Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every night, he falls asleep knowing it’s 2012. He wakes up every morning in 1943.

It’s always the same. Awareness slams into him before he even opens his eyes. He’s lying in bed, his back against warm sheets, his face cooled by the air blowing in from an open window. He remembers falling asleep in his apartment in Brooklyn... Or was that just a dream? His thoughts are muddled, he can`t focus on what`s happening in his head. So he focuses on his surroundings instead.

The first thing he notices is the noise. It’s constant, loud and clamoring; louder than he ever remembers New York being. People are shouting; some in salutation, some angrily, some happily. There is a constant, never ending din of speech permeating the air. Horns are honking furiously and something is banging ceaselessly across the cobbled streets. This Brooklyn is louder than the one he knows; it’s different.

The second thing he notices is the smell. His sense, so much sharper since the injection of the super soldier serum, can smell and taste a burning, acrid odor that settles unpleasantly on his tongue. The polluted air wafts across his face with each gust from the open window. It carries with it the smell of coffee, freshly baked bread, and a sharp tinge of rusted metal. It smells like the city, but not as he remembers it. This city is not as clean as Brooklyn as he remembers it.

The third thing he notices is how bright it is. Sunlight pierces through his closed eyelids, tingeing the world a bloody reddish hue. He opens his eyes quickly, squinting as the harsh light meets his face. Then his piercing blue eyes have adjusted, and he stares at the ceiling above him, finding shapes in the puckered texture of the paint job. It’s white, perfect and pristine. The paint is flawless, not even stained and almost fresh. It’s not the faded, peeling off-white shade of the roof of his apartment at home in Brooklyn. Where is he?

His reflexes, lightning fast and almost unconscious since his transformation, kick into action, and he springs from beneath the soft blankets covering him. His hands curl into tight fists, raised defensively up to his face. He lands on the balls of his feet on a warm, carpeted floor. The floor of his apartment in Brooklyn is wood; hard and cold year round. His body is tense as he whirls around, searching the room for any signs of a threat. There’s nothing. He’s alone.

Slowly, he lowers his fists and stands more upright as he takes in his surroundings. A bed lies in the centre of the room, sheets mussed from his sudden awakening. Beside it, a small table holds a shaded lamp, and several framed photographs. A shot of Peggy, the same one enclosed in his compass. One of him, dressed in full uniform, standing with several other men and a red-haired woman. An older, tea-stained photograph of him next to a smiling Bucky. On the wall across the room, a shiny black screen covers a large area of the wall, reflecting his wide eyes and gaping mouth back to him. A window is open in the room, looking out on to glass and metal and brick; buildings stretching from the ground to the sky and beyond. Every tower looks new, some are still under construction. Repairs after the damages caused by the Chitauri attack.

It all comes flooding back to him then. Where he is... When he is. It’s 2012, and he is in Stark Tower, home of the famous Avengers. Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. He is Steve Rogers, Captain America, the First Avenger. The leader. The one who always has a plan. The one who everyone counts on. The one who is never, ever hesitant, who never, ever shows his fear, and who always knows exactly what`s going on. If only his team could see him now.

He trips backwards a step and sits down heavily on the bed as the full weight of this realization hits him. It’s 2012. He’s 70 years out of his own time. Everyone he knew; Bucky, Peggy, Howard, Dr. Erksine, Timothy... all dead. Peggy, the woman he loved, dead after waiting 70 years for a dance. His right partner. His face burrows into his hands and he sighs. Every night, he dreams about her. About all of them. About his time, living during the war. He dreams of fighting alongside them all again, combating against HYDRA. Every mission, every bead of sweat, every drop of blood feels real to him.

He falls asleep in peace. He wakes up back in the war.

Someone is banging on the door to his room, and he’s tempted to tell them to just go away. But he doesn’t. He never does. Every morning he gets up and does what he needs to do. For the team. It’s Bruce, quietly reminding Steve that breakfast is ready, and would he like some coffee? Bruce leaves, and he’s alone again. He dresses for the day, in clothes that went out of fashion years ago. Much like he did. Captain America was a hero for another time, when being an American meant something more. When it still had ideals to fight for. He does up the last button and sighs again, taking in his reflection in the full length mirror on the door of his closet. Today, he pledges to be Steve Rogers: Captain America. He will lead his team. Because they need him, almost as much as he needs them.

Every morning, he promises himself that it will all get easier. He tells himself that this time will become his again; that he’ll find someone new to love, he’ll find himself again and he’ll adjust. He’ll learn to wake up in the morning knowing who and where and when he is. Every morning, he swears to himself that it will get a little bit better.

Every morning, he prays that he’s right.

Chapter Text

He starts every morning, not with a cup of coffee, but by staring at himself in the mirror.

Bruce Banner is not a narcissistic man, quite the opposite. If you ask anyone, they would say that he, in fact, has a rather lower opinion of himself. He is never one to be called self-obsessed. He doesn’t start his day in self reflection because he enjoys it. He does it because he has to. He does it, not because he’s afraid of what others will see, but because he’s afraid of what he will see. He’s scared of the face that looks back at him.

