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Mortals have a tale.
Well, they have many, but this one is of particular interest to Loki, because he is a selfish creature and the story is about him. Not about Thor or his companions, where Loki’s just a background character, added as an afterthought by whoever concocted the tale all those ages ago.
No, that one is all about him.
It’s full of inconsistencies and absurd assumptions, of course, just like almost every story mortals told among themselves about Asgard and her inhabitants, byproducts of their laughably limited understanding of the rules of the universe and the true shape of the world just behind the threshold of their backwater planet. And it got even more twisted and confused as time progressed and the story was passed over, mouth to mouth, then noted down and translated to a multitude of Midgard’s primitive languages.
But there’s a grain of truth to it, because – just like everything in Loki’s life – it ends in a disaster.
In the story, Loki riles Odin badly enough to warrant a real punishment – a condemnation to eternal darkness and torment.
Loki laughed it off the first time he read it, ignoring the way it stirred in his stomach unpleasantly. It wasn’t even worth being upset about, after all, it was just mortals and their overly active imagination, thinking up outlandish legends, like young and naive children do before they learn how the world functions.
But now, since he found himself in the hands of Midgardian justice, it gets hard to not recall the more graphic parts of it. His mortal guards seem to be very keen on the story. Or perhaps they don’t even know it and just hate him very much.
As might be expected, the details don’t match. There’s no cave, nor snake dripping venom into Loki’s eyes. There’s the hard and cold concrete instead of rough stone and the pale light of a solitary bulb instead of impenetrable darkness. There are uru manacles and chains binding his limbs instead of guts of the offspring Loki’s never sired.
There’s also nobody to keep him company or bring comfort. No, it’s just Loki in the SHIELD’s cell. Loki and his jailers and their sharp instruments and an onslaught of days and nights that all look the same, with no end in sight.
The torment part turned out rather accurate though.
One of the mortals closes in again. Loki abandoned the idea of trying to tell them apart many days ago. They all wear the same dark clothes and have masks that cover their faces up to their eyes. They do however, seem to have favorite ways of making Loki’s life a nightmare.
This one is a proponent of knives, apparently.
It doesn’t even hurt that much when the blade pierces Loki’s skin and sinks into the flesh of his abdomen. It’s just a wave of nausea, as the knife moves, severing muscle and pushing his guts aside, going deeper and deeper, until the hilt.
Loki stares numbly at the gloved fingers wrapped around the handle. It takes the mortal almost no effort today, which means there’s nothing left of Loki’s protective magic and that notion is troublesome at the very least.
He isn’t surprised though. It’s been days since they bothered to remove the muzzle – the parting gift Thor has bestowed Loki with before abandoning him at the mercy of his new mortal allies and returned home – to feed him, and the manacles – another reminder of Asgard’s care – were sapping what remained of his reserves and preventing Loki from drawing more from his surroundings. The mortals’ efforts did the rest and now, he has nothing left.
The pressure slowly diminishes and the guard yanks the knife out. That hurts a lot more, but the muzzle cancels the undignified cry that makes its way up Loki’s throat. All he has to offer as a reaction is another dumb stare at the blood that bubbles up in the wound and drips down his naked body to pool on the floor between his knees.
“Go again!” the guard’s colleague encourages and the man doesn’t hesitate. The blade strikes higher this time and pierces Loki’s lung.
That also hurts.
His breaths turn ragged and frantic and a cough rocks him as his body tries to get rid of the blood pooling in his airwaves but finds no outlet. There’s a harsh, coppery tang of bile mixed with blood at the back of his throat and Loki tries to swallow it down, but it’s tricky to do with the bit pressing down his tongue.
Another cough and blood is now dripping from his nose, over the metal, and then down his chin, trailing down to his chest and falling into the growing puddle on the floor.
The cell fills with a grating sound of laughter and Loki ignores it. He focuses on breathing, trying to keep it slow and steady to get air into his good lung without choking. It’s hard to do and there are black spots marring his vision. His head rolls forward and only the chains trapping his arms above his head are keeping him upright.
The guard grabs a handful of Loki’s hair and pulls up, until the back of his skull smashes the wall, setting his ears to ringing.
“We’re not done yet, asshole,” the man snarls.
