no idea how the Asgardian's magic works; when Tony sat down to ask about it from Thor, the blond Asgardian had shrugged and stated he isn't actually certain. Hadn't made Tony's day, admittedly. But still. How did Loki get past Jarvis? Jarvis is one of the most high tech security functions on the face of this bloody planet.

There is no way he could have gotten passed it, and Loki did.

This is not making this morning any more glorious.

Loki's actual sentence seems to finally settle in his brain and he pauses, his eyebrows lowering in confusion. Void. What the heck is a "void"? His tongue untangles itself: "I've what?"

Loki is leaning against the counter, the stools pushed out of the way to make space and his arms are folded lazily across his chest, though there's something oddly tight about the way he's holding himself. If Tony were to guess at a label he'd say anxious. Loki's eyes are closed, his head tilted back slightly, but it turns towards his voice, somewhat. The soft lighting from the windows makes the bone on his face jut out and the shadows under his eyes suddenly more prominent, Loki's lips part, "It haunts you."

Tony's frustration spikes. He doesn't even know what "the Void" is; though he can guess. Is Loki seriously going to go there and mock him for it? How exactly did Loki make it to adulthood without anyone strangling him to death? "Jarvis," Tony addresses the AI and looks towards his camera, "are you aware that Reindeer Games is in here?"

"Quite so, Sir." Jarvis answers. This is not the answer Tony wanted and his stomach drops a feeling of slight betrayal feeling the sudden void. "Mr. Odinson is aware as well."

Oh, splendid; so Thor has been letting his insane little brother wander around at night with no problems? Great. If Loki decides to murder them (which he probably already has and is biding his time) at least he'll have an easy time doing it.

Loki waves as hand in annoyance, the movement catching Tony's attention and drawing him back to the present. "I assure you, Stark, that if I had intentions of your death, they would be preparing your funeral long before now."

Oh, that's reassuring.

Tony huffs, "Yeah, right. What was New York, then? Warm up?"

Loki's fingers clench slightly and his lips thin, but he doesn't take the bate.

Tony's frustration is dangerously high, "And what do you know about this 'Void' anyway? How do you know I've seen it? You're blind, remember?" It's a low blow, but Tony's quite ready to strangle something and would much like it if one of the reasons sleep has been stolen from him were to disappear. Forever. Tony would shed no tears. He's going to have to talk to Thor tomorrow (later today, technically) about not letting Loki wander around without a babysitter.

He's still under arrest for New York. Just because they dragged him from the Raft doesn't mean that he's on a free reign to do anything he wants to.

Loki smiles thinly at Tony's comment, "I do not disremember easily," he says, the murky gray eyes open and turn towards him; a slight shiver runs down Tony's spine at how empty his gaze is. Like staring into the inside of a tornado: a swirling storm on the exterior, but utterly empty inside. Okay, that's a dark analogy, Tony stuffs it to the side. "You have glimpsed but a small fragment of the horror that is the Void, I have tasted it. I am no longer capable of sympathy, I think, but I do commiserate you."

Pity.

Loki pities him.

Pity!?

A wild sort of laugh threatens to escape him. No, he's not some sort of helpless dying kitten that needs Loki's assistance; he survived bloody Afghanistan, why is this so much different? Why!? Will someone just tell him!?

Loki pulls away from the counter and takes a step forward, his hand reaching out to grip the edge of the furniture for a moment before he releases it and takes several steps forward.

Tony doesn't move, but Loki gives him a wide berth and disappears into the elevator about a minute later. Nothing crashes down, Loki is adjusting to his life without light. As soon as he hears the elevator depart, he grabs the nearest object (a cookbook that's been left open by someone) and tosses it across the room. It smacks into the back of one of the couches with a soft thump and Tony stands for a moment, seething quietly. He needed a louder sound, the softness of the smack didn't help quell his frustration.

Or his building hysteria.

There's a moment of silence before Jarvis asks hesitantly, "...Sir?"

Tony glares at his camera, "Seriously!? Letting Loki wander? Are you losing your mind? You could have told me he was up here! Or chosen a different room!"

"I know, Sir. You said you wanted the most windows and you were in distress so I lifted you to the closest one; I thought it best to not mention Loki. He has remained in a room well Mr. Rogers wandered and did not announce his presence to him."

Tony swears loudly. Oh, so he's just the lucky one.

Perfect.

Pity.

Loki doesn't get one flipping whit of what seeing that bloody space-void-thing was like. It's haunting. Horrifying. Seeing open space and not being able to breathe or move but knowing that the Chitauri are coming and there's nothing he can do to halt it—

Stop it. Stop going back.

It's over.

"Why is he wandering around, Jarvis!? He's not some sort of stray cat we took in!" Tony says, he knows his voice is rising, but he can't help it.

"I was asked by Mr. Odinson not to make you aware—"

"Which bloody one!?"

"Thor," Jarvis answers, immediately, "Sir, I know you are angry, but perhaps if you would allow me a chance to explain—"

Tony's chest is rising and falling rapidly, his heart thudding against his chest again. Loki could have attacked them, he could have murdered his team and it would have been Tony's fault because he didn't tell Jarvis to not listen to Thor's stupid ideas. Oh gosh, if Pepper had been here and Loki had—

"Explain what!?" Tony retorts, "I need to drag up your code, something must be wrong, because—because you can't have allowed him to—to—I can't...I can't breathe," Tony clutches at his chest, but the air is not entering. He can almost feel Jarvis's rising frustration with him immediately drop to concern.

"Sir—"

He's still suffocating. Something is very wrong with him; he has no reason to be gasping for breath. Poison? He hasn't been around anyone who could do that? What is—why is this happening? He's…the...what...why is...

"Calling Ms. Potts," Jarvis says, snapping him from his thoughts and Tony whips his head up as the phone he forgot he went to sleep with in his pocket buzzes in his sweatpants. Curses. Tony's shaking hands scramble for the phone and he tugs it out of his pocket pressing the "end call" button rapidly, but Jarvis overrides his command. Stupid, unintelligent, dense, vapid, mutton headed—

"Hey Tony," Pepper's voice announces into the speaker and Tony pulls the device up to his ear to not be rude and shoots Jarvis a nasty glare. The AI says nothing at his displeasure, but Tony can feel his stare.

He works his tongue around his anger: "Hi." His voice is quiet, a rousing contrast to his building scream.

He can almost hear Pepper looking up at the clock before she says, "It must be before five in New York; Everything okay?"

Great. Excellent. Swell. Never better.

"I…" His voice trails and briefly considers lying, but the thought makes him oddly sick when connected with his fiancée. There is little, if anything, that he and Pepper keep from each other anymore. "Can't sleep."

Pepper hums slightly, "Ah. Stress?" She guesses. He wishes.

"Not...really." He admits. He doesn't want to lie to her, but that doesn't mean he has to outright tell her right now at this second.

"The...guest?" Pepper's voice lowers somewhat as she asks this question and Tony snorts quietly. Jarvis was…

Tony cannot even fathom what stupidity overcame both his AI and his teammate. He releases a loud breath: "In a way." He wouldn't be having this problem in the first place if the "guest" hadn't decided that opening a wormhole into space was a grand idea. Exhaustion is clinging to every part of his being and he accedes the actual answer before Pepper can grind it from him with expert skill, "Nightmares."

"Oh." Pepper's tone is sorrowful now, but at least it's not pity. "Tony, I'm sorry. If I could be there—"

"I'm quite happy that you are where you are right now." Tony interrupts, pauses, then adds: "That sounded rude. Let me rephrase: I'm glad you're safe."

Pepper laughs softly, a magical sound that never ceases to make something in Tony's chest lift slightly with pride and joy. "I know. I wish there was more I could do to help, though. I worry for you."

Tony grinds his teeth together, whenever Pepper says something along those lines, he's never quite sure how to respond. When he was growing up, worrying about family members wasn't really a thing that was expressed to him; not that it wasn't there per say, it just wasn't mentioned often. He bites his tongue and tries several phrases in his head before selecting: "I know. I'm worried about you too."

They've called each other every night since Pepper left abruptly when Tony realized there was no way he was going to get out of using his tower as a semi-prison for a wanted psychopath. She has heard all about his small rants about the Avengers and Loki for days now. Not that all of it is ranting, most of it isn't, but she is completely aware of the situation.

Tony rubs his free hands fingers against his eyes in agitation. He's tired, but he knows that if he attempts to sleep again, all he's going to do is receive more nightmares and awaken more exhausted than when he went to bed. He has projects he needs to get done, he can't be running on a low battery for them, ergo: no more sleep.

"You should lay down for a little." Pepper suggests. "I don't know if you'll sleep any more, but you should at least relax your muscles." Relax? Ha. Tony lets out a slight raspberry. Pepper realizes the no before he says it and appends: "Just try, okay? For me?"

He doesn't want to; what if he falls asleep again?

"Tony." Pepper presses.

"Okay." Tony agrees, "I'll try."

He can sense Pepper's approval through the phone, "I've got a meeting that I need to get back to, but call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Yep." Tony answers, "I love you."

"I love you, too." Pepper says fondly and sincerely before ending the call. Tony pulls the phone away from his ear. Mentally he doesn't feel much better, but physically his heart rate has slowed to a normal level again and his breathing only hitches on occasion but is otherwise deep and even. Calling Pepper helped. It allowed him to focus on something else for a small moment.

He forces out a deep breath, enjoying the way the oxygen slides around his rib cage with ease. Tony shifts towards the couch and flops onto it like a pathetic noodle that was just tossed into boiling water. His desire to move for the next sixteen years is fairly nonexistent. A low groan of frustration threatens to escape him. Jarvis has been compromised. What the heck was Thor thinking? Tony can't even imagine the line of thought that was crossing through Thor's head as he considered that to be a good idea. Tony runs a hand through his messy hair, Jarvis said he had an explanation and it better be a good one or Tony may lose his final grasps on insanity.

"Jarvis?" He questions, and he knows he has to AI's attention so he appends without waiting: "Explanation on the Loki-thing, now."

Jarvis only hesitates for a second before answering: "Mr. Silvertongue does not do well in cramped spaces." Loki is claustrophobic? Really?

Tony hesitates. "And…?"

"Mr. Odinson took note of this behavior and gave Mr. Silvertongue permission to enter this room when he was "to restless" as he put it with me watching. I was asked not to give this information to you, Sir, unless the situation called for it. Mr. Odinson is embarrassed and I took pity on him. My apologies for withholding this information. Mr. Silvertongue has done little—if anything—that I needed to make mention of. Mr. Odinson is always alerted when Mr. Silvertongue enters this room, if that offers any consolation."

No, not really. The thought of Loki wandering around at all—even if it is just constrained to one room—unsettles him.

Tony sighs heavily, then frowns. Thor isn't an idiot, doesn't get modern lingo and occasionally is fascinated by a toaster working, but he's not stupid. He wouldn't knowingly endanger any of them. He gets how dangerous Loki is; Thor grew up with him, he understands better than any of them. Loki's "doesn't do well" must be extensive if it caused Thor to give Loki a little bit of leeway at all. This room is large, open and has plenty of windows for natural lighting—not that the younger Asgardian can appreciate that at the moment—but still. The apartments are by no means small, but they do have furniture and halls with multiple rooms. This room doesn't and it usually has people passing in and out of it. Thor didn't just pick randomly, he (and likely his sibling) are aware of this.

Tony really would have preferred that Thor at least ask him for permission, but at least he wasn't an idiot about it.

It's not a grand explanation and the thought of Loki having issues that don't have to do with second degree murder or giving emotionally crushing speeches is weird. And strangely unwelcomed. He doesn't want to sympathize or pity the Asgardian.

A slight raspberry escapes him.

Fine.

This is fine.

It really isn't, but who is he to kvetch?

000o000

Tony ends up attempting to do work via his phone for the next twenty minutes after Jarvis's explanation, but falls asleep on the couch instead with his phone nestled on his chest like a warm purring cat. Not that Tony has ever owned a cat, but he imagines that this is what it would have felt like. When he awakens again from his mercifully dreamless respite, it's to someone shaking his shoulder with a hesitant grip as if Tony might burn them if they press to hard.

Tony jolts up with an exhale, his exhausted eyes ripping apart to stare in the direction of Bruce as he backs up. Bruce's figure is slightly blurry through his jaded vision, but he's wearing at least two sweaters from what Tony can see in the middle of summer. The end of summer, technically, but summer doesn't seem to actually end temperature wise until the end of September-mid October, so he sort of considers August to be the center.

Bruce is always like that, though, struggling to keep body heat and failing. His dark hair is messy, per usual, and his glasses are sliding down his nose. Tony doesn't have any glasses that he wears beyond his tech ones and sunglasses, but it drives him insane when they slide down his face as often as Bruce's do.

Tony squints towards the scientist and resists the urge to glare and give an unhappy comment. He was sleeping dreamlessly for the first time in weeks and now it is over. "What?" Tony's voice is sharp and slurring slightly with his exhaustion.

Bruce grabs the edges of his sleeves and tucks them over his fingertips, a nervous habit that Tony has noticed from him. If it's not twisting his fingers to see if they'll unscrew or cleaning his glasses with the edge of his shirt, it's usually the sleeves. Tony forces out a breath to calm his fraying nerves to make Bruce more comfortable. He (Bruce) doesn't do well in situations of high emotions and Tony does his best to offer a lack of them.

"The...uh, team is preparing breakfast. I was sent to collect you." Bruce announces. He hesitates over the word "team" as if trying it out along his tongue. Tony knows how he feels, saying they are a team is one thing, actually being one is another. Tony isn't exactly sure how to do it, anyway; he may have spent a large part of his life dealing with people, but with this he is pretty much clueless.

Tony gives a thumbs up, "Okay."

He can smell eggs cooking and it's suddenly overwhelming to his senses. Black pepper, egg, onions, and possibly salt. Onions are the bane of his existence, though, he can never get the smell from his breath or his teeth when he eats it and off of his hands after briefly grazing the onion peel with touch. He has yet to find a solution to removing it that works.

Bruce lingers for another moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot for a second before sliding off to the kitchen. Tony has never met a man in his life who appears to be more out of place in every position he stands in than Bruce Banner.

Tony forces himself into a sitting position and flicks on his phone to see if he missed anything important. There's an unread message from Happy about how frustrating it is to keep track of Pepper and some sort of inspirational text from Pepper that he's too exhausted to properly appreciate at the moment. There's a few emails from people at S.I., but not much else. Anything further of note Jarvis would have redirected to his phone, but the junk is in a different inbox not linked to his device.

Tony pockets the phone and rises to his feet, shuffling to the kitchen where the smell originates from. Clint is whipping up a batch of scrambled eggs as Natasha is flipping through a cookbook with Thor (the same one he threw against the couch this morning; that's embarrassing, how long have they been in here and he didn't notice?) for some sort of recipe.

Bruce is standing next to the counter, fiddling with the edges of his sleeves. Both Steve and Loki are absent, which is strange. So far, Steve has been in the heart of the cooking adventures and Loki follows Thor around like a loyal shadow.

Where are they?

Tony stands next to Bruce and lightly bumps the man's shoulder in greeting. Bruce stares at him for a long moment with something close to discomfort, but Tony ignores it and asks: "Are you seriously going to let Romanov cook? I doubt her abilities to not poison us." He can't wrap his head around the fact that Natasha isn't a good cook, the revelation that she lit a kitchen in fire so intensely that Clint is proud of it is both entertaining and strange.

Natasha flicks an unhappy stare in his direction and Clint snorts loudly from where his back is turned to them. "Are you kidding?" Clint demands, sounding amused at the idea, "No. She's looking for recipes with Thor."

"Yep, caught that." Tony reassures, "Just wondering who's going to be in charge and if I should put 'food poisoning' into my schedule."

Natasha's eyes lift to the ceiling in annoyance, "Your schedule will stay clear of that, Stark." She reassures. Good. He doesn't like vomiting much. "Today." Natasha adds with a vicious simper and returns to the cookbook like nothing happened.

Okay, time to change subjects. "Where's your shadow, Thor?" Tony questions, glancing up at the blond and quickly searching the room to see if he can locate the blind Asgardian, but comes up blank.

Thor's lips thin uncomfortably, "He did not sleep well last night; he is resting now."

Yes, Tony wants to say, I know. He talked to me. Wisely, he keeps his tongue still. Jarvis said Loki has done nothing to warrant concern and he trusts his AI with his life and those of his teammates. If there was something to note about it, he would have said so and since there isn't, Tony doesn't bother with mentioning it to anyone.

Tony glances at the clock on the stove. Seven twenty-three AM. He got about another hour and twenty minutes of sleep in before being awakened again. That's why there was no dreams, he wasn't asleep long enough for REM to properly kick in.

Natasha stops at a page and slides the book closer to Thor who is standing next to her, "What about this one?" She asks and Thor stares down at the page for a moment, reading the ingredients, glances at the picture that Tony can't see from glare and the angle, then shrugs.

"I do not find fault with it."

"Clint?" Natasha queries and lifts the book up to show to the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Clint twists from his position to stare at the book, his eyes flit as he reads then he nods slightly. His eyes are shadowed a fraction and now that Tony's looking for it he can see exhaustion written through every limb of the archer's body. Apparently, he is not the only sleepless one.

"What is this "almighty" recipe?" Tony questions with a sarcastic edge, leaning against the kitchen island with his upper body.

Natasha lifts the book and flips it around so he can see the pages; and both he and Bruce stare at the recipe. It's for some sort of cranberry nut waffles that sort of look horrible in the picture, but the ingredients listed don't seem like they would mash too terribly. It almost sounds like it should be a muffin, rather than waffles.

Tony nor Pepper have yet to make anything from this recipe book; it was a gift for their engagement from one of the lower ranking board members at S.I., Mrs. Tera Patricks. Mrs. Patricks is hoping for a promotion and has been pestering Pepper restlessly to get it. It's been driving Pepper crazy because (bless her persistent heart) Mrs. Patricks doesn't have much to offer anywhere else than where she is. As far as Tony can tell, Mrs. and Mr. Patricks want to move to Hawaii and use the promotion as an excuse, but all in all he wishes they'd be less aggressive towards Pepper as they get the goal.

The cookbook itself isn't anything amazing, which is why it's been gathering dust for the last month and a half; Tony's quite surprised Natasha and Thor found something of note in it. Even if the waffles are sort of unappealing sight wise.

The elevator dings slightly and all of them shift their positions to stare at the newcomer as Steve enters the room, slightly breathless, his face and hair slicked with sweat. He's been doing some form of physical exertion that Tony can guess at, but he isn't certain. Possibly running, but the equipment he has in the gym is sort of a large mess that can get anyone this sweaty, easily.

Steve stands in front of them for a moment then moves forward. Natasha raises an eyebrow towards him, "You look like you had fun."

Steve gives a breathless laugh and waves a hand in her direction, "Oh...loads…" he reassures. Tony does not even want to know what Steve was doing to achieve this level of breathlessness. Tony has done research on the serum, Howard was involved in the process of it, he knows how Steve has been effected. His stamina is much higher than the average fellow and Tony's quite certain any normal man would have passed out by the point they get to when Steve is starting to breathe hard.

"Thor," Tony addresses, and the Asgardian lifts his gaze to him, "there's some cold water bottles in the fridge, grab one for Cap, will you?"

Thor nods and turns to the fridge as Steve slumps against the end of the counter next to Bruce. "Smells...good, Barton," Steve is managing to retain his breath quickly, but it still not a perfect rhythm quite yet.

"Thank you." Clint answers and stirs at the eggs for another moment. Thor closes the fridge and turns, tossing the water bottle at Steve and the super soldier catches it. The cap of the plastic bottle, however, not tightly sealed on as tightly as it should be pops off and cold water smacks him in the face. Tony resists the urge to laugh at the misfortune as Thor winces slightly, "I apologize."

Steve doesn't answer. His face has gone suddenly pale, his eyes distant and he stares forward, gaze blank and growing foggy before the water bottle slips through his fingers with a thwap and he (Steve) starts to viciously scrub at the droplets on his face and clothing. Water spills across the ground towards their feet and Tony stares at it for a second, discombobulated.

Um?

"Steve?" Natasha inquires, her eyebrow lifting. Her tone is slightly blank, but there's unspoken concern in her voice. Clint turns from his position to stare at the super soldier as he and Bruce readjust to watch.

"Cold." Steve says, and rubs at the water harder. It's flicking off in small droplets, but sticking to his hands and slicking across his arms.

Tony stares at him for a long moment, "Yes, it was in the fridge."

"Cold." Steve insists. "Cold, cold, cold."

What is so terrible about that? Cold water after an intense workout Tony finds to be a good thing not as acute as Steve is quite set on. Steve presses his hands against his eyes, starting to sink towards the floor to curl around his chest. Steve's knees land in the water and he actually flinches. "Cold." He moans.

Cold water. Tony's mind scrambles to find a connection and he almost takes a physical step backwards as he connects the dots. Steve crashed the plane into the arctic in the nineteen forties. The last thing he ever felt before going under for seventy years was ice and cold water.

Bruce appears to make the connection only half a second behind him, but when he does he takes a step forward, resting a hand on Steve's shoulder after a small hesitation. Bruce is not one for willing physical contact and this speaks volumes to his concern for Steve. The super soldier shudders, again, a rattling moan escaping him. "Steve, you're in New York, it's 2012, not 1943. You're not on the plane, alright?" He insists.

Steve presses further into his hands as Natasha shifts across the room and kneels down next to him. Tony distantly hears the sound of Clint turning off the stove before shifting to join his partner. Tony doesn't know what to do, but Steve appears to be in the midst or nearing an intense anxiety attack. He doesn't even know what to do for himself, how could he possibly assist Steve?

"Steve?" Bruce questions, hesitantly.

Steve moans.

Bruce's lips thin, "Steve, I need you to take some deep breaths, okay?" No answer. Bruce's expression grows tight with discomfort, but nonetheless he persists. "In out, okay? You're not on the plane, remember? Deep breaths."

Bruce exaggerates a breath for Steve to mimic as the rest of them watch helplessly. Steve does not follow.

"Steve." Bruce pushes.

Steve forces a ragged breath from his mouth something close to a whine in his throat following. "Cold."

Bruce shifts so he's kneeling next to him. "I know you're cold," he says, patiently, "but still I need you to breathe."

Another exaggerated breath.

Steve does his best to mimic it.

Bruce repeats his breathing.

Steve echoes it.

They follow this circle for about another minute before Steve appears to come to himself again. Or at least Tony assumes so because Steve's face tinges with mortification and he refuses to look at any of them as he tugs away from Bruce's hand and leans against the counter burying his head into his knees. Sympathy tugs at his chest. He knows this feeling all well, the helplessness after realizing that what you originally thought was reality isn't anymore.

Natasha takes a seat at Steve's left and gives his shoulder a quick squeeze. The silence settles over them for a long few minutes before Steve lifts his head slightly and presses his lips together before sighing, "This is embarrassing." He announces, "I'm sorry." The words hang in the air and none of them answer to it. "You must think so highly of me now. 'Captain America: can take down Hydra, survive a plane crash, and help stop an alien invasion, but throw cold water on him and he's done for'." His voice is bitter and his eyes squeeze shut when he's done with his rant, his forehead smacking against his knees.

Steve is…Steve is afraid of cold water.

This is not the man that Howard awed over, the one who was flawless, who could stop bullets without blinking and win over woman's hearts as he bench pressed five hundred pounds with ease. Captain America is supposed to be perfect and perfect people don't have flaws. Like a fear of cold water.

Steve Rogers is turning out to be much different than Tony envisioned.

Because they aren't the same person, Steve drags up a persona to play the role of Captain America, much like Tony pulls up a role for "The-Tony-Stark", but there's an entirely different one for him. Tony doesn't think less of Steve, (though the Captain appears to believe it's fairly inevitable) quite differently, honestly. It's nice to know that buried underneath all the layers of perfection and public image, there is an actual human being.

Howard was wrong about Steve and this gives him more pleasure than it should.

Clint's expression seems to have been on a similar train of thought because he frowns and squats down next to Steve, hands going to his left ear and he tugs something out carefully. It's mostly clear and plastic, but Tony recognizes it as a S.H.I.E.L.D. issued hearing aid. A hearing aid?

Clint removes one from his right ear, "Hold out your hand." He commands, his voice is soft.

Steve looks up, his eyes red rimmed slightly and does so with a slight confusion on his face. Clint drops the hearing aids into Steve's palm. Natasha is watching Clint with an expression Tony can't understand. Concern/awe, maybe? "I'm eighty percent deaf, Steve."

He's...what?

Since when?

Steve stares at him with wide eyes, Clint taps his right eyelid slightly, "My eyes are fantastic, ears? Not so much. I can read lips, but without those," he points to the clear hearing aids, "I live in a world of silence. Do you think any less of me now?"

Steve looks horrified at the suggestion, "No." He says, firmly, "I don't. Why would I?"

Clint raises an eyebrow as if to prove his point.

Steve's expression grows flustered, "But this is different," he insists, lifting up the hearing aids. No, not really it's not, Clint is flawed he's trying to show Steve that there's nothing wrong with being human.

"How?" Natasha challenges.

"Because it…" Steve trails, slightly, "he doesn't…"

Tony bites at his inner lip for a long moment, but something inside him compels him forward. He kneels and pats his arc reactor, "You know this keeps bits of metal from tearing apart my heart at every second of every day. Most people don't even realize that it's there or what it is, without it, I'm a dead man in a few minutes. It's a weakness, Cap, I'm constantly afraid my battery will run dry and I'll be left for dead."

Steve stares at him, transfixed, "I can't stand Ballet music," Natasha offers after another second of silence. Her tone suggests this is being dragged from her much like Tony's was. Something is pushing it from them. Natasha worries her lip between her teeth, "It only reminds me of what I used to do and who I was."

"Loud noises...they...uh...make me uncomfortable," Bruce says, his voice is hesitant as if he doesn't really want to be sharing this information, but it's expected of him.

"On Asgard," Thor's voice is quiet from where he is on Tony's left, "my father wields the King's spear, Gungnir, but I cannot even look at it because it causes me to remember that which I would rather not—but as the heir, I am expected to wield it for the rest of my existence."

They remain in silence for a long moment, raw and vulnerable. Tony doesn't like it at all. Why did he have to share anything? Natasha gives Steve's shoulder another quick squeeze, to ground him. "Our weaknesses don't make us less, Steve, they allow us to become more. Don't be ashamed of your struggles."

No one has anything else to add to Natasha's statement and Tony rises to his feet offering a hand to Steve. The super soldier gently hands Clint's hearing aids back to the archer as if it is porcelain glass rather than mostly sturdy plastic before taking Tony's hand and he pulls Steve to his feet.

They make Steve cranberry nut waffles that taste like dirt, and Tony blames Natasha who promptly whacks him lightheartedly over the head with the cookbook. Even though their cooking attempt failed, they still eat all the waffles that taste like a sweaty feet left in the back of a hot car tinged with victory.

Chapter Text

It is his fault.

No matter what argument is made or how the words are twisted, it is still his fault.

Hulk is a part of him, rage and twisted anger, but it is a part of him, nonetheless, and he is accountable for what the Other Guy does even if he is consciously in the front or not.

All. His. Fault.

This is all the Other Guy is good for.

For over the fiftieth time in the last ten minutes, Bruce paces the length of the room. He's not normally one to work problems out on his feet, preferring to remain sitting and tap writing utensils against desks as he gradually solves the issue out in his mind. He tried, failed, and tried again before giving up and rising to his feet to try and mimic Tony's way of solving things.

Unlike himself, Tony is a pacer; and Bruce can't count properly the amount of times Tony has walked in front of his desk back and forth as he talks animatedly about whatever's bothering him. Bruce never really needs to respond, because by thinking aloud Tony is often able to solve the problem, but sometimes he does answer and Tony will stop and go "oh". So far, pacing has not helped him.

He's tried quietly murmuring about the problem to himself in Hindi, but without anyone actually listening, he's just felt ridiculously stupid and quieted almost immediately.

No matter what he tries, he just cannot stop thinking about it.

It's like he's been infected with a virus, and all his systems are set on destroying and smashing the problem, but they don't know how to do it without outside help. Just corrupted and helpless. This is ridiculous. He's not an idiot and he should be able to fix this, but the quandary is that it isn't a complex math problem that he can sit down and solve given enough time.

But to further the greatness of this, he doubts he'll find any relief until he attempts to see what he can actually do.

It is his fault.

His.

He blinded someone.

He ripped someone's sight from them and left them to stagger in the dark, and the worst part is; is that he isn't even guilty. He should be, because he's seen what effect it has had on the the person he attacked, but he isn't. He's not proud of it, certainly, but he doesn't...he doesn't know if he can be guilty. But he should be.

Loki didn't ask to have his sight removed, and Bruce took it and isn't even sorry.

The Other Guy isn't an isolated being in him; it is a part of Bruce which is why he is a monster with or without bullet proof skin. How can he not feel guilty over this? What is wrong with him? Loki attacked their planet, he's a mass murderer, mind controlled over three dozen people without a second thought, yes, but he's still a person. Bruce has seen more of a human side to the psychopath in the last nine days than he honestly wishes for. He hasn't interacted with Loki a considerable amount since his re-capture from the Raft, but his words at the table that morning struck Bruce deeply.

"I can't see it."

Bruce hadn't realized how potently being blind would affect everything.

That is when the gnawing guilt for not feeling guilt inaugurated.

He took a man's sight, one of the five major senses and he isn't sorry.

He is an awful person.

He isn't completely heartless, he supposes, he isn't comfortable with the idea and hasn't been since he realized it on the Raft, but still. Oh, gosh, Loki hadn't even been able to sit up properly after they found him in the Tower, that is probably when this all started. He'd been squinting at them, with dulled green eyes like he'd never had a worse headache in his life.

Hulk hadn't thought twice about it, so Bruce hadn't either.

He wishes it had gone differently and that Loki had walked away perfectly sight-ful, but at the same time, it's a roadblock that the Asgardian will have to overcome before attempting subjugation again. In a way, he's grateful at the fact that Loki can't do anything extensive right now, but at the same time, he feels awful that it's his fault.

He stole someone's sight.

He's taken life, broke Harlem and dozens of other things as the Hulk, all of which he can't breathe through the guilt of, but for some reason this is somehow...worse. That was mostly an accident. This is seeing the shock wave of what happens when he tries to help. Loki's sight was on purpose.

He's confused, disoriented and wants to yell at the top of his lungs in frustration to see if it will ease the building tension in his chest. His prediction on the matter: no, it will not.

If Tony wasn't busy at a board meeting for S.I., Bruce would have bothered him long before now. Not for answers on the question, but the man's presence is somehow calming and allows him to think clearer. He's not as comfortable around the rest of his teammates and the thought of bringing this to Natasha or even Steve makes him oddly sick.

Bruce releases a loud breath and turns on his heal as he reaches the far wall of the lab, turns and begins to trek across the room once more. How does anyone find this calming? Honestly, he is ready to explode with emotions more than he was before beginning to walk. He doesn't find expeditious movement relaxing, he prefers slow, steady, stillness over rapidly attempting to leave an ash trail underneath his shoes as he walks.

Judging by his increasing pace, this is going to happen soon.

He digs his fingers into his hair for the umpteenth time and pulls attempting to clear his mushing thoughts that are running wild without restraint or control. This is stupid, but he can't focus on anything but Loki's sight right now.

It's been nagging on him for days, ever since that awkward breakfast and has only increased in volume and intensity as time has passed. He doesn't understand why and it is driving him a tad bit insane.

He can't do anything about the sight unless he gives Loki an actual medical examination and then confirms a hundred percent that he is complete and utterly useless to this issue. Maybe then he can finally plaster the "out of order" sticky note onto his forehead and return back to bed. That would be nice. He quite and thoroughly done with today, tomorrow and next week's Monday. Monday's are awful.

Bruce releases a quiet raspberry and comes to a halt for the first time in what feels like hours to his aching feet.

He needs to do something about this before he goes insane.

Which he is dangerously closer to doing than he wants to admit to himself or anyone else.

But what can he do at the moment? Give out a frustrated yell? Release the Hulk so he doesn't have to be at the wheel anymore? Attempt to outdo Natasha in how much of a kitchen one can burn down in a single episode of baking?

The Other Guy hums quietly in the back of his mind, almost as if telling Bruce to calm down.

Bruce resists the urge to grab a mental shoe and throw it towards the other presence lurking there. Calm down!? He is calm. Calmer than calm, even.

The Other Guy lifts a quiet eyebrow.

Bruce slams his head into his hands and lets out a loud groan. His glasses dig into his palms uncomfortably and he doesn't press as hard as he wants to so the glass doesn't break into his eyelids.

This is humiliating. A being who thrives and exists from high strung emotions is telling him to be calm; but it isn't the first time, though. The Other Guy doesn't just rip his way out of Bruce's skin violently unless Bruce is dying, feels it's necessary, or Bruce asks him too. The Other Guy doesn't exist in a state of constant anger, which was a tad bit startling to learn after he and Tony starting testing at that a few weeks ago.

Blind.

Blind and it's his fault.

Bruce pulls his head away from his hands and gives his hair another tug.

"Dr. Banner?" Jarvis inquires quietly and Bruce manages to suppress his jump properly this time (usually he doesn't succeed and can often shove breakable objects off of solid surfaces—Tony thinks it's hilarious). Bruce is more adjusted to the AI than he was when he first moved to the Tower some weeks ago, but when it's Jarvis addressing him first rather than vise versa, Bruce is still easily startled.

Bruce looks in the direction of where he's pretty sure one of Jarvis's camera's are, (Tony showed him officially where they are located in each of his rooms, but it's been weeks and he and Jarvis don't usually interact except in the lab). Is something on fire? Clint didn't accidentally blow up an explosive arrow in his face again, did he? That was fun, Clint was fine, a little surprised, but he managed to get the arrow away from him so it was just the remnants of the explosion that he was hit with. Not his favorite call, admittedly.

"You are showing signs of severe distress, might I inquire as to the reasoning why?" Jarvis asks, his voice even, but not uncaring. It's strange and slightly amazing to see how much emotion can be offered through just words and voice tones.

Bruce releases a quiet huff to Jarvis's question. He doesn't know why. He's guessing at what's bothering him, but he can't tell for certain. He wants to fix Loki's blindness, but at the same time he doesn't. It's confusing and aggravating.

He releases a quiet sigh. "I'm…" He pauses for a breath, "not...I don't...Loki's eyes." He finally manages to wrangle from his throat.

Jarvis is quiet for a moment, "What appears to be the problem? I am aware of his blindness, but I have seen no other."

Bruce blows out a breath and tugs the edges of his long sleeves over his fingertips, "It's my fault."

Jarvis pauses, appearing to contemplate then asks, carefully: "Why do you believe this, Dr. Banner?"

"You were in the Tower, you saw what happened. If the Other Guy hadn't—if I hadn't slammed him, then he'd still have his sight." Bruce answers. His fault.

His. Fault.

This is all that happens when he tries help.

More destruction.

"And the battle would have lasted much longer." Jarvis points out. They don't know that!

"Maybe." Bruce argues, "Natasha already had the scepter."

"Yes." Jarvis says, patiently.

Bruce blows out a breath. "What am I supposed to do?" He demands.

"I am uncertain how to answer that question, Dr. Banner," Jarvis admits, and Bruce closes his eyes, quietly exhaling, "would you like me to ask Mr. Silvertongue if he would be willing to undergo a medical exam?"

Bruce resists the urge to laugh. Seriously? Ask the insane person if he (Bruce) can see what's wrong with his eyes? That ought to go well. He doubts that Loki would say yes. He'll probably throw something at Jarvis's camera than hunt Bruce down and commit another murder.

He doesn't have a baseball bat of defense at the moment.

Bruce shakes his head. "No."

"I apologize, Dr. Banner," Jarvis says and Bruce double takes. No, no, no, please tell him that the AI didn't— "But I already asked, and Mr. Silvertongue is on his way to meet you in Stark Medical."

He will not cuss. Nope. He thinks he finally understands why Tony is sometimes prepared to commit Jarvis's murder. Bruce is on the verge of hunting down a shovel—though you don't bury AI's when you kill them, he'll just bury a sheet of paper with the name "Jarvis" on it.

This is fine. Perfectly fine. Isn't this what he wanted, anyway? A chance to examine Loki's eyes? Yes, but not this abruptly!

Bruce blows out a breath before turning on his heal and beginning to walk towards the elevator.

000o000

"Guilt, Doctor, is is a nasty inducement, is it not?" He finds Loki somewhere close to fifteen minutes later, sitting on one of the hospital beds in a private room, dark hair tugged back into a ponytail that's falling apart from the wild layers in the leathers he's so fond of, with dark smudges under his eyes. He doesn't look like he's slept much in days, but still as the temerity to give a slight smile in Bruce's direction as he enters the room that doesn't look at all like it's born from cheer.

Stark Medical is separated into about three floors; two for S.I.'s employees and Tony claimed the smallest floor for their team. There's about ten single rooms in a long hallway, three rooms that can have multiple patients and a lab-ish area towards the front. Bruce hasn't been down here much, but it gives him a slight pang to remember medical school—how life was before it fell apart after he was introduced to gamma.

Bruce frowns at Loki's comment, and wonders abruptly what Jarvis said to get Loki to agree to this. He doesn't answer, gnawing at his lip instead and finishes pulling the plastic gloves over his fingers turning to look at Loki, and more directly: his eyes.

Still gray, still dull, still empty.

Bruce frowns and moves forward pulling open the drawer to the cabinet the sink is looking for the equipment he honestly has no idea where it's located at. He would like to do a CT, admittedly, but he has his doubts that the Asgardian would do it without a blood sacrifice and Bruce has no desire for the Other Guy to go on another rampage. Who knows? Maybe being thrown around by the Other Guy will reset what's wrong in Loki's head.

Bruce manages to tug out what he's looking for: a small pen light and a condensing lens. He turns to look at Loki and is suddenly vastly less confident in his medical abilities. He is by no means a ophthalmologist, he was studying to become a trauma doctor and is more prepared to perform surgery than give an eye test.

"I can't say this is going to be pleasant." He warns.

Loki's eyebrow lifts, "I didn't expect so." How does he manage to say things so perfectly that Bruce feels like a young reprimanded child? He quietly clenches his fist before releasing a breath and moving forward to stand next to the Asgardian. Loki doesn't look comfortable at the sudden closeness, but says nothing as Bruce lifts his hand forward and touches his face, only barely twitches.

The eye muscle test Loki passes without a problem, visual acuity, slit lamp, and visual field Bruce doesn't bother with; refraction is sketchy, but not quite as awful and Bruce expected, retinal is much worse, however, and in all honesty it looks like Loki caught angle-closure glaucoma. It isn't a great sign.

By the time Bruce is done close to an hour later, both of them are severely agitated, irritable and Loki looks pretty close to biting Bruce's hand if it touches or comes close to his pale face again.

"I just have some questions and then we'll be done." Bruce announces.

Loki's lips thin, but he nods once with what looks like slight defeat.

Bruce sits back on the spinning stools doctors appear to be so fond of and grabs a spare piece of paper from one of the drawers in the sink cabinet and removes a pen from his lab coat, scooting back a bit more to widen the distance between them. He mentally goes through the list of questions he wants to ask, tosses several dozen to the side and hesitantly settles on a few.

"Were you born prematurely?" He inquires.

Loki's posture lurches taut suddenly and Bruce's lips thin. He's crossed something he probably shouldn't have and his fingers curl around the pen as if it can defend him from Loki's ever growing desire to rip out his eye. He may be blind, but Bruce doesn't think that would deter him much. The Other Guy shifts forward in his consciousness, becoming more present and Bruce lets him.

"I am unaware." Loki's jaw clenches tightly. What? Why not?