On his worst days, he sees green. Not necessarily because he’s angry. It could be anything: a harsh truth about his condition coming from Fury; a subtle flinch away when he stands near Natasha; even Tony’s careless comments about his Hulk-outs. Whenever he feels most vulnerable, Hulk is there. His brown eyes will meet green ones in the mirror, and the severity of his situation hits him suddenly. They’re right, they’re all right. He is dangerous. He is unpredictable. He is volatile. Knowing these things about his self hurts, but knowing that his team is aware of those facts hurts even more.

The first time, he breaks the mirror. He’s almost unaware as he lunges out with a fist and shatters the glass. The pain is sharp at first, and the glass embedded in his knuckles stings with its own Fury, but he doesn’t transform. Maybe it’s because he’s not angry. He’s helpless. A rush of endorphins soon alleviates the pain as adrenaline surges through his body. He pulls the glass splinters out, one by one, and the blood stained pieces fall to the floor to join the rest. Not five minutes later, Tony practically breaks down the door as he forces his way, wide eyed, in to Bruce’s room. Upon seeing Bruce sitting there, cross-legged in a pile of glass, pulling shards of the same out of his hand, Tony doesn’t say anything. The next day, Bruce has a new mirror; one that is supposedly shatter-proof.

There are days when the reflection that he sees is his own. Days when things seem to go alright; he smiles, he laughs, he does science. He helps people. To anyone else, days like this are common, everyday occurrences. To others, these days are few and far between. Whatever the case, they’re usually a crowd favourite. Not for Bruce. These days are the ones he fears the most. The days when he is most happy, the most content, are the days that set his teeth on edge, and send dark thoughts and nightmares into his mind. He’s afraid because he knows that they can’t last.

He’ll snap eventually, he knows it. It won’t take much. Someone could look at him the wrong way, and he’ll lose it. It could be Tony that sends him over the edge in one of his crazed attempts of showing Bruce his trust. Maybe they’ll be on a mission, and Hulk just won’t stop smashing. And then they’ll all be dead. Smashed. Crushed. Broken. Bleeding red. Red and green. It will all be his fault. He’ll lose everything, and it will all be his fault.

He fears himself even more than he fears the Other Guy. Hulk is a monster; everyone knows that. He can be suppressed, he can be imprisoned and controlled, and everyone will know that despite everything, Hulk is and can always be a monster. But what about Bruce? Is it just that one side of him that hurts people; that wants to see them dead? Or does the man, the scientist, ever want that too? He’s just as capable of hurting the people he loves and he knows it. In the end, that’s why he always leaves. That’s why he isolates himself, even when he’s with his team. It’s not because the Hulk will hurt them. It’s so that he, Bruce Banner, won’t.

He learns to appreciate the days where he sees green. They, at least, feel real to him. On those days, he knows just who he is. He’s the man who hides the monster. He knows why he does it, too. He does it to protect everyone; his friends, his neighbours, the world. That is his reality. Control. His entire life focuses around control, and maintaining it. Everything else is just a distraction, and he can’t afford to be distracted. No one else can afford for him to be distracted either.

On the days where he sees himself, he realizes his sad truth. Bruce Banner does not mask the Hulk. The Hulk masks Bruce Banner. He uses the Other Guy as a shield, to deflect anyone who might get too close to him. Close enough for him, for Bruce, to hurt them. He will not be his father. He will not hurt the people he loves. So he chooses not to love anyone. He will bear his burden alone, because that way, he’s the only one that will get hurt.

He walks away from the mirror every morning, resigning himself to that fact. He downs a pot of coffee, because it’s what he’s expected to do. He jokes with Tony. He shares a laugh with Pepper about her boyfriend’s antics. He explains the 21rst century to Steve. He tolerates Clint and tries his best to reassure Natasha. But he doesn’t let them get too close. As soon as they try, he shuts down. He reverts to his fallback; his constant anger, and the Hulk. It’s the only defence he has.

It’s the only way he can save them from himself.

He searches for a cure, but the attempt is only half hearted. Because if he succeeds, then his mask is gone, and his team will see the real monster. Not the Hulk, but him. Every morning, he secretly hopes that he’ll see the green, because then he knows that his reality is still safe. The others are safe. His secret is safe.

Every morning, he hopes that it’s not his own reflection that he sees, but the Other Guy.

Because there are worse things to fear.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t usually sleep.

He tries, of course. He always tries. He knows what’s good for him, and what will keep his body in peak physical condition. When the others disperse for the night, he always follows, walking to his room alone and shutting out the lights. He goes through all of the motions; he lies down, closes his eyes, and clears his mind. It almost works. He drifts away, slowly but surely, until his mind is completely blank. But then the nightmares come again, and Loki’s there, in his head, and he’s sitting upright, a knife in his hands, whipped out from underneath his pillow. He tastes blood from where he’s bitten into his tongue. There’s no one in the room. He’s completely alone, but that never reassures him. He won’t sleep again tonight. Instead, he trains.

