Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Don't hold your breath waiting for me,

'Cause I may never come home,

No, I may never come home,"

-Elliot Moss "99"

May 24th, 2011:

Thor knew what he was doing when he brought Mjolnir down onto the Bifrost Bridge. He knew from the first strike, the first ring of breaking crystal the raw sorcery was stored in as it sputtered and fizzled beneath their bodies. How the Bifrost functions has been taught in every school at a young age, it is basic knowledge. He knew what he was doing when he decided to break it.

Loki is a fool.

He believes he could have stopped this if he'd had just paused to think. He knows Thor. He has known him for hundreds of years, there is little that Thor does now that surprises him. (Before. Before Midgard. Before Miss Foster, before—) He knew that the elder would react with something drastic, but he'd hoped…

(A fool's hope, and he is. He is a fool.)

He'd never imagined Thor would—

He never thought Thor capable of such stupid—

He's never liked heights much. Shapeshifting offers a freedom that can't be found else-wise, but he's never enjoyed flying. It's always felt raw and knotting, like he's been stuffed full of cotton and told to breathe. Thor could always climb trees with ease and Loki could oft find him on the roof of Gullpalasset, enjoying the air against his face. Loki hated it.

This is no different.

It's not the first time he's been a witness to an explosion. He's spent to many years hobbling behind the Idiots Three and Egotistic Sif to have otherwise. He's caused more than a handful personally. But it's the first that he's been privy to one over the Void. He's terrified of falling. He hates heights. This—

All that he can find comes from his throat properly is a high pitched wail of terror as his arms grapple for something—anything—to hold fast to. The wind is sharp against his face, the chill between his fingers. His lungs are tight— he can't breathe.

Loki's right foot nicks the edge of the broken bridge before a weight closes around it and he's jerked to a stop painfully. Gungnir is still gripped in his hand, chill metal slick against his fingers. Thor's hand wraps around the other end, causing the spear to slide in his fingers from the sudden weight, and Thor's grip jerks at Loki's sudden inability to hold him. His grip is weak.

Slack.

Loki's buzzing senses, hardly focused on anything, blearily process the presence behind him to be Father. His sedir is familiar to Loki; a harsh, powerful aura that always portrays the aura of less. He hardly cares on this. All he can focus on Thor.

Thor is slipping.

He's going to fall.

No.

Loki catches the staff with his other hand, trying to pull his older brother up to safety, but his grip is to lax. To weak. (Loki, why can you not be like your brother? Loki, why can you not be stronger? Loki, why are you always— ) No. Not Thor. Norns, please. Loki needs him. He's not supposed to die. It has to be Loki.

He's the monster.

He's the Jo—

He has to die.

It can't be Thor.

"Thor!" His voice barely sounds like his own. It's not calm (flat), collected (voiceless), and level (dead). It's desperate. Wet. Pathetic. Loki releases a hand towards the blond, trying to outstretch his boney fingers far enough for the elder to grab hold of. "Take my hand!"

There's too great a distance. The wind is blowing haphazardly.

No.

Stop.

This can't—

No.

Thor's eyes flash wildly, and he looks past Loki for a moment towards where Odin is standing, his eyes frozen. "Loki—" The blond shouts and stretches his hand up towards him. The edges of their fingers touch, almost enough for Loki to pull him up by, but a gust of wind knocks his hand away and causes him to slip further, hand wrapping around the edge of the golden spear. His eyes are hollow with fear and the dull realization.

No.

"Brother!" Loki cries, "Please! I didn't mean for it to go this far!" Loki was supposed to die. It was never— " I'm sorry! Please! Take my hand!"

Thor stares up at him, "Loki, I can't, I'm slipping! I'm sorry!"

"Don't let go! Don't—!" Loki shouts, but his voice cracks, (stupid, pathetic, can't you control yourself long enough for—?) " Please!"

Thor's gaze flicks away from him to Father, "Father, I'm sorry. Tell Mother I'm sorry." Thor's grip slips.

Stop.

No.

Anything but—" Thor!"

Odin, behind them, is quiet for a second. Loki can hear him straining for breath and he's filled with a sudden sick anxiety. "I will." Their father swears, "You have made me proud." Oh, how that stings. Five words Loki has yearned for since childhood.

Thor was not the one who was supposed to die.

No.

Thor can't fall.

No.

Thor can't—

Thor's grip slips further and he strains for breath, widely meeting eyes with him, "I'm sorry, Loki."

No. Stop. THOR IS NOT SUPPOSED TO DIE! (What can Loki say, what can he say beyond goodbye? Thor is slipping and they—) "Thor, don't leave me—!"

Thor's grip slips and he tumbles back into the Void, expression resigned to his fate and Loki is suddenly frozen in time. Where is the bloody hammer? Why is Thor not even trying to save himself, why can't he grab his sedir, why is he so USELESS! Thor was not supposed to die. Norns. Stop. Please. Stop. Stop. STOP!

Loki quickly loses sight of him. Red cape visible for only a moment longer. Thor is gone. Thor is—he's hollow with a numb shock and pain. How will—? Loki's hand stretches out towards Thor and a loud, guttural howl escapes him, fingers straining to reach the elder.

Thor is gone.

Thor is—

He's not coming back.

Thor is—

Norns, help him, he can't do this. His mind screams for him to jump, but Loki can't get his body to follow. He jerks upwards suddenly, and his breath heaves out in gasping, choked sobs. No one comes back from the Void. No one comes back. Fath—Odin has tugged him up back onto the Bifrost bridge and Gungnir is wrangled from his grip, set next to them calmly.

The scepter hardly matters. Not now. It hardly ever did , just another burden for Loki to bear because Mother couldn't—Loki is not a king. He is a jester, and everyone laughed at his attempt to claim his birthright. His life has been nothing but a joke for everyone and Loki refuses to let there be a punchline. He can't do this. Norns know he can't do this. He's too tired, there's so much pain. So much hurt and it doesn't go away.

Thor—

Thor—

Loki's body is jerking towards the edge of the bridge before he can properly process what he's doing, but he hardly cares for it. If he dies, he dies, what has he to live for, now? Odin's hands wrap around his chest and drag him back, strapping his hands next to his sides. His aged fingers are clawing around him as if desperate and panicked.

No!

Loki lurches forward again, but Odin's grip is iron, and Loki can't escape it. He's too weak. Always too weak.

"No, Loki," Odin whispers, his voice is drawn with something that Loki doesn't understand, nor does he care to. He's drowning. He's suffocating and oh, Norns, he wants to die.

Not Thor. Why did it have to be Thor? Loki heaves out gasping breaths, and can feel the raw expressions flickering across his face. There is no composing. No hiding. He feels so incredibly bare. "No." Loki mouths as a chant, " no, no, no, no—"

"Loki." Odin avers, his voice is deceptively level.

Loki wants to hit him.

Odin's grip refuses to lesson. " Loki, son." The word burns. A severe in his stomach that doesn't relent. The chaos that he's been tumbling into for days now begins anew and Loki cannot ground himself. He chokes on breath he can't find and doesn't care to. Nothing matters. Not anymore.

Fratricide.

He's committed fratricide. He...was... Jotunheim. (Fratricide and attempted genocide). Oh, Norns. He doesn't deserve to live. (He hasn't since his birth, it's why Laufey left him there to die and why no one wants him, he's just a lowly—)

Death.

Death, death, death.

"Loki," Odin sounds pained, "please, my son, please."

Loki cannot gather himself together. It hurts to much and he is so raw. "I'm not your child," Loki whispers. He belongs to no one. He is no one. He has no identity. He is Loki, he is alone, and he is going to drown.

000o000

In retrospect, Loki doesn't remember much of anything of the journey back to the palace. He thinks that Odin nearly dragged him there, but everything is fuzzy and he doesn't care to look back. It hurts. It burns.

Thor wasn't the one who was supposed to die.

Thor wasn't—

Odin doesn't, despite how his despairing thoughts insist, drag him to the dungeon to rot in chains. Instead, he leads him to the royal family's wing and directs him to sit on the couch as he finds Moth—Frigga. Loki only does what he commanded because he's too numb to do anything otherwise.

Shock, the less chaotic (and how small it is) part of his mind offers as explanation.

He's disassociating, but he doesn't care.

Thor.

Thor is d—

He doesn't remember the conversation of how Odin explained about Thor. He doesn't care to. Frigga weeps with something raw, but Loki's to hollow to follow her. His paren—the king and queen both shed tears, but Loki doesn't follow. He stares at the ground, his feet; his body limp. Lax. Weak.

Thor was there. He was right there and Loki didn't grab him.

He couldn't.

Weak.

Frigga's hand touches his shoulder, and Loki flinches to it. He doesn't deserve her warmth. Not after what he did. Monster. Monster. Murderer. Murderer— If she knew, oh how quickly she would turn a blind eye to him. The lesser son (not son, never son). He killed—

"Loki," Frigga's voice is gentle. Calm. It sickens him. "Dearheart, please, will you look at me?"

No.

Looking to her face will only remind him how unworthy his is.

" Son," (how it must burn her to utter the word). His head lifts slowly and he locks eyes with his moth—Frigga's wet ones. They're raw and she blinks back several tears as their gazes meet. She cups his face and he resists the urge to draw back, only because he knows it will hurt her. A tear slips down her face. "Oh, my dear one," she murmurs, "what did we do wrong?"

Loki stares at her.

Frigga's eyes squeeze shut and unspeakable pain crossing over her face, "My darling son," she whispers, "please."

Loki wants to scream. It's bubbling in his chest and wraps around him like a noose. He wants to shout at her for letting Thor leave to stop him. For letting him take Mjolnir so many years ago. He wants to yell at her for taking him, and how because of it, she's responsible for her son, her actual son's murder. (Loki killed—). This is too hard. He can't do this. He wants to die. It hurts to much, it's too numb for him to comprehend. How can he hurt this much and feel nothing?

Frigga exhales slowly as Loki remains mute, and sinks down beside him on the couch. Her lips are thinned with concern and Loki doesn't understand it. Everything is buzzing, and he feels faintly ill. He wants to—he doesn't know. Not for the first time since the reveal, since the hand, he has absolutely no idea what to do.

Thor is dead.

The thought stings, and Loki nearly draws back from it, but that's foolish because it's a thought. It can't harm him, but it feels as though it will.

Thor is dead.

He's not coming back. Not tomorrow, not next week, not next year. His body will be floating through the cosmos cold and iced for the rest of eternity, and he will not even receive a proper funeral. This is all his fault. If Loki hadn't been so stupid, so reckless, then Thor would still be alive.

Loki was the one who was supposed to die. It was never meant to be Thor.

Why? Why!?

Frigga's hand cups his own, and this time Loki does flinch to it, drawing away from her like a startled cat. Frigga's fingers draw back a little, and shame ripples through him. He does not deserve this comfort, but she wants to offer it for her own sake. He is depriving her, and how wretchedly selfish this is.

Not that much else can be expected from a monster.

A Jotunn.

He's not even— This is to painful. He wants it to numb, he wants everything to quiet. It's loud, it's far too loud. His mind is a mess, a battle arena with few survivors, yet he doesn't have the slightest idea how to fix it.

"Loki," Frigga breathes his name in a bare whisper, and he once again finds his gaze drawn up towards her. Her blue eyes are searching his face, parsing it, but there's nothing much to see. Loki doesn't have the energy to make any expressions. He wants to sleep. ( No. He wants to find the bloody Time Stone and fix this. It's on Midgard, yes? Somewhere.)

Fath—Odin steps into view beside Frigga and rests a hand on her shoulder, expression hard to place. He doesn't feel any desire to try and unweave it. There isn't a point. Not anymore. After what he's done—all his fate resides in is the executioner's block, now. He killed the Crown Prince of Asgard.

He killed his brother.

Loki tried to use the Bifrost to wipe out an entire race and it's—A monster. That's all that's in the mirror, now, no longer an empty face with hollow eyes, it's a monster with bloodied hands and a promise of death.

Perhaps it's terrible that he's relieved.

Odin won't want to wait. It will be soon.

Execution. He's not honorable enough for much else, he supposes, and it was hopelessly foolish of him to wish for a heroic death. Oh, this hurts.

"Son," Frigga's hand smooths something under Loki's eye, and he nearly jumps. he'd forgotten she was still touching him. He's not sure why she did that. Loki's not crying. There isn't enough room for tears with the awful emptiness that resides in his chest.

All that pressure.

"Thor's...Thor's," her voice keeps cracking, and he flicks his gaze away from her face. Loki can't bear to look at it; this is the mother of the man he killed. "He's at peace now," she whispers, "all will be well, I'm certain it was painless."

Ha.

Loki's not a child anymore. She can't placate him with her empty words, he knows what happens to bodies that fall through space. The collapse of lungs in the midst of burning and freezing isn't painless. It may be swift, but the few minutes of life are excruciating. This wasn't supposed to be him.

"Loki, please," Frigga's voice breaks, and she releases a hand to press against her mouth.

He thinks he's going to implode. His sedir is raging enough to swallow him, and he wouldn't fight it.

" Say something," Frigga pleads. The broken note in her voice makes Loki hesitate, makes the clawing pain in his throat lesson for just a moment. He means to open his mouth and say something reassuring, but his gaze flicks to Odin before Loki can, and all that falls out is: "When am I for the axe?"

"Loki," Frigga chokes on the word, horror drawing into her stance. She releases his face at last, and Loki tries not to shuffle back from her. He doesn't want her touch. Murderers aren't allowed comfort. The words are fitting, despite their brutality. A honest question that tastes bitter on his lie-swept tongue.

Odin's eye closes and his expression flickers with something that looks close to physical pain.

He doesn't understand why.

There's so much that he's missing. Body language Loki can't pay attention to, breath shifting, speech patterns—all things he would have listened and looked for only days ago. Now he is far too tired. Loki just wants to sleep.

"My son," Odin's voice is soft, but his fists clench at it. Liar. Loki not their child, and he has no idea why they keep up this facade. He wants them to stop, he has . "Now is not the time to pass judgement for your actions," Odin adds. He looks frail.

It makes him sick.

Loki tilts his head up a little, "When will be, then?"

"Loki, please," Frigga reaches her hand out towards him, but Loki draws back from it. Frigga's hand freezes and then pulls away; Loki wishes she'd actually touched him, and hates himself for it. "Dearheart, not now. I just lost one son, don't make me—"

" I am not your son," Loki spits. The words are sour, "I am the offspring of Laufey, and I killed your son. Would you have me bear the title of Odinson with such actions on my back?"

"Yes," Frigga doesn't hesitate, "Loki you are more than—"

"Fratricide," Loki's voice sounds sickly and vindictive, "genocide, taking the throne of Asgard, patricide—and a dozen more I'm sure the court will come up with, I am not innocent! I am a monster."

"You are our son," Frigga counters, though she seems unsettled.

Loki should stop, but now that the words are coming out, they don't seem to stop: "This is the basest of sentimentality. You know what I am. What I've become. There is nowhere for me save a dishonourable death at the hand of the executioner. You're weaving a lie so thick you're going to choke on it. No one will vouch for me on the court, and I'll be soon to join—"

"Loki, enough," Odin's voice is stiff, and Loki snaps his jaw shut. Heatedly, he turns his head away, flicking his gaze to the floor, "why do you say this?"

