Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Everyone wants to hit rock bottom, some Icarus shit

But the truth is some holes keep going, yawning, heady, one mistake becomes three.

There's always a dark darker than the dark you know."

-Hala Alyan

When he first met Jane Foster almost three years ago in Puente Antiguo over the Mjolnir incident, Clint hadn't thought she was the paranoid type. She'd struck him as small, vaguely terrifying in an amusing way, and deeply intelligent. She was the sort of woman he would have found attractive before his relationship with Natasha got serious, but now he's wondering that if, in the long months that he's actually known her, Jane has somehow hidden the fact that she's a glass half empty, the world is ending in twenty seconds because of XYZ omen kind of girl.

A healthy dose of anxiety is good for survival.

That's not what this is.

"He's just gone, and I don't know what to do," Jane confesses to him on the phone one dull, unassuming Tuesday at the end of November, sounding a mix between having a breakdown or gritting her teeth and traveling cross country in search to find her missing fiancé overturned rock by overturned rock. She would be successful, too, Clint has no doubt. Jane can be just as much a force of nature as Thor is when she wants to be.

"Have you tried calling him?" Clint asks carefully, trying to sound polite but knowing that he's probably not coming across that way. He scrapes his thumbnail along the edge of an arrow he's holding with his right foot's toes, shifting his awkward pretzel-bent-between-the-desk-and-chair position to try and relieve strain on his lower back. He's been here for a while, avoiding everyone else in the building; though admittedly he has no conscious recollection of deciding to take off his shoes and socks.

There's a minute pause, then Jane says, layered with sarcasm. "No. Oh my gosh, that didn't occur to me at all. Why on earth would I have called his teammates if I could just contact him directly? I'm an idiot."

Clint's lips quirk. Point taken. "No answer on his part, then?"

"No," Jane says, releasing a sharp breath. "I don't know. It's just weird. I feel like I'm maybe overreacting, but at the same time, I don't? Darcy says that I'm overreacting, but it's just really weird. He's never been this late before. Three days is…huge. I could understand a day or two, but…"

Clint sighs, glancing up, wondering again since this conversation started why Jane called him. He wouldn't say that they're close. They're friends from a distance more than anything else. He would have expected this call to get directed at Tony, who actually has more than a tentative friendship with her. He feels a little trapped in the phone call if he's being honest with himself.

Part of him is quietly hoping that something will come up so they'll have to end it, which is all levels of terrible.

Another, louder part, that picked up the phone in the first place, hopes she talks to him forever.

Clint chews on his lower lip, then tilts his head back to stare at the gray, musty ceiling. Somewhere else in the building there's a loud smacking sound of pipes rattling together. Someone probably turning on a sink. If you get here at the right time of day, there's a weird scratching sound, too. Almost like mice desperately seeking a way out. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s New York field office is about seventy years old and it's easy to tell. Clint's pretty sure that the last time the building was to code was maybe the late 1950s.

In S.H.I.E.L.D.'s (weak) defense, the Helicarrier has a tendency to hang out around the New York coastline, or they'll wean space out of the FBI's office, so Clint guesses that Fury considers that good enough. It's probably for the best. Being in here makes Clint feel like it's in danger of collapsing on top of him at any given moment.

Which…honestly wouldn't be that bad. Being in the hospital means he wouldn't have to be at Avengers Tower, ergo, he could avoid everything and everyone inside.

He blows out a breath, then answers Jane's question. "He's probably just needed to clear his head a bit. Thor and Loki aren't talking right now," Clint explains, tapping his finger anxiously against the head of the arrow.

There's a small, but not insignificant beat before Jane intones, "Ah." Clint doesn't know whether to laugh or groan. Jane sighs heavily, resigned, "Is he okay?"

Clint snorts, dark humor washing through him for a moment. "Has he been since he dragged Loki back from Asgard with him?" he mutters.

Have any of them? Honestly?

Clint met Thor for maybe a minute in New Mexico before he came back for the Battle of New York, which isn't a good basis for how he was before all this crap happened, but he's pretty sure that Thor hasn't been okay since before he was exiled from Asgard. Even then. There's a desperation in the masks he wears to keep himself together.

But honestly, since the Battle, Clint is beginning to think that nobody he knows is okay. Especially those around and inside the Avengers. It's like they're all clinging to a normality that no longer exists since Thor dragged his mostly-dead brother back to New York with him in late June.

Jane sighs again, softer this time. "I think that he's trying, but I know that he's really unhappy right now. I wish that I knew how to help. Is it normal for him to disappear for a few days after he and Loki get into one of their fights?"

No. It's not. Clint would say a few hours is within the range of normal. The max was maybe ten? He can't remember anymore. But Thor straight-up vanishing without any contact with anyone is a little weird, as far as Clint knows him. "No. I'll ask anyone if they've heard from him, but I wouldn't worry." He reassures.

He's probably fine. Just…doing a great Asgardian sulk or something. That's a little insensitive, but Clint can't quite draw up enough energy to care.

Jane, however, completely ignores that advice and carries on worrying, "Should I do something? I just…I'm really worried about him. It's really isn't like him to flake like this. Something must have happened—beyond him and Loki getting into another, um, argument."

Okay, but see.

That's the thing.

Because the thing about Loki and Thor, Clint has decided after weeks of being trapped with them in Avengers Tower, is that there's nothing worse than their fighting until they stop. Which is a level of irony Clint doesn't think should be legal. You'd think that once the two Asgardian's got done verbally beating the crap out of each other, everyone would breathe a sigh of relief. But it's worse when they don't because then they're not talking.

And it's stupid because it's not actually arguments, that's just what everyone calls them. Clint can count on one hand the number of times that it's dissolved into actual yelling. Loki and Thor don't fight like he and his brother used to, with appraised fists and shouting loud enough the whole street could get in on the drama. It's hissed arguments layered with passive-aggressive comments and nasty looks until someone tries to pull a knife or a punch.

Which is why, in the long scheme of things, Clint isn't surprised that Thor is late for his scheduled time off of Loki babysitting to be with Jane.

Because Thor and Loki stopped fighting sometime mid-last week which means that it's been a muted, angry silence on both ends, and that means that Thor is wandering around with this pissed, kicked puppy look because Loki is nasty in ways that Clint can't fathom sometimes, always digging the verbal blades in exactly where he knows it will hurt. And that, in turn, means that Thor needed some time away from the Tower to breathe so he wouldn't strangle his younger sibling.

Good times.

Clint remembers feeling that way a lot with Barney when they were still talking.

So yeah, he's not surprised, he's not even worried that Thor is late. Why would he be? Thor is taking a moment to himself so he won't get to Puente Antiguo and dump all his frustrations with his brother into his relationship with Jane. Clint wouldn't want to take out all his frustrations with Barney on Natasha. Thor's probably the same. He respects Jane too much to treat her like his emotional dumping ground.

Jane, however, doesn't believe him. No matter how many times Clint has insisted that the Asgardian is fine and she doesn't have a reason to worry in the last ten minutes.

Clint really doesn't think she does. If anything, she should be more worried by the fact that it took this long before Thor finally reached his breaking point and retreated. Clint's gotta hand it to the guy, he's got the patience of a saint most of the time when it comes to Loki. If it had been up to him, Clint would have stabbed the sorcerer in the eye and kicked him out the back door to follow. Then he would have gone to sleep for the first time in months without batting an eye.

Jane taps her fingers against something, "He hasn't talked to any of you since he left on Saturday?"

Patiently, Clint repeats, "No."

"He was only going to be here until Friday," Jane says, and Clint can almost see her anxiously chewing on her lower lip. It's a habit that he's pretty sure everyone is aware of but her. Darcy seems to have an endless supply of chapstick on hand to give to the astrophysicist when she inevitably bites her lip bloody. Thor's started carrying them on his person, too. Which is kind of cute yet gross at the same time. "I don't know. He's never done this before. I just…I don't know when I need to start worrying."

Aren't you already? Clint thinks, annoyed, but doesn't say.

Clint sets the arrow down on the desk and finally submits, shifting his position to a less pretzel-y butterfly so his lower back and hamstrings will stop whining so much. Immediately, without his thighs pushed up against his chest and lightly constricting his breathing, his ribs stop aching so much, too. He runs a hand through his hair. "Jane, he's fine. I promise. The worst thing that could possibly happen is some sort of emotional desecration, and Loki's done a fine job of doing that for anyone else."

Jane is quiet, not willing to poke at that statement. But she doesn't, Clint notices with dark amusement, argue with him. She starts to say something else, but Clint hears a muted, muffled voice on the other end that he assumes is either Dr. Selvig or Darcy.

Jane listens for a few seconds then swears frantically. "I forgot! Crap! I've gotta go. There's a lecture I'm supposed to be at in twenty minutes. I should be in the car right now. Thanks for, um, listening to me. Sorry. I don't know. Let me know if you hear from him, please? I've gotta go. Bye."

"Bye," Clint says, "break a leg, or whatever I'm supposed to say to encourage you."

Jane laughs, says goodbye again, and then hangs up. Clint slowly lowers the phone from his face to his lap and then buries his face in his hands and breathes out stiffly. Crap, haha, he'd forgotten why he'd been so desperate to talk with her in the first place. Phone calls are immensely distracting.

There is a reason that he's hiding out in a run-down field office at nine in the morning and pretending that he's doing something important.

Clint swears under his breath, rubbing his hands across his face. His eyes feel raw and tight from sleeplessness. They're exhausted, but the rest of him isn't. All his attempts at sleeping last night had ended in the same violent round circle it's been doing since Loki got dropped within his general vicinity long-term again. He doesn't know what it is. The nightmares weren't this bad before. They weren't as vivid.

If he didn't know that Loki's magical prowess was resting at pretty much squat right now, he would assume that the Asgardian was playing with his head. But it's not Loki directly. Maybe it's just some stupid PTSD thing.

The restlessness is rubbing at him, like a slow-acting poison. It's gotten worse as the months have passed until Clint is practically begging Fury for more assignments because out in the field is the only time that he feels normal. He can sleep out there without his head feeling like it's on a horror reel.

But he can't do that long-term, which pisses him off more. Somebody's got to babysit the psychopath, and since none of the Avengers want to do that, everyone has to. Sometimes he wonders if this hassle is even worth it. Thor should have just let his brother keel over. Would've been better for all of them.

Clint holds his phone against his lips for a moment, breathing against the glass and trying to convince himself that he wants to stand up. He was supposed to meet Tony fifteen minutes ago for another briefing with Hill, who's running point on operation Don't Let Loki Die or Murder Anyone. All major decisions get passed through the Director, but Hill has more time to make sure they're doing this properly than Fury does.

He should have just hung up the phone with Jane and left when he was supposed to, instead of hiding in this cramped, abandoned office from Loki, Bruce, and Tony. But no. Clint is, at heart, a coward. Steve and Natasha should be getting back today from their mission in France, which Clint is immensely grateful for. All he wants to do is hide in Natasha's arms and pretend that everything isn't a mess. Afterward, he can jump ship and take an assignment. Someone else can be stuck in Avengers Tower per protocol.

This is great. Clint is going to miss the entire briefing at this point, which means Hill's probably going to do that thing where she insults your general existence but you have to think about the insult in order to understand it. She's good at those. It seems like just a general frustrated statement at first, but it stings later the more you think about it.

Clint opens his phone and ignores the two texts from Tony and the one from Bruce in favor of opening his and Nat's messages and scrolling up. She hasn't replied since last Thursday when they got into Bordeaux, but it's a dull, empty comfort to read through their previous messages. It reminds him that he's real. He's not a product of the nightmares.

He chews on his lower lip before typing out miss u. Rdy to kill smbdy. Jane thinks T is mia. Prblby just hiding from Fabricator.

It's pretty much a repeat of previous messages from the last few days, and Tasha will probably just roll her eyes and send him a man up in response and then a :) to indicate that the text isn't hostile. He misses when things were normal. He wishes he'd never taken that stupid New Mexico assignment and got wrapped up in all this crap in the first place. Things were a lot simpler when he and Tasha did work they were trained for. Not…this.

But would have mattered in the end? He would have gone wherever Natasha did.

And Natasha would have ended up in this mess anyway. Fury had her name written down in the Avengers Initiative the moment Clint brought her in. Clint was just an accident. If not for the media latching onto the heroes, Clint probably would have been dropped from the program he was never considered for in the first place.

"Don't be a baby, Barton," Clint mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. "Things will be worse if you don't go now."

Things will be bad either way. And he really wants to avoid going back for as long as possible.

But it doesn't matter.

He doesn't have a choice. He's delayed as long as he can.

He blows out a slow breath then forces himself to start moving. He puts his socks back on and shoves his feet inside of his well-worn sneakers, then pulls on his jacket. His quiver goes on last, along with his bow, both of which he only dragged out here with him for show. Tony had been in the communal room when Clint had gone to get coffee there three hours ago, so he'd needed some sort of excuse as to why he was leaving.

Ergo: he was suddenly in desperate need to find some of the prototype arrows one of the engineers said was in the New York field office. Unfortunately, when he goes back, Clint will have been unable to find them.

Tony would make him a new type of arrow if he asked anyway.

And this was easier than admitting that he, a grown man and an adult, needed to hide from his dreams.

Clint quickly makes his way out of the field office, barely seeing a glimpse of one of the sorry sods stuck in the building permanently. Clint thinks that there are maybe twenty employees total, if that, and all of them have a questionable relationship with this plane of reality. Clint thinks he's only seen three and a half fully in the five years he's been coming here. He knows they're here and he can smell their coffee or perfume, but he couldn't pin one down to save his life.

He exits the building and breathes in the dry, smoggy air. The sky is overcast with thick, ugly gray clouds promising snow and lots of it. Great.

Maybe he can pick up a bucket of it and then dump it on Loki's head. Would serve him right for keeping them all here in the first place.

The field office and Avengers Tower are about ten minutes apart as the crow flies. By car, it takes Clint a little over twenty-five. It would have been worse if this was rush hour, but, of course, as traffic does when you're dreading something, the roads were moving smoothly.

When Clint has pulled into the garage, he turns off the engine and just sits there for long seconds. Breathing. The garage is dimly lit with strip lights along the edges of the large room that cast awkward shadows from the cars across the floor. It smells like oil and cold.

What he would give for anything cold…to take away this burning heat that's turning his skin to leather…anything…quarter please, please…

Clint opens his eyes and breathes out sharply, clenching his hands around the steering wheel painfully. He breathes out harshly, his throat tasting faintly of blood. It's getting worse, and Clint knows it is. The dreams are bleeding into the day now, not just haunting his sleep.

When he feels like he can move without dissolving into hysterics, Clint presses his palm into the bridge of his nose, groaning, then swears under his breath. It's fine. He's okay. It's fine. He's awake and he's alive and he's not being slowly burnt to death.

Thank God his mandated therapy sessions are over, he's certain that the therapist would have had a field day with his reemerging dreams. Not that these are the same. After the mind control, Clint dreamt about the memories he forgot in garbled, muffled pieces. This is different. It's…he doesn't know what it is. Which is why he's not talking to them about it. They'd pull him out of the field, and that's the only thing that helps.

Clint opens his eyes and breathes out slowly, collecting himself.

Just as he's convinced himself that he can make it to the elevator, there's a soft rap on the car window. Clint doesn't startle, but he jerks, looking up at the figure outside and scowling immediately. He grabs the handle and pushes the door open, forcing Tony to move out of the way so he won't get smacked in the chest.

The multi-billionaire isn't dressed for being out here, in a black long sleeve with white printing declaring NEW YORK across the front, the arc reactor sitting like a beaming, rigid flashlight in the center of his chest. His dark jeans and unlaced shoes are practically a stamp across his forehead declaring Tony wouldn't be out here if Clint wasn't.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Clint appreciates the gesture. In the forefront, he can only dredge up tired annoyance.

Clint's legs hold his weight as he gets to his feet, but he still clings to the rim of the door with one hand. "What are you doing down here?" he demands, his voice more clipped that he means for it to be.

Tony's grinning, but it's a plastic, useless gesture. His eyes are dark and there's something almost haunted in them. Looking at his face too long makes Clint ache sometimes. "Aw, Barton, don't be a spoilsport," Tony chides lightly, "if you're going to have a brooding session in the garage, I'm entitled to join you."

"Haha," Clint intones dryly. "You bring any snacks?"

"No."

"Then you're not invited. Get out," Clint says and points toward the door with complete seriousness.

Tony makes a mock-wounded noise then waves a hand. "You really want snacks, we'll make JARVIS get them. So what are you doing? A hand holding session, listening to the radio as you think about life kinda deal? Call Natashlie and ask for hugs?"

Clint sighs, closing the car's door with a loud smack. He leans back against the vehicle and folds his arms across his chest, looking at the engineer expectantly. Tony breathes out evenly, his breath pluming before he lets the smirk drop.

"What's wrong?" Tony says after a moment. He seems almost hesitant about the question, as he often does. Clint put together a while ago that Howard's crappy parenting and Tony's questionable upbringing gave the Avenger a lot of scar tissue to work through when it comes to communication. Most of the time, Clint does his best to work with Tony in that regard.

He just…can't today.

"Who said anything was wrong?" Clint dodges. If he had more energy, he'd already be moving to the elevator to try and shake Tony's concern off. But he doesn't, so he stands there, leaning against the car and pretending he's not cold.

Tony raises an eyebrow. "You left at six in the morning to visit a building that should have been condemned before Steve was born and stayed there for three hours. And now you're hiding in the garage and brooding. Something's wrong."

Point.

Clint's jaw tightens. "I don't know. It's just…"

"Loki?" Tony guesses.

Clint shakes his head, and for once it's actually true. He rubs at his forehead. "No. It's not just him. It's…I don't know how to explain it." Or maybe, a dark voice slinks in the back of his mind, you just don't want to admit it out loud. How embarrassing to be overcome by dreams. "I'm just not sleeping."

Tony frowns. "Still?"

Clint shrugs, but he's made his bed and now he has to sleep in it. "It's like I lay down and then everything just spins. I think it's just residual anxiety. I don't know. I'll see if I can get an appointment with a doctor, maybe they'll have some suggestions."

Nope. They'll tell him to use melatonin or drug him up with sleeping aids until he's so drowsy he can't walk straight. Then he'll be trapped in nightmares, which is worse.

Tony's eyes narrow a fraction like he can see through all of Clint's BS, and for a moment Clint's convinced he's going to say something, but he doesn't. His mouth twists unhappily, and that's it. He folds his arms across his chest in a manner that's tight enough Clint has always privately wondered if it's painful. He can't imagine applying that much pressure to the arc reactor is comfortable.

"I used to take something after the Battle, but I didn't think it helped that much." Tony admits.

"They never really do when it comes to sleep." Clint agrees.

"Ha."

Clint blows out a breath, then tries to subtly change the subject. "So on a scale of one to ten, how pissed is Hill?"

Tony snorts, reaching out a hand to pat Clint's shoulder twice in consolidation. "Let's just say you should probably prep your resignation letters. And the rest of us will start planning your funeral. Do you want a plot that overlooks a river or something?"

Clint rolls his eyes, pulling away from the car so he can open the door to the backseat and retrieve his bow and quiver. "I don't want to be buried. Cremate me." He instructs, swinging his quiver across one shoulder. "Or drop my body from the sky for the dogs to pick at, I don't really care. I'll be dead."

Tony clucks his tongue. "By your own supervisor. Such a shame."

Clint punches him in the arm playfully and Tony smirks, but this time it's genuine. The banter helps a little, soothing him in places that hiding from the Tower couldn't. As he and Tony get into the elevator and start the trek up to the communal floor, he looks at his teammate.

"Jane called me today." Tony's eyebrows raise, but he says nothing, indicating that Clint should continue. "I know. I thought it was weird, too. Apparently, Thor hasn't shown up in New Mexico yet. She wanted to know if we'd heard from him."

Tony shakes his head. "No. I haven't. That's weird. I wouldn't think there'd be a single second that man would miss with her. He's kinda…clingy."

Tony hasn't heard from him either? Something twists in his stomach. Worry.

Clint huffs. "One word for that."

"I'll text him." Tony shrugs, but the creases of his eyes have gotten tighter. "You think he's hiding out from Sunshine?"

"I can't think of a single person who doesn't want to hide from Loki." Clint deadpans, and Tony laughs. Clint shrugs, scraping a hand through his hair anxiously. "It's just kind of weird he wouldn't tell her beforehand. He's usually a lot better with that sort of thing."

Tony nods. "He is. Maybe something came up."

Clint rolls his eyes before he can stop himself, and blurts out, "You think that some sorry Asgardian councilman or whatever got stuck on 'Let's ask Thor to come back to Asgard' duty again? Or the 'Where's Loki?' questionnaire?"

"For three days?" Tony asks dubiously.

It used to annoy Clint in the beginning that Thor was so adamant that no one could know where his brother was. Yeah, he saw how mostly dead the younger Asgardian was, but what was the worst that Asgard was going to do to him, honestly? Is Odin knowing where his child is such a death sentence?

But after time, Clint has started to get a kick out of how oblivious and stupid Thor can act when he wants to. No, he has no idea where Loki is and why would he, he's in prison; no he's not going back to Asgard, Earth's protectors are useless without him; no, he hasn't seen Loki since New York. Clint's favorite excuse so far has been when Thor stared the Warriors Three dead in the face and asked Who's Loki? in complete seriousness. He then spent the rest of their conversation convincing them that he'd banished all thought of his brother from his mind by necessity.

Inside that heart of gold is a wicked streak that runs hot and deep, and Clint's pretty sure there are precious few souls who know that.

Before Clint can come up with an answer to Tony's statement, the elevator doors open with an obnoxious ding and he and the other Avenger take a step out into the hall leading to the communal room. There's a soft, muted glow coming from the cloud-covered sun streaming into the room that makes it look soft and welcoming, but Clint can't drive up enough energy to care.

Instead, as it so frequently does now, Clint searches out the room for Loki.

At one point, this would have been done in self-preservation; the need to see where his enemy was so he wouldn't turn his back on him. Now, it's habit. He can't remember the first time he turned his back on Loki, but he knows he hasn't stopped since. Even on the days he feels more anxious about it, which is rare now, his pride refuses to let him stop.

He wasn't really expecting him to be there, but Loki is. Which makes sense in retrospect, he's not supposed to be in a room without one of them present, and Bruce is going over some sort of stack of papers at the table. He looks exhausted and worn, dressed in clothing Clint knows for certain he was in two days ago, his hair a mess.

Loki isn't much better. He's in baggy clothing—everything is baggy on him, despite Thor's best efforts, he's too thin for it to not be—and looking like he crawled out of a coffin. He's sitting on the couch with one of Bruce's books on his lap, intently staring at the pages. His gaze briefly slides up to meet theirs, but then drops. Which is fine with Clint, because it gives him free reign to scrutinize.

Loki's hands are tucked against his stomach, buried inside the confines of his black jacket. It hides the constant shaking pretty well, but Clint has learned to look for it. And just as it was yesterday and all the months before it, his hands are still trembling. When he'd first arrived on Earth in Thor's arms looking limp, bloody, and both his arms from the elbow down nearly severed off, Clint hadn't been sure he'd ever heal. But five months out, beyond faint scarring, Loki seems unblemished. The only permanence from his trip through hell is a lisp that shows up when he's tired, a faint limp, and his shaking hands.

Thor says that all will improve with time.

Clint doesn't believe him.

He doesn't think that Loki does, either.

Tony gives him a significant look then pointedly ignores Loki's existence and goes to stand next to Bruce and verbally poke him into taking a break. Or eating something. One of the two. Bruce has been consumed with public reports of the last Hulk incident a week ago, and Tony is about the only person who can slap some sense into him at this point.

With both of them otherwise occupied, Clint does what he's gotten relatively good at the last few months, which is to metaphorically poke at the angry snake with a stick. He drops his equipment on the other side of the table before sauntering over to the couch. He leans over the seat beside Loki, clasping his hands together.

He has no desire for conversation, he just wants to lay down. Clint has never wanted to sleep more in his life. But he can't. He can't go to sleep and submit himself to those dreams again.

"Question for you," Clint says in a voice more chipper than he feels, "if Thor decided to run out on the family, would you be relieved or is this some sort of passive-aggressive move on his part to jump-start the non-existent affection he assumes you have for him?"

Loki sighs, but doesn't answer.

Clint keeps poking. "Personally, I think that it's a lost cause. Thor's hoping for the wrong dead heart to start beating again."

Loki flips a page in the book with a trembling hand. It's some sort of science fiction from what Clint can glimpse of the pages. He's kind of surprised that Bruce owns it, but the scribbling all over the margins assures Clint that it's the chemists.

"Really though. Three days," Clint blows out a breath, "gotta be a record for him. Even if it is hiding from you."

Loki's eyes raise to look at his face, and there's something in his stiff expression that makes Clint inwardly flinch. But he holds his ground, meeting the gaze with equal vigor. "Have you quite made your point yet?" Loki asks without humor.

Clint shrugs. "Dunno. I guess we'll see."

"Ha." Loki intones and drops his gaze. His posture remains tight and unbalanced, indicating his exasperation.

Clint, taking the hint this time, stops poking at him. He licks his lips, unsure how to even start asking this question. Then he decides that he doesn't really care about being gentle with Loki and says bluntly, "Jane hasn't heard from Thor in three days. Is that normal? You guys kind of got at it last week. She's pretty worried, and I am, too, admittedly."

Loki's eyes raises again, cold and calculating. For a moment, Clint thinks he sees the barest edge of something in the green irises, but then it's gone. "Thor is an idiot," Loki says after a moment as if that explains everything. "If he chooses to hide from his beloved then it's none of my concern. He always had a flair for the dramatic."

Irritation spikes through Clint, and his chest feels hot with defensiveness squirmed in around the knot of worry. Clint likes Thor. Thor is one of the few genuine people that he knows. Clint trusts Thor. "Says the man who decided to conquer a planet because daddy didn't love him enough." Clint points out dryly.

Loki's hands snap the book together with a thwack and he gets to his feet, his balance immediately beginning to fail. Loki plants both his feet firmly to stop himself from falling over, his jaw gritted, but his balance secure. Clint's hands move automatically to grab at him, but he forces his hands to stop and curl back against his chest, burying any and all urges that struck in the brief moment the Asgardian wavered to help him. The dizzy spells used to be longer, and Clint would have had to step in before the Asgardian collapsed.

"Enough," Loki says sharply and then stalks off, limping the whole exhausting journey of about ten steps to the other side of the couch. Clint rolls his eyes, but checks to make sure Loki gets there without an incident anyway, much to his private irritation. Habit now. There are too many times Loki didn't make it for Clint not to be wary of it happening again.

Loki buries himself behind the book again and Clint watches him for a few more seconds before deciding to take pity on him and turning away. That was vague and unhelpful, as usual. Loki is awash with intelligence that Clint is dumbfounded by sometimes, but he rarely chooses to use it for their benefit. He prefers to antagonize or ignore them. Which is normally fine.

Just not when it comes to Thor. Or Thor's—maybe—safety.

Clint leans his back against the couch, rubbing tired, gritty eyes and breathing in slowly, trying to convince himself he's not going to succumb to exhaustion. Not that it would matter anyway. He can sleep all he wants, but with the dreams, he's never going to rest.

He's so tired.

He thinks this is day four of less than two hours. He's going to pass out soon.

Maybe…he can just lay down for a few minutes…

Clint checks visually on Bruce and Tony again, deeply engaged in a discussion, but seeming visually okay, before he submits with a sigh. He hauls himself over the edge of the couch and collapses dramatically against the cushions. Loki makes a slight sound, looking at him, then sighs and makes no verbal protest to Clint's invasion of his space.

Which. Hey. There's like a good foot between Clint's sneaker and Loki's knee.

Clint releases a heavy breath. "You stab me, I'll return the gesture," he warns halfheartedly, but his eyes are already closed. He knows that Loki won't do anything. Which is a thought almost as disturbing as thinking he would. How long they've been stuck together that Clint can reasonably think that and know that it's the truth?

This whole thing is messed up.

God curse Asgard and all its stupid, torturous ways. Look. Clint will admit that he was hoping Loki would get banged up a bit when he returned to Asgard, but not to that extent. If Asgard had just kept all its sharp, acidic hands to themselves, Clint wouldn't be in this mess. None of them would. Thanks a lot, Odin.

Clint's starting to drift off, landing somewhere in that place between sleep and awake when Loki nudges his shoe, hard. Clint groans, but doesn't move it, refusing to open his eyes. "What?"

"Thor has not contacted any of you since he left?" Loki asks, jabbing his shoe again with the edge of—book, yes, it's a book when Clint slivers open an eye to look—a book to prevent Clint from going to sleep. Somewhere, Clint wonders what it says about him. Loki used to be terrified of touching them as if they'd reach out and stab him in the eye socket.

"No." Clint says with bite, "We already went over that. He's been MIA. Sin contacto. Razocharovaniye v obshchenii."

There's a long beat. Loki doesn't even give him a slight huff, which is disappointing. Tony would have laughed.

"That is unusual," Loki concedes, his voice careful. Clint frowns. He thought as much, but Loki would know better long-long term. "Thor doesn't make a habit of this. He's typically terrible with communication, but not for this long. And," Clint can hear Loki's lip curling slightly, "his beloved Jane has birthed a pattern of letting others know where he is."

Clint shrugs, keeping his eyes closed. He's tired, he wants to sleep. He can deal with the Thor Problem in an hour or two. It's not like an hour will make that much of a difference after three days. What's the worst that could happen anyway? He's an Asgardian.

Clint mumbles tiredly in response to Loki's comment, "You'd know better than me…y'know, I can't decide if it's funny or not that you're annoyed. Thor actually wants to keep in contact with someone, period, and it's not you. Little brother jealousy is flaring up there, Lokes."

"Very mature," Loki says icily.

"I try." Clint shifts his position on the couch, getting more comfortable, resting his head on his arm. "No more poking. Read your book. I'm trying to sleep. Thor can wait."

He can feel Loki's heavy stare on him for several more seconds before it moves away. Privately, in the recess of his mind where he doesn't have to put up a front, Clint exhales in relief. Loki, thankfully, doesn't say another word about Thor, even though Clint gets the sense he wants to. Clint doesn't care.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to project no dreams into his subconscious as a plea.

His brain doesn't care.

Clint can tell, sometimes, when he's in the dreams. This is one of those rare occasions, but it doesn't help. It's not any easier to know that his subconscious is messing with him than it is to be sucked down into the dream where reality becomes a blurry joke.

"...Mercy...please…"

The sound is ragged, a hiss of air being expelled by lungs abused and torn. Beneath restraints pinning him in suspension, he's trembling. The heat is making him sick, and his blood feels like it's boiling beneath his skin in thick, waving patterns.

The cord wrapped around his wrists is tight, and his ankles are beginning to swell.

He can't keep this up.

He's going to fall.

He's going to fail.

But he has to stay upright, he has to keep pushing...has to…can't...think. Too hot. His bones feel burnt to their center. He can't breathe. The air he inhales seers his throat as it passes to his lungs.

"What," the voice causes him to shudder, and he has to push his weight off his toes desperately to keep from falling, "makes you think that you have earned mercy?"

His eyes burn. A hand touches the side of his face, cold, and he yearns for it. The grip is rough and calloused, but it's the most kindness he's received in a long, long time, and he feels himself crumple. "Pl-pl-please." He stumbles over himself. "Can...t…"

The fingers slide from a caress to a brutal strike. The cord around his neck tightens as his feet slip out from under him, pulling on his hands, and he has to frantically shove up on exhausted, swollen toes to keep himself from being strangled. His feet feel like they're cramping, and a harsh sob escapes him despite his best efforts.

They're only dry sobs, and they hurt. Any water in his system fled him some time ago.

The hand comes back to caress his face, gentle, inviting, and almost sad. "Why do you continue to fight it, child? This is mercy. You're too shortsighted to see it." A long, weary sigh, "Stop fighting this, let me help you." The voice is calm, the tone even, and the despair that consumes him is unlike anything he's experienced before. It would have been better if he'd shouted it, instead of this quiet, almost sympathetic hiss.

"N-No," he whispers.

His stomach tightens. The looming figure in front of him gives a curt nod, and something smacks him in the back of the knees, and he goes tumbling into suffocation all over again, gasping, choking, oh, Gods, help me—

But nothing helps him. Nothing ever does. There is not a reprieve.

And Clint is left trying to stop himself from suffocating until he wakes up with a jolt, gasping. He blinks rapidly, feeling sick to his stomach and the phantom sensation of a cord wrapped around his wrists and throat. Squeezing his eyes shut, he forces himself to take several deep, even breaths. He's not going to fall apart. It's fine. It was a dream.

It felt like more than that.

It was a dream. Nothing happened. He's safe. He's fine. He's just as exhausted as before, but at least he tried.

Oh g—

"Barton?" there's a thin edge of what could be mistaken as concern in the tone. Clint swallows thickly, squeezing his hands together into white, painful fists before he looks up. Loki has leaned forward slightly, hunched over a new book, his thin face narrowed with…something. His gaze is studying Clint intently.

"Peachy." Clint snaps and gets up to his feet. He feels unsteady and has to plant his weight awkwardly in order to stay upright. He turns away from Loki and rubs a hand over his face, trying not to tremble and gather himself together. His hands are shaking. Looking at Loki doesn't make it any easier.

It was a dream.

There was something choking me.

He's okay.

I was going to burn to death.

I, I, I.

The biggest lie of all that he tells himself about this, though, Clint knows, has nothing to do with reassurance. It's the I. Because Clint is never certain if it's him who's being tortured or something else. Because in a feat of illegal, bitter karma, at times Clint recognizes the tortured voice in the dreams to be Loki's, not his.

Without knowing how or why Clint is, he's pretty sure, dreaming Loki's memories about what Odin did him after the Battle. Because God hates Clint Barton, and this is some sort of cosmic recompense.

"Barton?" Loki persists. Clint wants to laugh. He wants to scream. He wants to turn around and yell at him, why are you leaking into my head? Make it stop, stop, stop, stop

He wants—

He can't look at Loki. The room in the air feels stuffy and thick like he's breathing in soup. Clint shakes his head and breathes out shakily. He rubs his hands over his face and retreats from the couch without another word, stepping outside to stand on the landing pad, breathing in the sharp, bitter air.

I thought, he thinks angrily, tired, defeated, that it was over. Natasha gave him a concussion and that was that.

Clint forces out a tight breath and does his best not to fall apart.

Chapter Text

"And I wonder if I will ever find a language

to speak of those things that haunt me most."

-Boa Phi

"No—please, no…stop…"

There's a chortling of laughter. He tries to struggle, desperate, anything to make it stop, but the fresh, painful burns across his back leave no room for reprieve. He can't move without being paralyzed by the pain. His body is trying to shut down, begging him to cease this useless effort.

"Maybe if its so desperate to talk, we should put it on its face!"

"Silence the tongue for good!"

"Or perhaps we can just take the tongue from him in the first place!"

Horror washes through him at the suggestion and he snaps his mouth closed, biting harshly on his tongue as if he can trap it in his mouth. They always prefer it when he's quiet. His screaming ruins the game. It's loud and aggressive until his voice breaks. Bothersome.

"It would look pretty here," a different voice snickers and a cold hand touches the side of his face.

He flinches back from it, a desperate sound in his throat.

"It would burn through his cheek," someone else says, annoyed. "My father said no permanent disfiguring."

Did he? Why-why would he care? Why—

"Oh, you ruin all our fun!" A hand claps his back, and he gasps, choking on a desperate sob as his vision whitens. The world feels like it's spinning. His legs give out, and only the hands restraining him keep him from toppling to the floor all together. A fresh well of blood pools down his skin, aggravating other burns.

It's agony.

He has never suffered so much.

He is hauled up again and forced to stand on exhausted legs so as not to aggravate his shoulders. Everything hurts so much. So painfully.

"No, no—" a new figure leans in close to his face, snickering, fetid breath making him gag, "tell you what, lost one. If you don't make a sound, a single little peep, we'll all leave you alone for three days."

Oh, gods, he can't—

Not with what they're suggesting.

Fire hurts.

"I—" he gasps. "I can't—"

"Sure you can," one of the gathered accuses, laughing loudly, "the lost one is always trying to prove itself, isn't it? Not a single little sound. Can't be so difficult."

He can feel them staring. Laughing. Waiting. He makes no agreement but knows that they assume he accepts away. He can't imagine what it would be like to have them leave him alone for so long. Three days. Nothing but the opportunity to rest. To breathe.

He feels the surge of intense, overwhelming heat against his already raw, blistered skin before he even feels the brand press against his back, burning into muscle, bone, anything and everything, and he wont, can't—pain pain pain pain—

He screams—

And—

Clint shoves up, blankets tangling around his body, unable to breathe. His stomach is cramping violently and bile is sitting in his throat. He can smell burning flesh and cooking meat sticking to every side of his nose and he's going to throw up. The sound, the scream—I failed, I failed, I failed—is echoing in his head, repeating on a violent bitter loop as if it intends to make him pay recompense for something.

No, Clint realizes after a moment, hand pressed against his mouth as he breathes in thin wheezes, it's not in his head.

Loki is screaming.

Freaking—

Clint scrambles up, forcing his way out of the blankets and off the bed, his limbs stiff and shaky, aching in places he knows he wasn't hurt yesterday. It doesn't matter. Between his shoulder blades is playing sympathy pain to an injury he's never received. Clint's hands are shaking as he tries to grab the set of knives he keeps on the bedside table, and he has to try twice before his right hand will even hold them steadily.

Oh, man.

Clint is—

This—

Loki. He has—he's. Screaming. Shouting. Something sounds like it's making a valiant attempt to yank his lungs out through his throat. Clint shakes his head, trying to clear it, and moves toward the door quickly. He swallows thickly, trying to force himself not to throw up.

His body feels stiff. Awkward.

He can't do this now. He can't. He doesn't care what is attempting to eviscerate Loki, he's going to stab it in the eye for the sheer inconvenience of this all. His upper back is burning and it's not his pain.

It was a dream.

But it wasn't a dream.

I can feel the burn.

Get it together, Barton, he chides himself.

As he transitions from the carpet of his room to the hardwood of the hallway, Clint hears his feet making soft tapping sounds against the ground. He moves steadily toward Loki's room down the hall, wishing he was wearing socks.

Hill hates all of them because the fact they're on the same floor is her fault. Apparently, it was "better for security purposes" if they could neutralize the threat—Loki or otherwise—without having to go vaulting down the side of a building, run down sets of stairs, or wait for the elevator before they could react. Ergo: everyone sleeps on the same floor.

It makes sense, logically, and he knows this. Clint doesn't have to like it.

Loki's awful, animalistic sound ceases abruptly, and the absence of it doesn't relieve him in the slightest. In his experience, this isn't a good thing. Something worse happened if Loki can't scream anymore.

He can't—he just. He can't do this now.

(Not a single sound. Can't be so difficult.)

Clint unsheathes one of his knives, holding it tightly in his left hand, breath painfully tight in his stomach. His hands are steady, even if the rest of him feels ready to rattle apart. The pain in between his shoulders is fading dully, crawling slowly back to whatever inner sanctum of hell it arrived from.

The hall looks exactly as it did when Clint passed down it last night. There's a set of windows on either side of the elevator at the end, both completely intact and letting the light from the city in faintly, offering basic light to see by. The hardwood is unblemished. Nothing broke in that way, then.

Thor and Loki's door is open and the light is on, spilling into the hall like glowing, angry hands. Claws reaching out to grab him and suck him into whatever drama Clint has landed himself in this time. Clint forces out a tight breath, flattening his back against the side of the hall, trying to listen into the room. His right ear's hearing aid keeps buzzing faintly, making it hard to focus on small sounds. He forgot to charge it before he went to sleep because he didn't take them out before he went to bed.

Loki is crying softly, and Clint can hear Bruce's quiet baritone overlapping, but what he's saying isn't decipherable to him from this far away and the freaking hearing aid won't silence itself.

Oh, man, where is Thor? They need him. If something did come to put Loki out of his misery, then they're going to need the big guy to put him back together. Or at least dust up what remains of him with a big Asgardian broom or something.

Okay. Okay.

Either Loki is dying or he had another flashback, and Clint isn't willing to place a bet on either option.