Tony was generous enough – as Tony himself had pointed out, he was a ‘very generous individual’ - to build a full scale target range for him in the training room, and that’s exactly where he spends most of his sleepless nights. His own bow is under lock and key in the safe in his room, but he keeps spares in the training room. Low-tech, standard issue recurve. Available at any hunting or sporting goods store. Simple. That’s how he prefers it, not that he would ever admit it to Stark. But his standard recurve bow reminds him of his beginnings, and the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders. It feels substantial in his hands, and it smells like wood and oil. A truly archaic weapon, in spite Stark’s best archery cracks.

He takes his stance in front of the target, slowly going through each and every one the motions, as if it were his first time again. Deep breath in. Widening his feet, until they rest about shoulder width apart. Deep breath out. Notching an arrow, tilting his bow so it doesn’t slip off of its rest. Deep breath in. Raising the bow, twisting his left arm out to avoid the snap of the string and the uncomfortable bruises that it leaves. Deep breath out. He draws the arrow back to his cheek, feeling the slight pressure of his hand on his skin as it rest there. He holds his breath out, sights along the arrow, and fires. Thwack. Right in the centre of the bulls-eye.

He secretly loves these moments, when he shoots simply because he can. It’s not for a mission. His goal is not to save or end a life. He shoots for himself; he’s in control. To him, nothing is more important than that fact. Being in control. He is his own person, and when he shoots, he’s untouchable. Completely in charge. He goes through the motions again: notch, draw, breath out, and fire. Thwack. Another bulls-eye. He never misses. He’s in control.

Perhaps that’s why he loves his job so much. Because even when he’s taking his orders, even when Fury is shouting down his nose at Clint, he knows that he’s in control. He could refuse at any time, but he doesn’t. Because the moment someone else’s life is placed in his hands, Clint gets to play God for a moment. Should he allow them to live, or will he follow orders and let them die? He’s the one in control here, no one else. Usually, he does as he’s told. But when he does, it’s because he wants to. He never relinquishes that control.

Sometimes, he’ll disobey his orders. He makes a different call. The moment he held Natalia Romanova’s life in his hands, he knew what call he was going to make. He didn’t follow his orders. Instead, he chose to reason with Soviet agent, and he never regretted it. SHIELD was angry, even mistrustful for a short time, but Clint knew that as long as he made his own calls, he was in control. And Natasha, as she now preferred to be called, had become the most reliable partner he could ask for, and the closest thing to a friend that he’d ever had. On his most difficult nights, he toys with the idea of waking the Widow, but he never does. Because despite their friendship, as long as she’s in his debt, he’s still in control.

He never fully realized his need to be in charge until after the Loki-mind-fuck. In an instant, everything that he held dear was gone, and so was his control. He took the backseat in his own mind and watched as Loki made him methodically destroy everything that was important to him. He tried to resist. He tried to fight back. It didn’t make a difference. If Natasha hadn’t performed a cognitive recalibration, he would still be Loki’s bitch, and he still wouldn’t have control even over himself. That thought scares him more than anything else does. Notch. Draw. Breathe. Fire. Thwack.

He tells himself that he’s okay now. He tells Natasha the same thing, and the psychologists at Shield, and Fury and the rest of his new team. He’s okay, he says, Loki’s influence is gone. He’s in control. He says it again, to reassure himself; or the others, he doesn’t know. He’s in control. When a fellow agent flinches away from his touch, or defies his orders just because of his time spent being Loki’s bitch, he doesn’t strangle them. He could, but he doesn’t. He tells himself that it proves he’s in control, because Loki wouldn’t hesitate. He would kill them in an instant. Clint will never admit that deep down, he wants to.

So he retreats to the range again, because it’s where he feels the safest. Because when he shoots, he’s untouchable. Notch. Draw. Breathe. Fire. Thwack. He’s split another arrow in two, but he doesn’t care. He keeps shooting, because the instant he stops, his fear creeps back in. His fear of losing control. Notch. Draw. Breathe. Fire. Thwack. He’s exhausted, but he’ll sleep later, he tells himself. For now, he shoots. He’ll stay there all day if he had to. He’ll stay there until his fear dissipates, until he can reassert his control on himself. Until someone can reassure him that he is still his own. He’s in control. He repeats the mantra, over and over, hoping that someday, it will be true.

He’s in control. He hates lying to himself. He’s in control.

Notch. Draw. Breathe. Fire. Thwack.

Chapter Text

He wakes up every morning feeling lonely.

When he falls asleep in Pepper’s arms, or after having drunk himself into a stupor, he knows who and where he is. He never drops the confident, self-assured, self-obsessed facade that he wears until he sleeps. Then, all his guards are down, and the nightmares creep back in. They first started after Afghanistan, but after a few years they faded into the background. They stopped bothering him. He convinced himself that it was over; that he had overcame his fear and had left that part of his life behind him. He was wrong.
It’s only been a few weeks since the Chitauri attack when the nightmares wake him again. Guns firing, men screaming as they burn. Every man that he killed stares back at him accusingly. The soldiers in the ‘fun-vee’ blame him for their deaths, the members of the Ten Rings... Yinsen. Yinsen is bleeding out and gasping for life and Tony cannot save him. He isn’t good enough, or fast enough, or smart enough to save him. At least that’s what he tells himself.