Loki doesn’t even try to focus his gaze. It doesn’t matter whether he reacts or not, the men will have their entertainment. That particular lesson came in early in his time in the SHIELD’s dungeon.
At first – for the initial couple of days, Loki assumes, even though he has a hard time keeping up with the unfamiliar, Midgardian rhythm and there seem to be no rule or logic to their visits – it was just verbal jabs. Then came the kicks and the punches, as the men witnessed his helplessness and grew bolder.
Even that didn’t satiate them for long and their games got even more and more cruel. Until they landed on this.
And there’s nothing Loki can do about it other than just take it. And they know. There’s nobody to stop it, nobody to help, just like there was nobody to come save Loki from Thanos and his children when he fell through the Void and into the Titan’s clutches. Just like then, Loki can only wait. For an opportunity of escape or for death, whichever comes first.
He has a creeping suspicion it might be the latter, this time and he can no longer find it in him to feel pity for himself.
One of the men slaps him across his cheek and Loki realizes he is drifting away. This isn’t the wisest course of action, but his head feels light, his extremities are cold and he can’t keep his eyes open.
Blood loss, the sorry remains of his rational reasoning say in a small voice at the back of his head, and Loki thinks the voice might be right.
“What’s wrong with him?” one of the men asks and, when Loki doesn’t react, the fist in his hair moves to the sides, shaking his head. “Hey! Look at me!”
Loki knows he should obey, before they lose the rest of their patience and inflict more damage. But his mind is clouded and the comforting darkness under his closed eyelids beckons him to rest. Perhaps, if he just gives in, they will give up and leave. Or finish the job. Perhaps they would let him go.
“I don’t get it, he should be healing by now,” some other guard says and there’s something like slight alarm in his tone, perhaps, dispersing Loki’s hopes. It was foolish of him to hope they would let him get away that easily.
He also knows that there’s truth to what the man is saying. He should be healing, but – just like there’s nothing left of his energy to protect him – there’s nothing to fix the damage they’ve done either.
“He’s no fun like that,” the owner of the fist in Loki’s hair complains. He lets go and Loki’s head rolls forth again, the metal covering his chin pressing to his chest. Heavy boots scrunch on the floor and a kick lands on Loki’s shin. “Wake up!”
The command comes as through a thick mist and it takes a moment for Loki to register the meaning, but even when he finally does, he can’t force himself to follow the order.
There’s a murmur of voices – the words are hushed and not meant for his ears and none of them makes it past the cotton filling his brain – and then there’s a rattle as the chain keeping him tethered to the wall releases.
Not enough strength is left in Loki’s muscles to keep him upright, so he crumbles to the ground, the hard floor smashing him in the face and shoulder, adding to the pain in his abdomen and fueling the fire that burns in his arms as circulation slowly returns to his limbs.
He keeps his hands above his head; a meager, but still some protection against the batons they carry, but the usual finisher to their games doesn’t come. Something clatters to the ground next to him and the footsteps shuffle away. The metal door screeches as it opens, then screeches again, closing, and there’s a scrunch of a lock being secured.
The glow painting Loki’s eyelids red diminishes – the main overhead light going out – and Loki forces himself to open his eyes. The only light left on in the room is the small, bluish one above the camera in the corner. Loki assumes they need it on for the camera to work and it’s not for his convenience but he doesn’t question it. It beats the complete darkness of his cell on Sanctuary.
The rest is eerily similar.
There’s a tray with food on the floor, just a step away, left there just to taunt him, and Loki uses the last of his energy to roll to his other side. It doesn’t stop the smell from reaching his nose and the pangs of yearning from clutching his stomach.
He presses his hands to the wounds, but blood is still seeping between his fingers.
Will it stop, or will he just bleed out? Will Asgard find him dying, lying naked in a pool of gore in some unmarked hole on Midgard a sufficient punishment for his crimes?
Does it even matter?
---
The bleeding slows and then stops in the end and, despite all odds, his flesh starts to knit back together. It means he may live for another day. It means that his miserable existence can still provide his captors with some more amusement.
He expects to be given some time to recoup, to heal – they usually grant him that, if nothing else – but his wounds have not yet fully closed by the time the lock scratches again and his jailers return.