Loki barely restrains a laugh, "It is the truth, All-Father,"

"It is not—"

"It is the truth that I want!" Loki hisses, "I wanted to be better, I was meant to prove to you that I—I could have done it. For you. For all of us."

Frigga closes her eyes softly, and Odin leans against Gungnir heavily, "Loki, no," Odin murmurs, and leans forward to rest a hand on Loki's shoulder. Loki stiffens at it, "this is not what I wanted. You have already done enough; I think it best if you get some rest."

Loki bites back a bubbling laugh.

Frigga places a hand on his knee, "We're going to be okay," she whispers, "we're going to be okay."

Two weeks after Thor's funeral, Loki still can't take her seriously.

000o000

June 2nd, 2018:

Perhaps he's hopelessly optimistic, but he had been hoping that the damage done to his hand wouldn't be quite this bad. The wires are misaligned and twisted in a way that he knows he won't be able to poke at properly unless he is given some sort of thin tool. Maybe a small stick, and he has his doubts that in this dank tunnel will have much vegetation lying around.

There is the possibility that he could use one of the stray pieces of metal or debris, but he doesn't have a strong desire to go hunting. His body is exhausted, and the most he can do is slump against the stone and attempt to look like he's doing something other than trying not to vomit.

Productivity is not something he's claiming much of right now.

It is pathetic.

Simply raging forward to take the Tesseract after his body lacked the adjustment it needed was what gave Barton his opening, and, ergo, now the hole in his hand. He's never been more grateful for the fact it doesn't have pain receptors, because he's certain it would be agonizing. As it is, it's merely annoying.

It keeps twitching.

"Sir?" A voice questions, and Thor tilts his head up to look at the Barton, standing in front of him with a conflicted expression. His face is shadowed strangely in the pale lighting of the gray, crumpled tunnel and it reminds him abruptly that this is hardly accommodations worthy of anything lesser than rats.

It was what is available, and he's learned better than to push. Even if this place does smell of decomposing skin. Gripped in Barton's left hand is a wad of paper, and Thor draws himself together trying to make it seem as if he's been contemplating the mysteries of the universe instead of quietly picking at his hand.

"What?" Thor questions. He doesn't mean for his voice to snap, but that's what it does regardless. He came here to hide from the people, and he didn't expect to be found so quickly. This is ludicrous; he's supposed to be leading an army, but instead he's hiding from it.

Barton doesn't seem bothered by his tone, lifting the paper out to him, "The map of New York City, as you requested."

Did he?

It sounds faintly familiar.

Thor nods and lifts out his flesh hand to grasp the item from the man's hands, noting with a far off sort of fascination how thin the paper feels. Distantly, blurrily, he can make out faint images of holding thicker paper and talking to someone, but it, as much before he returned home, has faded.

Thor struggles to unfurl the map with one hand and ends up letting it fall open and spreads it across the ground, biting at his lower lip a little as he determines where would be the best spot to lead his father's army in from.

Barton still hasn't left.

Thor looks up, "Did you need something?" He questions, tone clipped.

He doesn't have much patience for the stupid questions the mortals seem to have a never ending supply of. It is, admittedly, one of the reasons that he was trying to hide here. That, and the headache is growing worse again and the dulled lighting here helps somewhat.

Barton's head has tilted a little, "You look sick, Sir. Maybe you should lay down," He suggests softly, and Thor's stomach does something funny at his tone. It sounds... sincere, and Thor struggles to remember the last time he heard something like that properly. Sincere in care, at least—Gamora's recent words were sincere, but they are still sharp and sting—and the oddity of what Barton said makes him pause.

Laying down would indicate that he's weak, and Father must know that he's getting better. He hasn't spent these last few years getting perfected for nothing. He'll see. Thor has worth. He deserves to be saved.

Thor sits back a little from the map and stares Barton down carefully, "I have not the need for sleep, Man of Hawks," he assures, "your concern is unneeded."

But not unwanted, and it's a little sickening to realize that.

Father has cared for him, as have his siblings, and he is selfish to think otherwise. Their concern has been in helping him improve, and he so desperately needs too. He was a disaster before he fell, and they have made him better. The process of change is always painful.

Barton doesn't relent, and Thor can feel irritation building in his chest. Mortals. Why Terra of all places did the Tesseract and Time Stone have to be located? Terrans have a habit of making themselves nuisances, and he has very little desire to deal with it at the moment. His patience is waning, he knows this, and this is likely why Father sent him here.

It is a test.

Like so many others he has overtaken. The amount of trust Father has placed in him is immense, and he will not fail him. He cannot. He doesn't dare to imagine what will become of him if he does. He blinks to ground himself and holds Barton's stare with his own.

"You are dismissed," he says pointedly, and Barton hesitates again, before sighing.

"My apologies, Sir. I feel terrible about your hand, is there something I can do?" Barton explains, and Thor flicks his gaze towards the wires again, thinning his lips. Ah. His concern isn't real, Thor knows this, but it's nice to pretend.

He glances towards the map, throat suddenly dry as he realizes that Barton is still aware of the damage he has caused. That means he was looking at the weak spot, and knows how pathetic he is; how much arrogance he had to leap at the armed soldiers the way he did. Most of them did not survive, but Barton's quick hand and true aim was enough to delay him.

But he has the Tesseract, and that is enough.

Even if Thor was forced to use the scepter to walk away in a generally whole singular piece.

Barton isn't going to leave until Thor gives him something to do to fix it, and he tries not to be annoyed by this. This is just what the scepter accomplishes. He isn't quite sure how the mind control works, truthfully, Father didn't see it fit to explain to him, and Thor hadn't asked. He's learned to not to.

Besides, magic was always...Thor can't recall the name, or the face, and breathes out quietly as he realizes this person must be from before he fell. Magic was always their, whoever they are, department. They knew it. Thor does not. Not as well.

"If you could bring me something thin and long, it would not go amiss," Thor admits at last, and Barton immediately perks at this.

The man stares at him for a second, and, with a collected voice asks: "Like a screwdriver?"

A what?

"I...am afraid I don't know what that is," Thor says through gritted teeth, and Barton shrugs.

"I'll get one, hang on," he instructs, and turns on his heal at last to finally leave Thor in peace. When the archer's quiet footsteps have faded out completely down the wet tunnel, Thor allows a thin breath of relief to escape him. His posture slumps some, and he rubs at his ribs dully to try and ease the discomfort.

His recent training session with Midnight was brutal, and he couldn't quite keep pace up with her. Humiliating, but at least Father saw it fit to give him a chance to make him proud. This is his redemption.

He will lead the forces to collect the Stones and then gather the people to perform the purge before Father arrives to conduct it. Terra, in the greatest honor, will be among the last to have been balanced by Father's own hand rather than the Gauntlet.

With the Aether taken from the Collector, and Father having taken the Power Stone, they are closer to performing the act now than Father has been before. All that will be left when Thor finishes here is the Soul Stone.

Given this, he cannot, under any circumstances fail.

This is to important to Father.

To him.

Thor flicks his gaze back down to the map. New York City's layout is strange to him, and he's not quite sure why. He hasn't seen many city layouts for previous attacks. Typically, he hasn't been the person in charge, and didn't need to know.

Focus, moron.

He's looking for the Time Stone. He knows that it resides with the Terra's Sorcerer Supreme, but the exact location is still evading him. It must be close, because he can feel faint wisps of its presence from here. Nothing unusual for a Stone, though, he could likely find one from anywhere on any planet. They have such a strong aura it's humbling.

If he is to attack as a distraction to steal the Stone, then he will need to focus it within New York City and possibly the city Queens; the edge of city Brooklyn wouldn't go amiss, either. He can't see the Time Stone being much further than that.

There. An attack plan. That was all he needed to finalize, and he did so. When he offers his report to the Other later, he will finally have something to give that isn't a wane in their progress. Yes, he got the Tesseract, but that is not enough for them.

And Thor's fine with that.

He thinks he's fine with that.

He's been told he needs to be.

Everything, oh, everything hurts when he's given a moment to think on it. Thor bites at his tongue sharply and rubs at his forehead, running his left hand through his short hair to try and calm himself. The sensation is numbed a little, and Thor sighs deeply, tilting his head back against the column again.

The rough brick is digging into his back in uncomfortable places, but the armor he's wearing serves as a buffer. Distantly, he hears a rat scurry across the ground and quietly wishes for clean water.

Perhaps Barton was right, and he is getting ill, because everything feels wretchedly wrong. There's a pressing need in the back of his mind for something, but details on what it is are lost to him. It's aggravating, though, like an itch he can't quite satisfy without clawing off his own skin.

He flicks his gaze to the cracked ceiling and focuses on breathing for as long as he dares.

"Sir?"

Thor bites at his gums sharply and looks up to see Barton again, holding a small package of odd looking daggers some five minutes later. Their edges are blunted in a way that can't be helpful, or provide a swift death. Thor's gaze quickly flicks up towards the archer, suddenly wary.

This is not an attack, yes?

Could the mind control wear off that quickly?

He wishes he knew more details on it, but he doesn't. His blind trust is always getting him into trouble, but trust in Father is never meant to be misplaced. Barton walks forward and squats down next to him, offering the weak daggers to him.

Thor's flesh hand clenches around the edge of the thin paper again. Why is the sensation so odd to him? It is not as though he has spent his entire life with different paper.

Barton apparently picks up on his confusion or discomfort, "These are screwdrivers," he explains and lifts one out of the package, "I wasn't sure what size you'd need," he adds and Thor hesitantly takes the tools from the archer, sitting up a little straighter. His spine groans with displeasure, but he stuffs the sensation to the side.

He flicks the map closed and shuffles a little so his arm is better under the dim lighting of the damp tunnel. He's heard multiple people refer to it as an abandoned subway line, but the meaning behind that is lost to him. He bites at his lip and turns his hand up to the light. The bullet didn't go through cleanly, so he's going to have dig for it.

Grand.

Barton sits down next to him, and Thor can't help the tensing that grows in his shoulders. He tries to not let it actively show, but he's guessing from Barton's puzzled face that he isn't having much success.

After taking in a deep breath to brace himself, Thor lifts up his left hand to begin to dig into the cybernetic palm of his right to dig out the bullet with the screwdriver. The tool keeps poking at other things, and it sends jolts of discomfort up to his shoulder.

Barton doesn't say anything, quietly watching Thor with something close to fascination and another emotion he can't quite place. It's not quite sickening, but it does make him self conscious. He's not proud of his arm; it is a constant reminder to him of failure. Of disappointment. Had he not discouraged his father so much, he would have been able to keep his hand.

That is the way it works.

He's grown used to it now.

Thor manages to dig the bullet out of the palm properly, but before he can set the screwdriver down to pull it out, Barton's left hand has reached out and plucked the whole bullet away. The archer's shoulders hunch a little, and he thins his lips setting the bullet down in between them. "Sorry about that, Sir," he says, shaking his head, "I wasn't myself then."

Thor's fingers tighten around the screwdriver, "Are you now?" He shouldn't care. These are mindless morons to be used for his purpose, and when his father arrives, they might not survive the purge. Somewhere, distantly, there's a weak part of him that is terrified by the thought.

He ignores it.

Barton shrugs, "I would say so."

Thor nods, and returns back to his task. The archer has already given him what information he needed on Terra's defensive tactics, and Thor doesn't need to talk to him anymore. Terra's defense system, as predicted, is weak. They do not have a single army that can form together fast enough to be effective, and their first line of defense seems to be five or so mortals.

Five.

Thor isn't concerned with them much.

He jabs at a live part of his hand without intending to and gasps sharply, pulling the screwdriver away and clenches his right hand into a fist. The jolt is making his forearm twist and pull in a way that's disgusting and he hisses, flicking his gaze away.

Barton's lips thin with concern. "Does it always do that?" He questions.

Thor barely withholds an open laugh. No. There was a time it was flesh and doing so was quite impossible. Now it is more frequent than he cares to admit. He wordlessly shakes his head, flexing his fingers to get the metal to jerk back into place.

After a moment, it does, and Thor returns to his repairs.

Barton remains by his side for most of it, wordless, and glares off anyone who approaches with a question or statement. If the need arises, though, he takes the message for Thor and returns to give him the most important details. Thor is grateful for it, but he'd never breathe a word of that.

It takes him nearly half an hour to finish, but when he's done his hand feels less unbalanced and awkward. It is a relief. He breathes out slowly, and replaces the screwdriver from where he took it, handing the package back to Barton. "Those are effective," he notes thinly, but his voice sounds flat.

"Yeah," Barton agrees, but his gaze is distant. After a moment, he shakes himself from his reverie, "I should get going. Selvig had something he wanted me to look over. Get some sleep."

Not likely.

Thor watches Barton rise to his feet without a word, and the archer gives him a final nod before walking off again. He disappears down the tunnel at a slower pace than he did before, but it's still hurried. With purpose.

But with both feet he was born with. Thor can't draw up memories of the last time he walked with both his own.

He didn't plan to dose—only remain seated for a few more minutes before getting up and walking after Barton—but he must have, because he jerks awake at a slight noise. It's different than the rats, and any of his men would have announced themselves by now. Experience has taught him better than to wave this off as paranoia, and his right hand wraps around his sword hilt.

His left gently reaches within his bloody to draw lightning from.

He staggers to his feet, and snaps the length of the sword out rapidly searching the shadows for the source of the noise. It really could have been something in the distance, but he'd rather be a fool than dead.

Nothing immediately jumps out, and Thor represses a sigh.

He really is far too paranoid, then.

It was nothing.

It's always nothing. Well then, it got him up and that's something. He can finally get moving and rejoin his men in the larger shaft of this tunnel to watch Selvig complete his task. The mention of that man's name keeps making his headache worse, and he can't wait until he'll be able to leave him behind. For all the brilliance of his mind, Thor would love to leave it so he can think straight again.

He exhales the stale air stiffly, and then turns to grab the map of New York City, but freezes with surprise as he sees a person standing behind him. That—it was not simply paranoia, then. What on the—!?

The man is roughly Thor's height—lacking a few inches—with long black hair hanging over his shoulders freely. He's dressed in leathers and loosely armored, but Thor can immediately spot over five openings for brutal injury should the need arise. His face is thin, and his entire appearance is haggard. He's barely above gaunt, and it shows predominantly in fingerlessly gloved hands.

His entire presence radiates a dull power, and something within Thor whispers that it's familiar.

But it can't be.

Thor's never met this man in his life.

( And yet, he is so, so very familiar).

Green eyes are rapidly searching him before settling on his face, and his features flicker a little. It's hard to tell with what because any emotion seems to have been drained utterly dry from him. There is very little for Thor to guess from, and this unnerves him.

Who is he? How did he get in here? Is he an ally or enemy? This isn't one of the five mortals that Barton warned him of; that much he is certain of. He saw photos of them, and none looked as cadaverous as this man. Does he work for HYDRA?

No—he can't, the crest on his shoulder isn't for any Terran faction Thor knows about.