Even worse are the dreams when he sees the deaths that he didn’t know about, but that he knows he caused. Small children fleeing his bombs, families screaming and crying as everything they know is obliterated by missiles marked Stark Industries. He wakes up sweating and panting, sometimes screaming in warning. They need to run: they need to get away from him. Because Tony knows that he destroys everything that he touches.

Sometimes when he wakes up, Pepper is next to him, Holding onto him and whispering comforts. She will press her body against his and just let him listen to the sounds of her voice, her breathing, and her heartbeat. It assures him that she’s alive, and that she’s there for him. Someone, at least, loves him, and he’s not alone. It’s a comforting feeling, one that he’s not really used to quite yet. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be accustomed to the idea that someone cares for him. But she’s there, and she does. When he wakes up next to Pepper, he can forget the nightmares. But when she’s not there, and he wakes up alone, it feels like the world is breaking underneath him.

Tony has always been alone. He’s been alone for so long that it has become second nature to him. His father never cared enough to make him see otherwise. He may claim Tony as his ‘greatest creation’, but Tony learned long ago that actions speak louder than words. Howard can claim Tony as the son that he always loved and cared for, but he never once showed his son that. Tony may claim to be a philanthropist, but he can’t ignore all of the lives that he destroyed. Sometimes people tell Tony that he’s like his father. Tony disagrees. He’s worse than his father ever was.

He’s always been alone, as long as he can remember. His mother may have loved him, but she was too busy with one Stark to look after the other. His father certainly never loved him enough to show it. Obadiah pretended to love him before using him. People didn’t love Tony Stark, they merely used him and when they were done, they left him. He learned early in life that people always leave.

He pushes people away, too, before they get the chance to leave. Before they get the chance to hurt him. He pushes slowly but surely, testing their limits to withstand him until they break. And when they break, they leave. He tells himself that it’s easier that way. Because he never lets them in, and they leave before they can really, truly hurt them. More importantly, they leave before he can hurt them.

He chooses to be alone. It’s easier than the alternative. Because Tony knows that he will disappoint. He knows that he’s not good enough, and that’s why he never let’s anyone get close enough to see that. Because once they do, they’ll realize that he isn’t worth loving, and he isn’t worth pitying. He’s petty and selfish and wicked and worthless. He’ll never be good enough. He’ll never be smart enough. He’ll never be deserving. They tell him that it’s all lies, that that’s only his father talking, but Tony knows they’re wrong. And then he laughs it off and pokes and prods and annoys until they leave him alone again.

He wonders how he managed to get a woman like Pepper. A woman so pure and strong and good who loves him; adores him, really. Who looks past all of the shit he does and says and puts up with him because only she can truly see who he is underneath of it all. And she doesn’t run. She stays with him, despite everything, because she sees him the way he really is. Broken. She just wants to fix him, and help him. She says that underneath the broken pieces, he’s a beautiful man; a kind man, selfless and brave, if a little sarcastic and annoying at times. Tony doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue either. Because it feels good.

Before the team, only Pepper really saw who he was underneath the facade. But now, there seems to be someone slipping through the cracks in his mask at every turn. Bruce gets him to laugh – genuinely laugh – for the first time in what feels like years. He feels excited about his experiments for the first time in a long time when he’s with his science bro; someone who speaks his language and understands him. They don’t talk about the dark pasts that they both have; they don’t need too. They make each other feel a little better.

Clint and Natasha get under his guard in the way that only master assassins can. They wait patiently for a small slip; a drunken comment or the fallout of a media hounding, before they pounce. They talk to him confidently and calmly, weaving their way expertly through interrogations that don’t really feel like interrogations. Clint offers advice and stories from his own past. Natasha offers her own advice and helps herself to his liquor cabinet when they get drunk together. Thor gets through simply by being himself; loveable, open and caring. He doesn’t push Tony, but he’s always there.

Steve is a little more difficult. The two of them don’t get along on the best of terms, but he tries. They talk. Steve shares stories about Howard and the war. Tony tells Steve all about his Aunt Peggy and the tales of the great Captain America that his father told him. They bond slowly, but they’re trying. Everyone makes an effort to get to know the real Tony, not just the facade he wears for the rest of the world.

He wonders when the rest of them will finally crack and leave. He tests the limit of each person, toeing the line and stepping back to watch them leave. They never do. His team stays, and they endure him. So Tony never stops pushing, but he never stops hoping either. Because maybe, he’s found a group of people who can withstand him. Maybe he’s found a group of people who care enough about him not to leave.

Maybe he doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

Chapter Text

She wakes up every morning seeing red.

She does sleep, despite every one else’s teasing that she’s too uptight or cautious to do so. Generally, it’s Tony who does the teasing, and nothing that she says or does to threaten him ever convinces him to stop. Part of her is annoyed by this reaction; she is the Black Widow, a world renowned assassin, and she should be feared. Another part of her is grateful. Because Tony knows who she is, sort of, and he doesn’t run. He isn’t afraid of her. He cares enough to stick around. She never had anyone like that in her life before.