He takes a deep breath, forcing his muscles to loosen. One, two, three—

Clint throws himself into the room on the offensive, weapon appraised, half expecting to get shot on the spot. He doesn't know, exactly, what he was expecting to see, but something a little more violent was the general consensus. Maybe some big, octopus-thingy sucking Loki's soul out through his mouth. There isn't that. It's just—

Just Loki. Sitting up on the bed, face white, his eyes glossy and far away. He's shaking so badly that he doesn't look like he should be able to stay upright. Bruce is sitting in front of him, gripping Loki's wrists tightly. There's blood on Loki's fingers from where he was scratching at his face. Faint cuts are bleeding along his cheeks. Loki is fighting Bruce for control of his hands, determined to peel off his skin to bone.

Clint swallows thickly, lowering the knife.

Flashback, then. No murder or soul-sucking octopus required.

Clint swears softly under his breath.

"Hey, hey, hey! Loki. Loki!" Bruce's voice is carefully neutral. Clint can still hear the edge of desperation in his tone. The barest edge of a plea. "Loki, look at me. You're safe, okay? You're safe, you're not on Asgard—"

"Nei," Loki gasps in Asgardian, wrestling his wrists frantically. "Nei!"

"Loki—"

"Nei!"

Clint hears the wood of the floorboard behind him creak in the hall, amazingly—God curse his freaking hearing aid, he needs to change out the bloody thing—and turns, body braced, knife at the ready. There isn't a need.

Tony steps into the room, mismatched socks, rumpled hair, and clothing plainly saying that he had taken the rare opportunity to try and get some rest. Clint's lips twist unhappily at the realization. Gripped in both of the engineer's hands is a .45, which he points across the room as he takes in the scene before meeting Clint's eyes. A thousand things pass between their gaze.

Then, slowly, Tony thumbs the safety back on and lowers the weapon, his drained gaze fixing onto Loki. Shadows pass over his expression. Tony's breathing is faintly shallow, an indicator of his matching adrenaline-filled wake-up call. The gun is gripped in a painful, tight grip like he's attempting to strangle it.

Being honest, Clint doesn't think he looks that much better himself. He forces his fingers to relax so they won't cramp.

"—Vær så snill, Far, vær så snill—jeg kan ikke—"Loki begs. Clint's understanding of Asgardian-Norwegian has improved enough that he can make out "Father" and "please", but that's about it. He's a lot more well-versed in swearing.

"Loki, you're safe, I promise," Bruce assures. Then, apparently have picked up about what Clint did, Bruce adds, "I'm not Odin and this isn't Asgard. Do you know where you are?"

"Jeg ber deg, vær så snill—"

"You're safe. I promise. You're safe. This is Earth, you're not on Asgard, you're okay, you—" Bruce tries to placate. The Asgardian isn't hearing him, that much is obvious to Clint. Loki makes an awful wordless sound before he brings his leg up and kicks Bruce in the stomach. It doesn't look like a heavy blow, but it's unexpected, and Bruce releases him on instinct with a strangled gasp.

Freed, Loki scrambles back from Bruce along the bed, flattening his back against the bed frame and pulling his legs up against his stomach. He wraps his arms around his shins, trying to shrink in on himself, staring at them with wide, terrified eyes, breathing rapidly.

Clint finds himself moving before he can really process the action, reaching out to grab Bruce's arm, eyes steady on the Asgardian. Bruce reacts to his touch, allowing himself to be pulled away from the bed without complaint. His other hand is pressed against his stomach, a grimace plastered to his face.

"Are you okay?" Clint asks lowly.

"Yeah. No. I will be." Bruce says, chewing on his lower lip anxiously. Which isn't exactly reassuring on any level. At least he's not outright lying anymore. The chemist's gaze lands on Loki again, watching him carefully. Loki is, in all honesty, decently lucky he didn't release overprotective mama-Hulk, who probably would have promptly pummeled him out of existence for daring to touch Puny Banner.

Clint breathes out heavily through his nose. His throat feels hot.

This is why they need Thor back here. All of them have made an effort to learn how to learn with Loki's flashbacks, but the only people who have had any real success are Thor and Steve. Loki just doesn't seem to respond to the rest of them at all.

Yet another reason Thor was so hesitant to spend a week with Jane and another tally on the list of why it's so weird he never made it there in the first place. Loki hasn't had a flashback like this in over three weeks. But even with that, it still took considerable convincing to get Thor to go anyway.

And look where they got them.

Crap, haha.

Yet another reason for Thor: he speaks Asgardian. At first, Clint thought that simply speaking English would assure Loki where he is, but speaking a different language doesn't seem to help in the slightest.

But honestly, Thor needs to learn how to pick up a phone. Despite trying to track him down yesterday, Tony didn't have any luck before they went to bed. The last place Thor's phone pinged off of was in New York, and that was days ago. Thor probably short-circuited the battery again. An unexpected, sometimes funny side effect. His powers have proven to be a great annoyance to every device within a twenty-foot radius of him.

On the plus side of that, Clint can just stand vaguely near-ish Thor, and his phone's battery will charge itself, so that's kind of nice.

"We sure we can't get Thor on the phone?" Clint mumbles, defeated. Loki is just—staring at them now, waiting. Tense. Braced. He's expecting them to stab him or something. It's about then that Clint remembers that he still has knives in his hands and mentally kicks himself. Great move, Barton. That'll calm him down for sure.

Lips twisting, Clint, making sure Loki can follow every movement—which he does—sets the knives down on Thor's unmade bed and lifts up his hands to show they're empty before backing up beside the other Avengers again.

"If the man was contactable by human means, I would have him on the phone." Tony assures him softly. "Maybe we should send a bird or something." There's a lull of silence, the only sound being Loki's heavy breathing and Bruce's soft groan when he brushes his arm against his stomach.

Clint side-eyes him, but Bruce's face is perfectly composed.

Liar.

Loki hits a lot harder than he looks like he can.

Clint casts his gaze around the room, biting at his lower lip. The two twin beds are on either side of the room, a large dresser between them with a large lamp resting on the top. The table on the other side of the room is covered with the books Loki has borrowed from everyone, with or without their permission. Thor's drawings are a scattered mess across the remaining space of the table. The door to the bathroom is shut.

"What do we do then? Do we just wait it out?" Clint asks at last. The idea doesn't sit right with him. Although he's never had anything this extreme, he does know what it's like to sit in one of these…dissociative episodes? Panic attacks?, unable to tell when you are, and the terror of it. He doesn't want to leave Loki there until he shakes himself out of it—which could be days—or Steve and Natasha drag themselves back to the Tower and they can get Steve to talk him down.

Which, given that Tasha texted to say their flight was delayed because Hill needed to talk to them about something, who knows when they'll be back in the States anyway.

No. They need to deal with this. They need to pull Loki back kicking and screaming back to reality.

"I don't know," Bruce sighs, "I don't think we have another option. I don't want him to hurt himself. Or us."

Tony releases an unhappy breath. Clint looks at him from the corner of his vision and sees that Tony's mouth is tight. He looks about as comfortable with that as Clint feels. "Maybe we can dump a bucket of water on him," Tony suggests.

Clint and Bruce stare at him.

Tony runs a hand through his hair, laughing softly. Hysteria is dangerously close to seeping into his voice.

"Vær så snill," Loki whispers, ducking his head against his knees, his voice hoarse, soft and almost unrecognizable. It's the desperate sound of a man who knows he won't be listened to anymore. "Vær så snill, Far, stopp."

Clint isn't exactly sure on the last sentence, but he's pretty sure it's please, father, stop, with is just. That's awesome. Their family is so messed up.

Tony makes a sound in his throat, then whispers, "I know Thor loves her and all, but just…screw their mom."

Clint snorts.

But honestly? Yeah.

While Asgard's dungeons, and Odin, weren't exactly afraid of sharp objects and generally being sadistic, Frigga was her own brand of torture: Kindness. Clint knows, in her heart and whatever crap she needs to tell herself, that she genuinely believed she was doing the right thing. But Clint's also decently sure that all of this—Loki's dissociative episodes and the depth of his psychosis in the midst of them—can be chalked up to that kindness.

Clint swallows thickly, his mouth dry. Anger twists through his stomach, hot and unrepentant. It's times like these that Clint thinks he'd happily go on a murdering spree up in Asgard and feel little to no remorse about who got in the way. There isn't much Clint doesn't think Loki deserved after everything that happened in the Battle. But none of it was something he wanted to see. And this?

He wanted Loki hurt.

He didn't want him broken.

When Loki first came back, it wasn't even the injuries that were the problem—okay, they were, but still—it was convincing Loki where he was. He didn't believe that Thor had actually sprung him from prison. He had a harder time accepting the idea that their Gatekeeper pretty much waved the finger at the Asgardian government and refuses point blank to admit he knows where Loki is.

Loki didn't think it was real.

Any of it.

Not Thor. Not Earth. Not them.

Clint doesn't know a lot, but according to Thor, who admitted this to Clint one night after Loki had finally passed out after a three-day panic episode the first week, Frigga, unable to physically spring her son from prison without an endless amount of repercussions, thought the best way to help was to cast illusions for Loki so he could pretend he was somewhere else. It, uh, didn't help when everything began to blur together in the younger Asgardian's brain as the situation got worse.

Really though. The thing that annoys Clint the most about that is that she thought she was helping and she got away with thinking that.

She hasn't had to watch Loki's panic episodes where he's convinced he's back in Asgardian Torture Hall because he had a nightmare or a flashback of it and his brain latched onto the idea that the illusion is now over and back into the devil's kingdom you go. Clint really doesn't know what she thought it was going to do beyond hurt. But whatever. It's not like he can ask her. Which is a good thing, because Clint would probably punch her in the face, and that would make Thor upset, and Clint doesn't want to do that.

Clint rubs at the lower half of his face, anxious. He doesn't know what to do in this situation. Five—five—months of this, and he still feels as helpless as day one.

Bruce sighs, "I can try talking to him again…"

"Let's um," Tony rests a hand on Bruce's shoulder, "let's maybe hold off on that. I trust you, but Hulk is a different story." Bruce's shoulders slump and Clint watches as something dark passes over his face. And—yeah, Clint doesn't have the energy to talk about that right now, but makes a mental note to ask him about it later.

Clint sighs. He has very little desire to stand over Loki for the rest of the night and really thinks Loki wouldn't want them to, either. He exhales sharply, annoyed with everything, before glancing at Tony. "Leave me for the birds to pick at. Shoot me from a canon. No burial." He reminds him sardonically.

"Clint—" Tony hisses, reaching out, but Clint is already moving.

He reaches the side of the bed and then licks his lips nervously before he lifts out a hand and taps Loki on the head twice. His hair is weirdly soft. Loki flinches beneath the contact, inhaling raggedly, and looks up at him. Clint tries not to wince beneath the weight of the stare. Loki looks small. Young.

Please let this work.

Clint forces out a thin breath, then says, "Do you want a sandwich?"

There's a long lull as if Loki's struggling to understand him. Clint repeats the question.

"Hva?" Loki breathes, looking utterly bewildered. Clint hears Bruce and Tony make sounds of confusion behind him. His hand bounces anxiously. His hearing aid buzzes.

"I want a sandwich," Clint remarks idly, "A big one." He lifts up his hands slowly to approximate the size. "This big. With pickles, and peppers. And the gross cheese that Tasha likes but should be marked as hazardous and a danger to the state. For some reason, it really appeals right now, though."

"Jeg—" Loki's brow is drawing together. He's blinking rapidly as if he's trying to see through a filter to find the actual image. "I don't—" he says in heavily accented, slurred English, his head tips and his shaking hands come up to his temple, pushing with two fingers as if he's trying to remember how to speak.

Clint waits, his breath baited. It's a long, tentative few minutes as Loki struggles to put everything back together.

This is something that Natasha has done for him a few times. Clint was riddled with anxiety attacks after the Battle, and both of them learned pretty quickly what did and didn't work in regards to helping. Something that they both discovered was weirdly effective was for her to distract him with something completely unrelated. Like a sandwich order.

Clint watches carefully and sees the moment that Loki realizes where he is, because he relaxes. It's subtle enough that Clint doesn't even think that Loki is aware of it at all. The Asgardian's shoulders drop and he releases a breath, his face losing some of the hunted edge. Clint wonders what that must be like, where being in the captivity of strangers is better than that of your own family.

"Loki?" Clint says cautiously after a moment. "Do you know where you are? Do you understand me?"

There's a long, slow exhale. Loki's head raises, and though his face is still tense, his eyes are clearer. When he speaks, his voice is still faintly accented, but it's clear. "Yes." Another breath, "Unfortunately."

Clint makes a face at him. "Funny." He says dryly and jabs him in the arm pointedly.

Loki doesn't react, slowly uncurling from his tensed position. He still looks jittery, ready to abort the mission of pretending to be okay at any second. Clint doesn't comment on it. Loki's lips purse together, his hands tightening in his hair as he softly shakes his head. Frustration is evident in every crease of his features. Not with them, but himself.

And—yeah. Clint does not have the energy to deal with that today. That's definitely Thor's area. Clint doesn't do emotions. Not with him.

He takes a step back. "Do you want a sandwich?"

"How," Loki's voice has dropped, cold and angry. A shield. "Is a sandwich supposed to help?"

"Because sandwiches are delicious." Clint points out without flinching, folding his arms across his chest. "And you need something else to focus on beyond your brain. So, up. We're making sandwiches."

Tony huffs, and Clint can almost hear the eye roll. Which is not his fault. If the man doesn't appreciate peanut butter the way he should, that's his problem.

"Barton—" Loki sighs, exhausted. He digs the palms of his hands into his eyes.

"No. No hiding in the murder cave," Clint shakes his head, "Up, up, up."

Loki's jaw clenches, but he obligingly gets to his unsteady feet. There's a fleeting widening of his eyes as his feet refuse to hold, and he grabs frantically at the closest object for balance, which is Clint. Clint grabs at his arm instinctively to keep Loki from face planting. His entire body is freezing, Loki's forearm feels like he's gripping frozen metal.

Holy crap.

"We should just get you a walker," Clint mutters, helping him stand upright.

"Jeg vi—I. I will layer it with your skin for padding," Loki threatens. He's not serious and they both know it.

And that's pretty much that. Loki's back. Yay.

Clint lets him go, and when he doesn't topple over, he looks back at Bruce and Tony, watching them silently. Clint tries to keep his voice chipper, pretending, because he's really not good for much, but he can pretend.

"So. Sandwiches?"

000o000

It's three thirty-seven in the morning. Clint hasn't slept for more than ten hours collectively in the last six days. His brain is sludge. His hands are shaking, his back is acting up with phantom pains and the object of his nightmares is sitting across from him, nursing a coffee after having refused a sandwich adamantly.

This is great.

How is this his life?

Clint forces a sandwich on Tony and lovingly ignores Bruce's quiet no, so now they're sitting in the kitchen and Clint is eating a disgusting sandwich with far too much honey and trying to pretend that he's okay when he'd rather be doing almost anything else.

He's…he doesn't know. Jittery? Anxious? Bad? Bad. He feels bad.

Thankfully, Tony talks when he's anxious, and so does Clint. They could hold a conversation for days without remembering a word later.

"I'm just saying," Clint says, ripping off an edge of the crust and plopping it in his mouth. "That if you're going to complain about my sandwich making abilities, make a better one."

Tony shakes his head, picking off a piece of his own sandwich. Bruce is absently chewing on his, looking over something on a tablet somebody left in here last night. He does that. You just put food near-ish Bruce and he'll eat it without consciously thinking about it. It's strangely endearing.

Tony makes a face at him. "Do you really want everyone's apartments to smell like something died for the next ten years?"

Clint scoffs at him, "Name one sandwich that you cook."

"Anything with meat."

"No—with the bread." Clint demands. He waits patiently all of about two seconds before Tony says flatly, "Grilled cheese."

Clint swears under his breath, defeated. He chances a glance at Loki. They'd dragged him into the argument earlier, but the Asgardian fell quiet quickly and Clint can see that he's deep in thought. His finger is moving absently along the rim of the coffee mug, his eyes far away.

Which, given the circumstances, could be both good and bad.

Clint releases a soft sigh, stuffing the last of the sandwich into his mouth to delay talking. The overall sensation and taste he gets is dry. Loki's mouth twists before he reaches out and grabs four packets of sugar from the small bowl Pepper set on the counter sometime in the last few months. She's almost religious about her coffee drinking. Black, one sugar, a swirl of cream that only she or Tony seem to get right.

She's supposed to get back from the business meeting in D.C. next week, isn't she? Clint can't remember.

From the corner of his eyes, Clint sees Tony roll his. "You want some coffee to go with that sugar, Lokes?" Tony asks dryly.

Loki looks up at him for a moment, tearing open the packaging and dumping it into the coffee. "No." He says and stirs it with a spoon. He takes a sip and grimaces. Clint doesn't know why he does that to himself. Loki hates sugar. And coffee. Maybe he drinks coffee for the same reason Clint does: you have to keep your body going without sleep somehow.

Which…

"Do," Clint's mouth curls awkwardly around the word. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Loki looks up at him, both hands clasped firmly around the mug, his expression so dead and empty it's almost physically painful to look at. There are times that Clint sort of…not forgets but he can put to the side the fact that Loki is not their friend. He's not his teammate. Sitting on the other side of the counter, dressed in a loose Stark Industries T-shirt with his hair a mess around his face, Loki doesn't look threatening.

But no. Loki doesn't trust them. Clint's pretty sure he barely stands to tolerate them.

There will be no baring of the soul today.

Clint averts his eyes. Loki relaxes around them when he realizes they aren't Asgard, but Clint can relax around him, too, sometimes.

"Odin is a sadistic coward," Loki says after a moment. His voice is even, but there are layers and layers to that Clint doesn't want to even start poking at. "You slept poorly as well. Do you want to talk about that?"

Touché.

I dreamt about you getting your back burned open. In the first person. It was wildly disturbing, but not the first time it happened, so I think that your brain is leaking or you're taunting me and I don't like either option.

Clint frowns, opening his mouth, but Tony beats him to it. "Okay, this isn't therapy. You just drink your coffee. Hopefully consuming enough sugar will help you be less bitter."

"Ha." Loki intones sarcastically, but his lip quirks up a little, betraying him.

Clint rolls his eyes, then sets to work cleaning up the mess he made while putting the sandwiches together. Bruce leans over to ask Loki a question about something, and Clint is struck with how much he wishes that this…he doesn't know exactly what to call it, but this existed in his dreams. Yeah, they're all a mess, but there's something calming about it.

Maybe it's just the fact that there's far less violence.

Less pain.

He's losing his mind.

Clint blows out a breath, starting to wipe up the honey—how does it get everywhere—when his phone starts to vibrate in his pocket. He took it from his room before he joined his teammates and Loki in the kitchen. It's like, three forty a.m., who the heck—?

Tony looks up from his own device, his brow furrowed. He mouths who? Clint pulls out his phone and his stomach sinks a little. He answers Nat to Tony's silent question before answering the phone and stepping out from behind the counter, walking toward the hall for privacy.

"Tasha?" he asks, switching the phone to his left ear and finally submitting by reaching up and turning off his right ear's hearing aid. The lack of persistent buzzing is a relief. He's going to have to charge this pair, or switch them out, which sucks, because this is his RIC and the only other one he has in the Tower is his CICs, which he finds horrendously uncomfortable.

"You know it's like, three in the morning in New York, right? Are you okay?"

"No. Sorry," she sounds frustrated. "Can you talk?" At his affirmative, she releases a long breath. "Cap and I are on the Helicarrier. He's in medical."

Clint swears. "Is he okay? How long have you been there?"

"Since yesterday."

Clint frowns, rubbing a hand over his lower lip. "So when you texted to say Hill needed to talk to you…"

Natasha doesn't miss a beat. "She did. Steve just also needed a patch job. It's bad, but he'll be back on his feet in a few days. He's already insisting that he's fine."

Clint resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah. 'Course he is. Idiot." Natasha laughs at that, and Clint smiles before sobering, "how bad is it?"

"Took a bad hit. His chest is a mess and his leg. He's in a lot of pain. But it's okay, the archaeological team says he should be okay in a few days...I was worried." Natasha confesses quietly. Which is pretty much an indicator that Steve got about half his chest cavity shot out. Clint clenches the hearing aid in his other hand tightly.

"Did you let the others know yet?" Clint asks.

"No. I was going to text them after I called you." Natasha admits. She's quiet for a moment. "This...wasn't why I called though."

Steve got hit bad enough that Natasha was worried and somehow that's the afterthought? Great.

"I'm glad Steve is alive," Clint says after a moment. "What's wrong?"

Natasha is silent.

Clint waits, but she still doesn't talk.

Finally, Clint submits, "Nat? What's wrong?"

The assassin exhales, long, "Sit down."

Well. Somehow, this keeps getting better.

"Nat—" Clint protests, exhausted. She repeats the command, and Clint blows out a breath, sitting down in the hall, pressing his back flat against the wall and—they're touching him, they're touching his back and poking at blisters and oh, gods, he can't—a phantom itch, almost like peeling skin, washes through him and Clint tries not to shudder.

He exhales sharply.

Present. Stay present. Present, present, present.

Pickles, deli meat, ketchup, bread, lots and lots of tomatoes.

"Okay," Clint says tightly after a moment, once he can speak again. This anxiety isn't even his. This is karma. God is laughing at him. "I'm sitting. What is it?"

Natasha is still quiet. She can't figure out how to word this, he realizes. Clint almost wants to laugh. This is ridiculous. Natasha doesn't really care about expressing something gently. She believes that brutal honesty is the only type of honesty. Which he doesn't blame her for. The Red Room was the same.

"Steve and I didn't go to France because there was a terror cell that Fury wanted us to take care of," Natasha says at last. Clint is quiet. The first emotion that he can conjure is hurt, which doesn't feel fair. Natasha is not obligated to tell him everything. But she does, most of the time. Clint thinks she takes relief in being able to be completely honest with someone for the first time in her life. "S.H.I.E.L.D. had Loki's scepter stored there."

"Okay…" Clint says, dread pooling in his stomach. Had. Not has. "Someone…it's not there anymore?"

"No."

Well.

That's.

That's awesome.

Crappity crap crap—

"You—" Clint runs a hand over his mouth. "That's—where is it? Do we—Loki was here, the whole time. I swear."

"I know," Natasha promises. "I know. We don't know who took it. Steve and I got there after. We tracked it for a few days. I think we were getting close because they attacked us." Clint's stomach tightens. Oh, man. Not bullets, not punches, but the scepter is what got Steve? "I'm okay. Steve…took the worst of it for me."

Of which Clint would kiss the man on the lips in gratitude. Natasha is the most important person in his life. And he will thank Steve after he punches him in the face for being such an idiot. Steve doesn't seem to understand this magical concept between shield and human shield.

Clint forces out a shaky breath, his leg beginning to bounce. "Someone stole Loki's scepter and is running around with a mind-controlling, unstable device?"

"Yeah." Natasha says.

"Awesome."

Lots and lots and lots of tomatoes. It'll be a sandwich made of pure tomatoes.

Oh, man. If-if someone is out there with the staff, then that means that everything isn't over. They could come after him because they already know that he's susceptible to the staff and that means that he'll have another eighty-six hours, forty-three missing and blurred with violence and blood. And that means—

It's not over.

Not over not over not over not not not not

"Look," Natasha shifts a little, and he can hear the slightest echoing sound for the first time. She's in a bathroom. "Tony and Bruce already know what's going on. We thought it would be for the best if you didn't. If we could resolve this without anyone having to know..."

"So—" Clint feels an intitial surge of gratitude was through him, mostly overpowered by an overwhelming sense of frustration. "You-you didn't even think to mention this to me? Why the heck didn't you guys drag everyone in? This isn't—this isn't like some old guy stole somebody's favorite chair, this is a freaking mind-controlling device!"

"I know, Clint."

"Who-Who decided I shouldn't know? I would have wanted to know!"

"It was me." Natasha says, softer. Clint forces himself to swallow his anger. He's furious. He's disappointed and hurt, but he trusts Natasha enough to at least hear her out. "You'd have been compromised and demanded to come with us. With how much worse your nightmares have been recently, I didn't think it would be the best idea. You're not okay, Clint."

Clint snorts darkly. Hunting down the next person who's going to run around fingering people's brains? "I'm okay enough for this." Clint says angrily.

"No, you're not." Natasha's voice is somehow gentle instead of an accusation. "I'm sorry for going behind your back. But it was my call, not anyone elses."

Then she waits. Because Natasha is one of the few people in his life that doesn't demand an immediate answer from him. She gives him time to think. She doesn't want jokes or quips, she just wants him to be honest.

Clint shakes his head, rubbing at his brow. He's still frustrated. "I know you were…I know I'm not functioning at my best right now. I need some time to think about this. But at least tell me next time, please."

Clint hasn't said a word of the nightmares to Natasha, but he knows that she's aware of them. Even as much as he hates to admit it to himself, she probably made the best call. With how little sleep he's gotten the last few days, he's running at like an eighth of functioning human juice. If that. He would have exacerbated any problems in the field.

"I'll do my best," Natasha promises, which is as much as a yes that he's going to get. She blows out a soft breath, "Are you okay?"

Clint considers lying for a long few seconds, but his shoulders slump. "No."

"We'll get them, Clint. The scepter isn't exactly inconspicuous. We'll find them, I promise. Steve and I are headed back out once medical clears him." Natasha explains.

Which honestly, just, doesn't help at all. He doesn't want to be anywhere near the scepter, but he wants his team near it even less. Where the heck did S.H.I.E.L.D. have the bloody thing? Stuffed in a box under the stairs with DO NOT TOUCH—wait, this is France, so it'd be what, like NE PAS TOUCHER or something—stamped on the front? You'd think they'd work a little harder to safeguard that.

But no. He hates this. So much.

"This Fury's idea?" Clint asks vaguely, trying to hide his disapproval. He scrapes his fingernail along the inside of the seam of his shirt.

"Hill's." Natasha admits, then sighs, "I need to go. I only had a few minutes. I'll call you later and we can talk about this some more. Try and get some sleep, okay?

"You too," Clint says tiredly.

Natasha is quiet for a second, then she tags on, "Ya tebya khochu."

Clint chews on his bottom lip, "Ya tozhe khochu tebya," he promises. Natasha lingers on the line for a second, and Clint's exhausted, sluggy brain finally catches up with him. "Wait." He says before she's ended the call. His partner makes a questioning sound. "Have you heard from Thor at all?"

"What? No." Natasha sounds confused. "Why?"

That yawning, circling pit of doom and pessimism in his stomach takes another swirl. He shrugs a little, even though she can't see it. How on Earth has no one heard from Thor in almost five days? "We can't get ahold of him," Clint answers vaguely. He doesn't want to add anything to her lengthy worry list at the moment. He'll figure out what's going on. She can focus on...that.

"That's…" Natasha doesn't seem to have a word for it.

Clint rolls the hearing aid between two fingers. "Yeah." He agrees. He sighs. "I don't know. He probably short-circuited his phone again. You should go. We'll figure it out, you focus on finding the scepter. Tell Steve hi for me. And get some sleep, you sound dead on your feet."

"Mm." Natasha hums. "I'll talk with you in a bit. Poka."

"Bye."

Clint hangs up and holds the phone in his hands for long seconds, staring at the opposing wall. The scepter is missing. Steve is in God-knows-what condition. Natasha lied to him. They all lied to him. By omission, but still.

Clint exhales slowly, wishing that this wasn't such a familiar feeling. He's too tired to deal with this. Emotions are exhausting.

Eventually, Clint stands up and ends up trying to go back to sleep on the couch a few hours later. Everyone else seems to have given up on resting all together. Tony is working, Bruce is reading with a pinched, unhappy look, and Loki kept chugging coffee before Clint went to bed like it was some sort of ambrosia and looked like he was on the edge of a very intense caffeine crash.

Clint, like a normal person, just went back to sleep.

The dream is vicious and violent, like normal, but it feels blurry, like his brain is putting in half the effort with a third of the production team. Everything is strangely far away, hazy. Painful, to be certain, but so distant. Even in the dream, he's disassociating. Clint feels sick and numb.

He's not sure how long he's asleep before Bruce shakes him awake, but he guesses it's a few hours. There's a blanket that definitely wasn't there when he went to bed on top of him, and Bruce's pinched expression has gotten worse behind his glasses.

Clint blinks at him blearily, trying to get his brain to focus. "What's wrong? Who died?"

Bruce's lips press together.

"If we're lucky, no one," Maria Hill says behind him. Clint swears in surprise, snapping upright and nearly smacking into Bruce in the process. He looks over the side of the couch to see her standing beside the entrance to the landing bay with a dozen faceless S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, her face carefully neutral. There's a Quinjet on the bay.

Bruce reaches out, resting a hand on Clint's shoulder in reassurance.

"What—what are you doing here?" Clint asks.

"Nice to see that you're taking your responsibilities seriously, Agent Barton," Hill says flatly. Her gaze roves around the room, somehow curious and judgmental all at once. "Get up. All of you need to come with me. We have a nation-wide alert."

Clint gets to his feet, tossing the blanket onto the cushions. His brain is struggling to play catch up, half asleep and missing a hearing aid, his auditory processing is kinda sucky right now. "Does this have to do with the scepter?"

From the corner of his eye, he sees Loki's gaze flick between the two of them, obviously confused. He didn't assume that Loki knew about the problem, but it's nice to have the reassurance he wasn't the only one in the dark.

Hill's expression thins. "The Director suspects so."

"And what would you like me to do, Lady Hill? I'm not allowed to be here without guard." Loki says. His voice sounds normal again, thankfully. He's standing a few feet away next to the counter, his shaking hands carefully hidden in the pockets of his jacket. Tony has risen to his feet as well, frowning.

Clint's first, immediate thought is that well we could shoot you and his second one is why? how on earth is that going to help?

"You're coming with us," Hill says without preamble. "This has to do with you and we'll need your assistance anyway."

Loki's eyebrow raises. "Pray tell."

Hill's eyes narrow, her jaw tight, but it's clear her patience is waning, which is a little strange. "Everything will be explained on the Helicarrier," she looks back at the guards. "Cuff him. We need to get moving."

Loki's eyes narrow, but he lifts his hands up obediently as the guards approach him with restraints. "I fail to see how this relates to me."

"Thor is missing," Hill explains flatly. "And we're pretty sure whoever did it took the scepter, too."

Clint feels his face go numb, but he is very, very aware of his heart smacking against his chest. Not again, not again, not again.

Well.

Crap.

None of them say another word as they follow Hill out to the Quinjet.

Chapter Text

"Even though they say time heals all wounds,

The scars are still freaking there,

I can't forget what happened,

I can't forget how I felt."

-Unknown

Clint doesn't remember being taken to S.H.I.E.L.D. for the first time. When Coulson dragged his sorry butt there for medical after Barney tried to beat him to death, Clint was unconscious. He'd spent a majority of his life in the Circus of Crime running from the organization. He was terrified. He remembers waking up in the hospital, handcuffed to the bed with Coulson sitting beside him and staring at him critically; security inside and out of the room, waiting for him to make the wrong move so they could hurt him.

Clint thought anything would be an incentive for that.

Natasha told him she felt similar after Budapest.

Standing at the edge of the Quinjet's ramp, with Loki in front of him and being flocked by security all too happy to wave around weapons at him, Clint wonders if Loki feels it, too. That same overwhelming, gut-wrenching terror that one wrong word will get you shot. S.H.I.E.L.D. is built on top of some of the most personable people that Clint knows. You have to be if you want the general public to work with you. They aren't stoic machines.

This also means that they care, and Loki hurt some of them or their loved ones, and the unfortunate thing about S.H.I.E.L.D, Clint has realized, is that it holds grudges.

Clint has to bite his tongue several times while they're walking to the conference room Fury wants them in to stop himself from berating someone who is pushing Loki, saying something nasty to him, or scowling as they walk past. It feels like every agent on the Helicarrier is making a point to show they're armed and dangerous. Clint doesn't exactly know what they expect Loki to do in response to it, fall to his knees and grovel in fear? He's too stubborn for that.

Clint gets why they're doing it.

He does.

He thinks, if circumstances had been different, he would do the same.

So he's unsure why there's this tight feeling in his chest and he wants to smack the next agent who gets handsy. He doesn't care if Loki is treated a little roughly. He doesn't. Loki, for his part, seems a little tense, but he doesn't try to fight the guards, verbally or otherwise. He lets them push him through the halls as if he's realized that fighting is futile and useless. Loki isn't bothered by it—honestly, he seems more annoyed than anything else—so Clint tries not to be, too, biting on his tongue and ducking his head.

The walk is long. Not because of distance, but the atmosphere.

Clint almost thinks it's a little funny in a dark way how terrified the agents are by Loki. They're so desperate to assert control over this powerful Asgardian, to beat him down and show him why he should be cowering, and Loki is in sweatpants, a loose black T-shirt that he stole from Thor, who stole it from Tony at some point, and a dark gray jacket. He looks like he's going to the gym. It's not exactly the clothing of a murderer. And yeah, yeah, appearances can be deceiving and all that, but still. One of Loki's shoelaces is dangerously close to becoming untied, and Clint keeps waiting for Loki to trip over it. He's seen the battle of Loki versus balance the last five months. Loki's going to lose, it's inevitable.

But pointing that out feels a little weird right now.

It's just. Maybe he has a different perspective than the agents, and that's why he feels tight. He's seen a side of Loki that none of them have and never will.

When they at last reach the conference room, the security team stops along the edges of the hall, two dozen bodies lined up in black with weapons, looking like a wall of faceless statues. Clint warily hurries past them to the door, where Hill is typing in the security code. There's a loud beep before the lock gives with a hiss of air and Hill pushes open the door.

They all file into the large gray room after her. It's windowless, but a wide TV screen is attached to the far wall, a separate door alongside the east, leading somewhere Clint can't place. The only other exit is the door they came in through, which Clint carefully files away in the back of his mind. A large, long oval-shaped table takes up a majority of the space with ten office chairs lined around it. There's a stray notepad stamped with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo in the center of the table like a wayward centerpiece, a half dozen pens around it. Beside that is, predictably, an open tissue box.

Clint doesn't know what it is, but he's never been in a S.H.I.E.L.D. conference room without one. It's like the janitorial staff is worried that a group of covert spies and government officials are going to spontaneously burst into tears and have a heart to heart while in the midst of a meeting. It's thoughtful, really, just strange.

Natasha and Steve are seated in the chairs on the far left of the table, a pair of crutches leaning against the wall behind Steve. Clint takes them both in with hard scrutiny. He hasn't seen either of them since they left for France six days ago, but it seems like it's been longer. Far longer. Natasha's long red hair is a mess, the braid falling apart in loose, wavy fragments, her lips dry and chapping. Her makeup looks like it was cleaned up from yesterday and her posture is hunched forward in exhaustion. All of it is subtle. If Clint didn't know her as well as he did, he wouldn't even notice.

This, more than anything, tells Clint how awful she's feeling.

Red Room loved their femme fatales. Natasha was taught to apply makeup before she could talk. Had to be appealing, had to be beautiful and sexualized, draw in the prey and kill them. Clint's pretty sure she could do it with only a third of her fingers and half her leg falling off. It's a habit that Clint hasn't seen her break, and one he privately thinks she's terrified to even try. It's also why Clint learned pretty quickly that calling Natasha beautiful only makes her sick to her stomach. She doesn't want to be beautiful, she wants to be a person.

So the fact that she doesn't care to refresh her appearance, hasn't even bothered to, makes his chest tight.

Oh, Tash…

Steve looks pale and worn. His expression is pinched, his eyes hazy and slightly glassy. One hand is pushed up against his side elusively, his entire body leaning away from the obvious injury. Unlike Natasha, who is still dressed in her Widow tack gear, Steve is in a loose gray, long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo stamped across the front. He looks awful, but is obviously trying to hide it. With the sweat gathering around his brow and the clear feverish highlight on his cheeks, he's doing a pretty poor job of it.

But Steve will try anyway, he'll hide it until he breaks, because Steve thinks him being in pain is annoying and a problem. Which is stupid, but none of them have successfully been able to grill that into his thick head. Clint decided a while ago he wants to get a time machine solely so he can go back to 1940 and smack pretty much all of Steve's superior officers in World War ll.

Tony takes one look at both of them and swears loudly. "You should be in medical," he decides after half a second. "Like, really be in medical—why the heck aren't they in medical?" That question is directed toward Fury, standing beside the end of the table, one hand gripped around the back of the chair, as tall and imposing as ever.

"We're fine, Tony," Steve says weakly, pushing up against the armrest to try and slowly wean his way into an upright position. It's not working very well for him, because he doesn't have the strength to stay that way and immediately slumps again. Natasha stops staring at Clint to reach over and help him ease down.

"Yeah," Clint scoffs, "and I'm the President."

Steve grimaces.

Hill makes her way across the room, coolly coming to a stop beside Fury. The two of them talk briefly. Clint squints at, but can only make out a few words with lipreading. He's not exactly sure if his translations are right from this far away, but it's something about Loki not being the one with the staff.

Which Clint sort of wants to laugh at, even though he knows it's true. But it's not for the same reason as Hill's. This long stuck with Loki, Clint has a pretty decent grasp of his capabilities now. But Hill doesn't. What, she took one good look at the Asgardian and decided he was too bed rumpled to have traveled to and from France last night? Maybe this is why the scepter is gone because S.H.I.E.L.D can't read people for crap.

Tony walks toward their teammates and starts to verbally poke at Steve in concern, who's too exhausted to do anything other than make a grumpy old man sound and bury his head into his hands. It's kind of funny in an endearing way.

Loki steps into place beside Clint, hands still bound together, something strange on his expression as he watches Nat, Tony, and Steve. Clint can't quite place it, but it looks sort of like concern or longing.

Clint bites on the inside of his cheek, refusing to think about that.

Bruce, having exchanged a few soft words with Natasha, takes the seat one down from her. Which leaves the spot next to her open, which is both thoughtful and touching and makes Clint sort of want to smack him because was it that obvious that Clint wants to sit next to Natasha and cling to her? Bruce, unlike Hill, apparently, is much better at reading people than Clint gives him credit for.

Clint looks at Loki again, watching them wordlessly, before walking toward the seat beside his partner and sliding into it. Even being close to her makes something in his chest release with relief. Natasha looks up at him, her green eyes tight.

"Are you okay?" she asks softly. Clint can hear the faintest edge of a thick Russian brogue slipping into her voice, which only happens when she's tired. How long has she been awake? What have she and Steve been doing to leave Natasha emotionally a mess and Steve half dead? Looking for the scepter is one thing, but this—them, how they are—doesn't just happen accidentally.

"Long few days," Clint admits, rubbing at his forehead. "Which I see you've had yourself."

"Hm." She sighs.

"Are you hurt?" he asks. He knows she already told him over the phone, but he suddenly doubts her earlier assessment.

Natasha quirks an eyebrow but says nothing more, lips pinched.

"If you're done saying I love you," Fury looks pointedly at Steve and Tony, the latter of whom smirks. Steve buries his head in his hands. "I think we have more important matters at hand then whether or not Captain Rogers needs to be in medical."

"Which he does," Tony says pointedly, plopping into the seat on the other side of Steve. Clint watches with faint amusement as Steve obliquely smacks the engineer's arm underneath the table. Children. Tony sends him a look, but Steve meets it with vigor.

"Captain Rogers needs to be here," Hill says thinly, "he can still function and we'll need all the hands that we can get."

He can still function? That's the bare minimum requirement? Steve's half-dead, but sure, his heart's still beating, drag him out here. They do know that he's human, right? This is why Steve will never get past the whole his injuries are an inconvenience, because to everyone else, they are. And it makes Clint want to scream.

Loki sighs softly, propping his elbows on the back of the chair he's leaning against to drape his bound hands over, and says, "Spare us the flowering, Deputy Director. I believe we're all aware that there is a crisis. What does this have to do with my brother?"

"Are you going to sit down?" Fury asks with a raised eyebrow.

Loki stares at him.