They stand in stillness for a few seconds before Thor levels his sword with the man's chest. The dark-haired man's eyes flick towards his right hand for a second, and then widen slightly. Thor wishes that people would stop gawking at his cybernetic hand, he knows of his failure to keep it, he would like to stop being reminded. At least his missing foot is hidden in his boot. He wasn't given his replacement eye for the invasion, so that is hidden by the eye-patch.

"Identify yourself," Thor demands harshly.

The young man stands still for a long second before forcefully pushing down the tip of the blade and moving forward rapidly. Thor stiffens, hand drawing on the core of electricity, but stops with surprise as, rather than attempt to gut him, the young man throws his arms around Thor tightly in an embrace.

What... what…?

The weapon drops a little in his grip, the tip of the blade touching the dirty stone floor beneath his feet. The young man breathes in raggedly, "You smell terrible," he whispers. There isn't a bite to his voice, but his accent is thick, and his voice rattles something in Thor's head. The headache increases tenfold, and Thor has to tighten his grip around his sword to prevent himself from rubbing at it.

This drastically uncomfortable, but he has no idea how to ask the man to stop. Or if he should bother with that, and instead just gut him and be done with it.

"I thought you dead," the man appends, "but this whole time...it doesn't matter. You're here now," the younger man draws back at last, and Thor tries to dissemble his face to hide his great discomfort, but judging from the slight furrow of the younger man's brow, he wasn't fast enough.

He thought that Thor was dead...but Thor doesn't even know him.

The young man appears to do his best to ignore it, instead sweeping his gaze across Thor again, "You look awful," he notes out loud, "we should return home, I can help with—Thor? What's wrong?"

Home is the Sanctuary.

It isn't...wherever this man is thinking of.

Thor's hand tightens around the hilt of his sword, and the young man's lips part a little. He wets his lips, "You don't know who I am." The statement is flat.

Should he!?

He is so familiar, but Thor's memories of him are faint. Non existent. He can remember him better in dreams than memory. Thor shakes his head a little, taking a step forward so the blade is closer. The man doesn't back up, remaining perfectly steady.

Why is he so familiar!?

"Should I?" Thor demands, and the young man's breath catches a little. Does he work with Father? Some unknown Terran acquaintance that he was supposed to work with? Father would have mentioned that, though, wouldn't he have? It would have been utterly foolish for him not to. How is Thor supposed to know who he is to trust if he didn't?

"Yes," the man's voice is thin, but there's a desperation in it, "Thor, please, this isn't funny."

"Do I look to be in a gaming mood, Terran?" Thor counters, but is admittedly unsettled. How does this stranger know his name? Why is Thor hesitating? He should just slay him where he stands. It would be so much easier.

The man's jaw audibly snaps shut, and his posture grows more rigid. Hidden. He breathes out slowly, evenly, and clenches his fists by his sides. His next words are careful, "I am Loki of Asgard, you are my older brother."

Thor's sword drops a little.

Loki.

Loki?

The name is so familiar, so precious. He remembers, in the beginning, begging for such a title, but as time has passed the memory has faded. Dulled. He can't—Loki can't be his sibling. The thought is ludicrous. He'd remember if he had a younger brother, and nothing is returning to him.

This man—Loki—is a liar.

But—Asgard. That name is equally familiar, within touching distance, but he can't quite grab at any of the memories. They are out of his reach, as so many have been since Father cleansed him.

"Liar," Thor hisses, and flicks his wrist to jerk the weapon up once more, "you are not my brother, and Asgard doesn't even sound real. Lies will not be enough to sway me, moron. I am the son of Thanos, and you—"

Loki makes an audible noise of disagreement, and Thor's gaze heatedly moves to him. " What?"

Loki is staring at him strangely, but with a weird sort of clarity that makes Thor want to hit him. It's then that it occurs to him that he has no reason to refrain. He swipes his sword at Loki's face, but the man dodges out of the way, backing up a step.

Any answers he have will be fraud, and Thor has no reason to let him live. If he is not going to work with Thor and help him succeed in Father's vision, then he needs to be removed entirely. The Midgardians learning of this any faster is not what is needed.

Wait.

Midgardians?

What the—?

He's never even—!?

Focus on the battle, you dolt.

Thor swipes at Loki's neck again, but the man ducks in a dip so deep backwards that his hair touches the floor. Thor swipes the sword through his chest, but it doesn't hit anything solid. Light fizzles, and Thor mentally curses.

Sorcerer.

Excellent.

He turns, looking for Loki, but there's nothing here but the shadows and faint whispers of the larger gathering of people to the hall on his right. Where, where, where— ?

A hand attempts to grab at his scalp, but Thor twists out of the grip and jerks his right hand out to wrap around Loki's neck tightly and squeezes. He drags him off of his feet, and Loki sputters, grabbing at his forearm tightly.

Thor doesn't release his hold.

He tightens it.

"Brother," Loki's voice is weak, "please," his eyes are wet, and something in him shifts a little at the tears. This all feels unconnected to him, and he can't ground himself. He must be ill; this is all a fragment of his sick mind trying to conjure up something interesting for his feverish dreams this time.

Loki's hand snaps out towards his forehead, and Thor rears away in surprise, dropping him. Loki slams hard into the ground on his hands and knees, and Thor readjusts his hold on his sword. He moves forward and prepares to take his head, but Loki jumps to his feet, lifting his hands in an "X" shape in front of his chest and snaps his wrists out, drawing two daggers.

"You have to remember," Loki breathes, "we've been siblings for a millennia. You have to remember! "

He doesn't.

He remembers none of that.

Thor dives at him, remaining silent. Loki side steps him, and Thor feels his irritation grow. How hard is it to actually hit him!? "We thought you dead," Loki continues, lifting his hand up to block Thor's slice towards his head with an arm guard, "we buried you, we mourned you. How can you remember none of that!?" Loki's voice is raising in frustration.

"I don't remember anything from before seven years ago!" Thor hisses out, "So shut up! Whoever you knew is dead, and he's not coming back. Let the dead rest in peace!"

Loki chokes. "You are my brother—"

"No, I am NOT!" Thor draws up lightning from his core and sends it towards Loki's face. Rather than immediately obliterate him like Thor was first expecting, Loki's daggers drop at his feet and he lifts up his hands to catch the bolt in front of his chest with sorcery. The light glows, illuminating his face for several seconds before Loki draws his hands apart, dissipating it.

Unsettled, but not convinced on waving a white flag, Thor draws up another bolt along his fingers, letting it travel across his spine and chest to gain energy before firing it at the dark-haired man.

Loki dives out of the way, and the wall rattles loudly charred bits of brick exploding in every direction. When the dust has settled, Thor can't find Loki anywhere. He swears softly, and keeps a firm grip on his sword, listening for any signs of where the man disappeared off to.

A foot slams into his lower back abruptly, and Thor cries out with pain and surprise as he topples forward before the edge of a staff slams into his upper back, causing him to fall forward fully. He manages to catch himself before his head can ram against the ground.

A knee digs into his upper back as his father's scepter is thrown across the room—Loki stole it. Loki stole his father's prized possession— and the tip of a dagger presses against the back of his neck, "Please don't make me do this." Loki says, "Stop, and think."

"I don't know you!" Thor snaps, and jerks his shoulders up to off set Loki before rolling out from under the hold. He leaps to his feet and kicks his sword into his hand, diving at Loki again.

Loki summons the dagger from the floor and catches the edge of Thor's blade with it. The weapon reminds him of his own, and Thor draws the thin knife from out of the hidden frays of his armor and, as Loki is distracted with beating back his blade, slams it beneath Loki's ribcage, where Thor noticed a thin stretch in his armor. Loki gasps immediately, and his grip slips allowing Thor to cut his face deeply.

This is wrong.

This is wrong!

He has maimed, hurt, and damaged people before. Why does this bother him so?

This. Is. Wrong.

Thor draws his weapon back, and Loki breathes in raggedly, pressing a hand against his ribcage. Something in his stance has changed, and when his green eyes flick towards Thor's face, they seem oddly defeated. Dead.

Thor flexes his hand around the hilt of his sword, but he can't get himself to bring it up to finish the job. Father would be so furious, he has trained him better than to be distracted by weaknesses, but Thor...can't. This all feels so muddled, and a distant part of his mind is screaming at him for drawing Loki's blood.

But he doesn't know him!

Loki breathes out slowly, but there's a hitch to it that's oddly wet, "I'm sorry, Thor," he murmurs. Thor tilts his head, puzzled, but Loki looks up at him and smiles grimly, "You really aren't going to learn, are you?"

What—?

The Loki in front of him fizzles out of existence.

Thor's body tenses sharply, but before he can raise his weapon in his defense or in an offense, something slams into the side of his head. It's Father's staff again; Thor recognizes the gold tipped metal with ease, not that it helps him much.

His entire world sways, and Thor gasps sharply at the sudden flaring pain, and crumples to the hard, dirty cement. Everything is blurring, and his ears are ringing, but he can distantly make out Loki's hand grabbing around his left wrist and beginning to pull him towards something. His entire mind seizes with panic, but he can't get his body to work through the pain.

Get. Up.

This is hardly the worst he's been through. It's simply a headache.

He can't get himself to move. Everything feels paralyzed. Panic begins to cloud his mind, and he barely hears the loud shout behind him before Loki suddenly drops his wrist. An explosion rings in the background, and Thor's body twitches a little in defense.

Nothing hits him.

He breathes in deeply, trying to ground himself, and squeezes his eye shut deeply through the pain. Focus. There are other sensations beyond sight he can use. He can taste blood on his tongue, along with something faintly stale. The ground is rough beneath his skin, and the temperature of the room is cold.

His hearing provides the most answers, though: he can pick out the sounds of shuffling feet, and Barton talking loudly in the background. He seems to be trying to convince Loki to step away from him, but not finding great success.

Guns fire, and Thor's body tenses again, but he hears the sound of the metal slamming against a solid wall. Loki makes no noise of discomfort. That...that can't be right. Thor peels his eye open slowly, carefully, and squints at the light as he tilts his face towards the general direction of the noise.

Loki is standing in front of him, hands lifted and projecting a faintly white shield. The bullets are scattered at the base of the shield, and Thor quietly curses. His men are unable to prevent his abduction— abduction, Father would weep if he could see how pathetic Thor is now—because they can't lay a finger on Loki.

Loki says something, letting the shield flicker before falling, and Barton releases an arrow towards his face. Loki catches it mid flight and lifts his head as if unimpressed before it explodes. Loki's thrown across the room, slamming into the back wall, hard. Thor twitches his hand a little, relieved.

Barton is suddenly by his face, and taps at his shoulder. "Are you hurt?" He demands, rolling Thor up a little. At his touch, Thor lurches back instinctively, and forces himself, at last, into a sitting position.

"I'm…" Thor breathes out sharply, trying to find some sort of weapon. Barton grimaces as he sees something on Thor's head, and it's then that he realizes that blood is leaking from his hairline all over his face. The gash must be nasty. Did Loki mean to hit him that hard?

"You'll be fine, Sir, we've got you," Barton reassures, and rises to his feet, lifting out a hand to help Thor to his.

Thor grasps it with his cybernetic hand, trying to ignore Barton's obvious discomfort, but they don't get any further than that. Loki's hand grabs Barton's shoulder and bodily shoves him away. Barton stumbles back several steps, and Thor's eye widens as he realizes Loki is once again holding the scepter.

The Mind Stone is in there! If Loki has any inkling of the power he's now grasping…Thor needs to get up.

With one hand, Loki flicks the remaining agents off their feet, and with the other tips the edge of the spear against Barton's chest. Barton gasps and draws in a tight breath as his veins glow a brief blue and Thor watches the surge return back to the Mind Stone.

Loki pulls the scepter back, and Barton stumbles several steps, only steadied when Loki reaches out to grab his upper arm. Barton looks up, and Thor feels his stomach coil with dread. "What the—" Barton swears sharply, looking as if he'd just been doused with cold water.

This is Father's most pressing mission for him yet and he's failed after only fourteen hours.

What will Father take now?

Loki releases Barton, studying him silently. Thor watches dully as he lifts up the spear and... pulls some sort of blue wispy light from it. He holds it in his palm for a second, as if trying to mold it before it slips from his fingers like running water.

Curse this headache!

Loki turns back to him, and grasps his cybernetic hand. Immediately, every muscle in him releases, and Thor bites sharply at his tongue. His paralysis had nothing to do with his head, then, it was Loki's sorcery. Loki pulls him to his feet, and Thor swiftly moves his hand down to grab a weapon, but Loki catches his wrist.

"I'd rather you didn't," Loki says thinly, eyes lingering on his head for a second. Thor twists in the grip, and Loki's eyes close with what looks like an exhaustion beyond Thor's comprehension.

"Let me go," Thor demands harshly, "when my father hears of this, he will not give you quarter. There will be no rock, no barren moon where he cannot find you. He will make you long for something sweet as pain."

Loki stares at him, "You're delusional."

Thor openly gapes, "I am not—"

Loki starts to drag him forward, but Thor delivers a hard kick to the back of Loki's calf. Loki staggers, and Thor doesn't let up the advantage once he's gained it. He pulls out of Loki's grip entirely, twisting free of his hand and grabbing at Loki's wrist to twist it behind his back as he takes the staff with his other hand.

He drags Loki to the nearest column, and slams him up against it. "You are a nuisance," Thor breathes, "I'll take pleasure in your death."

"No—stop," Loki hisses, squirming, " think. You know me , I can see it in your face."

"I don't care who you are!" Thor hisses, slamming him against the stone again.

Loki stiffens beneath him, releasing a soft moan, tilting his head forward to rest against the rough column. It looks like an admittance of defeat, but Loki instead begins to murmur: "Your name is Thor Bor Buri Odinson, you are the son of Odin Borson and Frigga Freysdottir by blood. You are the Crown Prince of Asgard, wielder of Mjolnir, and a friend to our people, you're—"

Thor twists his wrist up, and Loki releases a sharp cry.

" Liar," he hisses.

He hears the sound of several guns cocking, and remembers that there are other people in the room. The agents under the scepter's control. Thank all that is good in this world, he still has the advantage.

"Sir?" Someone prods behind him; not Barton.

Thor glances at them, "Where are some restraints?"

Four people lift up handcuffs, but Thor knows it will be ineffective. Barton, still looking slightly disoriented, lifts up a length of cord, and Thor reaches for it. He doesn't know if this means that Loki's attempts to deter the control were unsuccessful or not, but Barton has apparently decided to stick on his side. At least—for now.

Thor wraps Loki's wrists several times, managing to get about halfway up his forearms before the cord runs short. Loki's breaths sound wet.

"If you think this means I've spared you," Thor whispers to him, "you would do well to reassess that. Your fate hangs in the balance; you could be useful to my father's plans, or I might give you a swift death."

Loki is quiet, then: "You're still a terrible liar. We both know what the truth is, Brother."

No, stop.

How dare he assume—!

Thor slams him against the wall again, and Loki silences. "Shut up," Thor demands, "breathe another word and I won't hesitate to take your tongue. You are now a captive of Thanos. Man of Hawks, Delancy, and you two," he gestures towards them with one hand, and shoves Loki towards Barton-distantly, he notes the discoloration of the stones, slick with Loki's blood-and then snarls, "find somewhere to detain him."