Loki shoves himself into the furthest corner and curls up, even though it only emboldens them further usually.
The men surround him. Loki doesn’t dare to look up at them, but he can still feel their stares prickling on his skin and hear their breaths ruffling the air.
“Get up!” one of the men urges and, when Loki isn’t quick enough to obey, nudges Loki’s side with his boot. One of his broken ribs shifts and tears another aborted whine out of Loki’s lungs. “Up.”
Loki tries to follow the order, but his arms fail him when he heaves himself off the ground. He collapses back down, panting, the still raw injuries setting off a sharp cramp in his side.
The guard grunts and grabs Loki’s arm. “Help me, for fuck’s sake,” he scolds his colleague and the second set of indifferent, gloved hands wraps around Loki’s other shoulder.
The men drag him up, first to the center of the floor, where yet another guard throws a cloth bag over his head, then out of the door.
His legs refuse to hold his weight and he has to rely on his captors to stay upright as they are marching him through the corridors and Loki finds out, the hard way, that there’s still some sense of shame left in him. Even after everything, after his fall, after Thanos’ efforts and Loki’s subsequent submission and defeat he can still feel the bitter chagrin burning on his cheeks.
There’s a screech of a door, the concrete under his feet changes to tile and the musty smell tells him where he is even before the fabric gets ripped from his head.
If there is any room in the facility Loki hates more than his drab, dull cell, it’s this one. The washroom, they call it, but it has nothing to do with hygiene. They bring him here, because it’s just another way to debase and hurt him.
There’s a rope woven of metal wires with a piton at the end that they clip to the chain linking his shackles, and a mechanism that pulls it up with a push of a button. Loki tried to fight it, the first time he was brought here, but the machinery was inexorable and his struggle only riled his captors further.
He does not fight it now. The rope rolls on the system of pulleys and he is heaved up and up, until his arms are stretched over his head and only his toes still touch the floor.
He bites down on the metal lodged between his teeth, but that doesn’t stop another pathetic sound from tearing forth from his throat when the jet of water hits him. It somehow feels even colder than the last time, which serves just as another sign of Loki’s deteriorated defenses.
The guard circles around with the hose and the pressure of water is high enough to leave Loki’s skin raw and prickling wherever the spray hits. Then the man tips the hose up and Loki isn’t quick enough to turn away. The jet gets him in the face, sending water down his nose.
He splutters and coughs and the struggle costs him his balance. His toes slip on the wet floor and a new wave of pain blooms in his strung-up arms.
The guard moves around till he reaches Loki’s back and every pass of the hose feels like a lash, because the burned skin there hasn’t yet fully healed.
“Enough,” one of the other guards commands, and the water gets cut off.
They keep him tethered for a while longer and Loki uses the time to stare at the water – murky with blood and grime – swirling towards the drain and trying to get his breathing back under control.
Then the rope releases and, devoid of the support, Loki crumbles back to the ground.
The boots shuffle on the floor as one more guard enters the room.
“Dress him,” the same voice orders, so it seems like the man is the leader of this particular bunch. It’s of course of no help at all for Loki to know that, but his brain somehow keeps on registering those meaningless details still, as if it could aid him in any way. As if his fate weren’t yet sealed.
A guard approaches, carrying a bundle of white fabric, then hesitates, staring at the wounds on Loki’s stomach. The injuries had barely started to close before and the water didn’t help.
The man frowns and sticks his finger into the deepest cut, oozing watered-down blood.
Loki hisses and the man pulls his finger out.
“We have to cover it or it will show,” the man says.
The leader grunts something unintelligible and leaves the room and the guard resumes his exploration of Loki’s body, kneading the bruised flesh as if it could somehow make the signs of damage go away.
“Why aren’t you healing?” he asks.
Loki only glowers back at him, because that’s the only answer he can give. Is the man truly so dense he cannot see a simple cause and effect here?
The leader returns with a small bag which he then tosses at the guard who’s still crouching over Loki.
“Cover it up,” the leader says, then adds, “quickly.” There’s impatient anticipation, or perhaps even anxiety in his tone that Loki cannot even begin to guess the source of.