Fury rolls his eye, apparently having determined that no, he's not, and turns toward the screen. He pulls a tablet out of his coat and does something with it, fingers moving rapidly across the device. There's a soft click before a thermal map of Bordeaux appears on the larger screen, rapidly moving through timestamps across a twenty-four-hour period. Random hot spots like little flashes of repeating fireworks keep popping up all over the city. As time passes, they group up around where Clint knows there's a S.H.I.E.L.D. base. It isn't frequent, maybe every couple of hours, but the spots start rapidly gathering together inside and out of the base. The timestamp puts this as last Friday, five days ago.

Clint's brow furrows. This isn't something that can be attributed to fire or guns, or pretty much anything that Clint can think of off the top of his head. What…is that?

Bruce leans forward, his expression grim. "Is that gamma radiation?"

How the heck does he just know that?

"As far as our experts could tell, yes," Hill confirms. Her eyebrows raise. "How did you know?"

"It looks like a pulsar," Bruce explains.

A what?

At their blank expressions, Tony explains, somehow managing to have grabbed one of the pens without Clint noticing and is now playing with the cap by pulling it off and on. "It's a type of star where the light pulses at regulated intervals. It gives off gamma radiation."

Ah.

That's…uh.

"Hate to be the bearer of bad news," Clint says, flattening his hand on the tabletop, not entirely sure if he's serious or not as he says, "but I don't think a wandering pulsar stole the scepter."

He can practically hear Loki's eye roll. "Given that pulsars are more than twelve miles across and easily have the mass of your sun, yes, I doubt that is the culprit, Barton." Loki remarks dryly.

"So cross stars off the list," Tony says in a deadpan and fake crosses something off with his pen, "got it. We'll have the scepter's kidnapper in no time at this rate."

"Excellent deductive work," Natasha says flatly.

"I try."

Clint swallows a huff of amusement.

Fury ignores them in favor of staring at Loki pointedly for a long minute. Upon realizing that the Director is doing so, Loki stops playing with his shaking fingers and meets his eye. "What, Director?"

"This isn't Asgard?" Fury asks, gesturing toward the screen with one hand and setting the tablet down with the other.

Clint's brow furrows.

Loki's expression flits with open surprise. His eyebrows shoot up, his eyes widening a fraction. "What? Why would this be Asgard? The Bifrost looks nothing like that, I assure you, it's a steady stream of heat and light, not that. This looks more like—" Loki stops, his fingers anxiously scraping at each other. His brow furrows.

"Like what?" Fury prods, folding his arms across his chest.

Loki frowns, his eyes tighten, but he tries for indifference, "None of your concern, I'm afraid."

He has no idea. That's Loki's BS tone. Loki recognizes it, but he doesn't know what it is, which is awesome. Clint grits his teeth together, trying not to feel frustrated. He stares up at the flickering lights across the timestamps and realizes that it does look like how Tony described a pulsar. Repeated flashing lights, almost like someone turning a flashlight on and off.

Or…maybe…it kind of looks like multiple things landing in the same spot.

"It's our concern if it has to do with international security," Fury says hotly. "You don't get to decide which information is pertinent. Are you sure this isn't Asgard?"

Loki bristles, "I told you—"

"The same spots are in New York," Fury interrupts, flicking a finger across his tablet and showcasing the same pulsing hotspots across Manhattan. Clint notes that the time frame of these is much shorter. Two big spurts about an hour apart, blinking in and out. The timestamp says that these happened on Friday, just like the one in France. Holy crap. How did they not notice this? It's not like aliens were dropping from the sky into the middle of the city, Clint's pretty sure that would have been obvious. Fury continues, "And no one has seen your brother since New York, which means that unless what happened in Bordeaux is different than here, which I doubt, these things took him and the scepter, and if you know anything about this, you're going to tell me."

Loki looks flustered, but angry, and, Clint realizes after a moment, desperate. Clint feels his jaw tighten. "I don't know what it is," Loki says levelly. "I recognize it, but I don't know from where."

"That's convenient," Fury says flatly. Natasha shifts, biting at her lower lip. Anxious tic. Clint glances at her, confused.

"It's the truth," Loki defends, "I don't know what they are. I have lived for a very long time, Director, it's not out of the possibility this is something I saw in my youth. It's not Asgard, that much I can confirm. Asgard doesn't have an interstellar teleportation device that creates those sort of heat spots."

Apparently trying to cover all his bases, Fury presses, "So this has nothing to do with the Asgardian civil war, then?"

Clint winces, biting sharply on a swear. Tony doesn't bother to filter himself.

Of all the stupid things that Fury had to bring up, why did he feel the slightest bit compelled to mention that? Loki already told him that Asgard had nothing to do with it! Multiple times. He didn't need to bring up the stupid—

Crappity crap, freaking—

Loki stares at the Director blankly, his body rigid. "The what?" He asks. Clint can see the realization strike Fury that Loki doesn't know about the same moment that Loki realizes that they do. His gaze flits between them all, heavy and furious, and Clint practically squirms beneath his stare.

There's a breathless, painful lull.

Fury's eye lands on Steve. "You didn't tell him?" Fury accuses. Steve flinches, staring hard into the tabletop, his hands anxiously pushing against the edge. "Why for the love of God—"

"Thor decided it would be best," Steve says quickly. His eyes lift to meet Fury's, but Clint can still see that inwardly, Steve is scrambling. Too exhausted to come up with an excuse, too tired to face the Director's wrath. The super soldier adamantly ignores Loki's entire existence, as if knowing that looking Loki in the eyes would crumple him.

"Asgard is at war?" Loki repeats, and though he sounds confused, his voice thick with disbelief and surprise. Then, flustered, "Thor didn't—why wouldn't he—?"

Yeah, so, Thor has not made good on his promise that he would explain everything, and to be honest, Clint doesn't blame him. This is just one more thing. Clint doesn't know how he's expecting Loki to react to the news, but his stomach is twisted up with dread and wariness.

Delight.

Clint thinks that Loki is going to be delighted, and he wonders if this is why Thor avoided telling him. Nothing quite like having one of the once-leaders of the planet laugh at the slaughter of the people they're supposed to protect. Clint doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to see this. After Thor's continued devastation and heavy heart about the whole thing, he doesn't want to see Loki's glee.

Clint's entire body stiffens, but it's too late to stand up and leave.

Crap.

Loki and Thor have argued about Asgard, mostly in Asgardian, but judging off of Thor's reactions, what little Loki does have to say about is rarely good. Clint doesn't really want to see that here, in his native language, where they don't pronounce Asgard as oosgar and he doesn't have to see Loki laugh at the bloodshed of his people.

Oosgar. Still the stupidest thing.

Lightly glossing over the intense feeling of anxiety washing through his body, Clint still feels baffled by the pronunciation. He asked Thor to write out Asgard for him in English once, and then stared at the corresponding "Ásgarðr" he got in response with confusion. That's clearly Asgardr, he'd tried to argue, but Thor had just shaken his head and explained that you don't pronounce the ðr and somehow the Á turns into oo.

Natasha's hand reaches out in response to him, and Clint doesn't jump, but it's a near thing as he's jolted back to reality. Natasha grips his wrist tightly, her gloved fingers pushing against his pulse point. Something about it feels both confiding and welcomed.

"Asgard is in the middle of a civil war and dragged the rest of the Nine into it, and it's your fault, now you know. Mazel tov. I guess that means you can't tell us whether or not Thor's disappearance is connected to that." Fury says, his tone somehow both flat and annoyed all at once.

The compassion is oozing.

"Okay," Tony says, sitting forward a little, "maybe blaming all of it on Lokes isn't exactly the most accurate assessment."

Loki doesn't look like he cares about the placid defense.

The Asgardian's jaw moves soundlessly for several seconds as if he can't get himself to speak. Rapid, fleeting emotions pass over his expression by the dozens in seconds. None of them are happy. His shaking hands clench, his face paling, and Clint gets the impression that Loki is trying hard not to dissolve into emotion (whatever that may be) or throw up.

And Clint feels himself spinning suddenly, the words lost one doesn't have a home to return to sitting on his chest heavily. The world blinks, like an afterimage, and he sees the cell and a large, looming figure, feels restraints and the heat, Clint is—

Tumbling.

Sitting.

In the chair. Natasha is gripping his hand. And his heart rate is spiked, his breathing unsteady, but he's here, and Fury's patience is not something to die for.

Present, present, present.

Sandwich.

Tomatoes.

The civil war wasn't Loki's fault.

"Dude," Clint finds himself saying in frustration without meaning to. Loki's distress isn't exactly hiding. Natasha's fingers tighten around his wrist. The pressure keeps him from falling again. (Oh, man it's happening everywhere not when I'm just asleep and what the heck is going on I'm crazy crazy crazy crazy). Fury's gaze lands on him and Clint quickly corrects himself to a more genteel, "Sir."

"Do you have something to say, Barton?" Fury asks.

"No." Clint says quickly.

Why did he have to say anything? That just came out of him like a gut punch.

"Why," Loki's voice is soft, but hard, and Clint finds himself looking up toward it by instinct. "Why would Thor not tell me? Why is he not on Asgard, fighting in this—this—" Loki doesn't seem to have a word for it.

He's not happy about the war, Clint realizes.

He's terrified.

There is no gleeful laughter or malicious spitting that they're getting what they deserve, no delight about how he'll take the throne of the ashes and bathe himself in their blood. Loki just…he's not vitriolic. He's upset.

"Apparently," and Hill's voice shows how highly she thinks of this idea, "you took precedence. We don't have time to go over all the details with you. We need to focus on this." She gestures to the screen.

"For the record," Tony says, and Fury makes a sound of impatience. "I thought it would be better to tell you, but Thor insisted it would be better if we waited. You were…" Tony struggles to find a word to sum up Loki's condition, and Clint grimaces, thinking of acid-burnt skin, broken bones, leaking eyes, and torn muscle with hasty tourniquets, "uh, preoccupied with being half-dead and everything, so Thor thought it would be better to tell you until you regained your 'full strength' or however he put it."

Loki's jaw grits. "And he felt no desire to tell me in the months that I was fine?"

"I mean," Tony says delicately, pushing the cap onto the pen, "you're not exactly winning a health prize or anything right now. And I think Thor sort of hoped that it would resolve itself."

"Loki," Steve says, weak but sincere and completely ignoring the two agents glaring at him, "we'll talk about this later, I promise. Finding Thor is more important right now."

Loki's eyes bore into the captain, but his mouth tightens. His trembling hands clench. He looks up toward the screen, his gaze sharp. "Whatever that is," his voice is barely controlled, "it may very well have to do with the—war. I wouldn't know. Even if this is just contained within the Nine, I still don't recognize the source. I would have to study this further in order to tell you."

Fury's lips tighten. He and Hill share a brief glance, unhappy.

"That…wasn't the answer you wanted," Tony says.

"I had hoped this was some sort of Asgardian spat," Fury confesses and grips the edge of his coat. One of his few anxious tics. Well, this is great. Somehow the situation keeps leveling up in the worst way. Does explain why he's being a bit of a blockhead. He's worried enough that it's showing. Clint learned a long time ago that Nick Fury worries every day, every hour, all the time. It's when it starts to show that you should brace for nukes.

"Forgive my people for disappointing you," Loki says sarcastically.

Fury releases his coat, picking up his tablet from the table. "Even if this was some sort of Asgardian pissy fight, it wouldn't solve our problem. I'd just hoped that explained where Thor went because that option is a lot friendlier than the alternative."

Fury swipes a new image on the screen and Clint feels his insides go cold.

Natasha's fingers, warm, but impersonal with the glove, slide down to interlock with his, her gaze on him, not the image as if she already knows what it is. Clint feels numb. He can't grip her back. Can't give support. Can't think. Can't move. Can't—

(On his knees, unable to stand, begging for them to stop until he's hoarse, the pain of the blades and they're laughing and laughing—)

Tony swears loudly. He stops playing with the pen, turning his chair to take in the image, his body rigid. "Is this recent?" he asks, breath faint.

Clint can't think.

He knows he should reach out and slap the engineer or something to force him to focus and stay present, but his mind is—too much. Too heavy. Too hard. Not his.

On the screen is the image of a group of Chitauri in Manhattan from a distance via a street camera, maybe a half dozen, armed and dangerous. Clint can't tell what they're there for, only that he didn't hear about any brutal mutilations or murders this week. Whatever they did, it wasn't violent or they hid it so well no one could tell.

"They took the scepter," Natasha says quietly.

"You—" Clint's mouth works tightly. His jaw muscles are bunching. He's going to be sick.

It's not over it's never over I walk away but I don't walk away because I can't escape it, I can't escape Loki or his mind-screwing or the anything and it's always back and back and I'm spinning spinning spinning spinning—

You and me or you are me?

Tony swears again.

Clint breathes out in a faint, wispy wheeze.

When he dares to look up at Loki, he sees that the Asgardian's eyes are dead. His expression is pinched, his lips tight, but there's something almost haunted about it, rather than pleased. Which that would make sense right? Loki being happy his allies showed up? But it doesn't because nothing about Loki makes sense today.

"We found them in France," Steve confirms, shifting a little, his focus clearly on Tony's stiff form beside him. "We almost got the scepter back from them but they, uh," Steve's hand unconsciously moves to his side, "got a hit in."

Steve got hit in the stomach by something that blew up a Quinjet's propeller in one shot.

And he's moving.

Because he doesn't need to be in medical, Clint's butt.

"The Chitauri have the scepter." Bruce says, stating blankly what everyone else doesn't want to. The chemist's face is closed off, his fingers anxiously twisting each other. He looks up at the screen, something resigned in his voice as he asks, "that was five days ago?"

"Yes." Hill answers.

Thor disappeared five days ago.

Thor's phone pinged off of New York five days ago.

Thor's last known location was Manhattan. Thor never made it to Jane's because he never left New York. Something took him. Chituari took him. And now they're doing God-knows-what to him, and he's been in their hands for five days. Clint was possessed by Loki for a little over three and managed to nearly kill thousands.

Thor is…bigger, stronger, powerful.

"How…" Tony's voice is a carefully controlled façade. "How are they even here? We blew up their mothership. They all died when that nuke hit them. They collapsed. We cleaned up their bodies. There is no way for them to be here!"

"We don't know," Fury answers grimly, shifting a little. "But last week they woke up, and nothing we've tried has killed them again. We've contained what we could, but those are some of the stragglers that escaped. There were about twenty of them."

Twenty?

"And you didn't think it was important to tell us?!" Tony's control slips, leaving only scrabbling, desperate panic. He gets to his feet, the pen death-clenched in one fist. "The Chitauri wake up and start running around and escape and you think, 'hey, that's no problem', but the moment that they go after the scepter that's when you're game? We could have prevented all of this if you'd told us! Thor wouldn't be out there with them, God knows what happening to him—!"

"This may come as a surprise to you, Stark, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has existed for a long time without the Avengers," Hill snaps, obviously frustrated. "We don't come to you with every problem because we don't need to. We had the situation under control. You're our hired help, not the other way around."

"Ha!" Tony snorts.

"Tony," Steve says, reaching up to rest a hand on a coiled forearm. Tony's releases a sharp, clenched breath, his eyes pinned on Hill furiously. Steve repeats his name, softer, trying to encourage him to sit down.

"No, you know what, I'm with Tony," Clint says, his chest doing an anxious twisty jump-thing. His entire body is numb. His hands are shaking. Natasha keeps trying to get him to squeeze her hand but he won't. Not panicking means that this is okay and it's not. It's not okay on any level. "You should have called us when the Chitauri woke up. You don't even know what happened, and you have two of the most brilliant minds on the planet sitting at the table and—"

"We had it under control." Fury argues.

Clint laughs, his voice high. "The scepter missing and Thor a budding sequel is control?"

Fury's voice is cold. "Agent Barton, that's enough. Stark, don't start!"

Clint makes a sound of protest, ready to launch into another round of accusations because his hands are shaking and his body is falling apart and he can feel the burns he can feel the burns he can—but Loki cuts them all off when he says, his words slightly tight, "It has become clearer and clearer to me that Thor has not explained what the Chitauri are to you."

Argument momentarily put to the side, all of them look at the Asgardian instead.

Loki breathes out, his trembling fingers clenched together so tightly they're going white. He's too still. Something's wrong. Loki wets his lips, "The Chitarui are not what your people would call robots, as you seem to think. The destruction of the mothership did not...turn them off, it merely put them in a stasis like death. They didn't rot, did they, Director?"

Fury's mouth tightens. "A few did."

Loki nods. "I expected as much. The kill shot must be to the head and heart. All of you are trained to kill in that manner and did so at least a few times. If you don't, the wound isn't fatal. The Chitauri's heart is the mothership, it beats for them. They are bound to it, but not one vessel only. All that it would take for the Chitauri to wake up again is for another vessel to take on their life force. It is a type of soul magic that is far too advanced for any of you to understand, but in short, the Chitauri are awake because another mothership has demanded them to be."

Clint's fingers feel cold. His chest is hot. His breathing is sharp. Bruce's lukewarm hand reaches under the table and rests on his knee encouragingly. Clint's jaw clenches, his hand tightening against Natasha's instinctively.

What does that mean that someone reactivated the Chitauri?

"Weren't…you found some random army up in space, right? Who the heck cares about whether or not you actually conquered Earth?" Tony demands, his breathing cramped. Clint's eyes jump to him. Steve is gripping the engineer's wrist tightly.

Natasha knew, Clint realizes.

They were attacked by Chitauri yesterday. Natasha didn't tell him then, but she knew this was coming and she didn't grab his hand in support, it was to keep him down so he wouldn't make a scene. Clint doesn't. He can't. This hurts and aches and he wants it all to stop. His head is spinning.

Loki's lips purse.

"Stark's got a point. What? The Chitauri learn that you're taking a vacation on Earth and decide to stop by and see how it's going?" Fury asks sarcastically. "If they're suddenly active, do you have anything to do with that?"

The younger Asgardian tenses up further. Somebody kicks him, he's going to shatter. "I'm not behind every—No. I had nothing to do with it," Loki says coldly. "The Chitauri were a necessary evil, but not my companion of choice. I have no idea why they took the scepter or if they have Thor."

"Why should we believe you?" Hill asks, her eyebrow raised.

Loki's teeth set. "You have no reason to. But the longer they hold my brother, the worse the outcome becomes. You say you still have some captured. Let me speak to them—"

Fury laughs, sharp, hard, and bitter. "Do I look stupid to you?"

Loki's eyes flash.

"Do you even speak their language?" Hill presses. "None of our linguists have had any luck."

"Yes." Loki says harshly. "Yes, I speak it. An army is hardly effective if you can't communicate."

"The answer is still no." Fury says firmly, shaking his head. "I'm not giving you access to your allies so you can create an even bigger headache for us than the potential of Thor under the control of the scepter already is. You don't get to have that win."

Loki slams his hands on the chair, and Clint flinches. Loki says, furious, "I am not trying to trick you! All I want is to find Thor! Talking with the Chitauri is the most efficient way to do that. If you won't give me your blessing, fine. But rest assured that I will find a way to break in myself. You have a choice of watching or not. That's it."

Fury stares at him.

Loki meets his gaze with equal vigor.

The tension is thick and palpable, someone waiting for it to give. An unstoppable force, an immovable object. Tick tock, tick tock.

"Fine." Fury grits between his teeth after a moment of silent internal deliberation. "You have five minutes."

Loki doesn't look any more relieved at being given permission than he would at being told he's about to be stabbed. "Thank you." The words, Clint can tell, are completely insincere. Loki almost seems disappointed, as if part of him was hoping Fury would refuse.

Chapter Text

I'm terrified of this dark thing that sleeps in me.

-Unkown

Moving far too quickly for Clint's—admittedly weak—emotional stability to handle, Fury is angrily sweeping them out of the conference room a few minutes later to go meet with the Chitauri. Clint has exactly zero memories of any of the Avengers agreeing to babysit or even be present in the room, but it's happening all the same. Maybe Steve said something. Who knows? The annoying part is that Clint doesn't not want to be there as Loki goes and chats up his once-allies. But still.

There are exactly two places that the Chitauri are located according to Fury, and that's the NY Helicarrier and some base in the middle of Kansas that Clint thinks is probably fake. The Kansas base supposedly holds the corpses of the actually dead-dead ones, so they won't need to go there anyway, but that doesn't make its existence any more believable to Clint. Fury thought it was best, after the Chitauri escaped the first time, to keep them close to home just in case.

Unfortunately, this means there's no preparation time. No long drive or plane ride, just them being herded from the room, swarmed by the security team again and then striding into the depths of the Helicarrier to go talk with the aliens. Like this is a normal thing they do every other Saturday for fun.

Clint's not really sure he's thinking anymore. He's certainly not feeling. His entire body has numbed out, or, if not that, it's so dull that sensation is practically not there. He breathes out tightly, air feeling trapped inside of his lungs like he can't exhale enough to get it all out. He keeps his hands securely stuffed inside of his jacket's pockets, determined not to freak out.

He feels stupid and childish because it's very unlikely that the Chitauri have the scepter stuffed under a pillow and plan to hand it to Loki right then and there and watch him raise hell. But his brain has latched onto the idea of a long, complicated plot where Loki gains their trust only to betray and control them and refuses to let it go.

Loki can barely stand up. He's not plotting our collective murder.

He's not getting into my head again.

(He already has. What else are those dreams?)

Around him, he notices that the rest of his team doesn't look any happier to be down here. Steve in particular looks like the maximum effort he should be pouring into anything is making his way toward a chair so he can sit down. His entire body weight is rocking dangerously against his crutch. Bruce and Tony, on either side of him have to keep reaching over to grab him so he won't fall over.

That makes Clint angry, but he refrains from glaring at the back of Fury and Hill's heads solely because of their escort.

All too soon, they're entering the cell block. The entire area reeks of precautionary security. Cameras, guards, guns, and general mistrust of everyone's intentions are spread throughout the hall. The door is several inches of thick metal, behind yet even more security via fingerprinting and passcodes, and Clint realizes that this is one of the cell blocks that are normally used to hold enhanced humans.

Makes sense. The Chitauri aren't human and won't be stopped by normal methods of imprisonment.

Clint isn't really paying much attention, too busy prepping himself for an anxiety attack in the middle of an anxiety attack, but Loki somehow manages to convince Fury that the conversation would go over better if he wasn't wearing handcuffs, which Clint thinks was definitely a bit of manipulation on the Asgardian's part, but it's fine. Loki (sarcastically, mind you) says that they can shoot him if he does something they don't agree with, so.

Clint has time to take one deep, ragged breath before they enter the cell block. The long hall is about ten cells on either side with no door at the end of it. There are no windows anywhere. The only way in and out of this room is through the door they entered through. The cells aren't large, maybe ten by ten, separated by thick metal sheets. Everything—beds, sinks, furniture—has clearly been stripped from the room, leaving them bare and awkwardly spotty from peeled paint. There are no bars, just glass.

Two helmeted S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stand at the end of the block, armed to the teeth with large, heavy guns Clint recognizes, but he doesn't know from where. Maybe the weapons that the Tesseract was supposed to fuel? No, they're not bulky enough. They're the Chitauri's weapons, probably gathered up with the other couple hundred when they were cleaning up the city.

Great.

S.H.I.E.L.D. is nothing if not paranoid and thorough about their paranoia.

Clint bites at the inside of his cheek to brace himself, then forces himself to look up.

Chitauri, alive, moving, breathing Chitauri are standing or sitting in the cells, grouped in as many as fifteen to about seven. As the eight of them slowly descend into the hall, leaving the security team behind them, the Chitauri take an interest, rising to their feet and approaching them. There's pointing and hands pushing up against the glass, fingers spread wide as if attempting to take up as much surface area as possible.

Clint can see several dozen eyes pin onto Loki, who's standing next to him, and there's a chorus of what sounds like throaty laughter. Unease twists in Clint's stomach and he tries not to flinch away from the sound. Clint feels like he's some sort of exhibit for the creatures to look at. Like he's the one behind glass.

Around him, his team seems to collectively grow tighter. Shoulders draw up, hands sliding toward weapons. The creatures can't hurt them, not like this, but it doesn't seem to matter. They all remember what those hands felt like.

Bruce's hand reaches out silently to grip Tony's shoulder, and Clint realizes then that the engineer's face has lost any color to it. His brown eyes are blown wide and he looks like he might be sick. He doesn't move away from Bruce's hand or try to shove him off, which is somehow worse than any protesting would be. Because if Tony was aware enough to start shoving off obvious signs of comfort, then he wouldn't be floating off into whatever anxiety spiral his brain has cooked up.

They shouldn't have let him come in here. Tony's PTSD around New York has gotten better, but throwing yourself headfirst at potential triggers is always a stupid idea.

Clint's teeth grit, and he forces his gaze away from the man. Bruce will take care of him. Clint can smack Tony over the head later for being an idiot, but for right now, Bruce will make sure Tony makes it to the smacking. A quick look at Nat and Steve reveals that, though they're uncomfortable, neither is in danger of passing out. Except maybe Steve, but that's for injury-related purposes.

Fury and Hill's eyes are boring into the side of Loki's head as if trying to dare him to do anything they don't like. Their hands are resting on their weapons pointedly.

Clint's jaw bunches tighter, but his gaze snaps back to the Asgardian when Loki takes a step forward. His posture is radiating tension, and he's not breathing deeply. To an untrained eye, Clint would say he almost looks relaxed, but Clint has grown more familiar than he would like with Loki's body language in the last five months. This agitation is obvious.

And strange.

Because Clint would have bet good money that Loki would be happy to see his Chitauri buddies. Clint's not going to make the claim that Loki likes them very much, but they were his allies at one point. That's how this works, isn't it? Loki comes to them with a new deal, they break him out from under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s thumb and whisk him away to somewhere Odin can't get to him. Or make him so powerful Odin wouldn't want to.

Loki's hands fall to his sides, and he keeps them there, rigidly. Fists clenched, it almost hides the shaking. Then he exhales softly and says, "Na'axik, you're not looking well. Prison hasn't done you any favors."

Names.

They have names.

Why didn't it occur to him that the Chitauri would have names? Or that Loki would know them? Looking at the Chitauri, they seem to be carbon copies of each other. Mindless and disgusting in appearance, lusting for blood because that's what they do. But they're living creatures. With names and histories.

One of the Chitauri slaps the palm of their hand against the glass in anger. Loki withdraws visibly. There's a heavy-looking shoulder plate across this Chitauri's right shoulder that has heavier designs than the others. Clint assumes this is some sort of commander or captain. This was an army at one point he reminds himself, as weird as it is to think about that. This, Clint assumes, is probably Na'axik.

Clint shifts his feet, resisting the urge to pick at his fingernails or anxiously touch his hearing aids. He forces himself to remain calm and imposing, non-reactant. He's not going to put on a show for these freaks. He can see Tony openly staring at one of the other Chituari, fixed in a stare-off, the Engineer apparently not sharing his attitude. Clint doesn't know how he stands it. He's doing his utmost to desperately avoid any eye contact. He watches as Na'axik opens its mouth, completely prepared for the gibberish clicking that he remembers from before and—

"Ha! Prison! As if these petty walls could hold us." Na'axik snarls. The hand pressed against the glass curls into a fist. "If your intent is to mock, try harder."

Clint's brain stumbles over itself.

They—

It—

What the heck? Since when do they know English? Hill said their linguists hadn't had any luck. Fury just said that they couldn't let Loki talk to them because they wouldn't understand what was being said. Clint stops, eyes wide, shooting Natasha a bewildered look. But she doesn't return it, focused intently on the creatures. Her mouth is pushed into a thin line and her gaze keeps jumping between Na'axik and Loki.

"At yet," Loki's voice is silk, "they've yet to yield to you."

Na'axik hisses. A deep, throaty warning sound. Loki draws back a fraction from it. "As if you are one to talk, lost creature," it growls, "you stand here with no less than seven guards ready to kill you. Aren't these the very beings that brought you low? And now you bend to their mercy. Pathetic."

Na'axik's voice is familiar. Clint has heard it before, but he doesn't know where and it terrifies him. (It's Loki leaking into his brain. Loki knows who this is. I know him because Loki knows him and this whole thing is so messed up and oh my gosh what is HAPPENING—)

Loki waves a shaking hand nonchalantly, "Merely a setback, I assure you."

Na'axik laughs, and the other Chitauri follow. It sounds like loud, hoarse clicking. Clint's tongue pushes against the back of his teeth, his stomach muscles tightening. Beside him, Natasha's face grows wary.

"A setback, it says!" Na'axik snorts, "What a game you play with yourself, lost creature!"

"Fantasy has always been the favorite of the lost one." A different Chitauri says, snickering. "Always had to pretend."

"I'm not here to trade barbs." Loki snaps, seeming irritated. But the tension has only grown worse in his hands, and his body is rigid. "I—"

"Pretend that the Master cared for it," another Chitauri pipes in. And then there's a chorus of them, mocking with pointed jabs. Overlapping and working around each other, as if every creature within the glass encasement needed to say something.

"Pretend that it would be found."

"Pretend that it's not-family wanted to find it."

"Pretending to be strong."

"Pretending not to bow."

And Clint would be the first to admit that out of everything he expected the Chitauri to do...this wasn't even on the list. Did he expect a little backtalk? Maybe. But he hadn't counted on being able to understand what was going on. And honestly? This? This isn't something he would say to his superiors without fear of being beheaded. And Loki was, wasn't he? He was at the head of the army when they came flaunting into Manhattan. He was the one that was the figurehead. It was his plan. His war. His idea.

And yet…

Loki's just standing there. He's not angry like Clint would have expected him to be if this was the first time this happened. He's avoiding eye contact like it will physically harm him, but he's not silently seething. He just seems resigned.

"What are they doing?" Natasha whispers. Clint opens his mouth before realizing that the question is directed at Loki, not the universe in general. Doesn't she—they're speaking English, suddenly, because they can do that conveniently, so why is she asking—?

Loki takes a second to answer, as if the effort to speak is considerable, "Talking amongst themselves. Terrible gossips. They need a second to focus."

Clint shoots the back of his head a confused glance. That's not what they're—

Oh.

Oh.

The realization hits him like a physically painful, brutal blow. It makes his stomach tighten and his tongue stick in his dry throat. Clint's body numbs out in a rush as if the rush of anxious energy that washes through it is too much to process and his brain has simply crashed in response.

In the privacy of his mind, Clint swears. Loud and darkly, as if it would actually help or offer any relief. Clint feels like laughing. Laughing hard and bitterly, because of course. Of course. It's not enough that his sleep schedule has been warped, played with, and turned into something monstrous. It's not enough that he sometimes gets a reflection of his eyes and shudders back from it. Not enough that what little he does remember from those days haunts him.

No.

Because the Chitauri aren't speaking English. And neither is Loki. They're talking in the creature's mother tongue, and Clint understands what they're saying anyway. Like he's some sort of instinctive polyglot, picking up the language just by hearing a few sentences.

This is some sort of cosmic joke. And yet, he knows that if he opened his mouth to talk, he'd be able to speak it without a problem.

This is—

It—

Why—?

This is just another fun side effect of Loki's staff on top of everything else. A gift that keeps on giving. That is, a soft voice reminds in the back of his head, if you were ever let go in the first place. You could still be tethered to him.

Clint digs his fingernails into his palms. The world feels like it's spinning. Loki is saying something else to the Chitauri, but Clint's deaf to it. He's watching them talk and not understanding and that's what it should be, instead of...of this. Of Loki's staff leaving lingering stains all over his mind and, oh, man, is it ever going to be mine again?

Natasha's hand is on his elbow suddenly, and he flinches at the contact. His eyes jump to her, off of Loki, off of them, and he inhales sharply as if remembering to breathe for the first time in hours. Natasha's green eyes hold his gaze for long seconds. With her other hand, she makes a quick o shape and then brings her thumb up between her middle and pointer finger making a sideways V and raises her eyebrows in question.

O-K?

Clint realizes then that he's signing no, over and over again like a nervous twitch, and forces his fingers to stop moving. His lips push together tightly. He shakes his head as if it wasn't already clear enough that he's not.

Natasha squeezes his elbow in reassurance.

It doesn't help.

"—do you intend to sit here and deride me?" Loki asks, voice thin. Clint can see that his eyes are tight around the edges, gaze fixed just above Na'axik's head. He seems calm. He's not calm. Now that Clint's paying attention, he notices that Loki also speaking with a thick accent, one that he didn't have when he was speaking English and that the Chitauri don't share.

Freaking—I shouldn't be able to understand any of this. I shouldn't be able to—

Na'axik snickers, then asks casually, "Shouldn't we?"

The insubordination alone. This doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense. Clint shifts his feet, trying to force himself to breathe, but it feels like an impossible weight has settled onto his chest. He can't release it. Natasha's hand starts to pull him back, but he stands his ground. The thought of leaving is horrifying. It's worse than being forced to stay here and pass out. He can't leave. If he leaves, then they'll never know what Loki and the Chitauri were talking about. He has to stay here. He has to.

"Are you not curious why I'm here?" Loki's tone is tense. "You and I both know after the battle was completed I had every intention of never seeing any of you again."

Na'axik hums with clear false agreement then smirks, "We were going to be your law, lost one, even then. There is no way for you to escape us."

Escape them?

This is not an insubordinate talking to their superior. This is—Clint doesn't know what this is. It sounds like someone mocking their captive. But that doesn't make sense. Loki was working with them. By choice.

(But did he ever tell them that? Directly?)

Loki folds his arms across his chest. Subconscious self-comforting gesture. The words are getting to him, then. Fantastic. In a tone short of patience, Loki asks, "What have you done with my brother? Where is he?"

"Oh, so you have a brother now? Who would that be?" Na'axik is amused.

"Stop playing games with me!" Loki snarls. He takes a step forward and Clint can feel a drop in the temperature of the room in response to his anger. Breath escapes Clint in a harsh, faint plume. Natasha's fingers are making his forearm go numb now. It's probably the only thing keeping him from completely dissociating.

"Loki." Fury says in warning, hand on his .45. When Clint looks at him, he can see that Fury's face is tense. "We agreed no magic."

Loki ignores him entirely, staring furiously at the lower half of Na'axik's face.

Na'axik isn't even phased, relaxed, yes, even a little jovial, but not scared. "Lost one, we have been playing games with you since you fell into our world. Do you think simply because the Master pulled you from our clutches for a greater purpose that it makes you more worthy than us? You are no better than these sniveling Terrans." Na'axik gestures at them with his chin.

Fell into their world? The Master? What are they talking about? Maybe they're just—no. They don't have any reason to lie. As far as they're concerned, Loki is the only one who can understand them. This…oh, man. How much do they genuinely understand about what happened during the Battle? Because Clint is beginning to think that what they know is shoddily matching up with reality.

"So you took my brother as punishment?" Loki asks, aghast.

Is he still breathing? Clint doesn't know anymore. This is fine. Get it together, Barton. He forces in a rattling lungful of air between clenched teeth. He can't focus on anything else. He can see his team moving around him, breathing, shifting, staring, but his attention is fixed on Loki and the Chituari. Steve keeps staring at them though. Clint starts to look at him, confused, noticing that Steve's skin is almost white, but Na'aixk tilts its head and Clint's attention snaps back on the threat.

Na'axik stares at Loki for a long second, challenging him. Loki still refuses to meet his gaze, even as Na'axik challenges, "Did we?"

"You're the master of lies, tell us." One of the other Chitauri motivates. There's a following chorus of taunting encouragement. They're making him guess? Clint doesn't know what he would say in response to that. He can't tell. He doesn't know if the Chitauri are taunting Loki or they legitimately took Thor. He looks at Loki's back, a desperate sort of gnawing horror sitting in his chest.

Loki hesitates, then, reluctantly, "I am uncertain."

He's…just…telling them that?

Why didn't he just lie?

Na'axik nods, apparently having expected that answer. "Hm. Disappointing. You're never living up to your potential. Your brother, however..." Na'axik snickers, "Well, the Odinson has ten times the strength that you will ever hope to achieve. You are weak, like a mewling, crawling baby animal. But don't worry, because where you failed, your not-brother will succeed."

Loki's temper flares, "If you hurt him—"

Na'axik gestures around itself, "What will you do? What? We are the ones protected in this Terran cage. You are defenseless with your enemies surrounding you."

"Their security will mean little in the face of my wrath," Loki says lowly.

Na'axik scoffs. "Child, if you were worth being afraid of, we would all be trembling. You are but an annoying insect. But don't worry, because the Master intends to squash you himself. I'm sure he'll let me get a few hits in before we return you to the Sanctuary."

Loki's eyes drop, locking onto Na'axik's for the first time. "Return—?" Loki starts to repeat, his voice breathless and filled with such open terror that Clint takes a half step forward, almost reaching out for him. Part of him is terrified that if he does, the Chitauri will use this against the Asgardian.

Na'axik slams a hand against the glass and it cracks loudly, causing Loki to violently flinch and stumble back as all of them draw weapons and brace for impact. Natasha releases him to grab her .45 and Clint unsheathes his knife, both of them a half-step ahead of Loki. They wait, breathless, waiting, baited, but Na'axik only laughs, making no move to continue slamming against the glass. It was only meant as a jump scare, not an escape attempt.

"Look how the lost one trembles. He does remember us, then, even after all that the Master did." Na'axik says, and the Chitauri laugh. The chortling is sharp and painful to listen to. Clint doesn't move, keeping his weapon appraised, watching.

"Loki," Natasha says, cautious.

Clint's not sure that he heard her. Loki's face is almost white. His entire body is rigid. "What—" Loki swallows hard. "What did he—?"

Na'axik stares at him for a moment before laughing hard. "You don't remember? He doesn't remember!"

"I—" Loki intones weakly.

"Perhaps the Master gave him one too many sessions with the Stone. We'll have to bear that in mind for the Odinson," a different Chitauri says. Oh man. Thor.

This seems to dredge up some last reserves out of Loki as he breathes furiously, "I will not let you keep my brother."

"Perhaps you'd like us to take you to him." One of the other Chitauri suggests in a sing-song tone, "We'd be all too happy to show you."

"N-no—I—" Loki protests, taking another step back. Clint raises his knife.

One of the Chitauri toward the back of the pack snaps its head in a sharp, jerking movement. Beside Clint, Tony releases a hoarse, wheezing sound and collapses. Bruce makes a violent grab for him to stop him from smacking against the floor. His armfuls of limbs and fists of clothing only slow the descent rather than delay it. Tony is trembling, his skin so white it's almost glowing. Clint starts to move toward him, swearing under his breath, but Steve apparently decides to follow Tony's lead and starts to go down as well.

What the—?

Natasha's defensive position drops to grab for the Captain, Clint only a second behind her. Between both of them, they manage to keep Steve mostly upright.

Like Tony, his face is chalky, the super soldier's bare skin uncomfortably warm to the touch and his face is creased with pain. His breath is coming out in thin, wheezy pants. "What?" Steve asks, confused. He's not supporting himself, shaking softly in their grasp, heavy and uncoordinated.

Natasha swears in Russian.

Na'axik snickers behind him. "Oh, lost one," he sighs, "are we having a bit of trouble?"

"Shut up." Loki snarls and Clint turns slightly to see him making his way on unsteady legs toward Tony. The Asgardian is rigid as he drops beside the multi-billionaire and taps at his face with his palm. Bruce watches helplessly, catching Clint's eye for a moment, looking slightly desperate. He has no idea what's wrong.

Loki, however, apparently does. He swears softly in Asgardian, muttering something under his breath that they're all probably better off not understanding before he lifts up shaking hands. He spares a brief glance up toward Fury, eyes blown wide before he says in an awkward slur of English with some mixture of a Norwegian and Chitaurian accent, "I swear, if you shoot me for helping him..."

What?

"Loki—" Hill starts to protest, but it's too late.

Loki grabs at Tony's skull. There's a sharp sensation of the air drawing in harshly around them before Tony jerks upward with a violent gasp. Loki leans in to study his face for a moment before he's getting up on shaky legs and making his way toward them. Tony's eyes rapidly jump across the room and he breathes out in a gust, trembling. Bruce squats down beside him and grips his wrists in silent support.

Clint turns a fraction, but Loki is already there, grabbing Steve's face in the same manner. Up close, Clint watches as faint greenish-yellow pushes underneath Steve's skin. Steve jerks, tumbling back into himself. He gasps sharply, groaning, his head snapping down toward his leg with desperation. His voice is a trembling gasp, "make it stop, it's burning. Oh g—Make it stop, make it stop, make it—"

Steve screams, starting to fight them desperately, attempting to reach for his injury as if he intends to tear his hand through his thigh. Tony jerks violently in response to it.