Bruce frowns and sits back slightly, "Did your parents not—"

"I am adopted, Dr. Banner." Loki interrupts, his voice is getting thin. Right. Thor mentioned something about that on the Helicarrier as a jab towards Natasha. Bruce hadn't really thought about it since. They aren't siblings biologically, then; that makes sense, Thor is such a contrast to his younger brother.

Bruce jumps topics, "Have you had eye problems in the past?" He inquires, attempting to keep his tone from revealing the sudden exhaustion from his voice.

"No." Loki says, curtly. Good, that crosses a lot of possible answers off the list.

"Have you had any health problems in the last few years?" He asks.

Loki's fingers grip ridedly, digging into the edge of the hospital bed's mattress. "No."

Bruce can't tell if he's lying, or just thoroughly done with Bruce's examination. He's guessing the latter. Bruce is thoroughly done with his examination. He frowns slightly, "Before you lost your sight did you have any pain anywhere?"

"No."

Silence.

Loki does not look any more willing to divulge information to him than Natasha dress in an all pink My Little Pony costume and wander out in public.

Bruce resists the urge to rub his temples and looks at Loki's expression carefully, trying to find an honest answer. He can't find anything in the blank expression, lips drawn thin and gray eyes staring forward dully.

"Loki," Bruce presses quietly. "I can't help you unless you actually talk to me."

Loki's fingers stretch out slowly, "Has your poking and jabbing at my face not accorded what you want?"

Yes, in a way, but it will go faster if Loki would answer. Bruce sighs, "Sort of."

Loki's face flickers with brief annoyance, "Fine. Yes, I had a headache, my ribs hurt—everything ached, and I was quite certain that all the light was attempting my slaughter."

That sounds like a concussion, not angle-closure glaucoma. His first guess of optic neartuous sounds closer. Which is just...great.

"Your gaze right now: describe it to me." Bruce commands.

Loki blows out a breath. "What is there to say, Doctor? Everything is Stygian."

""Stygian"?" Bruce questions. Honestly he was fairly confidant with his vocabulary before this, but Loki pulls words that are rarely used into sentences like their the idiots for not knowing "basic" English. He was not nicknamed silvertongue for no reason.

"Dark, black," Loki supplies with a wave of his hand. "I see nothing, Dr. Banner, not even smudges."

Bruce hums, pressing his lips together, "My diagnosis for the moment is that your optic nerves are inflamed, I can't state a date exactly on when it happened, but when the...uh Hulk smashed you seems like a the most likely source."

Loki's head tilts somewhat, "I had put your beast's role in this together."

Bruce frowns, another stabbing wave of guilt smashing into him and he flicks his gaze to his fingers, twisting them sharply, ignoring the discomfort.

Your. Fault. All. Your. Fault.

He bites his lip until he tastes blood, "What I don't understand is how," he admits. Loki's head lifts up and Bruce continues: "You took an exploding arrow to the face and it barely singed your eyebrows."

Loki clasps his fingers together, almost looking bored. "I am a sorcerer, Dr. Banner, when prepared for it, I can increase my resilience."

Sorcerer. Magic. Right. "But still," Bruce argues, "shouldn't you have walked away without a problem?"

Loki shakes his head slightly and closes his eyes, "It amazes me that you believe me above—" Loki pauses for a second, gathering the correct phrasing of words, "—blunt force trauma, I believe it's called here."

Blunt force trauma.

Oh.

That's a thing, right.

"I still don't understand." Bruce admits. How does the Asgardian go from being able to take an explosion to the face and be mildly irritated to getting his nerves swelling from a horrible concussion? Shouldn't the healing be stagnant? Why does it rotate up and down in strength?

Loki's brow furrows with what looks like actual confusion for a moment before it vanishes and he sighs. "Thor has not been heavily injured since arriving here, has he?"

"You stabbed him." Bruce points out, helpfully; spinning the pen in his hands. Loki's eyes flit with annoyance for a second before the Asgardian leans back slightly and folds his arms across his chest, blowing out a breath and his murky eyes flicker towards the ceiling as if in deep vexation before he settles. Bruce adds, hesitatingly: "But as far as I'm aware, no."

Loki's fingers dig into his palms, "I see. Thor has a problem with assuming everyone knows what he does." There's something strangely bitter about the tone, but Loki plows forward before he can inquire on it: "Earth, as you are aware, is one of the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil, but it isn't the only one in the universe."

Bruce stops playing with his sleeve to stare at the Asgardian, intrigued; he hadn't really made the connection that if there was the other eight beyond Earth, there'd be more, but it makes sense. Why would creation, which is endless stop at only Earth and eight other planets? He remains quiet, allowing Loki to continue.

"Unlike elsewhere, the Nine has adapted to surpass in healing, endurance, strength and other, it is why we are separated into the "Nine" and not just among "the other planets". Asgard has this especially," Loki's voice is growing more animated and there's something oddly light in his tone, and starts to move his hands as he speaks, something Bruce hasn't seen before. "We, however, unlike the other planets, are...tethered to our Realms in a sense. The life in the Nine are strongest on the planet they were born on," there's something tight in Loki's voice on those words, "healing is the fastest, strength strongest and so on. When we are removed from the Realm, the tether strains to continue to feed us this. The further away we are and longer, the weaker we become, unless we jump start it by increasing our energy intake."

Bruce frowns, "Energy?" He inquires.

Loki leans forward slightly, leaning his elbows onto his legs. "Thor appears to continually be a starved, ravenous beast, yes?"

Bruce pauses, thinks back on it then hums his eyes widening. Oh. Food. Metabolisms speed up intensely to keep the same rate of energy flowing through them so the healing, speed and endurance doesn't falter. Thor is attempting to make up for what he gets on Asgard naturally by consuming more here. Huh.

"Yeah." Bruce agrees, "So, wait, in theory, if I was going to visit another planet, would I be weaker there?"

Loki shakes his head, "Not necessarily, Midgard is strange. As the center of Yggdrasil, your people are often…" Loki pauses as if searching for the right word, "...the leftovers, in a sense. Humans are not bound by the same rules that we are and able to travel between Realms without problems. Compared to the Aesir, your people are weaklings, but you hold your pathetic stamina steady anywhere you go."

Good to know. Not that it will ever be useful, but still, fascinating. Loki's explanation was in depth and interesting, he would make a good teacher, Bruce notes to himself...If he wasn't a crazy madman bent on ruling the planet.

Bruce hums in interest and leans back slightly, his brain filing the information away for further contemplation. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but stops as he hears footsteps. Who else would be down here? Only Jarvis is aware of their location and unless someone is injured, there wouldn't be any reason for someone to be wandering around in here.

Bruce turns to the door curiously as Loki's head shifts in the direction before the door to the room is all but thrown open and Thor bursts into the space as if encouraged by a fire burning under the soles of his boots.

Loki stiffens almost immediately before Thor even says anything and Bruce is quietly impressed that the younger Asgardian recognized elder before Thor states, loudly, "Loki."

Loki lifts his head in the direction of the blond, but says nothing. Thor's gaze flickers to Bruce for a second, hesitant before plowing forward as if the faster that he speaks the less it's going to get tangled on his tongue: "I have been contacted by Director Fury who is insistent that I return and spend a few days with Jane. My absence has raised questions so I am leaving to lower it. It will only be for a few days, then I will return."

Wait. Thor's leaving. Now? Bruce trusts their ability to keep Loki here; but Thor has (mostly) managed to keep Loki calm or at least fairly complacent. None of them are capable of that. Honestly, Bruce can see them committing the younger Asgardian's murder before managing to keep him level headed. Loki's barely interacted with any of them for the amount of time that he's been here, and it shows.

Why did Fury think this would be a good idea?

Course, then again, the director is just full of them. Bruce's lips thin slightly, but he can't deny the logic behind Thor's statement. Dr. Foster and Thor are close; as far as the rest of the world is aware, Thor has no where else to stay beyond with his girlfriend and his sudden vanishing act is weird.

It's just for a couple of days. They can manage a few days.

Loki gives a slight nod and begins to pick at his left palm absently. Thor's expression clears with some relief and then grows tight again. Bruce isn't sure if he's ever seen Thor look truly calm or carefree, the older Asgardian appears to be running on stress and worn through emotions constantly. It's exhausting, Bruce knows from personal experience.

Awkward silence stretches for another few seconds before Thor prods, quietly: "Brother?"

Loki's fingers stop their picking and he shifts his head in the blond's direction again, jaw clenching, "Tarry not; I promise I will do my best to not set anything on fire and quench my subjection needs to a minimum during your absence." Loki's tone is dry.

This doesn't make Bruce feel any better, and it doesn't appear to quell Thor either. The blond Asgardian shifts forward slightly, expression furrowed into something Bruce doesn't quite understand. Frustration maybe; but it looks a little closer to drained, though.

"Loki—"

"Thor." Loki interrupts, his voice dropping all sardonic. "Honestly."

Thor's lips thin, but he sighs, "I'll be back in no more than four days."

Bruce awkwardly shifts the pen's cap off of the container for a second, staring at the floor. He feels like he's intruding on something. He's not, not really, but still. He hasn't really seen Thor and Loki interact save on the Helicarrier, in the kitchen that morning, and now. They always appear (since the Raft) to be skittering around an unspoken line that is going to stretch and break and when it does it will be ugly.

Bruce is admittedly a little curious as to what exactly the line is.

Loki gives a slight dip of his head, "I'm not going anywhere."

Hopefully.

Thor nods, though Loki can't see it and after another initial hesitation as if he wants to touch Loki's shoulder or something similar, Thor turns and exits the hospital room. Loki appears to visibly deflate in on himself when the elder leaves, shoulders hunching in and arms wrapping around himself somewhat.

Bruce is startled at how human the gesture is.

A minute of silence passes between them before Loki appears to gather himself together and lifts his head, stray hairs framing his gaunt face, "May I be excused, Dr. Banner?"

Bruce pauses, startled at the question. Honestly, he was expecting Loki to simply wander off when he was done with Bruce, not ask. He was raised as a prince, Bruce recalls suddenly, so was Thor. It is so weird to think of them as actual royalty to another planet. They are both so different to what Bruce knows of royalty from Earth.

"Um," Bruce pauses for a second, stuffing his glasses up his nose. Is there anything else that he wants to test before Loki leaves, or ask? He's still curious about the Nine Realms-thing that Loki was discussing earlier, but he has his doubts that without extreme effort, he's not going to pull anything else out of the Asgardian. "Yes," he appends to his earlier statement, "do you want help or—"

"I can manage fine on my own, Dr. Banner." Loki interrupts, rising to his feet and tipping slightly before balancing and Bruce watches as Loki staggers from the room with pinched lips. The Asgardian is often centimeters from ramming into walls and barely manages to make it to the elevator without slamming into anything.

Bruce stuffs his head into his hands, the pen digging into his forehead.

His fault.

All.

His.

Fault.

000o000

"Did someone spit in your hotdog?" The question is so bizarre and random that it actually takes Bruce several seconds to make sure he processed it right before whipping his a head up to stare at Tony, eyebrows lifted.

Tony is sitting on a desk a few feet from the one Bruce is working at, the usual blue hovering screens absent and his complete focus centered on Bruce. It's been several hours since the multi-billionaire returned from SI and then dragged Bruce from his attempt to give up on today into their joined lab. It's been mostly quiet except Tony's chatter, but that stopped close to twenty minutes ago save this question.

Hotdog?

Bruce hasn't eaten a hotdog in years. How could someone have spat in it?

Bruce pauses, then sets down the pen he was working with and says: "No." It comes out more like a question and Tony nods.

"Okay, okay, yeah I didn't really think so. Did someone kick your puppy?"

Bruce scoots back from the desk and stuffs his glasses up his nose, frowning, "I don't have a dog, Tony. Is something wrong?"

Tony seemed a little done with people when he came back, but not much else.

Tony shrugs, and lifts a hand to gesture in his general direction, "I'm trying to ask you that."

"Oh." Bruce mouths and presses his lips together, releasing a sigh. "I...don't know." What is he supposed to say? He can't even figure out the tangle of emotions himself.

Tony lifts an eyebrow, "Sure."

Bruce runs a hand through his hair, "I'm just...I don't know...I looked at Loki's eyes today." He admits. Tony's eyebrows lift with interest and he leans forward on his perch.

"And...?" He prods when Bruce doesn't append. He remains quiet. Why did he get out of bed today? Tony's expression flickers with something he doesn't quite understand. "Bruce."

Bruce doesn't know if its the lack of a nickname or teasing tone that makes his tongue untangle and dump everything into open air at rapid speed, despite his mental protests: "And I don't know! I don't know a thing about Asgardian psychology and trying to cross reference between humans and them won't end well, I don't think, we're not even the same species, I don't know how their bodies function. Loki tried to explain how their healing works, but Thor interrupted before I could get everything I needed and then Loki ran off—not really because he's blind and it's my fault, Tony. I blinded him and I can't even tell him if it'll be permanent. I don't know—I don't know...It's just—this is different than Harlem. I asked Hulk to come out and help, I asked him; I knew what I was doing. Hulk was supposed to be helping and even when he does that he still causes damage. That's all he does, damage, damage, damage! We're honestly lucky that Loki didn't get his skull bashed in, just blinded and—why, why is it that everything I try to do NOT HELP ANYONE!? ALL I DO IS DESTROY!"

Breath is escaping him raggedly, and green is taunting the edges of his vision.

The Other Guy wants out and Bruce wants to laugh at it. Sure, let him take something else this time. Another life? The Tower? Oh, Bruce wants out of this, he hates this, he hates this, he hates this. Why did he switch to gamma? He could have a normal life right now, with Betty and—

"—uce!" Tony's voice shoves through his rapidly spiraling thoughts and he exhales deeply, staring down at the lab's floor. Floor? When did he move to the floor? His mind draws blank. He's on his hands and knees, staring at the floor, his glasses absent and Tony is crouched next to him, hand on his shoulder.

Bruce's breath is escaping him as wild pants and he can feel Hulk thrumming under his skin, the sickening power that burns through his veins. It's hot, searing, torrid. He he can't breathe right. Hulk is getting closer to release.

He can't let him out!

Tony is in here!

Why is the multi-billionaire touching him? If other Other Guy escapes, Tony will be the first casualty. Oh gosh, he's in the Tower. There's so many other people in here.

Get a grip, Banner.

In. Out. In. Out.

"—ce—" Tony is still talking to him, but Bruce can't hear anything through the heat.

Tony's hand leaves him abruptly and as soon as it's vanished, Bruce longs for it. He managed to keep some sort of calm with Tony's hand but now it's gone and—

Cold water slams into his face and Bruce rears into a sitting position, startled, the building heat calming abruptly. Bruce wipes the water from his eyes before blinking them open and stares at Tony who is standing a few feet in front of him, expression wary and Dum-E a few feet behind him. Tony is holding an empty water bottle, likely where the water came from, and Dum-E is holding another full one behind him.

Bruce flicks the water from off his face and Tony hesitantly screws the cap onto the water bottle before kneeling next to Bruce. Bruce lifts his hand up and drags down his now wet long sleeve to stare at his skin.

There is no flush of green.

Tony stopped a Hulk-out.

Tony stopped a Hulk-out with a water bottle.

Tony lightly bumps his shoulder, "You okay?"

Bruce lifts his gaze up to the multi-billionaire and gives a slightly dazed nod. "I—" He clears this throat, "thanks."

Tony shrugs.

Bruce tugs his sleeve down and grips it in his palm, "How did you…?"

"Know that was going to work?" Tony guesses, and Bruce nods. Tony rubs the back of his neck, "I...uh, guessed."

Bruce resists the urge to hit him. "Are you serious!? Tony!"

Tony lifts his hands up in defense, "Whoa, be calm; I get enough of this from Pepper and Rhodey."

Bruce groans and lets his head flop onto his knees, "I'm sorry." He's been doing so good. He hadn't felt the urge to Hulk-out from emotions for months, way before the Helicarrier incident and now his streak is at a solid zero. He hasn't even been close to releasing the Other Guy since he entered the Tower. Tony's not going to want him here anymore, he's a murderous monster that can't even remain normal when he yells.

This is pathetic.

Tony jabs his shoulder, hard, and Bruce looks up at him, annoyed, "What?"

Tony is frowning, and there is actual concern in his eyes. "You're wrong you know."

About what? Bruce stares at him, flabbergasted, "I'm sorry?"

Tony flicks some of the droplets of water from Bruce's bangs, "About the Hulk. Has it ever occurred to you that without his interference, I would be dead?"

No.

It hasn't.

"But—" Bruce starts and Tony lifts a hand up.

"Ah, ah, ah, nope. Be quiet. Hulk isn't just a destructive rage monster, Bruce, alright? Stop giving me that look. Both of you are heroes, and sometimes we do bad things before we can help people. Natasha was right, you know, you can use Hulk to let you become more, Bruce. Is Loki blind because of the Hulk? Well, yeah, but there are casualties in every battle, and he was the one who wanted it remember? Its not your fault. Hulk does more—he is more than destruction, and so are you. Promise. Thirsty?"

Tony lifts up the water bottle he dumped half of onto Bruce to him and Bruce lets out a shaky laugh before reaching out to take the plastic from him. He takes a long drink before spinning the cap into place and turns to look at Tony.

"Thank you." He says sincerely.

Tony pats his shoulder awkwardly, "Yep." Tony rises to his feet, "I need to pick your brain," he announces and Bruce lifts an inquiring eyebrow, "I'm working on some equipment for the team and I can't get this thing to work properly and I was wondering if you had any input."

Bruce shrugs, rising to his feet as well, feeling immensely calmer than he did beforehand. "Pull up the schematics, I'll see what I can do."

Chapter Text

"My mind is a house with walls covered in pain,

See, my problem is I don't fix things, I just try to repaint,

Cover 'em up, like it never happened, say I wish I could change,

This room's full of regrets and just keeps getting fuller, it seems,"

-NF "Mansion."

"These are broken."

Tony lifts his head up from the phone he was scrolling through to look up at Clint who is holding out two of the exploding arrows he's been working on modifying for the last week or so. During the Attack on New York, Tony noted that the explosions were wild and uncontrolled; so he worked on creating a better blast radius. Clint, among others, has been test trying out the equipment he's been updating during the midst of his amnesia. Tony hasn't found a better outlet for the energy stress builds beyond working in his lab and his teammate's equipment has been the most recent of his restless fiddling. He would love to sleep more than anything, but at least he's had somewhere to pour the energy into for the last couple nights.

Natasha he created an electric baton for, and Steve magnets for to hold his shield on his arm and back. He honestly doesn't know what he can do for Thor beyond maybe give him some more shampoo, and Bruce insisted that he was happy enough when Tony asked. At the moment, they're all located in the training room in Stark Tower (an empty room with a few benches and closets stuffed with weapons and medical equipment—this is usually just where he tests out his suits or works with his aim), where Steve and Natasha are sparring, Clint was shooting at targets with the new arrows and Thor is showing Bruce how to aim a gun. That was one of the strangest things to Tony to learn: that Thor knows how to operate a taser via someone called "Lewis" and picked up a gun rather quickly. He insists that its a pathetic weapon unless its at close range (and for an Asgardian, yeah, the guns aren't the most damaging weapon), but Thor's aim isn't anything to laugh about. Tony doesn't even know where the gun came from, but suddenly Thor had it and Bruce was next to them, working on aim with little rubber bullets that Natasha gave to them. Thor returned from his three-day vacation to Dr. Jane Foster this morning, looking far more chipper and less somber than he did when he left. No one has seen Loki since Bruce's examination, but Jarvis has assured him that the trickster is still in the building. Which, at least, is something.

Tony has been lounging on a bench safely away from the blast radius of anything (except the one time that Bruce hit him with a rubber bullet on accident because his aim is that great) and he's been working on replying to some emails for SI that he's been putting off. He didn't see Clint walk up next to him, but the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent often has the ability to simply materialize out of nowhere from how quiet he is. It's disturbing, admittedly.

Tony frowns and powers his phone off then leans forward and take one of the arrows from Clint's hands, confused. He ran all the tests with Jarvis in his lab, everything was working fine. The only thing he really struggled with was Natasha's batons that he and Bruce spent several hours working on how to adjust the electric shock throughout the weapon, but the arrows took almost no time whatsoever. "Broken how?" He questions, running his hands along the seams for a moment before looking up at the archer.

Clint's lips are tipped down, but his eyes hold the unspoken promise of laughter, "They're too heavy; it's throwing my aim off and they explode at random. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s has a eight second waiting period after leaving the quiver before detonating, if I don't do it manually."

"They shouldn't be doing that." Tony says, mostly to himself and runs his hand down the shaft before pressing a small tab next to the point and the metal hisses apart, revealing a bijou structure of tiny wires and blinking lights. Tony lifts it up and squints into the small space looking for an anomaly in the wires.

Clint shifts forward, interested, and Tony releases a breath as he sees that one of the blinking lights for the waiting period is flashing too quickly. He frowns and presses the tab to close it and lifts the arrow back towards Clint, "I'll see what I can do about the weight, but the timing is off. It will be in all of those," he gestures to the pile of fifteen or so Clint still has left in his other hand, "I'd recommend just using them all here rather than accidentally mixing them with your normal ones. Sorry about that."

Clint shrugs and takes the arrow back from him, "It's fine. I just have to figure out thirteen targets."

"Preferably not anything breakable." Tony states dryly and Clint grins in a way that doesn't reassure him very much.

"No promises!" He states cheerily before running back off into the large open room drawing one of the arrows back and firing it towards Natasha and Steve's feet. The arrow explodes long before it gets there and both shoot Clint a mildly irritated look that he grins to as Tony's lips purse tightly. He really should have looked closer at that before he manufactured two dozen of them. On the plus side, at least it's not more than twenty six arrows. Clint can (hopefully without breaking anyone's nose or patience) use those up.

Tony pulls his phone up again and flicks it on, enters the pass code and pulls up the design for the arrow and zooms in, before editing the button's lack of proper counting out. Its to rapid and it messes with the other systems causing the arrow to explode when it feels like it, rather than the set time. Tony has no idea how he missed this the first time around, maybe running without sleep for three days and then deciding to work on it wasn't the greatest idea he's ever had. Jarvis saves it and Tony backs out of the blueprint, pulling up the email he was working on.

The sounds of the training room—Natasha and Steve's grunts, Clint's explosions and the rapid fire of rubber bullets being released on the far end of the training room—gradually drown out again as he rapidly types out a reply. It's distracting, but it's not the worst fate he's ever been overcome with. Besides, multitasking.

He releases a quiet breath and re-reads the email again, checking for spelling errors or misplaced commas before sending it. Why does he wait to answer these once a week so it takes hours at a time? It's daft and not very efficient, but he honestly hates answering the questions. He would prefer that they ask him face-to-face, but many of his employees don't feel comfortable talking to him. Or breathing near him. It's almost stupid how much effort some people will put into never speaking with him, but also mildly amusing. Mostly just frustrating.

Tony flicks his gaze up as Natasha releases a loud angry Russian word in a slight grunt. She's on her back, breathing heavily, one of the two electric baton's in Steve's hand and Steve's shield in hers. When they switched weapons and if it was intentional or not, Tony doesn't know, but it seems to be working surprisingly well.

Natasha swings her legs up to kick Steve in the stomach as she leaps to her feet. Steve stumbles back a step, swinging Natasha's baton towards the redhead who blocks it with the metal of the shield and the fight commences with (from what Tony can tell) Natasha steadily gaining the upper hand.

Tony returns to his screen and frowns when he sees there's an alert from Jarvis. Jarvis, in situations as these, doesn't speak to him verbally, but through a messaging system Tony set up on his phone a few years ago. Tony opens the alert and flicks his gaze across the words lazily:

"Sir, Mr. Silvertongue is looking for Mr. Odinson; should I bring him to this floor?"

With weapons? Explosions and a wide variety of items he could accidentally impale himself or purposefully impale them with? Brilliant. Yeah, no.

"Is it urgent?" He asks his AI.

"I will inquire, Sir." There's a pause, then: "Mr. Silvertongue says that it is not. He is looking for Mr. Odinson because he learned of his arrival and wondered "if he died in the elevator suddenly"; they have not spoken since Mr. Odinson left for Dr. Foster's."

Ah. Wait, Loki is asking where Thor is? Strange, Tony would have thought that the Asgardian would have done all within his power to avoid speaking or interacting with Thor. He did stab him. Weird. Then again, it has been days since the dark-haired Asgardian actually spoke to anyone; not much of a social butterfly, that one. He doesn't quite know what wraps around his stomach, but its something close to sympathy, he thinks. Loki doesn't interact with anyone but Thor from his understanding.

Tony hesitates, then answers Jarvis query: "Send him down, he can ask his question to Thor than leave; survey him for stolen weapons."

"Of course, Sir." Jarvis answers briskly and Tony flicks his phone off and rises to his feet. He's restless, tired, and faintly grumpy, a superb combination. He doesn't really want to be dealing with Loki at the moment, but he brought it upon himself. Amazing. Sometimes—correction, often his stupidity is one to gawk at.

"Hey, Thor!" Tony calls and the Asgardian turns from where he's standing next to Bruce; lifting an inquiring eyebrow. Tony waves at him to come closer, "C'mere for a second," he requests. Steve and Natasha side glance him for a second, curious, obviously and Clint is to focused on attempting to shoot through a small hole through one of the holographic targets that Jarvis has set up to even notice the exchange.

Thor murmurs something to Bruce before striding towards him and gives a smile that's held by mostly sincerity. "How might I be of assistance, Stark?"

Tony lifts his hand up, raising the phone into Thor's sight and wiggles the device slightly, "Your brother's coming down here, he wants to talk to you for a second about something."

Thor's face pales slightly before he lightly whacks his forehead and he spits something out in his native tongue that Tony's fairly certain doesn't have anything to do with daises. Thor releases a slight groan, "I forgot to speak with him when I returned. Do you know the time of his arrival?"

Tony shakes his head, "Soon, I'd guess; and Thor?" Thor meets his eyes, "Don't let him wander off with anything in here." He gestures towards the training room and Thor's gaze follows his hands, nodding to himself quietly.

"I will not." He reassures.

"Good." Tony says and Thor turns, folding his arms across his chest as he stares towards the elevator, awaiting Loki's arrival. Tony just sincerely hopes that he hasn't made a huge mistake, which given Loki's (and his own) track record isn't likely. They wait in silence for about another minute before Natasha says something snarky in Clint's direction that Tony doesn't catch and the archer draws back an arrow and rolls his eyes, not bothering to look towards his target. Clint's ability to perceive the targets by solely sound admittedly impresses him.

"Ha ha." Clint says dryly and turns as the doors to the elevator open, a disheveled, tired looking Loki stepping out.

What happens next is a blur of movement almost to fast for him to follow, and Tony honestly can't say if it was just surprise and instinctive reaction or actual purpose. The arrow from Clint's bow slides from the arrow rest on the bow and sails across the room in a breathtaking second slamming (even with Clint's previous complaint to aim) smack in the middle of Loki's chest, exploding at the contact.

Cats.

Tony's eyes widen widen and there's half a second of complete stillness as his entire team stops, not daring to breathe before the burn seems to seep through Loki's shirt and he scrambles backwards an agonized breath escaping, his back slamming against the wall behind him, to the left of the elevator. One of Loki's hands clambers, clutching at the white paint as the other comes to claw at the burned area.

"Oh my gosh!" Clint breathes, and Tony sees his gaze flick to his bow for half a second, but he ignores whatever happens next as he stuffs his phone into his pocket and quickly scrambles towards Thor's brother. Honestly, the only thing he can think properly is a long list of curse words in English and any other language he knows that isn't repeating once. Bruce explained what Loki told him about their healing and he knows that Loki wasn't prepared for this because the look of surprise the slight second before the arrow exploded was sincere. He knows via Jarvis and Thor's ever increased frustration that over the last two weeks of Loki's stay at the Tower, he's barely eaten enough to stay alive.

Whatever his resilience is, it isn't high.

Which is just—cats.

Steve and Natasha reach Loki first, Steve reaches a hand out to grab at Loki's shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Steve demands and Tony comes to a stop behind the Super Soldier, staring. Loki's face is lined with soot, and a large patch of the front of his leathers is burned revealing red, irritated and blistering skin beneath. It doesn't look pleasant and makes any burn that Tony remembers receiving look pathetic.

Loki scrambles back from Steve's hand, expression slipping from the usual careful mask to agonized terror. The sight deeply startles him. Does he think that they're going to shoot him again? It was an accident! They wouldn't!

"Brother," Thor says and scoots around Steve and Natasha so he's kneeling next to his sibling, and reaches a hand out to touch the area him, but Loki smacks it away, his breath escaping in a heaving pant.

"Don't touch me." He hisses; it would sound more frightening if it wasn't pained laced and filled with clear terror.

"Brother—" Thor tries, but Loki presses his back further away, chest heaving.

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry." Clint says, "I didn't see you there and—oh, man." Clint groans the last part and Tony can almost see him pressing a hand across his eyes in frustration behind him. Clint doesn't like causing pain, it's something that Tony's noticed over the last two weeks. He'll certainly avenge, yes, but on accident? No. Bruce pops up beside Loki suddenly on the other side that Thor isn't (though Tony can't recall him moving) and he kneels down in front of Loki.

"Loki, breathe." Bruce commands, his voice is gentle but firm. Loki looks close to hyperventilating—nope, scratch that: Thor's younger brother is hyperventilating. Excellent. This is just amazing. Loki forces a breath then another one, though it shudders and after another thirty seconds or so the Asgardian is breathing in what's as close to a normal rhythm as they're going to get. Bruce shoves his glasses up his face and frowns at the burns which look much worse both up close and with proper lighting. "We need to check for more burns and attend to them right now; I need you to take your shirt off."

Loki's spine lurches into a frozen movement then he shakes his head, several times, rapidly, "No. I don't feel any pain, its healing quickly." His voice is so taut it could snap and Loki slams a hand over the burn to cover it unsuccessfully, and does little other than make the dark-haired Asgardian flinch.

"Loki," Thor sighs, suddenly sounding tired, "even our father can't heal that fast, please stop lying."

"Your father." Loki hisses back. Bruce ignores the two with surprising ease and lifts a finger almost as if bored before prodding Loki in the chest. The Asgardian immediately winces and his jaw snaps shut in an admirable effort to stay quiet that succeeds.

"Yep, fine." Tony agrees, dryly.

"Brother, please let the doctor look at it." Thor insists, something close to desperation leaking into his tone.

"I can help you." Bruce promises.

Loki hesitates for another second before his jaw clenches and he exhales several times still looking close to refusing, but pain appears to over power it. He peals away from the wall to remove his vest and then tug off a layer of leather and thick metal chain that Tony hasn't seen him without revealing a plain green shirt underneath. Loki tugs off his forearm guards, letting the equipment fall to his feet before he grabs the edge of the green fabric and pulls it up and over his head. Tony's eyes widen and he feels his breath catch slightly.

He tries not to stare.

He really does, but he can't stop it.

Across Loki's chest are long red scars that look like webbing or he dropped himself on a particularly large cactus and remained there bleeding for several days. There's burn marks too, older than the recent spread of red angry blisters spawning across Loki's chest from Clint's accidental hit. There's aged bruises that are just faintly yellow and green dotting his several of his ribs. Even more prominent, though, is just how gaunt the raven-haired man is. Bone juts out in places where it shouldn't and Tony comes to the painful realization of just how much the clothing covers on his thin frame did to make him look...fuller. There are other scars, but they don't look so...recent, quite as red and ugly, but faint and white. Loki's hundreds of years old, though, they're probably from that.

Complete silence swallow himself and his teammates.

Honestly, he doesn't know what they were expecting (possibly nothing, (yes, nothing!)), but this...this wasn't it. Tony can't peel his eyes away from the ugly scars and he's filled with a sudden gratitude that Loki's blind and can't see them gawking at him rudely. Loki does apparently feel it though, because a moment later he asks, with a thick sarcasm: "Am I to assume my interior organs being displayed from your cryptic silence?"

Tony wants to release a long, loud laugh. It would come out as a ragged breath, instead, though.

"Loki," Thor's voice is quiet, still it sounds strained. "Where did you get these scars?"

Thor's voice seems to snap whatever dry amusement that was present in Loki clean. The raven-haired man's eyes flit with panic for a second before his hand scrambles backwards and he lurches down to grab one of the articles of clothing at his feet, but he misses and the lean only allows them a perfect few of his back.

Tony feels his breath catch in his chest and tightly wrapped inside his lungs, because however terrible the front looked, his back is ten times worse. The scars are more prominent here, flickering out among the pale skin like neon lights in the dark. The webbing is worse and the burns are deeper, several areas Tony can see were cut deeply into and needed stitches, but were pulled out unprofessionally and later than they should have been so it scarred terribly. The burns are worse, too. On his shoulder, though, is some sort of brand mark; it's about three inches across and up, but not circular. It looks like a disorder mess but Tony can see an artistic pattern to it: something attempting to take flight but held in place by something that looks close to spiderwebs.

Thor's breath hitches and Loki stills completely, breath not escaping his thin chest as he slowly leans up, hands empty and gaze defeated.

Clint's gaze flickers to Thor from the person in front of them that Tony can't stop staring at to Thor again, his voice is barely above a breath as he asks: "What is it?"

Thor's gaze is locked onto the younger's front, his eyes wide before he takes a step forward that seems to echo around them in the suddenly quiet room, then slowly and tentatively reaches forward to grab Loki's shoulder. His touch looks gentle, yet Loki flinches at the contact, but allows Thor to slowly turn him around again so the ugly, marred flesh is revealed once more. Thor draws his hand back like it's been burned, but his gaze is locked onto the deep burn brand-mark. Thor's lips part for a second no sound escaping, then he says shakily: "Loki," strained, "that is a Chitauri slave brand."

Tony's breath catches in this throat and refuses to be released.

It's a what?

No.

It can't be.

Because that would mean that Loki wasn't at the head of the army and—that means that the Chitauri could be back. No. He refuses to accept this. Loki was in charge, because that means they won. It was black and white, Loki was the bad guy and that was that. He doesn't want anything different because New York can't happen again. He can't fight another alien army and get stuck in space for certain this time suffocating and—

And—

Clint's bow clatters against the ground and all of them turn to glance at the archer, the sound jolting them from their joined stupor. Loki twitches, fingers clenching so deeply into his nails that Tony half wonders if he's going to break skin. He presses his lips together tightly and watches as Clint's eyes flit over the Asgardian's back once more, apparently making the connections that they all have, again, and a hiss escapes through his teeth.

"Did you attack New York on your own free will?" Clint demands, his voice is sharp and calculating, angry. Tony's fingers clench slightly. He hasn't really seen Clint angry before, irritated, yes, and frustrated, but not this...anger. It burns like a fire with gasoline being doused on it, there's something in his eyes that promises bodily harm unless only truth in answered.

Loki remains quiet, his head isn't facing them so Tony can't read his expression, but his shoulders and falling and rising rapidly, yet raggedly, like one of his ribs is poking through his lung. But then, if that was the case, they'd be able to see it, wouldn't they? The thought is surprisingly bitter.

Clint's fingers clench and the archer's lips thin for half a second in barely controlled fury before he slams a hand against the wall, "TELL ME!"

Loki flinches at the raised volume and Tony sends a warning look in Clint's direction in sync with Bruce. They're supposed to be holding the Asgardian under arrest, they weren't given a execution or murder charge, which, Clint looks dangerously close to doing. Asphyxiating him, more precisely, with his bare hands.

Clint takes a step forward, causing Natasha to lurch, but Loki all but flies to his feet fully and turns around pressing his back against the white wall behind them, eyes wild and terrified. The expression just looks...wrong on his face. Out of place. Strange. He's not supposed to have emotions, he's the psychopath that they all are forced to watch, not something to pity.

"Don't—" Loki squeezes from his throat before forcing out a further breath, his voice disappearing in it. "I didn't!" He exclaims, his voice tight, "I didn't attack it because I wanted to." His eyes jolt to the right for a second, as if looking for something he can't find, "I lost on purpose."

The words hang in the air for a few seconds and Tony struggles to process them.

Purpose?

Was he even trying?

The sudden realization of what Clint was asking hits him and he takes half a step back in surprise. Mind control. Clint was asking about mind control.

Loki didn't—

He wasn't—

He was—

What?

His brain doesn't want to wrap around these new developments. They make no sense. He doesn't like it. Why can't things go back to the simplistic normal they were before? Why does everything have to keep changing? He was content being ignorant, he doesn't want to know this.

"You were under mind control;" Thor's voice is low and there's something oddly dangerous about it.

Loki's eyes swing towards Thor's general location, pinpointing him by solely the elder's voice and gives a very, very small nod. Thor's fingers clench with frustration or otherwise, Tony doesn't know before his expression twists into a rather ugly anger.

"Why did you not bother to mention this before!?" His voice raises, loudly, and Tony flinches to it as Loki's shoulders draw together tighter before his lips split and a wild, vicious smile spreads across his face. It reminds Tony abruptly of the crazy mad-man they were fighting before, one that had utterly disappeared since the Hulk-Smash.

The wild smile is frightening and it reminds Tony abruptly that despite how pathetic Loki has been acting the last two weeks he is a trained fighter, a master sorcerer, and not exactly human.

"Do you think I did not try?" Loki hisses, voice snapping outwards without the quiet hesitation it's held since the Raft. It isn't loud, but it gets his point across just fine.

"You said nothing!" Thor argues.

"I couldn't say anything, you fífl!" Loki says, his hands jerking out in a wild manner. "I had barely come to myself before I was muzzled; hard to talk with that on, not that you exactly dropped by for any social visits." The words bite and Tony winces somewhat for Thor's sake.

Thor's teeth clench together tautly and his gaze flickers for a second, guilty, "I tried t—"

"Oh, don't start that." Loki spits, "You didn't; don't try to fib, you're awful at it. Brother mine, why would you?"

"Why would I—!?" Thor echoes, his voice is sharper now, but filled to the brim with disbelief and anger, "You are my brother Loki, I had no idea that you were innocent!"

Rather than the reassurance Tony is fairly certain that Thor meant by the comment, Loki snorts, "Yes, you had no idea because you were not looking."

"It's not exactly like you would have told me if I had asked you—!"

"How could I have!?" Loki's voice is raising.

"You are a master sorcerer, couldn't you have just waved your hands and then—viola spell broken? You've done it before."

Loki gives a slight shake of his head and huffs darkly, that sickly smile twitching at the edges of his lips again. "So this is my fault then?"

"Who was it that was at the front of the lines of the attack on innocent Midgardians? It wasn't me. You know we were raised by father to protect the innocent, right? Or did you lose that as well when you leapt from the Bifrost? Or was it before that? You had no reason to go after Jotunheim beyond irrational stupidity!"

Loki chokes, "I was trying to protect our Realm from a war you started; I was king, it was my duty."

Thor laughs, "I started? I didn't let the Frost Giants into Asgard, this has nothing to do with duty, Loki! 'duty' would have prevented you from locking the Bifrost onto Jotunheim that day; 'duty' wouldn't have made you interfere with my coronation; 'duty' would have prevented you from committing treason; 'duty' would have kept you from leaping off the bridge!" Thor's voice is raised and he lifts his hands up to run through his hair in his agitation. Tony's gaze flicks to Loki's hands as his fingers clench in a manner that looks painful.

"What on the Nine Realms do you want from me!?" Loki demands. "What, Thor, what? I prevented an intergalactic war by preventing your crowning—"

"By committing treason—!"

"I protected your bloody Realm from war—"

"By attempting genocide—"

"I stopped a Mad Titan from attacking your precious Midgard—"

"You gave up and allowed him to take control of your mind!"

Loki stills and his teeth latch together so fiercely Tony can hear the soft clink that it makes. Rage flits across his entire figure for a moment before his blind eyes jerk towards Thor in an cold glare. "'Gave up'," he echoes, "'Gave up'? What do you think all this is Thor!?" Loki's hand jerks towards the scars dotting across his torso, "A suntan from a vacation!? Is that what you think my fall into the Void was? A holiday? I waltzed onto Midgard because the Chitauri no longer had my favorite fruit drink?"