She sleeps as often as the job allows. It can be difficult, balancing Avengers work with her other duties to SHIELD, but she does, and still manages to find time for herself. Time spent training doesn’t count, because it’s still work related. But ever so often there are moments when she can retreat in to her room at the Tower and let her guard down. She runs a bath, lights a few candles, and plays some music softly in the background. Michael Bublé is her favourite, not that she enjoys his music for the typical domestic reasons of a common housewife. No, she enjoys Bublé because his voice is real. In a lifestyle where lies and false identities can save your life, a little reality feels nice every once in a while.

She sinks into the soapy water, leaning her back against the molded seats of the Tower bath tubs. Tony only outfits his rooms for comfort, a fact that she appreciates after a long day at work. She leans back in the tub, letting the bubbles soak into her skin and listening to the sultry sounds of the music as they wash over her. Her guard is never fully down, because along with hearing the sounds of the music, she listens for any signs of intrusion or conflict. She has an escape route planned, and a back up in case one should fail. No, she never fully drops her guard down. But she comes close. She relaxes.

When the tension has finally disappeared from her body, she cloaks herself in the fluffiest bathrobe she can find and brushes her long, tangled mess of red curls out over her shoulders. It’s methodical, and comforting. A small action of normalcy in her anything but normal life. She exits the bathroom into the attached bedroom of the suite. Her suite. She hasn’t gotten used to the idea of calling it her own. Yes, she lives there, but she knows that, like everything else in life, it may as well be temporary. It could be one tomorrow, and she will have no choice but to move on.

She refuses to allow herself to get attached to anything. Sometimes, she and the girlfriends of the other Avengers will get together and discuss their relationships and the dynamic of the team. Every time, she’s asked about the status of her relationship with lint. We’re only friends, she tells them. Love is for children. She stands behind that statement if only to hide the truth. She’s afraid. If she commits to a relationship, only for it to fall apart, could she pick herself up again? If she gave herself completely to a man, to Clint, would she ever be the same woman ever again? She doesn’t know, and she fears what she doesn’t know.

It’s all she can do to relax again after letting her mind wander into such forbidden territory. She lies down on the bed, her bed, facing the ceiling with eyes wide open. Her ears are always open, searching for any sound that seems out of place in the Tower. It’s quiet. She focuses of draining the tension from each limb, one by one. First her arms… then her legs… her torso, her neck, finally her head. She rests it comfortably on the pillow, angled just right so that she can still have the best possible view of her surroundings when she wakes. She closes her eyes slowly. As she drifts off, her sense of hearing is the last sense she hangs on to, before the world fades to black.

Her dreams are always red. She sees the world as it once was as if through scarlet lenses. A thick haze of the colour coats every image, staining them even more crimson with blood than they already are. Hands, her hands, reach out and snap the neck of a man as he lays, panting excitedly beneath her as she straddles him seductively. A gun, her gun, fires a single shot, and a woman drops in front of a screaming child. The apron covering her front is stained with her own blood, and the blood is on Natasha’s hands too. It drips from underneath her finger nails, over her palms, flowing freely onto the ground and over her body. She is drowning in red, and the scarlet haze covering her vision grows thicker and darker, blotting out every other image and colour and sensation until the entire world seeps crimson.

She wakes up every morning with a gun in her hand.

She sleeps with it under her pillow, and every morning it somehow finds its way into her grasp as she sits upright, pointing her gun at nothing. Nothing but the blank wall across the room from her. She breathes deeply and evenly, raking the room around her to confirm her solitude. She listens, and hears the usual morning sounds of Steve returning from his regular morning workout in the gym, and Tony complaining loudly about the lack of prepared coffee. Then and only then, does she low herself to relax. She lowers the gun and returns it to its normal place underneath her pillow. She stands and crosses to the bathroom again, to splash cold water over her face. Eventually, after several minutes of spreading the cool droplets of water to her fevered forehead, arms, and chest, she gives up the pretext and runs a cold shower.

She’s had the dreams before. She knows every name and face that she sees. The man was Vladislav Azerov. He was an arms dealer, a drug addict, and in no way a candidate for Boy Scout of the year. He was a bad man doing bad things, and he had become her target. She had pleasured him that night, listened to him croon sweet words and affections at her in his native tongue before she had snapped his neck, killing him immediately and effectively. The woman was her target before SHIELD, and her husband had aggravated her superiors. Natasha had killed her on her child’s birthday, in front of her young daughter. The Black Widow’s ledger was dripping red, and every night reminded her of that fact.

Perhaps that’s why she fears commitment so much; because as an assassin, she knows how fragile life can be. How easy it is to take one life, and destroy another. She knows just how quickly red can be spilled onto ones account. She could be one any day. So could Clint. He could disappear at any given moment, and then she would have nothing left but the red. She clings to him, and to her team, while she has the chance. She remains fiercely loyal to them all, because any day, they could be gone. But she doesn’t get too attached, for the same reason. She remains apart; separate, aloof, but still part of the team. She tries to scrub the red from her ledger, because she never knows when her time will come, and when it does, she wants to be ready. For whatever comes after. She doesn’t want to face her maker cloaked in nothing but the red. She hopes and prays for the day when he dreams can be seen in other colours, ones that show her in better light.