Clint fights Steve, his body jerking against the desperate motions, swearing sharply.

What the heck is going on?

"You're always leaving out the important details," Na'axik says, laughing quietly. "Really thought the Master had broken omissions from you, but...well, perhaps there's more work for us in the future."

Clint has never been more tempted to deck something. Cause honestly, screw you, buddy. With his back to the Chitauri, Loki allows himself a moment of weakness, breathing out raggedly and pushing the back of a clenched fist against his forehead for a moment, soundlessly chanting some sort of curse over and over. He looks like he's a second from teetering off the edge of a panic attack.

That is if the Chitauri don't just shove him over first.

"Alright, that's it. Interrogation over," Fury says, seeming to have regained control of his voice. "We need to get those two to medical."

Oh, thank God.

Loki turns to face him, wobbling obviously. If Clint wasn't wrestling with Steve to keep him from trying to claw his leg off, then he would have reached out to steady him. Loki sounds desperate, his voice still doesn't sound like his own, "It's nothing that can't wait, and I'm close to something—"

"No, we're done. You got your five minutes. The Captain and Stark need to be in medical." Fury says sharply. His face is tight, unsettled. "Get up. We're getting them there before their hearts give out."

Steve fights them desperately, pleading with them to stop it; Tony hasn't said a word, eyes slightly glassy and far away. Loki looks between the two before finally relenting and letting his shoulders drop. He was going to continue to fight the Chitauri for information about Thor. Despite the fact that the Chitauri clearly petrify him, Thor is more important to him.

Clint has no idea what to do with this realization, so he doesn't do anything and throws it into the back of his mind to contemplate later with all the other things he doesn't want to think about.

Clint and Natasha start to carefully help-fight-Steve out of the room as Bruce helps a silent, wordless Tony. Clint can feel the eyes of the Chitauri on their backs, watching.

"Sanctuary is waiting, lost one," Na'axik warns, tone soft. "You'll be back."

Clint looks back at the Asgardian for a moment. Loki, for as long as Clint has known him, has always kept his emotions carefully kept tucked away behind walls and walls of masks. Any emotion that Clint has seen he knows Loki let him. Loki is always in control. But as he looks at him, Clint sees as the masks break, shattering and leaving behind raw, unadulterated panic to slip across his features. Clint is tempted, right there, right then, to demand answers. To demand what the heck is going on. What they missed the first time around because obviously, it was something.

Loki is barely holding himself together. Clint doesn't say anything. He bites his cheek and ducks his head instead, pretending he didn't see.

000o000

Tony and Steve are both carted over to medical, where Clint fully expects them to have contracted some sort of horrible disease you only catch from making eye contact with aliens. Surprisingly, that's definitely not a thing. After a few body scans and a quick CT, thank God for S.H.I.E.L.D. tech, both are declared unharmed from the whole ordeal, but "they'll keep an eye on it" and "run a few more tests later."

For right now, Steve is given an ungodly amount of painkillers and a sedative. The staff keep shooting Fury annoyed looks throughout the whole process, which makes Clint more convinced that Steve's escapade was probably his own idea at first that was then goaded on by the director.

Tony, who's barely said maybe four or five sentences since they left the cell block, asks for a sedative. The attending doctor says that's probably for the best and has the nurse go get one for him. While Fury, Hill, Nat, and Bruce are standing around Tony, Clint slips out of the room and goes to find where Loki is sitting in the waiting room. Security protocol wouldn't let Loki any closer than this. Putting someone who's a threat near all the sharp pointy objects? Yeah. No thanks. Medical is practically an arsenal in the right hands.

The security team, only nearly one dozen now instead of two, is still standing around the room, waiting for Loki to do something stupid, and Clint nearly rolls his eyes. Paranoid buggers.

Loki's hands are back in cuffs again, but Loki doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are staring forward listlessly, mind obviously very far away. Face ashen, lips bloodless and the faint, almost undetectable scratches on the sides of his cheeks from his flashback yesterday (oh, man, was that only yesterday?), Loki looks like a gaunt, tired, traumatized college student.

He's not young, but at that moment, he looks the part.

Clint swallows hard, inwardly debating with himself for a long moment. Part of him is tempted to let everything go and pretend as if nothing happened. No way, man, I totally did not understand the conversation you just had in a language I couldn't speak yesterday. That's ridiculous. Why would that happen unless your brain is leaking into mine? Haha, great talking with you. Please leave me alone forever.

Clint drops into the chair beside the Asgardian heavily. Loki twitches, but the reaction seems instinctive rather than conscious. That doesn't comfort Clint in the slightest. The Asgardian smells like blood.

His brain is scrambling now, trying desperately to put together the random puzzle pieces Thor has told him about Loki's time with the Chitauri. Or at least, what Thor knows. Loki fell into the Void. Loki came back close to a year and a half later, mad, and attempted to conquer a planet with the Chitauri as his allies. Thor's entire family was convinced that Loki had died.

Thor didn't recognize Loki.

He had the most gentle soul, Thor said, which Clint had thought was absolute crap at the time, but this was within the first two weeks of Loki being on Earth, I don't know what happened to him, but I suspect it wasn't pleasant.

Clint releases a soft breath, then stops running his fingers across his left ear's hearing aid and looks at Loki's profile. "Are you okay?" he asks, quiet.

Loki seems to take several seconds to process the question. He's silent for a long beat before he pushes his fingers together. "I unraveled my stitches again."

Crap.

"Right." Clint says, rubbing at his face, tired, and withholding a stronger cuss. "You really need to stop using magic until those heal." Loki's arms are going to fall off from sheer annoyance one of these days, and then they'll just stare up accusingly at all of them for not trying harder to keep them attached to Loki's body. It's frustrating because the Avengers know and Loki knows that Loki using magic is not out of don't blow up the world but a necessity so the younger Asgardian doesn't hemorrhage, but Loki keeps using magic anyway.

It's instinctive, like using your elbows. You don't think about using your elbows until they're in pain.

Loki expels humorlessly. "Believe me, I'm trying."

Clint rubs at his forehead. "I know." He promises, relenting. "Can it wait? Unless you want someone here to do it—"

"No." Loki interrupts quickly. "I can wait."

That's definitely a lie, but Clint's going to let it slide for right now. He doesn't want to fight Loki on this. He's silent for a long few moments before repeating, quieter, "But seriously. Are you okay?"

Loki is silent for a long moment before whispering, "No."

Well. Okay. So that's probably a sign of Armageddon. Nice.

Clint shifts, leaning forward a fraction. If they weren't surrounded by ten agents, Clint thinks he would have told him right here. I know what you said. I know what you know. Clint strains for anything to say, but he doesn't think there's anything that he could without incriminating himself. He wants to tell Loki that he's not going back to whatever the heck Sanctuary is over Clint's moldering corpse, but again, security.

Clint settles for reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. Loki flinches badly, then looks at him. His brow is pinched, but his green eyes are wide. Clint gives him a tight smile, squeezing his shoulder again.

They're not going to get you again. I swear.

Feeling slightly awkward, Clint says reassuringly, "I know that you're worried about Thor. We all are. I'm sure that he's fine." The placation feels insincere. It isn't the one that Loki needs. But judging by the relieved tilt of his head, it's the one that Loki wants. And sure, Clint is sure, beyond positive, actually, that Loki legitimately is worried about Thor—for all their arguing, the two siblings still care for each other—but it's probably not what's on the forefront of his mind right now.

The despaired, empty look Loki gives him in return is almost painful to look at. "You don't know the Chitauri as I do," Loki says, still soft as if he's afraid of something listening in. "If the Chitauri do have him..."

"Not great, I'm guessing," Clint says thinly.

"No," That far away look reappears, and Loki drops his gaze down to his hands. "No."

Clint grimaces out of sight of the Asgardian, but Loki doesn't shove off his hand, so Clint doesn't move it. Even hidden beneath a jacket and a t-shirt, Clint can feel how cold Loki's skin is to the touch, but he doesn't move his fingers, keeping them against Loki's back in reassurance.

A few minutes later, Clint looks up from the floor as Fury sweeps into the room like an avenging angel dressed in a dramatic coat, Bruce, Nat, and Hill following after him. Loki tenses up beneath his hand, his back straightening up. Clint drops his hand, chewing on the inside of his cheek tightly. Fury looks ready to wage hell, and part of Clint is tempted to stand up and shoo him out of the room with a broom.

Not now. Not right now. Can't you see that Loki can't deal with this right now?

The director stares furiously at Loki for a long moment before he says, angrily, "What on God's name was that?" he gestures vaguely toward, well, everything. "You were supposed to be talking with them about Thor, not conspiring to get two of my agents—whatever that was!"

Clint's heart does a fluttery thump of panic with a sudden horrifying realization: Fury thinks that Loki did that to Tony and Steve on purpose. Clint opens his mouth, ready to fight, but Loki speaks before he can. "The Chitauri can establish rapid empathy links with the creatures around them, often used for heightening pain. It's—" Loki lifts up his bound hands, gesturing at his face, "eye contact. They can't do anything without eye contact and once they have it, most can only continue to utilize them without moving. It's why you didn't see any of this during the invasion. I apologize, I had...this is common knowledge on Asgard. I wasn't thinking."

Yeah. You were freaking terrified.

Fury scowls. The man gets more power out of his singular eye than most people can with both. Clint, who is well aware that Fury still has both his eyeballs, thinks this is why he chooses to wear a patch rather than show his scar. "That's nice and convenient."

"It is the truth," Loki promises, exhausted. "It leaves no lasting effects after a few days for the symptoms to wear off. They'll both be fine."

"Then what was with the magic?" Hill questions.

Loki discreetly pulls on the edges of his sleeves, trying to hide what is undoubtedly a bloody mass beneath them. "I removed the worst after-effects. They'll be functional tomorrow rather than in six or seven days." He hesitates, then adds, "I believe that they elevated Rogers pain perception. He believed he was in worse pain than he actually was. Watch him for that the next few days."

"And Tony?" Bruce asks.

"I don't know. Perhaps fear? I don't know," Loki picks at his palm, then mumbles again, "I don't know."

There's a faint, soft lull as if Fury is realizing the extent of how rattled Loki is then deciding he doesn't really care before: "Fine. So that happened. What did they say to you, then?" Fury demands. It's not a question.

Clint's jaw tenses. He glances at Loki, trying to be discrete, but almost certain that he looks shifty and sweaty instead. He's doing an excellent job at hiding this. Someone is going to notice.

The Asgardian picks more anxiously into his palm. He breathes out sharply before he speaks, his voice level, "Nothing terribly helpful. I couldn't get an exact answer from them about whether they had anything to do with Thor's disappearance. They inferred it, but that means very little in my experience."

That's…it? That's all he's going to say about everything? Not bringing up the taunting or the threats? Nothing about the "master", who's apparently pulling the strings on all of this? Just that they were a little unhelpful, yep, that's it, let's go home now? This—what? The urge to speak up and dump everything he can remember from the conversation is almost overwhelming. I know what you know.

Clint's teeth clamp down harshly on his tongue. Admitting that he understood means admitting that there's something wrong with his brain. Fury will pull him off the field, and Clint will be stuck going in circles with psychologists who have no idea what they're doing again. There isn't a college class or in-field training that can even begin to brace psychologists for trying to unravel mind control.

Clint is a study subject for them. Not a patient.

"They inferred it?" Natasha asks. "How?"

They were taunting him with it, Clint thinks, feeling slightly frantic. Over and over again.

"Admitting that they had captured him would have given me an edge to work with. The Chitauri are more careful than that." Loki says, sounding something other than blank for the first time since they left the cell block: annoyed. He completely evaded Natasha's actual question. Loki looks up at her, as if a thought suddenly occurred to him, "Was the Captain near any of their blood? It's poisonous."

"What?" Clint blurts. "Since when?" Battles are messy. Clint touched plenty of their blood during the invasion.

Natasha's brow furrows, but she glances at him quickly, "To touch?"

"No. To ingest. Your doctors wouldn't know to look for it, but that would also present as unbearable pain and fatigue." Loki explains. He looks...twitchy.

Clint does not want to know how Loki knows that. Nor does he want to even begin exploring that in his head, but his brain is tumbling into dark pathways now and selling him shady theories under capes. Everything he thought he knew about the invasion feels like it was distorted. The Chitauri were mocking Loki and threatening him. Loki knows what ingested Chitauri blood does to a body. Clint was expecting that sort of behavior from Loki, not the other way around.

Loki is not going back to whatever the heck Sanctuary is.

"We'll check for that," Natasha says after a moment. "But I don't think he would have ingested any."

"Probably not," Loki agrees, "but it's better to be prepared."

Loki seems collected, but he's not. His eyes are wide and his words have a choppy, breathy pattern to them in a way that isn't normal.

He can't just stand here, knowing what's wrong and why. Clint forces himself to lean forward. His voice sounds level, controlled; like he's slept a normal amount the last week and the PB and J sandwich he ate hours ago isn't churning unhappy, lost circles in his stomach. "Can we discuss this later? I'm exhausted."

Fury's eye narrows, but when he takes a look at all of them, he seems to realize that anything they do discuss will be relatively useless given their slug-littered brains. "Yeah," he finally concedes. "We'll meet up in a few hours after the sedatives have worn off and get Captain Rogers discharged to the Tower officially. Get some sleep and some food."

"Thank you, sir," Clint says. He gets up to his feet and turns to look back at his team. Bruce's tired, worried eyes, Natasha's pain-littered stance, and Loki's tight form all look at him, waiting for someone else to take charge. Clint's will to move falls a little, realizing that he's the only one who will. A desperate, pulsing squeeze grabs at his heart.

No. I don't want to.

Pull yourself together, Barton.

Clint moves forward anyway with a soft murmured word of encouragement, and Loki, Nat, and Bruce follow after him.

Chapter Text

I am WAY too sleep-deprived to deal with your negativity right now."

-Brooklyn 99

Clint isn't exactly sure where they're going, but he guides them out of the hall and toward the barracks. Fury told them to sleep, so Clint assumes he meant on an actual bed rather than all of them collapsing on the floor in crumpled heaps with the rest of the staff forced to accommodate. The faceless security team lurks behind them, a haunting, armed shadow.

It makes Clint's skin itch.

After finding an empty barracks meant for eight people, pointedly closing the door in the faces of the security team, and releasing Loki from his handcuffs, Clint goes into the adjoined bathroom and searches underneath the sink's cabinet. As he expected, there's a small first aid kit sitting beside a bunch of other miscellaneous bathroom supplies. He grabs it, stands upright, catches a glimpse of his reflection from the corner of his eye, and freezes.

Dark hair, deathly pale skin streaked with dirt and blood, vivid green eyes. Clint left-hand twitches. He looks at the mirror head-on, stomach pulling. He's staring at a murky version of Loki. He's watching himself. Is there even really a difference anymore?

He blinks.

His own haggard, exhausted appearance stares back at him, not Loki's, the image clearing. He breathes out sharply, blinking again. It doesn't change. It's just him.

He looks terrible. His eyes are rubbed raw with gray lines underneath them like some sort of vivid fashion statement. His posture is practically sloping with fatigue. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing out sharply.

His fingers tighten around the first-aid kit.

He swallows hard.

Clint forces his body to turn, every movement feeling mechanical and stiff. It's fine. It's not the first time it's happened. It's fine. He walks out of the bathroom, turns out the light with his elbow, and returns back to the main room, trying to pretend like nothing happened. Loki and Bruce have taken a seat next to each other on one of the lower bunks on one of the four bunk beds, the Asgardian carefully removing his jacket. Clint can see him peeling it off his skin near his elbow from saturation and grimaces.

Please don't let him be bleeding out.

Clint hands the first aid kit to Bruce and studiously ignores the fine tremor in his hand, then backs up several feet until his back brushes against the opposing bunkbed.

The chemist's mouth is drawn into a thin line. He and Clint share a brief look that Clint can't determine the meaning of. Mutual concern, maybe? Loki manages to wiggle from the jacket revealing the dark T-shirt and his forearms. Clint swears under his breath and beside him, Natasha sighs.

"Pulling stitches" was a generous understatement on Loki's part. His right arm down from the middle of his forearm to his wrist is practically soaked. Actually, that's a lot of blood, holy crap. How is he still functioning? He looks a little dizzy and maybe tired, but nothing indicates proper anemia. Which could mean absolutely nothing in regards to Loki. The man is a master at hiding pain.

The initial wound has stopped bleeding heavily, sluggishly draining down his arm like exhausted honey.

Loki breathes in sharply, bracing himself, before carefully lifting out his right arm toward Bruce. His other clenches into a fist, resting in his lap. The chemist slips on a pair of blue, plastic disposable gloves from the first-aid kit before gently taking the offered arm and smoothing a thumb across the ring of mismatched stitches beneath the blood to look for the broken ones; almost like he's wiping away red raindrops from a window.

Loki's face is impassive even though Clint knows, at a minimum, it can't be comfortable. Feeling strangely twitchy, Clint leans back heavily against the ladder for the bunk bed behind him and folds his arms across his chest tightly. He pushes the pad of his thumb into his third finger. He doesn't want to just stand here. The silence is a chokehold. His mind is reeling. He needs to do something. Now.

"Can you still move your fingers?" Bruce asks.

It takes a second, but Loki's hand flexes slowly. His eyes crease around the edges. "It is painful, but yes."

Bruce nods, then thumbs around for a moment more before stopping. He frowns, grabbing a gauze pad from within the first-aid kit to mop up some of the blood. Clint tilts his head a fraction to see what Bruce is looking at and presses his lips together. That wasn't popping the stitches, but one of the few patches of healed skin.

Awesome.

The injury of five months and counting has somewhat sealed over now, more so on Loki's left arm than right, leaving patches of sealed over skin with intermediate sections of black sutures drawn tightly into the flesh. Thick, heavy scarring around the area reveals months of mistreatment and continued re-stitching. Any hope that there was of preventing scarring got lost because of repeated trauma to the skin.

Staring at it makes Clint feel faintly nauseous. It's not as bad as what it could be, but that's not exactly a comfort. It's still bad.

It's the only injury that has remained from Asgard's prison. Somewhat. It did heal over a couple of different times, at one point for a little over a month, but then Loki used magic and it split open again.

Everything else from the prison has put itself back together. Loki's face doesn't even bare scarring from the whole lips-getting-sewn shut thing, which was honestly the minor concern at the time with Loki's arms basically hanging off his body, attached crudely with the equivalent of Asgardian duct tape.

Thor had to cut them off to get him out of the prison. The chains Loki was bound with were enchanted and he didn't have time to wait for a sorcerer to take apart the spell. There was a near-immediate intervention on the part of the Asgardian rebels when Thor got him out of the palace to reattach everything, but while it kept Loki together, it was a patch-job, not a surgery.

Maybe if Loki had had a medical intervention on a magical level, he wouldn't have the problems with nerve damage or his arms splitting open at the wound site because his traumatized magic hasn't quite figured out where it's supposed to leave his body: his fingers or the old amputation site. Hard choice, really. Take the easy way out where the skin stays intact or split the skin open and leak blood everywhere.

Until Loki's magic figures out what's going on and stops spurting out of his body at will, no magic.

If only they could actually convince Loki's subconscious of that.

Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose with the edge of his wrist, then turns to the first aid kit and withdraws a basic suture kit. Clint exhales softly, intimately familiar with the tools. Although out of everyone on the team, Clint is the most likely to seek medical help on a wound-not after the Battle, he's just…it's harder-Natasha isn't. She'd sooner tape a mortal wound together than find a doctor. Clint has cleaned up and stitched plenty of wounds on her.

Bruce withdraws the instruments and threads the curved needle. "I don't have anything to numb it," Bruce warns.

Loki does something very close to rolling his eyes, then, with actual sincerity, he says, "It's just a needle, Dr. Banner. I will be fine. But thank you."

Bruce looks at him for a moment, expression unreadable, then picks up the demon scissor-like instruments that Clint never bothered to learn the name of and carefully slips the needle beneath Loki's skin. Unaffected, Loki breathes out slowly and then looks up directly at Clint.

It doesn't seem to be an intentional choice, Clint is just in his line of sight, but he feels like he got caught staring all the same. Clint bites sharply on his lower lip and looks away. Part of him is afraid that if they hold gazes long enough that the Asgardian will figure out what happened and what Clint heard. Clint wants an explanation, but…not now. Not like that. There has to be a better time or way to bring it up.

A few minutes later of awkward silence beyond a dry joke by Loki, Bruce finishes the sutures and checks for other areas to stitch before cleaning the blood up with a wet rag that Natasha gets from the bathroom. Bruce wraps the area with gauze "just in case", hands Loki a water bottle, and then instructs Loki to get some sleep.

While Bruce puts away the kit, throws away Loki's bloody jacket, and cleans his hands, Clint and Natasha, now shifted to sitting side-by-side on the bed across from the Asgardian, silently watch as Loki drains the entire water bottle before laying down carefully on his back and tucking his right arm close to his chest.

Whether it's the pain from his arm or the emotionally taxing couple of hours, Loki's defenses fall and murmurs quietly, "You will keep watch, yes?"

Keep watch. Against the Chitauri? Against S.H.I.E.L.D.? Against what? And yet, even without that knowledge, Clint knows that his answer is yes.

Clint shares a brief look with his partner that speaks a thousand words before Natasha promises softly, "Of course. Get some sleep, Loki."

Loki nods once before squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling a breath wrapped into a shudder. With his arms wrapped around his stomach like that and his back pushed into the mattress, it almost looks like he's trying to cover all the vital areas of his body. But even though he's uncomfortable, he's still going to try and get some sleep. It's a simple gesture, one that Clint doesn't even think Loki is conscious of, but it makes something in Clint's stomach pull all the same.

Holy crap.

Loki really trusts them, doesn't he?

Right now, after all that the Chitauri just threatened him with, after the history of what Clint suspects was filled with some form of violence between the two, he's actually going to let his defenses down and rest. Because they're in the room with him, and he genuinely thinks that this fact makes it safe enough to try.

The realization feels like Loki just handed him something private, breakable, and sacred. Something hot burns in his chest. Clint looks away.

000o000

"Clint? Do you have your aids in?" Natasha's voice is so soft it's barely audible. Judging from the edge in her tone, it doesn't sound like the first time she's asked the question.

After an hour of mindlessly staring at the top bunk with his mind refusing to shut up despite Natasha assuring him she'd take first watch, Clint's brain feels like it's walking backwards through a thick, muddy soup of mental confusion. It takes him several long seconds to realize his partner said anything at all.

"Hm?" he hums, keeping half-lidded eyes focused on the edge of the bunk above them.

The room is illuminated by a soft overhead light that won't shut off and Clint has been tempted more than once in the last hour to forcefully disconnect it from the power. It's almost noon at this point, the light is intended to stay lit for emergencies during the day. How does anybody get sleep on this bloody thing? It's not like S.H.I.E.L.D. is known for its reliable sleeping patterns. Either the electrician was a sadist, or this is a major design flaw. Maybe both.

The sound of Natasha shifting next to him almost makes him jump. Beyond faint humming from the light, Bruce and Loki breathing deeply on the other side of the room, and the occasional set of footsteps outside the door, the room is utterly silent. Clint turns his head a little, watching as Natasha props her head up on one hand. He watches her lips move as she says something else, but he doesn't pick up anything beyond "there."

Whispers have a habit of all sounding the same to him now. Just a pitch of meaningless, breathy air. Sometimes really loud voices do the same thing, but that's only when he's really stressed.

He squints at her in confusion, shaking his head to indicate he doesn't understand.

Natasha's mouth tightens into a tense frown.

Clint shifts, rolling onto his side so they're facing each other, gesturing to her, and lifts up a hand, fingerspelling O-K? and raising his eyebrows. The Widow considers the question for a long moment before she shakes her head once. She lifts her free hand up for lazy, one-handed signing, carefully mouthing the words she's trying to sign so Clint can follow along.

"What happened in there?" she signs. Sort of. Clint focuses more on her lips than he does her hands, because they won't really help him. Much to Clint's private amusement and Natasha's eternal frustration, the woman's ASL is terrible. She tries, honest to God, but she thinks in mostly Russian, then has to translate that to English and then ASL's grammatical structure and her brain refuses to adapt or make it easier because it decided a few years ago that ASL was its mortal enemy until the end of time. She can understand it with relative ease, but signing something back to you is the challenge.

Clint's brow furrows. He lifts up his pointer finger and shakes it back and forth. "Where?"

Natasha's expression flattens as if she's annoyed. Written into the edges he can see concern. "In the prison. Did something happen to you? Like with Tony and Steve?" She fumbles with the name signs for a moment, drawing a circle over her chest for Tony and just waving a flat hand in front of her chest for half the normal shield they typically sign for Steve.

Clint's stomach tightens reflexively. She saw. Of course she saw. Clint wasn't being sneaky about the whole thing. The Chitauri started speaking and Clint lost any and all thoughts about trying to cover for himself. Everyone else had seemed so focused on the aliens. Actually, there's a horrifying thought, what if Fury or Hill saw him? He doesn't want to talk about it with Loki, let alone them.

He has to, though, doesn't he? At some point?

Clint hesitates. Staring at Natasha's face, he feels a tight, wordless energy coiling inside of him.

Panic. Anxiety. Shame.

"No." He signs back. "Not like Tony or Steve." Clint's hand drops for a moment, but he can see Natasha waiting. He doesn't know what to think, he doesn't know what to say. He just wants someone else to deal with this. He stays still, feeling desperate and guilty because for a wild moment he considers blatantly lying to her.

Sure. Great way to deal with problems, Barton. Just lie. That never goes wrong ever.

Clint's hand starts to lift up. He has no idea what he's going to explain, but it doesn't really matter in the end anyway. His brain-emotionally, physically, and probably spiritually, too, just for kicks-tired decides that nope, we're not doing this garbage game anymore. Clint has about all of two seconds to begin to spiral into another violent panic episode before he blurts out in a whisper so low he can't hear it, "I understood what the Chitauri were saying."

Natasha goes rigid. He doesn't look at her. The shame and overwhelming sense of guilt that crashes into him makes it impossible to. He's failed her. He was supposed to be getting his head back together post-scepter, and now he's running around with his brain melting into goopy piles everywhere he goes.

Natasha exhales, sharp. Her hands move aimlessly for a moment.

Clint feels a shudder wash through him, gnawing him to bone. He thinks he's going to shake apart, and when he does, splitting down the middle, there won't be anything left but a reflection of Loki. He doesn't cry, he doesn't implode, but it feels like he's teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

The game, however, is up. No more secrets.

"I don't know why," Clint signs to her. Mouthing the words as he moves his hands makes his entire throat hot even though he's not speaking. He feels inexplicably dirty. His partner's eyes are trained on his mouth, but he can see that her walls have tumbled and she's desperately trying to rebuild. Alarm is creased into her body like it was branded there.

Maybe this makes him a worse person, because he's pretty sure he's already a bad one, but seeing her freak out about this makes him feel a little better. This isn't normal then. Part of him had begun to wonder if it was.

"I don't know," Clint signs again. Natasha watches, swallowing hard. Her mouth parts slightly, but she doesn't say anything he can hear. "My brain is a mess. Ever since Loki"-name sign the gesture for grumpy with a quick shake of L afterwards-"got back to Earth, I keep dreaming his memories and now I can suddenly speak Chitauri? What the-?!"

He shakes his head, pushing hard against his forehead with his knuckles for a moment. He feels wrong.

Natasha's quiet for long moments, processing. It's after a careful consideration before she signs, "You're…dreaming his memories?" Clint can't read her face. He has no idea what she's thinking. It terrifies him.

Compromised. She thinks you're compromised. Natasha values trust and being able to tell someone something and knowing it will be taken to the grave. She thinks you're compromised and spilling her secrets all over everything. She's borne her soul to you for years and now she's worried you're giving it all up into a void and why did you say that why did you say that why did you say thatwhydidyousaythatwhydid-

Clint frantically backpedals, rubbing at the back of his neck. Please still trust me. He fumbles through the next few signs, making a mess of the grammar as he tries to make it make sense, "It's more like I'm…picking up radio waves, I guess? Maybe. I don't know. It's not all the time." Liar, liar, liar, "You're not…having that?" he asks weakly. "Maybe Loki's giving off dream radiation or something."

Actually that would make sense.

Sure, a soft, sickly sweet voice whispers in the back of his head. It sounds like Barney. And it has nothing to do at all with the fact that all your brains were in the same gunky soup via scepter influence for days. Nothing at all.

"No. I haven't had that," Natasha signs. "I've barely dreamt about him at all, and when I do, it's…not with him as a victim." The signs she uses don't make sense in the context of her words for the last part, but Clint ignores that.

Right. Scepter. Loki running around being a psychopath for a few days before an alien attack in New York. The Chitauri. Taunting Loki. Threatening him. They don't understand the invasion.

"Yeah," Clint signs. "Yeah. It's not like that for me."

Natasha breathes out slowly. She rubs at the lower half of her face for a moment, then her hand slides back, fingers rubbing at her ear to push at piercings. Anxious tic. "Is this why you haven't been sleeping?" she asks.

Clint hesitates. This feels like a trap. He doesn't know how much he can tell her. He doesn't want her to cut him out of her life forever because he's compromised. He feels like a child. He's seven and trying to explain about the fact that he's hungry to Barney who tells him to shut up, he's ten and he's explaining to Barney about wanting to go to school and his brother is slamming his fist in the wall next to Clint's head, he's twenty-two and telling Barney that he won't work with murderers anymore and Barney puts a hand on his gun.

The information Clint can tell people is always limited before they explode. Natasha's acceptance of him may be wide, but it's finite. Tasha is going to hate him for this. She can accept his past of sins because her own reflects it, but this is different.

Natasha takes his silence as a yes before he can say any differently. "You could have told me," she signs slowly, her expression tight with hurt. The shadows crossing over her face make her look haunted and slightly ethereal, red hair a halo around her pale skin.

No, I really, really couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Clint whispers in breathy English. He can feel his voice in his throat, but he can barely hear it. "I didn't know what they were. I thought it was just PTSD for a while, but it's not like that. They don't feel like dreams. It's like I'm actually there." He shifts his feet, his toe pushing up uncomfortably against the edge of the bed frame. "I didn't want it to be real."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. Her hand is sharp and jerky as she signs, "Your solution was to ignore it and hope it went away?"

That strategy sounded better in his head. He winces, then signs, "I guess?"

Natasha studies his face. Clint doesn't meet her gaze, afraid to. He's waiting for something to go wrong. Violence. Shouting. This isn't the first time that they've spoken about heavy topics with each other, and nothing traumatizing happened last time, but there's something about this entire thing that feels like a character flaw. He's revealed himself too much and now there's no going back to the safety of before. And Clint is terrified of the after.

Natasha's fingers, gentle and warm, rest on his arm. Clint forces himself to look at her. Soft green eyes stare back at him. He studies her face desperately, searching for the hidden anger and frustration, but all he sees is compassion and sympathy. "I'm sorry," she signs, withdrawing her hand, "I'm sorry that this is happening to you. I know you're scared. I am too. I wish this wasn't-" she fumbles for a moment, clearly having forgotten the sign she wanted. She exhales with annoyance then mouths, "wasn't your reality."

Clint squeezes his eyes shut. She's sorry. She's not angry. She's sorry. He blinks heavy eyelids open again, then shakes his head, whispering, "Don't apologize, please. I-I did…I deserve this. It's a recompense. Karma coming to collect its debt."

Natasha whacks him softly, annoyed. "No." If someone can sign firmly then Tasha is doing so. "You didn't do anything to earn this."

Clint huffs weakly. "You don't think?" he signs.

"No."

Funny. Cause Clint sure remembers his childhood and his job as an assassin differently than Natasha does. He killed sixteen people in the invasion alone, discounting his prior body count. Clint shakes his head, rubbing at his face. His wrist is beginning to go numb from leaning on his hand for so long. "And even if it's not that…then what? My brain is still tangled with Loki's? Because everyone said that everything was back to normal. There weren't any long-term effects until he came back and now?" he signs.

Natasha chews on the inside of her cheek. "I don't know." She admits, shaking her head with the sign. "I don't know what's going on. We can figure it out." Literally, the direct translation she signs to him on that last part is help you will, which feels him with a sense of overwhelming relief. I will help you. She's not going to leave him out here alone. Natasha signs, awkwardly, "There has to be something that can help."

"What if there's not? What if, for the rest of my life, I'm tethered to him?" Clint signs in question, desperate. And it's not the fact that it's Loki that makes this such a bad thing. It could be anyone and he wouldn't like this. It's the idea of no longer feeling like he owns his body. As if he has to co-host himself and then dedicate space to Loki's mess. He doesn't feel like he belongs to himself anymore. He's been bargained, bought, and sold to the scepter without anyone reading him the terms and conditions.

"Then we'll figure something out," Natasha promises. As if it's as simple as that.

What if we can't?

Clint rubs at his face. "I don't know what to do."

Natasha nods. "Have you told Loki about this?"

Clint hesitates, but his partner hasn't started yelling at him yet, so maybe he can squeeze in a few more sentences. "No. I know I should. He's the resident magic IT guy. I don't...want him to…do anything with it if he doesn't already know."

Natasha considers that. "Do you think that he would?"

"Do you?" Clint counters, eyebrows raised.

His partner's response is immediate. "No." Clint looks up at her and holds her gaze. He's not sure if he's relieved or annoyed by the answer. Relieved because he thought the same, annoyed because logically they should be paranoid. Natasha appends after a moment, "He doesn't have anything to gain by messing up your head. Not this time."

Logical, concise, and cold.

Clint exhales slowly. It feels like defeat. Loki is supposed to be their enemy. He's supposed to do all these bad things to harm them. And yeah, sure, Clint likes to goad him sometimes and they'll rub each other the wrong way, but Loki just…wouldn't do that. Not anymore.

Natasha's hand moves in the corner of his eye and he flinches, almost jerking back from her bodily. The Widow's fingers grip sharply at his bicep to stop him from tumbling off the bed, and both of them stare at each other for a long moment. Clint swallows hard. Natasha's fingers slowly tighten before she lets go.

Heavy, weighted sorrow settles onto her face. It's a look that he's seen on her more than once in relation to him. Which is kinda funny given how messed up both their lives are that they can still recognize when something really crappy happened.

"Clint," Natasha signs, using his sign name of bird. It's one that she gave him after she started learning ASL. It was also the first one he got that wasn't "C", "B", or derogatory. Even now, years later, his stomach still twists with warmth at the sight of it. "It's okay. I'm not going to hit you."

Clint licks his lips nervously. Miserable and embarresed, he signs reluctantly. "Sorry. Habit."

Natasha's expression darkens, but there's no usual entourage of following threats against spooning out Barney's organs with a fork, vivid skinning of his outsides, or whatever dark torture that pops into her mind. Right. Clint asked her to stop doing that because it of the following anxiety attacks. Sometimes he just wants to talk about his crappy brother without everyone promising vengeance about it.

Clint shifts his position a little, forcing Natasha to adjust the blanket they're sharing. So she is cold, then. At some point before they went to bed, she changed clothing into a loose gray tank-top on top of camo pants, and despite how the Helicarrier seems to have a stable temperature of about sixty degrees Fahrenheit, she hasn't said a word of complaint.

"What about you? You're not sleeping either." He points out. Natasha is more than willing to talk circles around everyone about themselves to avoid having a conversation about herself.

Natasha shrugs, looking away from him. She exhales, then admits, "What's there to say? I'm not okay. No one is. I just want to get some sleep."

Clint raises an eyebrow.

Natasha pointedly lays back down, settling her head on the pillow. Clint waits for a moment, then settles next to her. His partner sighs and brushes stray hair from her face. "Can we talk later? You keep watch?"

Clint is tempted to push her and force it out while she's exhausted with her filters down, but he respects her too much to push. He nods. Natasha looks relieved and shifts across the bed and lays her head on his chest. Clint wraps his arms around her shoulders and stares up at the bed frame above them again. His ears ache from wearing his aids for so long, but he doesn't feel safe enough to remove them.

He squeezes his eyes shut and holds Natasha tighter, wishing her presence was enough to chase away the nightmares.

000o000

Clint doesn't sleep, but he dozes. He doesn't wake Natasha up for another watch, figuring she's exhausted enough as it is. His senses are on high alert. Everything feels sharp somehow. Natasha shifts and he gets an adrenaline spike. Bruce gets up to use the bathroom and he gets an adrenaline spike. Loki moans lowly. Someone passes the door.

Eventually, the alarm for four hours that Bruce set before they all laid down goes off and Clint hears Bruce and Loki start to move around. Bruce, the sadist, turns on the light and the room is flooded with blinding artificial white. Natasha groans and shifts her head, burying her face against his shoulder as if she fully intends to never breathe again.

Clint squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away from the light, before giving up and throwing the arm not wrapped around his partner's shoulders across his eyes instead. There is no greater irony in the universe than not being able to sleep and wishing with every passing minute that the night would end, and then the night ending and that somehow being worse.

Natasha shifts her head to breathe again but makes no further movement to get up. Which Clint is completely fine with. The bed has turned into a five-star one in seemingly seconds, desperate to keep them captive. He's never been more comfortable in his life.

Both Bruce and Loki enter and exit the bathroom before Bruce asks, dryly, "Are you still alive over there?"

"No. Leave me to die." Clint moans dramatically.

"Alright then." He can practically hear Bruce's eye roll. "How did either of you end up on a most-wanted list?"

"With extreme skill and precision," Clint grumbles.

"I'm sure." Bruce's voice is thick with sarcasm.

Natasha shifts her hand a little before sacrificing it to the bitter cold outside the blanket to raise her finger in a rude gesture. Clint smirks. Bruce sinks heavily onto another bed, biting on a huff of laughter. There must be some sort of wordless conversation between Loki and Bruce because the chemist encourages "do it" and a moment later a pillow smacks into Clint's face. He twitches, shoves the pillow down, opens one eye to glare at the Asgardian, and then throws it back.

Loki catches it one-handed, face completely deadpan. Natasha grumbles something meaningless in Russian, eyes firmly shut.

"You know," Bruce says conversationally, doing something that Clint can't quite see from this angle with his hands. "I'm beginning to understand why Fury rarely lets you work together. If all you do on missions is cuddle then it's a wonder you two run half of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Manipulation, Doctor. That's a no-no. And it's only like a third, but thank you. Very generous to throw in that extra seventeen percent."

Loki throws the pillow at him again. Clint squawks in protest, scowling harshly at the Asgardian. There's a faint flicker of fond amusement in Loki's gaze that vanishes rapidly behind a wall of impassivity. Clint feels his mood sour a little looking at him, remembering earlier today. Lightheartedly, he says, "Rude. You're so grumpy, Lokes, oh my gosh."

"Get up." Loki says flatly.

Clint sighs heavily, submitting to the will of the universe, and Natasha's hands tighten on him as she feels him relent. "No." She mumbles weakly. She hasn't even opened her eyes yet. Clint bites on the inside of his cheek, wondering if this is the longest she's slept in one period since they left for France. That was what? Two and a half hours. Maybe three.

"Sorry," Clint sighs and leans down to kiss the top of her head.

"Traitor." Natasha grumbles, but nonetheless drags herself upward with effort. She blinks open heavy eyelids slightly swollen from sleep, scowls, and flops back down face-first onto the pillow. Clint pats her back twice in sympathy and forces himself upward on shaky legs. Everything hurts. Every joint in his body feels swollen and tight, like if he even tried to reach down and touch his toes-something he can normally do without a problem-he wouldn't make it past his knees.

A headache has also decided to start pounding behind his eyes, just because it can, and Clint squints unhappily. Great.

Clint stretches his arms up and makes a weird sound in his throat before visiting the bathroom. He studiously ignores his reflection after doing his business, scrapes a hand through his hair as a feeble attempt at containing it, and then exits and loudly says, "I'm happy to report that no one snores. Good job guys. We're a dream team. Best sleep over buddies. Five stars. Two thumbs up."

There's a momentary lull before Bruce asks, "Did you sleep at all?"