Tony snorts quietly at the remark, but the humor of it is lost on Thor. "Did you think that making me watch you fall was a holiday either? That this last year has been solitary giddy joy?"

Loki claps his hands together a bitter laugh escaping his throat. "Well, I am deep and truly remorseful that you had to realize that you are a utter idiot and it cost my life and sanity for you to come to that."

"By the severed hand of Tyr, Loki, do you have any idea what that did to me, watching you fall into the Void?"

Loki appears to be taken back by this, and he falters slightly, "I—"

"I had to watch my brother fall to his death. I watched you let go and I had no idea what I did wrong to make you do that. But why would that bother you? Why? You hardly spare another thought for anyone but yourself. You thought I wasn't ready to be king and what do you do? Rather than just tell me, you manipulate the events so that my coronation would be halted."

Loki's face was twisted up with fury, but now it seizes up into a careful placidness, which is somehow much worse than the anger. "Ah, I see." He says, his voice is soft, but venomous like a snake wounding it's way around the throat of its prey. "Odin's relic fell to death and Thor's little play thing finally stopped taking the ridicule and grew a backbone, but now no one knows what to do with it. You have changed so little, Thor."

Thor's body radiates with anger before he rips one of Natasha's batons from Steve's lax hands and leaps at Loki. Loki's expression flits with panic before he flicks his wrist out and the dagger that Clint has strapped to his upper thigh sails from the sheathe and into Loki's hand. How the Asgardian was even aware it was there, Tony doesn't know, but the weapon suddenly present in his hands makes everyone break from their fascinated stupor of the argument.

The baton and the dagger slam into each other and Thor draws his weapon back, preparing for another strike, but Steve shifts forward and grabs Thor's forearm and pulls his hand back, keeping it in place. "Alright, enough." Steve commands, "Loki, put down the knife."

Thor's breathing raggedly and rage is pouring off of him violently; Loki drawn up tight like a cat prepared to lash out at anyone who breathes wrong in their direction. Neither Asgardian looks close to 'calming down', but more so to committing a murder.

Breath is audible from both siblings.

Steve drags Thor's arm back further and Natasha steps forward to twist the baton from Thor's hand and stuffs it onto her belt. Thor attempts to lurch forward again, but Steve strains and manages to keep the Asgardian in place. "Thor, stand down." Steve warns, his voice is lacking anything but cold detachment. It's the voice that Steve uses for Captain America and Tony backs up slightly him and Clint shifting away as Steve drags Thor's arm down and begins to tug him away from the younger Asgardian.

"We'll be outside." Steve announces, dragging the other blond towards the elevator.

"But Fury said—" Natasha starts and Steve slams a hand down on the keypad for the doors and glances at her.

"I know." The doors open and Thor and Steve disappear inside, Jarvis's soft baritone barely audible. Tony doesn't know why, but he's guessing it's from the slight pulsing in his ear. He was not prepared for any of this today. He doesn't even know how you would prepare.

Loki was—

What?

Tony shifts as the doors close taking Thor and Steve with them. Loki's legs have apparently had enough of baring his weight as the trickster's feet give and he appears to completely collapse. He slides down the wall, Clint's dagger clattering next to his leg, fingers gripping the weapon like it's his sole lifeline in a raging ocean. The grip is so tight that his skin looks stretched.

Tony is fairly certain that if provoked, Clint's dagger is going to end up in someone's stomach. As soon as the thought occurs; this is, of course, when Bruce decides to take a step forward. Tony mentally slaps his forehead in frustration at the stupidity of the doctor and tenses for the stabbage that is about to come.

Bruce leans down in front of him and stares at Loki's face for a moment, lips pursed together, "I am in front of you." He announces.

Great! Brilliant, Bruce, give him a target!

"Will you give me the dagger?"

Loki's head lifts in Bruce's general direction and his eyebrows lift slightly in some form of surprise before the weapon slides from Loki's hand and clatters next to his knee as if Loki forgot he was holding it and Bruce's reminder startled him into releasing it. Bruce takes the weapon off the ground and—as Natasha steps forward—hands it to her. She backs up and gives it back to her partner who is standing a little behind Tony, his eyes as wide as the rest of theirs. "Thank you." Bruce says. How is he so calm? Tony wants to rip his hair out and then let out a loud scream. Tension is building in his chest, demanding a release and Tony doesn't know how to let it out.

A low laugh that sounds like its hiding a sob escapes Loki's throat and he tugs his legs up to his stomach, pressing a hand against his burn the other one wrapping around his legs. "I am not a child, Doctor." He whispers, "Do not treat me as such."

"I'm not." Bruce answers calmly despite Loki's biting tone, "You're panicking and in pain; I just want to help."

"Why?" Loki demands, his voice hard, "I do not want to be indebted to you."

"That's not my goal," Bruce reassures, glancing back at them as if searching for assistance, "the only thing I'm gaining from this is the chance to flex my medical muscles, I don't have anything else in mind."

Loki seems to hesitate slightly, "I will heal, given time."

Bruce nods, though Loki can't see it, "I know; but it'll be a more pleasant experience if you let me wrap it at least."

Loki's breath escapes him slightly and he squeezes his eyes shut, pulling his hand back and letting his legs fall again, revealing the burn to them. "Do what you must." He submits.

Bruce seems oddly happy at this and moves forward, pushing his glasses up his nose squinting. He lifts a hand out to touch it, then pauses, "I'm going to touch it," he warns before pressing a hand against the area and feeling at the skin. A hiss escapes through Loki's teeth and his fingers clench, but he makes no other movement of discomfort.

Bruce prods at the worst part in the center before nodding slightly, "It didn't get past the dermis—" not a third degree, then "—which is good." He adds, then looks back at them, "Someone get me antibiotic cream and a cold wet cloth, Tony grab the gauze."

Tony's mind immediately leaps into action as he forces his feet to work in the direction of the small medical closet on this floor that he knows will have gauze in it, because Pepper put some in there recently after he cut his hand open on a piece of the suit and he needed to change the bandages. Tony moves across the room towards the far left corner where the door is next to the larger closet filled with dozens of weapons. Tony the slips into the small closet, flicking on the lights and staring at the shelves for a second looking for the right level that has the gauze.

There! Next to a bottle of some sort of foul smelling soap (that frankly he has no idea why it is in here) is the container filled with bandages ranging from the small band aids to the gauze that Bruce is requesting. He grabs the container down from the shelf balancing it on his knee and shuffles through it a moment before grabbing a roll of gauze before pausing and grabbing another then shoves the lid back on stuffing it onto the shelf again.

When Tony re-enters the scene, Loki has shifted to sitting on one of the benches, his legs crossed beneath him, Bruce standing in front of him; Clint is handing him the cold wet rag from somewhere (he isn't as in tune as to what is on this floor as others) as Natasha unscrews the lid for the antibiotic cream Tony wasn't even aware he had. Or where it was. He's not too surprised that she found it, admittedly, she's good at hunting things.

Tony sets the gauze next to the cream on the far end of the bench Loki isn't occupying and stands back from Bruce with Natasha and Clint, staring. This...was honestly not what he expected to happen today. Nor this revelation. It's...not unwanted, per say, just surprising. They can't even see if it was similar to the mind control that Clint had because Loki's eyes don't have color.

Bruce sets the wet rag to the side and grabs the cream squeezing a generous amount onto his left hand before picking out a little on his right and rubbing it against the burns. Loki's expression twitches with discomfort, but he doesn't make any sounds of protest. "I don't know how long this is going to take to heal; your healing rate is similar to Thor's right?"

"Yes." Loki answers, though it's through gritted teeth. "But I wouldn't expect it to be healed tomorrow, Doctor."

"Really?" Bruce says, surprised, "Thor—"

"If this has not already been made abundantly clear to you by now," Loki interrupts, his voice sharp and slightly breathless, "I am not my brother."

Yes, not indeed. But Thor does heal wicked fast in a rate that surpasses Steve intensely. He knows that Loki is adopted, but Loki and Thor are from the same planet, right? Why would they heal at different rates?

Bruce finishes adding the cream and takes the gauze, pulling it out about two feet before pressing the end against Loki's skin and glances at Loki's face, "Lift your arms up." Bruce has his commanding voice on, not something Tony has seen often (once or twice, and only when he did something with a great abundance of stupid and accidentally turned on doctor-mode). Loki's expression flashes with annoyance, and with a slight attitude in the movement, raises his arms so Bruce can wrap the gauze around his thin chest.

Bruce finishes tightening the bandages and then takes some of the unused gauze to wipe his hands with, frown on his face, but he's done all he can. Tony turns his attention away from the doctor and shifts it towards Loki, tapping his fingers against his folded arms for a moment before asking, "Do you have a loose shirt you can put on that isn't heavy or you know, have a hole burned in the front?" Loki's shirt had looked a little worn when he's dragged it off somewhere close to twenty minutes ago now, but still thick. It won't be pleasant to have against the bandages, and if it's tight it'll press the gauze into the burns causing pain. "It'll hurt if you don't." Tony adds as a half explanation.

"I know that," Loki mutters under his breath, but shakes his head.

Tony tries to bury his surprise; he's been in prison for the last two months and everyone has been too afraid of him to do anything like offer a change of clothing? What was he expecting? Loki to say he has a closet filled with them? He probably does have some, on Asgard, but seeming how they aren't going to be visiting there any time soon, he's going to have to borrow.

Tony doubts anyone would be willing to offer (and Natasha can't), but he and Loki are about the same height, so he can let Loki use one of his for a little. He doesn't know why this bothers him so much; Loki and he are not best pals, and Tony doesn't plan on becoming anything like that in the future, but he still wants to assist.

"I have some you can use," Tony says, attempting to make his voice nonchalant, but he still feels the four equal looks of surprise shot at him from the other people in the room. He ignores it to the best of his ability and grabs at Loki's elbow, the Asgardian flinches at his touch, not expecting it, but allows himself to be dragged from the bench and to his feet.

Tony half expects him to pull his arm away as soon as both feet are on the ground, but he doesn't and allows himself to be led towards the elevator where Tony releases him and pushes the button to his floor gnawing at his lower lip for a moment. He can hear Pepper's reprimanding voice in his head assuring him that this is a stupid move and being alone with Loki in the state is probably one of the most idiotic things he's ever done in his life.

Yeah, well, for a genius, he has a massive stupid streak. Hoorah.

The doors open and Tony drags Loki forward into the room and releases him, moving towards the dresser, his back to the Asgardian. He doesn't like not being able to have his eyes on the raven-haired man, but he can't search for a shirt he doesn't care for much and stare at the same time. This drawer is a mess and he knows that he needs to organize it better, but clothing is one of the few places in his life that clutter doesn't bother him with. The other is his lab, otherwise messes drive him slightly insane. He prefers organization so he can find things properly and he is grateful that Pepper is as in tune with this as he is.

He finally settles on a NASA shirt he got from some sort of expo he had to attend a few years ago, but never wore. Tony turns around, half expecting the room to be on fire and he just missed the sound, but Loki has only shifted a few feet from his previous position, holding a phone charger, his face intrigued.

He probably has no idea what it is without his sight.

Tony hadn't really thought about being blind until this moment, but the sudden realization that having no idea where pretty much anything was unless you were familiar with the layout of the room hits him strongly. Loki has never been here before and ramming into objects must be a daily occurrence.

Tony frowns slightly before clumping the shirt into a sort of ball and says, "catch" loudly before tossing it at Loki. Loki's head whips up in the direction of his voice and his hands lift slightly before the shirt smacks him in the face. Loki twitches slightly, his stance annoyed and Tony withholds a laugh.

Loki tosses the phone charger in the direction of the bed, having known where it was amazingly, before taking the shirt and feeling it for a moment before pulling it over his head, backwards. Tony's lips purse together and he inwardly debates whether or not to tell him. Its probably embarrassing, but if Tony was blind, he would want to know. "That's backwards," he says and Loki's eyes flick towards the ceiling in annoyance with himself before he grabs the edges of the shirt and pulls his arms back into it, flips it and the large NASA logo appears on the front. The shirt is almost comically large on him, hanging off his shoulders and reminding Tony abruptly just how painfully thin he is.

When was the last time he ate something?

"There you go," Tony says in reassurance, and moves past him to grab the charger and set it on the bedside table, "we ought to take you clothing shopping soon," he remarks offhandedly, "your vacation from the Raft is looking a little longer than we first thought."

They though a few days at the most, that's what Fury said. This is day fifteen and beyond a few messages to Clint and Natasha, they have received no word from the director of S.H.I.E.L.D., this "vacation" is starting to look like it might be a few months.

Loki hums slightly, but doesn't reply. His shoulders are still tense and Tony can see a general aura of distress on him. It displeases him for some reason. Psychopath! His mind reminds. Blind and on the verge of a panic attack he argues.

Liar.

Villain.

Murderer.

Loki was, to some degree, under the influence of the scepter like Clint was. Why should he be any more guilty of his crimes than his teammate when he didn't want to do it? Everyone deserves second chances, even if they don't want them.

"I thank you for your kindness, Stark," Loki says, his voice cutting through Tony's thoughts, "but if you do not mind, I will take my leave now."

Tony frowns. He does mind. A lot. He wants to reassure Loki that it's going to be okay and that they won't damage him again, but he remains silent and Loki takes it as enough of an answer and lifts his hand up waving his fingers twice before snapping them and vanishes in a pull upwards of blue light. Tony's eyes widen and he stares at the spot Loki was with surprise and disbelief.

Magic. Loki just teleported. So he can do that, then. Great. That would have been helpful information to know when he was working with the others on his prison in the Raft. Wait, if he can simply teleport then why hasn't he left yet? He didn't, right? Cats, that would be just a splendid ending to this day.

"Jarvis," Tony says to grasp his AI's attention, "where did Reindeer Games go?"

"The communal room, Sir," Jarvis answers, "he is currently laying down on one of the couches and breathing heavily."

"But still in the building?" Tony confirms, relief washing through his stomach.

"Indeed, Sir." Jarvis answers.

The communal room? Why on earth would Loki be there? He hates people (as far as Tony can tell), and has refused to interact with any of them unless dragged out by Thor and—oh. Loki has been hiding out on Thor's floor for a majority of his stay here, hiding from them with his sibling; and a slight pang rises in him as he realizes that now Loki is hiding from Thor.

Chapter Text

Anger, is, perhaps, his greatest weakness.

He doesn't remember when he decided that it was an easier emotion to deal with; neither he can put a finger on the exact moment when he traded feeling panic or worry for rage and hate. Simplicity has always been a welcomed friend to him. Emotions are complex and ugly to spar with; it is just easier to hide behind a wall of anger. It always has been. He used to court anger and let it embrace him, now he is sickened by it.

Thor has not thrown up properly in close a century (as that was the last time he was fervently ill). He has often gotten drunk within that time period (though not within the last year or so, now), but the most he's done is dry heaved and complained violently in his hangovers. He used to proclaim it like a badge of honor to his comrades that his immune system was stronger than their own.

Now?

He barely manages six steps outside of Stark Tower before his knees give and he crashes onto the pavement roughly, his stomach lurching and promptly releasing it's contents all over the sidewalk. The anxiety pulsing in his stomach lessons at it, almost relieved that he has properly humiliated himself in front of the captain, and will now quell its complaints.

Thor squeezes his eyes shut tightly, hands wrapped around his mid-section in an attempt to hinder the urge to continue the vomiting. He is grateful he had the foresight to tug his hair back when he was helping Bruce, or else the blond locks would likely be covered in his stomach's contents. He will not throw up. Nope. Nay. Zero percent. No more for him.

His stomach is rioting against this proclamation.

"...Thor?" Steve's voice is quiet, almost hesitant as it prods at him. Thor doesn't want to talk to him, he doesn't want to talk to anyone at the moment. All he would really like to do is rewind to about two hours before now and stop himself from returning to Stark Tower.

"Thor?" Steve repeats. A hand rests on his shoulder and Thor whips his head in the soldier's direction, eyelids ripping apart to reveal the captain's concerned face. His eyebrows are pinched in a way that over the last three weeks or so Thor has come to learn is for concern. There's still a quiet anger hidden in his iris; along with buried surprise and shock.

Thor is sure that his pinched expression looks little different.

Steve gives a infinitesimal sigh. "I texted Tony about the vomit," he gestures vaguely towards it with his hand that is holding up his mobile. Darcy insisted he learn how to text after the Battle of New York and proceeded to spend and entire afternoon showing him how it worked the two of them occasionally getting up to grab Jane a pen, paper or a refill on her coffee. When she is in "the mode" as Darcy put it, Jane often refuses to leave her work unless the threat of death is upon her. Thor thinks it's both admirable and adorable.

Thor ducks his head into his chest to hide his embarrassment.

He feels Steve's gaze on him for a moment longer before the blond grips his forearm, beginning to drag him to his feet, "Let's take a walk." He suggests.

Why?

To where?

Thor is not as familiar with New York as he is New Mexico, he has hardly spent any time in this city. He knows that his companion has not wandered much, either. Is his purpose to get lost? Steve is persistent with this, however, and once he has dragged Thor to his feet begins to pull at his elbow to simply drag him along. Slight annoyance sparks through him and Thor tugs his arm from the Soldier's grip, setting his pace to match the captain's.

He would much rather find a quiet, empty room to lock himself in.

Why is he such an idiot?

His stupidity is one to marvel at—from afar, lest the watcher be tainted with it. He's often been teased for being "brawn with no brains", but he's not certain he has believed it until now. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Loki would have sa—

Loki.

His back.

The brand.

His stomach jumps again, threatening to make an emergency exit through his sternum. Thor grips his fingers into tight fists and presses his lips together firmly. The overcast thickens in his agitation.

"You're still angry." Steve notes. Is he? Steve sounds tired.

An exhaustion that he caused.

Idiot.

He does not know if he is as angry as he is sickened. Thor has never been able to hold his tongue when angered to the point of seething, but Loki always, always goes completely silent as he prepares your funeral to the point of knowing which flowers he'll leave on by the memorial stones. It was just another difference between them. Another gap, but a proof that even through everything that happened over the last year, not everything is different. He doesn't think this is a good thing, who he was last year disgusts him.

He still shouted words that he's wanted to scream for over a year now.

Loki still went quiet.

You have changed little.

So he has.

Thor bites at his tongue, uncertain how to answer Steve's remark. Evidently he goes with the easier, less confusing answer: "I am."

Steve stares at him, head tilted with thought, "Why?"

The two of them dodge past a biker barreling down the sidewalk and Thor's tongue tightens in his throat. Why is he angry? Shall he list alphabetically or as it comes to mind? Should he make Steve a chart? "Loki is my brother." He says at last. It is not so much as an answer as it is a deflection.

"Yes." Steve answers promptly, not deterred in the least, "And?"

Norns.

"I don't…I can't...he should have..." He pauses, trying to gather his muddled thoughts, "he is an idiot."

And so are you.

Steve looks mildly amused by this. Thor quenches his sudden desire to punch something. "I failed." Thor says simply, "I am supposed to protect him and I failed." Steve's amusement slips off his face and Thor wishes it would come back. He hastes dealing with seriousness. Thor takes the silence as an invitation to continue. He has no idea where he's going with this, his thoughts are a mess. "He tried to kill me and I don't—I'm not supposed to be angry with that? I don't want to be, but I am." Thor squeezes his eyes shut as a faint echo of his words rings around his head.

Loki's scarred back crosses just as quickly.

Torture.

Mind control.

Thor was blind to it.

Idiot.

"He isn't going to forgive me." Thor relents at last.

"You don't know that." Steve argues.

So hopeful. It's cute.

"I have known him for over a thousand years, Captain," Thor sighs, he grits his teeth together, and glances back at the Tower. "I know how his mind works."

Is it madness, Is it? Is it!?

But he doesn't know him as well as he thought he did.

000o000

Loki longs, sorely, for the safety ignorance contained.

This is not what he wanted; this isn't what should have happened. Had it been left open for question, he would have kept it to himself for the rest of his sorry, miserable existence. He's been gutted and laid bare on a table for all to gawk upon.

He hates this.

Oh, how he hates this.

If the loss of his sight has done little else, he has come to the conclusion that New York City is loud.

The roaring of their traffic, their flying machines, and the city itself is one he quietly marvels at. Asgard was not a silent city by an means, Serenity—the capital—especially, but the noises he'd long since learned how to ignore and draw comfort from. These are similar sounds, but they don't fade into white noise. Sleep has been difficult. He is often kept awake by Midgard's loud droning, and though neither one of them has mentioned it, he knows Thor is as well. Although the Void contained nothing but the lack of sense, he finds himself disturbingly wishing for the silence. It wouldn't matter, because he wouldn't sleep anyway, but it is something else to do beyond try not to slip further into insanity.

Loki grinds his teeth slightly before tugging the blanket around his shoulders tighter and shifting his head so it presses against the couch closer. Hair lingers at the edge of his mouth, annoyingly close, but the most it does it mildly tingle. The couch smells strongly of paint and vinegar, but he cares little of it. Everything in Stark's Tower smells slightly acidic or strangely cinnamony; the couch hardly phases him anymore. He doesn't know how long he's been on here, but he's guessing it's been hours. He fell asleep probably two hours after retreating here and for the first time in months, it was completely dreamless. He has no idea how much time has passed. His rest was unplanned and deep.

He's never been much of a deep sleeper (Thor is), but he didn't wake up when (and has no reconciliation of) the blanket was put on him. He doesn't even know where it came from. He didn't have it when he fell asleep, and can only guess at it's arrival. It's not unwelcome—remarkably soft and not as thick or heavy like the blankets on Asgard. The fabric is similar to the one's Thor shoved against the rough edges of the kitchen when he kept ramming his feet against them (fleece, he credences). Shoes or no, the hard edge wasn't pleasant.

He knows that the blanket isn't from Thor (he's more likely to have stabbed him long before offering comfort at the moment), but he's wary to admit it was from one of the Avengers. He can't fathom why they would do such an action. He is their enemy (unwillingly or not), and he being held here. This is a prison. They tolerate him and why shouldn't they? He has earned their indifference.

He accepts this.

The cushion against his face is strange and oddly rough. He has no idea of it's color, or even how it contrasts with the rest of the room. It could be the only neon thing present in a space of only black, and he can't tell. The only way he can find his way through a room is listening to his feet and some elementary hand magic. Through sorcery he is able to group the basics of a layout in the room. It's something he's been doing for hundreds of years before hand. Now, he relies on it as a crutch. A pathetic, broken crutch.

His sedir is so depleted that if he attempts anything further than rudimentary he will likely accidentally knock himself into a coma. An outcome he doesn't, surprisingly enough, want. Even teleporting from Stark's—possibly bedroom—room exhausted him. It's likely the source of his lack of dreams.

What time is it?

Is it still the same day? Does it matter anyway?

"Mr. Silvertongue?" Jarvis inquires. Loki's muscles seize, but he forces himself to lay as still as he can. He does not want to deal with him, or whatever he will say. It's usually never pleasant. "Are you awake?"

No, he is not.

Loki bites at his tongue, hard. He hesitates for a moment before exhaling through his teeth and slowly rolls from his side to his back. He doesn't bother trying to land his gaze on the computer's camera. It will not matter anyway, he is blind, he has accepted this. Waking to black is not unfamiliar, not anymore.

"I am." He answers, his voice sounds enervated.

He is tired.

An exhaustion beyond sleep's ability to rest.

Jarvis is quiet for a moment, thinking, if Loki were to postulate. "Mr. Barton is on his way to this floor, I thought you would want to be informed."

Oh, swell.

He is just thrilled—consumed with rapturous.

Perchance the man has finally snapped and is on his way to murder him. It would save Thor the trouble.

Loki buries a groan in the back of his throat and childishly tugs the blanket over his head. The air supply is immediately stifled, but he cares naught of it. If he is to die, at least it will be a warm, comfortable end.

The doors to the elevator open and Loki hears the soft patter of Barton's footsteps. He has become accustomed to the movement of their feet after listening to them for fifteen (sixteen? Fourteen? Twelve? He lost count) days now. He had to, it's less tiring. Every person has a distinct signature through magic, and the Avengers are no different. Loki can sense their auras will little toil with his sedir. It is something that as a wielder of the art, he has ingrained into his very being. Barton's reminds him of the smell of old cards and perhaps leather; it is also warm.

Barton moves towards the kitchen, but stops; likely at spotting him. Loki does not blame him. He can't. He knows that the violation he did on Barton's mind is not one that is easily forgotten. It may not have been of his own choosing, but he still did it. A sword is only as wicked as the welder, but does the sword still not do the killing?

Barton does not move.

Loki slowly blows out a breath before tugging the blanket off his head. Stray pieces of his dark hair fall over his face. He's certain that he probably looks marvelous at the moment. He hasn't seen a mirror or used a brush/comb since before he fell.

"For whatever measure of closure this may bring you," Loki starts, his tongue is sliding around his throat and refusing to allow the words through. He is choking on it. Everything is dry and aches in a way he can't express properly. "I am not proud of what happened."

He is sickened by it.

They think him proud. That he is jubilant in what he did mange to accomplish. His failed attempt is no more than an annoying piece of dust to clean off. At Midgard's prison he remembers through his blurring vision and pounding headache looking up towards Director Fury's one-eyed cold and detached, yet livid stare. "I know you take pride in what you did," he had said, "and you'll have a lot of time to stoke it—the rest of your existence in fact. Maybe by then you'll have decided to change your opinion. Welcome to your boot."

The analogy had made no sense to him at the time. His puzzled expression must have amused the director, because the last thing he can recall before the prison door hissed shut was his slight smirk. He spent five days working through blue haze and attempts at possession from the Other again. Another three trying not to throw up as the memories assaulted him without mercy.

He didn't truly fall asleep until twenty days into his capture, and his vision only continued to deteriorate the more he slept.

What he did disgusts him and there is no way to change that.

He was a murderer long before he was found by Thanos.

Barton still has not moved behind him, Loki cannot see, but his hearing has yet to waver. The thick inky blackness that swallows everything does not consume sound. It is not like the Void. When he screams, he can do more than feel the rattle in his throat.

Barton is silent.

Loki's teeth latch onto the edge of his tongue and squeeze. He tastes the familiar metallic tang of blood. His apology is weak at it's best and paltry at the most. "I am sorry."

Still nothing. Is he listening? He knows of the hawk's hearing issues, he volunteered the information to him during his siege and Thor remarked on it after learning of it, though he doubts it was intentional.

Saying a simple "sorry" isn't going to do anything. It will not return the dead, it will not offer solstice to the mourning. It is not until his blood has been split on the chopping block that the families will be able to find relief in knowing the murderer has finally been brought to justice.

Barton is quiet, almost thoughtful—he can't tell. Loki longs for his eyes. He has always been skilled at reading people, stances, expressions, gestures—a part of him died when his eyes did. The rest of him has been dead for far longer. How long will the world suffer his rotting corpse to walk upon it? Can it not see what he has become? What he is?

The silence is like an irritating itch.

He wants it gone.

He can't stand the quiet.

He presses harder against his bleeding tongue, ignoring the way it squirms in the back of his throat attempting to escape the death hold. Loki's fingernails dig deeply into his open palm, finding the previous cuts and reopening the scabs.

"Do you honestly expect that to be enough?" Barton's voice is soft. It is not angry, it is not laced with his frustration, but Loki can taste it in the air nonetheless.

The childish part of him wants to cry out yes. Wants to fall to his knees before the archer pleading, please accept this. I cannot make up for anything else I have done, please grant me a small mercy. I am penitent, but he knows it will not be enough. Barton is angry and there is little he can do to waver the archer's mood. He is the torturer who bore the weapon of the Mind Stone and the archer is forced to look upon the memories—however fuzzy they are. It is a mercy. To not have to remember clearly. What he has gathered of the assault is from his own strained mind and what has been repeated to him. He himself is angry at his wielder, why should he not allow Barton the same?

Loki allows a small frown to tip the edges of his mouth, "I do not." He admits, his voice low, "I can't."

Barton silences. Loki breaks skin in his digging and feels the slow warm trickle of blood leak across his fingers.

"Have you eaten today yet?" The question is so bizarrely off topic that Loki jerks upwards, ripping his useless eyes open and the blanket falls onto his lap. His lips part, but he can't get any sound out.

Food.

Barton is asking about food.

Why is he inquiring after his well being?

Loki's tongue untangles from the roof of his mouth, "I beg your pardon?"

"Hungry," Barton clarifies, "are you hungry?"

Starving. Aching for food in a way he has grown numb to. It will not stay down and he will be forced to humiliate himself by throwing up again in this blasted tower. Romanov was already present for that. Why does Barton care to know?

He can't eat.

"No." He affirms.

Barton is not fazed, nor believes his lie. He hears the man move across the floor, stop, before returning again. Loki's head is poking over the edge of the couch and if he still had his sight, he would be able to see past the edge. He is helpless as to where the archer actually is. He could be walking on the ceiling for all he is aware. This is just fabulous.

He hates this.

"Sure." Barton sounds doubtful, "Heads up."

Loki does not understand what the expression means. Confusion whispers through him before an object smacks into his face—namely his nose—and falls into his outstretched hands. Pain pulses through the area and his fingers scramble towards it, bracing for further pain that doesn't come. The object in his fingers is smooth, a sphere and has dips in the top and bottom. He runs his fingers over the surface several times. He can't place it. Midgard's food is almost always alien to him. He, unlike Thor and most of Asgard, often visits this Realm, but he hardly stays long enough to dine here. Admittedly, it had been close to fifteen years since his last drop by before Thor's coronation. Loki chews on the inside of his lip; he has no plans to eat it, but all the same: "What…?" He trails slightly, lifting the thing in where he assumes Barton to be.

There's a moment of silence, "It's an apple." He says, his voice strangely quiet.

Oh.

Oh. Yes, that makes sense.

An apple.

Barton just tossed an apple at his head.

Ah. It is not a proclamation of war, then.

Asgard's apples are rougher and have a thicker outer skin. The thinness of it Loki recalls being startled by when he first held one. Loki's fingers tighten around the fruit subconsciously. He hears Barton begin to shift in the kitchen and his lips thin. "Thank you." The moment of quiet is long enough for Loki to reassured the archer heard him.

Loki slowly lays back down, flicking his free hand's fingers slightly to find the location of the coffee table. His seidr whines loudly in protest and Loki mentally slaps it over the head. Shut it, he chides silently. Usually for this spell he doesn't need to use hand gestures, but at the moment he doubts his ability to do it without. He is as helpless as a newborn kit and it is repulsive.

Loki lifts his hand out, apple between his fingers and rests it on the edge of the table. He gathers the edge of the blanket and pulls it over his shoulders again. He does not want to do anything but exist today—night—whatever time it is. Most would likely call it childish (and he quite honestly does not care), but he is hiding. Hiding from Thor.

They are well beyond the age where petty name calling and tears will solve a problem.

Only fists and blood.

His grip on the blanket tightens as he hears the doors to the elevator open and then quiet murmuring of voices. Stark and Banner, if he were to make a gamble. As they come closer, their signatures slide through his sedir, proving him correct. Whatever they are discussing has something to do with "phone towers", and possibly Thor. He's not certain. Even with his enhanced hearing, the conversation makes little sense without context.

"Good morning!" Barton greets them cheerfully. Something clatters against a hard surface, rattling several times before settling; it sounds intentional, because no one comments on it. What it is, he has no idea, but it isn't a threat. He forces his tense muscles to relax as best as he's able and squeezes his eyelids shut.

It's easier to pretend this way, like a small child. At least with his eyelids closed he knows it should be dark, no matter how many times he opens them with the prior knowledge of the stygian, it still sparks a slight hitch of panic through him. This isn't the first time he's spent days in darkness, the Void is the most obvious of this. When he was much younger, however, he and Thor were kidnapped by Alfheim and Loki was poisoned. They managed to find a counter for it before an untimely death, but he spent several days hobbling around, humiliated, as he waited for it to wear off. It was two days. Forty eight hours. Not weeks.

And he knew that it would disappear.

Now he is helpless.

He is aware that Banner is not officially a doctor by Midgard's standards, but considering their view on him at the moment, he has his doubts that he can receive a different opinion on it. He's grappling for any knowledge of what happened and if it can be reversed. He and Thor were trained under Lady Eir in their youth, and Loki's quiet analysis of what he can feel and touch and Thor's has come to the same conclusion that Banner did.

He's blind and the only thing they can do is wait and hope it fixes itself.

"—ou think that about cranberries? They're cranberries." Stark sounds indignant and Loki realizes with a slight jolt that he missed most of whatever the beginning of their conversation was. He forces himself to pay attention and not be swept into his thoughts again. It is a trap from which he can't stop tumbling. His mind used to be a haven from everything, now it is a prison. But it is no less than he deserves, a wild animal that needs to be caught and tamed or beaten into submission.

"Exactly." Banner states, disgust on his tongue, "No one likes cranberries, Tony. They're the bane of existence."

A thwauking sound rings up, from (maybe) Stark lightly whacking the doctor. "Rude." Stark scoffs.

"He has a point," Barton says, hesitantly, "I don't like them; I don't know anyone who does."

"What!? No. This is unacceptable. Now you know someone who likes them, so you can't say that." Stark argues, "Pepper's allergic to strawberries and replaces it with cranberries. Either of you ever had strawberry shortcake but without the strawberries?"

Strawberry what? He has no idea what this food is...if it is a food.

Thor loves strawberries, almost to an insane point, Frigga does as well. Loki has personally been more partial to tart things, but he's fond of pineapples and grapes.

"Er...no." Banner answers, "That sounds gross."

"Same." Barton agrees, "That is not my—hey! Hand out of the dough!" Another thwauking noise and Stark gives a small cry.

"Ow! Dude! If you use a spoon instead of beaters it's free game." Stark says, his feet shifting across the floor. Loki doesn't know if it's from pain or he's moving away from the dough and Barton. As much as he wants to sit up and open his eyes he knows it will be useless.

"Bruce, will you find the pan?" Barton requests, his feet also shifting, probably away from Stark and his picking fingers. Loki wouldn't have guessed that about the man at a first glance, he seems to...clean to submit himself to picking at foodstuffs like that. Loki would have, he has no qualms about it, and the cooks in Asgard were often trying to stuff food down his gullet at any given opportunity anyway. Frigga thought it was hilarious. He was indifferent.

A cabinet (?) opens and a loud noise shifts before another clatter on a hard surface. There's a sort of wet noise following before a drawer opens. What are they doing? 

His mouth opens to ask, but he stops himself, biting at his raw tongue to halt the noise. He isn't sure if Stark and Banner are aware he is in here and he doesn't want to chase them off, or be chased off. He hasn't listened to a normal conversation about crass, inane things such as cranberries since before the Void and the sound is strangely comforting.

The elevator doors shift again and the signatures of Romanov and Rogers quietly slink towards his sedir, intertwining with the strangled magic. "Good morning!" Stark greets the two cheerfully, pauses, then adds:"Annnd, they're both drenched in sweat. Disgusting." Stark declares happily, "You two go running together?"

He hasn't see—heard Rogers since yesterday—today?—when he dragged Thor off. Is Thor coming here right now? He sincerely hopes not. He knows that the others are either unaware of his presence or are ignoring him, but Thor wouldn't.

Rogers laughs at the statement, and Loki strains to pick Romanov's feet from the others shifting. "No. Neither one of us could sleep and we've been sparring for a while; besides, I don't think I'd be able to keep pace with her."

Wait. Sleep. As in...through the night? They've greeted each other for the morning, but surely it can't be—he went to go find Thor at a little over fourteen hundred hours; if it's morning and at least eight, that means he slept for over fourteen—possibly fifteen—hours straight. He hasn't done that since being violently ill with an outbreak of a disease in Serenity a few decades ago—and even then it wasn't more than twelve.

How long has he been in here?

"Ah." Stark hums. Small conversation picks up from there, discussing either Romanov's hair or some sort of weird plant in the room (Loki isn't certain), but he can't focus on it anymore. Footsteps move towards the couch and Loki can't help the slight tense that slides into his limbs at the action. It doesn't stop and he hears someone shift before sitting (maybe) on the coffee table to his left. His breath is coming out rigidly. Please go away, please go away, please go away...

"I know you're awake." Banner says, his voice is strangely gentle. The conversation playing in the background does nothing to quell his voice. Good for him. Is he proud?

Loki releases a breath, but doesn't bother changing positions or opening his eyes. "May I be of assistance?"

"I wanted to talk." Banner starts and Loki bites back a groan. "We discussed what happened yesterday well you were sleeping," so they know about that, too? "And came to the conclusion that we're keeping you here under asylum, at the moment, not a prison. We still can't get a hold of Director Fury to inform him of the events, but we'll take the blame if things go south."

Why?

What has he done to merit their mercy?

They see a few scars and suddenly he is something to commiserate?

"Why?" The question slips from his tongue with bite.

Banner is quiet for a long moment, thinking. Loki wishes, not for the first time, that he could see the doctor's expression. "Everyone deserves second chances, Loki, including you." No, he doesn't. Banner and his group of misfits don't know half of what a mess he is. He is irredeemable. It has been assured to him enough it might as well be carved into his skin. "Are you hungry?"

Why is everyone suddenly over his eating habits?

Barton was a surprise, he wouldn't expect the man to look twice if he fell off a building, but Banner? Why? Is it some sort of strange show of trust on Midgard to feed your prisoners? Asgardians are not immune to starvation, they can just last longer with it before succumbing to its claws. He is not close to that point, as far as he is aware.

His stomach twists at the suggestion, and the apple Barton offered flips through his head in vivid detail. He shakes his head, not trusting his voice.

He can feel Banner's stare of disapproval; "Loki—" he cuts himself off, clearly attempting to figure out a way to revise what he was saying, Loki sighs in annoyance and his eyes shift under their lids in equal irritation before he rolls onto his side away from Banner. He doesn't want to talk to him at the moment. He wishes they would continue ignoring him.

He hates this, he hates that they know.

Even with the blanket wrapped around Stark's thin shirt, he still feels exposed as if every stretch of scarred skin is showing through the fabric for them to gawk at. It itches and is uncomfortable. He shouldn't have moved, at least with his back against the couch it felt less in the open.

"Food was one of the ways they tortured you, wasn't it?" Banner's voice is quiet, but Loki's spine stiffens anyway. Torture? No. They never saw the point of anything beyond making him bleed and keeping him from resting. The further his physical fatigue the more his mental shield slipped. Food was a way to heal faster, a mercy that was never shown to him.

A strangled noise escapes his throat and he hears Banner shift slightly. He can't tell if it's discomfort, pleasure, disgust—he doesn't know. He can't see it. Sight is a necessary part of him and he can't do this anymore. At least with the Avengers ignoring him, he only had to interpret Thor. He's known him for over a thousand years, it wasn't a hard task.

This is different.

He barely spoke to some of these people during his attack. As far as he can remember, his memories from the events are fuzzy and painful.

"I'm sorry." Banner murmurs. His sympathy is unwanted and disgusting. "We wouldn't do anything...like that; we're not like that." He appends in a slight fumble.

Loki shakes his head slightly and forces himself to turn towards the doctor, resting his head on his elbow. "I was not offered food, Dr. Banner; and when I was—it was...wrong, somehow. Poison, rotten—it matters little. I can't...I can't keep the food down." He explains. It's hard to explain this, he doesn't know how. His words are failing him.

"They starved you?" Banner's voice is almost surprised.

"What else did you expect?" Loki queries. Does everyone honestly believe his stay with the Chitauri was a vacation? Thor seemed quite determined not to believe else wise. "I was their prisoner, not a guest of honor."

Like here.

He is not guest, whatever terms of asylum Banner falsified or not.