The guard rummages through the contents of the bag then produces some gauze and a couple of rolls of bandages. He gestures at one of his companions to help him. Together, they stick the gauze into the wounds and swathe Loki’s waist and chest with bandages, so tightly it prevents him from drawing a full breath without the dressing pinching his sides.
“Clothes now,” the leader urges, and the men oblige.
Even now, they are careful to never leave both cuffs open at the same time and Loki cannot guess whether they don’t realize how drained his magic is or if they are just being cautious.
The garment they put on him is a two-piece uniform, sewn out of thin, white fabric. It fits him poorly and it has a number printed at the chest. Loki stares at it for a while, but can’t decode the meaning of it or whether it even has any. Perhaps this is how they see him now. Just a number, not a person.
He isn’t even sure he is one or whether he ever was.
Maybe not. Maybe this is exactly what something of his kind deserves.
They drag him to his feet and twist his arms behind his back, while the leader snaps new handcuffs on his wrists, just above the other pair. Those have a shorter chain and – in combination with the Asgardian shackles – they pin his hands to the small of his back, removing any freedom of movement for his arms.
A set of fetters for his ankles is next and then they pull the cloth back over his head and manhandle him out of the room. Like before, he doesn’t even think about fighting them, just lets them lead him wherever they want him. It’s simply easier that way and allows him to dedicate all his focus to keeping his legs under himself and avoiding tripping on the chain.
It helps, but he still fails twice before they reach what soon turns out to be an elevator.
He is rather certain the dungeons he has been confined to are located underground – there are no windows anywhere, all light is artificial and the air is dry and mechanically recirculated – but he has no idea what’s located above. Perhaps it’s just more prison facilities, perhaps this particular establishment is more like Asgard in that regard, where the royal dungeons sit directly under the castle.
Without that knowledge, it’s even harder to guess where he is being taken to and what for and, despite all, fear settles in his stomach and makes his fluttery heartbeat even faster.
Is he being brought for sentencing? Should that be even something mortals would do to their offenders? Are they going to kill him? Just hurt him some more?
You’ll find out soon enough, he tells himself as they push him out of the elevator.
There’s little to go by, but he still catalogs the shreds of information available to him. The air is fresher here, even filtered through the fabric wrapped around his head. There’s also carpet underneath his feet now and not concrete or tile. It makes it a bit easier on his bruised feet, but also muffles the sounds of footsteps, making it harder to judge the size of the room.
Other than that, his whereabouts remain a mystery.
They make a few turns, then stop. There’s a beep, a sound of a latch being released and a whine of hinges as the door opens.
He is shoved forward. He stumbles and his hipbone collides with something hard and solid. The hands on his arms are back momentarily, pushing him down into a metal seat. One of the cuffs on his wrist is opened and his arms are twisted further back, now behind the backrest of the chair, where the bracelet is reapplied, now hooked to a mounting point, trapping him in place. The chain of his Asgardian shackles digs into his stomach, adding even more pressure to the wounds.
The cloth is ripped off his head and Loki blinks, trying to get used to the light, then takes in the room.
It’s another bland box, with gray walls and one lamp emitting harsh, fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling. There’s a metal table bolted to the floor right underneath it and a chair on the opposite side.
Currently occupied.
The mortal engineer – Tony Stark, the Hawk called him, the man in the flying armor – is sitting in it, staring back at Loki with a completely unreadable expression on his face.
The guards move away.
“Wait,” Stark says. “I came here to talk, not to take part in a staring contest.”
“Huh?” one of the guards mutters, confused.
“Take it off,” Stark sighs, gesturing at Loki’s face.
There’s a heartbeat of hesitation, before the guard moves to follow the command. He fishes the key token out of his pocket and presses it to the locking mechanism on the nape of Loki’s neck. The bands retract and the man yanks the bit out.
Loki gags and struggles to breathe as it scratches the back of his throat going out, but still barely holds back the cry of relief. He works his jaw as feeling returns to the numb muscles then twists his head, wipes his lips on his shoulder and turns back to Stark.
The man isn’t looking at him, and is now staring at the muzzle the guard left on the table, with a deep frown.
A brand new portion of shame burns on Loki’s cheeks. It’s a device designed for humiliation and Stark can now see the full extent of it, down to the scratch marks Loki’s teeth left on the metal and the mix of blood and saliva smudged over them.