Clint snorts with amusement, reaching out a hand to poke Natasha on the back several times. She shifts, trying to escape him, but he keeps moving with her. "Make your best guess." He says.

"No." Loki answers.

"Yahtzee."

Natasha catches his wrist in a vice and he looks down at her mildly. She returns his stare with a vicious scowl. "If you keep poking me, the next anniversary that we share will be when I gave you the Syndey send-off."

His eyebrows raise. "Tasha." He complains.

Natasha releases him and crawls off the bed, slinking into the bathroom a few moments later. Clint laughs quietly as soon as the door is shut. He turns back to face the other two men and sees that while Bruce is watching them with quiet amusement and a soft sadness, Loki looks almost sick. His left thumb is anxiously rubbing into his right palm.

Clint tilts his head. "Are you going to throw up? You don't look good."

Loki blinks several times. He breathes out sharply. "She threatened you with dismemberment and you're laughing?"

Clint's brow furrows. He looks at Bruce for a second. "Yeah…?" Loki just stares at him, so Clint adds, almost awkwardly, "she's not serious? The only time she's actually hurt me was when we met and during your invasion. Y'know, discounting sparring. But-" A thought occurs to him, and Clint stares at the sorcerer with dawning comprehension. The Chitauri. Right. That is an ugly can of worms to poke at this early in the morn-this early in the afternoon. Late? What time is it? Clint fumbles over himself. "But you've heard her make that joke before and she never follows up with it. She wasn't serious."

Loki picks at the inside of his palm. "I see."

He doesn't, clearly, but Clint doesn't want to poke at that right now. Not in front of anyone. When-because it is a when, not an if, even though he wants it to be-when he explains about the Chitauri thing to Loki, he wants to do it one on one.

Bruce runs hands through his hair in agitation. "I guess, uh, Tony texted me and asked to meet in the cafeteria."

"When?" Clint asks, forcing his gaze away from the Asgardian.

Bruce winces. "Almost forty minutes ago? I don't know if he's still there."

Clint forces out a breath. Forty minutes. He doesn't know where Tony's head is at right now and while he's mostly concerned, part of him is dreading the interaction. Clint doesn't know how to help. All of them just sitting there and patting him on the shoulder isn't going to help anything long-term. But Tony wants them there to begin with, so that has to count for something, right?

"Food would be good." Clint agrees, resigned.

Chapter Text

"Why did he just tilt his head and squint?

It's his 'I've got a clue' face."

-Psych (TV)

Tony is sitting next to Steve in the cafeteria, both of them resembling the walking dead. Steve is slumped over the table with his head resting on folded arms, Tony beside him with a cup of coffee clutched between tense fingers. Even from a distance, Clint can see how exhausted they both look. Coming closer just exacerbates that.

As Clint slides into the spot beside Tony on the bench, he settles his own coffee in front of him and tears open one of the four granola bars he took from the vending machine down the hall. Rule one of S.H.I.E.L.D. is to never trust their cooking staff. Maybe he's just a paranoid bugger. Or he just didn't want to drag Loki through the line. The security staff has finally backed off to take seats around them, but far enough that they can actually have a conversation without prying ears. The cafeteria has enough people that it makes Clint feel a little twitchy. He thinks he even sees Hill.

Clint dumps the granola bars into the middle of the table as Natasha and Bruce do the same.

"Do you want one? It's peanut butter flavored, which means it's actually worth eating." Clint offers to the two men beside him. Loki, Bruce, and Natasha settle in on the other side of the table, their backs to the room. Loki's shoulders hunch up a little at the setup. People are staring at all of them, but particularly Loki. Maybe dragging him out here wasn't the best idea.

Tony squints gritty eyes at him. "Have you slept?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Clint asks, exasperated. He wiggles one of the unopened granola bars, taking a large bite of his own. Stale yet sticky, as expected. "Do you want it or no?"

Tony wrinkles his nose. "I'll pass."

Steve's tired hand practically flops across the table as he slides it out from underneath his head, palm open in quiet request. Tony lifts up his coffee to avoid an accidental spill, the weight of which assures Clint that Tony has barely sipped at it. Clint happily distributes the package into Steve's hand and watches with vague amusement as Steve withdraws it into his little cave, like a monster dragging away a bloody corpse.

"Have you eaten food in the last four hours?" Bruce asks Tony, eyebrow raised. He takes a bite of the mint-flavored granola bar that Clint privately grimaces at. He hates mint-flavored things. Far too many missions spent chewing desperately on mint candy to suppress hunger pangs has that effect.

The vending machine didn't have any chocolate, which is probably for the best. Just waterbottles, granola bars, and bags of pretzels that are probably older than Steve. Natasha, Bruce, and Clint poured practically all their spare change into the device figuring it was better than nothing. In total, they have two bags of pretzels and twelve granola bars.

"No." Tony admits after a moment. "But I'm pretty sure all of that would give me food poisoning."

Natasha opens up a bag of pretzels, sniffs it critically, and then takes one and pops it into her mouth. Apparently satisfied it's not immediately deadly, she offers the bag to Loki. The Asgardian takes some awkwardly with his shackled hands without complaint, fingering it for a moment as if trying to rub off toxins.

Clint pokes Tony in the shoulder. "Mint, peanut butter or, uh," Clint squints at the label, then smirks, "Nature Valley crunchy Oats n' Honey granola bars?"

Tony grimaces. "Aren't those the ones that are so hard they'll break your teeth?"

Clint shoves one toward him. "Yep! Maybe the mold has softened it up."

Tony sighs, relenting. He opens the package with stiff fingers before biting down. Sure enough, the loud crunch makes Clint's teeth ache in sympathy. He chews on his much softer granola bar. There's an ensuing silence as all of them desperately cram calories into their bodies. Between the six of them, the pretzels and granola bars are quickly watered down to a single granola bar that they unanimously shove toward Steve.

Clint's stomach is indecisive as to whether or not this impromptu meal has satisfied it. It has helped his headache, so there's that, at least.

"Was there a reason that you wanted us to get together?" Bruce asks Tony once they've collected the wrappings in the middle of the table. The crinkling sound makes Bruce hunch a little, like he wants to crawl inside himself. "Sorry that we didn't come sooner. We, uh, were sleeping."

Tony waves a hand, shrugging. "It's fine." It's clearly not, but okay. "I just want to leave. This place is…I just want to go home."

"I know," Bruce says softly. "Me too."

Home.

Something in Clint's stomach twists painfully. The Tower is home, not just a place that he sleeps in. It's somewhere that he feels safe. Things are better going home because home actually means he can let his guard down. Beyond a few scarce apartments here and there, Clint hasn't ever really had that.

"Do you feel up to that, Cap?" Natasha asks, "We're not leaving you up here by yourself."

Steve is quiet a moment, considering. Clint looks toward him past Tony's face to see the Captain's profile. Head tilted, mouth thin. Beneath the table, his hand is resting on his thigh, fist bunched in the fabric tightly. He keeps blinking. "I'll be fine." Steve decides. "As long as wherever I end up I'm horizontal."

"Do you need to be under medical aid?" Bruce asks. "Taking you home and you getting worse isn't the goal here."

"I know." Steve promises. "But I don't want to be here either."

The confession makes Clint feel wary. There's something different about their normal distrust of S.H.I.E.L.D., which is manageable, versus this big, gnawing hole that the Chituari have left in them. They pulled away what little safety they felt here and turned it into a nightmare. None of them want to be here right now. Even knowing that the Chitauri are within walking distance makes Clint feel a little sick.

Tony sighs through his teeth. "Well that's not happening until Captain Both Legs decides to give us the all-clear. Running off is only going to make this worse long-term, unfortunately. I just want to find Thor and if that means working with them..."

"I know." Steve sighs. He winces, pushing at his forehead, likely to try and ease a headache.

Tony takes a sip of his coffee, then looks at Loki. "On that note, what was it that you didn't want to tell Fury about that conversation? You were hardly being subtle there, Reindeer Games."

The Asgardian has barely spoken a handful of words since sitting down, and only looks up with mild interest when Tony addresses him. His right arm is resting on the table, the gauze clearly visible while Loki rubs circles into his palm with his thumb. "What do I have to hide?" Loki asks mildly, if a little toneless. "I have no desire to protect them."

Clint bites on the edge of his tongue, fist curling around the edge of a wrapper, as he thinks, almost desperately, you're protecting yourself. By not talking about any of this and pretending it didn't happen, you're not helping us. Say something about the Chitauri. Please. He doesn't want to be the one to bring it up.

"They didn't tell you anything about Thor?" Steve asks. "Anything at all?"

Loki digs his thumb into his palm. "Not much. As I told the director, they neither confirmed nor denied my suspicions." Loki is quiet for a long second as if debating whether or not to say anything before he relents, "To answer your question Stark, they told me that 'where you failed, your brother will succeed.' Along with a vague mention of torture. But they didn't even confirm that they had him, so I don't know..." The sorcerer sighs.

Vague mention of torture? Didn't they say something about giving Loki too many sessions with some sort of device? And then how they shouldn't do the same to Thor? That had not clicked in Clint's brain until now, but—

You don't know the Chitauri as I do.

—Well. Ha. Crap.

Torture. Sure. Let's add that to the list of things they didn't know about. It's almost like they lived two entirely separate events.

"They want to make Thor finish what you started?" Natasha asks. "Why? I thought you going after Earth was to spite Thor?"

Clint's eyes jump to the Asgardian. We don't know anything, comfortably lounges at the forefront of his mind. We don't know anything about this at all. Did you guys know the Chitauri tortured him? Loki's jaw tightens. He licks his lips.

Before Loki can answer that, Bruce asks, brow furrowed, "How do the Chitauri even know that Thor is your brother? I was there and I still wasn't sure about familial relationships until after the fact. Were you…talking about Thor with them?"

Loki's jaw sets, his body going rigid. Clint is inappropriately reminded of one of those wind-up toys where you twist up the key at the back until it's impossible to move anymore. Once released, it spins desperately until it blurs to deal with the pressure. Loki is that key, teetering on the edge of release, and Clint gets a distinct impression that it won't be pretty.

Clint doesn't want it to get to that point, but that's probably because he knows where this is going. It feels weird. For the first time, Clint is looking at the deck Loki's holding and knows what the cards are. Maybe not all of them, but enough that he can read the hand. If things were different, Clint might have poked him until the spring broke. Now?

"It's not that hard to put two and two together," Clint finds his mouth is moving, but can't remember deciding to do that, "Especially after Loki got taken back to Asgard. I'm pretty sure that the mothership or whatever is in charge of them now knows about Loki getting arrested and just…plopped that knowledge in their head. If Thor was the objective, they would know about him."

Everyone seems to agree with that because there aren't any arguments, but Clint sees Loki shoot him a puzzled look.

Clint desperately avoids it. Nope. We are not making eye contact. If Clint looks at him, he knows he going to say something he shouldn't. Even if they're relatively far away, the cafeteria is not the place to have this type of conversation, not with all of S.H.I.E.L.D's prying ears and eyes.

Speaking of which, they're still being watched. Tony and Steve picked a table that was tucked toward the corner of the room, but it doesn't seem to help. Everyone is watching them like they're the main attraction to some sort of show.

"But why Earth? What do we have that they want?" Tony asks, shifting faintly.

Clint shrugs. "Trillions in worldwide debt?"

Tony snorts into his coffee.

Loki sighs, grabbing one of the wrappers to start picking apart carefully. Honestly, Clint doesn't know if it's a good thing or not that he can tell how uncomfortable Loki is with the conversation. "Midgard has Stjerne Tårer."

"Stjerne...what?" Bruce repeats.

Loki scrapes his thumbnail on the inside of the wrapper, splitting apart vertically. "I'm not sure what you call it in English, but it's a type of metal that fell into your African region. Dwarf metal is very similar. It's coveted in the Nine. Not that it matters—" Loki shakes his head, breathing out sharply. "In truth, if they are having Thor finish what I started…the easiest solution would be to get Asgard involved."

Yeah. That's probably not going to happen. Actually, would the Asgardians unite back together for Thor? Interesting hypothetical and an irony that should be illegal given the fact that they split was because of Loki.

"Why? We stopped you." Natasha points out.

Loki does something close to a grimaced wince. "That's because I wasn't trying." He mutters. He wasn't—there was—Loki was trying. The mind control and opening a portal in the middle of New York wasn't trying? Clint wants to pounce on that, but Loki's faster, desperately scrambling to say something else as if he didn't mean to let that slip, "Stopping me has little to do with stopping Thor. My brother is a force of nature. With the way that I am…" Loki awkwardly lifts up his hands as if to encompass them, "I would hardly be able to assist. Even with my sedir, I'm…I could hardly be considered an equal. The Avengers are formidable, but you have little experience fighting magic."

That was a compliment. Sort of.

"Thor isn't magic. He's like…a lightning rod." Tony protests. "You do magic. He does…" Tony makes an awkward gesture with his hands, trying to think of a word. He doesn't find one.

Loki raises an eyebrow. "Magic. Mjolnir is simply a means for Thor to channel his power. Like a wand. He doesn't need it. To be honest, I would argue that he would be stronger without his hammer. Which…does beg the question of where it is."

That—

Is a really good point.

When Mjolnir decides to sit somewhere, heaven and hell will deteriorate into nothingness around it before it moves. No one has found any evidence of Thor. Not even Mjolnir. Who in this freaking universe could move that hammer if they took Thor? Not the Chitauri. God, please not the Chitauri.

No one has anything to say to that, because there isn't an answer to that question. With Thor is the hope, because at least that means Thor will have something to defend himself with.

"Could Asgard even stop Thor? If worst comes to worst?" Natasha asks seriously.

Loki hesitates, before admitting slowly, "Thor is not like me. Elemental powers are a different subset of magic. If the Chitauri attempt to injure his magical core, he would be a time bomb instead of just broken." Loki rubs a hand across the bottom of his face, agitated, "Our mother and Odin could at least contain him. We—They have means for hindering magic. Drugs and spells. It would be the only way to help or stop him until he recovered."

"You don't think we could stop him?" Natasha's expression is unreadable.

"No." Loki says bluntly. "I don't. Not without killing him."

A shiver of apprehension washes down Clint's spine. He's never really been afraid of Thor before. Thor's a sunshine child. He smiles and laughs with a carefree nature that belies the worries that haunt his face. He's never been something to fear. Clint has a healthy respect for him, yes, but not fear. But Loki, who has known Thor for hundreds of years, is afraid of what he could do.

"Can the scepter even work on Asgardians?" Bruce questions, finally asking the idea they've all been skirting around. Thor attacking them. Because he's mind-controlled. Because of the scepter.

Loki pauses for a moment, hands stilling over the wrapper. "Yes. No mind is immune to it."

Well at least he's not some sort of weak exception. Not that knowing this honestly helps. A swirl of dread sitting in his stomach like concrete. The phantom feeling of cold fingers settling over his mind makes him want to heave.

"So—" Clint starts to ask, but is interrupted as hands clamp down on the end of the table with a loud thunk. A figure looms over them. Clint doesn't quite jump, but he twitches, hand going to the knife in his jacket.

Clint looks up and bites on a swear.

Oh, freaking—

An older white man is standing there with graying blond hair anywhere from forty to sixty. His eyes are slightly wild, a desperate, wilted look about his features. He's not wearing a dress suit, dressed in tactical gear, and obviously armed. Clint recognizes him on the spot. In the entirety of the invasion, Loki only possessed three people: Dr. Selvig, Clint, and Nathan Swenson.

Everyone else that helped, as Clint explained to Loki, "S.H.I.E.L.D. has many enemies." The only three people forced to be there were them.

Swenson and Clint never got close, but Clint saw him a lot during the initial weeks after the invasion when S.H.I.E.L.D. was combing through their brains for after effects they never found. Ironically, maybe all they needed to do was wait two years.

Fantastic. This is cinematic timing that they'd even be in New York at the same time. God himself couldn't have written this.

Swenson is flocked by a couple of other agents, but though they're all scowling into the side of Loki's head like this is some sort of achievement that they're standing there, Swenson is trembling. He looks like he's either going to faint or throw up, his face so gray it's almost chalky. His eyes are rimmed by deep shadows, wide with obvious, severe sleep deprivation. His shaking hands are making the entire table rattle.

"Agent Swenson," Natasha says carefully. She doesn't know what his intentions are either.

All Clint knows is that Swenson put himself close to Loki on purpose, within grabbing distance, and he doesn't like that at all.

Swenson ignores them entirely. "Stop. Please. I haven't in six days."

Clint's brow furrows. What the...? What is he—what?

"Nathan," one of the agents behind Swenson says piercingly. "Don't beg the psycho!"

"I haven't slept in SIX DAYS!" Swenson repeats, louder, harder, more desperate. He looks at Loki, fingers tapping against the rim of the table in a familiar patter of anxiety. "Please."

Loki stares at him, looking more confused than anything. "I beg your pardon?"

"You—" Swenson stares at him, disbelief slowly growing in his features, morphing into anger. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

Clint winces internally. Right. They haven't met yet, have they? Officially? Loki's been back to the Helicarrier exactly once since Thor took him off of Asgard, and that was when Thor begged asylum for his mostly-dead sibling. Loki probably doesn't even remember being here. And although Swenson has asked Clint a few times about Loki, Clint's information has been scarce.

This is not the confrontation that Clint wants to deal with right now. They need to get off the Helicarrier before all of S.H.I.E.L.D. decides to do a murder. Would Fury even try to stop it? Probably not. He'd just tell Hill to bury Loki in the backyard and then pretend they have no idea what happened even though it's on video.

"Nathan." Clint warns. They're gathering a larger audience. Maybe they've always had one, watching and waiting for the moment to strike. Clint remembers seeing Swenson at a different table but not registering who it was.

"Shut up, Barton." Swenson growls without looking at him. He stares at Loki furiously. "You don't get a say in this, traitor. You sided with the murderer."

Traitor?

"What the—" Clint starts to sputter.

"Wait." Tony says, and Clint can hear comprehension building in his voice. "This is Nathan Swenson?" Without waiting for a confirmation, Tony swears heavily, but it's like all of them are frozen, suddenly incapable of de-escalating a situation despite having done so dozens of times before. They're just watching.

The worst part about this is that looking at Loki's face, Clint can see that Loki truly has no idea who Swenson is. He's staring at the agent and seeing a stranger. His life is as meaningless to Loki as some passerby in the street.

People are drawing closer. Listening. Watching.

Clint feels like they're on display.

"My name is Nathan Swenson, and I'm the third person you possessed in your little run-around daddy's tantrum two years ago. You ruined my life and you don't even remember me, boss." Swenson says. He points a finger harshly against his own chest.

There's a very long, tense moment before Loki intones, "Ah." Swenson's hands curl into tight fists. History between them laid out for all to bear, Loki appends, "Yes. Agent Swenson. Forgive me, the last years have not been kind to me. I take it you want to address your grievances."

"His grievances?" one of the agents repeats. "You're joking."

"Well he is plotting with the Chitauri again despite being surrounded by his enemies so can we really expect anything smart to come out of his mouth?" a different agent asks.

Loki's jaw sets. Swenson slams a hand against the table and all of them stare at him as the clang resonates through the room like a judge's gavel. Clint fully expects Swenson to hit Loki. He doesn't. "Shut up, all of you! You're not helping. Stop. Stop all of this now. I don't want any part in this anymore!"

Loki's eyes squint with confusion, but his face remains impassive. "Stop?" Open-ended question. Inviting him to speak. Let Swenson guide the conversation until there's more data. Interrogation tactics.

"I will freaking BEG YOU IF YOU WANT THAT!" Swenson shouts. Clint finds himself half rising for physical intervention. Bracing. Swenson is on the edge of unhinged. "You think this is funny? You think so? It's not. It's not. I—" hopelessness clearly flashes on Swenson's face before he lashes out and snatches Loki's arm, half dragging him upright. Loki's left hip violently smacks into the edge of the table with a rattling snap.

All of them jerk, raising in their seats.

"Swenson." Steve's voice is low. It's not a warning, it's a threat.

Swenson's fingers dig harshly into the gauze like he's sinking his hands into fresh snow. Loki makes a choked, whispered sound in his throat, his bound hands flexing painfully in reaction to the pain. Loki doesn't try to move away, he doesn't scream, he just holds his wrist and blinks heavily as if the instinct to fight has been beaten out him entirely.

Swenson shakes his head, blinking rapidly, then shakes Loki physically. "Stop it, stop it now!"

Clint's breath escapes him sharply. Clint moves off the bench, intending to approach Swenson from the side and force him off, the other agents watching with approval aside.

Loki starts to say something, but Swenson squeezes his arm hard enough that a pool of blood wells against the gauze. "Dritt!" Loki exclaims, trying to violently pull back but only making something worse because he shouts, "I don't know what you're talking about! Stop! Let go!"

"THE DREAMS!" Swenson roars, "STOP GIVING ME THE DREAMS!"

The—

What.

Clint stops moving.

"Swenson! Stand down!" Steve shouts. He's on his feet, full six-foot military captain in his voice. Clint can see that in the corner of his eye, but he can't— "Let him go. Now!"

Swenson makes a wordless sound and Loki shudders in pain. The sorcerer's voice is choked as he says, "What dreams!? What are you talking about? I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Liar!" Swenson shouts. "You know what I'm talking about and I can't—make them stop or I swear I'll freaking kill you!" Before any of them can react to that, Swenson pulls Loki forward and throws him to the floor harshly. He lands hard in between the group of agents, barely missing smashing into one entirely. Loki's head snaps up as he twists around to look back at Swenson, who draws a .45 and points it at him shakily. "I can't take this anymore. I'm going freaking crazy! You don't think I'm serious? I'll shoot you. I will shoot!"

Move.

Move.

Clint can't move.

The dreams. Swenson is having the dreams. Is Loki giving them the dreams on purpose? All of them? This can't be happening. Is this even real?

Swenson's gun is held out, suspended in time. His hand is shaking, the safety is off. One wrong move and Loki's going to have a new hole in his body. They have to get the gun out of his hand. They have to—

Is Loki doing it on purpose? Is he driving you crazy just because he can?

Loki wouldn't do that.

He wouldn't.

And yet—

(What do you trust more? Your gut, that says Loki doesn't have anything to do with this or the evidence in front of you?)

"C'mon, you're not going to do anything? Where's the God we're supposed to be worshipping?" One of the agents around Loki gives his back a harsh kick. Clint flinches. Loki's entire body shudders.

"I don't know what dreams—!" the Asgardian tries to say. Someone else slams their foot into Loki's face. The ten feet between them feels like miles. The agents are circling around Loki, forcing them out and from being able to prevent anything.

"Yeah, I just don't believe you though."

Clint feels like he watches the next few moments in third person. This is all happening to someone else. He's just observing.

A female smashes their hand onto Loki's open palm with enough force that she probably bruises fingers. There's a flash of metal, a knife, from someone else. Swenson's gun discharges, the bullet lodging somewhere near Loki's feet. There's a chorus of laughter at the sound of terror that Loki makes. That's my friend. Oh my gosh. Clint, move you idiot. He can't. There's—there's—he's stuck. He's frozen. He's nothing. He's—

There's this—blur. Natasha jumps from the table and violently smashes her entire body into Swenson's back. Both of them go down hard to the floor, Natasha wrestling the gun from Swenson's hands with a harsh tearing motion. She rolls to her feet, then plants herself over Loki, leg on either side of his stomach, Swenson's gun trained into the crowd, eyes cold, expression empty.

She thumbs the chamber, "Your move."

Stand down, Clint silently pleads with all of them. Please. Stop. Don't let this go any further than it has to.

There's a breathless moment of stillness.

Swenson gets to his feet and pulls a knife.

The movement seems to restart Clint's brain from the lagging fog it was scrambling through. Swenson dives toward Natasha. Two things happen at that moment. Tony's foam coffee cup smacks into the back of Swenson's head and Clint kicks off the edge of the bench for leverage before tackling Swenson to the floor. Everyone seems to explode into movement around him.

Clint and Swenson land in a jerking movement of impact and straining muscles.

Swenson fights back viciously, attempting to get off the floor, but Clint doesn't let him. Stopped, but not under control yet, there's a flash of metal as Swenson swings the knife toward Clint's stomach in a wide arc. It gets close enough that it nicks fabric.

Clint pulls away, landing hard on an elbow, then shoves back up and grabs Swenson's wrist. They fight for control of the knife, Swenson violently kneeing him in the stomach. A few more desperate blows and blocks pass between them both before Swenson brings the knife to shove up into Clint's chest. Clint grabs his wrist, pushing back desperately.

If that hits, it's fatal.

Natasha's gun discharges twice.

Crap. He can't look. He can't—

Clint's teeth set. Muscles contract. His body is in a tensed, pliant position. Biting on his tongue, he shoves with his core and sends Swenson toppling back a few feet. Taking the advantage, Clint tumbles up to his knees to get more force for the swing before smashing his fist into Swenson's jaw.

Swenson hits the ground with a thud and doesn't get back up.

Clint, in a half crawling, half-kneeling position, grabs the knife, pushes back, and exhales deeply. His hands are steady.

He turns around, expecting a mess of blood and bullet wounds, and sees a few bloody noses and one guy who probably will need a few rounds of knee surgery, but no bullets. warning shots, then. Loki has been dragged up to his feet and is behind Natasha, slightly hunched over. Bruce and Steve are standing in front of him, completing the shield from as many angles as possible. Bruce and Steve's knuckles are bleeding.

Tony's hand grips at his arm, pulling him back and up to his feet. Clint allows it to happen, breathing hard, looking up at Tony for a moment. The engineer's eyes frantically search him, eyes studying his. Are you okay? is a wordless question and Clint nods breathlessly. I'm fine. I'm okay.

Tony's lips thin tightly. He has a gun and Clint doesn't know from where, but it looks comfortable in his hands.

Agents swarm around Swenson's fallen body and Tony pulls him back further. Clint's feet feel stiff. Adrenaline is pumping through his body, waiting for the next hit.

"Why the heck did you attack him!" one of the agents exclaims, looking up at him in accusation. "You didn't need to hit him!"

"I—" Clint starts.

"Are you joking?" Tony asks, lifting up his gun. "Honestly. Just. What the—"

Swenson groans faintly, consciousness slowly seeping back in. Clint's hands curl into fists. The knife feels heavy in his hands. Tony won't let go of his arm and part of Clint is grateful for that. He wants the contact, almost needs it in a way. A different man stands up, finger pointed in anger. He was part of the security team. A disturbing number of these people were the security team. "Agent Swenson didn't do anything! Just because he disagrees with the Avengers buddying up with a terrorist doesn't mean that you get to punch his lights out."

"He had a knife." Clint says, they've backed up enough that Clint could reach out and touch Steve. The agents have followed, stalking toward them, furious.

"Back up," Natasha snarls, hands tightening around the gun. "I will shoot. Back up."

They don't.

"You're really going to defend that!?" a woman accuses.

"Yes." Bruce growls a deep, throaty growl in his voice. They've gotta be teetering on a dangerous edge to releasing Hulk.

A man laughs loudly. "Do you think anyone would care if that megalomaniac's brains ended up splattered across the floor?" the same agent demands. Thor would. We would. "You're just saying that because you're justifying the actions he made you do. You're under his control, all of you! None of you would care if you weren't! You saw what he did!"

The idea is both so absurd and so terrifying that Clint exhales a nervous wheezy sound.

Tony's fingers tighten on his arm in reassurance.

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" Tony asks. It has got to be one of the most casual ways Clint has ever heard someone ask and why should we care about your opinion? The business savant that is Tony Stark is unparalleled.

The agent opens his mouth to respond—WILCOX his nametag reads is big black letters—but he doesn't get the chance to retaliate Tony's words. "Hey!" Hill's voice, sharp and commanding, smashes into the room like a hard punch. "That's enough! Break it up! I said stand down!"

None of them lower their weapons.

Bruce's arm snaps across Loki's chest, shoving him back further behind the wall of Avengers. Clint's teeth set. He watches with gnawing dread as Hill splits the crowd like she's Moses to the Red Sea. Swenson is being helped to his feet by a few other agents all watching them with smug, flith-eating grins on their faces, but the deputy director barely bats an eye in their direction. Instead, she comes directly up into Clint and Tony's faces, glancing once at the others behind them.

Anger is visibly forced to smooth in her expression. "Agent Barton, give me the knife." She says, voice tight. Trust me. Give me a weapon. This woman has been his superior for years. He has her personal cell in his contacts, and yet at this moment, he hesitates. Who can you trust when you protect the despicable?

Why should they stand down when the others haven't yet?

Hill's face softens. "Clint," she says, quiet.

Teeth set, stomach tight, and nearly every instinct at him screaming not to, Clint hands her Swenson's knife. She doesn't immediately stab him with it. Instead, Hill takes it and slides it onto her belt where it stays out of anyone's reach. He doesn't know if she's going to yell at them. It's not a great feeling. Figures of authority being angry always feels like you're the personal cause for every minor slight in their life.

Hill exhales.

"Romanov." Hill says flatly.

Natasha barely looks at her. "No."

Hill wisely doesn't push the issue. "I saw the whole thing," she says lowly, "get out of here. I'll call to set up a plan for us to start tracking Thor, but you're no use to us if you're beaten to a pulp."

She's discharging them. Oh, thank God. "Understood, Ma'am." Clint says faintly. He feels far away. "Thank you."

Hill nods. She turns to look at the group of agents watching them in mild disbelief. Swenson is being helped to his feet by a few of the people and seems disoriented, but no less angry. In fact, the moment that his balance has settled, he starts to move toward them. Clint braces, but Hill slides into place between them both.

"Swenson! Stand down."

"You don't understand!" Swenson says desperately. "The dreams—!"

"That wasn't a suggestion, agent."

"Why are you defending Loki!?"

"Traitor!"

"Harrison," Hill's voice is calm. "Shut up."

Tony's fingers shift on Clint's arm a moment before the multi-billonaire starts to pull him back. "C'mon." He says lowly, "Let her handle it. Let's go." Clint nods. He forces his body to turn so they can exit the room, Natasha's gun a gunpowder sheild between them and everyone. Despite the eyes staring holes into their backs, no one stops them.

000o000

It's only once they're on a Quinjet twenty minutes later and starting the pre-flight checks to head back to the Tower that Natasha puts the gun down, Bruce stops looking the wrong pigment, and everyone seems to breathe. It's also about this time that Clint realizes that his abdomen is burning with persistent, overwhelming pain. He kept touching it without knowing why earlier. Maybe he didn't get out of the way of the knife as quickly as he thought.

Natasha, always his co-pilot when they're together, frowns at him when she notices he's stopped moving. "What?"

The tense energy in the Quinjet, thousands of things unspoken but needing to be, makes it almost hard to breathe. Clint, thoroughly put out and completely done with today, tomorrow, and anything in-between until mid-next week, angrily shifts to face her then lifts up his shirt. "Am I bleeding?"

Natasha promptly swears loudly in Russian.

They couldn't have timed it better if it was scripted. Clint snorts a laugh, feeling a little faint, and looks down at his abdomen. He is bleeding. Not a gaping-hole-you're-gonna-die kind of bleeding, but more so a you have a two inch gash and it's bleeding kind of bleeding.

Clint laughs again. "This is great." He says loudly. "It must be why they tell you to wear tight shirts, right? So you know when you got the knife poke-poke? Look at that, Tasha, my shirt's not even cut. Amazing."

"What?" Steve asks loudly behind them.

Natasha swears again, scrambling to remove her headset. Clint pokes at the skin above the cut and releases a sharp, wheezed expletive. His partner grabs his wrist, pulling it away. Her fingers are a web of healthy skin against his colorless gray. "Don't touch it, you idiot." She says, squatting down in front of him so she can look at the injury.

"Oops." Clint intones in a deadpan.

Bruce appears over Natasha's shoulder. He, too, swears, which surprises Clint. Bruce doesn't swear that much. He's one of those people that believes there are other, better ways of expressing frustration. Clint personally found that there can be a lot that is expressed with four-letter ones. Bruce pushes both hands through his hair. "Oh my gosh." He says. "Can one of you keep yourself together for five minutes!"

Clint laughs again.

"It's not freaking funny!"

It is. Just a little bit.

"Ignore him," Natasha suggests. Her body is rigid with tension. "He's slept maybe fifteen hours in the last week, is in shock, and in the middle of a panic attack."

Clint's brow furrows. "Why on earth would I be in the middle of a panic attack?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him.

Tony grips Bruce's arm. He's not looking at the chemist though, choosing to stare at Clint's bloody abdomen which should make Clint feel subconscious but instead it just feels funny. Tony's expression is dead, even as he addresses Bruce, "Let's, just, uh, sit down. Okay? You don't have to deal with this. Nat's got great first-aid skills and it doesn't look that serious. Just sit down."

"I have to—"

"No, you don't. He's going to be fine. I promise." Tony assures.

When this is all over, they all need to sit down and have a discussion. Bruce has reached and emotional limit days in the making. Clint recognizes this on a deep level. Outwardly he thinks that he's beginning to get a sleep deprivation crash. (Like Swenson? Who's gonna bet he next person who pulls a gun on Loki? You?) He's bleeding and it's funny. He's in pain and it's funny. These things shouldn't be funny and they are.

Loki, no longer handcuffed, hands Natasha a first-aid kit which she opens. As she grabs the needed supplies, Loki takes her abandoned seat across from him and stares at Clint with a pinched expression. His cheek is a little red and one of his fingers looks swollen. His eyes drop to Clint's injury and his fists clench.

He's angry. Or worried. Maybe both. Clint drops his head on the back of the chair, letting out a few lazy laughs at the absurdity of all of this. Them. The Avengers. Pulling guns on S.H.I.E.L.D. staff to defend Loki. Clint basically took a knife for him. Six months ago this wouldn't have even been a possibility, let alone reality. Maybe they are under Loki's control.

"Stop laughing." Natasha says, not looking up at him.

"Kill joy." He complains.

"You're making it worse." She counters.

"It's like a really long paper cut." Clint shrugs, then winces. Ow, okay so maybe it hurts a little more than a paper cut. Natasha pushes at something that sends a shocking jolt through his entire nervous system and Clint bats her hand away with a hiss. Very much not just a paper cut. He lied and he regrets it and God can stop punishing him for breaking a commandment. He gets it.

Natasha flattens out a piece of gauze on his stomach tightly. She's applying pressure and it feels awful.

"Stay still. Ptitsa." All her words are harsh and choppy.

Clint wants to say something in retort to that, but all he can focus on is how the world is spinning and his mouth is dry and he's going to be sick. He's cold. His heart is smacking in his ears and holy freaking crap somebody almost stabbed him. In the Helicarrier. In a S.H.I.E.L.D. base. In a place that's supposed to be safe. Everyone wanted to hurt them. They were going to so they could get to Loki.

Swenson is having the dreams.

His dreams.

Everything is—

It's—

He

Spinning. He can't seem to keep himself upright. There's a scramble of hands. Clint doesn't fall flat on his face, but to say he's smoothly guided off the pilot's seat would be an overstatement. Natasha and Loki both carefully help lean him against a nearby wall.

Natasha is swearing loudly in several languages and blurring expletives together. Natasha grabs his shoulders harshly as if she can physically pull him out of his head fog. Her fingers feel like knives. Sharp and cold and unfamiliar and painful. She's a spider gripping him by her pincers.

"Romanov." Loki says sharply, hand on her wrist. "Let go. You're hurting him."

"He's—He can't—he needs—"

What? Clint wonders dully. What do I need?

"Natasha," Loki's tone is softer. "Get this into the air. I will take care of your beloved."

His partner looks at Loki, hard, before she exhales. She has to work to remove her hands from Clint's shoulders before stiffly getting up to her feet and moving back to the pilot's seat. Clint hears someone else ask Loki a question, but he doesn't know who or what it was. The words are a meaningless blur to him. Loki answers it before he settles in front of him.

Your calm is a facade.

None of us are okay right now. You know that?

Look at that. Steve's leg is bouncing despite how much it hurts him but he can't get it to stop.

"Barton? I swear that we're safe here. We're headed home. What else can happen?" Loki asks softly. Never fate the universe. "We're safe."

"He was—he—" Clint tries to explain but can't. The dreams. He was having the dreams.

"I know." Loki says, even though he doesn't. Loki had no idea what Swenson was talking about, but Clint did. And he shouldn't have. He wishes he didn't. He wishes he was ignorant. "I know. It's nothing that can be helped right now. Just breathe."

Clint incoherently mumbles some more while Loki softly encourages him to breathe, before the Asgardian bites at his lower lip before relenting and saying quietly, "I don't have any socks on right now."

That—socks. He's not wearing any socks. Loki's not—Why isn't he wearing any socks? Doesn't he know how bad that is for his feet? What about blisters and that weird gross sweaty feeling you get from not wearing socks in shoes for long enough?

Clint's brow furrows. "You're not?"

"No." Loki shakes his head, "Your deputy director was herding us out the door. I didn't have time to find any."

"That's dumb."

"It was, yes."

Clint huffs a little, swallowing hard. He exhales, hard, like he's trying to push every negative, bad feeling in his chest out. He can't empty his lungs enough for that, but a few deep breaths help considerably for clearing his head.

It's like crashing into a brick wall face-first when he feels himself settle back into his body.

Everything is heavy.

After riding the wave of anxiety, sleep-deprivation induced euphoria, it's almost physically painful to settle back into a wave of depressive, sharp anxiety.

His stomach hurts. Every breath feels like he's stretching the skin apart and inviting thousands of sharp knife-wielding air molecules to come launch themselves into the cut at full force. He knows that his face scrunches up, can feel it doing so, and all he can do is muster faint annoyance at this fact. Clint has never been very good at being stoic with his emotions around people he trusts.

Loki studies his face, and Clint gives him a tight nod. He's good. Beyond the cut. Stab. Whatever they're going to call it.

Clint fumbles with the first-aid kit for a moment before grabbing a package of gauze, tearing it open, and pushing it against his stomach. Holy—suck it up. Clint squeezes his eyes shut, exhales, forces his brain to adjust to the pain, and then opens his eyes again.

Loki is staring at him. Half upright, hands waiting to help, his gaze is intense. He licks his lips nervously. "I could..fix this. With sedir."

Clint immediately reaches up his free hand to grab at Loki's cold fingers before he can try. "Grumpy-L, if you use one little droplet of magic on me, your arm is going to come shooting off and smack me in the face." He breathes out hard before appending more seriously, "Don't hurt yourself for me. It's okay…I'll barely think about it in a few days. I probably wont even need stitches." He looks at Natasha for confirmation, who frowns, which is pretty much a yes and repeats, "Probably."

"You're in pain." Loki protests.

Clint drops Loki's hand. "And you doing that would make you be in pain, so it's a no-go."

Loki releases a sharp breath and sits back carefully on his heals. He reaches a hand back to grab a chunk of hair, pull, then run his fingers through it anxiously. Huh. It's pretty hard to forget that Thor and Loki are siblings, but Clint has seen Thor do this little ritual more times than he can count. A good chunk of the time when Thor gets emotionally overwhelmed his entire body seems to just shut down and he doesn't move, but if he does it's to do something to his neck. Rub, scratch, pull on his hair, etc. This is Thor's habit, and Loki's doing it without thinking about it.

It makes him wonder in a vague, disgusted way what antics he picked up from Barney that he still does.

A few minutes later, after the bleeding has stopped—no stitches—Loki helps him tape down a gauze pad after applying antibiotic cream. Natasha has the plane in the air, and Clint tries to relax at the familiar sensations of the sky against his back, but it's not helping.

Tony has coaxed Bruce into playing some sort of counting game with an absurd amount of math figures that neither of them seems to be trying very hard at while Steve sits slumped against Tony's other shoulder, eyes closed but not asleep, hands clenched into tight fists. Natasha's entire body is stiff like she's made of wooden beams instead of human skin.

"Barton?" Loki asks quietly. Clint doesn't answer, but shifts his gaze to the Asgardian. "Thank you."

Clint frowns. "For what?"

Loki looks away from him, picking at the palm of his hand. Clint wishes he wouldn't do that. He's picked sores into his palms before. "You didn't have to stop any of them. Or Swenson. Whatever they would have done to me, I deserved. But...thank you."