"I know." Banner says, "I know. But still, I just—why?"

Loki's lips press together firmly before he blows a soft raspberry, "I am one of the most powerful sorcerers in the Nine Realms, Doctor, they knew this. I was the prince of Asgard, it wasn't an unknown world to them."

He wishes it was, maybe they would have just granted him quarter and killed him.

"Yeah." Banner agrees.

"Sorcery works through channeling energy through a magical core called a sedir. A sorcerer can draw energy from both outside himself and within. The sedir, however, relies strongly on energy fed to it and won't function properly without it. The sorcerer is still perfectly capable of drawing energy from outside, but without anything to channel it through, it's mass chaos. They knew this, I was starved to collapse my sedir."

Banner is quiet, a soft "oh" noise escaping him. "But you can fix it, right? By eating again?"

"Yes." Loki agrees, "If I could manage to keep something down. I can't."

"Why?"

Loki blows out a breath, "The body can only be fed poison so many times before assuming everything is."

Banner is quiet, thinking, before he asks almost in a blurt: "Don't you want your magic back?"

He didn't lose it. Magic isn't something that can be lost; it can be taken, but only for the non-inborns, who are unable to keep a sedir. They just draw the energy from around them. That is what Thor is, Odin simply took his focus (Mjolnir) from him; and sense Thor's abilities were stopped. Taking magic from him would be impossible unless someone ripped his veins and beating heart from his chest. Magic is as a part of him as his blood is.

Does he want it back?

Of course. Can he? Not until his body decides everything he eats isn't attempting to kill him.

Loki breathes out through his nose sharply, "You need no other reason to fear me."

He doesn't want another reason to be held back and restrained. Asgard isn't even aware of half of what he can actually do. Only Frigga was mildly aware. He didn't get the label of 'among the best' from card tricks.

"I didn't—I wasn't—I-I'm just…" Banner awkwardly starts, before stopping and switching topics entirely: "How long were you there?"

He...doesn't know. Time blurred in the Void and he lost count after month two there, he'd started hallucinating by that point. Loki shrugs helplessly, "What year is it?"

Banner seems startled by the question, because he's quiet for a moment. "Two-thousand-twelve," Banner answers, pauses then adds, "A.D."

Truly?

"Your month?" Loki asks, slightly wary of the answer.

"September."

Oh.

Thor was planned to be crowned in late May, a month exactly from his birthday, June twenty-third. They way they originate their calendar isn't much different from Midgard's, they gave them the basics of what it fanned out to today. Thor was banished later that day and Loki was regnant/king for three-four days before the Bifrost bridge that would make it roughly...May twenty-eighth. He has no idea how long he fell for, but he knows that he was found by the Other before November.

That's...nine or ten months. It seemed like so much longer.

It is barely any time.

"Ten months." Loki says, trying to wrap his head around it. Ten months. Not even a full year. He didn't even last a full year. How weak is he? No one else would have snapped as quickly, especially not Thor. Not any of the other Asgardians. No wonder everyone scoffed at his abilities on Asgard. It wasn't his first time being tortured, centuries with Thor has ensured that, but this was somehow...worse.

Loki knew no one was coming for him, he'd always had that reassurance before. He'd known Asgard probably declared him dead. He would have been; frozen to a rotting corpse if not for his heritage. He didn't want to fight through the pain, he didn't see a point.

"Ten?" Banner sounds indignant.

Loki doesn't know why. Probably surprised at how quickly he gave up.

"Thor was on Earth in May last year—that doesn't add up to ten. He said you…"fell" a few days after he returned to Asgard." Banner says.

Loki huffs slightly, "I was in the Void for some time; I don't know the exact dates."

He's glad of it. Pretending it was longer helped him endure.

Not even a full year.

Pathetic.

"The "Void"?" Banner asks.

"Open space between...planets? You call it here, yes?" Loki says, trying the word along his tongue. The way Midgard has adapted search from the normality of Asgard sometimes amazes him. Nonetheless, he's worked hard to keep his vocabulary relativity up-to-date.

"Yeah." Banner confirms. "Wait. You mean, you fell through open space for months?"

"Yes." Loki answers briskly, confused.

"How—" Banner stops, catching his tongue, "Asgardian. Right." He mutters under his breath.

Asgardian.

Ha.

"But still! When was the last time you had an actual meal?" Banner inquires.

Not of your business.

Loki pauses, thinking back. He was too stressed before Thor's coronation to eat properly, but he thinks it was a few days before that. The Chitauri were never particular on eating habits or meals.

He doesn't answer.

Does it honestly matter?

He's just going to be back in the Raft soon, anyway, there's no need to pretend otherwise. Thor is, and that worked out well for both of them.

Banner rises to his feet and Loki flinches despite himself. He hates this, he can't assess his surroundings properly and wildly grapples for standing. "No." Banner says, firmly, "This can't go on any longer, you are literally starving to death right now. It has to stop."

Loki smiles thinly.

He can feel Banner's agitation from his position a few feet away and is wary at it. His ribs are still tender from the last attack, even if they are mostly hale. It's a dull ache that hurts when prodded at; without his magic, he would likely have died from organ failure or internal bleeding on that floor a few months ago.

"We can work through the vomiting. Clint just made muffins, without cranberries, do you want one? Wait—no. We should start with liquids—smoothies; I'm sure that Tony has a blender somewhere in this stupid tower." Banner mutters the last part under his breath.

Loki sighs through his teeth, "You are not going to drop this, are you Doctor?"

"Nope." Banner assures, seeming distracted, "Don't move. I'm going to go find the stupid blender and you're going to eat—drink something." Banner storms off in the direction of the kitchen, Loki assumes. It's in that moment that he realizes that the conversation in the background is absent. Were they listening to everything?

Well.

Swell.

He's thoroughly done with today and any day after until mid next week.

"The blender, Tony," Banner demands, his voice further away, "where is it?"

"Err," Stark stutters, "I'm not sure. I know Pepper used it before she left, but…"

"I saw it," Rogers offers, "I think it's—" footsteps and a cabinet opens, "—in here. Yup."

Are they really so intent on this? He...he has done nothing to earn their mercy. He wants to know why. He doesn't understand. He doesn't know why they're doing this for him after everything he did.

"Clint, grab whatever fruit you can find." Banner commands, "Nat, help him. Steve, Tony, you start cutting it." Footsteps sound as they scramble to follow the doctor's orders. It's one of the strangest things knowing they are doing this for him.

They are making him, their enemy, food.

"Loki," Bruce calls from the kitchen where cabinets are opening and blades being drawn, "do you have any allergies we need to be aware of?"

They...are not angry by the suggestion? Allergies are not uncommon in Asgard, but they aren't spoken of often, quietly shamed, even. Stark mentioned something about his beloved being allergic to strawberries, offhandedly, as if he was perfectly fine with it. "Milk," Loki admits, raising his voice a little louder than normal to be heard, "and I can't stomach anything with hot spices."

An inheritance from his birth parents, he's guessing.

"'Kay," Stark calls from the kitchen, blade slapping down onto the surface of the counter. Light banter begins to shoot between them, and something about a "cutting merit badge" is brought up that he doesn't understand the context of. They sound as if they have been friends for a lifetime, rather than barely known each other for two (possibly) months now.

Loki envies them.

Around five minutes pass before a jarring, loud, buzzing noise swings through the air. Loki jumps at it, startled, and when it doesn't cease after a few seconds, slaps his hands over his ears. It's fortissimo, grating, and extremely high pitched. What the Nine are they doing? Murdering a cat?

Loki doesn't count the exact amount of seconds it takes for it to halt, but when it does, he peels his hands away from his ears warily. It doesn't begin again, the cat is probably dead. What on the Nine?

There's more scrambling in the kitchen and another murmurs of voices Loki can't pick out distinct words of before he hears the footsteps gradually shifting towards him. Loki forces himself to relax and his sedir quietly prods throughout the room to find the location of the Avengers when the footsteps stop.

All of them are to his left, next to the coffee table.

Why?

"You need to sit up," Romanov commands, her voice is firm, but doesn't hold the distinct layer of venom it did when she forced him into eating the banana a few days ago...perhaps a week now. His sense of time is a mess.

Loki slowly shoves himself upwards and the blanket topples into his lap. The shirt that Stark lent him is sticking to his skin uncomfortably despite how much it hangs off of him. He peels his useless eyes apart and is greeted by the ever present black. He flicks his gaze in the general direction of where he's fairly certain the gathered group is.

"Hands up." Barton orders and Loki bites back irritation at the array of commands, but nonetheless faithfully lifts his hands, palms up towards them.

One of them shifts forward, he's uncertain who, but he thinks it's Rogers and rests the base of a cup in his hands. The fingers don't move until Loki has grasped the cup without it tipping and he slowly draws the…"smoothie" was it? towards him. Loki lifts the rim towards his mouth and sips from it. The explosion of flavor almost makes him choke. He's fairly certain they put any fruit easily available to them inside of it, and it is an extensive amount. It's sweet, but strangely bitter as well. It isn't thin and hardly runs through the cup stiff and sparkling with flavor.

His eyebrows lift up of his own accord with surprise and he hears someone snicker quietly at it before being lightly whacked. The smoothie settles in his stomach uncomfortably, but isn't immediately rejected like everything else he has tried. Encouraged, Loki continues to drink it.

Loki has scarcely tasted anything so amazing in his lifetime.

He doesn't stop for anything but air, and when the final bit of the juice slides from the cup, he can't help the sudden stagger of protest that whips through him. The cup is cold around his fingers, but it doesn't bother him. The Avengers are quiet as he holds the glass in his hands, slowly shifting into butterfly position with his feet.

Loki's fingers tighten around the glass with their silence.

Why do they have to watch him? He isn't some sort of bug for them to perusal.

"Thank you." He forces out, he lowers his gaze to his lap. It does nothing, but he imagines being on the receiving end of his blank stares are unpleasant.

"Of course." Rogers assures, his voice quiet. "Do you want me to take the glass or—" Loki lifts the object towards him in answer and Rogers shifts forward to take it.

"You're welcome to chill out here and long as you want," Stark assures, "but I personally smell some not—cranberry muffins I want to eat."

Barton groans, "You're never letting that go, are you?"

"Nope." Stark assures cheerfully, beginning to walk away. The rest of his team trials after him, but Loki can feel their eyes lingering on him.

000o000

Three days after the fight, Thor scarcely makes it two feet into the communal room before Loki's head turns, dull gray eyes lazily locking onto him. Thor forces himself not to freeze and continues to move forward. He's been thinking this conversation over for days, trying to find a way to discuss the...topic without making Loki explode again.

He hasn't been hiding, not exactly, but he knows Loki has. It makes him ache in a way he can't quite explain to know that his younger brother is afraid of him.

"Brother." Thor greets, coming to a stop next to the couch, Loki's gaze has followed him, as dead as it may be.

"Thor," Loki says curtly.

Silence stretches and neither one of them moves until finally, Loki, gnawing on his lower lip shifts on the couch, tugging the blanket wrapped around his shoulders tighter. Thor recognizes the invitation for what it is and hesitantly takes a seat beside him in the newly opened space on the couch. Loki's legs are tucked up next to his chest in a way that indicates his discomfort in volumes.

Thor bites at his tongue, firmly, before opening his mouth and forcing the words out. He fears that if he stops for breath, it will get tangled in his throat and suffocate him. "Loki, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking—or even if I was, but it all came out wrong. I wanted to...I don't know what I wanted, but I just—I think that I don't understand, but I want to. I don't know why you did what you did, or what happens after the Void, but I wish I did. I want to understand, but I don't know how. I'm sorry about what I said—I—you know how the words come tumbling out when I'm angry, I was an idiot, and I'm sorry."

Loki is quiet for a long minute, his head tucked onto his knees. His expression is blank, but Thor tries to read it anyway.

"You meant most of it." Loki sounds tired.

Thor winces.

He did.

He hasn't spoken to anyone about it before and it all came tumbling out in one big mass ball of chaos. Father refused to discuss it or anything that had to do with Loki in his grief and Mother couldn't hear his name without weeping. Thor kept quiet, his frustrations building until it came tumbling out onto the one person he didn't want it to.

He did tell Heimdall of it in brief, when he came to visit the edge of the broken bridge for Loki's day of birth as he checked on Jane.

"I wouldn't have chosen to say it like that." Thor argues. "It just sort of...fell out."

"Hmm."

"Loki," Thor pleads and the younger's murky gray eyes lift to him, "please."

He doesn't know exactly what it is he's pleading for, and he doesn't think Loki does either.

The younger's jaw clenches, and his eyes flick away from him towards the floor. Thor releases a quiet breath through his teeth and leans forward on his knees, looking away from him. Neither one of them says anything, they just sit in silence for a long few minutes.

Loki's breathing is shallow and sounds pain ridden, his stance to taut it can't be comfortable.

Thor's breaths are too heavy and posture collapsed in a way that his mother would snip at him for hours on.

He sighs and feels Loki's eyes lift to him. "We're a mess, aren't we?"

A laugh escapes Loki's lips, but it sounds strangely bitter. "Yes."

Thor half glances at him and clasps his hands together, running his thumbs over the opposing knuckles. The silence is long and awkward. Thor doesn't like the quiet, it makes him fidgety and uncomfortable.

"Are you angry?" Loki's question is soft, but there's something earnest in his voice.

Angry?

Angry at what? His anger for the last year has already come tumbling out leaving him exhausted and drained. "At…?" Thor queries, turning his head to look at him. Loki's lips are thinned and he hasn't shifted from his uncomfortable position. With the thinner material Tony offered him that sticks to his skin, Thor can see the outline of his ribs. It sickens him and rouses a protective desire he isn't sure how to follow anymore.

"Me." Loki answers, smoothing a stray piece of hair back.

"Yes."

Loki's expression grows tight. "I didn't want the attack." He says, his voice curt, "I knew if I made a big enough show, Odin was bound to send you and we'd go back to Asgard, and I would explain."

Thor frowns, "You could have told me. We could have sought asylum, rather than your imprisonment."

Loki's fingers begin to play with the edge of the blanket wrapped around his shoulder, "The Avengers have offered asylum and I—I didn't...didn't..." His words fumble and Thor realizes what he means to say: didn't think you would believe me.

Oh.

He would not have. He would have claimed that he was fibbing without proof and the webbing along Loki's back is that.

"Loki…" He breathes.

A physical ache slices through him at the words and Thor feels his lips part slightly with disbelief before he leans across the couch and wraps his arms around Loki. His sibling feels bony and stiff under his hands, but doesn't immediately pull away, which he takes as a plus. They haven't embraced like this since long before his coronation; Loki has never been one for physical sediment and Thor respected that.

"I do not fault you for your mistrust; I can't," Thor murmurs into Loki's soft hair, "but I will listen now, I swear. Whatever it is you want to say. Please let me help, Brother."

Loki's frame shudders before something seems to...break in him. His younger sibling collapses into the hold, head landing heavily on Thor's shoulder, but his arms do not return the embrace. Thor doesn't care, if Loki is going allow Thor to hold him, he isn't going to kvetch.

Loki murmurs something that Thor doesn't catch into his shoulder before shifting his head down so he can breathe easier, than he begins to speak. His words are a soft murmuring in Aardent that gradually shifts from ramblings to lightly glance over the Void and his imprisonment by the Chitauri.

Thor doesn't interrupt, just allows Loki to speak and quietly stuffs the anger building with the Chitauri to the side to think of later. Anger will not help right now, it isn't what Loki needs. It isn't what Thor needs.

Loki's whispers slowly become further apart before coming to a stop completely. It takes Thor nearly two minutes to realize that the younger has fallen asleep in his arms. He doesn't move, with fear of waking his younger sibling. Loki has ever been a light sleeper, but after everything that happened the last year, it's only gotten worse. Thor shifts as best as he's able into a comfortable position and closes his eyes, tipping his head back.

000o000

Thor doesn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he hears the quiet murmuring of voices and slowly picks them apart with his foggy brain. He hasn't slept well since returning to Midgard and the sudden respite is welcomed, if strange.

"—y gosh it is adorable." Tony murmurs.

"Shh," Natasha chides, equally quiet, "you're going to wake them."

Wake who?

"I am being quiet," Tony defends and Thor hears a slight clicking noise. What on the Nine? He peels his eyes apart and blinks several times to clear his vision distantly noting that his left arm is asleep and prickling dully with discomfort. A warm sensation is leaning against his left shoulder and upper part of his chest. Thor's gaze flicks to that first and recognizes the messy head of Loki's hair.

It wasn't a dream, then.

Loki's breaths are even and deep against him, but Thor can still feel his bones jutting out uncomfortably and pressing against him in a way that isn't normal. Loki has always been thin, but this is a new level. It makes him ache.

"Sure." Natasha retaliates, her voice is thick with her disbelief, "Do we wake them?"

"I don't know." Tony says, his voice is still low, "We can just put the smoothie in the fridge. Bruce said that Loki was supposed to be getting a new one every six or eight hours apart, right? We can just stretch the time."

Thor lifts his head up from staring at Loki's dark hair towards his teammates who immediately flick their gazes towards him at the movement. Natasha is holding a tall glass cup filled with a brownish sort of liquid that has frosted the cup slightly. Tony is beside her, hands crossed, but Thor sees the edge of his phone poking out from where it's buried in the crook of his elbow.

Pictures.

Tony was taking pictures.

Great.

Loki will be thrilled.

"Oh," Tony breathes, staring at him, "sorry did we wake you?" His voice is still quiet.

Thor glances at Loki's frame before looking up at Tony again, "Yes." He admits, "What are you doing?"

Natasha and Tony share a look and appear to have mastered telepathy for a few quick words between them. "Bruce didn't tell you?" Natasha asks at length, her voice still soft.

Thor glances at the glass then them and shakes his head. Whatever it is that the doctor shared between them wasn't heard by his ear. He's only seen Bruce twice in the last three days. Tony frowns, "Huh. 'Kay. Loki's extremely underweight and we're working to solve that problem, he can't stomach anything beyond liquids at the moment from all the poison that messed up his insides, and Bruce conned us all into helping him in the feed-the-Loki thing. We've been waking him up or bothering him every six-eight hours and forcing him to drink something. He's only thrown up twice." Tony sounds proud of the last part and relief tangles through him at it.

Only twice.

Not at every meal.

Thank the Norns.

"Thank you." Thor says in relief and realizes half a second too late the words weren't whispered. Loki shifts against him before his head lifts slightly and his posture tightens. He doesn't immediately leap away, however. Thor gently bumps Loki's shoulder with his elbow, "Good afternoon, Brother." The sun has yet to set and Thor is guessing it's somewhere close to eighteen hundred hours.

Loki gives an unintelligible grumble of words in response that don't sound particularly cheerful. Thor smiles lightly in response. "I have your smoothie." Natasha announces and Loki shifts away from him, lifting his hands out towards the woman. This is clearly an established pattern that Thor completely missed.

Thor rolls his shoulder, attempting to get the blood flowing again. It tingles, then sends a sharp pain down to his fingertips. A light grimace escapes him, before Loki freezes suddenly. Thor can't see his expression from this angle, but Tony and Natasha pause, staring at him.

Loki's fingers slip and the cup slides down in his grasp, but doesn't fall from it.

"Thor." Loki's voice is breathless, but desperate. "Thor."

Thor frowns, worry nagging at him and leans forward, lightly resting a hand on his shoulder. "What?"

Loki turns to him, murky gray eyes wide. There's something strange about them today, the gray seems a little less...prominent. He doesn't know if this is a good sign. Loki's mouth parts a slight noise escaping before he manages to form a breathless, but vivified sentence: "I can see shadows."

Chapter Text

"It's gurgling, Clint; is it supposed to be gurgling?" Laura's voice is wary.

Gurgling?

Erm.

That's not good.

Clint presses his lips together, "No." He admits.

Laura gives a sound of distress on the other side of the phone, and Clint can almost see the pressed-lip look of concentration on her face. There's a loud whack and Clint winces slightly for the dishwasher's sake before there's following sound of Laura moving her head, likely shaking it with disagreement at her action. "That didn't help."

"Yeah, I don't think so." Clint agrees and pauses for a second, attempting to figure out what can be done to help the thing. Dishwasher repair wasn't exactly a required course on his S.H.I.E.L.D. training, nor was it a skill he picked up over the years. Honestly, he would probably just toss the thing if he was present; it's older than what is acceptable and it's been pushing it's time away from the grave for long enough. Laura is attached to it, though, because it was her parents and she took it after their death.

She's pushed the thing's lifespan to an admirable amount, but it's well beyond stepped into its grave and waiting to be buried.

"Did you check the motor?" Clint asks, re-positioning the phone as he pauses his pacing.

Laura makes a hum of confirmation. "It was just replaced last year, I don't know why it would be working up."

Because the rest of the dishwasher is older than both of them combined?

Clint bites at his tongue to keep the thought private and continues to pace. What are the other parts of a dishwasher? There's the drain, a timer and other—belts. Clint doesn't think that they've replaced the belt yet. Everything else on the other hand... "What about the belt?"

"The what?"

"The belt." Clint repeats, "Did you check that."

He hears her shifting and there's a slight grunt, "Where is that supposed to be?"

Clint blows out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. He's fairly certain it's next to the motor. With all the times he's worked on the bloody thing, he should know this by now. He's never really bothered to memorize the blueprints of one, though, and he's not even certain the layout of this particular model even exists anymore.

"Try finding the water hose instead," Clint suggests, "it's next to the motor where the belt should be."

Laura pauses, then sighs with defeat. "Clint, I can't take apart a motor. I barely get the lawnmower running without lighting a house on fire."

Clint releases a laugh and lowers his hand to stuff it into his pockets, flicking his gaze up to the clock resting on the bedside table. It's a little after one PM which means that he and Laura have been talking for somewhere close to two hours now.

They've been jumping topics rapidly in an attempt to keep speaking, but he's honestly not certain when the broken dishwasher was brought up. It was probably after Laura finished telling him the story of how Cooper managed to get one of Lila's Polly Pockets stuffed down the sink's drain. According to his wife, Lila was devastated and is currently still not on speaking terms with her brother even after two days.

Laura is a little done with the attitude, but admittedly, Clint finds it funny.

"I don't think it's something that I can talk you through over a mobile." Clint states and hears Laura heave a sigh. The dishwasher hasn't been working for a week and she's not looking forward to washing cutlery. If Clint were back at the house, he would assist with the dishes and attempt to fix her beloved dishwasher, but he's not.

"Well, it wasn't exactly realistic in the first place. My skill resides solely in teaching." Laura states. Clint gives a disagreeing sound, but Laura plows forward. "It'll have to wait until you get home." She stops and both of them go quiet.

It's not something they discuss often, but there's not exactly a rule against bringing it up. Clint doesn't stay home as much as he wishes he could and the times he can slip to Iowa are often brief. Often he feels more like an estranged uncle than a husband and father. Laura however, never complains about it, it's one of the many reasons he loves her.

"Do you know when you'll be able to come back?" Laura asks. He hears her move, then the clunk of something being set down on a hard surface.

No.

He doesn't.

It's impossible to tell right now.

With he and Natasha unable to get in contact with Fury for days and with this "vacation" from the Raft looking a lot longer than originally planned, he can't say. Officially, he hasn't even been cleared out of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mental hospital yet. He knows that Tony came in waving words around about clearance and permission from Director Fury, but he has yet to see it.

It could be a few more months, and he's dreading this prospect. It's already been five or six months since his last visit, and he honestly doesn't want it to stretch any further. He misses them more than the ache in his chest can accommodate for.

Clint works his lip between his teeth, "I don't." He admits, his voice is quiet.

"...How are things going there?" She asks and Clint releases a heavy breath. They've been texting since Clint was given a phone again, but it's not exactly the same as talking. He's not comfortable discussing this over a mobile neither he does not want to talk about it period.

Loki's…It's...strange.

What is he supposed to think about this? Relief? Anger?

He's confused and he doesn't know exactly how to understand or deal with this. He's been assisting Bruce, yes, but that doesn't mean he knows why. Loki has been his enemy since he saw him for the first time, it wasn't supposed to change.

The entire thing makes him nauseous.

He's seen what torture can do to people, and the scepter is one of the worst ways he knows on how to do that. There's nothing more terrifying than losing control to an unknown source. And despite that, Loki's back and torso was a mess of webbing and burns—it reminded him of Natasha, admittedly. When he met her for the first time and the scars she bore from Red Room.

He doesn't know what he thinks about this, he doesn't want to try processing it, but just ignoring it is nearly impossible.

"Fine." Clint states, his voice doesn't hold the sincerity for the statement.

Laura makes a sound of disbelieving disagreement.

There's little that they haven't already discussed via text. He doesn't want to talk about this any more than he has to. Laura's going to push until he tells, though, so it's just easier to give into defeat. He slides his free hand into his pocket and grips the extra fabric between his thumb and forefinger. "Loki's sight is returning." He reveals.

"What?" Laura says, "Since when?"

"Last night." Clint answers, "Dr. Banner looked into it, but he couldn't see any major improvements. According what Natasha said he said the most they can hope is that it keeps making advancements like this. They're pretty sure it's a side effect from his magic returning."

Which is amazing; they've fueled their possible enemy with a weapon and now he's starting to see his targets again.

Loki was easier to manage when he was blind. Grumpy and not exactly pleasant company, but they didn't have to worry about him wandering off or vanishing.

"Oh." Laura breathes. Clint gives a slight nod of agreement with the assessment. "Oh" indeed. "Did you—" Laura's voice crackles suddenly, the signal jumping and Clint pulls the phone away from his ear in confusion.

He's not exactly certain where Natasha got the phone from, but he didn't question it. He's not out of minutes, is he? Why would the signal suddenly come to a halt?

Clint's thoughts come to an abrupt stopping point as the lights in the room flicker, power humming before snapping off as if shot at. Clint pauses, warily staring up at the ceiling and looks down at his phone again staring at the frozen image of the phone symbol, the time the phone call is frozen at one hour, forty seven minutes.

What is going on?

Is this some sort of system reboot?

He doubts it.

Clint hesitantly ends the call before swiping out a quick text:

"Something's going on. I'll call you when it's safe."

Not sent.

Clint turns the phone off and shoves off as much paranoia as he can as he quickly crosses the room to find his bow. The light filtering in from the windows is plenty to see by even without the power so he doesn't trip over anything on his way over to the other side of the room.

Clint tugs his travel pack open and finds the bow case tugging it out. He flips the latches open and grabs quiver, swinging it over his shoulder just as the emergency lock down of the Tower falls into place.

Tony briefly explained it to them over the last month, Clint can't recall when exactly, but something about the Tower being able to turn itself into an emergency bunker. Windows becoming covered and access between rooms nearly impossible from the outside. It's like one of those things that seems only probably in movies, but Clint has seen it enough at S.H.I.E.L.D. bases that it doesn't phase him to terribly. The light, however, completely vanishes from view and this isn't welcomed.

What the heck is going on?

They were wary of threats from Hydra, but they haven't had contact with Fury in several days and—what on earth is that smell?

It's some sort of sharp acidic taste mixed heavily with chlorine and a thick perfume.

What is going on!?

Clint staggers forward, pressing a hand against his mouth, gagging.

Door. He's looking for door. Why is he looking for a door? He doesn't like doors. Out. He wants to get out of this room and find someone to explain what's going on. Natasha. He needs to find Natasha and—what is wrong with his brain? His thoughts are suddenly jumbled in a way he can't decipher.

The smell. Is it some sort of gas?

Clint presses a hand against his hand further, taking in short, shallow breaths.

He needs to get to a more open space. He's going to suffocate in here.

Clint's hand slams into a doorknob and he hisses at the pain, but grasps it and tugs backwards. A long, dark hallway greets him in response. It's thick, inky and nearly impossible to see through. If he hadn't already been down this place dozens of times now, he would be at an utter loss on where he is.

The air is less thick with the acidic smell in the hall and Clint moves forward to his right, warily.

He has no idea what's going on, but he has his doubts that this was intentional. What happened to Jarvis? Are the others okay? This...this isn't somehow Loki's doing, is it? He doesn't know what exactly the trickster would have to do to trigger such a response, but he doesn't see it being below him and—

Stop.

What is he doing?

He saw the scars, he himself has tasted the scepter; why is he attempting to pin the blame onto Thor's younger brother without any evidence?

It's easiest, and Loki did run rampage through New York a few months ago. Exactly, months.

Clint moves forward, shaking the thoughts from his head. That doesn't matter at the moment, what does is who actually did it and what the heck they're doing. His muscles are painfully tight and refuse to release from the rush of adrenaline that is grasping him.

He needs it to stop.

Adrenaline is going to slow him.

Clint's footsteps are the only thing he can hear in the stillness, and he doesn't like it. He's grown used to the humming noises of Tony's machines around him. The very Tower itself seems to sing and the lack of its voice is unpleasant. Unwanted.

Clint forces himself to exhale sharply and grimaces at the sharp tang of the smell.

A loud whirring noise sounds behind him and Clint spins, startled and barely sees the repulsor blast in time to dodge it. He rolls to his feet and stares at Tony incredulously. The man is completely covered in the Iron Man suit and it's glowing in a way Clint is honesty impressed he missed. The arc reactor isn't exactly dull light.

"Tony!" Clint hisses, relief wrapping around his anxiety like a warm blanket. Tony should know what's going on. This is his tower, he might have access to Jarvis and the outside world or—

Clint dodges the fist by instinct more than thought.

What on the—?

The repulsur blast smashes into the wall behind him and singes the paint.

"Tony!" Clint repeats, "What are you doing? I'm on your side!"

Tony ignores him, taking a swing towards his face. Clint dodges that by turning to the left so Tony's hand slams into the wall. What is happening?

"Insufficient data." Tony hisses. His voice sounds strangely raspy and...wrong. Usually there's a life to it, but now it sounds metallic and removed of all color. It makes Clint more wary than he already is.

Data.

What data?

What is going on?

The Iron Man fist smashes into his gut abruptly and Clint releases a loud hiss of pain as he feels something grind inside of him.

Bloody—

He can't fight the Iron Man suit hand-to-hand, nor does he have time to draw his bow and find something that will actually be helpful for this situation. Fortunately, he doesn't have to. Tony slams him against the wall and lifts his repulser towards Clint's face.

His breath is not returning the way he needs it to, something feels broken along his ribs.

"A machine does not offer clemency." Tony states lifelessly.

The repulser starts to whir and Clint panics.

He doesn't want to die. He has no idea what's going on. He needs an escape. Think. He can't take an elevator because the powers out and he doesn't know where any stairs are, but—vents. There are vents in this building and since it's and office building (technically) they're big enough for human bodies to shuffle through.

He can feel a draft coming from somewhere above him. To his left. He needs to move quickly and escape Tony's grip, but something needs to remove the lock on the cover. He doesn't have time to unscrew the nails...like a repulser blast. He flicks his gaze up to the ceiling and faintly sees the outline of the shaft from the glow of the arc reactor. Clint twists in Tony's grip and slams his feet against Tony's chest leaning back against the wall.

The force of the blow knocks him backwards and the repulsor blast goes flying up towards the ceiling as Clint makes a leap for the vent. The blast smashes against the vent, as intended, and the nails break letting the cover swing open. With either a great deal of luck or mercy being bestowed upon him, Clint's fingers manage to grip the broken grating from Tony's miss.

He tugs his weight upwards, ignoring his ribs and manages to scramble into the shaft. The metal is slippery beneath his fingers and the fetid smell even more prominent. Clint's hands slide and panic scrapes through his stomach. He has no idea what's going on, but something is wrong with his teammate. He doesn't know—nor does he want to find out—what will happen if he and Tony become within touching distance again.

"That was painful!" Tony calls up at him, his voice still that horrid monotone. "Clemency is not offered to the cowardly, come down and fight me."

He hears the repulser being charged again. Whatever seems to have infected the Tower also slowed Tony's equipment. He needs to get out of the way and quickly.

Clint forces himself to scramble up, but the faint pain from the bullet wounds a few weeks ago flares suddenly and his ribs aren't helping anything. Move, you idiot, or die.

Clint shoves upwards and his fingers slam onto the edge of a horizontal vent. Clint grips it and swings his other hand onto the ledge and tugs himself up onto the metal shaft crawling forward on his stomach as the blast smacks into the roof of the vent. The sound vertebrates throughout the space and Clint winces, his hearing aids growing uncomfortably tight for a moment.

Clint exhales quietly in and out of his nose, attempting to keep his breaths short as his head fogs from the malodorous stench.

His hands are shaking slightly and his ribcage is pulsing from pain.

Oh, gosh, he has no idea what he needs to do.

Clint squeezes his eyes shut and forces out a breath. The awful smell wracks through his nose as he inhales again.

Does he move forward? Attempt to talk to Tony? Find the others? What the heck does he do now?

Draw conclusions. Coulson's voice rings through his head suddenly, as clear as if he was whispering it to him; the memory sharp at the forefront of his mind. What have you discovered so far, work with that. You aren't always going to get all the evidence you need.

Conclusions.

Right.

Well. The power's out, the building is on lock down, he can't find anyone but Tony—who just tried to kill him, and he's locked in a ventilation system with some sort of gas that's make it hard to focus or think straight.

What does he need to do? Find a source, a reasoning, and the others. Are all of them like Tony, or has something happened to the only the multi-billionaire? He's in the ventilation and he needs to move quickly so Tony's scanners (if they're still working) don't pick him up and give Tony a reason to join him.

Where does he go?—is that even a question? Anywhere from here.

000o000

He doesn't know how long he stays in the vents, but by the time he finds another grate, his entire body is stiff and sore from crawling and awkwardly shuffling himself between the shafts without slipping and accidentally falling to a broken bone or a snapped neck. His mind is beyond scattered now, and focus is a distant dream. His senses are heightened unpleasantly and there's some sort of haze to his vision that he doesn't understand. It's the drug, though, that much he can grasp easily enough.

The room he dropped into isn't one he knows right off the bat. It's dark—so dark it's thick and strangely suffocating. His breaths are coming out quietly, but they sound as though he is exhaling into a microphone. Echoing out around him. This is ridiculous, he's not even breathing any louder than normal.

Clint forces his fraying nerves to settle. This is fine. He just has to find someone, and then they can explain what's going on. Hopefully.

This is not normal.

Tony's—

Clint trudges forward, swinging his collapsed bow into his hands and snapping it out. He swings an arrow from his quiver and moves forward with his stiff muscles.

Breathe, you idiot.

He's had enough experience with S.H.I.E.L.D. to realize when something's gone south, and this seems to be a little beyond reaching that point. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and forces himself to shove the thoughts to the side.

He's just paranoid and this is all just some sort of—That was definitely a footstep.

Clint stills, lifting his bow and straining his ears. Where did it come from? It sounded to his left, but it was so faint it really could have been anything. Only, people who assume as such either die or get impaled, and Coulson grilled that enough into his head he's not shoving it off as paranoia.

The sound doesn't repeat, and Clint takes another hesitant step. His heart is beating do rapidly in his ears it's hard to focus on anything else. Is it Tony? Did he find him? Is he here for round two? At least this time he'll have a better chance at defense with his bow actually out in the open instead of strapped against his quiver.

There's a slight shing of metal whipping through the air behind him and Clint spins to lift his bow as the glint of metal slams onto it. Without his block, it would have landed between his eyes. That would have been gross. And bloody. He doesn't like blood, it makes him sick and it smells weird and—

Pay attention!

Clint shoves back against the weapon, but his opponent draws back suddenly and a hand loops around the bow to slam against his ribcage. Agh! Pain explodes across his vision and his already cracked or broken ribs painfully hiss at the action. Air escapes him soundlessly and he grits his teeth, twisting his hands to catch the arm between his bow string. Now captured and with the advantage, Clint advances.

He pulls the assailant forward and rams his knee up to meet the head, then twists his bow to drag the hand behind their back, spinning the point of an arrow up and slamming it into the back of his assailant. The bounce on the string has snapped and he's not going to be able to use it until he replaces that.

He needs to get a staff. Staff's would be helpful, but he doesn't really like the unbalanced feel of how long they are. It's hard to focus on both sides without the—

Clint.

A pained hiss escapes his attacker before the sharp pin prick of a blade slices the string and snaps the person free. The bow is ripped from his grip forcefully, clattering to his left before he's shoved forward and hits the ground, his head thwauping painfully. His vision fuzzes and the air refuses to return as the blade of a weapon placed at his throat. He hears something else clatter behind him, but he doesn't know what it is and can't focus enough to determine it.

A bright greenish light explodes across his vision and Clint lifts his hands in an attempt to block it as he squeezes his eyes shut with pain. Bright lights should be a form a of torture, it's absolutely ridiculous how painful they are. He's been stabbed before and it hurts less than getting a light suddenly turned on when he wasn't expecting it and—

The blade draws back suddenly and there's a following sharp inhale. The pressure of the hand against his chest eases. "Barton?"

Wait.

Clint stills, then pulls his eyes open. The light offers enough to see about five feet around them, but his gaze isn't really needed to identify the person hovering over him. Clint's tongue is tangled, but nonetheless he manages to squeeze the two syllables out: "Loki?"

His hair is slightly damp and tangled around his pale face and he's wearing one of Thor's hoodies, but the relief and surprise on his face is what catches Clint's focus. His clouded green-gray eyes are wide with fear, wariness, and shadowed. He hasn't been sleeping the last few nights—or sleeping little—and he looks very on edge.

Loki's hand draws back the dagger and it sheathes into an invisible pocket of some sort. Clint notes the long cuts across Loki's palms as if he missed where he wanted to slice down several times with his blade. Loki draws back from his position and runs a bloody hand through his hair. He looks strangely scrambled. "My apologies—I thought—" Loki's voice cuts and he exhales through his teeth.

Thought. He thought that Clint was something else, which means that he knows more than Clint does.

His head is fuzzy.

He doesn't want the pink scarf being shoved towards this face.

Clint shoves at it to make the strange sensation go away and forces himself into a sitting position. It makes the whole world spin suddenly, and his ribcage explode with further pain. He hunches and he feels Loki's hand shift slightly as if to prod at him and panic slides through him. He doesn't want to be touched by Loki—he's going to kill him, or make the scepter come back and stuff a cold murderer back inside of him and—

"Thought what?" Clint demands forcing himself to focus and put the building hysteria to the side. It's impossible, he doesn't want to associate with Loki and is that a dagger or—"Do you know what's going on? Have you seen the others?"

Loki shakes his head, "No. I'm blind, Agent Barton; in case that slipped your memory."

Right.

Clint scrambles to his feet, flicking his gaze out across the room looking for his bow. He needs a weapon in case Loki suddenly turns violently and—oh, gosh, how can anyone think through headaches? Everything is fuzzy and weirdly echoing and—he needs Loki to stand down.

"Agent Barton, I-I don't understand what is happening—"

Neither does he!? Does anyone!? He would love to have flipping signs pointing him in the direction of how to find answers! Clint flicks his gaze up to him. Loki's agitation is visible through his hazy sight, but he can't— "I don't know! Tony just tried to kill me and you're going to be next in that regard and—Agh!"

Pain ripples through his chest, then his head, furthering the headache and weird sensation of floating further. His senses prickle with intensity making him suddenly aware of thick smell of metal and blood present in this room, as well as Loki's quickened breathing. Someone is laughing in the background at him and he can't stand it.

"Look at him. Still not very good at aiming, are we Trickshot, eh?"

"Bumbling fool."

"Would have been put to better use cleaning up."

No—stop it. He can't go back, he isn't going back, he's supposed to be with S.H.I.E.L.D. now and Natasha, Coulson and—Laura. S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps Laura safe and—

Something grabs his arm, but it burns with a fiery intensity he's never felt before. Clint lashes out, slamming a fist against the hand to bat at it, his hands scrambling for a weapon. Dagger. He has a dagger on his leg. Clint rips it out and swipes it towards the foe he can't see anymore. His vision is fuzzing, but bright light is pouring into them painfully.

