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Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape.
As an agent of SHIELD – in the unlikely event of being captured and interrogated – you had undergone vigorous training to withstand torture. You had been prepared for the worst. Though that training felt obsolete to you.
After gaining powers – superhuman strength in contention with Captain America’s – your confidence turned into hubris, leaving you feeling invincible. You practically were. Transformed from a mere woman to an almighty force to be reckoned.
And yet, without your power, you were reduced once again to someone all-too human – beaten down, exhausted, and scared.
It was meant to be a routine, almost mundane mission—investigating the source of suspicious radio activity emanating from a dormant bunker deep within the Austrian Alps. Yet, upon your arrival, it became clear they were expecting you. That was the first red flag, catching you off guard and allowing them to subdue you. The second—and far more alarming—was the sight of those bracelets. Stark’s technology. In their hands.
You were blindfolded, ankles bound to the legs of a chair, and arms tied tightly behind your back. On your wrists were the thin metal cuffs. Their purpose didn’t need explaining. As soon as they were clipped on, you felt it. Your power drained.
“Look at you”, the now all-familiar voice cooed in your ear. It sent an eerie chill down your spine. It repulsed you. “Look at how quickly you’re beginning to cave. Without your artificial power, you’re just a frightened little girl.”
The cold tip of a blade pressed lightly against your cheekbone. “We’re giving you one last chance to comply, sweetheart.” He added more pressure to the knife, breaking the skin. Droplets of blood trickled down your face like tears. His footsteps circled behind you. A cold and calloused hand turned your wrist over, then dragged the knife up the inside of your forearm. Searing white pain radiated up its length. Yet, as you bled, you stayed silent. All that could be heard was the sound of your blood hitting the floor at a worrying rate.
“If you don't start talking, you’ll bleed out.“
Up until this point – Hours? Days? – you had done your best to endure this sadistic pursuit of intel. You remained stoic through the water boardings and the beatings. Yet your torturer was right. You were breaking.
You felt your life fading away. You didn't want to die.
“Wait…please,” you slurred. “Just wait–” an ear-splitting explosion of green energy sent your chair flying back. You landed on your shoulder, which gave out with a sickening pop. A deafening ring filled your ears. Yet, fueled by the adrenaline of the blast, you freed yourself from your binds and ripped off the blindfold – squinting at the overwhelming light that flooded your vision. You turned the blindfold into a makeshift tourniquet, using your hand and teeth to tie it tightly around your upper arm.
You looked up to the two shadowy figures locked in combat. One of them collapsed. Slowly, the scene came into focus– the man lying motionless, drenched in your blood was your captor. The other, now turning toward you in measured steps, was Loki. You groaned, of all the people SHIELD could have sent, of course they went with the most apathetic, self-aggrandizing prick.
The ringing in your ears gradually subsided, replaced with the sound of several heavy footfalls and sharp foreign curses. Loki – in a manner so uncharacteristic to him – effortlessly swept you up in bridal style. Just as armed men burst into the room, Loki teleported the two of you away in an instant.
The two of you reappeared in an icy cave. You squirmed in his arms. “Put me down!” You said through gritted teeth.
“Very well, agent.” He said, gingerly propping you against the wall. He crouched before you and, ignoring your glare, his eyes ran up and down your slumped body in search of injuries. You had been stripped down to nothing but your white tank and jeans – soiled in sweat, dirt, and blood. He studied your ragged breathing, your pale and clammy complexion, the bruises that littered your skin, and your dislocated arm, which hung limply at your side. He looked puzzled at the bracelets.
“Stark tech. They s-press powers,” you muttered.
His long, slender fingers then reached for the long, deep cut on your arm – from which you were still losing a decent amount of blood – but you pulled away, cradling it protectively against your chest.
He rolled his eyes. “You’re clearly hurt,” he hissed. “I need to deal with your injuries.”
“M’ fine. Can wait until help comes.” You didn’t want to admit it, but the pain you were in was almost unbearable. The thought of enduring anymore, or anything that might aggravate it, filled you with dread. “And I don’t trust you.”
He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you don’t trust me? Pity. I’m afraid help isn’t coming right away, darling. And I can’t have you bleeding out on me. It would be such an inconvenience.”
He grabbed you by the waist. Without your power – alongside a dislocated shoulder and an excessive amount of blood loss – you couldn’t put up much of a fight. He was able to easily drag you to the floor, unaffected by your kicks and curses. Careful to avoid your injured shoulder, he pinned you down, his hands pressed firmly against your chest and your splayed-out wrist, his thighs straddling your sides with unyielding force. Damn, he was heavy.
He sat up and waved his hand, producing a first aid kit by your side. Your eyes widened as he took out a needle, sutures, and scissors. You flailed and kicked and screamed – though you knew it was in vain. You were absolutely helpless beneath him, at his complete mercy.
“Hold still, mortal–” he growled. That's when you began to cry. He stopped in his tracks, staring down at you in bewilderment as tears streaked down your face and sobs wracked your body. Mouth agape, Loki seemed unsure with how to proceed.
“Stop cry–look at me, agent!” he said, mustering his command again. You turned your head away.
His hands gently yet firmly cupped your cheeks, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Look at me,” he repeated softly. “Breathe.“
“P-please,” you begged. “It–h-hurts.”