Clint stares at him. Swenson was going to shoot Loki. It wasn't a little matter of oh, yeah, he'll rough him up a bit. Give him a few bruises. And the agents seemed ready to beat him to death. Part of Clint is tempted to make a joke that he got in the way for Natasha, but he knows that's not true and it would be unfair to tell Loki that. Natasha had a gun. She would have been fine. People would have been dead, though.

Clint tries to play it off as cool, but he can't quite get there. It comes off as edgy and a little desperate. He's a serious actor trying to play off a comedic character. "He was going to kill you. I'm not entirely comfortable with that idea anymore."

Something dark and vicious flicks through Loki's eyes. "He's entitled."

He's—

"Dude. What the—?" Clint starts to say, utterly flabbergasted.

"I hurt a great deal of people in my invasion," Loki says, like a normal person thing to do is casually agree with people wanting to kill you; what sort of Shakespearian dystopian world is this? "Justice must be served."

Justice must be served.

Loki continues, quieter, "I killed thousands. What I did to you…" he shakes his head. "There is no physical pain that could ever atone for that."

Thousands.

What…thousands?

It wasn't thousands. The confirmed body count was seventy-four, with a little over a dozen minor injuries, and millions in property damage. And yeah, about a hundred S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were killed, but you want to know who was the leading cause in that? Clint. And the Tesseract. Where on Earth is he getting his statistics from?

A thought occurs to Clint then that enrages his entire soul, lighting a fire of protective energy in his stomach that practically enwraps Loki. Did Odin tell him it was thousands? While he was sitting up their and torturing his child did he freaking play mind games with him? Because Clint is going to eviscerate Odin, Thor's emotional distress or not if that's the case.

"Who told you that?" Clint blurts.

"What?" Loki asks, confused.

"That it was thousands? Who told you?"

Loki seems a little off-put by his sudden intensity, but says, quietly, as if he's afraid he's going to say the wrong thing and Clint wants to reach out and shake it from him, "Odin did. He…He said that I killed thousands of Midgardians."

An intense surge of furthering anger washes through him, like a physical being crawling inside his stomach. Clint swears, furious. Loki withdraws physically, so Clint forces himself to take a deep breath and relax his fingers, shaking his head. "I'm not angry at you. Your dad is—I'm gonna stab him. You didn't kill thousands in the invasion, Loki. Seventy-four people died. That was it."

A plethora of emotions bleeds through Loki's features, like a wave of the ocean crashing to shore. He inhales harshly, fingers clenching tight. White-knuckled, pale, Loki exhales a sharp, faint "oh." His eyes move rapidly back and forth for a moment, actual tears of freaking relief forming, before a trembling hand runs over his lips and a faint sound escapes him.

Clint remembers then that the reason Odin had Loki's mouth sewn shut, according to Thor, was that he wasn't supposed to speak until he could name every mortal that he killed. Loki said our father didn't think him worthy of his voice until he could.

Which is, on so many levels, messed up.

But Loki doesn't care about the past injury right now. Clint can see that. Loki just cares that more people lived.

There are some moments in life when you can feel your world-view about something shatter entirely. When something so concrete inside of you cracks and crumples, allowing something else to be built in its place. These are rare. More often, it's a subtle change weeks and years in the making.

Clint thinks maybe this is both. What Loki did was freaking messed up on so many levels. This is fact. But Loki can regret what he did and be trying to do better. He's still a person who, Like Clint, made stupid mistakes and got people killed. And he's relieved that people lived and he's crying and Clint cares about this stupid sorcerer.

Clint cares about him.

Maybe it's some messed up form of Stockholm syndrome. Maybe it makes him a worse person. Clint doesn't really care. He's annoyed and grumpy and tired and sleepless, yes. But that doesn't negate the fact that somewhere in the last couple of months, some part of Clint's brain attached itself to Loki and decided to keep him. God help them all.

In a gesture that Clint has seen Thor do a few times before, Clint reaches out and clasps Loki's wrist in comfort, giving it a squeeze.

Loki grips his hand back, fingers just as tight.

Chapter Text

"[Doorbell rings]

—Were you expecting someone?

—Am I ever?"

-Elementary S2.

It's a very peaceful ten minutes as they approach Manhattan.

But, because this is Clint's life, that dictates it's the only peaceful ten minutes.

"Sirs," Jarvis says, a touch of tension in his voice, which makes Clint look up toward his camera, "the Bifrost is currently making a landing on Avengers Tower. I would recommend immediately deviating your course."

Tony swears creatively, jerking up to his feet and disrupting both Steve and Bruce as he does so. Both of them make an effort to right themselves. Clint miserably looks up from the floor toward the ceiling and whatever God is beyond that as he desperately asks why. Why can't we have ten minutes of peace?

Natasha pulls back on the controls, starting to make a big loop, muttering under her breath. "Who? Do you know?" she asks.

"It would appear to be the Warriors Three and the Lady Sif," Jarvis answers after a moment. There's a beat before, "I see no others."

Well, at least there's that very small plus.

"What are they doing here?" Tony hisses, sliding into the co-pilot's seat. From this distance, they're close enough to the Tower that they can see it but far enough that the Warriors shouldn't be able to do likewise. Their timing is impeccable. Tony's gotta come up with an Anti-Asgardian repellant. Clint does not feel like dealing with them on top of a stab wound and everyone's over pushed buttons.

They're going to destroy each other.

I can't do this right now.

"We can't land," Steve says, burying his face in his hands, tense and tired and utterly and completely done, "we have Loki in the 'jet."

Beside Clint, Loki's brow draws together in confusion, like he wants to ask why. There's the slightest edge of tension and dread sitting in his hunching shoulders and tight fingers as if he's bracing himself for a court hearing.

"What are they even doing?" Tony demands, pulling up a screen with feed from the cameras on the Tower. By all accounts, without the audio, the four Asgardians appear to be yelling into nothingness and waving their fists angrily like they're angrily protesting. All they need is a sign and some shoddy penmanship and they'll be unhappy cosplayers out to fight against the mighty evil of entertainment. Truly, Asgardian soldiers at their finest. "They were just here last week to climb all over Thor's back about Loki." Tony continues, then, "Crap. Do they know Thor is missing? Are they here to help? Ugh, I hope not. God would be a cruel son of a gun to bless us with that."

Loki snorts, slowly getting up to his feet. He seems unsteady.

Clint's entire muscular system has decided to fire half its staff, so he can't do much more than sit there and awkwardly crane his neck to try and see the screen, one hand pushed against his stomach. He's useless and tired and hungry and too emotionally spent to be of any use beyond a swear translator. As in, translating all their frustrations into swears.

"I believe they're attempting to get your attention," Loki says.

"No, really? How on earth did you come up with that?" Tony mutters sarcastically.

"They're adamant they must speak with Thor immediately. They refuse to answer why." Jarvis interjects.

"How predictably vague," Loki mutters with some bitterness.

"They seem quite concerned," Jarvis adds. "What would you like me to do?" the question is open-ended and directed at everyone, but Clint still feels the entire collective attention slide to Steve by habit. Tony and Steve are the structural support of the entire team, but Clint thinks Tony hasn't quite caught up with that yet.

"If they want to talk to him, then they probably don't know he's missing," Steve points out. "Unless they think we have him stuffed in a closet somewhere."

"If they did, they wouldn't bother trying to talk." Loki promises. "They'd simply tear apart the Tower. They rarely believe in clear communication."

Alright, Mr. Bitterness. There is a story behind that. Clint doesn't know if he wants to hear it, mostly because he doesn't need another reason to punch the foursome in the face.

"We can't let them see you," Steve says, addressing Loki. "The last thing we need right now is you being hauled back to Asgard." Something shudders in Loki's face at the mere suggestion of it and Clint's stomach tightens with hot sympathy. The captain wipes a hand over his face, looking gray. "We…I don't know."

Loki's jaw sets, and he casts a careful look across all of them, something flickering in his eyes. He looks back at the screen. His shoulders drop a fraction. "In truth, Asgard's assistance in finding Thor would not go unwelcomed. Even if the Warriors are idiots, they are skilled trackers and soldiers…if my return to Asgard's prisons means that Thor would be safe then—"

Resignation. That's what the look was. Loki's big, stupid brain put two and two together and came up with self-sacrifice.

"—that would be worth the cost."

Natasha stands up so quickly she rams the edge of her knee against the dashboard as she turns around to face him. One look at her dark face assures Clint she doesn't feel it. Tony desperately scrambles to grab the controls behind her.

"No." Natasha says flatly. She reaches out a finger and jabs Loki in the chest, hard. "You're being stupid. No."

"Thor—" Loki tries.

"We will find Thor because we're good at our freaking jobs." Natasha growls, enunciating each word. "Not because you threw yourself into the fire for him." She stares at him, cold, hard, and yet, somehow, vulnerable and bare.

Loki's throat works. He seems to have no idea what to do in the face of this, as though the idea of someone wanting to protect him that isn't Thor is completely and utterly foreign. It's several long seconds before Loki says, with a touch of awkwardness, "Agent Romanov, I had no idea you cared so much."

Clint winces for her sake, wondering if Loki even knows how painful that must be for Natasha to hear. Despite her callousness, or maybe in spite of it, of course she cares. Natasha is all heart.

Clint watches as her face contracts, spinning through dozens of emotions and words she wants to shout and realizes oh. It's not just me who actually freaking cares about him now. And of course, that makes sense in hindsight, Natasha, a woman trained to put self-preservation above everything but the mission, wouldn't throw herself over someone to protect them with her body unless she considered them family.

Natasha could say all of this. She could yell or slap him or gut punch him hard enough that despite his advanced healing he'd be hobbling for a week. But she doesn't.

Natasha flicks Loki in the nose. Loki makes a surprised jerk, hand coming up to his face automatically before a startled, dry laugh escapes him. "You're an idiot," she says as though that's a simple fact of the universe and takes her seat again. As she puts on her headset, she says, "Asgard doesn't know you're here until you can defend yourself again, so stop trying to get yourself killed and sit down while we figure out what to do."

Loki rubs at his nose once and takes a step back, stretching his hands out faintly as he mock bows. "Whatever you wish, your majesty."

Natasha rolls her eyes, but there's a fond quirking up of her lip.

"I need you on my PR team again," Tony says, a faint smirk hiding the darkness in his face.

Nobody laughs.

After a two-minute deliberation, they come to the conclusion that the best way to deal with this is to leave Loki in the Quinjet and approach the topic of Thor by letting the Warriors and Sif feed them the information they know first. Loki makes another feeble attempt at a protest, but all of them are pretty dead-set on not letting him return back to Asgard, so it doesn't really go anywhere.

Clint and Steve are also supposed to play up their injuries so they'll leave faster, which was Loki's idea.

Arm slung across Natasha's shoulders and heavily leaning into her, with Bruce and Tony hovering over Steve like he's a proper old man with a shattering spine who might fall over at any second, the five of them hobble out of the 'Jet. They leave Loki behind in the darkness where he will hopefully remain and not do anything stupid, but who knows. Just because he has intelligence markers likely off of whatever charts Asgard uses does not mean he has the wisdom to use it without getting himself killed.

The Warriors are practically huffing and puffing despite the fact they've only been waiting for maybe five minutes.

Sif—the only one whose name Clint really knows, because he's actually talked with all of them maybe four or five times—sweeps her gaze across their group, and her mouth presses into a thinned line as she finds it lacking. "Where is Thor?" she demands.

"Hi to you too," Tony says pointedly.

"Where is our shield brother? It is of the utmost importance that we speak to him immediately." The blond guy says, hand resting on his sword like he intends to beat the answer out of them. Okay, so maybe they really do think they have Thor stuffed in a closest somewhere.

Steve groans, a little over the top and fake, and starts to tumble back. Bruce catches him with ease, helping right him on his crutches. The Warriors barely spare him a glance.

"We don't know," Natasha says. She continues to herd Clint forward, which isn't helping his side at all and he has to bite on his tongue several times from telling her to slow down. "He isn't here right now."

"The Allfather must speak with him," Sif insists, beginning to follow them. "You have just returned from battle, surely he was with you…"

So they don't know no one has seen him in days. Which doesn't make a lot of sense because shouldn't Heimdall have relayed that? Clint kind of got the impression he saw everything. But maybe he wasn't focused on Earth and instead on the giant war going on, like any normal person would have been.

"He wasn't." Tony says. "Why does Odin need to speak with about? We can pass along a message."

The redheaded guy makes an affronted sound. "This is information for Thor only, mortal!"

How is it that he can take a basic, normal word like "mortal" and make it seem like one of the most disgusting creatures they could ever dare to live as?

Sif lifts up a hand to silence him. "Volstagg." She says firmly. Red backs down bodily if not in intent. After a moment to gather her patience together, Sif says like they're stupid, "There have been recent threats made against Thor's life by Alfheim. Odin wants him back in Asgard for his safety. Out here on Midgard"—with you is left unsaid, but clearly implied—"Thor is vulnerable."

Clint's jaw tightens, a spasm going up and down his throat. Too late, sits on the edge of his tongue, almost bubbling out of him in hysterical laughter. Too late. Alfheim can't get to him 'cause he's too busy being tortured by the Chitauri.

There's a moment of silence.

The guilt seems to squirm between all of them like a collective parasite. Thor is vulnerable with them. He is, isn't he? Would Thor have gotten taken on Asgard? Or is it just them that can't protect him?

Tony recovers first, which isn't unexpected. The man has spent his entire life having to do so. "Thor kinda doesn't strike me as the vulnerable type. He's fine, okay? We can talk about this later, but they're injured and need to be seen by our doctors." Tony gestures toward Clint and Steve. "We don't have time to talk."

"Where did you see him last?" Red persists.

"Here-ish." Tony says vaguely, trying to herd them forward, but the Warriors won't have that.

Natasha's hand tightens around his waist, and Clint realizes then how much of his weight he's dumping on her unintentionally. Apparently he's not nearly as fine as he thought he was. He tries to right himself.

The other other other guy, Grimwald? Clint thinks it is, steps cleanly into their walking path, jaw set. Grimwald's eyes are dark and angry. "You misunderstand the seriousness of this. Where is our prince?"

Our.

Not yours. Ours.

There's something about the possessiveness in his tone that makes Clint's chest flare up. Thor doesn't belong to you. You're not the only people he cares about.

"Move." Tony says, shoulders drawing up. Somehow he manages to keep his voice both level and powerful.

"Not until you tell us where he is. You're hiding something." Grimwald growls. His hand tightens on his sword as he takes a step closer. Natasha's other hand drops to her gun. "What happened? Was it Loki? Has that bastard done something to him, because I swear by the gods—"

Sif grabs Grimwald's arm in warning.

Tony laughs. It's a sharp, startled sound like someone kicked it out of him on a reflex. "Loki? Loki isn't here. How many times do we have to tell you that? We don't know where the poor sucker went off to die, but if we had him here, you think we wouldn't have booted him out the front door by now? Why on God's name do you think we have any more of a reason to protect him than you do?"

Anyone who says Tony Stark has no ability to lie has clearly never watched him defend someone before.

The first flickers of doubt begin to show on the Asgardians. Tony grabs hold of it with both hands. "Thor isn't here because sometimes he leaves to go wander in the woods and embrace his inner man or whatever"—this is true, and Clint sees the creases of Sif's face soften with recognition—" and it's not our job to keep track of him. Look, when we see him again—"

"I'm right here, my friends," Thor says behind them.

What.

Clint's brain completely turns off, restarts, and then kicks itself in an effort to process that.

Clint practically topples over himself as he turns around rapidly, heart in his throat. There's a desperate moment of oh my gosh you're okay you're here you're alive that washes through him, powerful, heartwrenching, and awful.

Thor lands on the Tower, and there's a twitching shimmer as his armor catches the light wrong. Alive. Whole. Untainted. What the heck? Where on God's freaking green earth has he been?

He's—

But he was—

How is he—?

Thor moves closer to them, and they all watch, unable to speak, like he's a drifting ghost. So close, unable to be touched. More than one hand tries to reach out for him, but he shies away from it with ease. Bruce's expression clears and clenches abruptly like he smelled something fowl, but Clint can't speak.

Thor looks them over for a moment, cursory and familiar, and Clint drinks in the sight of him before he turns back around to face the Warriors, "My friend, I thank you for your concern for my safety, but the best place for me is here."

Was…has he been wandering around in the woods for the last few days?

How—? Why—? This—

But the Chitauri—?

"Thor," Sif says tightly, casting them a side glance like they're the ones intruding, "Alfheim has made several threats against you. They say it's time you choose a side in this war. Odin is worried they intend to force you."

Visible tension shudders through Thor's hands, relaxes, then he draws back. Alfheim. The land of the Light Elves, right? Why on God's name are all of them so terrified of it? No one is saying it explicitly, but it's pretty obvious.

"Alfheim wouldn't dare to take me here. Midgard is neutral territory and they know this. All the realms would turn against them. I'm safe here." Thor promises. "I'm not returning to Asgard yet. I need to stay here. Please."

A beat passes before the Warriors and Sif share collective, tight looks that speak thousands of words. Sif looks at all of them pointedly before she says something in Asgardian pleadingly. There's a brief back and forth with growing tension between the two before Thor ends it with several repeated "Far vil være verre enn dem" and that nearly beats every other argument out of them.

"Det er ikke en din fars feil," Sif says furiously. "Du valgte dette."

"How?" Thor asks in English, voice completely dead. "How could I have chosen my father's actions?"

Wait. Are they…blaming Thor for Odin's decisions? What the—?

"You could have stayed on Asgard," Blond argues. "You could have left Loki alone. He reaped what he sowed. He's not a good person, Thor, and he never has been." For some reason, the words make Bruce twitch. "You need to let this foolishness go and come home. Vær så snill."

Please.

"You think Loki deserved all of it, that Odin—my father did to him?" Thor asks, and there's something about the tone that makes Clint tense up. It's raw. Natasha's face clenches, dread settling into the creases of her eyes.

She just realized something.

Clint feels like he's missing something painfully obvious.

"Yes," Sif says plainly. "Perhaps not for the rest of his life, but he all but killed you. Forgive me if I'm not as willing to forget that as you are. I know that you care for him, but I can't. Not...not after that."

Thor takes several moments to speak again. "I'm not leaving yet. If the threat grows worse, or Alfheim attempts to make an attack, I'll return with you, but not yet."

"Loki doesn't need you," Hogun says.

"Loki isn't here." Thor says, and at least he isn't outright denying his existence anymore. While it was fun to watch Thor toy with them, it's faster if he acknowledges his existence and moves on.

Sif's mouth sets unhappily. "Fine," she says and starts to turn away before stopping and looking back at him. "Are you injured? I smell blood."

Blood.

Magic.

Thor's shoulders hitch.

It's not Thor.

Oh.

The disappointment is worse than the brief, lulling moment of relief that their friend had been returned to them. That he was safe and alive and whole, just wandering around in the woods to find his inner nature and all that hippy crap. It's not Thor because it's Loki, being a stupid idiot, and using magic again, but actually getting the Warriors and Sif to leave.

"No." Loki says in Thor's voice, a little too quickly by Clint's estimate. "The Avengers have returned from battle. They need a healer. I apologize for cutting this short, but they need to be attended to. Sjáumst, ha det bra." Loki says and stalks toward the entrance to the penthouse. Clint can see him waning the further he goes, but all of them are quick to follow after, Grimwald having finally moved away.

He hears the Warriors and Sif repeat the last phrase, sounding faintly confused, but he doesn't really care anymore. His one goal is to lay down and smack Loki. That's two goals, but whatever.

Sjáumst, ha det. Loki and Thor say it to each other all the time when Thor leaves somewhere. Clint thought it was just a thing between them. Maybe it's just a culture thing?

Loki's illusion drops about a second before he does and takes a prompt plunge toward the floor behind the couch. There's a smacking sound a moment later as he collides with the floor and Loki groans.

Natasha carefully deposits Clint on the couch beside Steve before she, Bruce, and Tony round toward the back to try and assess him. There's a bit of shuffling, swearing, and then Loki says, almost slurred with delirium, "stop! I need to keep it up, stop helping!"

Thor flickers back into view, this time clearly just an illusion. The sight of him makes Clint's chest twist with sadness and longing.

All of them wait breathlessly for the Bifrost to claim the Warriors and Sif again, and it's an agonizing minute before that happens. Sif keeps looking back at them and Clint gets the impression she knows they're filled with crap. They should have told all of them what was going on. It's only going to be worse for them in the long run that they didn't. The rainbow blur of light rattles the entire room before the four are swept off to Asgard, hopefully, to not return and pester them for a minimum of a few days.

Thor immediately drops out of view.

Loki moans hoarsely, the sort of sound a dying man makes when his lungs are rattling apart. It's a sound familiar to Clint on an intimate level from his nightmares and he twitches. I will not panic, I will not panic, I'm fine in the Tower and nothing could be better—

"Oh my gosh, are you dead?" Clint demands, carefully twisting around to poke his head over the edge of the couch. Loki is crumpled against the floor, half upright against the back of the couch. His arms are bleeding again and shaking so bad that it's making his teeth chatter.

"I had it handled," Tony says harshly. Bruce kneels down next to Loki and looks at the bloody mess with waning patience and the edges of panic. "You didn't have to help." Tony persists.

"They—they wouldn't have gone—if—if I didn't," Loki says in protest. He squeezes his eyes shut. "Oh, gods. Alf-Alfheim is—torture. Feared. Everywhere. Thor—impooortannt." Loki swallows thickly, like he's trying not to puke. "I don't…matter."

"You're the biggest, stupidest egotistical jerk that I have ever had the displeasure of knowing." Tony says harshly. Loki looks up at him in confusion and hurt.

"W-what?"

"Tony," Bruce says pointedly. "Is right now the time?"

Apparently so, because the multibillionaire shows no sign of stopping. "Just because you want to flaunt your life around like it's nothing doesn't mean that the rest of us don't care if you get hurt." Tony swears angrily and turns away from him, clasping his fingers behind his head. "You don't have to fix everything yourself, you emo boyband. Would it kill you to let us keep you safe for once or do you—"

The answer to the question is probably no, but Loki is done hearing it anyway. He seizes for several seconds before his eyes roll back in his head and he passes out limply into Bruce's arms. All of them breathe heavily, watching and waiting for something worse.

"Tony," Steve says, a little late, but no less firm, "Shut up."

Tony wisely closes his mouth.

000o000

It's well over an hour later before Natasha and Bruce declare Loki stable, asleep, and under an ungodly amount of painkillers. The only thing that would help him recover faster at this point would be a blood transfusion, but most of their supply from when Loki does feel okay enough to donate for future problems is gone.

With Jarvis carefully monitoring vitals, the five of them sit on the couches and don't talk for long minutes. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but it isn't cozy, the sort of punishing quiet that only comes after a bad job.

The third time that Natasha has gotten up to replace Clint's ice pack, she comes back with an annoyed scowl. "Are we going to talk, or just sit here and contemplate the universe?"

"Were we sitting here to talk?" Tony asks from behind his phone.

"I was under that impression."

Tony turns off his device. "And what do you want to talk about?"

Clint groans softly. "Can we please just let this wait? I'm in pain and I'm high"—he ignores Natasha's immediate "you're on exactly two Tylenol, ptitsa," and continues—"yes, as I said, high, and I just want to sleep. Is anyone in dire emotional distress?" They all look at each other. "Or do we need to talk about anything that can't wait until later?"

"No." Natasha says. "Except what we're going to do about Thor."

There's a brief ensuing, arguing conversation where they realize they can do exactly nothing because they have no way to track him, and that the likelihood of Mjonlir—which they can track to some degree—being with Thor is abysmally low given the circumstances. But lo and behold, in circles they keep going about it.

"Anything we can use to track him down would take days to weeks or even months and I don't know if we have that kind of time to wait," Tony says, shaking his head while rubbing at his temples. "We need to find something faster. If the Chitauri do have him, I don't want to wait around for Thorzilla Goes to the City."

"We don't have a lot of other options." Steve points out. "We don't even know if he's on Earth right now."

Which is a solid, depressing point. Who's to say that the Chitauri didn't teleport Thor across space and they're not currently holding him captive in their mothership-thingy? Tony's face pales considerably at the suggestion.

Bruce rubs at the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "If Loki could use some sort of tracking magic, this would go faster."

Therein lies the problem, doesn't it? Because Loki can't. Two minutes of trying to impersonate his brother nearly killed him. It would probably take him hours if not days before he could track down Thor properly. He wouldn't last to the end of it, and they're not trading one Asgardian brother for the other.

"Fury will likely set up teams to search the more obvious places." Natasha says, rubbing her clasped fingers over her knuckles, "but we're still looking at a long wait."

"Maybe we should have accepted the Warriors' help." Clint admits with reluctance. "Any extra hands would be great right now."

"Not at the cost of Loki." Steve says. The words seem to pop out before he even thinks twice about them, but Clint stares at him for several long moments. No one else seems to give it any thought beyond agreement, because Natasha is nodding softly.

"Okay, wait," Clint says, unwilling to let the elephant go unaddressed for another five months, "look, are we…Loki is…what…to us now?"

Everyone stares at him. Clint tries not to squirm, adjusting his ice pack.

"He's…" Natasha doesn't seem to have a word to put there. Tony grips at the lower half of his face, tapping his finger against his cheek. Bruce looks at the floor and Steve's face tightens. Clint sighs, bumping his knee into Natasha's as he sits up a little straighter. Ow. Bad idea. That hurts.

Clint bites on the inside of his cheek before saying for all of them, "I don't want to see him hurt, I know that much. I…think somewhere, along the way, I got felled by sentiment."

It's like there's a collective breath of air, as if they've been hiding this from each other. If anyone's made an effort, it's been poorly executed. About the equivalent stealth powers of hiding from security by jumping behind a small sapling.

"Yeah," Tony agrees.

"Does this make us bad people?" Bruce asks, quiet. "That we care after all that he did?"

Are we even good people at this point? Clint thinks to himself. He knows that he rarely feels the part. The weight of the lives he's destroyed sit heavily with him constantly and it's heavy. Sometimes it's all he can do to get out of bed.

I want to do better, Clint told Coulson in that interrogation room what feels like a lifetime and a half ago after he turned himself in. I can't leave this life, but I wish I could.

You will do better, Coulson promised.

Clint never believed him. He still doesn't.

There's a long pause, before Steve says, equally soft, "No. None of us are sinless." If they can't offer second and third chances to do better, they're hypocrites and liars.

Natasha leans forward. "He's sem'ya." She says. Clint's heart clenches. His partner translates a moment later, her voice both gentle and endlessly sad, "Family."

000o000

The rest of the Avengers eventually filter out to try and get some sleep or crawl off to the lab to not think for a while, so Clint ends up by himself on the couch and mindlessly scrolling through TV. Eventually, he comes across season five hundred and thirty-nine of Supernatural and forces himself to sit through hours of episodes that make him want to tear out his eyes. Sometimes Clint thinks that it's a great series, other times he looks at the messed-up relationship between Sam and Dean Winchester and thinks wow that's me and Barney, minus the protective rage monster inside of Dean.

Somewhere between them starting a hunt and the angel showing up, Clint falls into a mindless doze. He dreams of blood and tears and screaming. He dreams of a green-skinned woman shouting at him and another woman with a robotic arm breaking bones. "There are over twenty-five in your arm." She says, "Why don't you count with me?"

One. Overarmsbenet.

Six. Skulderbladet.

Ten. Albuebenet.

Far, hjelpe meg.

"Maybe we should start over." The green woman says.

"I don't know what you want," he rasps, his arm spasming and aching in a way that's impossible to describe. Pain is hot, but it is cold and it's dry and wet all at once. "I can't tell you what you want."

They start on his other arm.

He's crying. He's always crying. Help isn't coming.

Clint wakes up with a jolt, shoving upright and immediately curling over his side with a groan. His breathing is hard and his arm is aching in phantom strains of pain. His fingers feel tight when he moves them. His shoulderblade is throbbing. This isn't mine.

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly. Supernatural characters are arguing in the background. Far, hjelpe meg. He understands the words instinctively. Father, help me. This pain isn't his—it's Loki's, and Swenson was dreaming everything too. He doesn't understand what's going on and it scares him. Endlessly, deeply in it's complete entirity. Somehow this felt easier to handle when he didn't know there were other people involved. It didn't make sense before, but now it feels like it's leaching his brain empty.

How can Swenson be getting dreams of Loki?

Why?

If it is, in fact, related to Loki giving off some sort of dream radiation, why is Swenson getting it up in the Helicarrier when the rest of the Avengers aren't? And if it's not that, but instead a leftover of the scepter, is Selvig dreaming all of this, too? And why? Why is it only after two years that it all started? Wouldn't it have made more sense if it had been a byproduct since the beginning?

Clint squeezes the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. Exhaustion sucks at his bones. He feels shaky and tired in a way he can't describe and he knows it's not going to get better. It never gets better. Sometimes he thinks if his body ever got the time to rest, he'd sleep for months.

He just—

He needs to think.

He turns off the TV and grabs the sketchbook that Steve left on the coffee table some time in the last few days. He flips to the back for an empty page and picks up one of the less expensive-looking art pencils to write with.

There are very few things that Steve Rogers will splurge on, but art supplies are one of them. Which is endearing, honestly. Clint saw him heavily debating with Natasha a few weeks ago whether or not to buy a set of twenty markers for a hundred dollars or go for a cheaper brand. Part of Clint kinda hopes that Natasha convinced him to spend the hundred. Steve has millions in pension money that US government awarded him after the Battle of New York as a thank you for "dying" in the second World War—you know, as you do—and Steve has nothing to spend it on. That on top of his S.H.I.E.L.D. job, Steve is loaded for life.

The man deserves some over-the-top expensive markers.

This is all to say that Clint is probably holding a pencil worth anywhere from thirty cents to fifty dollars.

Carefully, he starts to write out everything he knows about the dreams and the invasion in bullet points. With the invasion, he puts a hesitant L tortured by Chitauri? and stares at it for a long time. He doesn't know how he feels about this. He can't dispute the idea after what he saw on the Helicarrier and what Loki said.

Thinking back, Clint doesn't think he's ever heard Loki say he was in cahoots with the Chitauri. Whenever he did talk about the invasion, it was with an air of distaste and faint confusion.

Clint chews on his lip before he adds, L relieved not to have killed a lot of people.

Loki cried because he didn't kill thousands. Clint is reminded once again of Thor, softly murmuring, he had the most gentle soul.

L didn't want to attack NY?

It's a long, long few minutes before Clint finally puts down forced to? next to that.

"Mr. Barton," Jarvis says smoothly, his tone calm. Clint almost startles, hand automatically clamping over the piece of paper like he got caught sneaking notes on a test. He doesn't want to think about what the others would think of him making a bullet-pointed list about Loki and why their brains may be kinda-sorta-connected. It's a very different thing to say I'm fond of this person versus this person is leaching into my psyche. "Dr. Banner is currently seeking company. Would you find it terribly imposing if I sent him your way?"

Clint takes a moment to process the words. "No. That's fine." He says. He taps the pencil anxiously against the pages. Honestly, he doesn't think Bruce would fight him about this. He'd probably help. He knows that everyone thinks he hates Loki the most out of all of them, which isn't true. Even last month, before all this Chitauri-crap went down, Clint was still willing to punch Odin's face in. The reason Loki drives him crazy sometimes isn't that he went on a rampage across New York, it's because Loki can be annoying.

Bruce walks into the room a few minutes later, expression set, stance rigid. He sinks onto the couch next to Clint and buries his head into his hands. He doesn't have his glasses, Clint realizes, which is a little weird. Bruce's vision is kinda sucky.

Clint stops tapping the pencil. "Are you okay?"

"No."

Alright then.

"...Do you want to talk about it?" Clint asks hesitantly. Bruce shakes his head, exhaling hard. He mumbles something Clint doesn't understand and doesn't think he was supposed to. "How can I help?" Clint asks.

Bruce sits up, pushing under his eyes, and shakes his head again. "I don't know. I just want to sit here if you're okay with that." Clint nods, expression softening. Bruce runs a hand through his dark curls. Anxiety is practically oozing off of him. He slowly sinks back into the couch.

Clint considers him for a long few seconds before returning back to his bullet points. He makes sure to brush against Bruce's elbow on purpose every now and then to reassure the chemist that he's not alone, but for the most part, Bruce just sits there and stares at the ceiling, alternating between chewing on fingernails to trying to twist his fingers off.

"Is that Steve's sketchbook?" Bruce asks at length. The words sound like they exhaust him.

"Yep." Clint says guiltlessly. "If he's going to leave it everywhere he's going to suffer the consequences."

"He has four running around the Tower right now, you know that?" Bruce asks.

Clint rolls his eyes, not surprised. He's only seen two but that means nothing. "Archeologists will be excavating the Tower in five hundred years and the only thing that will remain of the Avengers will be somehow no less than two hundred pencils, Natasha's postcard collection, and half of Dum-E." Clint predicts. He considers this for a moment before adding, "And maybe one of my bows. They seem to last forever. You know the oldest bow that we've found is the Holmegaard and it's about ten thousand years old?"

Bruce's eyebrows raise. "Why do you know that?"

Clint shrugs. "It's cool."

Much to Clint's private disappointment, Bruce doesn't poke at that further. Clint has a swath of information on bows. He could write a history book. He's not going to, but he could. It would be four hundred pages long and filled with puns.

Bruce is silent for a while. Clint's stomach starts to pulse and he finally submits, laying down on the couch, his head propped against Bruce's thigh as he hands the notebook and pencil over his head with one hand. "Scribe for me." He commands. His other hand comes to rest on his stomach tightly. He definitely should not have been sitting up for that long.

"Are you okay?" Bruce asks.

"Peachy." Clint says tightly. He appends a moment later, "Just give me a second. I'll tell you if it gets worse."

"Yeah, you will." Bruce says and jabs his head with the butt of the pencil. Clint sqwuaks, flailing a hand to smack him on the arm. Bruce chuckles softly, a rare sound that fills Clint's chest with warmth. He closes his eyes and pins his hands just above the cut, rubbing circles above the skin.

He hears Bruce flip through the pages, and then stop. Seven Ph.D.'s and an IQ over 190 all grind together to put together Clint's intention in seconds. Still, Bruce's mouth fumbles with the processing part, "You're—what are—you're having Swenson's dreams, too." Bruce realizes. Then, a quieter, "This is why you haven't been sleeping?"

How does he…?

See. Okay. Clint told Tony about the not sleeping thing and more often than not he and Tasha sleep in the same room when they can. Steve knows because he's the team leader and needs to be aware of these things. Clint isn't stupid enough to withhold a potential injury risk from him. If Clint can't keep his game up he could get someone hurt or killed and that far outweighs any ego.

"Is it that obvious?" Clint sighs.

"Were you trying to hide it?" Bruce asks in return, and yep. Impressive pro spy skills there, Barton. Bruce was right earlier, it is a wonder that he and Natasha run one-third of S.H.I.E.L.D.; Clint shrugs lazily, careful to push his shoulders out instead of up so he doesn't strain his abdomen.

"I wasn't not trying to," Clint admits.

Bruce taps the pencil against the sketchbook once, clearly thinking. It then occurs to Clint's sluggish, overtired brain that there are a lot of other things written down on there beyond the dreams and his hypothesis about why it's happening. There's also a detailed list of why he thinks Loki may not have been the mastermind of the invasion. Well. Awesome. Actually, no, yeah, there's definitely a lot of incriminating evidence about this whole thing on his part.

A very distant part of his brain slams a hand on alarm bells and starts screaming.

Clint only releases a soft breath, squeezing his eyes tighter, and begins to anxiously twitch his toes. He mentally braces himself—you are not ready on any level to have this type of conversation, Barton, what on God's name are you doing, brace yourself for an emotional backlash—before submitting to the inevitable. "Ask. It's too late for me to back out now anyway."

"I have a lot of questions," Bruce admits, then says carefully, "Maybe you better start from the beginning."

No. Nope, nopety nope no.

Clint pushes his thumb hard into his abdomen. He joins his fingers together and pushes them against his forehead, accidentally digging his elbow into some part of Bruce's knee. "You're not that kind of doctor," Clint mumbles. "This isn't therapy."

"No," Bruce agrees. "It's not. But it doesn't have to be for us to talk. You obviously seem to have no idea what's going on here, so explain it to me."

Clint pushes harder into his face. "Do you feel up to that? Be honest."

"It would be nice to think about something else." There's a faint edge of desperation in Bruce's tone, so whatever mental torments his brain has decided to inflict upon him today must be intense. Clint's desire to talk about everything leading up to this mess is very low, but he has to talk about it with someone. Maybe Bruce will have some ideas that he and Natasha didn't.

Clint starts to explain. First about what little he remembers from the invasion—Loki scared and exhausted. Loki passing out at one point. Clint vaguely remembers trying to get him to rest but Loki refusing to, attacking the Helicarrier—and then how he felt disconnected from Loki. He didn't feel any sort of emotional attachment to him anymore, which was almost worse than being under the scepter's influence.

"Wait—I thought that the scepter was…some sort of blind obedience?" Bruce asks. He's started taking notes on another page of the sketchbook and now Clint feels a little bad for stealing the paper from Steve, "You had to do whatever he told you without being able to think for yourself."

Clint shakes his head. "No. It was…I don't know how to describe it." Mostly because he's never tried to talk about it before. He answered questions from the psychologists. He shared fears with Natasha. He's never…talked about it. "It doesn't instill blind loyalty. It was more like it manipulated emotions. I did what Loki told me to because I…loved him."

"Somehow that makes this exceptionally worse," Bruce says flatly. "It's one thing to follow something blindly while you're trying to fight it, it's another to be forced to think a certain way. That's so messed up."

What I did to you, Loki had said, there is no physical pain that could ever atone for that.

"Yeah," Clint agrees quietly.

Clint explains how for the next few months he'd gotten sporadic memories in the form of dreams about the invasion, but everything still felt distorted and weird. That never changed. He doesn't think he'll ever remember those days in their entirety. Part of him is grateful for that. He doesn't want to know what else he did that wasn't published in a S.H.I.E.L.D. report.

Then, Clint starts talking about when Loki and Thor came back. There's no need to go into detail about the event. Bruce remembers Thor showing up in the Tower and screaming for help while Loki lay in his arms like a slightly less burnt Anakin Skywalker with two more limbs for counting just as well as Clint does.

None of them were there at the time, not even Tony. Clint watched the video later with a stoic Natasha trying to gauge if Loki posed any threat to them.

Thor was a bloody mess, but it was hard to tell where Thor's blood ended and Loki's began. Clint now thinks that's a rather appropriate metaphor for their lives. Loki—lips sewn shut and face a mess of bruises and burns, his body not much better—had just lain there while Thor cried brokenly. It was brutal to witness. Pepper found them both later and called Tony, which set the whole thing off, but still, the image of Thor helpless and desperate haunts him.

Clint remembers seeing Loki for the first time earlier this year and thinking how empty he felt about the entire thing. The invasion had left him furious, but with time the rage had faded to lethargic impassivity. He wasn't angry Loki was there, it just was.

While Hill had adamantly refused to give him medical aid and Loki bled out from his half-severed arms all over everything and Thor practically tried to bargain her his soul, Clint had just stood there. It wasn't until Thor had drawn closer that he felt like something was trying to pull at his brain, faint pressure, vicious agony. He'd passed out at that point and woken up with a migraine that never really went away.

He'd been told later that Swenson had done the same, and assumed it was an effect of the mind control, even if he'd never told anyone that.

The dreams started that night. Violent, bloody, and horrifying. Torture upon layers of torture. Clint thought maybe this is what I don't remember about those days and then realized that there wasn't enough consistency for that to be the case. It changed. Things repeated themselves, yeah, but it wasn't nearly enough to make Clint think it was actually PTSD.

It took him until a few weeks ago to realize that the voice he was hearing wasn't his, but Loki's. And then the guessing game started on why. Eventually, he landed on Loki's mind and his still having a residual connection from the mind control, and while they're both asleep and their defenses down, Loki's brain projects Odin's torture at him.

That fails to explain why he can suddenly speak Chitaurian, but that's beside the point.

Now…now Clint wonders if what he's seeing is Odin torturing Loki or the Chitauri. Because it makes a lot more sense for it to be latter, and Clint doesn't like that.

It's gotta be messed up on so many levels that Loki escaped one form of torture only to be thrown into another.