Stripes.

He sees stripes and fabric and—

He can't be back here.

"Clint!" Natasha's voice rings out, pain filled and worried. Clint turns in an attempt to spot her, but he doesn't. "Clint, help me!"

"Tasha!" Clint cries out.

Where is she!?

"Let her go!"

"Bumbling fool."

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"

"You always were a bit daft."

"Clint!"

"Tasha, I can't—"

"Daddy!"

Lila.

"Daddy—I'm scared."

Oh, gosh, they have his daughter and he can't do this anymore because—He needs to find the—

"How quaint, she's adorable when she squirms, is she not, little hawk?"

"Daddy!"

Loki—that—

The burning sensation of a hand lands on his arm again, but he doesn't have time to shove it off before icy chill sweeps through his veins shooting up from his toes to his head. The sensation is powerful, and the blurring colors of circus tents and the screaming people behind him are ripped from his mind with force.

Clint staggers as his vision clears, before falling to his knees as he can't hold his weight anymore. His ribs are burning and his entire body aching and trembling. His slick with sweat and he can't breathe right. Something is wrong inside of him and he doesn't—he doesn't understand. What just happened, where did all of the tents and the Ringmaster and Lila and—

His stomach lurches and he leans forward heaving. It doesn't help his aching ribcage, but it does assist with the choking nausea. He tastes blood across the vomit. His hands are shaking and he wraps them around his stomach, carefully aware of his ribs.

A eldritch hand lightly touches his back and Clint jumps, whirling in his position to stare back and Loki who is standing behind him, his fist still glowing with the light that is useless to him. His expression is pinched and his eyebrows are knit with something that looks close to concern.

Clint's breaths escape as gasps.

"What did you do!?" He demands, hand scrambling for the dagger he knows he dropped somewhere around here.

"Me?" Loki sounds incredulous.

"Who ELSE!?" Clint roars, his vision spinning and his fingers wrap around hilt of the weapon. He leaps at the Asgardian, but Loki side steps him and flicks his hand out. Ice shoots from the tip of the weapon to Clint's fingers and he drops it with surprise. When the weapon hits the ground, the metal shatters from impact.

What the bloody—?

Loki kneels down next to him and grabs his shoulders. His fingers are unpleasant and unwanted, but strangely securing from the floating sensation. "Barton," Loki's voice is tinted with anxiety, "I need to you listen to me—"

"I don't want to hear a flipping—"

"Clint." Loki presses, "Listen. You were under the influence of a very powerful—oh, Norns what do you call it here!?" Loki hisses something in Aardent, "Drug! Drug. I forced it from your system, but it's going to take another minute or so to wear off. I had nothing to do with this."

Clint attempts to squirm from his grip, but Loki's fingers don't waver.

His headache is dulling and the messy anxiety building in his stomach is untwisting.

Drug.

The smell.

He decided it was some sort of drug, but he didn't do anything about it.

Idiot!

Clint's breathing slows and exhaustion takes its place. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to focus on Loki's hands. Not who they belong to, but just that they're there. His hands are freezing, his shoulders are going numb from the tightness of his grip.

When Clint has gathered as much of himself as he can, he opens his eyes and meets Loki's blank ones.

Loki's fingers are still glowing, but instead of there being some sort of floating ball or something else arrayed like that from Harry Potter, every vein along his finger seems to have illuminated itself. It's strange and slightly disgusting.

He forces himself to swallow the tangle of words in his throat. "Thank you."

Loki gives a slight nod, but looks reluctant to pull his hands back.

"What did you do?" Clint questions curiously.

Loki's lips thin slightly, but he releases a breath. "Lady Romanov attempted to remove Dr. Banner's head, but Thor and I managed to stop her. Then there was some sort of acidic smell—which I suspect was the drug and Thor and Dr. Banner started muttering and Dr. Banner started to release the beast and Thor attacked me and—I put them to sleep, with sorcery. I am unaffected by this drug because of my sorcery. I don't know why. I left an illusion to watch Thor, Dr. Banner and Lady Romanov."

Natasha was taken by whatever this is.

He almost was to. Thor and Bruce were as well.

Clint pauses for a second, then presses, "How does this relate to what you did to get it out of me?"

"I…" Loki hesitates, and a strange expression flicks across his face, "forced the drug out of your system by releasing some of my sorcery into your bloodstream."

His stomach drops.

"What!?" Clint hisses, "Get it out!" He demands lifting his hands and scrubbing at his forearms like he can force the foul substance from him. "Get it out!"

"It already is." Loki bites, "You vomited, yes?"

"Yes." Clint answers through gritted teeth.

"Then you removed it. Your human frame can't handle the waves of power flowing through my veins. It is why Midgard's sorcerers are never inborn. It's gone, I checked." Loki assures.

Oh. Well. Great.

This can't be happening.

Clint shoves out of Loki's grip and scrambles to his feet. He sways slightly, but manages to find his footing. Loki rises next to him and Clint runs a hand through his hair, releasing an agitated sound. Loki's gaze rests on him, but Clint can see from the glazed look he isn't seeing anything. Clint pinches the bridge of his nose firmly. "What are we supposed to do?" Clint demands, "Everyone is trying to kill us and we don't even know why."

"I sensed over fifty life-forms enter the building before the—ah, attack." Loki offers, and Clint whirls on him. He can do that? Since when? It doesn't matter right now, he can contemplate that at a later date.

Fifty.

This is definitely an attack, then, and Clint is guessing that it's Hydra. But how did they learn? They were all painfully careful to keep Loki's (and the rest of the team's) presence confidential. Two of them can't fight against fifty well-trained Hydra agents. They aren't idiots either, they thought about how to keep them confined and released the drug. What are they here for, though? An assassination? Or—Clint's gaze lands on Loki and he releases a quiet cuss.

"What?" Loki demands.

"This is a kidnapping." He states, the words sound unwelcomed on his tongue. Loki looks confused. "For you." Clint clarifies. Loki's fists clench tightly, but his face remains impassive. He does make a quiet "oh" noise. "That's great. Yeah, okay, swell." Clint runs a hand through his messy hair again and bites at his tongue heavily.

"We need to find Steve." He decides, neither one of them has come across the Super Soldier yet and they need to determine his mind set. Can he be affected by the drugs—Thor was. But—he and Bruce were starting to lose their focus almost immediately. Clint had been wandering on his own for at least twenty-twenty five minutes before he slipped. Why? Different dosages?

Steve.

They need to find Steve.

Loki releases a breath, "If you give me a moment, I can locate his magical signature."

Clint's eyebrows lift slightly of their own accord. He's been reassured of Loki's returning sorcery, but he didn't really realize how many areas it can effect, he didn't see much of its use during the Attack on New York.

Clint waits.

About a minute later, Loki's head tilts to the right of what looks like it's own accord. He turns to Clint, "How did you get in here? We need to follow that path. The halls are a mess of the prowling soldiers."

"Vents." Clint answers.

"They're big enough for human bodies now?" Loki sounds skeptical.

Clint huffs slightly, moving back towards where he's fairly certain it was and hears Loki trail after him bringing the light. "Sometimes. I'm not fighting any more than I have to. C'mon Magical-Stuff."

000o000

In hindsight, putting a blind man in charge of navigating a ventilation shaft was probably one of the most idiotic things he's done to date. Loki kept ramming into things unintentionally, or almost sliding off into a vertical drop without prior knowledge of their existence. After a painful few minutes, seven—maybe less—Loki lays a hand flat onto the space beneath him, the grate opening to another room.

"We're above him." Loki whispers back at Clint, "I'm going to create space for us to drop down from."

Clint gives a quiet noise of confirmation. Tony's going to be unhappy when he wakes up to find that, though. It's either that or dying, so Clint's fairly certain that Tony will understand.

Loki gently slides a piece of the reinforced steel onto the space across from them, then releases a quiet breath. Clint can pick out the sounds of metal slamming against flesh and it doesn't sound exactly pleasant.

Loki's head swivels back towards him again, "Do you have a weapon?" He hisses.

Clint's hands draw towards the usual positioning of his bow and freezes. Loki broke it during their scramble and Clint left it in the room they fought in. Dang it. The dagger is laying in a million shards across the same floor. He has a few other small weapons on his boots, but this isn't his S.H.I.E.L.D. issued suit where nearly every inch is covered in something that can be used for defense or offense.

He's wearing a jacket, a T-shirt and sweatpants with boots. He isn't exactly dressed for battle.

Loki twists with an impressive feat of flexibility, and shoves something towards him. Clint reaches up a hand from where he's laying on his stomach to grab it and feels the smooth hilt of a dagger. It's wrapped in leather, but the ends are a reinforced steel or metal.

Where did Loki get all these weapons? He was searched before he was stuffed into the Raft and Clint can't recall anyone giving him one.

Loki exhales through his nose before shifting forward some more and awkwardly slipping out of the newly created hole from where the grating should be and disappears into the darkness below. Clint shifts forward and follows the Asgardian's suit. His ribs are aching in a way that isn't exactly comfortable, but is familiar enough now that he can focus on something else.

The metallic shing is stronger now and Clint can fuzzily make out two figures towards the end of the hall. One of them is leaning over the other, slamming a fist against them. Beside him, Loki lifts his hands and makes some sort of hand gesture before flicking his hand out. A long stream of dulled white light shoots across the space from Loki to the end of the hall, revealing an elevator that the light stops at.

Clint's eyes struggle to adjust, but when they do he inhales sharply.

A dark haired man is standing over a bloodied Steve, his eyes shadowed but stance tight and threatening. His left fist is encased in or is medal and raised over Steve. A strange sort of squirming protective anger rises in him and Clint flings the dagger forward before he really processes what he's doing. The weapon slams into Steve's attackers shoulder and he lets out a low hiss.

He looks familiar.

Clint can't place from where.

"I can't see—" Loki's voice is a quickened whisper, "—what is going on?"

"Steve's being attacked," Clint answers, moving forward towards the man. Loki follows his footfalls, but he doesn't sound certain of what he's doing. The Hydra soldier removes the dagger from his shoulder and narrows his eyes angrily towards Clint and Loki.

Clint spots Steve's shield laying dormant a few feet from them, and presses his toe against the edge kicking it up into his hand. He has no idea what he plans on doing. He's exhausted, unarmored, without a weapon and his ribs are straining to hold his skeleton together. He's not exactly fit for hand-to-hand at the moment.

Nonetheless, he's been assured throughout his lifetime at his lack of genius.

Clint leaps into the awaiting attack with brutal force and quickly learns to regret his decision. The Hydra soldier is well trained and matches his skill level—if not surpasses it. Clint is one of the few people in S.H.I.E.L.D. beyond perhaps Fury, Coulson and a few others who can fight Natasha to a stand-still. His skill is not low.

This soldier's is beyond that.

If he'd had all his ribs intact, actual body armor and a weapon beyond a glorified frisbee, he probably would have stood a better chance. As it is, he manages to lay a few hits and steal one of the guns off the soldier's person before getting brutally rebutted. He hears at least two ribs snap from the force of one of the blows before a cold metallic hand wraps around his throat and squeezes, dragging him from the ground.

He squirms lightly, kicking out, but his body is exhausted and his mind is rearing with panic.

He is going to die.

His breath is escaping without his permission via the building panic and the pressure is growing tighter, and tighter, and tighter and—

The hand releases him suddenly and Clint tumbles to the ground, gasping.

The soldier is on his knees, eyes wide and expression horrified as Loki, standing strangely close to them both, flexes his fingers. The man twitches further, a terrified wheeze escaping him. Loki turns to him and kneels. His other hand is still moving rapidly and the soldier keeps gasping like he's dying.

"What...are...you...doing?" He gasps out, his eyes remaining fixed on the brunet man.

Loki's jaw clicks slightly, "Caught in a bad memory, I suppose." He says it lightly, and Clint isn't certain he wants to understand what Loki means by it. The Asgardian's freehand moves and scrambles slightly. His fingers grip Clint's shoulder, than the back of his head then his neck, but Clint is too exhausted to really care what he's doing. A cool sensation spreads across the burn of the strangle and Clint realizes after a moment that Loki is healing him.

What...?

"We need to move, I can sense others rapidly coming towards our position. Where is the nearest exit?" Loki demands, pulling his hand back.

He doesn't know. A window maybe? That's over forty flights and he doesn't exactly think any of them would survive that except Loki. Oh, gosh—Steve.

He flicks his gaze up and Loki seems to read his mind. "I sedated him," Loki says, "I can't offer any assistance without more time. Think, Hawk, where."

"He's alive?" Clint demands, ignoring the question.

"Barely." Loki states.

Relief washes through him, easing the knot.

"Where?"

"The garage." Clint blurts. It's on the first floor and has access to at least three exits that he knows off; and they can move faster in a car. He grabs at Loki's forearm. "We can't take everyone." He says, wary to admit it. They don't have time to collect Thor, Bruce, Tony or Natasha. They can only take Steve with them. He doesn't know where all the Hydra agents are and he's not in any condition to fight. They either die trying, or they escape and bring back help.

He doesn't want to leave them, but they don't have any other choice.

"I'm not leaving Thor." Loki says heatedly, "He's my brother, I can't—"

"I don't want to do it any more than you do!" Clint hisses, his patience drawing thin. "We can come back for them. We'll bring back help, I promise, but I can't do anything, Steve's unconscious, and you're blind. We're helpless, Loki, alright? There is nothing we can do."

Loki hisses. A deep throaty sound that makes Clint rear back from him his mind screaming "threat!". Clint has heard many times about a snake being associated with the trickster, but he didn't really believe the analogy until now.

"I won't."

"We have to."

"We can collect them—"

"There isn't any time!" Clint explodes, "We're pushing it with hoping we can get out. They're here for you Loki, in case that slipped your mind. If we take you out of here, they might leave them alone. We have to leave." Where they'll go isn't a question he wants to think about right now.

Loki stops, and clenches his fists. They're slick with blood and Clint suddenly remembers the deep cuts he saw on them. The Hydra soldier crumples as the spell, enchantment—whatever it was that Loki did stops.

"Fine." Loki hisses, "If my brother dies because of this, I will hold it on your head and I promise by the Norns my wrath will not be a pleasant one."

Clint glances at the twitching soldier.

He doesn't doubt it.

000o000

After Loki drags Steve's weight into his arms, Clint and him mostly by accident discover that the elevator is indeed still functioning. Loki puts the Hydra soldier to sleep with some sort of spell before they step into the elevator.

Without Jarvis's persistent pestering, it seems strangely empty.

Loki leans back against the wall and Clint notices for the first time how fatigued he looks. He's been a continuous bundle of energy jumping from one thing to another and Clint hasn't thought twice on it. His hair is slick with sweat and with the emergency lights in the elevator, Clint can see a little more blood that he feels comfortable with smeared across the trickster's clothing.

Before he gets a chance to ask on it, the doors open and reveal the garage. This room, unlike the rest of the Tower is brightly lit to the point it's almost painful. Clint winces and blinks several times attempting to adjust. He and Loki step from the elevator and Loki adjusts his grip on Steve. The Super Solider doesn't look any better than the rest of them, but the in particular left side of his face is swollen and caked with broken skin. Clint is grateful that Steve isn't awake to feel it.

Unlike the rest of the Tower, however, this room is crawling with Hydra agents. They're standing in teams of two watching forward vaguely, and a few are standing in groups. Everyone is completely silent.

Clint stills next to the elevator doors, his eyes rapidly jumping across the room looking for one of the exits. Tony's cars are all lined next to each other in neat little rows, but they need one without a ceiling because Clint has no idea where the multi-billionaire keeps his keys.

There! Towards the end of the room is a bright red convertible. Not something he would drive of his own violation, but he's honestly not surprised that Tony owns it. Clint lightly nudges Loki with his elbow and Loki's head turns towards him.

Clint takes a step forward and every gun in the room save the one on Clint's person from the Hydra solider raises in their direction.

Clint forces a smile to spread on his lips, "Ah—hi."

None of them look amused. One steps forward, the black helmet covering their face impossible to make out an expression. "Clint Barton, Loki, you are under arrest for withholding a fugitive and attempted subjugation."

Quiver.

He still has his quiver.

Clint releases a sigh and slowly moves his hands towards his back, fingers twisting the slots manually to get the arrow head he wants. "I didn't have any plans to be arrested today," he says mournfully as a distraction. "Can we try this another time?"

In response, the leader fires a bullet towards his head.

Yeah, okay, sounds about right.

Clint draws the arrow from his quiver and throws it. It lands with a clatter and thick smoke explodes from the head. Not wasting the brief advantage, Clint grasps Loki's shoulder and tugs him towards the car. Loki's feet scramble, but he manages to follow.

Bullet fling in their direction, but miss.

They reach the car in under a minute and Loki lays Steve on the backseat as Clint scrambles into the passenger. He lifts his gun and fires a shot off into the fog and hears it make its mark as someone releases a cry. Loki scrambles in beside him and Clint turns to ask him if he knows how to drive before a boot slams into his face.

A loud grunt escapes him and he tumbles backwards, slamming into Loki's bony shoulder.

His vision spins, but he sees the fiery red hair of Natasha.

"You ABANDONED me! I just wanted to play!" She wails.

What?

"Play!" She cries, drawing a dagger and leaning in towards Clint's face, her breathing is rapid and her eyes red and dilated. The drug. He'd almost forgotten about it, admittedly. She's still under the influence of it.

She attempts to swing the dagger towards Clint's face, but Loki's hand wraps around her forearm. He twists it and presses his fingers against her skin. Clint sees the surge of light ripple through her skin. Less than two seconds later, Natasha's eyes roll back and she topples to the left, crumpling into the backseat.

"She's coming with us." Clint declares.

"Obviously." Loki grits between clenched teeth.

A round of bullets makes them both duck and Clint turns to twist the keys for the ignition and sees it empty. Keys. He doesn't know where they are. They're trapped because he forgot you need them to start a car. This is perfect. Just amazing.

Clint curses, then turns to look at Loki. "We don't have any keys."

"What?" Loki sounds incredulous, "What on the Nine do you need keys for?"

"To start the stupid thing!"

"Keys!?"

A bullet flies dangerously close to the mirror on Clint's side and he can see Loki's expression flicker with panic. He lifts his hands and strains his fingers. Green light whirs from the tips and slams into the dashboard vanishing within. A moment later, the car roars to lift and Clint blinks at him. Well. That happened.

He can steal literally any car without a problem.

What on the—focus.

Clint sits up and lifts his hands and returns fire twice before slamming back down into the seat. Loki is still staring at him, working his lip between his teeth. "I don't—I don't know how to operate one of these."

Clint resists the very strong urge to slam his head against the windshield. "This is just excellent," he mutters to himself, "I put a blind guy in charge of driving who hasn't even touched a steering wheel in his life before."

If Natasha doesn't beat her to it, Laura is going to strangle him.

Clint squeezes his eyes shut, "There's three petals down next to your feet, the one on the far right will make the car go, the middle is the brake and far left is the clutch. Use the one on the right and drive forward."

Clint slams his elbow along the gear lever and drags it into drive.

He rises to his feet as Loki slams his foot down on the gas. Clint lurches forwards, nearly tumbling into the backseat on top of Natasha and Steve. Tony is a speeder. He enhances his vehicles to achieve that for him. This is an unwelcomed realization.

Clint ducks from a wave of bullets then lifts his arm up to return fire. The shock of the blast wracks up his arm unpleasantly. This is why using two hands is recommended. It hurts less.

Loki is murmuring something to himself in his mother tongue and Clint's fairly certain that it's quiet reassurances. Loki jerks the wheel to the right suddenly to avoid hitting one of Tony's other cars and Clint slams his leg into the edge of the car.

Agh!

He is going to be very bruised and sore tomorrow.

If they make it to tomorrow.

"There's something blocking the exit," Loki announces, his tone strangely tight, "what am I to do?"

Clint grabs an arrow from his quiver, setting the timer for the explosion and tossing it back towards their pursuers. It explodes and sends others ducking for cover.

"Barton!"

"I don't know!" He admits, his tone is unnaturally shrill. "I can't break through the flipping steel with one of my arrows—we're trapped."

Loki jerkily avoids another car and Clint can see the end outline of the garage door in the distance. Sealed and locked down. They have about thirty feet before they hit it head on.

For the love of—

Loki releases the steering wheel with one hand and throws his hand out. Clint doesn't see any sort of light or announcement that the action was anything more than anxious twitching. They approach the door. Clint squeezes his eyes shut and ducks into the seat quietly pleading with anyone listening to not let them die on impact.

"Loki..."

"Shut up!"

"Loki!"

"I said shut up!"

They reach the door and slam into it. Instead of the deadly impact that Clint was expecting, there's a wet sound before a splatter of black-gray paint splashes onto him and across the car. What the!?

Clint stares at Loki, "What did you do?"

"Matter transfiguration." Loki hisses between clenched teeth as if it's the most obvious thing in the planet and swipes his hand. The paint covering the windshield washes off instantly and Loki jerks the wheel heavily to the right as he barely manages to squeeze into oncoming traffic.

"Where am I supposed to be going?" Loki demands, weaving between cars with skill that Clint didn't really expect him capable of. Shadows, Clint recalls suddenly. He's seeing shadows. He can still sort of make out their surroundings.

Clint risks a glance behind them and spots a car emerge from the garage-paint door.

"Ugh—um," Clint's words are slurring in his throat and he doesn't know how to stop it. He didn't really plan out this far, admittedly. "Left." He announces and Loki jerks the wheel in that direction. A horn honks loudly in response and he hears someone give a loud cry of annoyance.

They need to get out of the city, at least, then see if they can get in contact with Fury.

The car. He needs to stop the pursuing car. He only has what? two bullets left now?

Clint forces himself to turn and scans for the Hydra car. He spots it a moment later quickly working through the traffic. Clint lifts his hand up and aims pulling the trigger but Loki jerks to the right abruptly, sending it off course. It slams into a building instead.

Clint hisses, "I missed."

"You never miss." Loki says firmly.

Clint whirls on him. "Of course I don't. You're a terrible driver!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're going to get us and everyone else killed."

"I haven't done it yet." Loki defends with bite.

Clint groans. "You really are only good at rampaging cities."

Loki's expression turns ugly. "I was hardly trying!"

"Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself to soothe your massive ego."

Loki chokes and opens his mouth to retort, but abruptly slams down on the brake. Clint slams into the seat. Despite how expensive the car is, their seats are not padded enough for cracked ribs. A hiss of agony escapes him and his vision fuzzes. He turns to look at Loki, scowling. He swears, if this is just some sort of paypack he's going to lose it.

"What the flipping—"

"I can't see Thor."

"What? You left the room over twenty minutes ago!"

"I can't see them." Loki's fingers tighten around the steering wheel. "Someone broke my illusion."

Oh.

Great.

Clint grabs his shoulder, "We have to keep moving. I'm sorry." They're his team too.

Loki's expression flickers with a dozen emotions, none that Clint can exactly place before he slams on the gas pedal and rockets them forward. They make it about a dozen feet before a loud explosion rings and the car goes flying.

Clint hears himself exhale and his heart beat rapidly in his chest before a strange sort of sensation wraps around him and a blinding light ripples through the air. Crackling electricity makes his ears pop and something tugs at his gut jerking him before the car slams into the ground of a forest looking out towards some sort of hill. He has less than four seconds to process this before his body slams with it and his head smashes against the dashboard.

Everything goes black.

Chapter Text

He's drowning.

Gasping. Choking. Breathless.

Someone has to help him.

His lungs are filled with smoke and every inhale is only making it sink deeper into his chest. There is nothing he can do to stop it, nothing he can do to ease the ache of his head or the bursting pulse of his eye. His mouth is dry, but tastes strongly of blood, acid, and vomit. He can smell the residue of oil and smoke in the air. What was he doing? This smell isn't a familiar one. Even Tony's workshop—which is the closest he can get pinpointing it—smells cleaner.

His chest is squeezing shut. He can't draw in enough air.

He's dying.

Help him. Someone has to help him.

Steve inhales a ragged gasp through his teeth, his fists clenching tightly around the ground at his sides. Dirt, if his wild senses are correct, but he doesn't care. He can't.

He's dying.

He needs to breathe, but he can't.

What is going on? What happened? Why can't he breathe? He's not wet, he can't be in the ice again. He isn't. He's not wet. He's not in the ice. He's not wet. So why can't he breathe?

Steve's head is pulsing, pounding with the desire to split his skull in two. His memories are fuzzy and he has no idea what he was doing before this happened. Why his eye is leaking blood and the copper taste of drugs is present on his tongue. What happened!? His mind is crying out with confusion, but Steve has no idea how to answer it.

Think, Rogers; stop panicking.

Yeah, because that's an easy request.

He forces out a settling breath and grips the dirt between his fingers tighter. Soil. Where did the soil come from? The last he can remember...what was he doing? Steve struggles to recall backwards, his mind fuzzing at the attempt. This is unusual, since the serum happened he hasn't struggled at all with—

The serum.

Bucky.

The sharp pang of wailing retaliated loss rings through him. Bucky, who used to play endless matches of chess with him, who would drag his sorry butt out of fight after fight, who was Steve's brother in everything but blood just attempted to kill him.

His mind had already been fuzzy when the power went out. He'd grabbed his shield and left his room to look for Tony. When he found him, dizzy and disoriented, they spoke briefly with Tony shoving some sort of small device into his hands, before collapsing into unconsciousness twitching after warning Steve to run. Steve didn't want to leave, but Tony's following wild attack forced his feet away from the multi-billionaire. He doesn't know what happened, but he knows it wasn't by Tony's choice. He'd ran, but only made it a few floors down traveling through the elevator shaft before he was stopped by a masked figure. As their fight progressed, he'd tugged off the mask and in his fuzzing headache recognized the features of the brunet in the dark.

Bucky.

Not dead.

How?

Steve saw him fall to his death after—

And now—

A sharp, biting pain redirects his thoughts abruptly and Steve's hand releases the dirt to press against his eye swollen, bloodied eye sharply. The slightest bit of pressure makes him wince and his breathing hitch painfully. Vomit threatens to escape him and Steve's chest is heaving again, the anxiety building. His muscles are buzzing in a way he's not used to and it isn't pleasant.

His ribs are pulsing, but his head is a thick ever-present pain.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Steve presses his lips together firmly and forces himself to loosen his grip around his face. He licks his bloodied lips and swallows through his dry throat exhaling deeply. He needs to focus on something else than the pain. He was shot a few times during the war and it was Peggy's constant mantra as she stayed by his side reprimanding him for stupidity until he could move a few hours later.

His back is aching and his legs feel numb, but he can't identify any pain that isn't in his upper torso. He needs to identify where he is. His last memory is of Bucky standing over him, violently beating him with his metallic arm—no, that's not quite right. Bucky draws back and then something else is blurrily present. Pale and dark hair tangled across their face, but snapping fingers in front of his cracked eye, speaking something rapidly, then a hand rubbing under his good eye and nothing.

The Tower. He knows that the last place he was, was the Tower. He doesn't think he's still present, because he has yet to find a room with a dirt floor. Honestly, he hadn't done that much exploring in the first place, but it doesn't seem like something Tony (or what he's heard/read about Ms. Potts) would do.

Pay attention, Rogers.

Right.

There's dirt under his nails, so he's likely outside, but where?

Steve forces out a slow breath and readies himself for opening his eye. He firmly presses his swollen lid shut and bites at his tongue as he gently tears his right eye open. Everything is unfocused and has a strange fogginess to it, but he recognizes the thick overcast of clouds and the sprinklings of trees. He's...in a forest? What is he doing in a forest?

With extensive effort and a great deal of willpower, Steve slowly tugs himself forward into a sitting position to blearily gather his surroundings.

Around him is mostly forest, but towards his right is a large wheat field with what he's guessing is a house in the distance, but it could also be a sizable rock. About twenty feet from him is the remains of a car, twisted and bent terribly the paint smeared and blackened. Bits of it are scattered around him and broken glass is smeared across the ground like it's part of the scenery. The car is laying wheels up, and it's obvious from lack of movement that whatever happened wasn't recent.

His team.

Where is his team?

He couldn't have gotten here by sleepwalking, who took him? Tony mentioned some sort of drug in his rushed speaking, but Steve can't recall as many details on the conversation as he wants. Rogers!

He forces his gaze to focus again and Steve's legs feel numb, but he forces them to shift and a burning sensation ripples through them. They fell asleep with how long he's been here. He doesn't want to walk on them, or move them at all.

His team. He needs to find them and make sure they're okay.

Steve staggers to his hand and knees, keeping his left hand firmly pressed against his swollen eye. He doesn't make it much further before his strength gives and he collapses against the ground. His left hand slams into his wound and a hiss of pain escapes through his teeth his head giving another roar of pain. A ragged gasp follows his hiss. He can't move. He's frozen, but he needs to find his team.

Get. Up.

He can't.

His limbs are paralyzed and refuse to move.

He has to find them, he can't be to slow again.

"Mister?" A small female voice questions and Steve jerks at it, startled. What on Earth—? He rolls without remembering moving, and looks up scanning for the sound. A moment later, he spots a small girl, maybe three or four looking down at him, head tilted. Her hair is separated into two long braids and she's wearing a thick coat that makes her look smaller than she is. Confusion snaps at him.

What is a child doing here? (Where is here!?)

Who is she?

How did she get here?

The girl gives a slight smile, that looks warm and inviting, even though he doesn't know her. Children are like that, though, always wanting to be friendly and—he doesn't understand what she's doing. "Don't move." She instructs putting a small hand on his shoulder as if to keep him put. The sensation is unwelcomed and sends his nerves into overdrive. "We're gonna get Mommy, she make it better."

Mommy?

We?

Steve stares at her, incredulous. "What?" His voice sounds terrible and croaky, barely above a whisper. The girl smiles again, brown hair lapping around her face. She looks strangely familiar, but Steve is positive he has never met her in his life. A hiss of pain escapes through his teeth as a pulse of pain wracks through his face. His head is going to split open.

"It's s'kay." The girl pulls her hand back, rocking on her heels and her head tilts further to the left. "You'll be okay."

He doesn't want to be okay. He wants to know where the others are. He can't move or see easily and he has no idea who this child or "we're" are. He forces a breath out and does his best to keep the groan bitten back. The anxiety is swirling in his stomach again, twisting and twisting and—how is he able to breathe with this in his chest?

"Are..." He coughs weakly and is disgusted as the metallic taste of blood follows. "People. Others here?" He strains to ask the girl.

She stares at him quizzically, then seems to process his meaning and nods rapidly. "Yup!" She declares with more enthusiasm than really feels proper at the moment. She lifts up her fingers, last two fingers lowered into her palm, the other three lifted. "Thee!"

Three. His stomach sinks. In order for everyone to be here, he needs six. Not three. They might not even be the rest of the Avengers and he doesn't know what he's going to do if they aren't. He needs to see them. He has to make sure they're alive. If the car crash was theirs then they could be—

Shh.

"How far?" He asks the girl, his voice straining. An acidic taste is burning his tongue sharply, unpleasantly. The brown haired girl frowns, but presses a hand against her lips as if she's holding back a great secret, her eyes are twinkling and she bobs her head.

"Not." She assures. Steve pinches his eye shut forcing a breath through the staggering pain. He needs to see them. It's physical ache inside of him, a warning. He grinds his teeth together and with a great deal of effort shoves to his knees; he rocks slightly and nearly topples forward again.

The little girl watches him with a disapproving frown. "Don't move." She repeats.

Steve ignores it. "Where?" He demands.

"Cooper said not—" She starts, her voice hesitant.

"Where?" He presses. He can't stave off all of his desperation and her eyes lose their stubbornness, sympathy replacing it.

The girl sighs and lifts out her hand for him to grab as he struggles to his feet. He stares at her for a long moment, then takes her hand with his free one. It feels strangely breakable beneath his fingers, small and innocent. His dirt and blood stained fingers are suddenly deplorable.

The girl leads him closer to the crash sight and points.

He follows her hand and spots a familiar head of red hair. Relief so sudden washes through him that he nearly collapses at the sensation. She's here. He's not alone. Natasha, too, is away from the car, sprawled on her back eyes pinched closed and a long cut across her cheek. It's long since dried, but doesn't look pleasant. There's minor bruises across her face as well, but nothing that seems life threatening. The position doesn't look comfortable, but because of it he can see the steady rise and fall of her chest.

Breath.

Alive.

He attempts to move towards the woman, but the young girl firmly tugs at his hand causing him to stagger away. Steve stares at the back of her head, confused, but she moves forward with persistence, leading him towards the broken car. Before they cross to the opposing side that Steve's blind to, he manages to spot Loki. The Asgardian is laying halfway inside of the driver's seat and across the ground. The door is missing, laying some few feet far to their left. Loki's face is pale against his dark hair, and the hoodie he's wearing is a mess of stained splotches of blood. Steve doesn't get a chance to see if he's breathing before he's pulled out of sight.

The relief continues to pulse through him, though.

"Daddy's back here." The girl says in explanation, finally, a slight jubliance in her step before they step onto the other side of the red car. A slight noise escapes him as he spots Clint, sitting upright and leaning against the side of the car, awake and alert, his expression a tight-lipped grimace. He doesn't look to be in a better state medically than any of the rest of them, but he's awake.

The pressure on his chest eases slightly.

"Clint." Steve croaks with relief, his voice barely above a startled inhale.

Clint turns his head and the sharp, calculating blue sweep across him, looking slightly fuzzy, but they narrow. "Steve." He greets after a second, voice equally quiet, and his gaze flickers to the young girl for a moment before Clint tiredly lifts a hand and points at the spot next to him. "Sit down." He commands.

The young girl releases his hand and nods encouragingly as Steve staggers to the car and sinks down beside Clint. His muscles sigh with relief as the pressure is taken from them and the pain eases slightly. The world has not stopped spinning and fogging, but it doesn't hurt to look at anymore.

Clint's hands gingerly lay on his lap again and Steve notes that he's careful to avoid any contact with his ribcage. The young girl bounds forward past the two of them, energized and looking towards the field with anticipation. She's waiting. For what, Steve isn't certain.

Steve tilts his head in the archer's direction and blinks several times to focus. He has to swallow twice before he can speak again. "Do you know where we are?" He asks. Not the Tower, with the rest of their team and that acidic smell and Bucky—

Clint's lips thin further before he gives a slight nod, his fingers flexing in and out rhythmically. "Iowa."

Steve attempts, and fails, to keep his jaw from sliding open slightly. "What?" He hisses, "How? We were in New York with the attack and the—Clint, where's the rest of the team?" The sudden change of states suddenly seems far less important than this. How could he be so stupid? Where he is doesn't matter as much as where the rest of them are and—

Clint squeezes his eyes shut and leans his head back against the car. It makes a slight clunk as it touches the metal.

Steve waits, but Clint is quiet.

Just—answer!

"Clint." Steve presses, forcing his voice to sound more commanding. Bucky once said that—Steve cuts the train of thought abruptly.

"I don't know." The words are succinct, as if as unwelcomed to Clint's ears at they are to Steve's. Iowa. How did they get to Iowa? That's not even a state away, it's multiple. How long was Steve unconscious? How long as the rest of their team been missing?

Steve turns towards him, further, forcing himself to focus. It doesn't help the fogginess. "What happened?"

Clint lets out a slight laugh that's anything from joyful and his lips part to answer, but the small girl's hand whips up and points forward. "I see Cooper and Mum." She declares. Steve has to focus to make out the blurry form of two figures rapidly approaching in the distance. One of them is holding some sort of stick. The girl looks at them and smiles widely. "Daddy, look!" She demands. Clint lifts his head towards the girls gesturing and the action makes Steve freeze, then doubletake.

Wait.

Daddy?

That's…Clint's…What?

Clint has children!? Since when!? This was not mentioned on the file for him that Steve was given by S.H.I.E.L.D.. In fact, Steve hasn't even heard the archer bring it up once in all the time he's known him.

Steve turns to him, eyebrows lifted with disbelief. "That's your—"

"Daughter." Clint finishes, his voice heavy, "Yes. Lila." He waves a hand in her direction and the young girl turns to him with a wide smile. "Lila, Steve; Steve, Lila." She waves happily, but Steve doesn't return the greeting. He wasn't...he didn't expect this. Clint's lips thin further, but he turns to Steve. "Their existence isn't on the S.H.I.E.L.D. database, my request. Only Fury, Hill, Coulson, and Nat know about them, I want you to keep it that way."

"Of course," Steve agrees without hesitation, but it doesn't quell the perplexity.

Clint gives a brisk nod, "Thank you."

Nearly a minute later, a woman and a young boy maybe eight or nine reaches their position. The woman, he realizes after a second, is holding a shotgun and her clothing is covered in flour. Her eyebrows are drawn with worry, but as she sees Clint it visibly relaxes some. Her brown hair is tugged back in a messy bun and the jacket she's wearing is inside out, but Steve doubts that was intentional.

"Clint," she whispers, relief clear in her voice.

"Hey," Clint says and gives a crooked grin. He attempts to sit up straighter, but winces and it snaps the woman into action. She rushes forward, setting the gun down and grabs her husband's shoulder biting at her lip.

"Who are you—Steve. Rogers. Right. Your hardly breathing, Clint, what's wrong?" She demands, "What hurts?" Her hand runs across his chest as if looking for something, but Clint weakly catches her fingers instead and gives it a quick squeeze.

"I'm okay, Laura." He assures.

Doubtful.

"No." The woman, Laura, argues and her lips thin, "Is anything broken?"

Clint blows a soft raspberry, appearing to give into defeat because instead of fighting he simply says: "Yeah, I think so."

"Don't worry," Lila insists and pats at her father's knee, "Mommy will make it all better." She assures. Clint nods with agreement and smiles reassuringly.

"I'm sure."

"Cooper," Laura addresses the boy and he looks up at his mother, "I want you to go back to the house with Lila and prepare some containers of warm water and get some rags from under the sink. Can you do that for me?"

"But Daddy's—" Lila starts to argue.

"No buts," Laura insists, "you'll see him soon, I promise."

Lila kicks her feet lightly, but Cooper just nods several times and lifts his hand out towards his sister who takes it with a slight pout on her lips. "We'll have it ready, Mom." Cooper assures and pulls his younger sister forward and back towards the field. As soon as the children are out of earshot, Laura curses, loudly.

"You said that you'd stop doing this to us." Laura says, her voice shaking as she grasps at Clint's hand tightly and presses her other hand against his chest. Clint winces at the action and she shakes her head several times. "I took a single medical course from S.H.I.E.L.D.—one! You need a doctor."

"We can't risk it." Clint states firmly.

Laura shakes her head slightly, but doesn't comment on that. "Seven hours, Clint," she whispers, "I waited for seven hours for you to call me back."

Steve suddenly feels very much like an intruder in this conversation. And on this property. He doesn't belong here, he's a city-person through and through and the field is strange. So was Buck—He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want the sharp sting of betrayal and confusion to gnaw at him again. He bites heavily on his lip and his concentration slips.

The pain is ever present in the back of his mind, like the sharp ache of a bruise when prodded at. He doesn't understand what's happening. Even with what Clint did explain, he barely knows anything. His memories are a disordered mess and he can't wrap his head around the large wild card that is his dead-but-not-dead best friend.

He tried to kill him.

Steve couldn't defend himself because of the shock.

After waking up to realize that he's supposed to be ninety-three and the alien attack that followed, Steve had been fairly certain there wasn't anything that could surprise him this deeply anymore. He was wrong.

The sharp noise of raised voices snaps him back to the present and Steve focuses. He tilts his head to stare up at Laura who is voicing something frantically that Steve can't make any sense of. Sound seems disoriented and it's hard to focus.

Laura grabs the shotgun and Steve's senses snap back into focus.