She’s tired of seeing nothing but the red.

Chapter Text

He wakes up and he knows that it was his fault.

He doesn't often admit that to himself. He cannot bear to be wrong. It s not in his nature to accept the blame for things that he has done. More often than not, he would blame his brother, and his parents would so easily believe him. Because he is their beloved son, their golden prince, while Loki is simply his trouble making younger brother. Not to be trusted. Never to be believed. Thor would pout and point fingers while Loki stood there, never dropping the sly smile on his face, never losing the cold, mischievous glare in his eyes. Loki would be punished, again and again, and it was always Thor's fault.

When they were younger, it was easy enough for him to convince his younger brother to take the blame for him. He would beg Loki to do him such a great service, and he would promise to make it up to him later. And Loki, never the fool who believed him, but always wanting to impress his older brother, would do anything that he was asked. Including standing up to Odin's harsh punishments and cruel words. It never fazed him, because all the while Thor was there, and he would be there after, to comfort and love him as a brother should. It was many years before he realized how wrong that was.

As they grew older, it became harder to convince Loki to willingly take the blame for his wrong doings. He was much more clever now, and more often than not, it was he who led Thor in clever schemes and mischievous wrong doings. It was Loki who would smoothly talk his way in and out of dangerous situations, weaving webs of lies and deception with his clever tongue. Thor would never admit it then, but he admired his brother. Loki was clearly the cleverer of the two. But still, Thor had his father's approval, and that meant more to him than anything else. So he continued to bask in the glory of being prince of Asgard, while Loki sat alone, always watching, never joining in. And Thor never once saw a problem with that.

And why should he? He was Thor Odinson, first born and prince of Asgard. He would be king, not Loki. He was brave and strong and powerful, traits admired and revered by the Aesir. He was a god, and he was made to rule. Never once did it occur to him that he overshadowed his little brother. Never once did it occur to him that Loki secretly craved the spotlight. He craved to be noticed, to be loved, just as much as Thor was. And if it did occur to him, he simply could not find it in himself to care. Until he fell.
His fall from grace was truly the beginning of his journey towards becoming a better man and a better ruler. He found love in the form of a mortal woman, his beloved Jane, so unlike any woman that he had ever met before. He found salvation in the mundane lives of the Midgardian people, and the value of sacrifice became known to him. His eyes were opened to the suffering of his younger brother, and he became aware of how much Loki had been neglected by those who should have been his family. How much he himself had neglected Loki. And despite his best wishes to make amends, it was all too late.

His fall had bettered him, but truthfully, he was not so great a man until he joined his new team and became an Avenger. They were an odd bunch, but together they were an unstoppable force, working together in a way that he had never before experienced. Individually, they were flawed, he just as much as the others, but together, they were strong. Strong enough to defeat his brother once more. But alone, he was not strong enough to convince his brother of his love.

He was a better man, yes. But he still was not a good man. He knew that if it had not been for him, Loki would never have turned his back on his own family, not only his father of the flesh but the man who had raised him, and sought to take the throne of Asgard. His only desire was to bring himself out of his brothers shadow, to be seen by Thor as the great and powerful god that he truly was. Thor had acknowledged his brother's strength, but too late, and Loki had fallen even farther than Thor ever had. Far enough to seek even the help of The Other, and to seek the rule of another planet. Thor's beloved Midgard.

Thor never once told his team the true origin of Loki's pain and suffering. It was, in part, the realization that he had been lied to all his life, and that the family he had been raised to consider his own was not truly his. That he was, in fact, the very monster that he had been raised and taught to fear. If Thor was being honest, part of the blame could fall on his father, on Odin, for lying so and for neglecting Loki as he had. But Thor knew that the blame was truly his, if it belonged to anyone.

Just once, he could have told Loki that he loved him. Just once, he could have told him that he was his brother, undoubtedly and eternally. Just once he could have turned the spotlight on to his younger brother, giving him the glory instead of claiming Loki's quick witted diplomacy as his own. Just once, he could have held his brother close and said nothing. He could have let him know that he belonged. He could have told Loki that yes, he was a Jotun by birth, but he was an Asgardian by nature. He was Thor's brother, and he was proud. But he never did. And so it was all his fault.

When he woke up every morning, whether he was on Midgard, lying in bed next to Jane or on Asgard in his quarters in the palace, before he even opened his eyes, he would pray to every god he knew for his brother. He would beg peace for Loki's mind and soul, he would implore rest and comfort for his body and heart. On occasion, he would pray to Loki himself, begging forgiveness for all of the wrongdoings he had committed against his brother in his life.
He prayed for the day when he no longer felt so guilty.