“I know it hurts, love. And I know this is going to hurt even more. I'm sorry. I promise I'll work as quickly as I can. But you need to cooperate, do you understand?” He brushed the damp strands of hair that clung to your forehead behind your ear.
As your sobs slowed to meager whimpers, you nodded.
He smiled. “Good girl.” His hands moved down to your navel. He lifted up the hem of your tank and began undoing your belt buckle. Before you could protest, he slid it out and folded it over.
“Bite down on this,” he commanded, bringing the belt to your lips. You obeyed.
He brought an antiseptic wipe to the oozing gash. It might as well have been doused in petrol and set aflame. You let out a muffled cry.
“I know, I know, just breathe through it. Ok? That’s all done.”
As he prepared the needle and sutures, Loki could feel you trembling underneath him.
“Alright love, now for the hard part. Be brave and hold very still for me.” With one hand holding down your wrist in place, the other brought the needle to your skin. You clenched down on the belt and released an anguished scream.
“That’s it, let it out. I’m sorry, I know this hurts. But you're doing a wonderful job. You’re being so brave.” Loki tied the first suture into place, cutting the excess, and soaking up the fresh blood with cotton gauze. The next one was equally as painful, and he continued to patiently coax you through it all. He repeated this well over a dozen times until the wound was finally closed over. He then wrapped your forearm in a cotton bandage.
He maneuvered around you and pulled your nearly limp body into his lap, your back against his chest. He removed the belt from your mouth and rubbed your aching jaw with his fingers in soothing circles. “Well done. You were such a good girl. You were so brave,” he said, wiping a thumb over your tears. He produced a bottle of water and held it to your lips. “You must drink.”
He cradled the back of your head as you took long indulgent sips. Once finished, you let your head loll onto his shoulder. “Thank you,” you whispered.
“My pleasure,” he said. “Now do you trust me?” You nodded.
“Good. Because I’m very sorry for what I’m about to do.”
“What do you m–” Loki held your bad shoulder in one hand while gripping your wrist with the other, then pulled your arm back and up. With a sharp pop, the joint snapped back into place. A searing wave of pain surged through you, overwhelming your senses. Then everything faded to darkness as you slumped into Loki’ arms.
The sound of a helicopter brought you somewhere halfway to consciousness. You felt yourself being jostled, carried, and tended to by gloved hands – and you could have sworn you felt fingers running through your tangled hair.
When you finally came to in the med bay, you almost wished you hadn’t. An IV was hooked to your hand, the wound on your arm had been redressed. Your other arm was bound to your chest in a sling. Though the pain had been dulled and the metal bracelets removed, the shame and humiliation was all too clear. You had failed. Horrifically at that. You were reduced to shambles, almost complying with a mysterious enemy force. And you fell completely undone – a pathetic mess – in front of Loki, of all people.
You closed your eyes and let the tears fall, until you heard recognizable footsteps enter the room.
You brusquely wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand and looked away, shame clutching at your chest and burning at your cheeks. “You’ve already done your job, Loki. Unless you’ve come here to gloat.”
“Not at all,” he said, sitting in the chair beside you. You'd never seen him like this before, dressed in a blue wool turtleneck and black slacks. His hair fell in soft curls at his shoulders. He looked much less intimidating – and much more soft, and maybe even kind– than he did in his suit of green and gold armor. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” You allowed the steady beat of the heart monitor to fill the silence of the room.
“You know, when I was under Thanos' captivity, I was certain I was going to die. And I wasn’t ready for it. Never had I known such pain. Nor had I ever been so afraid…I was desperate, and I made a terrible bargain in exchange for my life. I let him influence my mind and use me as his puppet. I’m responsible for so much chaos and destruction and…death.”
“What are you trying to tell me? That I’m desperate?”
He sighed. “Whatever happened back there…it’s not your fault.”
“Good Will Hunting isn’t going to work on me, Loki.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind – it’s just...” You finally met his eyes, and as soon as you did, you couldn’t control the tears that welled up again. Goddammit. You couldn’t stop your voice from breaking. “Who am I without my power? A coward. A frightened little girl.”
He paused. “No…That’s not how I see it. You’re a warrior. They too feel fear and pain. And even warriors fall. They’re not supposed to be invincible. Yet they keep fighting. Just as you did.”
“I botched the mission. I almost gave away–”
“But you didn’t. Besides, your life is far more precious than whatever information they were after. You’d be a self-sacrificing fool to believe otherwise.”
Hesitantly, he reached for your hand, which was resting over the bed sheets. “May I?” he asked, almost shyly. You turned your palm up, opening it to him. He wrapped his much larger hand around yours and squeezed it.
“Now tell me, love, how are you actually feeling?”
As you’d become more lucid, the dull numbness had begun to subside and the pain gradually sharpened. “Everything hurts,” you admitted.
“I can imagine. Is there anything I can do? Would you like me to adjust your morphine?”
“Yes please.” He turned the dial up on the IV pump.
“Thank you…And thanks, for saving my life and all. I really am grateful.”
“It was my honor.”
Your grip on his hand slackened as a wave of bliss washed over you. “I doubt I’ll remember any of this, so, can you…do the thing with your hands in my hair? It was…comforting.”
“Of course,” he said, bringing his other hand to stroke your hair. Your eyes fluttered shut in relief.
He whispered sweet nothings into your ear as you drifted to sleep.