"—our children." Laura's voicing, her hands lifting and aiming the gun. It takes him a few milliseconds to realize what it is exactly that she's aiming at. Loki. He's on the other side of the car. Laura's going to shoot him. Staggering panic grasps at him. Wait—Stop!

"Laura!" Clint's scrambling to his feet, but not succeeding. "Wait!"

"I have to protect our children, Clint, I can't let him kill them or—or take their minds—" She's frantically spitting and Steve attempts to shift towards the woman, but fails. Clint succeeds in staggering into a standing position and grasps at her shoulder. He looks a second from collapsing, but holds to consciousness.

"You know that he was innocent for New York. He's just as guilty as I am." Clint says firmly. His grip is frantic and Steve realizes that if not for the hand on his wife's shoulder, he doubts Clint would be standing. "I saw the scars, Laura, please."

"I can't—" She's gasping, "I can't, Clint, please, I have to protect them."

Clint reaches a hand out and grasps the barrel of the gun. "I know, I know," he reassures, "but you aren't going to do it by shooting him. I promise. If not for him, we'd all be dead, he's not going to harm them—or any of us."

Laura begins to make a noise of protest, but Clint presses a hand against her lips. "If he attempts anything, I promise I'll put a bullet in his brain myself. It's going to be okay, we're okay," he reassures. Clint takes the gun from his wife's hands and relief cascades through him at the action. Clint tosses it away from them and Laura leans into his chest, burying her head under his chin and Clint wraps his arms around her shoulders. Clint murmurs something into Laura's hair and kisses her forehead.

Steve watches, but his mind is fuzzy. It's hard to focus on anything and attempting makes his headache worse.

When Laura has managed to gather herself, she pulls away from Clint's hold, but swings his arm across her shoulders. She turns to Steve and her lips thin. "Can you walk?"

No.

Absolutely one hundred percent no.

"Yes." Steve assures and Laura's gaze sweeps across him. Her sudden attention after her ignorance is anomalous and Steve can't say he exactly likes it. He doesn't. Steve mentally braces himself before grabbing the edge of the broken car and propelling himself to his feet. The world immediately sways and threatens to drag him back down to the ground, but he manages to keep himself upright.

His head immediately pulses further at the action and he bites at his tongue to withhold a hiss, fully aware of Clint and Laura's scrutinizing.

Laura turns her gaze away and Steve allows a slight slump of his shoulders as it does. "I don't want to leave any of them here." Laura says and looks back at where Natasha and Loki are sprawled across the ground. Yeah? Well, that's a distant dream. Steve can barely keep himself upright and Clint can't walk. Unless two other's magically appear to assist them, they aren't taking Natasha or Loki anywhere.

Clint releases a slight breath. It's not quite a sigh, but it's close. "I don't either." He admits. He turns to Laura, "Take Nat, I can hobble." He assures, he looks back at Steve, "Can you carry Loki?"

No!

Steve nods, biting at his tongue to keep the words from escaping him. His vision is starting to blacken at the edges, but he refuses to give into the unconsciousness that wants to claim him. Steve staggers around to the other side of the car as Laura moves to gather Natasha.

He leans down next to Loki's pale, thin form and stares at him for a second. His mind is jumbled. How does anyone focus with headaches? Before the serum, Steve's list of medical issues never really involved them and he's never felt such gratitude for that as he does now.

Steve stares at Loki's still face and realizes with a jolt that he never actually confirmed or not if the Asgardian drew breath. Steve lifts a shaking hand and lets it rest under Loki's nose.

Please, please, please.

After a moment, he feels a steady exhale of air wash over his fingers.

Thank you.

Steve struggles to get his hands under Loki's shoulders to tug the thin form from the vehicle and barely makes it to his feet once he's gathered the raven-haired man into his arms. His first reaction is to topple and not move for another year or so, but survival instincts and the need to get Loki somewhere safer drive him forward.

He follows after Clint and Laura in a daze, his muscles screaming and his headache pounding with every step. Fuzzy hardly describes his vision anymore—blurry and indistinguishable is more accurate.

He's exhausted.

He wants to sleep. Lay down and rest.

Move.

Keep moving.

Would it really be so bad to just close his eyes for a second? He can barely see straight anymore anyway and—Rogers. Stop it. He isn't going to be able to sleep for some time and he needs to accept that. He can't sleep, he's not going to sleep because—

His legs, apparently not receiving this mantra give out and he topples forward with a cry. Loki tumbles from his grasp and Steve's head smacks against the hard ground. An explosion of pain works its way across his nerves and it takes him a moment to realize that the loud yelling sound is him screaming at it. His hands come up to claw at his hair, but it doesn't help, nothing can help the agony.

He can't—

He doesn't—

Steve's voice cuts as his consciousness gives out.

000o000

She's heard stories of people (and seen in the movies that Clint's forced her to watch with him) that when they awaken from consciousness it's a single fluid movement that grasps them with adrenaline and then they have complete understanding of the situation. This has rarely been her experience.

She numbly becomes aware of the low thrumming headache, the ache in her muscles and the slight pain across her face. Her memories are a mess, but not disoriented enough that she can't make sense of them. The Tower had been attacked, there was the sudden black swallow darkness and the horrid smell. She'd lost consciousness rather quickly and her vision had become a mess and her senses even more so.

She's not certain what the drug was, but she knows that the lingering headache caused by it isn't one she's welcomed to.

Natasha exhales softly, attempting to keep herself as still and motionless as she can. She doesn't know where she is and it's better feign unconsciousness until she is aware. She's been kidnapped more than she cares to admit, mostly on purpose, occasionally on accident. She wasn't on a mission for S.H.I.E.L.D., so this was not intentionally.

She's laying on a couch, with a blanket lain across her. It's fleece and it's been warm enough for her to be reassured it's been on her for some time. Where she is is still unknown. This doesn't feel like the couch at Stark Tower and she hasn't been anywhere else as of the last few weeks.

Natasha manages to remain still and unmoving (gradually picking out the sound of a fire burning) for about two minutes before something slams onto her stomach. A loud yelp of surprise escapes her and her eyes rip open as she jerks forward, hands braced in a fighting stance. The thing tumbles from off of stomach into her lap and she scrambles back from the strange sensation until her back hits the edge of the armrest and then forces herself to focus.

The blanket that was on her is pink and covered in Disney Princesses, but Natasha doesn't really care; instead she flicks her gaze up to see what jumped at her. A golden cat is staring back at her, blue eyes wide as if offended. It's ears flick slightly, but it remains standing upright and watching her.

Natasha forces her breathing to control and looks away from the cat. Her gaze quickly lands on familiar settings of Clint and Laura's living room with their couches and the large gray rug spread between them. Next to the messy coffee table is a tower of blocks. A fire is running and crackling happily in the fireplace, explaining the noise. The rest of the room, however, is eerily quiet and Natasha releases a breath and flicks her gaze across the space again.

There's very little light flickering from the windows so she's assuming it's either early morning or late at night, but lamps are lit making it easy to see her surroundings with.

She spots Loki on the other couch, one of the Barton's spare blankets carefully laid out across him. After focusing for a moment, she sees the steady rise and fall of his chest. It reminds Natasha of after Bruce did the same in the Tower when they finished their discussion about what they were going to do with the knowledge of what happened with the Chitauri. She shoves the memory to the side and wraps her arms around herself.

She's not cold, but her limbs are shaking.

Natasha doesn't know what happened after she lost herself to the drug, but she remembers leaping on someone and attempting to take their head off. She was violent, hunting and set on the murder of anyone she came across, it didn't matter who they were. She doesn't know what she did exactly, but she remembers attempting to strangle someone.

A light pressure against her leg causes her chance a glance up spotting the cat rubbing against her calf. She has no idea where the animal came from. The last time she was here the Barton's only owned a dog. Laura hates cats and refuses to associate with them. Natasha hesitantly lifts a hand out for the cat sniff, which it does, and then rubs against her fingers.

"Sparkle lll likes you, Aunty Nat." Lila's small voice announces. Natasha barely represses a full body jump at the noise and whips her head up to the four-year old as she moves forward happily and points at the cat. She didn't hear the brunette enter—what is wrong with her?

Natasha stares at the child, trying to repress building panic. What if she loses herself again? If she does, it won't be someone who can fight back that she'll be strangling, but Lila and—and—and—

"You're up." Laura says, snapping Natasha from her panic, but also rousing a new spur. Her hearing is something she's always relied on, she has no idea what has messed with it. Laura looks tired and worn, but she moves forward and grabs Lila lifting her off the ground into her arms. Laura's gaze remains on her, watching with a knowing gaze.

"Mommy." Lila grumbles and looks back at her. "You said I could talk to her when she woke up."

Laura looks down at her, "I said after we made sure she wasn't injured anywhere else."

Lila's eyes widen slightly, "Does she have any more owies?" She turns to Natasha, gaze earnest, "Do you have anymore ouches?"

"No," Natasha assures. Lila manages to scramble from her mother's grip and moves towards Natasha grasping her knee and petting the cat who gives a slight noise of protest at the action.

"We have kitties now, Aunty Nat!" She declares happily, "Cooper found a cat in the barn and all these little kittens. He said that the mommy had already to Heaven and that we needed to take care of all the little cats. I fed them, and hugged them and gave them lotsa love. We have five, five!" She says and lifts up her hand, fingers raised. "Sparkle, Sparkle the II, Sparkle the III, Glitter, and Sparkle the V."

Natasha flicks her gaze up to Laura who sighs helplessly. "We're keeping them until we can find a shelter." She explains and leans forward to pluck the cat off of Natasha's legs. Lila happily picks up the animal as soon as it's paws have touched the ground and the cat makes a mewl of protest at the action.

Lila ignores it and happily leans closer to Natasha despite her subconscious backing.

"I'm going to have sixty kitties when I grow up!" She declares happily. She leans closer to Natasha as if sharing a great secret and whispers: "There's going to be so many that there won't be any floor because they're'll only be kitties."

Laura sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, "Honey, we talked about this, remember? You need to have room to walk. It's late, you need to be in bed."

Lila stares up at her puzzled, but obediently begins to move out of the room dragging the cat with her, pausing to ask: "But why would I walk when I have kitties?"

"Lila. Bed."

"Sorry! Night, Mommy! Night, Aunty Nat!"

As soon as Lila has exited the room and moved up the stairs, Laura turns back to her. "I'm sorry about that, she's been a bundle of energy since Clint came home. She doesn't understand what's going on."

Clearly.

Clint. He's here. So is Loki. Where is the rest of her team?

"Where's everyone else?" She questions, her voice sounds croaky and hoarse. Laura turns her gaze, rapidly scrambling for something before she leans down at the foot of the couch and grabs a water bottle tossing it towards Natasha.

Natasha catches it on instinct rather than thought and twists the cap to open it, greedily downing the liquid. "Clint's upstairs in the bedroom and I put Steve in one of the spares. As for everyone else...we don't know. Clint said that the Tower was attacked and this is all they could reach. He said that Loki brought you all here—He's not sure how, but it's the best explanation he can come up with from how far you are from New York. Are you injured anywhere else? The most we could find were a couple of bruises and the cut across your face."

Natasha does a mental assessment. She aches everywhere and wants to go back to sleep, but otherwise she seems fine. She shakes her head.

Laura doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't press. "Alright. I left some spare clothing on the table if you want to change. I'll be back to check on you in a few hours."

She turns to leave, but consternation feels Natasha, "Wait!"

Laura looks back. "Hmm?"

"The others, are they okay?" She questions. Laura hesitates and clearly debates with her words before deciding on what to say: "They're in pretty bad shape. Clint's ribs are a mess and his breathing is strained, I think he punctured something but he won't let me take him to an emergency room. Steve's...he was conscious, but I don't know how long it will be before we see it again, and..." Laura flicks her gaze up across the room to where Loki is laying, "Loki hasn't woken up yet. He lost a lot of blood and his heartbeat isn't as fast as it should be. I bandaged what I could, but I don't know if it'll help anything. He needs more blood and I don't know where to get any."

Natasha's stomach sinks. She walked away with the least amount of injuries from the rest of them and she doesn't know how to help. She's not a doctor, she's required by S.H.I.E.L.D. to have a certain degree of medical training for every level, but she isn't Bruce.

"Is there anything I can get you?" Laura asks after a moment. Natasha shakes her head and Laura nods. She looks exhausted and has probably been running around for hours trying to care for them. She should sleep. "Holler if you need anything, I'll be upstairs." Laura assures and moves out of the living room. Natasha hears her feet patter up along the staircase a moment later and Natasha squeezes her eyes shut and tilts her head back.

Bruce, Tony and Thor are MIA and the rest of her team members are injured or dying. This is just amazing.

000o000

Natasha isn't sure how long she sits there, wide awake and attempting not to succumb to a panic attack, but she knows it's well after two in the morning when she finally slips off of the couch to check on her team. She finds Steve first and bites her tongue heavily at the state of his face. Whoever did that is going to regret it when she learns their identity. His breathing is labored and he's clearly in pain, but alive.

Natasha exits the room silently then slips upstairs to check on Clint and finds Laura asleep next to him. Clint is laying on his back—an unusual position for him—his eyes closed and expression strangely peaceful, but tight at the edges. She doesn't wake either as she closes the door and walks back downstairs.

She stops over Loki's pale frame and stares at him for a long moment. Without the anxiety, masks, and levels of unease she didn't realize were there Loki looks strangely...young. She knows that he's more than a thousand years old, but right now he doesn't look more than twenty. His breathing sounds strained and he makes a soft noise of distress.

Natasha chews on the inside of her lip and backs up slightly. She's intruding, on what she doesn't know, but she is. At her footsteps, Loki's eyes slowly peel apart into small slivers and his gaze lands on her. The gray murkiness the green drowns in is still present and reassures her of the state of his vision. She freezes at his consciousness, however, and he blinks sluggishly before something twitches under his blanket. His face blanches further and he squeezes his eyes shut, his expression pained.

"Romanov?" His voice is quiet, uncertain as well as hoarse. He's guessing. He doesn't know who she is. This is one of the first, if the first time that she's seen him uncertain of who someone is. He's always just known and she didn't really question it. The vulnerability in his voice makes her pause slightly.

"Yes." She confirms. Tension is visibly released from his shoulders and he exhales, but a ragged moan escapes with his breath. She stands still, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She has no idea what she needs to do. She's not a doctor, the only person she's really been able to administer first aid to is Clint without feeling like a complete idiot.

It wasn't something she thought necessary to learn. If all else failed, S.H.I.E.L.D. had facilities for medical care. She wishes she knew what to do.

Loki blinks several times and slowly drags a hand out from the confines of his blanket. His hand is covered in a thick bandages around his palm, but it extends around his thumb to cover his wrist. What happened? He brushes hair from his face and slowly sits up the skin around his eyes tightening.

"You shouldn't sit up," Natasha says, she doesn't know what the extent of his injuries are, but guessing from his expression it's something he's currently pulling.

"Did…" Loki swallows and grimaces. His throat is probably paining him. Natasha turns and quickly treks the room to where Laura previously pulled out a water bottle for her hours ago. An entire package is present with several bottles missing, but about half a dozen remains. Natasha grabs one of the unused plastic bottles and turns walking back across the room.

"Here," she says and places the item in Loki's hand. His right hand exits the blanket cocoon as well, equally bandaged but the bandages on this hand are leaking through. They need to be replaced, but Natasha has no idea where the medical supplies needed for that are.

Loki's fingers feel along the bottle and he works with the cap for a moment before lifting it out towards her in defeat. Natasha doesn't comment and twists the cap off, breaking the seal and hands the small bit of plastic to Loki as he downs the water. As he tilts his head back, Natasha spots an array of bruises along his throat. Hand prints. Her hand prints.

—she just wants to play, because she never had a chance to play with any dollies and this was how she and the others would play. It was hunting and attacking, never killing unless the Mistress commanded it, but she's so alone and everyone else needs to be to.

Her hands wrap around the throat and squeeze determination pulsing through her. She's going to make him as alone as she is because he won't play with her and she's so lonely and—

Natasha takes a step back from the Asgardian, clenching her fists and tucking them behind her with horror. She nearly killed him. The bruises are dark, purplish and green in other areas. She's a murderer, no matter how hard she tires, it's all for naught—she can't fight programming. It was a nice dream, the Avengers, a hope and a plea, but not reality. It's not who she is. She's a cold blooded killer.

Your ledger is dripping—it's gushing red!

Red.

Like the Black Widow.

Like Red Room.

Like blood.

Like the haze of her vision when she sliced Bruce's face open and when she strangled the life from Loki and only stopped when Thor ripped her from his younger brother for her to grab one of the butter knives off the counter and jab it into his stomach.

Natasha digs her nails into her palms, attempting to keep her breathing steady.

Loki lowers the bottle and his dead gaze stares at her. "Is...this the Hawk's farm?"

She snaps back into focus. "Yes." She confirms. "You should go back to sleep, it's barely three in the morning."

Loki blinks up at her tiredly. "Are you hale?"

Hale. Hale? Blast it—what does that mean? She's been speaking English since she was ten and yet this suddenly seems impossible.

Well—It means fully in health or something along those lines.

"Well enough," she answers. His mouth parts to ask another question, and she mentally staggers. She can't answer, she doesn't want to speak to him, she doesn't know if she can. She's disgusted with herself. He nearly didn't live to say any of this because of what she did. She quickly rushes: "I'm going back to bed. I'm on the other side of the room, call out if you need something."

If she's been moving any quicker, it could have happily been labeled as "bolting". She wraps the Disney Princesses blanket around her shoulders and slides onto the couch, turning away from Loki attempting to bury her rising anxiety.

She doesn't succeed.

She feels Loki's gaze (however dead it is) on her back, but she refuses to turn to look back at him.

Loki's breathing deepens after another some seven minutes, but when the first rays of sun start to peak into the room, she hasn't slept a wink.

000o000

Ten hours, three minutes and six seconds he's been conscious in this room, waiting for this. Ten hours, three minutes and six seconds his hands have been chained to the desk and the headache has been pulsing between his skull. He has no idea what happened to his team, where he is, or what it is his captors want, but the door has finally opened.

His hands have been restrained to the desk by a single chain, and his feet equally so to the legs to the chair, Every muscle along his spine aches from the position. He has refused to sleep, waiting for this.

Tony isn't well aware with who runs what in S.H.I.E.l.D., frankly he doesn't really care. If it isn't Clint, Hill, Coulson, Fury or Natasha they just end up in the "other" category that he doesn't really dive into often. He does, however, recognize this man. Alexander Pierce. Works closely with Fury and has served as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent for many long years. Tony, up to this point, has never met him in person before, only read about him and seen pictures.

He can't say he's disappointed. Pierce's blond hair is carefully slicked back and the suit he's wearing is new. He's attempting to make an impression on Tony, but the clothing wasn't really necessary. Attacking his Tower and inducing them all with a modified version of hypersensitive LSD isn't exactly something Tony would refer to as "subtle".

Well, at least now he has someone to sue when he gets out of here.

Agent Pierce moves, closing the door behind him and straightens his tie slightly as he saunters forward. His stance says that he doesn't have a care in the world, but the knowing look in his eyes states he doesn't believe that. Tony's certain that in comparison, he looks like he got ran over by a truck, twice. Nothing is exactly broken on him, but he bares more than a few bruises. His clothing is rumbled and he hasn't slept in more than nineteen hours.

"Mr. Stark," Pierce greets smoothly and rests a folder on the table taking the opposite chair from him. He settles the folder into a perfect neat little line before looking up at him, "How are you?"

Funny.

"What did you do to my team?" He demands, his voice is quieter than he means for it to be, but he hasn't had a reason to speak up in the last few hours. It's quiet or it's hoarse; he'll take the former.

Pierce looks mildly surprised. "Ah, I'm afraid that I don't know what you're talking about."

Liar.

"What did you do to my team?"

Pierce's lips thin slightly and he rests his hands on the tabletop. "I'll give you that information if you'll look at a few papers for me."

Tony glares at him. He doesn't care for Pierces flipping papers. He wants to know what became of the Avengers and Loki. He saw what they were doing before he pulled Jarvis out of the systems. He knows about the drug even if he couldn't stop it. He felt the effects grasp him and the addle that followed. He's uncertain as to everyone else's status and he needs to know. It's a physical ache inside of him that's been twisted and fed by anxiety.

Pierce shoves the folder towards him, it's thin and yellow, but the top is blank. It hasn't been labeled. Irritation washes through him and he refuses to touch it. "I'm not doing anything for Hydra." He promises.

He'd rather have his hands chopped off, thanks.

Pierce smiles faintly and pulls a piece of paper from the folder sliding it towards Tony face-up. "Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D., there really never was a difference, was there? Your S.H.I.E.L.D.'s honorary consultant, Mr. Stark. I'm in control of S.H.I.E.L.D. now, you work for me. Fury's dead."

Tony's stomach twists at the revelation and he looks down at the paper. It's an autopsy for the director. Denial immediately grasps him. Fury is the spy, he can't be dead. He can't. Tony's gaze, however, won't stop moving along the paper:

Fractured skull.

Six broken ribs.

Right wrist snapped along forearm.

Shoulder was—

Tony pulls his gaze off of the paper and stares up at Pierce. "This doesn't change anything. I'm not working for Hydra." He says firmly.

"S.H.I.E.L.D." Pierce corrects.

"I don't flipping care. I'm not working for you, bigoted."

"Mr. Stark," Pierce sighs, "you're a good man, but you believe to firmly in a right and wrong. Cast your mind back to before Iron Man, Mr, Stark. As it was then, this is just business." He flips open the folder and points towards the first page, "You'll be building us the blueprints to a Helicarrier equipped with the ability to scan and categorize threats then neutralize them."

A mass weapon of destruction.

Like a nuke.

Or a missile.

Don't waste it—don't waste your—

He cuts the train of thought and shoves the folder back towards Pierce, attempting to bury the rising panic. Tony scoffs. "No, I will not."

"You would have if Fury requested it." Pierce notes.

"Yeah, because he wasn't a psychopath."

"Hypocritical, coming from the man who was hiding one in his tower for a two months."

Tony stills slightly, his tongue working along his teeth in agitation. Don't let them see you sweat. He clenches his jaw to the left, then forces his outward appearance to relax. "Please be more specific; I know that Rhodey has his bad days, but for the record I don't consider him to be a—"

Pierce's hand swings up and slams into Tony's face. His head whips to the left with surprise and pain, and as he slowly straightens his head he sees Pierce smooth down an invisible wrinkle on his suit. "Loki. We know about him. Saw Thor and Steve chatting on the street and put two and two together. Don't worry, we'll find and neutralize him soon—" so they don't have him "—as was the original plan. For now, we'll just have improvise, starting with this."

Tony shakes his head. "I'm not building this."

Pierce leans back in his seat and clasps his fingers together reminding Tony abruptly of the Emperor from Star Wars, sans yellow eyes and lightning fingers. "You want to know what happened to your team, Mr. Stark?"

Tony stills, watching the agent closely.

Pierce's expression is grim, but from the fire in his eyes Tony can tell he's enjoying this. "Well, that depends on you. You have a choice, Mr. Stark, you can either build us the blueprints for this Helicarrier, or I'll shoot Dr. Banner. Not in the head, of course, we both know that he's already tried that. How many bullets do you think he can take elsewhere though before the Hulk comes out? Do you really want to be responsible for all that destruction?"

Tony's breaths are escaping his teeth raggedly and he can't steady it. He hasn't worked with Pierce before, it's hard to gauge if the man is bluffing. Do they even have Bruce?

Pierce leans back, "And what about the Widow? She doesn't have exhilarated healing, does she? Or Hawkeye."

Tony grits his teeth together, "Your bluffing."

"Am I, Mr. Stark?" Pierce challenges. "Try me. Just blueprints, it's all I ask. I know you can do it, it won't even take you that much time—" has he even seen the Helicarrier? The updates he was asked to consult on to rebuild it after Loki's attack took nearly a week, this will be longer. "—it'll be simple and easy."

"And kill a few million people when it's done." Tony hisses. He can't do that. He can't risk the lives of millions of people, he'd die first.

Pierce waves a hand, "Merely casualties in a war."

"They're human beings."

"Hydra's enemies."

His lip curls with disgust. "No."

Pierce stops, then smiles sympathetically, "I did warn you, Mr. Stark." He says and Tony's blood rushes cold. Pierce pulls a small tablet from his suit coat and flips the screen on, sliding it across the table for Tony to watch. His breaths are quicker and he can feel the adrenaline and panic clouding his senses.

The screen shows live feed for a white cell. Bruce is sitting in one of the corners, glasses missing and hair a mess. He's tangled in a straitjacket and there's something strapped around his neck that's blinking. Tony barely has two seconds to process this before a man steps into the room. He's wearing one of those stupid thick black helmets to obscure his face, but he has a pistol in hand.

Tony panics. "Don't—Wait—!" He commands his hands jerking towards the screen, but halted by the chains attached to the desk. "Stop! Don't—!" Words of protest start to pour from his throat rapidly and he can't make sense of most of them.

The gun fires anyway.

Chapter Text

Blood, wet and sticky.

Green.

Pain, sharp and piercing.

Green.

Anger, panic, and pain.

Greeeeen.

Voices; pulsing, loud and unwelcomed.

Pain.

Greeeeeeeen.

Help.

Green.

Sleep.

000o000

Tony exhales sharply through his teeth; jerking backwards on the chair. The video lacks sound, but he doesn't need it to picture the noise of the bullet being released. It sails across the room to quickly for his eye to perceive, but as the metal smacks into Bruce's shoulder, Tony sees him jerk and his mouth opened for a muted scream. The screen immediately goes black afterwards.

Wait!

Bruce!

Tony flips his gaze to Agent Pierce, then back to the screen again; up to the Hydra agent then back down again and swears loudly. Oh, gosh, this can't be happening. Tony shakes his head with disgust and trepidation. Bruce. He just shot Bruce. Forget a lawsuit, Tony is going to wring his neck. And besides that—Is he insane? He just invited the Hulk out to rampage across his facility and there is no contingency plan for that.

They're going to die.

Idiot.

Tony bites his tongue sharply and clenches his fists, straining his ears for sounds of destruction in the distance. He catches Pierce's moronically smug grin faintly hidden in his blank expression. Tony flexes his fingers and meets the agent's eyes. "Are you mental? Hulk is going to kill everyone in here!"

Pierce smiles, tilting his head slightly. "No, I think not."

"Yeah?" Tony challenges, releasing a dry laugh, "You tell that to him. I'm sure he'll be very understanding."

"We're not going to have negotiations with the Hulk, Mr. Stark," Pierce says, his tone reminds Tony of a preschool teacher attempting to tell a child something. It's aggravating. "We don't have to."

"Sure." Tony agrees. Bruce will be fine, he has to be fine because Hulk will be released and the explosion of gamma radiation heals any cuts, injuries, and anything abnormal in with the skin cells. The bullet will mean nothing now.

"Mmm." Pierce sighs, "You believe us idiots. We didn't plan on shooting your lab partner without realizing what effect it would have. Are you aware that S.H.I.E.L.D. has no less than four contingency plans for yourself and the rest of your team?"

No.

He wasn't.

He never bothered to look—why would he? He didn't have a reason to—Fury was very selective on what information he released, but he was good man. He wouldn't wave power around and exert dominance just because he could. It wasn't like him. Tony knew that with S.H.I.E.L.D. in his hands, they didn't have anything to worry about. That means—oh, well, rainbows. They can shoot Bruce without releasing the Hulk. How is another matter completely, but he's not certain he actually wants details on what they're doing to his teammate (yes, he does, he needs to know how to help him when they get out of here).

Tony bites his tongue to keep the thoughts private and instead asks: "Only four?"

Pierce's eyes flash with something close to irritation and his smile thins. He rests his hands on the folder, gently pushing it across the table again. "Now, Mr. Stark, shall we discuss these; or shall I shoot someone else to shoot? Miss Romanov is a hard captive. She appears to be skilled in escaping every set of handcuffs we strap her in...Maybe a bullet would stop her efforts. What about Thor? Are you aware that Asgardians are less resistant to bullets at a close range?"

Tony feels his face drain of color, and the top of his mouth runs dry. Not her, not him, please not anyone else.

Hesitantly, he reaches a hand out to tug the folder closer.

000o000

Steve is gradually tugged into awareness with the realization that something cold is touching his face. Not ice or water, so the building hysteria calms. It's not heavy or pressing in a painful manner, it's just cold. The sensation of the touch is fleeting and brief as it works it's course around his face; he can feel his muscles and skin rapidly intertwining together to fix the damaged tissue. It's uncomfortable, and boarding on mildly painful, but it is nothing as extensive as the original injury was. After some internal prodding, he realizes that the mess of bruises everywhere else is nonexistent, so now it's just his bloodied eye that is repairing itself.

Except that he knows what his limits are with healing, and moving this quickly is one of those.

An external force is tampering with it and he can't stop the spur of panic that quickly clings to him at this.

He slowly tugs his right eyelid open a sliver, attempting to gather information, but not be obvious about it. He fails. A bright golden light immediately hits him and he winces despite himself, squeezing his eyelids closed in an effort to hide his pupils from the burning sensation. A slight noise escapes through his dry, split lips. He hears the brief tones of conversation in the background, but it sounds miles away underwater as far as his hearing is concerned.

The cold feeling doesn't stop, but someone murmurs something to him that he can't pick out. It doesn't sound English, but at the same time everything attached to his brain is fuzzy or unresponsive at the moment. He imagines this is what it would feel like if someone smacked him over the head with a sledgehammer.

Steve grits his teeth in agitation. What is going on? Where is he? The last thing he can remember is...the Tower…? No, that's not right. He and Clint were talking after the attack, Clint's daughter (Leah?) was pointing at something, Laura attempted to shoot Loki and then—Oh. He collapsed and dropped the Asgardian with him and he doesn't have any memories from that point onward, so he's guessing he fell unconscious.

Steve presses his lips together firmly and with effort slowly peels his eyelids apart, giving his pupils time to adjust to the light. As they do he realizes that it's not an overhead lamp like he was thinking (not a hospital), but strands of thin light waving from his face to fingers.

Loki's fingers.

Steve's laying down on a bed in a room he doesn't know. It's painted blue and bare beyond the basics. He's covered in more blankets than is really comfortable, but he can't say he minds. Loki is sitting on the side of the bed, legs tucked up in a butterfly position suggesting he's been here for some time. Towards the left of the mattress is a chair that Clint is occupying, sprawled out in a way that can't be comfortable, a book in his hands that Steve can't see the title of. Clint looks in better health than the last time Steve saw him, he's less pale and judging from the position he's currently in, his ribs are no longer bothering him.

Steve doesn't bother with an attempt at moving. His limbs are to awkwardly heavy for it. Instead, he flicks his gaze to Loki's. The Asgardian's green eyes are focused on him behind a wide-rimmed pair of glasses that Steve is fairly certain came from the nearest drug store. Loki catches his eye and lifts a finger to Steve's lips as he starts to open his mouth.

"Don't speak," he commands and flicks his hand again, the threads of light sliding up Steve's face uncomfortably close to his no-longer-swollen-but-still-painful-eye. "I numbed your face, including your tongue, you wont be able to speak anything coherent." Loki appends a moment later at Steve's inquiring look.

Why?

Loki sighs slightly, appearing to catch the question. "On Asgard, we refer to what I'm doing as MTDR," he explains and spins both of his hands inwards; Steve jerks slightly as he feels a cut merge the skin closing and sealing shut. Loki squints, leaning forward, "Meteoric tissue and/or damage repair. It quickly heals an injury with little chance of infection, but it is one of the most painful things you can imagine. Hence: numbing."

Oh. He can survive a few more minutes without speaking, then. The sensation of feeling his skin repair itself this quickly is unpleasant, he doesn't think he'd be speaking anything but incoherent sounds if he tries. Loki smiles vaguely at his expression, then adds, almost cheerfully: "It's a form of torture used in Alfheim."

Alf-what?

Clint lifts his head from his position to give Loki a skeptical look. His legs are currently raised up and over the back of the chair with his back along the seat and his head hanging over the side, at least as far as Steve can tell. He's in Steve's peripheral vision and it's hard to determine anything but fuzzy blurs. He looks slightly irritated; judging from his expression and clothing, he's probably been in here as long as Loki which is at least a few hours. How long has it been since the car crash? Have they found the rest of the team?

Clint flips a page in his book. "And you know this how?"

Loki's eyes grow tight. "Misadventure when Thor and I were younger."

Thor. Where is Thor?

And Tony?

Bruce?

Natasha?

Are they okay?

Loki leans forward further before gently resting two fingers against Steve's forehead. Steve flinches at the coldness of his touch, but relaxes at the rush of following warmth and strange sort of adrenaline rush. Loki forces his eyelid down and twists his fingers in a manner than Steve can't really make out. A weird sense of something clicking in his retina follows the twitching. Loki releases his eyelid and there's a final gathering of skin and sealing it before Loki pulls his hands back and the thin trails of golden light follow. The room doesn't dim much, but the sudden lack of bright phosphorescent next to his face is strange.

Loki lifts his hand out and flexes his fingers before pulling them all towards his thumb and away from Steve's face. A sharp chill is ripped from him, more uncomfortable than painful and a loud catched breath follows. He's assuming that was the numbing being pulled away because a low throb begins to pulse on the left side of his face. Loki rises to his feet and runs a hand through his messy hair beginning to pace back and forth across the room.

Clint closes the book and swings off the chair to his feet, moving to stand in front of Steve, glancing only once at Loki. He looks worn and tired. Steve has no idea how long he's been asleep. He's hoping for hours, but realistically it's probably far fetched.

Clint purses his lips together, "You okay?"

Not really. Is he expected to be? Steve bites at his tongue and shrugs slightly. "I don't know." His voice slurs and Steve clenches his fists in slight embarrassment, but neither Clint nor Loki comments on it. Loki merely continues to pace back and forth and Clint stare at his face. It's unnerving. It's as though he's staring into Steve's soul and plucking things out parsing them, then putting it back where found it, but it's still rattled.

"You probably have a thousand questions," Clint notes, tilting his head at him. Steve nods hesitantly in agreement. A thousand might be to small for an answer. He has to many to be asked. Clint glances back at the Asgardian for a second, who pauses then waves a hand in his direction as if annoyed.

"Yes, he can stand up." He agrees; Steve squints at the two of them confused. Clint didn't say—"No," Loki appends loudly before anything else can be said: "he should not be. Proceed as you will."

Clint turns back to Steve, apparently satisfied, "It's almost breakfast. You can ask then if you don't mind Lila and Cooper's prodding." Lila and Cooper? Who? They're familiar, but he can't place from—Clint's children. It's not Leah, it's Lila.

Steve shakes his head. He doesn't mind, he doesn't hate children, he just hasn't had a great deal of experience with them. Bucky had several sisters that he interacted with, but it was the closest he got to excessive interaction with young children. He was usually too sick to chance it.

Clint nods and shifts forward, "I'll help you into the kitchen—ah, no complaints. You feel fine right now, but I promise when you stand up it will be less pleasant."

Encouraging.

Steve sighs with defeat and allows Clint to swing his arm around the shorter man's shoulders and tug him to his feet. Steve immediately staggers on his unused muscles and the world tips. His head flares with sharp pain and his throat constricts. "Less pleasant" is a bit of an understatement. He's going to hurl. His hand presses against his mouth and he bites back the rising throw up. Control. He's not going to throw up. Nope. He doesn't want to. He's not going to. No.

Ah man.

His senses snap back into focus as Clint drags him a step forward.

"—Told you not to let him move for at least ten minutes." Loki is ranting behind them, voice beyond exasperated, "It's not paranoia. I have been doing this practice for longer than both of you have been alive and would you listen to me, no. For the love of—Morons."

Err. Clint glances at him as they move through a hallway and sighs with annoyance, "Ignore him. He's being a drama queen."

Loki scoffs. "I am not."

Clint flicks his gaze up to the ceiling in aggravation. Steve presses his lips together, deciding not to offer input on this. Loki continues his half hearted complaints for most of the journey towards the kitchen. Clint's house is large, but not enormous, but still bigger than anything Steve lived in until he moved to Stark Tower. Steve's guessing he was in a guest bedroom on the first floor, because he spotted a staircase.

When they reach the kitchen; Steve immediately spots two children sitting at the table eating cereal and diligently working on the activity at the back of a Rice Krispies box together. A brunette woman is cleaning what he's guessing is paint brushes out in the sink. The mother, possibly? She turns as they enter and her expression washes with relief.

"You're up." She says, flicking the faucet off.

What does he say to that? Steve awkwardly nods and Clint shoves him (carefully) into a chair at the head of the piece of furniture, across the table from where Lila and Cooper are sitting. "Yep," Clint answers, "Loki says that he shouldn't move for another ten minutes, but after that he should be fine."

When? Steve can't remember anything along those lines being spoken since he woke up.

The woman hums with agreement, staring at him for a moment. What was her name? Lily? Abigail? Amber? No, it didn't start with "A". It was definitely an "L". Lucy? Lauren?—Laura, Laura. It was Laura.

"Where's Tasha?" Clint questions.

Laura's lips thin and she points in the direction of the back door. "On the porch."

Clint follows her hand and frowns. "She's been there since this morning?"

"As far as I can tell." Laura answers. "She's not happy."

Why? Did something happen?

Husband and wife share a knowing look before Clint glances at him, "Laura should be able to answer any questions you have and if not, dig it out of Loki. I'm going to go talk to Tasha."

"She's okay?" Steve presses before he can wander off. Clint pauses, then looks back at him, lips narrowed.

"Not really." He quickly crosses the distance between the kitchen and the door, not leaving Steve enough time to prod on the statement. He turns to Laura who leans forward, grabbing a chair and leaning against it her expression open. Steve holds her gaze for nearly five seconds before the questions start to poor out.

000o000

The air is bitter, but not freezing; boarding on pleasant if not for the wind. Nothing unusual for this time of year, but still nothing that someone would want to spend a great deal of time out in. Natasha has been out for at least an hour judging by the flush on her cheeks. She's not dressed warmly enough to have been out this long and not have turned part icicle. She's wearing some of Laura's spare clothing and the sweater she was in when they crashed in the woods. It's Bruce's, originally, he's fairly positive, but it isn't really meant for withstanding temperatures below seventy degrees Fahrenheit.

Clint would've been out here sooner, but he was unwillingly wrangled into babysitting duty. It's not that Loki can't heal anyone by himself, Laura is uncomfortable leaving him in a room by himself and Clint respects it. He used to be too.

Natasha's gaze flickers up at him as he steps into her line of vision, and she presses her lips together tightly. She hasn't been overly talkative over the last four days, but he hasn't had time to talk with her between unconsciousness, Loki saving his lungs from collapsing yesterday and then assisting Laura with tasks for a distraction against this situation.

Half their team is missing and the gnawing worry in his stomach refuses to release.

"Laura already told me you're eating breakfast." Natasha says suddenly, drawing him from his thoughts. Which, she has no plans to eat if her tone is anything to go by.

Clint shrugs and slides down next to her, "Yeah, well I'm not here as messenger."

Natasha's gaze settles on him. "Then what are you doing?"

Clint meets her gaze. The blue-green of her eyes is sharp and calculating as ever, but there's a helpless note intertwined in them. He doesn't know the full details behind what happened during the attack at the Tower (both Loki and Natasha have been tight lipped on the subject), but he knows that Natasha isn't exactly happy with the outcome.

"I think I should be asking you that." Clint answers.

Natasha flicks her gaze away towards the rising sun in the distance. The colors are spread across the clouds in a beautiful manner, but nothing breathtaking. His partner wrings her hands in her lap anxiously and releases a quiet breath. He lightly bumps her arm.

"Tasha?" He presses.

Her fingers fidget for another moment before she tilts her head to look at him. "I...I had this dream—this illusion that I could ever be anything more than they trained me for. Something more than a murderer—something with meaning."

Clint's eyebrows furrow, but he remains quiet.