Barton grabs his arm; Loki stares at Thor levelly, "I'm not fabricating; we can still leave, Thor. You can come home—"

Something in him jolts, snapping with a hollow click at the words. They sound familiar, a faint whisper of a memory to draw at, but Thor can't quite reach it. Only mixed words, but he can hear Loki's voice there.

Can I come home?

I'm so sorry.

Stop. This isn't his. It's not right. Loki must be messing with his mind. He takes a step forward to make good word on his promise, but Barton roughly grabs at Loki's hair, tugging his face out of Thor's sight.

"Shut up," Barton hisses to the dark-haired man. Thor shakes his head rapidly, glancing at Barton who gives a weak grimace, "There's no need for that, Sir," The way the title falls from his lips is hesitant, almost careful, and it makes Thor pause.

If Loki did release him...he has no idea what the implications would be. He rubs at his headache a little, and turns to the men, "Take him," without any hesitation he adds: "and find a gag."

Barton and the others drag Loki off at gunpoint, and Thor releases a loud noise when they've left. This makes no sense. That man is not his sibling! He would remember. He would know.

But, then again, he knows so little now.

Thor squeezes his eye shut and tries to wave off the man's words off as the ramblings of a madman. Yet, it sounds so familiar, so right; and it disorients him. If it is a lie, it is the most well crafted one he knows of.

But it must be wrong.

...Right?

000o000

" Who are you child of, Asgardian?"

" I am Thor, son of Odin, devil's spawn!"

" Who is your father, Lord of Lightning?"

" I...son of Thanos, he rescued me from...the Void...he…"

" Who is your Father, boy?"

" Od—Thanos. Thnns."

Chapter Text

 "When you close your eyes, what do you see?

Do you hold the light or is darkness underneath?

In your hands, there's a touch that can heal

But in those same hands, is the power to kill,"

-"Man Or A Monster" Sam Tinnez (feat. Zayde Wolf)

Selvig is ranting. Bubbling up useless information that Thor doesn't care much for, but he listens patiently as the scientist explains about his portal for the sixth time since he asked for a report. An update, to see how little or much progress has been made. Thus far? Enough, but not nearly what his father had been hoping for.

They still need iridium, and Thor isn't quite certain where to get any. Any alternatives have been considered and discarded, according to Selvig. It's iridium or the portal does not stabilize, and Father needs it to stabilize in order to get all his troops through in one piece.

Iridium.

He's still not sure what it is, even with Selvig waving his device at him again and again to show him pictures. The technology seems vaguely familiar, but he's conning it to that of the Sanctuary, because he doesn't want to contemplate an alternative answer.

"Sir?" Barton. Thor turns, waving a hand to shut Selvig up—mercifully—and the scientist huffs before returning to his tools and the portal. Thor bites at his inner gums for a second in his agitation before flicking his gaze across the man.

He looks no different than he did less than an hour ago, but Thor knows that it isn't the case. Not anymore. He's not Thor's. He's not the scepter's, and Thor is too afraid of what will happen to Barton's mind should he attempt to possess him again. What if it damages something he didn't mean for it to? Barton is the only person who has shown him kindness since this—

Stop.

Kindness?

His father is nothing but kind in his attempts to make Thor better.

But he still cannot bring himself to use the scepter on the archer again. Stupid. Pathetic, but truth. Barton has not left, and this surprises him more than he cares to admit. He thought that after Loki, perhaps Barton would contact his S.H.I.E.L.D. and swoop the organization in to save the day.

Ha.

The only person who will be doing any saving is Father, because Father will bring the Midgardians salvation. He will bring them rest. (And this terrifies him.)

"What is it?" Thor questions, adjusting his grip on the scepter as he moves forward to meet Barton. The archers clear, unfogged eyes squint at him for half a second before he jerks his head in the opposite direction he's facing.

"Talk in private?"

He'd rather not.

"Yes," Thor agrees and strides forward, taking point. Barton scrambles up beside him, but keeps pace with some ease. As soon as they exit the main cluster of people grouped together, Barton turns to him. He looks flighty, but managing to keep his calm well enough.

"Loki is detained, Sir, as you requested," Barton starts, and Thor's shoulders slump somewhat with relief. Good. "Before we, ah, gagged him, I did manage to ask a few questions and I was wondering if I could run something by you."

"If you've heard his ridiculous attempts to claim me as kin, I can assure you that they are meaningless." Thor states flatly. "I have never met him until today."

Can I come home?

I'm so sorry.

Thor shakes the voices off, and Barton's lips thin somewhat. "No. Nothing to do with that. He said stuff about an "Asgard", and I just...that's from children's books, here. Do you know it?"

Thor nearly skids to a halt. "You know that name?"

He doesn't. He thinks he doesn't. It seems familiar, but from a dream.

Barton's eyebrows furrow, "Yeah. It's…" he shakes his head, "it doesn't matter. Nevermind. I just want to know if you have any idea what he's doing here if he's not your sibling. He isn't from Earth, that much I can confirm, and if he's not helping your, uh, Dad, then..."

"I have none," Thor says heatedly. "And I don't intend to give his lies any more thought. That does bring up a question I have for you, though,"

Barton stops, looking at him, "And that would be?"

Thor clenches his fist around the scepter, "You are free. Loki removed the influence of the scepter from your mind, and yet, here you are. Why do you linger? If you meant to kill me, you would have already tried."

Barton is quiet for a long few seconds, staring at his face as if parsing it. He folds his arms over his chest, "What are you doing here?"

Thor blinks, "I'm sorry?"

"What are you doing here?" Barton repeats, "You obviously have no reason to want this beyond trying to make Daddy proud, but I'm not stupid. You're terrified of him."

Thor's jaw clenches, "I am not—"

Barton huffs, "Don't start that. You are a victim in this, just as much as I was. You know that the scepter works both ways, right? I could feel you sometimes, like a whisper, and I know that you don't want to be here."

Thor's teeth snap together, "Shut up. You don't know my intentions. I am not a victim, I am the instigator, and my father will burst with pride when he sees what I've done." He growls under his breath. "You stay because you pity a creature that doesn't exist."

"I stay because if I don't I'll be dead before I can make it to the exit." Barton's chin lifts, "Besides, what do I have to lose with helping you? You promised me glorious riches."

Thor is...he is so confused as to this man's motives. At first it seemed clear, but now he keeps saying things that make Thor less and less certain that he knows what Barton wants. Fine. Fine. If he is going to stay, so be it. Thor doesn't care. If he becomes a hindrance, it's not like he can't kill him.

"Fine," Thor hisses, "stay. But if you even think about betraying me…"

Barton's lip twitches, "I'll bare that in mind. You worry too much."

Thor does not worry enough.

000o000

"You're have grown slow," the Other's voice sneers softly, and Thor tries not to shudder as he takes a step forward. The hood covering his face does nothing to hide the fury in his eyes, and Thor thinks he might be sick all over the being's boots should he come any closer. He clenches his fist around the scepter, gripped in his flesh hand tightly. "Speed is of the essence, Lightning's Spawn, and I would remind you that your father is not a patient man."

Thor clenches his teeth together sharply. "No," he agrees.

"So why do you oscillate? You have the Tesseract, and your father has gifted you with power beyond your meager imagination." The Other says the words slowly, as if speaking to a daft child.

Thor gnaws on the inside of his cheek for a moment. How...what can he say in actual admittance of this? He has waited two days longer than they wanted, avoiding Midgar—Terra's pathetic attempts to find him, all because of a man who arrived and claimed to be his sibling? They would laugh at him.

But Loki…

Thor has not been able to sleep since he arrived, only spending endless hours restlessly pacing as he parses over everything. He watches Loki from afar sometimes, quietly trying to put together why Thor recognizes him so much if he is lying. Loki does not offer any information, only sitting quietly on the floor as if in deep meditation.

The pose, his expression, the twitching of his long, bony fingers—everything is familiar to Thor, and it is driving him insane.

He does not know this man.

He doesn't.

Thanos has never lied to him before, and why would he withhold the information of a younger sibling? Why would he start with that? He rescued Thor. He saved him because Father said the universe had greater purpose than his death, and Thor has clung to that every day since. Especially on those he did not think he'd see the next one on.

Father has never wanted him dead, nor has he ever deceived Thor.

Loki must be the liar.

He has to be.

He doesn't know what he does if Father is guilty instead.

"Something is on your mind, you are quieter than usual," the Other's voice is faint, but Thor snaps himself back to the present on it. The Other watches him with narrowed eyes, and Thor swallows hard.

"Nothing of note," his voice sounds awful. Patchy.

"No…" the Other slinks forward. "I think, perhaps, you are lying."

"Why would I do that?" That was too rapid. They will know he was deflecting now.

"You know how your father feels about secrets," the Other warns, clicking his tongue, "best spit it up now, child. What has happened?"

Thor bites at his gums, flexing his metal hand in his discomfort. He doesn't want to explain this. He doesn't know why, because he should explain this, but he...doesn't want to say a word of anything to the Other. He will inevitably tell Father everything, and then Father will know how distracted Thor has been.

This is his one chance to prove himself, but he's failing it because he is listening to the lies of a man he doesn't even know.

He doesn't remember much before Father found him, but what he does is mostly scattered bits of disconnected memories. It all feels blurred, like he's trying to look through it with water in his eyes, but he knows that Loki is in the broken memories. He can see the form of the sorcerer if he focuses hard enough through his blinding headache. Faint laughter, his, he thinks, running through the golden halls of somewhere, a woman's soft voice, a man with rough hands, but a gentle smile—dozens of fragments that have been tossed anew into his mind.

Loki has distracted him. Torn at fraying edges he wasn't meant to.

And, stupid at it is, Thor doesn't want to tell the Other because he knows that Ebony will be forced to dig through his head again. Thor hates it when Ebony rifles through his mind. His mental presence feels like claws, only taking and taking.

Father would want him on his best for this mission. His redemption.

His weakness will be laughed at. Thor has no family beyond what Father has given him. He knows that. He is a fool for hoping, quietly, that Loki may be telling the truth. He should not want that. Father has given him everything, Father has made him into something meaningful. He saved Thor in more ways than one.

And yet…

"There is…" Thor trails, trying to figure out how best to phrase this. The Other's presence is faint in his mind, like always, and outright lying will only cause more pain. He doesn't want that. "...A man broke into the base of operations two days ago."

The Other shifts forward some. It is so hard to read his expression.

"And?"

"I didn't kill him," Thor blurts out, biting at his tongue sharply. "I haven't yet."

"And?"

"He's not from Terra." Thor explains hurriedly. The Other is drawing closer, and it is taking every ounce of self control he possesses not to rear backwards completely from him. If he touches him, the mental link will react sharply. Thor's vision will be blurred for at least an hour from the headache.

The Other pauses. "Where did he say he hailed from, then?"

Thor chews on his lip. He doesn't want to say this! "...A place called Asgard. His name is Loki."

The Other is a creature of stillness, but the sheer amount that his muscles lock up after Thor has admitted that causes Thor's eyebrows to meet in confusion. The Other is quiet, staring at him with a piercing gaze. It's heavy enough that Thor feels like his soul is being contemplated.

Thor knows he's not to ask questions. Questions is defying the trust Father puts between them, but he can't help it. He's so confused, and he needs the reassurance. "Why are you afraid?"

"Afraid?" The Other scoffs, snapping out of his daze quickly. "I am not afraid, child, I am thinking. Asgard is a place where the damned go, and I know that your father would not want you to associate with a demon. Kill him."

Thor blinks. "Beg pardon?"

"Kill him," the Other repeats, "make it quick. I don't care if he suffers. Kill. Him. This is not to fulfill some sort of vendetta, it is for your safety and the safety of your father's purposes. To associate with this demon is to court death. Kill him."

Thor draws back, mouth dropping sightly. It is not his first assassination assignment, but he can't just...not after what Loki said. "He said he was my brother," Thor blurts, "I can't—I can't kill him until I disprove that. I could be slaying family."

"Your only family is with Thanos," the Other growls, "you need no other. Have you not the knowledge of how demons work? They lie to you in the most elaborate ways. He is trying to get close so he can possess you."

What?

That seems ridiculous.

"I'm—"

"Kill him!" The Other commands harshly. "Or should I tell your father of your waning success and lacking attitude towards—"

"No!" Thor rears up to his feet with horror. "No!" He won't lose something else today! "I'll kill him! Don't tell my father of this, please," Thor hates how pathetic he sounds, but he can't help it. The memory of his eye is fresh and stinging. It was the most recent when he failed to find the Soul Stone with Gamora before she left them with Nebula.

If you cannot see with both eyes, perhaps one will bring your attention into focus, my son.

"Good," the Other smirks, "be swift and report to me when it's over. You have a great deal of lost time to make up now. When you show me the weapon slick with his blood, I will withhold from telling your father anything, but until then…" the Other reaches a hand out and slams his hand against Thor's head.

He jerks out of the vision with a cry, tumbling onto his hands and knees as the scepter falls from his grip. His vision blurs and he gasps, heaving in rattled breaths as his head pierces with pain. He has never been more grateful to be alone. He doesn't want anyone to see this weakness. This shame.

Look at how much he is failing. Look how much—please, please, please, no more. He can't take anymore. He can't do any more training, and he hates that he shies from it. His Father has taught him better than to run from it.

He has to kill Loki.

He has to.

He has no other options.

It's that or death, maybe something worse, and Thor doesn't...he can't…he won't...

Thor stumbles to his feet, breathing hard and heavy. He wraps his hand around the hilt of a long dagger.

000o000

No one gets in his way as he grips the weapon with a sweaty hand. They eye him slightly, but Thor has apparently wandered around looking like he's out for blood enough that no one questions it. Thor arrives all too soon in front of the small area they're holding Loki at, and his heart beats rapidly inside his chest, pounding against his ribs.

He's going to be sick all over everything.

He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't—

Loki's gaze flicks up from the floor as he approaches, and his head tilts slightly. The gag someone stuffed around his mouth is still present, and Thor is quietly relieved by it. He doesn't have to hear anything this liar says.

A demon.

That's—

The green pierces through him, and Thor almost drops the dagger and flees completely, like an incapable child. He can do this. He must do this, because the punishment will be far greater than anything else.

He's split blood before.

Why can't he do this?

He lingers, long enough for Loki's expression to furrow with something like confusion. Thor presses his teeth together, moving forward with forced confidence, shaking off nerves. He can do this. It's fine, it will be—

Nervous, brother?

Haha! When have you ever known me to be nervous?

—Fine.

Thor stops in his tracks slightly, trying to shake off the memory, but it sticks, pressing against his head and pulling. It hurts, increasing his headache more than he thought capable, and Thor grinds his teeth letting out a growl of pain as he lifts his hands up and tugs at his short hair. The locks fall through his fingers easily, and the hilt of the dagger digs into his skull.

Ooh, nice feathers.

You don't really want to start this again, do you cow?

I was being sincere.

You are incapable of sincerity.

Am I?