He knew that that day would never come, however, until he was ale to face his brother again. Until the day when he could stand before Loki, rather, fall to his knees before his brother and beg forgiveness. He knew that he would feel his guilt until the day when Loki was in his arms again, accepting his apology as he once did, many years ago when they were still young. Before they had broken apart as brothers, and had been forced to become enemies.

Before, when nothing was ever his fault.

Chapter Text

At first, every morning when they woke up, the routine they followed was the same.

Natasha is the first one to enter the Avenger's communal kitchen. She sits in silence at the dining table, her tired eyes tracing patterns in the well grained wood as the sun slowly rises to tinge the sky viewed through the panoramic windows a shade of pink. After a while, she gets up to put on several pots of coffee – the team are big coffee drinkers. Bruce will come into the kitchen then, already dressed for the day, and sit across from Natasha. Neither one speaks; the camaraderie between them is silent. Steve will come up to the kitchen after his morning workout and shower, and there are mumbled 'good mornings' and 'hellos' between them.

Clint and Thor both take turn in entering the scene next. Clint usually in nothing but sweats and a tank top, Thor typically in nothing but his lightning-bolt emblazoned boxer shorts that Tony bought him as a gag gift. They both make a beeline for the coffee, not bothering to greet the other members of the team until they're at least two sips in. Bruce will go to the fridge and begin pulling out eggs, fruit, milk and bacon; anything that they need for breakfast that morning. Steve tracks down a pan or two, fires up the stove, and starts cooking.

After a while, the smell and sounds of sizzling bacon entice a very tired Tony out of his rooms or his lab, grumbling and moaning until he is silenced by a steaming cup of espresso. The team sits around the dining table, some staring blankly into their mugs, others perusing the newspaper or surfing online on their Stark tablets, while Steve plays house-mother and serves them a balanced breakfast. The meal is almost always held in complete silence.

If any of the members of the team notice how Steve shudders slightly as he stares down the complex dials and functions of the high tech stove top, they never mention it to him. If they happen to see the way he stares absently out the window during breakfast, his blue eyes large and sad as he watches the towering sky scraper across the road being built, each brick and beam hoisted up one by one to block out the view of the rising sun, and see the tears beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes before he blinks them away angrily, they never bring it up. They've seen his sketch book; they've passed by when he was in the gym, taking his fear and aggression out on one of the many punching bags stored there. They learn not to tease him about it.
If they happen to notice how Bruce grips his mug tightly between two clawed hands, and flinches whenever he catches sight of his reflection in the quivering black liquid, they have the courtesy not to tease him about it. If he flinches away every time someone brushes against his arm, or lightly touches his hand while passing him the dish of eggs, they never call him out on it. They know his secret; they know what he's trying to keep hidden from them. They've seen the look on his face after he 'Hulks- out' and destroys one of Tony's labs. They also know not to bring it up, because if they do, he runs.

If someone happens to notice how the gray shadows under Clint's eye grow steadily darker as the week passes on, and how his contributions to any small talk at the table fade away in to silence, they never call him out on it. If they notice the way that he twitches slightly, his fingers expanding and contracting into clawed fists, whenever someone brings up their first mission together, they never ask him why. The training room isn't sound proofed, and on quiet nights, when none of them are capable of sleeping, they can hear the repetitive Thwack! as arrow after arrow strikes the target in the room. They see the way lint is with his bow, never allowing it out of his sight for too long, and always holding it tenderly and protectively against his body, and they recognize that at times, it's his only life line to sanity. They take the time to show him their trust.

If they notice how Tony's hands tremble slightly as he clasps his hands around his umpteenth cup of coffee, how his lips quiver before every sip and his eyes stare wide at the empty wall across the room from him, they never demand a reason. If he snipes angrily at them, they might notice the way he shudders regretfully before they retort back, and they might see the slight hardening of his expression, steeling himself against their words. They know about the betrayal he's experienced in his past, and they come to realize that his snark and attitude are the only ways he knows to defend himself. They know that underneath it all, despite what he says, he doesn't want them to leave him alone. So they don't, they stand by his side, even when his words make them grit their teeth angrily and bite their tongues to hold back an insult. They never tell him that they know all about his mask.

If they watch as Natasha flinches every time they address her directly, and how her hand automatically slides down her waist to her hip, where she undoubtedly stashes some kind of sharp instrument, they don't protest about it later. If they catch the haunted look shadowing her eyes, they don't request that she share her experiences with them They may not know much about the past life of the formerly Russian spy, but they know enough not to bring it up. They learn that while Clint may or may not be her lover, they share a deeper connection, and that when she falls out of her usual composure only he can bring her back. They never comment on the relationship, though they may still wonder in secret. And they all agree not to bring up their own ledgers.

If they notice the tears that sometimes glisten at the ends of Thor's long blond lashes before he rubs them away furiously with his fists, they don't bother to laugh about it later. If they run in to him while he aimlessly wanders the halls of the Tower, empty and without direction, fingering Mjolnir timidly at his waistband, they don't question as to why that is. They remember Loki all too well, and they can sympathize with the feeling of having lost a sibling to such a dark fate. They may not approve of Thor's desperation to cling to his brother, and they may not agree that Loki can ever be saved, but they don't share that opinion with Thor. They let him have this small hope, because deep down they hope for the same. Because if Loki can be forgiven for his actions, they might be too.