Her eyes look wistful. "It was wonderful."

Was.

Was?

"Nat." Clint's voice is firm. "What are you saying?"

Natasha turns to look at him fully, "What am I, Clint?"

"My partner." He says immediately.

She shakes her head, "No. What am I?"

"Natasha, I don't—"

"I almost killed him." She interrupts, wrapping her arms around her stomach. "Loki," she adds a second later, "I stabbed Thor and I sliced Bruce's face open. I am a monster, Clint, that can't be rubbed from DNA because I decided to clean my ledger."

"Perhaps not."

Clint jumps nearly a foot as he whirls, fists raised in instinctive defense to look behind both of them, Natasha in a similar state. His breathing is hitches sharply before he forces it to soften. Loki, standing behind them, takes several steps forward straightening the glasses on his nose, his expression strangely soft. The glasses had actually been a recommendation from Laura when she ran to Walmart to pick up groceries and grabbed a pair. Loki's vision is still a mess from what Clint understands (Bruce was really the only one who could drag straight answers out of Loki about it), but now the blurred mass is something distinguishable. Sort of.

Not that this really matters, all he would really like to know is how Loki got out here with neither himself or Natasha noticing. How does he do that? He seems to simply materialize out of nowhere, but it has nothing to do with magic. They need to put a bell on him or something.

Cats!

"What?" Clint hisses, trying to stuff down the adrenaline. "How long have you been out here?"

Loki ignores him and moves forward taking a seat on Natasha's other side. His gaze faces forward for a moment, as if he can see the rising sun in more than murky shadows then turns to Natasha, inquisitive expression on his face. "Are we what they make us, or do we have a choice?"

Natasha looks at him, her body tense and displeased. She isn't one for sharing her thoughts or emotions with anyone. It took Clint months before she would explain anything to him. The fact that Loki walked on their conversation is likely unsettling to her; she's a very private person. Trust does not come easily and Clint doesn't blame her.

Her mouth opens and closes as if gaping before she shakes her head slightly and presses her lips together.

She's not going to answer anything.

Clint might not even be able to drag anything out of her now. Thanks a million, Lokes.

Loki's head tilts slightly and he stares with his murky eyes towards her face as if studying it. "Romanov." He presses.

Natasha turns to Loki, eyes heated. Her stance doesn't portray her fury, but Clint knows her better than to assume it isn't there. He bites his tongue despite his desire to say something, he doesn't know what he can to calm her.

"No. We aren't. How can I wipe out that much red?" She snarls the last words and Loki rears back from them as if struck. They have no context or meaning to him, but it's clearly something that the two have spoken about before. Natasha shakes her head and hisses between her teeth as she stands up and turns to storm back inside the house, but Loki's hand snatches out and grabs her wrist.

Clint's tongue untangles itself from the roof of his mouth, "Loki—"

The Asgardian's eyes flick briefly to him, but he ignores the warning. "I was wrong." He presses, focusing on the redhead. Wrong. About what? When did they talk about this!?

Natasha's lips thin, her jaw clenching and she gyrates her wrist, grabbing Loki's forearm twisting it backwards. Loki hisses in pain and surprise reeling back from her. She ignores his gasp and moves back towards the house. "Natasha." Loki says desperately, scrambling to his feet in sync with Clint, "Stop. You don't—augh—" Loki runs a hand through his hair in frustration. Clint bites at his tongue, silenced with quiet amazement. Loki is speechless. For the first time since Clint has met him, the silvertongue has finally turned to lead.

Natasha stops and whirls.

Though her face is blank, Clint can see the frustration in her stance and the tightness around her eyes. She storms back towards the Asgardian finger raised. "I don't what?"

Loki's lips thin and he makes a noise in his throat that Clint can't quiet interpret. Maybe agitation. "No."

"No, what?"

"You are wrong." Loki insists, "What you are and who you choose to become are entirely different." Natasha freezes, her expression wiping blank but her eyes watching him carefully. Clint flicks his gaze between the two of them, but doesn't say anything.

Loki presses his lips together tightly, his left hand clenching in to his palm. "What I mean is that you have a choice. I was wrong about you and I apologize for it." Loki takes several steps forward then awkwardly gives Natasha's shoulder a fleeting touch of comfort before retreating inside the house the door closing loudly behind him.

Clint stands still for a second, attempting to wrap his head around what just happened. Loki, a man labeled as mad and blood thirsty, just attempted to offer Natasha comfort. And, judging from the relaxing tension between her shoulders, it worked. The dark haired Asgardian is much different than Clint's first thoughts about him. Honestly. Socially awkward wouldn't have even been on the first thousand labels he would give him, but the shoulder pat is proof that it exists somewhere within him.

Natasha glances up at him and gives a weak smile, "Do you have Cheerios?"

Clint feels a bit of anxiety loosen in his stomach. Natasha is pulling herself together. She's going to be fine. This is a way to reassure him of it. He gives a strained grin in response and moves towards the door lightly nudging her to follow. "I'm pretty sure you'll probably have to fight Lila for them."

"Mmm. I can do that." Natasha assures, "I want the Cheerios."

Clint opens the door and Natasha slips under his arm to enter the house, Clint following.

They enter the kitchen where Loki has claimed a seat on Steve's left, glasses on the table next to Steve's arm as he rubs at his eyelids, Steve is still speaking quietly with Laura who is standing next to the counter and Lila and Cooper are staring at the three with wide eyes, but trying (and failing) to not be obvious about it. As they step into the room, however, both children's heads perk up.

Natasha slips away from his side to scour to cabinets for her desired cereal. Clint moves forward between their two chairs and stares at the back of the Rice Krispies box. It's a puzzle, which explains why Lila and Cooper have been both quiet and working together. Unlike most younger sibling pairs that Clint has observed, Lila and Cooper's arguments and fights are few and far in-between and extremely violent when they are (such as Cooper dumping Lila's Polly Pockets down the drain). They get along really well, but the thing is is that they talk. They discuss anything they can for hours on end as they do things together save puzzles. Puzzles are the only thing they both get quiet for.

Their newest victim is the back of this box. It's a word puzzle thing that Clint can't remember the name of, but it's based off of the Solar System. "Solved it, yet?" Clint inquires of the two. Cooper shrugs as Lila's lips pout.

"Not exactly." Cooper admits. "I can't remember what that planet's name is, neither can Lila." He points to Uranus on the small map they have positioned to the side and Clint smirks lightly and gives him a sympathetic pat on the back, moving to steal the Cheerios box from where Natasha left it unattended on the counter. "I'm sure you'll figure it out." He reassures.

Cooper groans and shares a distressed look with his sister. "Dad."

"Mmm?"

"Please just tell us, we're never going to solve this if you don't."

"I'll tell Mommy that you didn't!" Lila threatens. Oh, the horror. Clint releases a quiet huff at that and shares a look with Natasha. She hides a smile behind a mouthful of Cheerios and Clint shoves a hand into the box to remove a handful to pick at. He's not really big on cereal in milk, preferring it dry.

"What?" Laura questions, looking up at them eyebrows furrowed, "What am I doing?" Steve's head follows her's looking just as confused.

"Uranus." Loki states blankly and all heads turn towards him. Loki picks the glasses up off the table and fiddles with the temple tips. "The planet." Loki explains, "It's Uranus."

"Oooh." Lila says and turns to Cooper violently nudging him in the ribs, "I told you that was the one we missed!"

"You did not; the one you suggested didn't even begin with "U", and it's not even a planet."

"Makemake is!" Make-what? That sounds like something from Disney's "High School Musical", not space.

Cooper rolls his eyes and shoves her off of him, grabbing the pen and scribbling something down on the back of the box. When he's finished, Lila gives a slight squeal and hops off of her chair and runs towards Loki wrapping her arms around his waist. "Thank you, Mister!"

Clint freezes with surprise and a rouse of anxious protectiveness, but Loki merely pats her shoulder looking extremely uncomfortable. "Yes. Ah...you're welcome."

Lila releases him and returns to the box as if nothing happened. Laura watches her with worry in her gaze and Clint slips across the room resting a hand on her shoulder for comfort. She leans into it and looks up at him giving him thankful look.

Steve shifts in his seat before looking up at them. "There's something you should know. Tony gave me a flashdrive before I ran into—it doesn't matter. What does is the fact that it has Jarvis on it."

Clint stills. "It what?"

Steve flicks his hand up, the device in his hands. It must have been in his pants pockets. They had to change his shirt from the blood smeared across it. The device is gray and has Stark Industries logo plastered on the side. Natasha plucks it from his hands, setting her bowl of cereal on the table.

"We need to find a computer," she says urgently, "Jarvis has access to S.H.I.E.L.D., we can find out where they're keeping the team." This is one of the few times that Clint is honestly grateful that Tony is constantly hacking into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s databases without permission.

Laura shifts, "I'll go get my laptop from upstairs. Hang on."

She rushes off and returns with the device in hand about a minute later setting it on the table next to Steve and pulling the lip open. She quickly scrambles to type in the password before Natasha takes the computer from her and slips the thumb drive into the USB port, turning the sound up.

Loki rises to his feet, shoving the glasses up his nose and Clint moves so he can see the screen behind his partner.

The computer hums slightly, straining with effort before: "Good morning. I have been moderating this thumbdrive for days, but have had no communication with it until now." A pause, then: "Where is Mr. Stark?" Polite and to the point.

Natasha shifts back and folds her arms across her chest. Steve leans forward and runs a tired hand through his messy hair. "We were hoping you could tell us that."

"Sir is missing? I previously believed him to be with you."

"He's not, we—" Steve starts to explain, but is interrupted as Lila scrambles up behind him poking her head over the edge of the table.

"Whoa!" Lila exclaims, "Cooper, come see! The computer talks! Fun, fun, fun!" Clint reaches forward and plucks her off the ground, burying the spark of exasperation. She turns to him, eyes wide and sparkling.

"Alright Princess, it's probably time for you to go play with Cooper upstairs." He says, lightly booping her nose. The information they dig through is likely not going to be censored and he doesn't want either Lila or Cooper exposed to it. They need to find the team, but Lila and Cooper are to young to understand how pressing this is.

"I don't wanna." Lila demurs, "I wanna talk to computer. Cooper does to."

"Who is this child?" Jarvis demands.

"Lila." Clint says and Laura shifts forward, arms outstretched for the brunette.

"I'll take her; Cooper needs to go to school now anyway." She says and Clint nods. Lila squirms slightly in Laura's grip, but doesn't comment further. Laura waves Cooper forward and Clint leans forward to steal a kiss with his wife before they leave.

"Be safe."

"We will."

When the three have exited the room, the rest of them turn back to the computer. The screen is empty save the desktop, but Clint knows that Jarvis is there despite what looks like otherwise. It's weird, in the Tower, he never questioned Jarvis's existence despite not being able to see him; this is somehow different. Natasha blows out a breath and leans forward slightly.

"How much have you put together?"

"Mr. Stark and I were investigating the reasoning behind the power outage when we discovered the modified LSD that was put into your systems; as well as the virus meant to hinder me. Mr. Stark panicked and pulled me from his systems. I exist elsewhere beyond this flashdrive, of course, but my knowledge is limited. The Avengers are wanted for crimes against the government, are you aware of this? You have been accused of killing an government official and releasing Loki from prison."

Clint swears lightly under his breath. "So there's a manhunt for us?"

"It is not public yet, but yes." Jarvis assures.

Great.

Amazing.

Swell.

Steve glances back at him before pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. "And Loki? They know about the smuggling?"

Clint resists the childish urge to kick something. They had a few hours of stabilization and now it has once again slipped through their fingers. They're wanted? For an assassination and Loki's release. They aren't just going to be looking for the Asgardian along with the rest of them which is less than amazing. Clint and Natasha don't have public records because of S.H.I.E.L.D., but all they have to do is talk with the organization and all personal files will be given happily. They probably already have. His family isn't among the records, so they have reason to search here. But still.

It doesn't ease the knot in his stomach any despite that.

"The U.S. government is currently sweeping the country with the assistance from the U.N.. General Ross has been put in charge of the operation." Jarvis answers Steve. Clint mentally exhales in relief. They still have some time. The man is not good for anything but yelling at those beneath him and failing. He chased Bruce for five years with little success and Bruce wasn't even professionally trained. Or trained at all.

Bruce. Tony. Thor.

They need to find them.

And Fury.

"Wandering around is ill advised," Jarvis adds a second later, "they have employed the Secret Service as well as S.H.I.E.L.D. to aid them."

Yep. Their time is limited.

"We lost Tony, Thor, and Bruce to Hydra's attack." Steve explains. He pauses, then adds: "Captured. Not killed. We need to locate them before the police find us."

"If." Clint and Natasha press in sync.

Steve releases a quiet sigh of exasperation and ignores them, "Can you find out where?"

"I will search." Jarvis promises and goes quiet. Clint releases the back of Steve's chair and moves backwards flexing his fingers in agitation. Please, please, please. He has no idea how they'll get to them if it's out of state. They're in Ohio; it's literally in the middle of the U.S., and it will take a great deal of time for them to get anywhere. He's guessing Washington D.C. or New York.

Natasha moves and sits on the table next to the laptop, drumming her fingers softly on the wood.

Somewhere close to a minute later, popups appear on the screen. They're moving too quickly for Clint to really make sense of them; the most he can put together is that it's of some sort of building. Medical, maybe? "Mr. Stark, Dr. Banner and Mr. Odinson are registered as "in custody" by S.H.I.E.L.D. and currently under an interrogation process for the remaining Avengers."

Clint's lips thin.

He flicks his gaze up to the rest of his teammates for a second. Natasha's face is stretched and tired, but he can see the edges of her frustration lined next to her mouth. Steve's exhaustion is present, but he's alert and thinking. Loki's eyes are distant, but Clint knows that he's focused on the conversation.

"So far, they have not had results." Jarvis adds, snapping Clint back to the present. "From what I have managed to parse, they appear to be located at a mental health facility in outskirts of Lusk, Wyoming ran by man called Dr. Lucas Timson."

Clint freezes, his jaw snapping shut with surprise and extreme distaste. A round of bitter laughter threatens to bubble from his lips. Lusk. Wyoming. The mental facility. The mental health facility with their fake smiles, annoying prodding, blood sucking, Patrisha's overuse of makeup, the lack of communication with his family, Natasha's parsing of his texts, boredom and aggravation beyond belief. That facility.

They're keeping his team at the stupid mental health facility that Clint should be more surprised is Hydra, but he isn't.

"The mental health ward only extends to the first floor and is a cover for the true purpose of the building: human experimentation, execution and weapons creation and analysis." Jarvis appends.

Natasha's gaze flicks to his, the green-blue widened with surprise.

Loki leans forward and rests his hands on the tabletop, gray-green focused on him. "You know this place." Loki states tonelessly.

Knows it? He was captive for weeks before Tony pulled him out into this mess. He could probably draw a map of the facility even now—and it's been months since he stepped foot in it; He was honestly hoping he wouldn't have to again.

"Mr. Barton was listed as a patient for twenty-two days." Jarvis offers helpfully.

Steve's head whips up so quickly Clint barely sees it move. "You were what?"

Where did Steve think he was before they assembled on the Raft? A beach in California, getting a tan? Natasha was undercover, Tony was working a business trip in Florida with an unwilling Bruce, Thor was with Jane and Steve himself had been working a classified mission for S.H.I.E.L.D.. Clint wasn't just hanging out doing nothing on purpose.

"I was." Clint confirms. It sucked. "In the intensive mental health care unit for the whole—" Clint gestures towards the general direction of his head, "—mind control thing." Loki's fingers tighten in his peripheral vision, but Clint ignores it.

Steve nods and murmurs something under his breath before turning back to the computer, "Jarvis, is everyone listed to be there?"

"Yes. I have found minimal surveillance footage proving their existence; they appear to not rely on cameras to guard their prisoners." Jarvis's tone is slightly strained as well as laced with a darker edge. Clint wants to push for why, but he doesn't know if he actually wants reasons behind it.

"Injuries?" Steve prods.

Jarvis quiets.

Anxiety backflips in his chest and presses his teammates faces equally. "Jarvis." Steve says firmly.

Jarvis hesitates for a second, but relents: "Mr. Stark has sustained three broken fingers from punching a man in the face—" Clint isn't even remotely surprised, in fact, he'd be lying to say he's not a little proud of it; thank you Tony "—Dr. Banner...Dr. Banner has acquired two bullet wounds." Natasha swears quietly under her breath and Clint bites his tongue to prevent himself from following suit.

"Language." Steve quietly chastises.

"And my brother?" Loki demands, ignoring the super soldier.

"I have found no record of Mr. Odinson except when they were brought into the building. I believe they are keeping him sedated, but I am uncertain as to his health." Jarvis responds. Loki sits back in the chair and begins to pick at his left palm furiously, his jaw clenching lightly with his frustration.

"Alright," Steve says firmly, as if trying to ground himself and looks back towards them, "we know their location; the question now is how do we get there without getting arrested?"

They quiet.

The police is possible to work around with effort, the FBI is harder, but manageable...but S.H.I.E.L.D.? They're different; they have people who are specifically trained for hunting runaways. He and Natasha worked briefly with a squadron when she joined S.H.I.E.L.D.. He doesn't know if they'll be going anywhere quickly. That was clever to trap them like this. They can keep them in one area and slowly work their way around the U.S. until they corner them. Neither he nor Laura have used the internet since before this whole mess which is why they missed this.

Loki leans forward slightly, pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand as he does so. "If I am given a photo, I can likely teleport us there."

Clint perks slightly. That worked last time with the transfer from New York to Ohio, so maybe—""Likely"?" Natasha repeats skeptically.

Loki pauses, then wets his lips, "It's not a skill you can walk blindly into, I'd need an image and with my vision it's hard to gauge whether or not I'd be successful."

Clint lowers his hand slightly. Loki needs to see where he's teleporting in order for it to actually get them somewhere. Where did he see here from? Clint never showed him any photos, he only told the sorcerer about it during the days leading up to the attack on New York. He was given no visuals.

Steve flexes his fingers and shakes his head, "No, we can't risk it. We've only got one shot at this and without backup...I don't know, we need something we know will work."

Loki nods and doesn't respond, but his lips are thin.

Steve turns back to the computer, "Jarvis, can you pull up a floor layout? We'll need to determine where they'll be; then we can figure out something for getting to Wyoming."

Several states from here. What are they going to do, walk?

Several pop ups open on the desktop and Steve moves to open and flick through them. The floor plan isn't anything drastically complicated (despite how Clint's seen it portrayed in movies often, people don't like having to pull up a map to move anywhere). It's structured almost like a hotel with long hallways and doors on each side. There doesn't seem to be an easy entry points save through the front door on the first level: the medical wing. The ridiculous security suddenly makes a lot of more sense, though, and he feels a little better about his failure to escape at the end of week two when he was going crazy. It was a prison; they were prepared for escapees.

"If I may offer a suggestion," Jarvis says to catch their attention then adds: "I have contacted Ms. Potts about the situation—she asked be kept apprised—and she said that she can plan a sudden business trip to Wyoming and make a stop in Ohio. You could travel on the private plane without running into the police and with Ms. Potts being in charge of security, there is a minimal chance you'll be recognized."

Steve's shoulders sag in relief and Clint releases a breath. Thank you, Ms. Potts.

Steve glances at them, his gaze questioning. He's seeking their opinion on the matter. Clint and Natasha share a look, briefly weighing the decision in their gaze. She's not against it, but there are still chances that they can be caught. It's not impossible to escape, just lowering the chances. By plane would be the fastest and there's a strange sense of driving urgency in his stomach plowing him forward.

He and Natasha give nods of the affirmative and Steve flicks his gaze to Loki. Loki gives an agreeing hum. Steve turns back to the computer. "Yeah, that works. How soon can she be here?"

"In under two hours if flight conditions are favorable."

Clint releases the death grip his teeth are gnawing into his inner lip. If they have manage to pull this off, they can be back here with the rest of the team before sunset tonight. He needs to call Laura, they might leave before she gets back with Lila from dropping Cooper off.

"Alright, let's plan on that." Steve says his gaze lingering on Loki for a moment.

Natasha nudges his arm softly and he looks up at her expectantly, "We're going to have to raid your weapons stash." Natasha says.

Right.

Weapons.

Weapons would be good. Honestly, he'd nearly forgotten about the fact that they needed them, which is weird because such a small detail isn't something he throws to the side typically. They aren't going to go roaring into this with anything fancy. His stash isn't anything huge, just a few handguns, Laura's shotgun and spare equipment for archery. It isn't Natasha's Widow Bites, or Steve's shield or even Loki's magic. It's simple, plain and frankly lowers their odds of winning this expeditiously.

"It won't be much." Clint promises.

"I know." Natasha assures, "But it's better than nothing. We can't rush in there and hope that they'll be intimidated by our footwear."

Clint snorts and Steve flicks his gaze back to offer the redhead and exasperated look. She smiles to it sweetly.

"I can provide some, should the need arise." Loki offers. That must be nice to be able to be armed at all times. Clint usually has weapons on his person, but if he's not in his S.H.I.E.L.D. suit, they're typically small.

Steve's lips purse and it looks like it takes a great deal of effort for him to part them again as he turns to the Asgardian. "No."

What?

Why?

Loki's expression clouds with confusion. "Why?"

Steve shakes his head. "Listen, I know that you want to help, and I'm grateful for it, but I don't think that you should come with us." Because having a sorcerer on their side would be a bad thing how?

Loki makes a slight noise in his throat. "I beg your pardon?"

Steve forces out a breath. "Your vision is still a mess."

"And?" Loki challenges, "I have other ways to see without my sight if that has slipped your mind, Captain."

Steve rises to his feet, frustration pouring off of him. "No; I'm sorry. I appreciate everything that you've done since the attack on the Tower, but these aren't the same circumstances. I can't risk the possibility that with your sight you'll be a liability—"

Loki slams a hand on the table causing the laptop the rattle. Natasha's positions shifts to defensive beside him, and he feels his muscles lurch to do the same without his consent or thought. Loki's expression is carefully constructed to hide his anger, but Clint can see the twitches of it in his hands. "My brother is with them, you imbecile! Do you honestly expect me to do nothing about that!?"

"Yes!" Steve presses. Clint watches Loki's stance carefully, but he doesn't burst into a violent rage of yelling like Clint half expected instead, he smiles.

"This is a matter of trust."

Steve looks momentarily flabbergasted, as if that train of thought had never even occurred to him until Loki stated it. "No, it's not." Steve assures quickly, "I trust you—what I can't have is you walking into a battlefield and getting yourself killed!"

Loki stills and he leans his head back the faint smile on his lips as he does so. Clint mentally winces. He has recently become accustomed to the fact that when Loki smiles when he's angry, he's successfully found several ways to impale the receiver of the expression with objects that aren't meant to be used as weapons (such as rubber balls or cards), but is to polite to do so.

Loki pulls his hand off the table and clasps his fingers together. "Well then," he says quietly, his voice laced with venom, "I'll leave you to your merry planning; should you require my aid I'll be in the barn." Loki gyrates and begins to move towards the backdoor.

Steve lurches forward, "Loki, wait, that's not what I—!" Loki lifts his hand up pointedly and snaps his fingers before Steve can finish, vanishing in a pull of blue light.

Clint isn't quite certain what to say. The action he would like to take is whack Steve over the head with a broom, but it's a tad on the rude side. "Well." Clint murmurs under his breath. That went well.

"I don't want to hear it." Steve says sharply, turning back to the floor plans. Oh? Yeah, probably for the best, Clint has an earful for the super soldier and he can't promise Steve that most of it (if any) will be pretty.

"I do." Natasha says firmly.

"It's not that—"

"Steve." The redhead pushes, shoving the laptop to the side. His lips part, but close again and he tenses. Clint leans forward next to Natasha, both of them waiting. Steve's eyes close sharply and when he opens them they're strangely weighted.

"It has nothing to do with what he did; I saw the same scars you did...I agree, he'd be a great asset to the attack, but I just...neither of you have been in war. I know that you've both lost soldiers at one point, but I just...even if he isn't completely blind anymore, he's still...I can't lose another one. Please, please let me do this. I know he's angry, but I'd rather he's angry than dead."

Natasha's expression softens and she leans forward resting a hand on Steve's shoulder, "Steve. What happened during the attack? What did you see?"

Clint stuffs his memories of the incident to the side and forces himself to focus on Steve. The super soldier tenses before exhaling sharply, but raggedly. "He was there. He was there and I couldn't—I couldn't—"

"Who was there?" Clint presses.

Steve looks up at them, "Bucky."

Clint flicks his gaze to his partner with confusion. Bucky? As in Bucky Barnes? The man who was a part of the Howling Commandos and has been dead for over seventy years? That Bucky? That's...impossible. They never found a body to bury, but still.

Clint opens his mouth to protest, but Natasha shakes her head softly. She reaches forward and rests a hand on the super soldier's shoulder. "Steve, it's going to be fine. We're going to get the rest of the team and clean up this mess together. We'll leave Loki here, he can watch over Laura and the others until we get back. Okay?"

Steve nods mutely.

They sit in silence for several long seconds before Clint clasps his hands together, "Alright. Looks like I'm going weapon hunting. Let me know what your brilliant strategy is when I get back. Please account for the fact that they are very firm on their security and it sucks."

000o000

Natasha hasn't seen Pepper in what feels like years, but it's probably closer to a week. The strawberry blonde is dressed professionally, but the stress and exhaustion is written clearly across her shoulders as she walks towards them from the stairs next to the plane. Happy is next to her, expression grim. Pepper's hair is tucked up into a tight bun with loose hairs falling around her face, but she still looks like she hasn't slept in days.

She clasps Steve's hand when they come close enough, a tight smile stretching across her lips. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Thank you for taking us." Steve answers, releasing her fingers.

Pepper nods, "It was my pleasure." Yup, breaking the law to smuggle fugitives onto a plane is pleasurable. Pepper waves her hands towards the stairs, "We need to leave; I did manage to get a meeting with a man and I don't want to be late."

"Sorry," Clint apologizes, "that would be my fault that we're late. I needed to make a phone call." And then Laura insisted they wait until she got back home so she could properly fuss over all of them.

Pepper shakes her head, "It's not trouble, you're here and that's what matters."

Natasha gives a knowing hum before the three of them scramble onto the plane behind Happy and Pepper. The interior has clearly been advanced via Tony and Natasha isn't surprised. She's not certain the man owns a piece of technology that he hasn't modified in some way.

"You can take any seat. Happy, go tell the pilot that we're ready to take off."

"'Kay." Happy answers and moves down the aisle.

Steve takes a seat next to a window and Natasha steals the one across from him as Clint plops down beside the super soldier. Natasha rubs at her eyes and attempts to shove the exhaustion biting at her to the side. She doesn't have time to be tired, they need to be alert for this rescue mission or it's going to crumble on it's already rocky ground.

Natasha feels the plane lurch forward and bites at the edge of her tongue. She's never been fond of planes or high places. She's not Clint who can happily perch himself twenty feet of the ground without a problem, she prefers both her feet firmly on the ground, thanks.

They're on their way to Wyoming, half this mess is nearly cleaned up.

Then she can rest.

They've been in flight for about five minutes before Natasha becomes aware of something staring at her. She pulls her eyelids apart and flicks her gaze up, confused. Clint nor Steve are looking at her, and Pepper and Happy are engaged in conversation about some sort of SI bill so what…?

Natasha twists to look behind her and bites back a jump of surprise as she sees a man sitting in one of the seats. Blond hair is tied up loosely and he's dressed in a black suit that probably costs more than what Natasha earns in three months combined.

When she catches his eye, he smirks lightly and rises to his feet moving towards them. Clint and Steve both flick their heads up at the movement and Natasha's hand moves towards her pistol slowly. When he gets close enough, Natasha whips the weapon up to fire, but he catches the barrel and a greenish light sweeps across him.

"My Lady, I would very much appreciate it if you didn't decide to fire."

Natasha stills. "Loki?"

Clint swears across from her, his hand releasing the dagger he was preparing to gut Loki with. "What the heck!? How did you get here—no, never mind, I don't want to know. Why are you here?"

Loki releases the barrel of Natasha's gun and she shoves it into her jacket again, staring. "Your wife is very persistent," Loki answers, "she insisted." Loki pulls the pair of glasses from his jacket pocket and flicks them out, stuffing them up the bridge of his nose.

Clint gawks, "Laura?"

Loki hums with agreement and takes the seat next to Natasha, "Ms. Potts agreed, I was waiting for ten minutes before you entered the plane." Loki's smirking facade crumbles slightly and he begins to pick at his palm, "I know you don't want me here, but Thor is my brother and I am getting him out of this mess with your permission or not. You can either accept my help, or I will remove myself from your grasp and release the rest of the Avengers."

Natasha flicks her gaze to Steve and sees Clint do the same from her peripheral vision. This isn't her decision; she wanted Loki here from the start, but Steve is their leader, it's his call. Steve is quiet for a long few seconds before sighing with defeat. "You don't make the calls, and if I tell you to do something you do it. This isn't a game."

Loki shakes his head lightly, "No, it isn't."

"Well then. Loki, welcome to the Avengers."

Chapter Text

We never shoot to stun,

We're kings of the kill and we're out for blood,

We'll take one by one,

We're kings of the kill and we're out for blood.

-Ruelle "Monsters"

"This is not going to work." Clint murmurs under his breath and Natasha flicks her gaze up towards him again, then grips the steering wheel tighter. It isn't her partner's first proclamation of such doubts, but as they get closer to the facility, it's becoming less and less of an annoyance and more worrying.

Clint has been here before.

He knows these halls.

They do not.

The building is nothing impressive. It's large, certainly, but there is nothing about it that she declares it to be dangerous and a prison. It's a dull grayish color with a black roof and lights next to every window. It's two stories tall with a wire fence around the property, a garden to the left and a spacious place for parking vehicles to the right with a large burn mark splattered in the center. Stabled to the fence every thirty feet or so is the words "Private property; keep out. Trespassers will be shot". It's not something she would have labeled as "Hydra" without a reasoning such as this. There's a single entrance for cars attached to the road with a security guard identifying any passerby.

"Your confidence is staggering, Barton." Loki assures behind them from his position in the back seat.

The car is a present from Pepper, a rental that she managed to get contracted for them before they left Cheyenne for Lusk what feels like days ago. It wasn't, closer to a day now, but it wasn't weeks upon weeks without end. They've barely been in the car for four hours since they left, then stalked the facility for a bit as perimeter checking, but she's anxious and has yet to associate a different memory where she's wanted to leave a vehicle more than now.

"Hey," Clint accuses lightly, "I've been here—I know the pains of their security. Bending a little bit of light isn't going to change anything."

Natasha sees Loki's head tilt slightly in the rear view mirror, but he gives a knowing small smile as he does so. It's not quite to the point of unnerving, but it's getting there. Natasha bites her tongue for a second then glances at her partner.

"Clint. Shut up."

Clint makes a face. "Hey! I'm just expressing concerns."

"It's not feeling me with rousing confidence." She counters.

Or any at all, actually.

Clint's lips turn down and he opens his mouth to respond, but Steve lifts up a hand. "Be quiet," he commands, "we're nearing the gates."

Natasha forces her stance to relax and the illusion she's wearing, via Loki, to settle against her skin easier. It's strange, almost like wearing a cold blanket that smells vaguely like cinnamon hot chocolate. She's not sure why, but she didn't ask Loki when he cast it and has no desire to.

Their plan is terrible. They're going to get caught, murdered, then dragged to the Hydra facility to have their corpses studied. She wishes that she had her Widow Bites, or at least one of her guns or daggers. Loki's given her one of his, but it feels strange in her hand. Unwelcomed.

They're getting closer, the anxiety in her stomach does not settle.

Thirty feet, fifteen, five.

Steve ducks, disappearing from her sight as Clint scowls and lifts a bit of stray hay (that Natasha is honestly not sure where came from) to his mouth to chew at aggressively.

Natasha slows the car to stop in front of the barrier, quietly wondering when it was set up because Clint never mentioned it in his descriptions of the building. She rolls down the window and flicks her gaze to her hands again to make sure the illusion is still set in place before she makes eye contact with man in the security hut.

He's young—early twenties—which is good because youth is easier to manipulate than those older. He looks bored out of his mind, but attempting to be focused as he leans forward and squints at her, face grim. "ID." He requests, his accent is a thick Russian.

Natasha feels a slight lurch in her stomach at it, but forces herself to focus and stay in character.

"ID!?" She repeats in a thick southern states drawl. She deepens her voice to add the proper amount of age for her appearance. Currently, she's sporting graying hair, wrinkles, and clothing she admittedly wouldn't be caught dead in if not for the direness of the situation. It feels so strange to know that this exists only because of light bending. Loki could have easily remained undetected from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s scanners after he took the Tesseract if he desired. Natasha flicks a gaze to Clint, who meets her eyes behind his sunglasses.

"ID!?" She echoes once more in a squawk.

Clint, too, is aged and wearing farmer's clothing. Across his cheek is a long jagged scar looks like he fell on a rather aggressive table edge.

Natasha turns back to the young man, scowling. "How dare you!? We don't have time for this!"

The man slips from his glaze, releasing an irritated sigh, "Ma'am, for security we not allow you into building without a scan of identification. It can be your driver's license; it won't take more than a moment."

Yeah, but she doesn't have her driver's license right now. It's back at the Tower, lodged in one of her shoes where she dropped it a day before the attack.

Natasha scoffs loudly, "I was told that this was an asylum."

"Aye." Clint agrees, his voice deep and also laced with a Southern drawl.

The young man flicks his gaze to the ceiling; impatient this one. Good. "We a mental health facility, yes," he agrees, "but they specialize in treatment for PTSD."

"But it's an asylum?" Natasha presses.

The young man stares at her. His eyes are losing the annoyance and bordering on mildly wary. "No, tis' not. You local? They list this on the internet."

"Bah!" Natasha exclaims in a loud huff. "Sonny, no one got time to look at those darn fancy calculator-ma-bobs." She insists, waving her hand. Loki releases a loud moan from the back and Natasha sees him grip the edges of his hair and tug. He mutters something under his breath and then giggles to it, slamming a hand over his mouth as he does so, eyes alight.

Natasha forces herself to relax.

This was planned.

The guard's hands shift for the gun on his hip, hissing a Russian curse under his breath. "What that? Ma'am, you'll have to leave car."

She panics. She can't leave, they'll search it and find Steve and have questions. She bites at her tongue to calm her frayed nerves and scoffs louder, "Excuse me!?" She demands. "My son is insane and I'm here to do something about it before he murders the lot of us. He got a good hold on Bessie this morning and gave her a good scare—that's our family cow, but the way. I've been driving for hours and I'm exhausted—Oi! You put that gun down, Sonnie."

The young man's hand wavers, and Natasha sees a companionship of two men walking towards them, Hydra agents, she spots the logo embroidered on the side of their sleeves despite the early hour. It's seven AM, so it's not drastically early, but Clint doesn't consider it not-early until eight, so she's gradually shifted to agree with him.

The two walk up to the security shack and both take a long look at her, eyes narrowed. Natasha doesn't lesson her scowl; instead, she deepens it.

"What appears to be the problem?" The agent on the left asks. American.

The young man opens his mouth to answer, but Natasha beats him to it: "Our son tried to kill our cow this morning—he's mad I tell you mad. He has his fits on occasion, yes, but this is unlike anything we've ever seen and I was told by Mrs. Turner that you'd take him and rattle his brains back together."

As if to prove her point (and he is) Loki falls backwards and rams his head into the space between Clint and Natasha, hissing between his teeth and reaches his hands to grab at his tongue and tug. Clint leans forward and plucks Loki's hands from his mouth with an irritated face.

Natasha makes a pointed expression towards the Hydra agents.

The three of them are staring at the interior of the car where Clint has now moved onto both hands to keep Loki from clawing at his face. He's murmuring words in Aardent that sound like nonsense, but Natasha recognizes the pressure he applies to the words to be from his native tongue.

The three are quiet and Natasha flicks her gaze to Clint sharing her anxious look with him.

This isn't working!

"OI!" Clint barks, causing the three to flick their gazes to him. "Are you going to help us or not!? We don't have all day, you know! He's going to rip his eyes out!"

The three don't look like they doubt it. Judging from Loki's desperation to grip at them, Clint doesn't look like he does either.

The original young man makes eye contact with her again, "Fine. This the exception, there be paperwork inside that you need to fill. This government issued facility. You have the rest of today to find a different place to transfer him."

Natasha feels her muscles relax with relief, but she still holds her outward demeanor in the same stiffness. "Good! We can work with a few hours. You're to generous lad, we won't forget it." She assures.

Loki lets out a screech and young man makes a something between a disgusted and heavily disturbed face. "Go!" He commands, flicking open the gate. Natasha nods and drives forward slowly, rolling up her window as she does. When they enter the property fully, Loki sags in Clint's grip and Steve sits up.

"I can't believe that worked." Steve murmurs under his breath.

Neither can she.

But it doesn't matter right now. They can appreciate how gullible Hydra agents are at a later date. They're on the property because they faked needing to be here and now they can work from inside out as they search for their other teammates.

Loki lets the illusion fall from where it's wrapped around herself and her partner as Clint leans forward to pluck his quiver from where it's hidden next to his feet. Natasha pulls the gun from off her person as she drives into a parking spot and she sees Loki and Steve prepare their weapons.

Clint pulls and arrow out and looks back at Steve, who gives a curt nod.

Clint exhales sharply, then rolls the window down a few inches, knocks his bow and fires.

They watch, breathless, as the arrow sails through the air and slams into the front door, exploding on contact. Alarms immediately start to wail, but they don't wait. She and the other three scramble from the car, making a break for the newly created entrance.

Hydra agents are beginning to race towards them in large waves, and Natasha fires a few shots in sync with Steve. Loki jerks a hand out and seems to throw water at them. The water hits the ground and spreads across the dirt rapidly as ice that causes many of the men to lose their footing and slip.

Magic.

Magic is nice.

They reach the doors where more men are waiting and Natasha fires a round of bullets towards them as Loki briefly indulges in hand-to-hand and the her other teammates echo her actions. They're quiet, but move quickly and efficiently as they trek through the halls and are well into the building when the lights give and their cast into darkness.

Natasha slows her rapid movement, lifting her gun and listening for breath.

A door slams shut behind them, rattling uncomfortably in her ears. Her muscles pull taut and she awaits for the oncoming attack. There's the slow agitated breathing of her teammates, but nothing else.

"Cap?" Natasha questions quietly, moving in the direction she last saw him. They didn't plan for this, honestly, their plan so far has only been held together by sheer luck and mercy from some being on high.

"Just keep moving." Steve grits out.

A greenish glow begins to work up from behind her, but it's stopped abruptly when Loki lets out a loud cry of pain and there's the sound of a body tumbling to the ground. "Loki!" Natasha hisses panic, moving back towards the source of the noise.

"Oh, Captain, it's such an honor to have you here." Natasha's spine tenses at the voice. She's only met him twice, but she wasn't fond of him either time and felt the need to give his neck a good rattle the last time she saw him. Alexander Pierce. Fury's superior.

And, apparently, Hydra's as well.

Natasha forces herself to focus, and continues her search for Loki.

"Is it now?" Steve questions, he sounds weary, but he's behind her by at least ten feet now.

Pierce laughs quietly, almost as if sharing a fond childhood memory, "Oh, yes, indeed. I've been looking forward to getting to meet you, along with the little hawk with his spider and ah—yes, you were foolish enough to bring Loki along, weren't you? I've been meaning to have words with him for sometime." He's going to be waiting a lot longer because that is not happening unless it's over Natasha's cold, dead, corpse.

She can't find him.

Where is he?

She can hear his rattling breaths.

He's injured and she doesn't know how or where or—

"You're not going to." Clint's voice is firm and icy. "Take note of that."