Bruce listens to the whole thing with minimal questions and a few comments, but otherwise is attentive and scribbles down his notes. At some point, Clint sits up to lean heavily against the couch and a little bit Bruce on accident, and Bruce gets him more Tylenol for the pain.

When Clint's finished talking, Bruce hands the sketchbook over to him and showcases a semi-detailed timeline of events in tiny, slanted handwriting.

August 14th, 2012—Loki invades New York to November 29th, 2015—Swenson also has the dreams are all listed.

He and Bruce discuss what this could mean for a while before deciding about the same as Natasha. They don't know why, they don't know how to fix it, and the best solution would be to talk to someone who actually knows about magic to see if they have any suggestions. Clint does, however, tag on a last, "Do you think that there's a possibility that Loki may have been tortured by the Chitauri?" at the end, something he didn't ask his partner. Clint had explained to Bruce about understanding what was said, but detailed nothing. Those words are for his and Loki's ears only until he gets permission to talk about them.

Bruce hesitates before admitting, "I think there was a lot more going on that we don't understand. Thor and I discussed the possibility of Loki not completely being in control of his actions a few weeks ago at length. Thor thinks that the scepter may have had some sort of influence over him."

The scepter?

As in…Loki being controlled by the scepter?

Oh, no. No, no, no. Clint is not going to poke at the idea of Loki getting the same treatment as him, Swenson, and Selvig right now. That is too much to handle for his already overloaded brain. If Loki was being influenced by the scepter, then who was pulling his strings?

"Oh," Clint says.

Bruce continues, "He doesn't know to what extent. If it was full control or just nudging. I think it's likely, even if the Chitauri didn't intend for it to happen. The scepter played with all of our emotions on the Helicarrier," Clint nods, having heard this story a few different times, "I don't remember picking up the scepter, but I know that I was ready to use it. I don't know." Bruce rubs at the lower half of his face. "My recommendation would be to talk to Loki."

He had completely planned on doing that, but Clint makes a face anyway.

Bruce rolls his eyes. "I saw you two having it out last week about archery. I know you're capable of civil discussion."

Very kind of him not to bring up him comforting Loki as he cried a few hours ago as an example instead. Loki knows as much about archery as Clint does, which means he could co-write the book, and that makes Clint a little miserable. It was fun though. They'd been trying to one-up each other on absurd bow facts. Loki won when he brought up the fact that bows were a human invention that Asgard stole. Beforehand they'd been using only crossbows. Even now, according to Loki, the weapon is still looked down on for being a mortal invention.

Clint just thought it was funny that some ancient human attached a piece of string to a long stick, shot a second stick from it, and Asgard's technologically advanced, magic-laced society was like "amazing, spectacular, fantastic, incredible, magnificent" as if the idea had never occurred to them before.

Clint sighs, defeated. "I know, and I will," he says miserably.

Bruce pointedly jabs him with the pencil again.

Clint groans. "You stab me and I die, sir. Are you so cruel?" He needs stronger medication. And a bed. And something to completely remove any and all chances he could ever have for dreaming again. Maybe he should just ask someone to smack him over the head very hard. More cognitive calibration should do the trick, right?

"Clint?" Bruce asks after a long few minutes of comfortable silence. Clint makes an affirmative sound. "Do you think that if I don't spend every waking moment trying to help people that it makes…what I am…worse?"

Oh boy.

Yeah, that's a loaded one.

Clint had been expecting it at some point, though. Bruce has been in the midst of a bad depressive episode for the last week or so. Hulk made a reappearance about ten days ago after Bruce went on a walk and saw some teenager getting assaulted by his classmates, and Hulk reigned terror on all of them. Beyond lifetime PTSD from almost getting smashed, the kids are fine. Hulk took the victim home and talked to him the best his limited language skills could manage and that was that.

The entire thing to Clint feels like a win, but the thing is—Clint's opinion about it doesn't matter. It isn't cut and dry to Bruce. And maybe there's just a teeny-tiny part of Clint that wishes he'd gotten the same sort of rescue at that age.

"No," Clint says, realizing that he was silent for a little too long. "I don't think you need to help everyone at any second. That's impossible. You need breathing room. Do you think that will honestly make you feel better about the Hulk?"

Bruce is quiet. "No." He says. "But sometimes it seems like all I can do."

"That makes sense," Clint agrees. "I don't think it's based in truth, but I can see why you'd think that way."

Because I have a lot of blood on my hands, too. But I chose to do that. It wasn't an accident like Hulk. That's what the Avengers is, aren't we? We're all people with bloodstains attempting to do better. Like somehow the lives we save will wash out the deaths we caused.

A longer silence. Bruce wipes at his face several times, before his voice breaks and the flood of tears starts to come, "I have seven Ph.D.'s and not one of them can tell me how to help anyone. I wish…that I…I'm so, so tired. I'm tired of fighting for myself, I just want to be protected. But with this—thing inside of me, I'm never going to get that because I can't—" Bruce buries his face into his hands.

When it becomes clear Bruce isn't going to say anything else, Clint says softly, "I'm sorry. Are you okay if I touch you?"

Bruce nods after a long moment and Clint slowly wraps an arm around his bony shoulders. Clint desperately thinks of anything to say that could be helpful but finds himself lacking. "We all love you, Bruce." Clint promises, rubbing his arm slowly. "You're not broken. I promise."

"Can…can I just…I need…you to…" Bruce can't seem to get the words out right. "Can I just sit here? Please?"

"Yeah," Clint promises. "Yeah."

Both of them end up passing out on the couch and though Clint's sleep isn't deep, it's dreamless. Natasha gets them both for dinner after seven p.m., which turns out to be take-out from a local pizza store. It's one that all of them generally favor, but no one really seems to have an appetite. Even Steve, normally ravenous enough to rival Thor, picks through the food. Clint's pretty sure everyone at least tries for a few bites except for Tony, who just miserably pushes the pizza piece around his plate with a fork.

There isn't much conversation beyond a lot of circling around "boy, I sure am exhausted!" and a few comments about how done all of them are with today. That's that and they all go to bed a little after eight with an agreement not to see each other until at least noon the following morning.

Natasha wakes up a little after midnight from a vicious nightmare about Steve and the Chitauri. Clint holds her as she shakes and slips a hand beneath his shirt to rest over the bandage on his stomach as if she can heal it with her fingertips alone. "I thought he was dead," she says. "I saw him go down and I thought that was it. I can't lose this family, not after Yelena."

I can't either.

Not this time.

The gut-raw feeling of utter terror that washes through him at the possibility of losing any of the Avengers, or, yes, even Loki, is something that makes him feel sick to his stomach. Losing Natasha is something that he has not and will never accept the possibility of, but now it's not just her.

"You won't. Steve is okay," Clint promises. "He just needs to heal up. I'm okay."

"I almost lost three of you this week." She protests. "Thor is God knows where. Swenson was going to shoot Loki. He stabbed you."

"Paper cut," he protests weakly. Natasha shakes her head. It had taken well over half an hour to calm her down, holding her to his chest and stroking her hair softly as she heaved out gasping breaths. Family is the only thing Natasha has ever really wanted, and the only thing she feels she can't keep.

They fall asleep wrapped together with Natasha's hand pressed protectively against his stomach.

The next morning isn't much better. Clint sleeps okay through the night with only vague whispers of nightmares and tries his best to put himself together. The stab, cut, whatever he's going to call it, is a lot better today, enough that when he walks it feels less like his hip is detaching from his body. He showers, shaves, puts on a different pair of clothing and socks and generally pretends to be a functioning human. He sees the others doing the same.

They aren't trying to pretend that yesterday didn't happen, but there's no point staying there. As Loki promised, there are no adverse effects on Tony or Steve that Clint can see from the Chitauri's weird mind-thing. It's like it didn't even happen. 

Loki crawls out of the medical room looking gray and pasty around three p.m., but before anyone can direct him back to bed, he goes the exhausting distance to the couch, flops down on his stomach with his hands propped underneath himself and falls asleep. At some point, he manages to acquire a blanket, but Clint doesn't see from where.

They all make a periodic effort to poke him and get some water into his body, but Loki can barely stay awake for minutes at a time.

The next couple days aren't any better, which none of them weren't expecting. Having dealt with this a few times before now, they generally know what to expect. After almost a week, Loki finally manages to stay awake for a few scarce hours gathered together, and then a day after that his hyposomnia seems to give up its hold and release him to normal nocturnal patterns.

Although Clint wants to talk with Loki about the Chitauri, the Asgardian is practically sleepwalking. There isn't a time he can.

Throughout the entire debacle, as Loki is riddled with confusion about where and when he is, and tormented by his mind with extreme prejudice, Clint can feel the absence of Thor. He should be here, helping take care of Loki and bothering his brother back to health.

The way that all of them are with each other isn't something that would make sense to other people. They argue and butt heads and generally torment each other to the point of hair-tearing, yes, but it's not just that. There's an awareness of each other. A sense of understanding and acceptance. They don't have to talk to feel comfortable because the silence is just as warm.

And it only causes Thor's disappearance feel so much worse. Everyone leaves space for him, but he's not there to fill it.

Thor should be here and he's not. Instead, somewhere out there, someone is hurting him, and there's nothing Clint can do about it. He tries to tell himself that it won't be like this forever because eventually, they'll find Thor, tomorrow they'll have more information, but tomorrow comes and goes with nothing. And the next day, and the one after that.

Any leads they have on Mjolnir end at nothing. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s searches are useless. They can't even follow the gamma trail of the scepter.

They're eight days out from Swenson's attack, eleven from Thor going missing with nothing to show for it except short tempers. Loki's had two massive disassociation episodes in the span of that. Steve's leg heals up until he's only walking with a slight hitch and then an uneven step on occasion, and Clint's wound follows suit. Clint is bracing himself to talk to Loki about the Chitauri, finally, and is not freaking out about it in the slightest.

(He is. Completely and utterly, and he hates this.)

And then, because God hates Clint Barton, everything goes to crap.

000o000

"I won't work with murderers. I'm done. I found someone, he can get us both out." His voice is shaky. The entire world feels slightly lopsided, as though it's intending to slide off its axis and pour into his soul. He feels sick. The distance between them is feet but feels like inches.

The other man's face twists with anger. Soft blond hair is a mess across his face, his body rigid. His brow is furrowed and tight.

"What are you talkin' about?" Barney demands. "Are you freaking insane? No one just gets out, not from here."

"They killed thirty-seven people, Barney!" he exclaims. "And they laughed. We have to go."

"No one gets out."

He lifts his chin. "I did. I am." He breaks. "Barney, please, come with me. We don't have to keep working for them, we can get out, we don't need to do this."

"This?" Barney repeats. He gestures around them, to the ally, the only place that they can talk without fear of being arrested or killed. Even now he can feel his breath escaping in ragged gasps as he braces for the sirens. "This is our life, little brother. It always has been. Now you want to give that all up? What happened to staying together? What happened to being a better family that Mom and Dad? You're going to leave me, too, huh?"

His chest spasms.

"Barney please," the words are an exhale.

Barney looks at him. Long. Hard. Weighted. His intentions are on display and he allows himself to be read. His hands are beginning to tremble, he can feel it up to his shoulders. Barney's lip curls, then trembles once before swallowed in a wall of rage. "You selfish brat." He growls, putting a hand on his gun. He tenses up in response to it. "Where are you gonna go? You going to run off with your newfound best friend? You promised me, you little piece of crap. You promised you weren't going to leave—"

He rapidly backs up as Barney approaches.

But his mouth has always ran where it shouldn't.

Somewhere, deep inside, he thinks there's always a part of him that believes he can talk his way out of a situation without resorting to his fists.

"I want you to come with me," he promises. "I don't want to leave, I want us both to. Barney—"

His back smacks into a dumpster a second before Barney slams his fist into the space beside his head. The echoing bang makes his head rattle. "Killing all those people was my idea, Clint! I wanted to. They deserved to suffer, they were horrible."

"Wh-what?" he can feel himself going pale. The world is spinning. "You—"  He can see their faces. Hear them screaming.  "They were innocent! All they did was their freaking jobs!"

"I don't care!  You don't get to leave. I need you!" Bareny cries. Tears of panic and pain are beginning to roll down face. "Little brother, please."

He breathes out hard, refusing to tremble. His hand is curled around the knife. "And I can't stay. I'm sorry."

He ducks under Barney's grasp, feinting to avoid any hands, and starts running for the entrance to the ally. There's a popping-hiss sound and his leg gives out. Barney has a gun. He swears, gasping, and tries to get up again anyway. He can feel the tight pressure of the bullet in his thigh, but he can't stop moving.

Barney's hand curls around his shoulder, hauling him back. He stumbles, smashing hard into the side of the building. His vision goes white for a moment. B arney swears, panicked, and desperately whispering demands. "Why did you make me do that? Crap, we need to get you to a hospital. You can't leave, see, look what happens? We'll get you patched up," Barney's voice is desperate. Alone. He didn't realize guilt could be this suffocating. Not to this extent.

And yet, the disgust is worse.

"No," he gasps. He slams a hand into Barney's stomach, fighting, knuckles pulsing, "No!"

They fight for the gun, and it gets knocked away from both of them. He doesn't really remember what happens after that, but he distinctly remembers the first crack of Barney's knuckles against his face.

And then when he wouldn't stop. It's dizzying. He tries to fight back, but the blows keep coming, over and over again. His hearing is beginning to go out of focus.

Everything blurs, blinding black light and screaming silence.

He knows the blows stop at some point, but he's in too much pain to care. There's another gunshot. He flinches. He tries to stare up through swollen eyes and can only make out blurry figures in suits with guns. Barney is screaming at him, face twisted up in rage and not a single shred of regret. He wonders if it's going to be the last thing he sees.

"I hope you die! I hope you die in your little boyband! I hope that it all goes horribly wrong and you're sliced open and can't be put back together, Clint! I hate you! I HATE YOU!"

He has a wild, desperate moment to sink into endless despair, all-encompasing and well rounded, because you were the only one that ever loved me and then there's spinning lights, blue and red, and someone is trying to take his pulse and he can't hear anything anymore, he can't hear what they're saying the words are drowning in the hollowness of his chest, filling up with nothing. Someone tries to touch his left ear where Barney slammed it against the wall and a desperate wail escapes him.

His heart is pounding in his chest.

He can't hear it.

A wail builds in his chest, pain, emotional and physical and he empties out his lungs as he screams and—

A siren is going off, loud and piercing.

Loki jerks awake with a shuddering gasp, breathing heavily into the thick darkness. His entire body is numb, his hands—dead and empty and wrong—shaking in the darkness as he trembles. Breathing heavily, he fumbles for a moment before he manages to grab the beaded string with numb fingers and tugs. The lamp bursts to life, only offering meager protection against the stygian. Everything is fuzzy and screaming.

Clint.

Something—

Clint. He has to—

He shoves up, breath faint and thin, something speaking in the background—the AI—but Loki finds himself ignoring it, climbing to his feet, focused steadily on moving. Lights are blinking, red, white, some sort of an alert. It's far away. Everything is so far away. This will be better, his mother said, just focus on something else. She wouldn't even touch him.

He finds himself outside of Barton's door before he can make cohesive thought patterns on what he's doing. He means to knock, demanding rattling answers, but before his hand can land on the door, it's being thrown open. Clint and Natasha jerk back from him in surprise.

They're armed, dressed for a fight, and Loki can do nothing but stare at them, uncomprehending.

For the first time, he looks at Clint's face and sees faint scars from stitches. From a fight. A plethora of them gathered around his right ear. Oh gods. Clint's hearing loss. Blunt force trauma. Did his brother do that to him? Like Thor threw him off the Bifrost?

Clint says something.

Loki makes a faint sound.

Clint grabs his arm, sparking some sort of nerving life into his body again, as if his soul is sucked back inside. Loki exhales in a gasp, hearing the alarms ringing, and Jarvis telling them to move. What time is it? What's going on?

Clint grabs both his arms. Loki twitches. "Hey! Focus! Look at me. What's wrong with you?"

Natasha mutters something in her native tongue. Loki swallows hard. He feels strange and empty, a thousand miles away.

"What?" Loki says, blinking.

"We don't have time for this," Natasha says urgently. She looks at his feet. "Go find shoes. We need to meet with the others."

Shoes? What do shoes have to do with this? Why am I dreaming as you? Why did your brother try to kill you, Barton? "Why?" Loki says, feeling slow.

"Wh—" Clint stops. Stares, actually looking at him and growing more confused and concerned. Concern. Concern? "Because Jane just called. Thor just attacked them and killed Selvig."

Chapter Text

I have made the obscene decision to do something unforgivable,

for the sake of [my] survival,

-Unknown

Foster and Lewis are a lightly bruised mass, huddling together on their couch and looking ethereal and translucent. Stress, shock, and grief are making their bodies stiff and shaky. Lewis had to put down the cup of water one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s agents gave her so she would stop spilling it all over the floor. Foster’s hands are still, but her face is devoid of life. 

Lost, empty, and angry. 

So much anger, between the two women. 

Somehow, with the accumulation of his life so far, Loki meeting his brother’s fiancée for the first time after Thor murdered someone feels bitterly appropriate. Not that he would consider this much of a meeting. He hasn’t even said one word to either of them yet, watching both from a distance. He planted himself toward the far corner of the room to be out of sight, close enough to overhear but be forgotten. The last thing both women need is to be reminded of his existence. 

Across from them, Director Fury is carefully taking their statement inside a small notebook, writing down crucial details in a tiny, slanted script. 

Loki doesn’t know why he bothers. The house speaks for itself. 

The front of the house is charred and cracked, the door obliterated. The sandstone is streaked with ash, blood-spotted fulgurites springing out of the sand around the driveway. There are signs of a fight from the kitchen to the front door, where Selvig was murdered out in the dirt. His body was already covered when they got here with a thin white sheet, smeared at the top with blood. His skull was bashed in. 

They had been in the process of putting him in a large black bag for transport when the Avengers arrived twenty minutes ago. 

Loki can, from that, make a general inference of what happened. Thor arrived loudly and with prejudice. He didn’t wait to talk with either Foster or Lewis and instead went for Selvig directly. He then dragged the struggling man outside while both women tried to stop him, where he slammed Mjolnir into his skull and Selvig died instantly. The women’s injuries are from the initial shock to the house, where it rattled like it was shaking off the foundation. Lewis probably fell against the coffee table and Foster, as she has explained several times, smacked her head against a doorframe. It looks like Thor attempted to beat him, but he didn’t. 

According to Jane, he kept saying he was sorry and it was for the best, then he left without a word of explanation. 

That was four hours ago. He hasn’t made a reappearance since. 

Steve steps up next to him, lips pressed together. There isn’t a hint of exhaustion on his face, buried beneath the adrenaline. A mixture of frustration and loss is making his jaw set. He shakes his head. “I can’t make sense of it,” he confesses quietly, taking off his helmet. “Nat and I finished our perimeter sweep and from what we can tell, he wasn’t out there watching him. He just dropped in, killed Dr. Selvig, and left.” 

That makes sense given the state of the house. And yet. 

Loki frowns. He wasn’t allowed outside to search with them, instead left to the supervision of S.H.I.E.L.D., which was vaguely insulting. Truly, what do they expect him to do here? He wants to find his brother as much as they do; more, perhaps. His sedir may be a mess and attempting to kill him on most days, but he can still sense magic. 

This place reeks of the Chituari, not Asgard, as Director Fury seems to think. 

Clint, who decided to glue himself beside Loki once he realized Loki would be stuck with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, shrugs. “Maybe he just really didn’t like the guy.” 

“And really not liking someone qualifies for killing them now? After days of no contact?” Steve asks wryly. 

“Hey, you punched Hilter like fifty times, I don’t think you’re in the place to be casting judgment here.” Clint points out, lightly smacking Steve on the arm. The captain rolls his eyes. Loki, having heard the archer praising Steve for assaulting the long-dead murderer more times than he can count, inwardly sighs with exasperation. 

Loki shakes his head. “No. Thor was fond of Selvig. He wouldn’t do…this.” Loki bites on the inside of his lip. He doesn’t even know what to call this. Massacre comes to mind, and yet, that feels too heavy. Massacres are huge and bloody, this was maybe three minutes and with as minimal violence as Thor could make it. 

Which confuses him. If Thor truly is under the control of the Chitauri, why would he be concerned about casualties? Or about making the death as painless as possible? These are the actions of his brother, not a controlled, mindless weapon. But it can’t be Thor, because Thor wouldn’t murder his fiancée’s mentor. Not without an actual cause. 

And there isn’t one that he can find. 

It’s just mindless violence. 

And that’s the other caveat. Selvig’s skull was crushed with Mjolnir. Loki recognized the markings of the weapon. Thor had his hammer. But why in the gods’ name would he have his weapon of choice? Especially when it has such a close relationship with Asgard? Why didn’t the Chitauri give him the scepter like they did Loki? If the Chitauri were truly concerned about finishing their lord’s original mission, then why aren’t they collecting the means for creating another portal to kill everyone? 

Thanos wanted to murder half of the population and then…something, after that. 

Selvig helped last time, Loki knows that much. What little memories he has of the entire event are a mess at best, but he knows that. Thor isn’t recreating the invasion unless he killed Selvig on purpose with the intent to delay it. 

Loki pushes fingers against his forehead. “Thor may be trying to sabotage a second invasion. But that doesn’t--This place reeks of the Chitauri’s teleportation magic. They had to have been together.” The two men stare at him with confusion. “What?”

"Why are the Chitauri building a portal if they can teleport back and forth between Earth?” Clint asks.

Oh. Yes. Right. Loki keeps forgetting they didn’t receive the same education he did. “They can’t teleport through space by themselves. They would explode.” He says bluntly. Both their eyes go wide. “Everyone would without some sort of protection, like the Bifrost. It’s an issue sedirmasters have been trying to solve for centuries. If you take away the mass of your body and put it on a different planet, the atoms have to adjust to that, typically through sound, normally with few adverse effects. When you land, you’re shoving atoms together rapidly inside your body and typically they’ll fuse and it--” 

“--creates a big bang. Like an atomic bomb.” Clint finishes. He winces. “Ouch.” 

To put it mildly. 

“Selvig built a wormhole with the aid of the Tesseract last time,” Loki says, his gaze sliding toward the blown-out door. “I don’t understand why the Chitauri wouldn’t want that again if their intent is to finish what they started.”  

“Maybe it…wasn’t for that,” Steve says. He bites his lip in agitation. He looks at Foster, then back at them, his voice lowering. “Two of the most brilliant minds on the planet live here. Thor didn’t take either. Even if they wanted to recreate the invasion, they can’t, right? We don’t have the Tesseract anymore.”

Loki flattens his lips. 

Asgard does. 

All Midgard had was the Scepter, and now that’s in the Chitauri’s hands, gods-knows-where. It just doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. Why take Thor in the first place? The Chitauri had to know they’d be gambling with fate to incur Asgard’s wrath like that. Forcing Loki into the first invasion was different. Loki doesn’t matter. Thor is the beloved sunshine of the Nine; people care what happens to him. 

“Then what was he doing?” Clint asks, his shoulders slumping. He groans, burying his face inside his hands. “This makes less sense the more you think about it.” 

“Unfortunately,” Loki agrees. 

Natasha and Tony come inside the house, quietly discussing something between them. Both their faces are grim. No answers on their end then, either. If there had been, no matter how horrid, they would be relieved. 

Loki closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. The beginnings of a severe headache have been doing their best to form since he woke up, and it’s finally settling with its hold. He doesn’t have time for this. He just wants to find his brother, kill him, and then go home. 

Not sleep. Not…after. That. He doesn’t know what to make of it. It isn't the first time he’s dreamt of what he suspects are memories from Clint, Dr. Selvig, or what he now recognizes as Swenson. The dreams are scarce and spaced far about, but no less unsettling with how vivid they are. He just doesn’t know what they mean. 

“Hey, J?” Tony asks, snapping Loki out of his thoughts. He looks up at the engineer and sees that he’s holding several small yellow-orange bottles, having just spotted them on the counter. Most of them are nearly empty. There’s small script stamped on the front in black. “Was Selvig helping with illicit drug trials?”

Foster’s brow pinches. “No?”

Tony turns over one of the bottles, frowning. “Ambien CR, halcion, sonata. He must have been chugging these down. Are we sure he didn’t just OD? And it, just, exploded his head.” Tony winces as soon as the words are out, clearly not having thought about that before he said it.

“It wasn’t drugs. He couldn’t find a medication that worked,” Lewis says sharply. While Foster’s grief has dulled her, Lewis’ in contrast has made her angry and jagged. She seems like she’s constantly teetering between punching someone and sobbing. Foster rests a hand on her arm. It seems to be all she has the energy for. 

Bruce frowns, looking over Tony's arm to see the medications. “Those are benzodiazepines. Was he having sleeping issues?”  

“Nightmares.” Foster confirms quietly. She stares off at the crease between the ceiling and the wall. “They were bad. Started about five months ago. There wasn’t anything that helped. He tried everything. All the doctors that he’s seeing--that he… saw, didn’t have an explanation.” 

Beside Loki, Clint's breath hitches and he goes stiff. Loki glances at him, brow furrowing. He looks like he might be sick. 

"It wasn't the drugs," Lewis says firmly. "Thor was here. We didn't imagine that." 

"I'm not saying that you didn't, Darce," Tony says, lifting up his hands in surrender. "Sorry. My mouth moved faster than my brain." 

" Yeah." Lewis says, looking away from him, "It does that." 

Tony sets the bag back on the countertop quietly. Bruce looks at the engineer with a frown. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to…I just.” Foster gets to her feet, blinking rapidly. Her eyes almost look swollen from crying. “Bathroom.” She says, gesturing vaguely toward the hall. 

“Of course,” Fury agrees, closing his small notebook. “Take your time. I’m very sorry for your loss, Dr. Foster.” 

“Yeah,” she whispers. She looks up and briefly catches Loki’s eyes. He twitches, braced for her yelling. To be honest, he’s not entirely sure if she realized he was here to begin with. Foster’s mouth moves, closes, and she looks away. She ducks her head and walks off. 

He should say something. Offer comfort in Thor’s absence. He doesn’t. This woman is important to his brother. His brother sees a life with her. She means something. His tongue feels swollen in his mouth, soaked with guilt and shame. 

I started this. 

If I hadn’t forced Thor into any of this in the first place, then he would never have met her and by extension, Selvig would still be alive. So many people would still be alive or not have had their lives ruined. 

Lewis’ eyes follow her friend’s to meet Loki's and her jaw sets. She looks back down at the glass of water, fresh tears slipping down her face. 

The grief in this room is stifling. 

“Hey,” Clint grabs his arm. Loki flinches, looking at him. There’s a fine tremble in his fingers and Clint’s face is ashen, his voice low, “can I talk to you about something?” His gaze shifts a fraction toward the people around them. “Alone. Outside?” 

Loki hesitates, looking up at the Director. His desire to incur the man’s wrath is low, but Clint is clearly desperate. Steve frowns at both of them but says nothing in protest. Taking this to mean that he’ll cover for them, Loki nods his head once and allows himself to be led out of the room. The steps are hard beneath them, crunching as they step out onto the gravel driveway. 

Loki’s eyes slide toward where Selvig’s body was. The gray is splashed with blood spatter, a small yellow pyramid beside it with the number four on it. Clint doesn’t look at it, focus clearly elsewhere. They pass by the blackened sand from Thor’s arrival and Loki sees several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents watching them. 

His shoulders tense up despite himself. 

None of the agents try to stop them. 

Clint takes him some distance from the small house down the empty road before turning around. The farther out they go, the more dread settles in Loki's stomach. This is clearly not a conversation that Clint wants to be overheard, which means that the contents won’t be pleasant. He takes in a deep breath to settle his fraying nerves. 

“And what is it that you can’t tell the others?” Loki asks. 

The archer shakes out one of his hands, then rubs it over his mouth, groaning faintly. Loki folds his arms across his chest, trying not to let his own anxiety show. 

Clint shakes his head. “Two times is a coincidence, three times is a pattern,” he mutters to himself.

“Barton,” Loki says sharply. 

“Right,” Clint lets out an uneasy laugh, then clasps his hands behind his head. “I think there’s something wrong with me.” 

Loki’s eyebrows raise. “Aside from the obvious?” 

Clint rolls his eyes and punches him in the arm good-naturedly, but, as intended, tension has seeped from his body to be replaced with annoyance. Loki’s lip quirks up. “Haha. You’re hilarious. Do you even try, or does it come naturally?” 

Gods, it’s such a relief that the Avengers will often just banter with him instead of taking his declarations as statements of war. Asgard would never.

“Apologies,” Loki says insincerely, sobering. “What’s wrong?” 

Clint is quiet for a long minute as if he has no idea what to say or how to get started. Loki waits, admittedly with growing concern. The archer’s eyes keep darting and his mouth will twitch, but when he finally does speak, his words are careful. “Do you remember when Swenson punched you and he told you to stop 'giving him the dreams' or some crap like that?” 

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Stop! Let go! Loki’s hand clamps around his left arm, fingers tight. “Yes.” He admits, confused. 

“And you had no idea what that meant?” 

“...yes,” he repeats. He shakes his head, “Barton, what does this--?”

“We’re having the same dreams,” Clint interrupts. Loki’s stomach drops. He stares at him. What dreams? “All of us. Me, him, Selvig. At least, I’m assuming. I never really got the chance to talk with the good doctor, but the vivid nightmares and the not sleeping? Yeah, that tracks.” 

“What?” Loki asks, eyes narrowing. 

Clint licks his lips nervously. He won’t look at Loki. “Ever since you, uh, came back to Earth, I’ve been having these dreams. About you. As you.” He corrects himself. His jaw clenches. 

He...

What? 

He's having dreams of Loki. 

And Loki is-- Oh. He thinks about last night and watching Clint’s brother beat him nearly to death. About dreaming of Selvig’s lover dying in a car accident while Selvig watches, Swenson as a child, crying as someone with a gun murders his classmates. It’s not just him. Tethering. Mental tethering. He created magical ties between them with the Mind Stone. He can’t remember how they broke. If they broke. 

Loki’s voice feels faint as he asks, “this is why you haven’t been sleeping?” 

Clint hesitates, looking up at him with surprise, and Loki refrains from punching him in the arm in annoyance. It’s rather obvious once someone knows him well, and it’s not like he’s made an effort to hide it, collapsing against furniture at any given moment to “rest his eyes” and then wake up shuddering. The bags beneath his eyes could conceal a corpse. 

And...Loki’s jaw tightens, thinking back to the nightmare Clint had on the couch a few days before Thor went missing. He’d been murmuring in what Loki first thought was Chitaurian, but later forgot about. If he's been dreaming as Loki then...

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, quiet. “It gets better when we’re further apart, but it’s…not great. I don’t know.” 

Loki licks his lips. “You…” he has so many questions. Thousands. Gods. What have they seen? A thousand years of memories to choose from. His entire life is documented for them to view. The horrible, gut-wrenching violation of all of this strikes him suddenly. 

Humiliating. 

This is humiliating. 

Oh gods. 

“You--what…have you seen?”  he asks, almost feeling frantic. What haven’t they seen, collectively? If it is every night, that’s over three hundred days between the three of them. Gods. Gods. “You said this has been happening nightly? I’ve had some dreams about you and the others, but they’re only every couple of months, which I know is normal after a mind tether but--” 

“Wait,” Clint grabs his arm, his mouth parted, eyes wide and terrified. “You’ve been dreaming as me?” 

Loki’s mouth snaps closed. He watches as Clint processes that, rapidly cycling through emotions: anger, fear, embarrassment, and-- relief? What on the Nine does he have to be relieved about? This isn’t something to be glad about. Their minds are merging together into a broken mass and Clint is relieved? Disgusting. This is--

This isn’t Clint’s fault.

It’s Loki’s. 

He’s the one who decided to follow Thanos. He’s the one who decided to help a madman murder thousands. The Chiaturi put the scepter in his hands, but that doesn’t mean that Loki had to do anything with it. He chose that. Any fallout from this is his fault. Even if it means that Loki’s mind is now scattered between mortals. 

And besides. 

After Odin, and the Void, Loki’s mind has been properly shred to tatters. The horror, intense and powerful as it is, passes, leaving with it only the bitter taste of resignation. 

Of course. Why not? Why would he deserve anything less? 

“Is this…on purpose?” Clint asks. 

Loki rears back from him, snapping his arm back. “What? No. Of course not. Why would--you did think that.” Loki can see it on his face. It stings, deep inside, for reasons that he can’t determine. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if the Avengers don’t trust him. He doesn’t Norns’ cursed care. His chest feels like it’s cramping, twisting up and raw. 

“I didn’t know what to think!” Clint exclaims, running hands through his hair. “It was just happening and it’s not like we were friends half a year ago. Someone could literally have told me you’ve been murdering small dogs since you were a child and I would have believed it.” 

What on the Norns are dogs? 

Loki’s grits his teeth. He shakes his head. “This wasn’t intentional. That I can assure you.” 

Clint jabs him in the arm hard. Loki jerks, pulling away. “No. No. Look at me, you self-deprecating idiot, I did think that. I don’t anymore. Especially after all of this,” Clint gestures at him, like that encompasses everything he just said, “I know that you--you wouldn’t do that to me. Not if you had a choice.” 

Trust. 

That is trust. 

Clint trusts him. 

Loki’s breath shudders out painfully. He forces himself to cling to what little rational thoughts are skirting around and push them forward. He has to focus. He can’t succumb to sentiment right now, even as much as he would like to. 

Think. 

Just think. 

This is a problem. Work it. 

“How exactly did Romanov sever the connection between you and the scepter?” Loki asks. 

Clint’s brow furrows. “She slammed my head against a metal pole. I’m kind of lucky she didn’t crack my skull open, but she says she was careful.” Here, the archer rolls his eyes fondly. “Like you can carefully give someone a concussion. Don’t you remember that? I felt myself being pulled away from everything. You didn’t?” 

Loki bites his lower lip, pushing his thumb into his palm. “No. In truth, Barton, much of my memory is hazy about the entire event. I believe your Hulk has something to do with that.” 

It’s like a dream to him. Slipping, faint, and far away. He doesn’t know what is reality or something he fabricated to fill in the gaps. Odin told him he killed thousands and he didn’t remember enough to counter that. 

"Oh." Clint intones. 

Loki sighs, "It matters little."

"No, actually it matters a lot. Did you get that checked out when you--your dad is. Right. So that's definitely a no. Never mind.” Clint winces. “Sorry.” 

Loki decides to ignore that. Natasha slamming Clint’s head to that extent should have broken everything. A great deal of mind control spells and curses can be broken by a brain bleed or smack against the skull. It’s one of the reasons that it’s rare to find that sort of situation in a battle. 

“How much have you seen? Of my memories?” Loki asks. 

“Does it matter?” Clint asks, pushing his hands into his eye sockets. What little humor he did have seems to have drained from him. “I can’t believe this is happening. Everything was supposed to be over when Tasha broke the scepter’s connection. Now Selvig’s getting it, too, and you. This is insane.”

“It’s not,” Loki says. “Focus. What have you seen? The scepter builds emotional connections between people. Tethers. Typically through worst memories that you subconsciously used to build your identity to build bonds and love. Everything should have broken completely when the tethers snapped after the invasion was over. Depending on how much you’ve seen from me will determine how bad this is.”

Clint stares at him. Genuine confusion is pushed into every edge of his face. “Wait, wait, wait. No. I’m not dreaming of you as a kid, I’m dreaming about you being tortured--”

Screaming. Yelling. The needle. Frigga weeping into his hair. Thor arriving and trying to get him out, Loki choking on blood and tears as he tells him to just cut off his hands. Thor desperately clinging to him, sobbing. Blood. So much blood. Odin talking. Frigga--

“--by the Chitauri.” Clint finishes. 

Loki’s mind blanks. He takes a physical step back. It takes him several long seconds before he makes sense of the words. “ What?” 

Clint squeezes his eyes shut, tipping his head back. “I know I should have said something sooner, but you were half-dead and there just didn’t seem to be a good time. Crap. Sorry. I just. When we were on the Helicarrier and you were talking to the Chitauri, I understood everything they were saying to you.” 

Na’axik. He heard all of that? 

Gods, I am a humiliation to my family. And myself. 

Clint’s voice is softer, like he's talking to a scared child. “I know that they hurt you. You don’t have to keep pretending, okay?” 

They hurt him.

The Chitauri-- 

Loki stares at him for several long moments before he finds himself laughing. It’s not bitter or resigned, but actual disbelief at the sheer stupidity of what the archer is saying. “What are you  talking about? The Chitauri didn’t torture me. They wouldn’t dare to touch me.” That is ignoring when they beat him before he tumbled through the Tesseract, but Thanos…asked him to endure it. Loki couldn’t refuse him. He loved him too much. 

He forces the memories away. 

“But--” Clint starts to protest. 

“Barton, no. I promise you.” Loki assures. “My mind is a mess, but I know that much.” His memories are blurred together and he knows that he has missing time, but there’s little he can do about it. Before Odin gave his sentencing on Asgard, Loki didn’t realize that it had been over a year since he fell. He thought it had been a scarce handful of days. 

His conclusion has been that the Void did something. That is what makes sense, not…this. Clint’s bizarre conspiracy theory. 

“No.” Clint persists, shaking off the initial doubt, “No. Okay, that doesn’t make sense, okay? Because I’m not dreaming of you as a kid, and I’m not dreaming of you in Odin’s hands, so it has to be the Chitauri.” 

Yes. Clearly. That’s obviously the conclusion they should leap to once they’ve crossed the other variables. The Chitauri are a hazy, fearful presence to him. Loki is cautious around them because he’s been told stories of what they do to their victims. He’s not afraid. He remembers barely being able to walk for days after they hurt him, but it wasn’t more than an isolated incident. 

It wasn't-- they didn't hurt him. Loki would remember that. Loki couldn't...he wouldn't just forget something like that. 

“ The Chitauri didn’t do anything to me! ” Loki snaps. 

“But I thought--” 

“You thought wrong!” Loki exclaims, throwing out his hands. “I chose to do all of this. I chose to attack your realm. I’m not a good person, Barton! Just because you want to see me as one doesn’t mean I am.” 

Even if it doesn't make sense. Loki never wanted a throne but was starving for one. Temporary madness from the Void. 

Clint chokes. “You’re kidding, right? Have you met me? Do I seem like the type of person to make excuses up to defend you hurting me?” 

Loki shakes his head, exhaling a frustrated “Barton.” 

“I have spent months reliving that torture nearly every single night in my head. So did Selvig and Swenson! Do you think that we’re just making this up? You’re having the same dreams!” Clint exclaims. 

“It’s not the same thing!” Loki exclaims. 

“How? ” 

“Because you--you should be dreaming of me as a youth. Not of some--some fictional narrative where the Chitauri hurt me. If this was just because of the scepter, the dreams would be  months apart like actual memories. What you’re describing sounds more like memory implantation, which doesn’t make any sense because I wasn't tortured!”  Loki enunciates the last few words harshly. 

“I’m not lying to you!” Clint exclaims, exasperated. He throws up his hands. “Will you not even consider the freaking possibility?!” 

“There’s nothing to consider!” 

“You--” 

Both of them, completely focused on each other, missed the growing overcast. The snapping harsh crackle of thunder vibrating the air is harder to ignore. It rattles in his chest. Loki’s head snaps up, looking at the approaching stormclouds.

Then, slowly, he lowers his gaze to meet Clint's eyes. 

“Well, crap,” Clint whispers, pulling a knife off a strap at his thigh. He hands it to Loki wordlessly, eyes going back up to the sky. Trust, Loki is reminded of once again with a heavy heart and takes the weapon from him. 

000o000

It’s several long tense seconds of silence before there’s a spazzing pop in the air, pressure bottoming out as Clint’s entire body shudders. He hears distant thunder like beating drums, rumbling, lightning growing closer, crackling, snapping together like it's fighting desperately for space. 

Clint sees something approaching in the clouds. 

Oh man. 

Loki shoves them both toward the hard sand. They land in a tangle of limbs, Clint’s back smashing hard into the unforgiving sand. He gasps, coughing harshly, and swears. “What the f--” he starts to exclaim. 