The team learns to live with each other. They learn about Steve's love of art, and they let him sketch them every once and a while. They learn that, despite having no real medical degree, Bruce has just as much medical know-how and experience as any one of SHIELD's doctors, and they allow him to be the one to patch them up after a mission. They hear about some of Clint's fonder memories of the circus, and Tony promises to take them all to Coney Island sometime in the near future. They come to realize that Tony really is a philanthropist, actively, and they see a whole new side of him whenever he's around Pepper. They place bets on when the two of them will finally get married. They learn that Natasha is a wonderfully patient teacher, and she takes the time to train them all in many different styles of martial arts. They learn about Thor's love of Pop-tarts, his love for the beautiful Dr. Jane Foster, and about his life on Asgard.

After a while, they learn what subjects to avoid, too. Steve will talk about life in the 40's, but he shuts down if anyone talks about the people he knew. Bruce is fine with light hearted Hulk jokes, but they learn never to bring up the accident that made him that way. Clint will ramble forever about nothing important, but ask him anything personal and he shuts up almost immediately. Tony doesn't talk about his parents, or his arc reactor. Natasha never brings up her past to anyone but Clint. Thor avoids tales of his prowess in battle, and he still flinches at talk of the Chitauri battle for New York.

They learn that despite their avoidance, every one of them deeply craves someone to acknowledge their hidden issues, and to make them feel safe. To make them feel like part of the team. When Tony sees Steve flinch away from the ceiling whenever JARVIS speaks to him, Tony takes time to show Steve JARVIS programming, even if the Captain will never understand it. He shows Steve how to use the microwave, the TV, a cell phone. The first time Steve successfully sends Tony a text message, there are drinks all around.
When Steve bumps into Thor wandering in the hallway, ad notices the empty look in his eyes, he'll catch the blond giant by the arm, and pat him reassuringly on the back. He offers to take Thor out in to town, so the two of them can explore this new world together. And while Thor never accepts his offer, Steve can tell he appreciates the thought.

On movie night, when Thor suddenly finds himself being used as a pillow when lint happens to all asleep halfway through the film; his head resting on Thor's bicep and his hands falling across Thor's lap, the gentle giant never wakes the archer up. Instead, he carefully picks Clint up in his arms and carries him into his bedroom. He even goes so far as to tuck the archer in before turning off the lights and closing the door. When Clint sees Thor the next morning he gives him a brief nod of thanks and a small smile, but neither one of them ever brings it up again.

When Clint walks past the open door to Natasha's room and see the Black Widow sitting quietly on the end of her bed, he doesn't keep on walking. He makes a considerably amount of noise to warn her of his approach as he enters the room. Then he'll sit on the bed next to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and holding her. He never speaks, and neither does she, but they'll sit there in silence for hours, comforting one another with their presence alone.

When Tony goes too far one night during dinner, teasing Bruce and accidentally bringing up and old flame from the past, and Bruce's eyes flash green before he pushes away from the table and runs away, retreating to his lab, Natasha leaves the shocked silence and follows him down in the next elevator. She finds him sitting on the floor of his lab, legs crossed, deep in his meditation, and she perches next to him until his harsh breathing slows down and he opens his eyes, dark brown once more. She stays there with him silently, until he meets her gaze and sighs, a small smile flashing across his lips. He stands and turns to his research, and she sits in the room with him, never speaking, but never leaving until she's absolutely certain that he's okay.

The next time Tony pushes to far, and Bruce sees the world starting to tinge with green around him, he notices the flash of guilt in Tony's eyes before its replaced with a mask of defiance. So Bruce takes a deep breath and forces the monster back into the deepest corners of his mind. He takes the now shocked Tony by the shoulder, smiling in reassurance until Tony flashes back a grin. Bruce can see the gratitude in his face, and he allows the next Hulk crack to slide by without his customary warning.

The scene around the breakfast table changes as time passes. They still file into the kitchen in order, still sit in silence while they read the paper or surf the web or drink their preferred cup of coffee. Steve still flinches at the stove while he cooks, Bruce always shudders at his reflection in his cup of coffee, and Clint looks more and more exhausted every day. Tony continues to tremble and snipe at them, Natasha will always go for the knife hidden at her waist, and Thor will never let the memory of Loki go. But as they sit around the table, the cool indifference that they once held for one another is gone.

They have become a team.

Bruce might look away from his coffee long enough to smile at one of Tony's jokes. Steve may glance over Bruce's shoulder to read the news on his Stark tablet. Clint might brush his hand along the Natasha's unnecessarily as he passes Thor the bacon, and she may smile slightly every time he does. Thor might request another cup of coffee very loudly, and Tony might be kind enough to take the gods mug and fill it again for him. They might all sit a little closer together, shoulders almost touching, as they enjoy their food silently.

Every morning, they come a little closer together.

Every morning, they come a little closer to overcoming their own nightmares.