"Ah, Mr. Barton," Pierce says, "always a pleasure."

"Where are the Avengers?" Steve questions firmly, Natasha hears him replace ammo in his weapon. "We're just here for them. No one has to get hurt."

"Dear Captain," Pierce says softly, "you know that this just can't be done. But yes, you are right, no need for injuries—no more injuries, I suppose. You've been anxiously awaited here, but I'm afraid our chat has to come to an end, I'll see you when you wake up."

A speaker clicks off, but Natasha barely processes it as she whirls around, confused. Wake up. Wake up!?

A stinging sensation feels her nose and the realization smacks her. Oh, gosh—he's going to sedate them. "Move!" Natasha hisses, scrambling to find the exit, but the hall is long and dark. The door feels miles away. Her limbs are growing heavy and the air is thick and sweet.

She slams against something and recognizes it for the door and begins to pound against it. Clint joins her a moment later, fists slamming into the metal. It doesn't give. Or help anything beyond make her fingers hurt.

No!

They can't have come this far only to fail!

Tony, Thor and Bruce need them and they can't help anything if they're drugged and unconscious. Wake up!

They can't...what...why is she standing when she's so exhausted and—Tony, Thor, Bruce! She has to get to them has to—has to—

Natasha's body collapses against the cold, hard ground and she slips into the realm of sleep a moment later.

000o000

His stomach is burning with the pulsing ache of where the blade slipped between his ribs. It's severing. Burning. A sharp acidic sent is spilling into his nose and he can't figure out the source of it. Someone is speaking and thought he knows he needs to be paying attention, Loki can focus on nothing else but the burn of the broken tissue.

His head is spinning rapidly and he doesn't know how to make it stop. He needs it to stop. But he can't.

His sedir is refusing to respond in his panic, his foggy muggled mind is restricting his ability to focus (clear your mind, dearheart, his mother would tell him again and again, but it's never felt harder) and his natural healing is being equally slow. The burning sensation of the broken tissue is one that refuses to relent or quiet.

He needs Thor.

Thor will fix it.

He was medically trained, he can make the aching go away.

But his brother isn't here, and it's his fault.

A ragged hiss pulses from his lungs. He has endured far worse than this—it shouldn't be bothering him so. He needs to gather himself, this is pathetic.

Thanos would—

Stop.

He's not there anymore.

He's not.

This pain is not from their scalding water, or weapons slick with his blood—he is no longer there. Another staggering pulse ripples through him, and this time a cry does escape him.

Thor.

He needs Thor.

Or Eir.

Or Mother. Even Odin. Just—something to stop it.

Something is wrong. (Poison, the less hysterical part of his mind supplies simply, the blade was poisoned) It's burning him. Like the water. And the brand. Oh, Norns, he never left. Thanos will return with his daughters, and they will hold him down as the pulse of the Mind Stone rages through his mind once more searching for weak links and—and—

Loki slams his palm against the floor and attempts to shove to his feet, but his coordination has been lost. He lands on his shoulder, hard, and releases a pained hiss, curling around his stomach and panting.

He's trapped.

Stuck.

Swallowed in a stygian he can't remove. Where is Thor? He needs him. Please. He can't do this anymore on his own. He needs...he needs...he wants to return home, where is mother will embrace him and he will be safe in Serenity's walls. Where Thanos's hands cannot reach and—oh, Norns something is burning his back and—

Something is touching him.

He twitches with surprise and whips his head back, eyes ripping open to blurrily stare back at whatever has gripped his shoulder. It's dark and nearly impossible to make out anything, but Loki can make out a figure leaning over him, dark hair falling in front of their face.

He doesn't understand. He...he's...tired. He's tired. Exhausted. Maybe…sleep. Sleeep.

The hand moves from his shoulder, gloved fingers briefly touching his hair before some sort of plastic mask is strapped across his face. Loki bites back rising panic as he swings a hand out to lash at the attacker, but they catch his wrist and twist it behind his back, slamming his palm against the warm wound.

He feels everything along his spine go rigid.

"Stop it." The voice is low, hissed, and strangely desperate. Male.

Loki inhales raggedly and is bizzardly aware that the air has lost the acidic tinge. The plastic. The plastic has stopped whatever it was. "Can you understand me?" The same voice, still quiet and their grip is unyielding. After a moment, Loki makes a noise of confirmation.

"Good." The voice says and a sharp prick shoves into his elbow and Loki twitches to it. Needle. He hates needles. It pulls back, "That will counter what what they released into your bloodstream. Hydra has been waiting for you to get here and I'm not letting it stay that way. We don't have much time."

We?

"The Avengers are waiting, hurry." The man insists and grabs his elbow, dragging him up to his feet. Loki staggers, hand coming to press against his abdomen where the stab is sluggishly bleeding, but the man grabs his arm and swings it over his shoulders. One of his arms is metal.

Loki's consciousness takes this moment to give out.

Everything is strangely drowning under water and he only picks out sounds that don't have any meaning or context to him. Footsteps, yelling, and briefly gunfire. Then the roaring of fire.

When he comes to completely, he catches a brief glimpse of the man, (brunet, tall, broad and carrying a gun) and immediately places him to be Steve's attacker from the Tower. Sergeant Buchan Barnes. His memories were a mess and Loki grabbed at all of them in desperation to get him away from Clint and tugged.

Ah. Right.

The pain is passable, but his focus is not. Distorted. He feels like he's walking backwards, but trying to run forward as he does so.

Get. Up.

Up.

Loki's fingers move towards his mouth where he grabs at the edges of the mask and pulls up. It is not like his muzzle, when he drags it away, it follows without complaint. Loki tosses it away from him and exhales sharply when the memories finally click back into place properly.

The attack.

The Avengers.

Where is he?

Loki pulls his eyes open and squints into the cloud—covered sky.

Sky? He was in a building.

Loki jerks into a sitting position and presses a hand against the wound, attempting to scan his surroundings further, but his stomach lurches and he leans to the side, releasing his stomach's contents. There's blood. Along with strange little black things. Poison.

The retching doesn't help with the pain, or the building panic.

When he's reduced to dry heaving, Loki bites at his tongue heavily and attempts to get to his feet. He's in the desert far off from the facility where that they attacked which is burning into the rising sun. Not at the Avenger's hand, he can't see Thor or Stark in the sky and there the only ones he thinks can start something that large.

No, there are cars rapidly leaving the building, and he's going to assume that the Avengers are present, because the alternative thought isn't a pleasant one.

Hydra.

Hydra has them.

Loki attempts a hobbling step forward, but the staggering pain ripples through his side once more, heated and breathtaking, forcing his feet tangle beneath him. He collapses in a panting heap on the hard, cold, dirt floor his hand pressed against burned flesh.

It's not numbing!

Why is it not numbing!?

Loki hisses between his teeth and tips his head towards the sight. Everything blurs painfully and Loki squeezes his eyes shut. This is not helping. His sight is as useful as it was when he couldn't see anything.

He needs to keep moving, he has to—

He can't—

Augh!

Loki slams both hands on the wound and bites back the yell of pain. He's fine. This is nothing compared to Thanos's hand, but that doesn't mean that it hurts any less. Norns. He has rarely felt this useless. What is he doing? He is pathetic.

He can't do this anymore.

He's tried everything and nothing is helping.

He is not a hero, he is not some gallant knight to be looked for on the east; he is Loki, and he is a fool. His arrogance and lack of being able to think forward has gotten Thor kidnapped, if not killed already, and the rest of the Avengers well on their way to that. Why does everything he touch crumble beneath his fingertips? He was trying, and look how far it got him: A cowering heap on the ground, slowly bleeding out from a wound he can't heal and should be able to. He can't do this anymore, he can't, he can't, HE CAN'T!

Loki hisses and curls in towards his stomach, wrapping his hands around his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

Please.

He doesn't know what to do.

What he can.

Please.

Loki feels the would numb and his sedir, finally, blessedly beginning to work on closing it. A hiss of relief escapes his lips and he slowly uncurls.

Tracker, the thought hits him suddenly. He is a tracker. Once he heals the blasted stab wound, he can track the Avengers and drag their sorry butts back to Lady Potts. Hydra will deeply regret the moment they decided that laying hands on his team.

Loki slowly sits up, keeping his hands firmly pressed on the wound and is relieved when there is little pain. He works his sedir across the wound rapidly and is thankful when it doesn't resist. MTDR is unpleasant at it's best, but Loki ignores it as he takes in his surroundings. He has no idea how long he's been here, but judging from the lighting it's been several hours.

When the wound is closed and nothing but tender, he tugs the hoodie he's been clinging to for nearly a week now off and spreads his fingers over it, searching for traces of Thor on it. Tracking spells aren't something that he's keen on, mostly because if they don't succeed it slowly drives the sorcerer mad from lack of being able to find the object. Creating a tracker isn't something he usually works for because of this. He knew someone from Alfheim that the insanity winding happened to and he's always been wary of it sense.

This is dire. He doesn't care if he's driven mad from this—he already is, isn't he? What more can happen?

His sedir latches onto Thor's signature and the tug jerks in his gut towards the location. Loki releases a breath and closes his eyes for a moment, gathering the fabric into his hands, lifting it towards his nose to inhale the smell. The residue of Thor's scent is weaker than it was when he stole it.

Loki exhales and opens his eyes lifting them to the road, he rises to his feet and slips the hoodie into his cache; opening his hand a small yellowish light appearing to guide him forward, and begins the hunt.

000o000

Over the course of his lifetime, Loki has come to expect one of two things happening when he's hunting something with sorcery: the person does everything in their power to hide their tracks from his magic, or they vanish for a short period of time, weakening their signature from sedir in an effort to hide.

Hydra is either overconfident or stupid. Perhaps wide mixture of both. They have assumed the state of mind that they aren't being followed by anyone of importance and have left a trail so wide for him to follow that if he really had need, once he found the explosion site again, he could have tracked them without sedir.

Idiots.

Once he'd located the trucks and small army of following cars, he'd kept his distance for some time studying them. The road they're on is a single trail with no exit points or alternate routes until they pass a small town that is not greatly populated.

Loki only knows this because he'd scouted ahead for a proper ambush site and now he resides here, on the roof of one of their drink shops waiting for Hydra to arrive. The town is maybe a forth of a mile long on both sides, old wooden buildings falling apart, rusted and weathered.

It is not anything of note, and he doubts that they have had a fresh can of paint enter for at least twenty years. Maybe more. Asgard would have a heart attack at the misuse and lack of care for buildings. Looks is something they're obsessed over and made it impossible and very rare to find any ruins of older buildings. Vanaheim is the best for seeking out history from what Loki has put together over the few hundred years.

Loki lifts his head as he hears the sound of cars and squints into the distance, spotting the black vehicles rapidly approaching. He exhales deeply and forces his nerves to settle, getting distracted is not something he can afford at the moment, and his hands shaking is definitely going to qualify for that.

The cars race forward, nearing the small down with rapid speed. A minute at most before they get here.

Let the games begin, then.

Loki lifts his hands and gathers the surrounding water vapor of the city, stealing from their plants, pipes, and in the ground beneath them into the air. It slowly surges at his request, looking extensively like blurring blobs to him, but he knows from past experience that it's closer to rain falling up when vision is clear. The weight of the water makes his muscles strain, but he does the best he can to cast it to the side and flicks his hands out, lowering his fingers to cool the temperature of some of the water and allows it to drop to the heated water beneath it.

The fog is created and expands outwards long before it hits the ground, causing the air around him to condense into an almost pitch black smoke. He hears the screeching of tires and allows himself a small smirk of satisfaction. Best not to celebrate before the victory, however.

Loki leaps from the roof landing in a roll and maneuvers to his feet, waving his hand out to check for the pulses of the Hydra agents and pinpoint them. Towards the edge of the city, he can see bright lights shining as they attempt to slowly navigate their way through.

They're wary.

It's cute.

Loki strides forward summoning his tattered armor from the battle of New York and comes to a halt in front of cars. He opens his fingers to grasp the matter of the glass and wills it to shatter, the glass exploding out and the lights dying, casting the surrounding area into darkness. The cars screech to a halt at it, and he hears doors opening, but confused murmurs ring up.

Loki has lived in a stygian, this does not bother him.

Instead, he takes the shattered glass from the multiple vehicles he has stolen from, and spins the glass shards, shoving them towards the wheels and hears the sound of the rubber popping as the glass injects itself.

There, grounded. It is so much easier to chase something when it's not running away.

Now he needs to find the team and release them, and for that, he needs a distraction. A large one. Loki slips out of the viewpoint of the drivers as they wave their beams of light towards his location and lifts his first finger out, waving it towards himself and feels the familiar warmth of invisibility wash across him.

It's unpleasant, but Loki has long since grown numb to the sensation.

The tracking spell pulls him towards the middle trucks, long and large, something that looks like it could carry a small bilgesnipe if one were to really push. Loki moves forward and casts a splur of illusions, waving them off towards the Hydra agents and glances at the first truck.

He really should have planned this with a tad more detail.

Alas.

Loki closes his eyes and focuses on what he remembers feeling when he world-walked Natasha, Steve, Clint, himself and the car to the Barton farm. The engine, their power source runs differently than Asgard ever manufactured; they don't have coal on Asgard. It's interesting and something that Loki wants to study at a later date, but he doesn't have time at the moment.

The engine was strangely bulky, but there were liquids inside of it, something keeping it cool and running properly. Well, he doesn't think they'll be needing that anytime soon.

Loki tugs the water from the device into the fog and hears a loud fizzling before a following explosion. The agents scramble, their light beams waving helplessly around the fog and Loki watches it with a strange sort of detachment.

This organization kidnapped his kin and his kith and bares no remorse for the destruction they dally. It is repulsive.

Loki fidgets further with another two engines before moving towards the truck. There are a handful of agents guarding the back and the driver has clambered out to join them. He's hissing words angrily in their direction, as if it is their fault that this occurred. Loki doesn't bother to pick out dialog, he moves with purpose towards the driver and washes the invisibility spell from his skin as he does so. His gaze flickers up once before the man jumps, yelping and raising a weapon in his defense as his minions follow suit behind him. Someone fires and it smacks against his armor, enough to mildly bruise, but not do much else.

Loki flicks his gaze up to the man who's watching with wide eyes and smiles.

"Oh, dull." Loki says, releasing a sigh and barely holds back a roll of his eyes. He lifts a hand up (quietly relishing their flinches), clasps hold of the molecules weaving their guns together and tugs. The weapons are ripped from their hands, metal twisted beyond use and clattering into one mass at their feet.

Four of the six agents are wearing helmets, so it's hard to gauge their expressions, but the remaining two flick their gaze from the weapons to him several times. The driver lifts another weapon, some sort of staff and his remaining colleagues quickly find alternative sources for destruction.

"Mr. Odinson," the driver drawls, eyes suddenly perking with a strange sense of delight, "we've been waiting for you."

Yes, he knows. Everyone here to Knowhere knows by now. Have they done anything to hide their goal of his capture? As long as Loki has known them, they've been blaring it to anyone who will give them a moment of their attention.

Loki smiles slightly, tilting his head and draws closer slowly. "How thoughtful. Especially for mere thieves."

"Thieves?" The man sputters, but to his credit holds his ground. "We are Hydra!"

Loki's expression strains and he stops about a foot from the man. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"It should." The man is stalling, giving colleagues time to prepare an attack against him and Loki doesn't have time for this. He swings his elbow up and nails the man in the nose, casting a shield as the men open another round of fire and summons a dagger, swinging it up into the other unmasked man's shoulder. The man looks mildly surprised. Loki rips the weapon from him and kicks him back into the fog and the growing chaos from his illusions then turns to the masked agents.

Their stances say wary and there's fair reasoning to it.

Loki readjusts his grip on his dagger before summoning another for his other hand and jumps at them. Their guns are useless against his weapons and Loki uses this to his advantage. Within a minute all three are unarmed, injured for what could be fatal if they don't move quickly enough. Loki pushes them to the side with sorcery and moves towards the doors of the truck grabbing, locating the hinges and raising his fists, squeezing in. The hinges collapse inwards like a ball of paper being crumpled and the doors in turn fall at his feet.

The sound is loud and draws more attention than he was really hoping for. Loki flicks his hands out and draws it elsewhere when the spell slams into another car, lighting it ablaze. With that set and the minions scrambling to rush towards that instead of him, Loki turns to the truck.

He clambers into the back of the tall machine and brushes himself off of imaginary dirt staring at the interior. There's two benches on either side with some sort of magnetic wall that's holding cuffs against it. The Avengers are split between the two benches: Bruce, Natasha and Clint on one side with Steve, Thor and Tony on the other. Sergeant Barnes is present as well, at the end of Clint, Bruce and Natasha's bench.

Natasha, Clint, Tony and Steve lift their heads to look at him, but the other do not. Loki buries the rouse of worry at this and forces himself to focus. There are no guards present inside, a crass move, but not one Loki sees below Hydra. Their arrogance will be the death of them.

The Avengers stare at him silently, and the tracking spell releases a relieved hum as Thor comes into visual contact, fuzzing out back into his subconscious. Loki takes several steps forward and reaches Clint first, grasping the metal shackle attached to his wrist and tugging.

The metallic pull is strong enough to make him strain, but it gives out before he does. Magnetic cuffs, creative, he supposes, but a tad on the impractical side. Clint makes a slight noise as his hand drops into his lap likely from the blood rushing back to his fingers and Loki repeats the process with the archer's other hand, giving a fleeting touch to the Hawk's shoulder to take a magical assessment of his condition.

Strained, tired, but no fatal injuries. Still, though, "Are you injured?" Loki demands.

Clint stares up at him, looking startled for several more second before he manages to ground himself. "No, I'm fine." His voice is quiet as if he doesn't trust it and Loki realizes that he's watching the lower half of his face for words.

He cannot hear him.

At least not well.

Hydra took the device for hearing and this infuriates him. He reaches a hand out to clasp Clint's chin and turn his head to the left staring at his ears. He only saw the device briefly when Clint was under his control, but his memory has always been a curse with how detailed it is. The faint outline of the clear plastic is missing. They did take it. Well. They can add that to their growing list of regrets when he's finished with them.

He releases Clint's chin and forces his expression to relax as the hawk's gaze flicks up to him, confused. Loki is uncertain how to assist, injuries such as these are not common on Asgard. Loki doesn't comment and moves to Natasha, repeating the process with her cuffs and sees a long cut stemming from next to her eyebrow down to her chin and there's a swelling bruise that looks distinctly like a hand mark.

Anger swirls through him at it, but he bites his tongue to withhold a comment.

"Are you hale?"

Natasha gives a hesitant nod, and Loki releases her, moving to Bruce. A thick, black leather collar is strapped around his neck and blinking rapidly, but Loki has little idea of what it is. There are messy bandages around his shoulder and thigh that are stained red. Jarvis said that he had sustained two bullet wounds, Loki didn't realize that he didn't release the monster to heal himself.

He has been suffering for days, and has not release his counterpart.

Loki glances at Natasha, "Can you care for him?"

She nods.

Loki pulls the cuffs off the wall and Bruce's body attempts to slump forward, but Loki catches him and Natasha moves to take the weight. He moves his fingers forward and clasps the collar feeling for a release latch. When his fingers find it, Loki grips and tugs it away from Bruce's neck. The light beeps once more before it fizzles to black.

After making sure that Natasha has proper grip on the scientist, he turns to Sergeant Barnes. The man's head lifts slightly towards him and Loki stares at him. "You have my thanks." Loki murmurs quietly and leans forward to grab at the cuffs around his metal arm. His flesh and bone hand does not have one.

Sergeant Barnes' lips thin, but he doesn't respond.

The metallic pull is stronger and Loki can't get it to pull for more than a second before snapping back. Frustration begins to tug at him, but Loki forces his muscles to relax and flicks his gaze to the wall. Fine. If he can't get the magnets to release, then he'll just change it into something not magnetic. Or less magnetic. Like copper.

Loki presses a hand on the wall and it ripples with the warping, but Sergeant Barnes' arm falls a second later the cuffs useless against the copper.

Loki turns and sees Tony and Steve watching him carefully, but their stances are not weary with mistrust. Loki turns his gaze to Thor, who is slumped forward head rolled against his chest and hair a mess across his face. His hands are lazily bandaged from what wounds Loki is not certain. It doesn't matter; Thor bled because of them. And this is not acceptable.

Loki takes a step towards Steve's direction, hands moving to grip the cuffs, but he stops at a voice: "Hey! Stop! What do you think you're doing!?"

Loki flicks his gaze up and sees two Hydra agents waving guns towards them, faces shrouded with the obnoxious helmets. Loki resists the urge to roll his eyes in annoyance, but sees the Avengers tense around him.

One of the two, more anxious or perhaps attempting to use the moment of surprise they lost when they spoke fires his weapon. It's not the bullets that he's been previously accustomed to, but some sort of bluish light. Similar to what Coulson fired at him several months ago, but more contained and focused.

Loki jerks his left hand out and catches the haze. The pulse is powerful and would have been destructive had it hit its intended target. Well. Loki can work with this. He shoves the blast back towards the Hydra agent and it slams into his gun. The weapon is immediately destroyed and the man staggers back, releasing a loud cuss as he clutches his broken arm to his chest.

He flips his other arm out to pull up a normal handgun and Loki feels irritation wash across him. The other man lifts his large gun, preparing it to fire. Loki walks towards the end of the truck's floor and flings a dagger towards the first man and flicks another towards him.

"Where one head is cut off, two more shall take its place." He murmurs the words like a chant as he falls to his knees and Loki turns back towards the interior of the truck.

"For the love of the Norns," Loki mutters under his breath and moves past Steve and Tony lifting his fingers up and twisting his wrist as he transforms the cuffs into copper. Tony and Steve jerk forward at the sudden release. Loki moves to his sibling and repeats the process with the cuffs, catching Thor as he tumbles forward.

Clint materializes next to him suddenly and Loki shifts Thor to his back with the little space on the bench and flicks hair away from his face. It's pale and thinner than he remembers, but nothing extensive shows itself. A collar similar to Bruce's is strung around Thor's neck and Loki makes quick work of it.

"They sedated both of them when we left." Tony offers quietly and Loki flicks his gaze up to the man.

Sedatives.

Ah.

Loki hums quietly under his breath and does a quick search of Thor's frame with his sedir, but beyond his hands, he doesn't find anything. Good. He needs to deal with these imbeciles and now he can do it properly with Thor not going to give up the ghost at any second.

He looks at Clint and makes sure he has eye contact before he says: "Watch him for me."

"Where are you going?" Steve demands as Loki moves towards the exit. Loki looks back at him.

"Someone should deal with these idiots before they put their heads together and realize where they need to focus their attack." Which, judging from their uncoordinated scrambles, won't be within the next few minutes. His illusions are distracting most of them, and the rest are busy dealing with the destruction of the engines or working through the fog to be of any use to their counterparts.

Natasha looks up from where she's carefully re-wrapping Bruce's wounds to him. Loki flicks his gaze to the dark haired man for a second. He doesn't have the energy to perform a healing, hold up the illusions and attack Hydra a the moment. Bruce will hold until he returns and then he will aid.

"We can help." The spider insists.

Loki's lips twitch on a smile and he shakes his head, "You are injured," he reminds, "remain here. I will retrieve you when it is safe."

Steve shakes his head, "No, just give us a few guns and—"

"My good captain," Loki interrupts before he can continue on with his insisting, "I do not need the distraction of making sure your pathetic mortal resistance doesn't give out suddenly," he waves a hand slightly and a golden light spreads across the ground outside of the truck, "step beyond this light and they will be able to damage and see you. Do not leave it."

With that stated, Loki teleports from the truck into the middle of the chaos outside of it.

Chapter Text

Why'd you come you knew you should have stayed,

I tried to warn you just to stay away,

And now their outside ready to bust,

It looks like you might be one of us.

-Twenty One Pilots "Heathens"

Chapter Fifteen:

Thor has never had wax stuffed up his ears, but he imagines that this is what the world would sound like if he did. His consciousness refuses to stick and he can only pick out the briefest forms of conversation when it does. Something about medical trials, burning, nerve damage, bullet holes and a variety of other things that make no sense to him. It's a mess.

The voices are sometimes those he doesn't recognize, but mostly he hears the reassuring baritone of his younger sibling and those of the other Avengers save Bruce, along with Natasha's soft voice speaking to him.

Thor drifts.

Everything is hard to focus on and his senses are dulled, but strangely heightened.

When his consciousness finally settles, it's akin to landing face first against cement. His body aches and his fingers are stiff with pain. Everything smells strongly of rubbing alcohol and plastic. His mouth is dry and tastes like rotting leather and there's a dull lighting pressing into his eyes and a soft murmur of a headache pounding in the background. The most prominent thing, however is the voices.

They aren't loud; almost to the point of just fluttering, but it's enough to drag him from the black he's been entrapped in.

Thor forces himself to relax and keep the illusion of sleep as he attempts to further affirm his surroundings. There's three voices speaking, two of them are male and one is a female. All are familiar, but his brain is sluggish and he can't place from where.

His mind is attempting to once again slip into the comfort of the darkness, but he refuses to be dragged. He grounds himself firmly in the present and gradually becomes aware that something is holding his hand. His right hand in a gentle reassuring grip, but the sensation is so strange that he nearly jerks forward at it.

He forces himself to remain still.

Assess his surroundings.

There Loki, see, he is capable of thinking a—Loki. Norns, where is his brother? He can't remember anything past being dragged from the cell again and the sharp pain of a needle against his neck then the dark. Everything else has just been blurs and sensation of awkward sounds that haven't made much sense, but he's heard his siblings voice. And the other Avengers. His kith and his kin are with him, where ever "here" is.

"...said not to be using it with the infection finally draining out." A male voice says, irritated, but strangely fond as he speaks. Thor immediately places him. Steve. Steve is in the room with him and talking to someone else. Infection is related to injuries—who is injured?

"I know," Bruce, tired and sounds as though he's been drinking gravel for several days, states calmly and releases a quiet hiss through his teeth, "but doctors are the worst patients."

Judging from the silence, Steve is not amused with this.

Patients.

What happened!?

"I'm sorry I could not do more." Thor stills at the voice, attempting to keep the shock from running course through his body, but he fails. He hasn't heard her voice in months, but it doesn't stop him from placing it nonetheless. Mother. What is she doing here? How did she get here? How long as he been asleep?

"You did plenty." Bruce assures, "I just—ow, Steve! Don't poke that!"

"It's in a sling for a reason. You were shot, twice." Steve says firmly, as if this justifies the action that he undertook. It doesn't, not from Thor's understanding, but Midgardians are strange.

"My son," Frigga's voice is soft next to his ear, and a thumb strokes across his palm, "you may cease your facade, I am aware that you are awake."

Thor sluggishly blinks his eyes open and winces despite the dimmed light to meet his mother's pale blue eyes. Her face is etched with anxiety, but it smooths when his eyes flicker open. Her golden hair is pulled back into a loose braid and she's wearing a simple blue gown. She's not dressed in any of her queen propaganda assuring Thor quietly that she's not here on business.

She releases his hand and gently cups his cheek, "How are you feeling?"

Honestly? Terrible. There isn't a part of his body that doesn't ache and his headache is growing to painful proportions. Nonetheless, he offers a very small shrug. "Mmm. I've been better."

"Yes, you have." She agrees. There's something tight around the corners of her mouth as she says it. As quickly as it appeared, it vanishes and she smooths a stray piece of hair away from his face, gently moving to take his damaged fingers once more.

"You're up!" Steve comments, materializing in front of him. Thor represses the jump, but doesn't quite catch the startled sound that escapes his throat. Steve's eyes have slight shadows and he looks like he's been running for days straight. The relief in his gaze, however, is sincere. Steve runs a hand through his hair, "Sorry, it's been a long few days."

Days.

Days?

Thor gives a slight nod in response and turns his gaze to the rest of the room. It's white and there aren't any windows. There's multiple hospital beds on Thor's left, but there all unoccupied. Bruce is sitting up in the one on his right closest to the far wall and staring at him. The room has clearly been in use for at least a few days. There's boxes of food stuffed into the rubbish bins and chairs are spread across the room in bizarre manners. There isn't any artwork on the walls which makes it feel strangely empty. There's a bedside table on his right is a mess of objects and pieces of paper.

The thing that catches Thor's eye, however, is the sofa in front of him next to the door where Loki is sprawled out. A blanket was tossed onto him at some point, but it doesn't cover his bare feet or left arm very well. He's sleeping soundly, chest rising and falling steadily and doesn't look to be moving any time soon.

Frigga squeezes his hand suddenly, drawing him back to her face. Her gaze is also on the dark haired Asgardian and Thor can't quite place her expression.

"Shall I alert the others that Mr. Odinson has awakened?" Jarvis asks, causing Thor to jerk his head up towards the ceiling in surprise. Stark Tower. They're in Stark Tower, likely the medical wing if he's guessing correctly, but that means they're in New York.

"Yeah." Steve says and takes one of the three chairs spread between his and Bruce's bed.

Thor ignores it, turning to his mother a thought suddenly occurring to him. "Mother," his voice is strained, "I don't—" A cough escapes through his lips and Frigga moves to press a glass of water against his lips.

"I do not share your brother's skill in World-Walking from any point, but there are paths between the Realms that can be traced here. Your father and I decided it would be best before any of you managed to get yourself into worse trouble." Frigga answers before he can ask on what she's doing here. She flicks her gaze up, something that looks vaguely like pride in her eyes, "I arrived much later than I intended—getting lost in the paths is a problem—and when I managed to locate your Avengers, Loki had already dealt with the issue."

"With fire." Steve adds helpfully. Pauses, then adds: "And a great deal of taunting."

"There was also the thing where he stole that guy's gun." Bruce recalls, but his brow is furrowed as if he's trying to draw up details on the fight, but can't pick up many. Steve winces despite this and grimaces with sympathy.

"Yeah. That too."

Ah. Well. That's like him.

"How long have I been asleep?" Thor questions.

Frigga's lips thin tightly, "Fifteen days."

"Fifteen!?" Thor sputters loudly with surprise. Fifteen!? He would have believed three or four days with ease, but fifteen!?

"Most of it was purposeful." Bruce explains, "They found a...type of virus in your bloodstream and it wasn't safe to let you wake up without knowing what would happen. Bucky—" Bruce pauses seeing Thor's puzzled expression and quickly corrects himself: "—one of Steve's friends who used to work for Hydra—"

"He didn't work for them." Steve corrects.

Bruce groans quietly under his breath, "Don't start that again," he carps, "anyway, he helped us find the cure they were making, but it took us several days to find. So far they haven't found any negative effects in your bloodstream. Loki was injected with the same substance and cure and he's been fine as far as we can tell."

Thor flicks his gaze back towards his brother anxiously, attempting to find fault with his appearance. Loki doesn't look sick, but it wouldn't be the first time that he's managed to hide a disease from Thor before.

Thor opens his mouth to ask another question, but at that moment the door to the hospital room is thrown open and Natasha, Tony, Clint and another man come tumbling into the room looking ready for war, but not dressed the part.

Loki jumps at the sound and tugs the blanket over his face releasing a loud curse in Aardent.

Natasha and Clint look mildly startled at the noise, but Tony's gaze flicks to the Asgardian for a second looking decidedly amused before moving to poke at his shoulder. "Oblivious sleeping beauty, are we?" He questions teasingly.

"Shut it." Loki commands.

Tony continues to poke at his shoulder, but his touch is fleeting like he's afraid he'll be burned when his skin makes contact with Loki's shirt. "Get up, Reindeer Games. Are you aware that your brother finally woke up?"

This earns a reaction from Loki who sits up so quickly, Tony nearly gets his hand rammed into by Loki's forehead. His sibling gets to his feet and throws the blanket to the side quickly moving across the room and stops when Thor makes eye contact with him.

His hair is a mess and his clothing is some of the less fancier attire from Asgard. It looks strange with his bare feet, but Thor honestly isn't surprised. Given a choice, Loki would happily wear no socks or shoes for the rest of his days. Loki moves forward and presses a hand against his forehead. "Do you feel ill?" He questions.

"No." Thor assures.

"Dizzy?"

"No."

"Can you move your fingers?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a headache?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Are you—?"

"Okay, be calm," Clint commands, grabbing at Loki's shoulder to tug him back slightly, "give him room to breathe."

Thor shoots the archer a grateful look. As much as he loves his sibling and how wonderful it is to be fussed over by him again—strange, too, very strange—Loki is a mother hen of death. Both of them received medical training, but Loki's is more advanced than his ever was because of his magic.

Loki gives Clint an unhappy look, but takes the seat closest to Thor's bed anyway, watching him. Thor flicks his gaze up to the rest of the Avengers and the man, (Steve's friend Bucky, perhaps?). Natasha is relaxed and her gaze more at ease than he can ever recall being in them before. Tony and Clint are watching him with concern, but not being obvious about it.

"Do you want anything?" Tony questions abruptly, "A milkshake? Sandwich? Poptart?"

"Hungry, are we?" Natasha inquiries dryly.

Tony lightly whacks her arm, "You know what, Nat; I've been in press conferences all day with Pepper listening to politicians complain about S.H.I.E.L.D. and we didn't have time to stop for dinner or lunch, so yeah, I'm hungry."

"Should I go get you a sandwich?" Bruce asks hopefully.

"Move from the bed again, Bruce, and I will personally see to it that there is no possible way for you to leave it." Loki assures with a bright smile in the doctor's direction. It doesn't take much to see the threat laced into the joyful expression.

Bruce makes a noise of protest.

Steve catches Thor's eye, "Honestly, though, is there anything that you need?"

"No." Thor assures. "I would just like to know full details on what happened and why we're back in Stark Tower."

The Avengers quiet sharing a look before Natasha rests a hand on the man-whose-possibly-Steve's-not-Hydra-companion, "Well then. The first thing you should know is that this is Bucky. He is the unwilling co-worker for Hydra."

"Unwilling how?" Thor asks.

"The simplest terms would be to label it as "mind washing"." Loki explains, "It was not so much mind control. When we fought in Stark Tower the day of the attack, I pulled his memories forward from where his subconscious had hidden them and we left the Tower to seek refuge elsewhere."

"Bucky started remembering who he was after that, though," Steve appends, "but by that point he was already being taken with you Tony and Bruce for guarding purposes. He decided to wait and see if he could assist somewhere, but it never really arose anywhere."

"During that fun process, I was forced into writing out plans for Hydra on a mass weapon of destruction after getting Bruce shot twice—"

"Not your fault."

"—and you were being test-tried for a drug they planned on using in Loki. It's something like a computer parasite. It's meant to infect the brain and instill the same type of programming that Bucky had, but it can't be activated without access to a computer."

Oh.

Wait.

Thor turns to Loki who meets his gaze steadily. "I am fine, Thor," he reassures.

But—

"When the rest of the Avengers attacked the building with Loki they were overpowered quickly and Bucky dragged Coldstone's sorry butt out into the wild again, but when he went back for the others he was caught. Yay Sergeant Barnes." Tony says the last part dryly, "We should give him a Nobel Peace Prize."

"A what?" Thor questions helplessly.

"Nothing important." Clint reassures, "Loki attacked during when we were being transferred to another base and took us all to where Pepper Tony's girlfriend was awaiting to leave back to New York for assistance."

"That's when Fury showed up." Steve explains, "He explained about his near assassination where he was rescued by a man named Sam Wilson and spent days looking for us before he caught word of Ms. Potts trip to Wyoming. He said that he'd given the reigns for what's left of S.H.I.E.L.D. to another and they were working to clean up the mess Hydra had managed to create with our government."

"I mean, admittedly it wasn't the worst idea ever," Tony says, his voice reluctant, "it's sort of like in Harry Potter when they were making the Muggles look for Sirius."

The reference makes no sense to him, nor his brother, mother, Bucky, or Steve, but everyone else perks up at it.

"Oh." Clint breathes, "Oh. Yeah, I can see that now."

"Still though." Tony insists, "Annoying."

"Yes." Natasha agrees.

"When they returned to the city of New York, I met them." Frigga says, "We have been here ever since, attempting to cure you and keep Dr. Banner from getting sicker. His wounds were infected and the beast that slumbers within him offered no aid."

Oh.

He flicks his gaze towards the doctor, where he gives a weak smile in response to Thor's inquiring gaze. Thor returns his gaze to Tony and bites at his tongue before admitting: "I would not mind if you were to procure a sandwich."

Tony laughs and pats his foot as he walks past towards the door, "Thenest a sandwich I whilst bring."

Loki's eyes flicker upwards with annoyance. "I swear," he mutters under his breath, "if he brings up Shakespeare one more time in such mockery I will wring his neck."

Thor laughs, but doesn't doubt him.

000o000

The following days do not pass rapidly, simply or anything associated with the word "easy". Bruce's infection spikes again before finally quelling to the dark hole it climbed out of. Thor barely makes it a few steps before he collapses from lack of nutrition and the rest of them are left scrambling to assist where they can and Loki has never felt more useless. He spends his nights volunteering for watch on the sofa present in the hospital room so he can keep an eye on his teammate and his sibling with ease. He doesn't really sleep, but when he does the Avengers go well out of there way to keep him sleeping.

When Thor and Bruce are finally released from the hospital six days later, both are more than grateful. Thor has more mobility than Bruce does with the doctor's still healing feet, but both are confined to the common room couch where the rest of them force them to stay.

Their mother remains in the Tower for a few more days, then leaves to assist Director Coulson with the mess that Hydra made of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Three days later, Loki finds himself being dragged into watching a movie with the rest of the Avengers. The picture itself isn't really interesting, something about a princess with long hair who sings a great deal, but about halfway through Natasha presses a brush into his hands and declares, "I've seen you do your mother's hair and Thor's, fix mine before I shave it" and Loki spends a great deal of time distracted by the braids he's weaving into her thick hair.

When the movie has finished, mostly everyone is asleep or well on there way there, but Loki hears footsteps behind him. He rises to his feet, taking care to removing himself without arousing Thor or Natasha and slips into the kitchen.

Frigga is gathering the last remains of her supplies from where it's been spread out across the table the last few days with no particular order. Her back is to him, but he knows that she has sensed him. She's leaving Midgard. Loki's stomach sinks at the realization, but he quietly berates himself. She has been here for weeks and she is queen. She has more duties to attend to than these. She has likely overspent her time anyway.

"Must you go?" Loki asks softly, handing Frigga the final bottle of cream on the table. His mother looks back at him, eyes soft and expression equally so.

"My son," she takes his shoulder, "it will not be the last time you see me."

"I know." Loki assures.

But, still.

"I have left a letter for Thor, I hope he understands the urgency. Your father has requested me back in Asgard."

Loki nods, but picks at his palm lightly. A anxious and nervous habit he obtained from her.

"I will still visit when I can." She reassures, giving a faint smile as she cups his cheek and to press a kiss against his temple. "It is good to see you happy once more, dearheart."

Loki wrings his hands anxiously, and isn't certain how to answer. So, instead, he loopholes: "It will be nice to be visited by kin, then." He says softly and she smiles gently and gives his shoulder a gentle push.

"You already have some here."

Loki turns, eyes open and the delicious clear sight shining through to see the shaded colors of the room and the gentle slope of the city light in the distance. The colors of various bits of hair from the Avengers as they sleep. Tony's arc reactor giving a soft hum of light to see by that is almost ignorable. Just sight. The Avengers are tumbled and leaning against one another in a way that can't be achieved unless there is trust. Kin. Loki had not considered the bizarre possibility, but it fits them.

And he's content with that.

Chapter Text

Hey! For those of you who are interested, I started a rewrite of this fic called "(death must be lonely like I am)", posted on fanfiction.net and on a03, done with vastly improved writing skills and a fraction of a darker tone. However, to make this explicitly clear, this version of the fic will be staying up. I do not delete fics.

Love you all, thank you, I hope to see you at version 2.0. ;)

LINK IN NOTES.