"Shut up!" Thor shouts, squeezing his eye shut. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

A demon. The Other said that Loki was a demon, and suddenly that doesn't feel so far fetched anymore. This is Loki's voice in his head, playing back like some sort of memory. There's the faint smell of spilled wine on his nostrils, and he can blurrily see yellow columns dipped in gold in the background. It hurts. It hurts so much to think of these.

They aren't real!

Thor pulls his eye open. This needs to stop now. It all needs to stop. His skull is going to explode before he can make sense of any of this.

Loki is squinting up at him as if he's some sort of puzzle, and that, too, feels familiar. Thor wants to strangle him. He wants to strangle something. He takes a step forward, but nearly falls flat on his face in pain. He needs to kill...he has to...has to...he can't because he's...

Just a boy trying to prove himself a man.

Nervous, brother?

Haha! Have you ever—

Thor slides the edge of the blade against his forearm, dragging the weapon up and up and up. Blood gushes out and Thor feels relief at the sight. The pain is distant, a faint sensation that he can't make sense of. But he knows it. This is something he can control. This is something he doesn't need to parse.

Thor's on his knees, though he can't remember falling, and Loki is staring at him with nothing short of horror.

Blood runs down his arm.

Loki's hands are struggling against the restraints, but he's going nowhere. Good. Thor would rather not give chase to this.

Kill him.

Loki's green eyes flick to his face and a shallow breath heaves from his lungs. He's gone pale. Thor grinds his teeth together, dragging a breath in.

Do it.

Do it.

Do—

Nervous, brot—

Thor plunges the blade into Loki's stomach, deep. Loki's eyes go wide, and a strangled breath heaves from his nose. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. His blood mingles on the floor. Thor pulls the dagger from Loki, who immediately inhales before Thor stabs him again. And again. And—

Loki's hand breaks free from the restraint and grabs his wrist. His pale hands look ghostly against the metal of Thor's arm. Loki visibly struggles to keep Thor's hand at bay, and Thor blinks several times, trying to find a will to finish this.

Stabbing.

Stabbing is not quick.

What was he thinking? He should have just slit Loki's throat. Or strangled him, or stabbed his heart—something immediately vital, he could've—

Loki's other hand is free as well, and Thor realizes a little too late that the only reason Loki stayed here, as a captive, was because he wanted to be. Detaining sorcerers is a delicate thing, and Thor didn't have the drugs, restraints, or means to hold him properly.

Loki tugs off the gag, hacking and gasping. His other hand doesn't lift in his defense, it slams against the wounds. His fingers quickly stain red.

Red.

Thor's arm is covered in red.

His hands are stained red with the blood he's helped split. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to wash it off. He's dirty now, and he'll never be able to get clean.

Can I come home?

I'm so sorry.

"Thor," Loki's voice is a rasp, but Thor flicks his gaze to the man despite it. His face has drained of any remaining color it had, leaving him looking stretched and cadaverous. Blood is staining his lips a bright red. "Thooor," his voice slurs. The hand gripping his metal one tightens just a bit, but Thor hardly feels it.

He doesn't feel much of anything.

Kill him.

"It's okay...it's…" Loki coughs, and Thor watches with some distance. All he feels is numb. He can't remember to breathe. What is he doing!? What has he done!? He wasn't supposed to kill him! "I...forgive you," Loki hisses, blinking rapidly and his face flicks with brief agony. "It...okay…"

Thor…

Didn't…

Why—?

Loki's eyes flick to his face and he wets his lips before breathing out heavily. "I'm sorry."

Before Thor has time to react, or even process what's happening, Loki's bloody hand smacks against Thor's head heavily. Blood matters in his hair immediately, and Thor has half a second to be disgusted before a foreign presence enters his mind. His mental defenses, after years of being battered and beaten by Ebony, are useless against this presence.

A demon. A demon. A demon.

The Other said he was a—

The mental hand in his head reaches and reaches and reaches—someone is screaming, he realizes faintly, he thinks that it's him—and then pulls. Something in his head gives, like glass cracking on a pavement. A rush of dizziness swirls through his entire body as the cracking releases something—everything.

Thor gasps in sharply.

Painfully.

Every breath feels like poison.

What...what...what...what…He's—a mess. He's a mess. Oh, Norns, he is a mess. A staggering, painful, mess. The flood has opened, and now, despite how hard Thor scrambles to put up dams or defenses, it doesn't matter. The water is rushing through, and he can't stop it. He's going to drown.

The rush of images is disorienting, and he can't make much sense of any of them. A lifetime flashes through his head in seconds, but the timelines make no sense. Some of the memories feel clipped or unwhole.

He's standing in the...in a room with Loki on his left and they're sharing a grin before turning to rush back to an older man—father. Later, he's swinging his practice sword around and talking rapidly to a golden haired woman intently working on tuning her harp. Mother. He's striding to the throne and catching a dark-haired woman's eye, flicking his gazes over others.

He's pulling a blanket around a brunette's shoulder and slowly tipping himself onto his back to stare up at the stars.

Attempting to pull a hammer up in heavy rain, but unsuccessful.

His hair has flicked into his eyes from where Gungnir just snapped against his face. Fight me!

His fingers are slipping against the wind and he's looking up desperately at Loki's wild, frightened eyes as he slips. Loki screams something at him, but Thor is too far away to hear it. He's—

Thor staggers back onto his elbows, heaving out short, shallow breaths of panic.

Your name is Thor Bor Buri Odinson, you are the son of Odin Borson and Frigga Freysdottir.

You are my older brother.

Loki. Loki. The memories scatter to bring together images with him present, and a flurry of emotions follow. They feel hollow, though, as if they are borrowed. As if they aren't really his. But suddenly everything makes a horrific sense.

Asgard.

Loki.

Brother.

Words that had been meaningless to him before—they're his. He has...he's not...he's not who Thanos said he is. Was. He's not that. Thanos took—he took everything. Thor was—is he's not the son of Thanos. He is the child of Odin and Frigga. The Other was—Kill him—Loki!

Thor sits up sharply, eye widening as his chest heaves with unadulterated panic. Loki!

Loki is slumped against the ground face first, blood pooling around his stomach. Thor did that. He stabbed him three. Times. What did he do? What did he—this is his brother. This is his younger brother. He's not moving. Is he breathing?

No, no, no!

Thor scrambles forward, hissing sharply as his arm stings with pain. The cut he dug into his forearm earlier is still bleeding and pulsing with an acidic ache. He doesn't care. Let his arm rot or die of infection. It doesn't matter.

He stabbed Loki.

He stabbed Loki with the intent to kill.

Thor reaches the younger and grabs at his shoulder with a murmured whisper of his name. Loki does nothing, and Thor's stomach drops. No, no, no. As gently as he can manage, Thor flips Loki to his back. Loki's limbs go without restraint and Thor's breaths begin to quicken.

No, no, no.

"Loki," Thor's hands are flaying everywhere. Loki's face is lax and his eyes closed. He looks like he's sleeping. Is he dead? Did Thor actually kill him? (Please no. Please, please, please—) Thor lifts up his flesh hand to press two fingers against Loki's neck. Blood drips from his arm as he frantically waits for a pulse.

There is so much blood.

He didn't mean for it to go this far! He didn't want to kill him!

"Loki, please," Thor's voice cracks. "Please don't do this to me. Don't be—"

He feels the faint thread of a heartbeat and a small cry escapes him in relief. The pulse is erratic, but Thor doesn't care. It's there. He draws his hand back and whispers a quiet prayer of thanks before turning his attention to the stabs.

They're still gushing and Thor has to get the bleeding to stop. He flicks his eyes rapidly around the surrounding space, looking for anything to wrap the wounds with. Nothing immediately comes to mind. He needs something.

Loki's—he's wearing that vest. Thor can remove or cut at it to create something of a barrier against the blood. He thinks, faintly, that Loki might be irritated with him for slashing apart his clothing, but who cares? It's that or death, and Thor is more partial towards the latter.

Thor grabs the dagger he dropped earlier, and feels vaguely sick when he sees it's slick with Loki's blood. He did that. He did that. He did—Thor keeps Loki as still as he can as he slices the leather apart to first remove it, and then wrap around Loki's stomach. He ties a strip firmly above the wounds to apply pressure, and then uses the remains to block the blood flow.

His hands work rapidly, as if he's done this thousands of times before, but he can only draw up faint whispers now. There's nothing solidified. Only a strict woman's voice guiding him afar and a snicker of someone insisting that he's going to kill the poor sod, I'm about to weep at how sorry you are at this, brother.

When he's done what he can, Thor sheathes the weapon (he wants to burn it. Melt it. Destroy it, but he might need it, and he's not stupid enough to throw it away because it frightens him. He did this. He did this. He did—) and as gently as he can, gathers Loki's prone form into his arms.

The weight is much less than he thinks it should be.

Loki is so dead against him, and he'd be lying if he didn't admit that it's terrifying.

It's not a corpse. It's not a corpse, he didn't kill his younger brother. He didn't. He tried, but he didn't. He needs help. He needs—he needs Asgard. (He wants, so awfully, like a weeping child, to go home.)

Thor honestly can't remember much of the next ten minutes. He grabs the scepter from where he left it, strapping it to his back, and then he storms into the laboratory and simply tears the Tesseract from Selvig's fingers.

He doesn't know what he wants, or what he's supposed to be doing, but he knows he needs time to think and Selvig can't be allowed to get any further.

He did this. He did this. He—

"Sir? What the heck is…" Barton's voice, and a hand grabs at his shoulder.

Thor flinches back from it, releasing something close to a strangled sound. Barton's eyebrows shoot up on his forehead and he swears under his breath before glancing around them.

"Help me," Thor pleads, "please. I don't want...this is my brother." He chokes on his voice somewhat, but the words sound right. For the first time since he fell, something feels so sincerely right. Clicked into place like a missing puzzle piece he'd never put together before. "Please, Man of Hawks, please, I don't know what to…"

Barton lifts his gaze from Loki's injuries to his face and looks to be rocking on his feet before he blows out a slight raspberry, once again does a quick head check, and then jerks his head. "Come with me. I know where we can get some medical equipment."

Thor nearly releases a cry in relief.

(He feels so utterly pathetic. Is he going to weep? Like a child in need of succoring? His father has taught him better than that).

Barton guides him quickly down a few of the longer halls before they enter the large entrance with several cars. A "garage" he's heard it referred to, but he doesn't know. Thor bites at his tongue. Barton leads him quietly in the shadows, apparently catching on Thor's desire to be discrete, and stops when they reach the S.H.I.E.L.D. car they commandeered nearly a week past.

Barton clambers onto the top and opens a small crate Thor hadn't noticed before, digging through it. His hands are rapid, but they don't hold the growing panic that Thor is feeling. Loki is losing so much blood. It's dripping from him enough to follow a trail from.

He is going to die.

And it will be Thor's fault.

He did this. He did this. He did—

"Put him up here," Barton commands, gesturing towards the back of the truck as he lays out some sort of sheet or blanket. Maybe a towel, Thor can't really tell. Thor climbs carefully into the car and settles Loki onto the indicated area.

Barton rips at a roll of gauze before shoving it down on Loki's stomach, hard.

A low moan escapes his brother—his brother. His actual, living brother. The one he ran around with as a youth, the one he shares blood with—and Loki's hands flick uselessly.

Barton squints before lifting a hand out to gently tear some of the leather away from Loki's stomach and his expression grows more distressed.

"What?" Thor barely dares to breathe, trying to find something to do with hands. There is nothing. He is useless.

"There's some sort of...I don't know what it is. His skin is glowing, Sir." Barton explains. What? Thor leans forward to stare at the same area and sees that it is indeed the case. The veins of his brother are illuminated with a faint yellow surrounding the stabs. Stabs. He couldn't have deemed it good enough to stab Loki only once?

Three times?

Why?

Sorcerer, Thor remembers suddenly, Loki is a sorcerer. This is his attempt to heal himself, and likely the only reason that he's not dead from blood loss yet. Thor looks up at Barton, relieved more than he can say. "It's sorcery," he explains hurriedly and glares off someone who tries to approach the truck, "he's trying to heal it."

Barton shakes his head slightly before pressing down on the wounds again. He hisses through his teeth slightly, "I can't get it all. Help me."

Thor reaches a hand forward and grabs at more of the gauze before tearing and pressing it against Loki's stomach. Thor can't stop staring at the blood. He did that. He did that. He did—

"I really don't mean to be a distraction," Barton interjects and reaches out with his foot to kick something off of the ground into an awaiting hand. A roll of something white. "But what the heck happened? As far as I'm aware, the base wasn't attacked."

Thor squeezes his eye shut and tries not to vomit. "I didn't know," he breathes, "I promise I didn't know."

"You didn't know what?" Barton asks.

"I didn't know," Thor chokes on the words.

"Thor." It's the first time that Barton has called him by his given name, and Thor flicks his gaze up, surprised. Barton's gaze is hard as he works something down with his hands. Something inside of him squirms at the thought of admitting his sin to the archer, but the words come bubbling anyway:

"I did it."

Barton's frantic hand movements stop, and he looks up slowly at Thor. "You...you what?"

"I didn't know he was my brother," he appends quickly, "I swear on my life. I just...before he...before I...he pulled…" he doesn't know how to explain this to the archer. He doesn't want to delve into a detailed history of what a mess he's become, but he doesn't really have a choice.

What are you doing here?

"My father—who I thought was my father, he...took my memories from me," Thor explains. It sounds awkward and confused. He doesn't know if it was Father, or Ebony, or a result of his fall. He just knows that they were gone and now they're here, but unsettled.

It didn't immediately fix everything for Loki to pull it forward.

"Loki retrieved them," he finishes.

Barton stares at him for a long second, as if parsing his face before he sighs under his breath. "I'm sorry," he admits at last. Thor stares at him with wide eyes. He's not...what?

"You're…?"

"Oh, no, don't get the wrong idea, cyborg—I am seething." Barton promises, lifting up a hand and rips at a piece of the roll of something with his teeth. "But I'm not stupid. You didn't leave him to bleed out, and that shows more about you than everything else has."

Thor shakes his head. "No, it doesn't. I stabbed my brother with the intent to kill, Man of Hawks."

Barton is quiet. "Yes."

Thor tries not to flinch.

Barton shakes his head, "I can't do anything more. The bleeding isn't stopping, I think that you punctured an organ or nicked at an artery. My best estimations gives him less than five minutes. You need to get him to a hospital."

Five minutes.

"I can't," Thor insists. "My actions are more than enough to warrant your government stopping anyone from rendering aid."

"I can't take him. He's not human and I know that they'll have questions I can't answer." Barton breathes out a frustrated breath. "You're from Asgard—" maybe, he thinks so "—right? Don't you have doctors of some sort up there? Take him back."

No.

He can't do that.

"I'm..." Thor breathes out. He can't finish the sentence. An admission of fear was never treated well on the Sanctuary, and Thor doesn't know if he's brave enough to chance it here. He is a fool. Oh, why did he have to follow the Other so blindly? Why couldn't he have stopped and thought? "I can't."

Barton shifts, "Listen, do you want him to live?"

"Yes."

"Then get outside help. Asgard is your best bet right now, okay? I'll call in S.H.I.E.L.D. and we'll clean up this mess." He gestures vaguely towards the base around them, "I'm going to safely assume that this hasn't really been your life dream."