“Fuck,” the man comments and shakes his head, then looks past Loki, at the guards. “Leave us.”
“But–“
“Trust me, I can manage one guy you’ve already chained to a goddamned chair for my convenience.”
“We’ve got orders to–“
“Out,” Stark snarls, and adds a handwave to punctuate the command. “If you have any problem with that, go talk to Fury.”
The men grumble, but their heavy boots shuffle on the floor and they leave. There’s a beep again, as the door is closing and securing. There’s a curious power gradient to the situation, but Loki cannot muster the mental capacity to process it now. It’s hard enough to keep alert and his eyes focused on Stark when his vision is dotted with red and his head is swimming.
Stark takes a deep breath, runs his hand through his hair, then bestows Loki with another sizing glare.
“You look like shit,” he judges.
The old instincts kick in and Loki’s brain prepares a retort for him to utter, but he swallows it down. Hurling insults – no matter how creative – back at Stark would be a sign of terminal stupidity in Loki’s current position. Besides, if his visage in any way matches the way he feels, this is a pretty on-point assessment.
“You’re a hard guy to get an audience with, you know. I had to pull a lot of strings for this…” He makes a broad gesture with his hands, “to happen, so I’d appreciate it if you got off your high horse and talked to me.”
There’s still no question being asked, but Loki decides to risk it. “What’s there to talk about?” he says and it startles him, how awful his own voice sounds, croaky, weak and wavering, courtesy of his constricted chest, parched throat and days spent with his jaw locked in place.
Stark doesn’t answer for a long while, just stares at Loki with his lips pursed. His eyes wander down for a moment – there’s a bottle of water and an empty glass on the table in front of him – and back up to Loki, while Loki tries very hard to not think about it. Even if Stark offered – which he obviously has no interest in doing – there’s no way for Loki to accept the offer.
And Stark seems to realize it too, because he sighs and sits back in his chair. “The guy – or gal, no discrimination here – who sent you here, for starters.”
Somewhere at the back of his mind Loki’s aware he should be… offended? Outraged? Relieved? Worried? Perhaps even all of those things. But his head feels light and his vision grows blurry and he finds it hard to focus, so the topic slips his mind. His lungs are burning for oxygen and he tries to take a deep breath. It gets stuck somewhere on the way, so he tries again. Faint panic rings in his skull but that too is hard to pay attention to.
“Hey!” Stark calls, and it comes through a bit muffled. “What’s going on?!”
Loki’s head rolls forward and he stares in dumbfounded astonishment at the growing blotch of red that now stains the white fabric of his garments.
Stark is next to him now, even though Loki’s not sure how he got here, and his hands are now pulling Loki’s shirt up.
The bandages underneath are soaked with blood.
That doesn’t look good, Loki thinks idly and tries to take another breath.
Stark yells out some obscene curse and shakes Loki’s shoulder. “Hey, stay with me!” he says.
I can’t leave, Loki wants to say, but there’s blood in his mouth now too and he chokes on it when he tries to talk.
Then the last of the light fades and there’s only darkness.
---
The first thing Loki registers when he wakes up is that there’s no pain and it’s such a novel feeling he allows himself a moment to marvel at it.
There’s a slight buzz that could be a shadow of a headache at the back of his skull and his limbs feel heavy, but other than that he feels… fine. As if his bones weren’t broken – which he is pretty sure they were not so long ago – and his flesh didn’t get cut open time after time. As if his mind weren’t pulled out of his skull, shattered to pieces and shoved back inside. As if–
There’s also a beeping sound. Beep, beep, beep, it goes, and it takes him a good while to realize it matches the rhythm of his heart.
That’s curious enough of an occurrence to get him to open his eyes and the rest of the weirdness of the situation becomes apparent.
He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in. The beeping comes from what could possibly be a heartrate monitor, but nothing else suggests this is a healing facility. The room’s dim, even with a couple of small lamps emitting warm, dispersed light. It might be a bedroom, for it has a bed – huge and soft – that Loki is currently lying in for some reason, and there’s even a fluffy pillow under his head, and – as he registers when he looks down – a quilted blanket draped over his body. He doesn’t recognize the clothes he is wearing either, but they are warm and feel soft and seem to smell of flowers and fresh laundry.