Thor squeezes his eye shut. "No. It wasn't."

Even before he remembered.

A hand rests on his shoulder, and Thor looks up to see Barton staring at him. His expression is oddly gentle. "Hey, it's going to be okay. You can do this. You need to do this. Go save your brother, I'll give you some cover."

Thor stares at Loki's prone form for a long second. His skin is white, and his breath is so uneven it frightens him.

Can I come home?

I'm so sorry.

Thor leans forward and gathers Loki into his arms. "Thank you for your assistance, Man of Hawks."

"Clint," Barton offers, and Thor gives a weak smile.

"Clint." He repeats, "Thank you. My apologies for the...scepter business."

Clint huffs, waving a hand and follows Thor as he climbs out of the truck. "It doesn't matter. Now go away!" He points towards the entrance and Thor hesitates for only a moment longer, giving a slight dip of his head in Clint's direction before breaking into a run for the exit.

Asgard. Asgard. Asgard.

He's going back to Asgard.

Home.

Before anyone can ask or stop him, Thor's gone. Fleeing from the facility with his brother's broken body held against him tightly. And then, he's standing outside in the cold evening air and screaming up at the sky for a name he can't remember. The gatekeeper. He's crying for him, but he can't remember what his name is.

Loki's stuttering breath skips, and doesn't resume anything close to a normal rhythm. (As if it was before).

000o000

Ultimately, his shouting catches the gatekeeper's attention, or something else does, because Thor is whisked away to Asgard in a terrifying leap. He keeps Loki clutched against him, refusing to let go, and staggers into the observatory.

He can barely keep himself upright from the sudden pull, but the sensation doesn't feel unfamiliar.

"My prince," the gatekeeper greets and releases a sword (a quiet part of him somewhere insists it starts with "H"), walking quickly down the dais towards him. "I have called for aid, they should arrive shortly."

Thor nods, unsettled by the title more than he would care to admit.

It belongs to someone who died seven years ago.

Thor doesn't...he doesn't think that that's him anymore. The person who came back after the fall...he doesn't even know who he was, really, before he fell anyway. The memories—what Loki dug through his head and pulled forward before he passed out—he doesn't know how to put them together.

He's just…

Who are you the child of, Asgardian?

Fingers snap in front of his face, and Thor jerks back wildly at it, adrenaline pumping through his veins. What on the—

The gatekeeper—Heimdall—lowers his hand, and his eyebrows are furrowed somewhat, "Thor?"

"I'm...don't…" Thor starts to say, but stops, tightening his grip around Loki's body. (It's not a body!)

Heimdall's gaze is piercing, and he wants to hide from it, but he can't. A voice calls out from the entrance, and then suddenly the room is being poured into by women—healers—and a handful of guards. Thor shrinks back from them, but one of the women with a stern face, he recognizes her from his memories, moves forward with purpose, sees Loki, and then she's shouting.

Thor feels strangely disconnected from it all.

Loki's pulled from his arms without his consent and whisked off to what Thor presumes is a hospital of some sort.

He stands there, feeling like an idiot for a lot longer than he should have before Heimdall releases a slight breath, grabs his elbow and steers him from the observatory. The memories that crash into his head as soon as he sees the golden city in the distance are powerful enough to hurt.

Thor draws back, but Heimdall gently pushes him forward towards the Bifrost—

Please! I didn't mean for it to go this far! I'm sorry! Please! Take my hand!

Loki, I can't, I'm slipping! I'm sorry!

—bridge. Thor's feet stutter, but Heimdall keeps him facing and moving forward. He doesn't let him go.

000o000

He remains beside Loki's prone form, after the healers have given him permission, for hours before he sees anyone else. The head healer, Eir, has attempted to get a look at him, but he waves her off with scowls and pointed shifting whenever she comes closer.

He doesn't want to be poked or prodded at.

He's not some sort of science project for the woman to look at.

If she tries to help him, she'll see the scars, and he doesn't want that.

Loki remains on the cot, pale and cadaverous, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he's still alive. Thor's stomach clenches with discomfort at how dead his little brother looks.

He did that.

But—the others. He hears them before he sees them, and something in his stomach spurs with recognition to the voices before anxiety swallows it. The king and queen. Here. Now.

Thor leaps to his feet, body insisting that he run and he's inclined to agree with it. He doesn't want to leave Loki behind, but he can't...he's not ready to face any of this. He's had less than a handful of hours to even come to terms with the fact that the person that Thanos said he was is a lie.

That everything he has been living over the last seven years has been a lie.

(And privately, Thor thinks he knew this all along).

He doesn't make it out of the room in time.

Frigga and Odin step into the doorway, talking to Eir behind them, and then come to an abrupt halt as they see him standing next to Loki's cot. Frigga's hands fly up to her face, and Odin's stretches with a visible show of grief.

He wants to leave.

He didn't mean for this to happen.

He doesn't really know what he thought would happen, but he didn't want to stay.

If Heimdall hadn't…

Frigga moves forward slowly, and Thor resists the urge to back up. There's nowhere to go. She reaches out a hand when she's close enough and slowly rests a hand on the side of his face. Blue eyes brim with tears, and Thor tries not to draw away from her soft hand.

He thinks he's supposed to be happy.

Or relieved.

He doesn't feel anything but an abrupt deep numbness. It settles in his bones, and bites at his nerves.

Odin rests a hand on his left shoulder and lets it linger. Thor wishes they would stop touching him. He's supposed to be happy. He's supposed to be happy, but these are strangers and he doesn't know them. The man who fell from the Bifrost died seven years ago, and they're looking for a ghost of him that Thor can't give.

He's supposed to be happy.

Frigga pulls his stiff limbs into an embrace, and Thor feels squished beneath her arms. Odin rests a hand on his face and Thor does draw away somewhat at it. The entire affair has been wordless thus far, but Frigga draws back at his flinch and stares at his face. "Thor?"

Her voice is a whisper.

"You came back to us," she blinks back her tears. "All this time I thought you were—" she doesn't finish that thought, but it's not hard to guess at what she would have said.

"My son," Odin's voice is nearly silent, "what has happened to you?"

Thor draws away from their touch at last, and stands before them. His missing body parts suddenly feel stark, and he feels exposed before them. He doesn't like it. He misses the armor that not understanding his past came with.

He is a mess.

Thor lifts up the Tesseract and the scepter and dumps it into Odin's hands, "Don't let these get lost." He says stiffly. They probably weren't the proper words to say after seven years of separation, but he doesn't know what else to articulate.

Frigga's expression grows openly distressed. "Thor?"

Thor can't look at her face. That is the mother of the man he nearly killed, and no one knows but him and maybe Heimdall. He bites sharply at his inner gums before looking at her, "Your Majesty?"

The words make her draw back like she's been struck. Odin is staring at him with an expression Thor can't interrupt.

Frigga gathers herself together after a breath and lifts up a hand to grab his arm, looking at where he cut himself open, "You are injured," she murmurs, "will you let me care for you?"

"I deserve the pain." Thor blurts out before he can stop it.

Both royalty breathe out slowly.

"Where have you been? Who has done this to you?" Odin whispers. He sounds quietly enraged, and Thor draws back from it. Anger means pain, and Thor doesn't want the pain.

"Please, do you not feel it?" Frigga questions, blinking rapidly, and Thor shakes his head, looking down at the ragged gash.

His voice is grim, and the truth brutal, but he can't stop it: "I don't think I know how anymore."

000o000

Frigga sets him on a chair in the corner of the room. She turns his arm back and forth, looking over the wound with careful eyes. He can't feel her touch, but notes with a distance unlike any other that the wound is awful.

Bloody, ragged, and still leaking somewhat, but its slow.

Across the room, from his position on the chair Thor was in, Odin is varying between watching him and looking at Loki's lax face. Odin's hand is gently resting on Loki's.

Frigga heals his arm with sorcery, and her face grows more distressed when, at her constant questioning if something hurts, he can only answer "no". She looks near tears when she's finished, and a quiet part of him withers at that.

He doesn't understand why, but he knows that there is almost nothing that will make the queen cry.

She wraps the wound and presses a kiss to the bandaging, looking up at him. Her blue eyes are filled with intensity. Giving a grimaced smile, she rises to her feet and leans forward to press a kiss against his brow.

"I love you," she murmurs into his hair.

Thor doesn't answer.

He doesn't know if he believes the words, or that, should he say it back, they would be sincere.

Frigga's tears wet his hair, but when she pulls back, her face is emotionless.

Thor watches her cross the room to stand beside Loki, and sees with a detached, ugly feeling inside that she looks agonized to see him in such a state. Her fingers lift to trace Loki's face and she trades a few words with him in a language that Thor recognizes, but doesn't understand. Not really. He can only pick up a few scattered words.

Frigga's fingers trace down Loki's arm, lingering on his wrist where Thor notices an ugly scar, before she grips his hand.

Loki looks dead.

He did that.

Thor pulls his boots up onto the chair next to him, wrapping his arms around his feet as he watches his parents—these are the people who raised him, but Thor can't feel anything at seeing them again. Isn't he supposed to be happy?—stare at Loki's face.

Thor's gaze lingers on the scar near Loki's wrist again, he doesn't recognize it. It's white, indicating age, but Thor isn't stupid. He knows what such a scar means.

A coil of unease settles in his stomach as he watches his family.

They are very, very broken, and he doesn't have any ideas on how to fix it.

000o000

Eir arrives later to check on Loki and reassure them that he will live, and she expects him to make a full recovery. She looks directly at him when she says that if any more time had passed, he would have died, and he thinks that its her way of saying good job.

Loki doesn't look like he's going to make a recovery, and Thor hasn't slept since got here three days ago with worry. He's barely eaten anything, save what Frigga shoved in front of him.

The wounds will scar.

Loki will bare for the rest of his life that Thor tried to kill him, and wouldn't have cared unless Loki did what he did.

The Other is calling for him.

He's always calling now, but without the scepter, Thor can resist somewhat. He doesn't know how long he can pretend nothing is happening, but he's going to try.

He hasn't said anything since he arrived with Loki.

His parents keep popping in and out of the room, and Thor finds himself growing vaguely annoyed with it. He's not going to vanish into thin air simply because they leave him and Loki alone for two seconds.

He dreams that night of the Other whispering to him, and jolts awake, disgusted with his stupidity. Sleep will give the Other a way to reach him.

"He should wake soon," Eir announces on the next morning. Frigga, who is with them presently, nods with a faint smile of relief.

A knot in his stomach unloosens somewhat.

"That is good," she says.

Eir turns to him, eyes hard. "I do not mean to press, my prince—" gah, he wishes they would stop calling him that "—but what happened? Heimdall spotted you on Midgard and informed your family, but before your parents could draw together a search party your brother had already left and now you return and both of you are half dead."

He's not half dead. Loki was. Is. Was? Was.

Thor blinks and tries to bite at his tongue.

I have taught you better than to lie to me.

"It…" Thor's voice is hoarse. "I'm…"

"Thor?" Frigga asks in question.

Thor breathes out quietly. He has been stupid, selfish, for wanting them not to hate him. For what he did, he deserves the punishment they will wring out for him.

He stabbed Loki. This is his doing. Unlike with Clint, he does not try to defend himself: "I stabbed him three times."

Frigga recoils and Eir's face falls. Loki, on the bed, does nothing but breathe.

"You…" Frigga whispers. She rises to her feet and looks between them all before she leaves the room.

Something in him shrivels and dies. An ache rests where it resided.

Eir's tongue clicks. She lets out a harsh breath before moving forward, dragging a seat away from the wall and sitting in front of him. "Explain." She demands harshly.

Thor stares at her, clenching his living fist before he hesitantly does. The words do not come quickly or coherently, but Eir listens patiently as he explains about being held captive and his captor wiping his mind, and then Loki restoring them.

If she's surprised, she doesn't say. When he's finished, she prods at his metal arm. "And this? Did he do this, too?"

Thor pulls his arm away from her, gritting his teeth. "Yes. For my failure. I deserved it."

Eir scoffs and rises to her feet, "No, you didn't." She says frankly. Thor's eye widens a little. She shakes her head, "He took your eye and everything below your right knee, too."

It's not a question. Thor doesn't answer, but tries not to be so startled that she knows about it all. Eir shakes her head with disgust. "I will inform your mother and father of what happened, but you will not withhold truth if she should ask. In the meantime, I'm going to get one of my assistants to give you a dreamless elixir. No—no arguments. You need to sleep."

Thor doesn't fight. He doesn't see a point. He'd lose.

He sleeps that night, and he dreams of nothing.

The Other is still calling for him.

000o000

Thor wakes up to voices. It isn't his parents, or any of Eir's aids that he's come to recognize. He refused to leave Loki's room and Eir had pulled out another cot for him to sleep on before she left. Thor's fingers curl around the dagger no one took from him—no one bothered to ask if he had weapons—and he slowly rolls over to assess the situation.

There are four figures in the room. A blond, redhead, and two raven-heads. Their talking among themselves quietly in the tongue Thor doesn't understand. He recognizes them, but he can't really pull anything together beyond a few vague names and a feeling of companionship.

The only woman in the group sighs deeply before reaching her hand out, preparing to touch Loki's face.

Thor doesn't know these people. His memories do, but that means virtually nothing. They aren't his parents or healers.

Strangers. (But not).

He's not really thinking straight from exhaustion and a protective panic grasps at him. Thor adjusts his grip on the dagger, still uncleaned from his and Loki's blood, before pitching it across the room.

Sif jerks her hand back.

The others' hands raise in defense.

All heads lift to him as he stumbles to his feet and stands next to Loki's cot, guarding his brother. He's certain that he looks marvelous, and judging from their expressions, he's correct. He hasn't changed clothing since before he left the Sanctuary, and his hair is gritty and disgusting. He feels like a walking, hideous corpse.

"Thor?" Sif questions before asking something in that tongue. Thor's hands clench and he shakes his head.

"I don't understand what you're saying. Get away from him." Thor commands.

Sif's mouth snaps shut and the blond, Fandral, draws aback somewhat.

"What do you mean you don't understand? This is the tongue of the capital." Fandral says, "You've been speaking it since birth."

Has he?

He can't anymore.

Thor shakes his head, but his head is beginning to settle, and draw together memories of these people: the Warriors Three and Lady Sif. They are his shield-companions. Friends.

Oh.

Thor's defenses slip somewhat. "You're…"

"Your companions, my prince," Volstagg inputs. He looks distressed.

"I know." Thor shakes his head, "I think I know."

Sif reaches out a hand to rest on his shoulder, and Thor tries not to flinch. "I'm sorry we couldn't be here sooner. Eir wanted Loki to be exposed to as little bacteria as possible, and we...frankly didn't know you were in here. We came as soon as we could for Loki."

And Thor almost stabbed them for it.

His face heats. "Sorry." He mutters.

Sif gives a sad smile, gaze lingering on his arm. "It's okay. We knew that you lived, and that was enough. If you are ever ready to discuss what has...happened, know that we shall make ourselves available for you."

He...doesn't know what to say to that. "Thank you."

Sif tightens her grip briefly, and then says something in that tongue again. When Thor doesn't answer, her eyes tighten with melancholy. She looks so much older than Thor remembers. "Forgive me, I said that I wish you a fast recovery. We were leaving when you woke."

The others repeat something similar, and Thor watches them go quietly. He thinks he's upset to see them leave, but he doesn't know.

000o000

Frigga arrives with a change of clothing next time, and shoves him towards the wash room with soap and some mixture of hair products. "You have fourth layer of skin." she says, "and it's called gritty-dirt. Don't leave until it's gone."

Thor's hair is still damp when he leaves the room. The clothing rubs uncomfortably against his prosthetics. He's adjusting the shirt against his arm when Frigga's hand catches his wrist. Her expression is distant.

"You are bruised." She says. "Why didn't you tell me you were still injured?"

Thor shrugs, hands gripping around the edge of his shirt. His scars are showing. His shame. He doesn't want her to see it. "I didn't feel it important."

"It is important." Frigga counters with a deep sigh. "Take off your shirt. Let me see."

Thor freezes. "I'm not sure that I—"

"My son, please," Frigga pleads. "Let me help you."

Thor grinds his teeth. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want this. He—Thor slowly tugs the shirt over his head and gnaws on his inner gums as Frigga inhales sharply.

Midnight broke a handful of his ribs before he left for Terra. Midgard. Earth? Whatever.

Frigga gently rests a hand against the worst of the bruising and Thor hisses. He doesn't jerk away, though.

"Oh, Norns," Frigga whispers, "you should have told me. This is bad."

"I didn't notice," Thor mutters. He couldn't feel it.

"Let me help you—"

"I didn't do that, did I?" The voice is a croak and Thor stills before turning back to look at Loki. His younger brother is sitting up somewhat against the cot, looking at him with wide green eyes.

"Loki!" Frigga exclaims and moves towards him. "You're up!"

Loki looks up at her for a second before settling his gaze on Thor. Frigga rests a hand on his face and Loki leans into for a moment.

"How do you feel?" Frigga asks.

"We'll enough, but tired. Water?" Loki asks. Frigga nods, letting him go and turning to find the requested item. When she's exited the room, Loki tilts his head to him. "Thor," he reaches out a hand.

Thor hesitates, sighing before gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly in one hand before moving forward. Loki lets his hand fall on the bed and they stare at each other for a long few seconds.

Loki's face is thin and his hair is falling over his shoulders. He's still pale.

Thor breaks the silence first. "I'm sorry. I didn't...you...I'm…"

Loki grimaces. "I was being stupid."

"I stabbed you! Three times!" Thor argues, shifting forward a little.

"Four." Loki corrects.

Right.

During their fight, he slipped a blade underneath Loki's armor. Thor's lips thin tightly at the reminder before he lifts his flesh hand. "That proves my point!"

Loki shakes his head, "I invaded your mind. I think we're even."

No, it doesn't! By his father's standards he has a right to...oh. Oh. Thor grimaces before sighing and moving forward, lifting his right hand in front of Loki. "I'm sorry. You have the right to take something from me."

Loki's eyebrows meet. His lips part. Thor holds out his hand steadily.

"What on the Nine are you—" Loki starts, sounding mix between flabbergasted and frustrated.

"My finger," Thor grinds out. "I nearly killed you, it is your right to take one."

Thor doesn't look at him. How could he have forgotten this? He should have spent more time preparing himself to lose something else, but he hadn't. He doesn't want to lose it, but he needs to.

(This is wrong.

But he doesn't know what's right).

Loki's hand lifts up, and Thor braces himself, but there isn't any staggering pain or blood. Loki's pale, cold fingers close his hand and grip his knuckle. Thor's gaze flicks to his face with surprise.

Loki's face is unreadable.

"No," Loki's voice is barely audible. "Thor, please don't…"

Thor blinks. "I don't understand."

Loki's eyes close briefly. His grip on Thor's hand hasn't lessened, and Thor notices the ugly scar on his wrist again. The warm cream sleeve slips down his arm slightly, and Thor notices thin scars on his forearms as well.

A sickening realization hits him, and Thor lifts his metal hand out to grip Loki's forearm. "Brother," he whispers. Loki's gaze settles on him, but his lips are thinned.

He looks exhausted.

"I have the water," Frigga announces as she strides into the room. Thor releases Loki's arm, and backs up from the bed, tucking his hand close to his chest.

He keeps all his fingers.

000o000

Loki gets better from that point, but it isn't immediate. He manages to avoid infection, but the damage Thor did to his internal organs wasn't little. It's going to take time.

He sees more of the Warriors Three and Lady Sif afterwards. They drop by individually, sometimes together. They try to talk with him, but it frequently leads to their frustration because Thor has no idea what they're discussing whether it be because of memories or the language barrier. His family seems to have an endless amount of patience for his confusion, and Thor guesses he's grateful for that.

At least once a day, Loki offers to see if he can help put Thor's head back together, but the thought of someone seeing everything he's made a disaster of causes him to repeat "no" again and again.

Odin drops next to him with a book in his hands and opens it, nudging it towards Thor. It's the basics to Aardent, the capitals tongue, and Thor almost weeps at the sight. Odin spends the following hours explaining everything to him, going over phrases and basic grammar points.

Sif brings Loki a handful of books six days since he woke with his constant complaining to her, and she hesitates before handing him a pastry she snuck from the kitchen.

Loki stuffs his nose in the book and Thor picks at the food. It tastes familiar, like long afternoons and laughter. It's warm.

Thor holds it in his metal hand, but can't feel anything. No matter.

Things are getting better.

Somewhat.

And then they're not.

000o000

No matter how much Thor avoided sleep, it was bound to happen at some point. The Other has been nagging at him, and given his persistence, he couldn't have expected to avoid a confrontation forever.

"So, at last, the wayward son returns," the Other sneers, and Thor's stomach flips. He blinks, but everything is blurry. He's going to be sick all over this disgusting ground. The Other is right there. He's—

Thanos must be close.

No, no!

This wasn't what was supposed to happen!

He hadn't meant to run, but he was so glad that he did, but now it's—

A finger flicks his forehead, and Thor draws back with a sharp gasp, looking up at the Other with a wide eye. The Other tilts his head slightly, making a little humming noise in the back of his throat. "Your father is most unpleased with your performance, child."

Good, a quiet part of him sneers vindictively.

The rest shudders visibly, but his tongue doesn't quiet catch up with his terror: "Thanos is not my father."

The Other draws back, and then lets out a barking laugh. "Ah, and at last the Asgardian Prince has gained a backbone—and it is only for something so foolish as this. Thanos is your father, you ungrateful beast. Who was it that saved you from the Void? Who heard your miserable cries? Who drew the scattered remains of your broken bones back together and shaped your fractured mind into something useful? That was Thanos, and you owe him your life."

I do.

I do, I do, I do!

"I owe him nothing," Thor seethes, "get out of my head."

The Other shakes his head, "Oh, you fool. You sold your soul to Thanos when he saved you. You owe him now. You will never be free of this. You know that."

If you cannot see with both eyes, perhaps one will bring your attention into focus, my son.

"Get. Out."

"Am I to assume that you didn't succeed with your mission to kill your brother, then?" The Other questions rhetorically, ignoring him completely. A well of despair opens in him. He's not going away. Thor can't make him get out!

"It's none of your business." Thor answers sharply. "I do not serve the Mad Titan anymore. You have no place here."

"We own you," the Other counters, "there is no where for you to go. No one for you to run to. You may claim you have found freedom, but how long will that last? Thanos offers true freedom. True rest. Freedom is life's great lie. Submit. Come home. Your father is willing to grant you quarter."

A shudder raises through him.

He should go back.

He should.

Thanos did it all. He saved him, he made him into something important. If he leaves now, perhaps Thanos will spare his family. He'd be able to see if Nebula and Gamora still live, and if they are well. They were the only ones who ever treated him something close to human.

Thanos wants him. He saved Thor, and he is being ungrateful sitting here and—(What is he doing!?)

He's lifting up to his feet slowly, and the Other gives a pleased smirk. "So, you have—"

The edge of a blade slams between the Other's ribcage, and the creature gives a ragged gasp before tumbling forward. Loki, standing behind with a long dagger, scowls at the Other harshly. "You have overstepped your boundaries, dragr."

The Other sputters.

A hand rests on Thor's shoulder, and he flinches before looking up. Odin stands beside him, expression angered. What are they doing here? There is no way they could have disrupted the connection unless they snuck into his head and—oh.

Oh no.

"Thanos will not stand for this!" The Other seethes, "He will claim the Thunderer, and you will do is die in his wake."

"Let him come," Odin challenges, and lifts up Gungnir, "we will be ready for him."

Odin shoots the Other with a powerful blast of light, and Thor is snapped from the dream as the connection dies. Memories swirl past him, forefront in his mind and he can feel fingers rifling through them. It's the most connected ones: his time with Thanos.

No, no, no!

Wait—he doesn't want them to see those.

It appears to be an accident or maybe a misstep, because the fingers are gone just as quickly as they came, and Thor jerks up on the cot he was sleeping on with a gasp. His lungs heave for air that isn't coming effectively, and he lifts his head up.

Loki and Odin are standing beside next to the cot. Odin's hand is resting on Loki's shoulder as if they were trying to share energy...perhaps power.

Frigga is behind Odin, staring at him with a concerned face. "Thor? What was that?" She questions.

"It's…" he breathes out slowly. If they hadn't arrived when they did...would he have given in? "I'm sorry. I think…" he shakes his head. "Thank you. For getting him out. I couldn't...I couldn't do that. I think I should tell you what happened."

He explains as quickly as he can about Thanos, and the Other, his imprisonment, and his survival only by the hands of Gamora's mercy, and, by extension, Nebula. Everyone is quiet until he finishes, and then Loki and Odin look at each other. There is nothing but rage between their expressions.

"I'm going to kill this Titan," Odin decides as if having an afternoon tea, drawing in a seething breath. "He dared to harm the house of Odin, so the wrath of the All-Father he will face. I will see him bleed before he harms another hair on my sons' heads!"

Odin turns to fulfill his statement, but Frigga grabs at his arm. "Husband. Stop and think." She commands.

"You can't stop me, wife." Odin says, pulling his elbow from Frigga's grip. His eyes are firey. Frigga's lips split into a mirthless smile.

"Why on the Nine would I want to stop you? We're going to kill him, together." Frigga corrects, and Thor feels his jaw fall.

Loki turns to their parents, and Thor quietly pleads with him to be a voice of reason, but Loki instead asks: "When do we start?"

000o000

Preparations take a little under three days. Thor tells them the location of Thanos after some pushing, their father gathers together a small force, and they prepare to lay siege on the Sanctuary, given the details Thor could give them. During the process, Thor quietly pulls Loki aside and asks him to rescue two women by the names of Gamora and Nebula. Loki vaguely remembers him mentioning the two names before, and agrees to seek them out.

Should Loki be leaving the healing halls this soon? Probably not. Is he? Absolutely.

Thanos will die for what he did to Thor, and the universe will be safe from his tyrannical reign. Loki never told Thor, and frankly he doesn't know if he ever will, but when he pulled Thor's memories forward all those weeks ago, he saw everything. That spell does not come without a cost, and watching everything flicker through his head before he passed out was not pleasant.

Thor watches him as Loki straps armor across himself, taking care to not aggravate the tender areas of his skin. The wounds have long since scabbed over, but pushing at them too hard is like prodding a bruise. Loki glances at his brother every few minutes as he prepares before he sweeps his hair back into a ponytail and ties it.

He shoves daggers at his waist and places his staff into its sheath on his back.

By way of quiet agreement, they hadn't allowed Thor to come with them. They aren't stupid. Thanos would try and take advantage of him, and they aren't there to trade banter and stop for tea. Once Thanos is dead, vendetta will be satisfied. Thor will be able to rest easier.

Before he leaves, Loki draws Thor into a tight embrace. "Don't do anything stupid. I'll be back."

"You better be," Thor threatens. "Who else is going to complain about everything?"

Loki's chest unclenches in some relief. Thor just made a joke. Somewhere the Thor he grew up with still lives. He scoffs loudly, trying not to alienate it. "I beg your pardon?"

"You know what I mean," Thor promises. Loki draws back and lightly smacks his shoulder.

"Picky bird."

"Cow," Thor grumbles.

Loki's lips spread into a light grin, "Farewell."

Thor says nothing in response, but watches them leave with clear anxiety pressed into his features.

000o000

Getting to Thanos's warship takes under a minute with the Bifrost, and Loki, his parents, the Einherjar, Sif, and Warriors Three immediately dive into the fray and show no quarter.

Loki slips off from the battle to find Nebula and Gamora, and it doesn't take him long to locate them. Thor drew out a basic map of what he remembered the ship to look like, and Loki had memorized it in his head for this. He mentioned to Sif about the second request that Thor had for him, and she'd nodded and waved him off. She didn't question him, and the trust had nearly made him stagger.

Seven years ago, that wouldn't have been there.

But now?

Nebula and Gamora are sitting in a cell he thinks is meant to be quarters when he tears down the door with sorcery. One of them is sitting on the floor with a metal arm wrapped around her leg and the other is laying on a cot, looking to the ceiling.

Both look up as he enters. "Thor sent me. I'm here as a rescue."

The sisters glance at each other before the green one pipes up: "Rescue? Who are you?"

The ship rocks widely, and Loki flicks his gaze up for a second, hesitating. "Thor's brother. My name is Loki. You are…?"

"Not condemned to death, apparently," one of the two grumbles, the blue one, and rises to her feet. Loki's eyebrows knit together in confusion. Condemned to death? What is she talking about? Thor didn't mention anything like that...then again, Loki really isn't sure how much information Thor would have left exempt.

The green one shoots her an annoyed look, then turns back to him, "I am Gamora and this is Nebula."

"Thor mentioned you were children of Thanos." Loki says, and both share a disgusted look.

"We were. We ran away and then came back to try and kill him, and now," Gamora sweeps her arms across the space, "we are awaiting our judgement."

"Death, you mean," Nebula corrects.

Loki shakes his head, "We don't have much time. Come with me."

Neither move another step, and Nebula squints at his face, "You are Thor's brother?"

"Adopted," Loki snips, and lifts out a hand, "we need to go."

"From Asgard," Gamora pushes.

"Yes." Loki hisses, trying, and failing, to keep the impatience from his tone.

Gamora gives a little nod before stepping forward and Nebula follows after her. Loki's eyes close briefly in relief before he steps out into the hall and glances down both ends. He's encountered a few stray Chitauri, but a majority is focused on the upper levels where the Asgardians are.

There is no one.

Loki begins to lead them towards his people, "This wasn't exactly meant as a rescue, but my parents will be more than happy to have you," Loki assures, giving a smile that feels a little too false to be believable. If the sisters note it, they don't say anything.

Loki doesn't know what his parents will think. He thinks he mentioned it offhandedly to Frigga, but he really isn't sure. Everything since Thor started seizing in his sleep and Loki entered his mind has become a blur. Throwing out the second presence with Odin hardly feels like it happened.