It’s all utterly baffling.
The manacles are gone and just the bloody imprints they left on his skin linger behind as a reminder.
There’s a tube connected to his arm and – unlike the rest – Loki doesn’t like that. He tugs at it.
“Leave it,” a voice says behind him, and Loki turns his head towards it.
In an armchair on the other side of the bed, sits Tony Stark.
Loki blinks, but leaves the tube alone for now.
Stark stands up, walks around the bed and sits down on the edge of the mattress. “It’s just fluids,” he says, pointing his chin at a container that connects to the tube. “And some happy drugs, but those too you look like you’re going to need for a while longer. Bruce says it’s helping.”
“Why–“ Loki starts, but his voice breaks before he can get the question out.
Stark doesn’t say anything, just gets up and makes his way to the side table. There’s clinking and sloshing, and when he turns back to Loki, there’s a glass in his hand. He brings it over and hands it to Loki.
Loki pulls himself up a bit and takes it.
He knows Stark is his enemy and it can be a trick, or a cruel jest, or a game. But the thirst squeezes its claws around his throat and he yields and brings the glass to his lips.
It’s water and it’s cool and crystal clear and Loki doesn’t remember water ever tasting that good.
“Thank you,” he says and hands the glass back.
Stark chuckles and sets it down on the bedside table. “At least we now got the drink part out of the way.”
“Why am I here?” Loki tries again, and his voice works a lot better this time.
“You’re here, because Fury’s people are apparently a bunch of sadistic fucks who can’t keep their slimy hands to themselves. So, as of two days ago, you’re officially in the custody of the Avengers instead.”
“Custody?” Loki asks, looking around. Stark must have a rather peculiar definition of the word.
“Well, let’s say we like to keep a bit higher standards here.”
Loki sighs. “You stole me.” The idea is just as confusing as the rest of his current circumstances, but at least explains how he got here.
Stark laughs and shakes his head. “No, I just got my lawyers to threaten Fury with the IHL violation charges until he gave up. He still claims he had no idea, but who can say with that lying bastard.”
Loki blinks again. Not much of what just tumbled out of Stark’s mouth makes sense to him, but clarifications can wait. “But why?”
“First, because when it comes to torture, I’m not a fan. Ask anybody.”
Loki lets out a breath. Stark makes it sound so sincere, even though they both know it’s a lie. It’s not torture, if it’s justice. It’s not torture, if he earned it.
“Second,” Stark continues, “your brother did you dirty leaving you with them in the first place.”
That too, isn’t true. The way SHIELD men treated him wasn’t any worse than what would await him in Asgard, should Thor bring him to face Odin’s wrath.
“Third, and do correct me if I’m wrong, I’m pretty sure the number you pulled on us wasn’t a solo project and you weren’t trying that hard to do your part well. So, we can help one another here.”
Loki grits his teeth.
“Any objections?”
Loki takes a deep breath and shakes his head. There’s no point in denying it. And perhaps Stark is right. Perhaps there’s something to be done if they work together. If that’s the only option Loki has left, he might as well take it.
Stark chuckles and claps his hand down on Loki’s knee. “Good to hear. Or not hear, rather.”
He moves a step away then waves his hand at the corner of the room.
The curtains part and reveal a line of windows and the city that lies beyond them, lit up by the last rays of a setting sun, golden and glorious.
Stark glances at him and smiles knowingly. “I got a feeling you might be a bit tired of darkness.”
Loki doesn’t say anything, just nods, very slightly.
“I’m gonna go and find you something to eat,” Stark says. “I’d greatly appreciate if you didn’t give us a slip in the meantime. I really don’t want to explain myself to Fury and the entire fucking UN after I told them I’ve got this like seventeen times.”
I have nowhere to run to, he wants to say, but doesn’t, just nods again.
Stark rolls his eyes, gives him an awkward salute and leaves.
Loki pulls the blanket tighter around himself and lies there, looking out of the window overlooking the realm he tried to destroy not so long ago and allows himself to think, just for a moment, that maybe there’s a chance this one story won’t end in a disaster.