They travel in silence for almost five minutes, the sounds of battle growing louder before Nebula stills suddenly, and Loki tightens his grip on the staff, turning to look behind them. Silhouetted in the hallway is a large, broad figure. They aren't armored, but holding a large double bladed weapon that Loki can see that, despite the size, is perfectly balanced in his grip.

Nebula grips at his arm for a second as if in terror before scrambling away from him and falling on her knees, "Forgive me, Father," she gasps, bowing her head in submission. Gamora's makes a move as if to follow her sister, but Loki lifts out a hand to stop her.

This, then, must be Thanos.

"Child," Thanos's deep baritone is hard, "you have disappointed me. I thought you were better than this." He takes several steps forward, and Loki sees Gamora's body tense as Nebula visibly trembles.

"I'm sorry, I will do better, I can—"

"Your judgement has already been passed, Daughter," Thanos says, almost mournfully. Almost.

"Shut it!" Gamora hisses, "This—"

Loki slams a hand over her mouth as Thanos lifts his gaze up towards them, and Loki has the strangest sensation of having his soul weighted before Thanos tilts his head slightly. "You are with those invading," he sighs, moving close enough to rest a hand against Nebula's head; the woman trembles, "you would dare to take something so precious from me?"

"They are people," Loki counters, sickened, "they don't belong to you."

"Don't they?" Thanos asks softly, "They are bound by their loyalty to and my love for them."

Gamora openly scoffs, and Loki pulls his hand away from her mouth as he grips his weapon in both hands, "You don't know what love is," Loki promises, a cold feeling wrapping around his chest as the memories of Thor's scars vividly flash through his head, "you claim to understand something you openly mock. There is no loyalty in soldiers that fear punishment, nor any love."

Thanos's is still for a second, and then slowly lifts his hand from Nebula's head. The woman gasps sharply, and Gamora lurches as if to come to her aid. Loki keeps her in place with a look. With Thanos's current position, Loki has placed him in a stalemate. He can't take his daughters without Loki getting in the way, and he knows that.

And Loki isn't someone to let up on the advantage once he's gained it.

Casting an illusion in his place, Loki cloaks himself in invisibility and moves around Thanos wordlessly, trying to reach Nebula. Behind him, he can hear Thanos make a little noise, as if trying to place something, and a moment later he makes a little clicking noise, "Asgardian. What business does Asgard have with—oh. Oh. My lost son returned to enslavement? I rescued him and this is how he thanks me? He was not ready for the mission, then, I see."

Breathe.

Keep a clear head.

He's trying to play mind games.

Loki kneels down beside Nebula, and sees that her face is open with strewn panic. She is unharmed, however. Sympathy washes through him at the sight and he twists his weapon, but speaks through his illusion, "For one thing, I'm not Asgardian. For another, you are terribly overconfident."

"What—?" Thanos starts to say as Loki vanishes the illusion. The titan has a little less than half a second to form the word before Loki slams his staff against the man's face. He stumbles back with surprise, drawing up his weapon as Loki twists the weapon and slams it into his chest.

When Loki attempts his next attack, Thanos's weapon clashes into his own. The strain makes his muscles shake, but Loki holds it for a moment before sliding his weapon back and kicking Thanos hard in the stomach. His lack of armor is his weakness.

And, ergo, his overconfidence.

"Gamora," Loki breathes out, lifting the spear up as Thanos finally attempts an offensive move, "take your sister and go."

"I can't just—" Gamora starts.

"Go." Loki growls, "I'll be fine."

He and Thanos quickly trade a few more blows, and, when Loki is wiping blood out of his eyes, Thanos looks up, "You would betray me so, daughters? I have given you everything, your life, a home, a family—and this is how you would—"

Loki lifts up his hand and flings a small handful of knives in Thanos's direction. Three of the six pierces true to their intended target, and Thanos cries out in pain, his words cut off.

Loki chances a glance towards Gamora, who has Nebula's flesh hand around her shoulders and is lingering. Loki waves a hand, attempting to shoo them off. Are they stupid? Loki is trying to buy them time to get to the fleet and now is when they bide their time.

"Ask for Sif," Loki says, "say that I sent you."

Gamora hesitates, but nods and begins to pull her sister off.

"No," Thanos protests weakly, digging a blade out of his arm. Loki shifts to block the two from the Titan's eyesight. Thanos lifts up his blade and there's a sorrow in his face that makes Loki ill. This man understands nothing of what he's taken.

Loki smiles at him, "Which would you like me to take first? The left arm or the right?"

Thanos digs the final blade from his skin and hums, "You armor suggests someone of rank," he muses out loud, "you must be the little brother my son wept for."

Fury grasps at his hands, and Loki dives forward, slamming his weapon against Thanos's, "He. Is. Not. Your. Child!" He shouts, slamming the tip of his staff against Thanos's face. It cuts deeply, drawing blood.

Thanos's eyes narrow, and he makes a little noise before he slams his fist into Loki's ribcage. Something snaps, and Loki sputters in surprise, a low whine escaping him as he grabs at the injured area by instinct.

Thanos brings his sword up and Loki rolls out of the way, but not quite fast enough because the blade digs through his upper arm.

Norns.

He needs to do this swiftly. It isn't wise to let this battle to continue for a long time, he thinks.

Loki tosses his staff to the side and draws two daggers, hopping back up to his feet and dives at the Titan. The battle isn't lengthy, but it gets steadily bloodier as time passes. Loki may have the advantage of greater speed, and maneuverability, but Thanos is brute strength and largely unpredictable. He keeps switching between his fists and his weapon, and Loki can't quite find a pattern to it.

Loki manages to slip past the worst of his defenses and slams both his blades into Thanos's stomach. The titan gasps, looking up at him as Loki exhales sharply, spitting out blood.

"That was for Thor," he hisses out, "you'll die for what you did to him."

Thanos gives him a grim smile, "I did nothing but save him."

A rapid series of memories washes through him. Seeing Thor's missing arm for the first time, learning about his leg via Clint, the dagger plunging into his stomach, Thor's tense jumps at touch, the dreams—

That was not salvation.

That was slow murder.

And nothing Loki says can convey his disgust with that. He twists one of the daggers and Thanos lets out a loud gasp. His face pinches with pain.

Good.

Loki exhales stiffly and releases the hilt, backing up a step. He should have just kept going. Turned his back on the Titan and been done with it all. But he didn't, like an idiot. Maybe he should have seen the hand coming, but his senses are frazzled and the injuries Thanos already gave him are a distraction.

The fingers wrap around his throat and Loki gasps sharply, lifting up his hands to grab Thanos's hand. Wait—wait—

He wasn't—

The fingers tighten and Loki sputters, clawing at the forearm as best he can through his strangled wheezing. The pressure on his spine is tightening and his vision is tunneling. He's going to pass out. No! Wait—he doesn't—he doesn't want to die!

He's not ready!

He doesn't want to die!

His vision blackens and Loki feels his throat beginning to constrict.

There's the sickening sound of a blade piercing flesh and the grip around Loki's neck loosens suddenly. The titan's lets out a moan and Loki slips from his grip completely. He lands on his hands and knees, hard, gasping and choking as he raises his hands up to claw at his throat.

Air isn't easy, thin little ragged gasps, but Loki looks up through his hazy vision to see who did the deed.

Thanos almost killed him.

He almost died.

He would've—

Frigga draws her sword from Thanos's chest, and Loki spots Nebula and Gamora beside her with wide eyes. Thanos topples to the ground, and Frigga leans over him, clear disgust and hate emerging on her face. "Death is too good a punishment for you," she promises, "but there are those who will know a better place for your spirit, and I am satisfied with the judgement they'll pass."

"Why…?" Thanos croaks.

"Because I am the mother of the two men you attempted to kill," Frigga hisses, "and you should be glad I do not delight in bloodshed." With that stated, his mother grips her sword with two hands again and beheads him.

000o000

They return to Asgard shortly afterwards, and Thor greets them. There were casualties on both sides, but a majority of the loss was on Thanos's side. Frigga bullies Loki into going to Eir, much to his displeasure, and he watches as Thor shares an awkward half-hug with Gamora and then Nebula. The three begin to speak in low tones and Loki doesn't understand what they're saying.

Eir assures him that he'll live, and scowls at him until he agrees to stay out of her halls for at least a month.

He doubts that will be a reality, but they can hope.

He waits long enough for her to turn around after her diagnosis before walking out of the room.

000o000

Thor finds him before anyone else. Loki's hidden on one of the higher balconies and has been for hours before his older sibling sits down next to him. The metal of his protestics gleams in the sunlight and Loki pulls his gaze away from it. He hates that he's disgusted by the metal, but he can't stop it.

Thanos took his brother's entire arm.

They sit in silence until Loki asks with a faint rasp, "Gamora and Nebula?"

"They contacted their Guardians," Thor explains stiffly, "they'll be returning home shortly." The elder lets out a deep breath, "I'm sorry. About what happened with Thanos, I didn't...they had been recently captured before I left, and I grabbed at the opportunity without thinking over the consequences."

"It's fine," Loki assures, trying not to lift his hand to rub at the bruising again. He can still feel the fingers, like a firey, ghostly burn. "It's not the first time I've stood on death's doorstep."

Thor turns to face him, expression upset. "No, but I didn't want this to happen. Gah—" he rips at his hair and Loki watches him, "—this is all such a mess. Loki, I'm...I'm upset that he's dead."

Loki draws aback, "You're distressed that your torturer was slain?"

"He was…" Thor shakes his head, "I don't understand myself anymore. I'm going crazy."

Loki huffs, "Then I can sympathize. Eir nearly declared me legally insane six years ago." He rubs a thumb faintly over the scar on his wrist, and bites at his tongue.

Thor shakes his head and looks out at the sun. "We're a mess now, aren't we?"

Loki breathes out slowly, "Oh, absolutely."

They don't talk after that, but the silence says enough. It's a comfort.

000o000

Even with Thanos's death, Thor's mental health doesn't immediately shoot upwards. Asgard is, at last, finally allowed to learn of their golden prince's return, and Loki stands as close to Thor as formality allows to offer support. The Asgardians are overjoyed to see him.

Thor spends the whole time looking like he's going to be sick.

A banquet like this before would have had him easily the center of attention, now he lingers to the outer edges with Loki. They make snooty comments about people's dress or actions to each other for hours into the night, hiding in plain sight with ease.

And later, when Loki lightly bumps him with his elbow at a rather nasty word about a vase their mother had brought out into the open, Thor doesn't flinch. Instead, he laughs.

000o000

After more arguments and circles of conversation that lead no where, Loki finally wins the battle to look through Thor's head and see if he can repair any of the damage that Ebony Maw created. The cracks and shards are very there, likely unable to come together on their own because of the force Loki pulled on them, but he can guide them back into position.

It takes time, though, seemingly endless hours of sitting on chairs across from each other as Thor attempts to help him piece the memories back together. Their conversation is entirely mental though, and when Sif walks in one time with a book that Loki requested from her, she scoffs loudly and asks, "What is it that you're doing?"

Loki shares a look with Thor before his brother pipes up, "Sitting in chairs across from each other, saying nothing. The lack of productivity helps increase our ability to see the future." He says it in such a deadpan that it takes Loki some effort to conceal his smile.

Sif lifts an eyebrow and rolls her eyes, putting the book down on Loki's desk. "Of course. That should have been obvious. My mistake."

000o000

Thor speaks returns to Midgard to check on Clint—who is fine, relieved to hear of Loki's survival and shoos him from the room when S.H.I.E.L.D. prepares to seize him—and then speak briefly with Jane Foster. He had expected her to slap him, or maybe something else violent, but she only draws him into a hug.

"I knew you were alive," she says into his shirt, "Loki already told me."

When?

"You know my brother?" Thor questions, resting a hand on her small shoulder when she draws back. She nods.

"I do. He told me of your death and then about a year later, he stayed with me for a couple of months. He was hiding from your parents from what I understand. I didn't really get full details off of him." Jane explains, rubbing at the back of her neck a little. "He and I collaborated to build a way to communicate with Asgard."

This must have been after Loki's incident and Eir threatened to label him insane. Thor has managed to pick up bits of the story, but not really enough. Out of respect to Loki's privacy, he hasn't dug too deeply. Maybe one day Loki will tell him, but Thor doesn't know. He just knows that Loki went missing for two months after that, and then returned suddenly "calmer".

Thor nods and Jane gives him a soft smile, "Why don't we go get a coffee, and you can explain what happened, okay?"

She doesn't flinch at his metal hand. Instead, she grabs it and Thor can feel the warmth of her hand against the cold metal.

000o000

"—I'm just saying that I think that it should be better suited for the children," Thor insists as he paces back and forth across Frigga's sitting room. The queen is seated on the couch as she works on some sort of embroidery, "it's getting ridiculous. No one can swing a sword effectively at that age. All they're going to do is whack of their fingers, Mother, and I don't think it would be helpful."

Frigga stills, and he looks up at her, confused. "What?"

Her lips spread into a faint smile, "Nothing. It's nothing. I love you son,"

Thor draws back slightly at the words, but gives an awkward nod. "I know," he promises, "I think I feel similar," he admits through gritted teeth.

Frigga's smile grows sad before she waves a hand, "The weapons regime?"

"Yes! As I was saying I can't…"

It takes him until that night to realize that he'd called her "mother" for the first time since he fell, and the title doesn't even feel wrong. He hadn't even noticed.

He doesn't notice until far later when he does the same to Odin, and the word "Father" doesn't make him coil or flinch inside. Instead, he thinks of Odin's reassuring hand on his shoulder and comforting presence, and he only feels warmth at the name inside his head.

000o000

Thor lands hard on his side and grits his teeth, jerking his metal arm as it bends funny. The sensation of his shoulder smacking against the ground hurts, and Thor is privately delighted by this. He feels something. Something real. The nerves tightening and sending signals to his brain rapidly to announce the pain—yes.

He is alive.

Thor lifts up his hand, and feels the thrumming power before Mjonlir smacks into his palm. He leaps to his feet in time for Loki to swing his staff up towards Thor's face. He blocks the blow with relative ease and backs up, letting Loki believe he's taken the defensive.

Loki strikes for his face again, but Thor dodges, tossing Mjolnir towards his head.

Loki dives to the side, dropping the weapon. Thor grabs for the staff and swings it up to smack Loki in the gut. Loki hisses, hands coming to grab at the area before he looks up and bodily tackles Thor to the ground before Mjolnir can return to him. Loki keeps his hands pinned on Thor's forearms, breathing out loudly. "I win," he declares.

Thor hisses and wiggles somewhat, "I hate you."

Loki smirks and draws back, offering his hand to Thor, still moaning on the ground, as he gets to his feet. "You're such a drama queen."

Thor sits up somewhat and flashes him a faint smile, "You exaggerate."

"Maybe a little," Loki concedes, "are you alright?"

"A little bruised, but I'll live," Thor answers dryly and Loki nods. Bruises are fine. He can survive bruises. They call all live with a few bruises.

No one is falling today. Or tomorrow. His family won't let him go this time, and he will swear by the same truth.

Thor's metal hand grabs at Loki's flesh one—

Take my hand!

I can't, I'm slipping! I'm sorry!

—and Loki pulls him up.