Above them, beyond Loki’s hunched frame wrapped over him, the sun vanishes. His stomach twists. Hope. Dread. He wants it to be Thor, and he desperately hopes it isn’t. He starts to shove up, but Loki pushes him back down. “Stay down,” he hisses.

“What? No. Thor is out there--” 

“That’s why.” 

Clint wriggles underneath his hold, feeling something in the air, but Loki refuses to budge. The Asgardian’s head turns toward their left, his eyes wide with fear. For the first time, Clint realizes this must be what it’s like on the other end of their battles, watching the Avengers approach. 

Thor--living, breathing, actual Thor-- glides through the air like he’s nothing more than a bolt of lightning himself. When he lands several feet away with a loud thump, the earth around him sizzles. His entire body crackles with the snapping energy, Mjolnir gripped tight in one bloody fist. Clint can’t breathe. Eleven days. Eleven freaking days of wondering whether or not he’s alive and he’s here, close enough to touch. 

Thor straightens up, breathing raggedly like he’s inhaling with half his ribcage broken. 

Jane, Clint realizes, didn’t mention his appearance at all. 

Thor is there. Somewhere, underneath all the blood at least. Without shoes, dressed in torn and bloody pants with a shirt more scrap than actual clothing, Thor looks cadaverous. His hair is a mess around his face, hanging in dirty, clumpy strands. More than a dozen open wounds with varying degrees of seriousness are leaking blood. His eyes are wild with an unearthly, luminescent blue sheen. 

Scepter blue.

Oh, s--

“Loki!” Thor spits the name like a foul word. His voice is hoarse. “Get off of him. You would dare to mock protecting others after what you did?” 

Loki doesn’t get off of him. Instead, Clint sees him swallow hard. “Thor,” he says. His voice is lost. Small. It grows stronger as he speaks, gaining an edge, “Thor, please. You’re not yourself, just--let me help--” Loki starts to carefully get up, hands raised to show he’s without weapons, like an idiot. 

The appearance of Thor suddenly means the disappearance of Loki's brain. 

He pointedly jabs his boot hard into Clint’s side when Clint makes a motion to get up, too. 

Clint smacks his boot.  

What does he expect to happen!? Thor to take off his head as soon as he remembers Clint is here? No. You know what? It doesn't matter. Thor is right there. There is no way in heaven or hell that Clint is just going to sit here. 

Thor recoils, taking a staggering step back. His next words are a snarl. “No. I don’t want your help. Nothing could make me fall so low ever again.” 

Clint gets up to his feet behind Loki, slowly drawing an arrow from his quiver, threading it carefully along the bowstring. The younger Asgardian’s shoulders grow tight. He doesn’t lower his hands. Clint doesn't know what he did with the dagger. 

“Bror,” Loki says, taking a careful step forward, “look at me. You're hurt. Let me help you. Please.” 

Thor’s expression crumples. Lost longing settles in his face, overwhelmed by grief. The emotions bleed away, forced back by anger. His hand curls around Mjolnir. “No. I can’t trust you. Not after what you did.”   

“You can,” Loki promises, getting closer. Clint’s fingers are growing numb. Relax. Drop your shoulders. You’re useless if you’re tensed up.  Loki gets close enough to touch and carefully reaches up, resting a hand on the side of Thor’s neck. The elder shudders. “You can,” Loki repeats, “you’re not thinking straight. I know you’re confused, but I--” 

Thor shoves him back harshly, nearly falling forward himself when he puts weight on his left leg. The tibia is clearly broken now that Clint’s looking at it. “ Don’t touch me! Everything you touch dies!” 

Loki staggers back. “Bror --”

“YOU’RE NOT MY BROTHER!”  Thor roars. Thunder crackles above them and Clint eyes the sky warily. Lightning is still snapping above them, dancing tauntingly. Thor exhales hard, on the tail end of another shudder, “You never were.” 

Loki makes a wordless, pained sound in his throat. He takes a physical step back. 

“You disgust me,” Thor spits. 

“And why wouldn’t I?” Loki whispers brokenly. Clint’s heart twists painfully in his chest at that. Loki, no. He wants to grab the sorcerer and shake him.Thor's not himself right now. You know that. You know that. He’s saying things he doesn't mean. Smack him when this is over. 

Thor shakes his head, blinking heavily before snapping Mjolnir up to the sky. Lightning snaps, crackling down to the weapon. Okay, negotiations over. Talking clearly didn’t work. Plan B, then. Not that he was aware that plan A was talking, but whatever. 

Loki clearly has no intention of getting out of the way, fixated on Thor, so Clint moves first. He tackles Loki to the ground from the side as lightning goes sailing over their heads. Every hair on his body stands up in reaction to it. 

Clint inhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. For a moment, just a moment, he allows himself the feeling of utter terror. 

Then he shoves off of Loki rapidly, restringing the arrow. Thor’s gaze slides from his brother to Clint and something dark and resigned passes through his eyes. He draws back his hand and throws his hammer as Clint fires the arrow. 

It isn’t a long fight. 

The thing is, when Loki had said that the Avengers wouldn’t really have a chance against Thor, Clint had thought he was exaggerating just a little. He wasn’t. Thor is a force of nature, broken and bloody, ready to kill them. In Clint’s imagination, he feels like Thor is more fixated on killing Clint than he is Loki, but that doesn’t make a lot of sense. He’s angry with Loki, not Clint. For whatever he thinks that Loki did. But none of this makes any sense in the first place because Thor is trying to kill them. 

But eventually, because he is mortal and not infallible, Clint moves too slow and Loki is too far, and the lightning bolt slams into Clint's body head-on. Every nerve in his body lights up, the burning heat rewriting his understanding of pain, but by the time his brain really registers it, it’s already gone. 

Burning. 

Pain. 

Buzzing. 

Down

Down

Down

Nothing

Then

Breath

He gasps, inhaling ragged, painful air, his chest tight and tingling. The world is bright and painful. Rain has started falling. Loki is leaning over him, his hands a bloody mess. His expression is terrified. Clint can smell burning flesh and knows that he must be in an ungodly amount of pain, but he can’t feel anything. At the sight of Clint’s gasping, Loki slumps over Clint’s chest with relief, fists curled in Clint’s shirt. His shoulders are shaking. 

Clint’s sluggish brain puts two and two together, drawing up a shaky three and a half. 

Lighting strike.

Cardiac arrest is the most common cause of death. 

Oh. 

There is no time for relief. 

Thor is--there, suddenly, like he spontaneously teleported and grabs Loki’s shoulder, hauling him off of Clint with a sweeping motion. Faintly, like from miles away, Clint hears Loki yell “Clint!” in panic. He can’t move. He can’t do anything. His limbs weigh five thousand pounds a piece. He can’t feel his legs. His mouth is twitching. His chest is heavy and broken and Thor is trying to kill him. 

Thor. His friend. The person that once wandered around Queens with him trying all the different hot dogs. The man that meticulously explained to him how to play an Asgardian sport while boredly looking over a football game both of them were making fun of. Thor, sitting on the other side of the couch from him, listening quietly as Clint explained about the vivid horror of his dreams when they started, his own insomnia keeping them up together. 

Thor, towering over him, his expression filled with grief and regret. Clint is pretty sure he’s apologizing. He has to be. He’s crying. 

He kept saying he was sorry. 

Thor raises Mjolnir. 

I’m going to die. 

Loki does something--he can’t hear anything beyond faint whispering sounds and pitches, his hearing aids must be shot to hell--because Mjolnir is shot out of Thor's hand with a concussion wave and a second later, Loki is grabbing Thor’s arm. The two of them wrestle for a moment before pushing each other out of Clint’s line of sight. He shudders, gasping. His nerves are spasming, working too hard and not hard enough. Breathing is painful. His heart is squeezing out of rhythm. 

Clint makes a gasping wheezy sound. 

Move. Don't just sit there and die. 

He looks up, shoving up on weak limbs, feeling the world rotating around him like he’s spinning. He catches a glimpse of movement before he watches Loki slice upwards with Clint’s dagger, attempting to injure, not maim, and manages to slice Thor’s chin. Thor doesn’t care. He keeps looking at Clint, trying to get to him and Clint can’t make sense of any of this. 

Loki cuts along Thor's arm again, but before he can get any further than that, Thor grabs the front of his brother's shirt and throws him forward. Loki goes flying out of Clint’s line of sight over his head. He feels more than hears an impact behind him. 

Thor stalks toward Clint, his expression empty, and Clint tries to spider-crawl backwards but can’t, his hands giving out. His legs are dead weight. He can’t--

He can’t move. Fight. Escape. 

Thor reaches out his hand for Mjlonir somewhere behind him and Clint feels his entire body lighting up with panic. It’s going to smash into his head. This is it. He’s going to freaking die. He’ll be just like Selvig, smashed to death by someone he’s supposed to trust and-- hope that it all goes horribly wrong and you're sliced open and can't be put back together (you’re leaving me, too?) --there’s nothing Clint can do to stop it. 

He can only watch. 

Mjolnir gets closer and closer until Thor jerks to the side as it goes sailing past him--past both of them. 

Clint gasps, turning sharply to see where the murder weapon went, and watches with wide eyes as it lands in Loki’s outstretched hand. 

That--

It--

Clint doesn’t know who looks more surprised: Thor or Loki . 

For what he guesses are silent moments for everyone, the two brothers just stare at each other. Loki’s gaze is fixed on the weapon in surprise, holding it out stiff from his body as if it's physically dangerous to him. He didn't think that would work. Thor is staring at him as though they’re strangers. 

Thor mouths “ how ?” 

And then, well, because this is Clint’s life, God can’t let them get one good win in, so it’s at that moment that there’s a sensation of…he doesn’t know how to describe it. A push, maybe? But not by the wind, almost as if the world around them on a molecular level is shoving out. His insides feel like a pot of soup that got knocked into. Slushing before settling. 

Dozens--maybe close to thirty--Chitauri pop into existence around them, like little sharp-teethed demons.

They, unlike Thor, seem completely focused on Loki. Clint cries out as the Chitauri reach for Loki, grabbing at him with claws and delighted laughter at Loki’s struggling. Mjonlir gets lost in the fray somewhere. Loki lets out a muffled scream. They’re dragging him back somewhere. 

They’re taking him. 

No. 

NO. 

Clint jerks toward him, a new spike of adrenaline rushing through him. He manages to get up to his knees. 

Thor’s body rocks, like he wants to take a half-step forward and stops himself. 

“Wait,” Thor says weakly, his voice faint. Clint flinches. 

God curse stupid adrenaline rushes. Clint hates them. Not because of how it feels like he could fight God and win, but because it gives him so much freaking hope. His deafness is something Clint normally accepts as a part of life and moves on, bearing the day-to-day minor frustrations. He’s lucky in the sense that hearing aids help a lot in terms of how well he can interact with his environment, but adrenaline makes him feel like he’s seven again, before the first accident that started this whole mess. 

Or he’s nineteen before Barney--

But it never lasts. 

It never lasts. 

He has to help. God, please let him help. He can’t get off the ground. 

“Ah-ah!” one of the Chitauri says in a sing-song tone. Its voice is just as distorted and fading in and out as Thor’s was. “You remember our deal, Odinson? You still haven’t completed your part yet. Is the great Thunderer feeling felled by a little sentiment? What would your family and your realm think?” 

That closes off Thor’s face, renewing only the anger. He looks briefly at Clint as though Clint can help him. What, Clint wonders with a sick fascination, did the Chitauri tell Thor that Loki did? 

“Your mother, your father…” a different Chitauri says, sighing. It traces a finger down Loki’s bleeding face. Clint watches helplessly as Loki tries to draw away and can’t. Hands are gripping his arms in several places and Clint can see the bone sticking out from where someone broke his femur. That must have been the source of the scream. 

“Perhaps…” it turns to look back at Thor. “You would like to avenge them? We are but beasts if we can’t take justice for our family.” 

What?

Oh.

Oh. 

Horrible, sickening realization is beginning to settle in. 

“Hit him,” one of the Chituari says, a thrill of excitement obvious in his tone. “Hit him! Avenge your family, Odinson!” 

“No--” Clint moans.  

Thor stalks past Clint and though he does hesitate, he doesn’t stop. He slams his fist into Loki’s stomach. Loki chokes, hunching over the fist as his body refuses to support his weight. Thor withdraws his hand and smashes his hand into Loki’s stomach again. He’s not holding back. Clint has seen Thor’s punches break concrete. 

Thor hits him for a third time and Loki’s body tries to collapse, but the Chitauri won’t let him. 

“V-Værrr så snill, b-brooor--” Loki slurrs in Asgardian. It sounds like begging. Blood dribbles out of his lips. “Vær…”  

Thor considers him. Clint can’t see his face. Loki’s head rolls upward to stare at him, exhausted and pain riddled, and his lips part helplessly as he comes to a realization. 

“You want me to show you mercy?” Thor repeats. His voice doesn’t sound like him. Clint is listening to a stranger, fading in and out as his adrenaline tries to crash. Thor wraps a hand around Loki’s throat. “Foreldremorder. Jeg hater deg." 

The Chitauri release Loki to struggle, and Loki does, fighting against Thor’s hands desperately, clawing fingers into skin. “H-hva?” he gasps. “Jeg gjorde ikke--” 

“ JEG HATER DEG!” Thor shouts. 

"Ikke..." Loki wheezes, "din feil. .." 

Loki, apparently in a last-ditch effort, reaches up and clasps Thor’s skull. His eyes flare as his palm makes contact with Thor’s forehead and Thor’s entire body convulses, but he doesn’t stop. Whatever spell Loki was trying to use failed. 

They’re going to die here, aren't they? Clint can't help and Loki can't get out. Thor seems to have no intention of stopping. 

“Odinson.” One of the Chitauri says in warning. “No killing. Our lord still wants--” 

Then, like an avenging angel, Clint hears the whine of a repulser blast before one slams into the back of the Chitauri’s head and it goes tumbling forward with a spray of black blood. Cap's shield slices through another before Hulk rumbles onto the scene with a roar of warning. 

Iron Man drops Natasha into the scene as it explodes with movement that Clint can only follow blurrily. Hulk physically drags Thor off of Loki, and there’s some sort of wrestle before Thor squirms away, summoning Mjolnir. Loki goes down. Clint doesn’t see him get up.

Everything is blurring too fast for him to make it out and he’s crashing, hard. 

The adrenaline is spiraling into its grave and Clint feels like everything is shrinking around him. The world gets quieter even though it should be louder. There are more flashes of bright light but he can’t focus on any of it. He can’t focus on anything. Everything is shrinking and not by choice, and he has to get up and he can’t.

The world rumbles.

Clint crashes into the sand. 

He inhales raggedly.

His body is beginning to sting, the growing sensation of pain he hasn’t been able to experience finally rearing its ugly head. His brain has apparently decided that his team can take care of this and has officially resigned from duty.

Natasha is suddenly there, cupping his face, her own filled with panic. She’s shouting at him, but the words are too murky to make out. He can’t focus enough to read her mouth. Her fingers push against his neck, looking for a pulse. 

I’m still alive. 

Oh, freaking crappity land of all unholy--

I'm still alive. 

Clint's emotional wall shatters and he crumbles, surging forward to wrap his arms around his partner, gasping in heaving sobs of helplessness and fear. Natasha clutches at him with equal desperation, rocking them both back and forth. She murmurs you’re okay and you’re safe into his neck, but doesn’t let go. 

The world is silent.

Everything is silent. 

Natasha holds him anyway and his mind succumbs to a sudden blackness.  

000o000

Clint wakes up later in some sort of hospital room, hooked up within an inch of his life to EKGs, an IV with what he assumes must be some sort of painkiller, and, the most unexpected sight: Steve drinking straight out of a vodka bottle. His entire body feels like one big bruise, his chest aching something truly hell-like. He squints carefully against the pulsing light, then looks at Steve. 

“Y’re drinkin’?” he mumbles. 

Steve drinks beer sometimes because he enjoys the taste. Clint doesn’t think he’s actually seen Steve trying to get drunk, and judging by the mini bar that has become the floor beside Steve’s chair, he’s making a valiant effort. 

Steve doesn’t startle. He looks up through red, puffy eyes that are completely clear to stare at him. Tears. Clint’s brow draws together slowly. He makes an attempt to sit up but fails. 

Steve says something, not facing him. Clint hears the faintest mumbling, a low pitch. Whatever he says, it’s in a whisper. 

“Hey,” Clint mumbles. Where are his hearing aids? Natasha is the only one who knows he prefers sleeping without them. She must have been here. Where is she? Steve looks at him. Clint gestures at himself with a floppy hand, and holy crap what is wrong with his arm? There's some sort of weird spiderwebbing burn smeared with some sort of gel. It goes up his forearm and probably beyond that, not that he can see. 

Um. 

Nope.

Cannot compute. 

Focusing on Steve instead. 

“I am deaf, you are not,” he reminds tiredly, “say that again?” 

Steve looks sheepish and sighs, taking another swig from his bottle. He makes sure to face Clint fully this time as he says “sorry” before going silent again.  

He doesn’t have the energy for this. 

Clint reaches out a shaky hand to poke his arm. “Hey, Ernest Hemingway, why are you drinking your emotions?” 

Steve exhales sharply. “Six minutes,” he says, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to rest against the wall. “Six God-forsaken minutes.” 

Clint stares at him. “Six minutes…of what?” 

“That’s how long it took before we noticed what was happening and got there,” Steve says, or something to that effect because Clint misses the first couple of words, his expression bitter. He drinks again from the bottle, then scowls at it. 

“Steve, is Thor…?” Clint starts to ask, hopeful. 

Steve shakes his head, “He’s gone. He retreated with the Chitauri. They showed up on the Helicarrier to break out the other Chitauri a few minutes after that. The casualties are high.” 

"Oh," Clint whispers. 

How long was he asleep? He passed out soon after Natasha started holding him and didn't see the outcome of the battle. Or the aftermath. 

Steve looks up a moment before Tony appears in Clint's line of sight. Clint twitches, closing his eyes for a moment to catch his breath. When he opens them again, Tony is giving him a grimaced smile. He rubs a knuckled fist over his sternum. "Sorry," he signs. 

Clint shakes his head. It happens. People kind of appear and vanish like magic when he's not paying enough attention. Being on an ungodly amount of drugs? Yeah. That applies. 

Tony lifts up a finger for one second before he reaches out and neatly lifts the vodka bottle from Steve's hand. There's a following argument, which Clint can't follow very well both from exhaustion and a lack of a proper angle, but it seems to have to do with Tony telling Steve getting drunk won't help, Steve accusing him of being a hypocrite, and then Tony agreeing to that before setting the bottle down anyway. Steve doesn't reach for it again but buries his head in his hands instead. Tony eyes him with concern for a long moment, before sighing and turning to look at Clint. 

"How are you feeling?" Tony signs. 

"Bad." Clint mumbles. 

Tony smirks tiredly. "Yeah. I'm sure. You took a bad hit.You've got burns all over your body right now, especially your chest, so don't try poking at it, even if it's itchy." 

Clint's brow furrows. He lifts up his hand again, looking at the spiderwebbing on his forearm. 

Burns. Not like anything he's ever seen. 

Tony gently lowers his arm, then fingerspells "Lightenburg" as if Clint knows what that is. Thankfully, Tony explains a moment later, "Lightning strike burns. They should go away in a few days without scarring. And you also have a couple broken ribs." 

Clint winces. "CPR?" he guesses. 

Tony's mouth twists. " Yeah." 

Does Loki even know CPR? 

"You scared N-Ro pretty bad,"  Tony adds after a moment. "All of us actually."  Clint's mind blanks out. He stares at Tony with a growing sense of dread. It wasn't passing out. It was cardiac arrest. That's awesome. Natasha is going to kill him. He can't imagine what that must have been like. Man, if he had been on the other end of this, finding Natasha and then her not breathing...he'd never let his partner out of his sight again. 

"Oh," Clint whispers. "How long was I asleep?" 

Steve snorts, looking up at the clock before turning to Clint. "Five hours." 

Five--?

Clint stares at Tony. "Wait. All of this--Thor attacked S.H.I.E.L.D. and I died twice and it hasn't even been a day?" 

"Nope," Tony says, popping the 'p'. His brow furrows. "Uh, twice?" 

"Pretty sure Loki gave me a CPR equivalent right after the strike," Clint admits. Tony's face tightens at the mention of the sorcerer. 

Steve picks up the vodka bottle again. Tony eyes him pointedly, but Steve says angrily something like not like I can get drunk and that shuts up any building protest Tony did have. Clint winces. 

Steve takes another heavy swig. "Six minutes," he mutters again. 

"We didn't know, Steve," Tony says, rubbing fingers across his forehead.

" We should have !" Steve snaps. 

"What?" Clint asks, looking between them. Six minutes. That entire battle was six minutes? A thought then occurs to him. Just because he walked away from this doesn't mean that everyone did. "Wait, guys. Is everyone okay? Where's Loki?" 

His teammates share a long look. Something beyond grief passes through it. Shame. Regret, maybe. No. Dreadful anticipation. 

"Grumpy-L," Tony signs. He pauses there for a long moment, visibly closing off his own emotions. "Is alive only because of machines. No one thinks he's going to wake up again without some help." 

Clint’s heart seizes in his chest. 

An overwhelming sense of grief, loss, and anger crashes into him. 

Loki.

Loki. 

Loki--alive, angry, trusting--

Without some help. 

"'Without some help', what help?" Clint asks. The two share another look. Clint clenches his fingers around the hospital blankets, smearing some of the gel on his hands against the sheet. "What did you do?" 

"Something really stupid," Steve confesses, clenching at the glass. He looks down. Clint exhales sharply. Steve continues to stare at his reflection in the vodka, so Clint looks up at Tony. The growing sense of trepidation is choking him. 

"Tony," he whispers, strained. 

“We didn’t--” Steve answers instead, wiping at his face, swallowing hard.. “We didn’t know how--we couldn’t.” He squeezes his eyes shut, starting to look away before remembering and facing Clint again. “We weren’t thinking straight. The others and I. We panicked. We--I don’t--I don’t know. We can’t fix Loki and we don’t…we don’t have a way to stop Thor.” 

Tony is silent, eyes closed with regret. 

Clint’s heart is pounding in his chest. “Steve.” He says, breathless.  

“We called for Asgard.” Steve clenches the bottle between his hands, blinking rapidly, “And we begged Heimdall to tell Odin and Frigga what’s going on. We need them. To help Loki and to find Thor. If--If it went…if Heimdall listened, they’ll be here soon.” 

Chapter Text

"My mother said to me recently. You remember too much,

Why hold onto all of that? I asked,

Where can I put it down?"

-Anne Carson

June: 

Thor is shaking.

The world is crumbling around Clint—coming to an end, really—but he can't stop looking at it as if it's some sort of morbid HD entertainment. The Asgardian is crumpled inside the chair beside his brother's bed, staring forward, gaze listless. Breathing seems to be some grand inconvenience that Thor's forced to endure rather than a necessary element of life judging by how he drags in every exhale with effort. His hands have a fine tremble, but it's not just them. His entire body is just...rattling.

Clint stands several feet away from him, watching; waiting for what, he doesn't know, only that he is. The Asgardian's eyes are dry, but the distress is still obvious. Clint doesn't move, keeping the distance between them. He doesn't want to offer any support, emotional or otherwise. He just wants to stand here and not think about how desperately he wishes that the monitoring devices would indicate death.

Loki's heartbeat continues to rise up and down, rapid and pulsating, just to mock him. The oxygen mask continues to hiss. Loki is alive, and he's going to stay that way while Thor watches over him. And he's pretty sure not even death itself could drag the brothers apart at this point.

With reluctance, Clint drops his gaze down to the bed.

He doesn't look the same. Loki, that is. Thor, too, but his brother more so. Loki didn't look healthy when he arrived on Earth the first time, worn through and brittle with bruises and a stiff spine that suggested something was horribly wrong with it, but somehow, this time is worse.

Loki is thin, more a skeleton than a person, skin dragged against bone and pulled taut in some grotesque imitation of death. There are layers upon layers of gauze over Loki's entire forearms, covering up the horrible scars and stitches keeping his arms attached to his body. Beneath that is purpling and black bruises several inches thick encircling his wrists. There are open wounds almost everywhere in various degrees of healing, bones still bent awkwardly out of place that the doctors distastefully said they'd need to reset so it could heal right. Loki isn't stable enough for them to try yet.

In medicine, a good doctor doesn't care who their patient is. They shouldn't care. No one seemed to remember that, not that Clint can blame them.

Some of the worst scars are white and puckering against Loki's back and they look older than all of this. Burns, Clint had concluded. It didn't really match all the rest of…this. This was the work of blades. That wasn't.

Loki is stable, but recovery will still take several more surgeries, especially if Loki is going to walk again. Or move his fingers, if he ever regains any sort of motor function in his hands at all.

He looks like someone dropped him from a building, scraped off the worst of the asphalt, then shoved him from another ten stories. Bones broken and distorted, skin raw and split.

Thor has his hand resting beside Loki's, not touching, almost as if he's afraid to. The doctors had to pry Loki from Thor's arms several hours ago, but after Thor stopped touching him, he hasn't started again. He's just watched and kept a distance, waiting for things to go wrong again.

And shaking.

Thor himself is bruised, half his fingers broken on his right hand. He accepted the ice pack that Bruce gave him dully and didn't say much more about the injuries. He's worn and obviously tired, his eyes haunted in a way that Clint can't put to words. Thor is covered in Loki's blood, which Clint doesn't think is helping anything. It's dried on his armor, leaving it looking rusty and flaking. It's stuck to his fingernails and knuckles, his face, and clumped in his hair, like it was some sort of paint a child meticulously applied to him.

Thor sucks in a gasping rattle.

Clint watches, silent.

He has nothing to say.

They're alone in the hospital room, the others having left to either get some space or sleep after the last chaotic riddled twenty-four hours. Natasha said she'd be back with coffee in five, but she's been gone for more than twenty. Clint is a little grateful for that. He doesn't think he could make the liquid settle in his stomach without puking it.

Slowly, Clint brings up his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to push back the pain of his migraine.

"I said that I would look out for him," Thor whispers. The words are raw and broken, settling in the space between them like a knife waiting to drop. It's the first thing that Thor has said that hasn't been an answer to a question or plea since this whole mess started.

Clint looks at the Asgardian mildly, part of him silently dreading the ensuing heart-to-heart. He doesn't want to have this. Not about Loki. He can't even process his own thoughts, let alone Thor's. He can't do this right now. Maybe ever. He just wants to lay down—desperately.

But he can't. Because Loki is broken. He's on so many sedatives he should be dead, all so he won't wake up and feel the pain of everything. He woke up, once, while he was in transit to Helicarrier's ICU, and he started screeching. It was the sounds of a dying man facing the rack one more time, dragged out until he's nothing but the embodiment of pain. He kept yelling in Asgardian. Hoarse words, broken noise. The sentences had made Thor pale, then stumble back.

That was before Loki started begging for Thor. Again, it was all in Asgardian, but Thor had taken several steps forward, desperate, before Tony grabbed his arm to stop him. "You can't follow him in there," Tony said. Thor had made a desperate mewling sound, "I have to."

Loki had passed Clint then, on the gurney, and Clint's growing migraine had gotten to the point it was unendurable. He woke up to Natasha watching him with pinched eyes and concern, explaining that Loki was in surgery and he passed out.

She hadn't really let him out of her sight since then. This twenty-minute coffee run is probably the longest they've been apart in hours.

"I did this to him," Thor whispers, blinking rapidly. His voice is still strangled. "I know"—a sharp inhale—"I know you bare no love for my brother, and I do not blame you. He—what he did…what he did to you was unforgivable…but I…I said I would look out for him. I promised."

Raw. Gutteral. Lost.

Clint drags in air between his teeth, forcing himself to pull his gaze away from the corner. His heart, is, unfortunately, refusing to be stone cold and indifferent about all of this. Thor is breaking down into tiny, vivid pieces and Clint can't just stand here and watch it happen anymore. He blinks once, relaxing his fingers, and dropping his hand.

"This isn't your fault," Clint says finally. His voice is mild. It's all he has the mental energy to force forward. He can't bring any push or true belief to the words even though he knows they're true. He needs to weigh them so Thor will understand. Loki brought this upon himself, Clint thinks. He went from genocide to hopping on the marginally less crazy bus of world-conquering, so Clint doesn't really think that this level of bodily destruction is out of the question. A tad unreasonable yeah, but maybe a little deserved.

Thor's hand, careful and tempered, slowly reaches out for Loki's arm. His fingers ghost over the reattachment sight, buried beneath the gauze as if he knows where it is by muscle memory alone. "He told me to do that," Thor says, his voice weak. "He-he begged me. He said it was the only way."

Clint's eyes widen.

Loki…asked for that?

Holy—

"He was terrified," Thor continues, closing his eyes. He withdraws his hand, refusing to touch Loki's pale skin like it will hurt them both if he tries. "He said our father would come back and he didn't know what would happen to me if we were caught. He was the one imprisoned and he was worried about me," Thor's voice is filled with bitterness.

Clint thinks about Loki stabbing Thor on Stark Tower and watching Thor grimace through the patch job that Natasha offered afterward. He was walking fine a few hours later, but Loki knew that it would hurt and he did it anyway.

Thor is probably imagining that concern because it makes him feel better. He can't imagine Barney loving him that much. Clint remains quiet.

"The first words he spoke to me in years was a plea for me to cut off his hands, and I—" Thor's voice cracks, breaking. He lowers his head, inhaling another one of those rattling whistles with reluctance, like it's seeping rot into his lungs. "I said that I would protect him."

"You did," Clint says numbly. His gaze slides toward Loki for a moment, then his arms, fingers twitching against the sheet.

Thor shakes his head, dragging his hands across his face. "I should have waited. Gods, why didn't I wait?"

"You didn't have the time." Clint isn't really sure if this is true, but he imagines it is, given everything he does know about what happened. Thor shakes his head again, breathing in sharply. He blinks again, his eyes filling up. His hands tremble as he scrapes them through his hair, tugging sharply at the ends.

"Loki," he whimpers, shuddering, "Loki I'm so—I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm—I won't—I wont hurt you again. I promise. I promise. I prom—" Thor's voice breaks and a gasping sob escapes him. It seems to surprise him more than anything else because he inhales sharply in response to it, looking at his hands. Clint, who'd been watching this slow descent into the breakdown happen for the last several hours, just presses his lips together.

The dam is broken.

Thor takes another wheezing breath in, then sobs it out before giving up entirely. He buries his head inside his hands like he can hide from himself in there. The blood on his fingers and in his hair makes Clint feel a little sick. Thor looks—

Small.

Somehow, somehow, he looks more broken and rattled into pieces than Loki does. "Det er min skyld," Thor whispers and keeps saying it between his sobs, intermingled with "unnsklyd" like it's some sort of desperate chant he has to reach a quota of repeats before he can stop. Clint watches for a few long minutes, his stomach in his throat, before he slowly forces himself forward.

His feet feel heavy. He looks once at Loki's pale figure, the gruesome red lining around his mouth from where Thor said his mouth was sewn shut, silencing him, before drawing his gaze back to his brother. Thor, now silenced by his grief, is a mirror of that.

Clint forces stiff muscles to move. He takes a seat beside Thor.

"Thor," Clint says. The word is toneless.

Thor doesn't hear him, continuing his mantra and sobbing.

Clint watches him for a moment more, something in his chest loosening as he watches the grief consume Thor. Bitter resentment for Thor dragging Loki back here at all instead of literally anywhere else the universe dislodges some, and Clint reaches out a hand to wrap around Thor's massive shoulders and draw the shaking Asgardian to him.

Thor is stiff at first, in surprise or reluctance, but resignation makes him bow forward and he collapses into the embrace with a muted wail of sorrow. Clint just holds him. There's nothing else he can do.

"Just breathe," Clint whispers, "Just breathe."

Thor couldn't even do that, desperately clinging to Clint as if he was the only anchor in the universe.

He thinks about Coulson after he woke up that first time in S.H.I.E.L.D., when Clint's world was silent, nothing, and swirling into the end with distant, pinging sound his only company. Coulson typing out the words that Barney was in custody and the reason for his injuries and Clint barely being able to squint through it with how bad his vision was from swelling. Barney tried to beat him to death and he wasn't sorry. Clint, like an idiot, had asked.

(Barney insisted that Clint had no right to leave him. He watched the interrogation years later, Natasha at his side, both of them silent as Barney had shouted profanities and screamed about Clint being a traitor and unworthy of being alive. Clint had turned off the tablet, utterly silent, and decided then that he wasn't going to go to Barney's parole hearing. Natasha hadn't said a word.)

Somehow, the world always ends at the hand of a brother.

Clint is just glad that this time, unlike for him, he can hold Thor through it.

Beside them, the heart machine keeps beeping. Loki keeps breathing, alive, while his brother falls to pieces at his side.

000o000

December:

"You know Thor, he um, he didn't really talk at first last time," Clint says quietly. The silence feels like this enormous living thing spreading its hands out to reach as far as possible and crawl its fingers inside every crevice and lurk there. It's suffocating. His hearing aids are giving him a headache and the pain medication isn't helping. His doctor told him to wait before putting his aides in, so they could monitor his hearing, but Clint hadn't had that option, not with his team collapsing into pieces of stupid with half a brain cell making their collective decisions.

He has to be ready. He doesn't have time to heal. He never does.

Gaze fixed up on the ceiling, Clint keeps talking, hands clenched over his knees. "He just stared at you. Kinda creepy with retrospect, but it makes sense, I guess," Clint murmurs. Loki, in front of him, in a new hospital bed but just as beaten and bloody as six months ago, does nothing. This time, it all feels different. Heavier. Last time Clint didn't care whether or not the EKG failed or if the oxygen mask was needed anymore.

Now, he's desperately clinging to every rise of the heart monitor as if it will save his own life.

He wonders if this is what Thor felt.

Thor.

Vivid bruises are beginning to darken around Loki's neck like a ring of purple and black. His forearms are wrapped in more gauze, but starting to get saturated with blood again. His body is utterly still, faint rasping the only sound. His skin is so white that he looks ethereal. Blood loss is the most severe issue here, and they don't have any way of replenishing it.

Loki is bleeding from his arms. He's bleeding internally. He's bleeding everywhere. He's always bleeding.

Clint continues to talk, not because Loki will answer but because he won't. He needs something to fill the silence. He closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. "Your dad said that you were dead—that you were executed after the Battle. Thor didn't know what was happening, I promise. Whatever your parents thought they were going to accomplish by hiding this from him, I don't know." Clint licks his lips, thinking of Thor—with fury and somehow profound emptiness—talking about the night the Asgardian was told what was actually going on, "Apparently your guards got sick of Odin's game and they went and found Thor and they explained what was going on. Then they went and told everyone what was going on. Everyone-everyone. I'm not really sure what happened to them, but they have got to be some of the bravest people who have ever been alive.

"Thor didn't really think you were dead to begin with, mostly cause the execution hadn't been public—which is messed up by the way—but he didn't know what had happened to you, and I think that finding you like that kind of broke something in him. Maybe in all of us," this last part is admission only to himself.

Clint reaches out and clasps Loki's cold, boney hand, in the way that Thor wanted to six months ago but didn't trust himself to. The last time Thor had been holding his brother's hand before that was when he was cutting it off.

Clint can't remember a time that Thor willingly grabbed Loki's arm first the entire time they were together.

"So will you please wake up before Asgard gets here and ruins everything?" Clint whispers, squeezing Loki's hand. It's limp and freezing beneath his own. "I don't know what to do about your parents. I can't imagine facing them and asking them for their help to fix this when they caused it in the first place. You need to help us."

Loki doesn't move.

The oxygen machine hisses and releases, and Loki's chest rises automatically like he's some sort of machine.

Clint feels something wet roll down his face. It's like a distant dream, happening to someone else, far away. "I don't want you to die," Clint confesses. "Please don't die." He grins weakly, forced and tired, "We still haven't finished our argument about bow maintenance."

An ongoing one, of months in the making.

"Please just wake up, Grumpy-L."

Loki doesn't.

The monitor carefully watching Loki's brain activity remains depressingly flat.

Thor killed him in any way that matters. (I won't hurt you again. I promise.)

Clint sucks in a breath between his teeth, setting Loki's hand down. "Jarvis," his voice is still low. This room, these circumstances, demand it. "Is there any way that Loki could wake up on his own? Without Asgard showing up?"

Jarvis is silent for several heartbeats. "No, Mr. Barton," his voice is careful. "Perhaps there will be improvement with time, but right now I am not hopeful."

Clint squeezes his eyes shut, pushing out more tears. "He's dying just to spite us, isn't he?"

"...perhaps, Mr. Barton." Jarvis agrees with reluctance. "Your team was very distraught with this news."

Yeah. That's putting it mildly. You don't reach out to your friend's captors for assistance unless you're seriously messed up in the head when you do it. Clint sighs heavily. His chest is heavy with some unspeakable emotion. A weight too heavy to bear.

"We're so messed up," he mutters. "We're so freaking messed up. Look at us, weeping over a murderer and doing anything to keep him alive. Maybe we are under the scepter's influence."

Somehow, he doesn't really care if that's the case.

"Impossible," Jarvis interjects. "I would have noticed. None of you have any traces of that." There's a long pause before Jarvis appends, softer, "You are not infallible, all of you. You have taken care of Loki for months and I believe that there is no reason to stop now, and you all know that. Loki is…complicated."

"Yeah," Clint agrees, his voice lost. "Complicated is a good word for that."

They don't talk after that. It feels like it's hours before anything happens beyond Loki's chest falling and rising and his entire body remaining depressingly still, but Clint feels distinctly when the base rattles, shaking underneath the pressure of some outside force. The Bifrost.

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

So it did happen then.

What did you do?

What didn't they?

All of them are stuffed away in some S.H.I.E.L.D. base in New Mexico that Jane works at, the medical floor low in supplies and staff, but equipped to handle most emergencies. Just like last time, Fury had been the one to sweep Loki into medical and keep him there. This time, he's told, the EMTs pried Tony doing desperate chest compressions off of Loki instead of Thor.

History always repeats itself, doesn't it?

Natasha comes into the room a minute later. Her gaze lingers on him for a moment and Clint's lips tighten at a realization as he takes in her posture and her face. "It's time," she says, voice low and tense, "they're here."

Yeah, put that together myself.

"Are you sober?" he asks. Natasha scowls, still squinting against the light with a margin of confusion, which is an answer all of itself. Clint presses his teeth together. Maybe if he grinds the bones down to the gums it will alleviate the pressure in his chest. "You shouldn't be out there if you can't walk in a straight line."

"I'm fine," Natasha says, void sharp.

"Yeah," Clint agrees with a touch of sarcasm. "All of you are. I leave you guys alone for five hours and somehow you manage to get Asgard involved in this despite us swearing to Thor that we wouldn't, and then you and Steve have a drinking party. You know Tony had to tell me that you were throwing up in the bathroom when I woke up because I couldn't find you and freaked out?"

Natasha's eyes crease with guilt and she tightens her hands into fists. Regret, it seems, is stronger than sentiment. Since the moment that the Avengers made the decision, all they've been doing is trying to alleviate their guilt about it.

Clint closes his eyes. It's a long minute before he can force the words out. "Sorry. This isn't—this isn't the time for that. You're upset."

"It doesn't matter," Natasha whispers. It does. You didn't deserve that. I'm not angry at you. Clint opens his mouth to tell her as much, but she's already turned around and headed for the door with a sharp, "We need to go."

Clint reluctantly gets up to his feet. His body is weak and tired, but he can manage a careful, ghastly stagger with effort. His limbs are still trying to tremble at awkward intervals and he can't quite feel his left toes yet, but he can move. No one can give him a clear answer on how bad the nerve damage is. That's probably because not enough time has passed to know.

By the time they reach the entrance of the base, Clint is exhausted and ready to call it quits. Natasha stopped to let him catch up so she could help, but their movements all feel disjointed and stiff like they aren't familiar with one another anymore. This, in turn, makes him ache in a way that his body doesn't. He just wants to sit down and talk to her, badly, but he can't.

He looks up and feels a curling apprehension settle in his stomach, churning away for the worst outcome possible.

He's not entirely sure what he expected Thor and Loki's parents to look like, but somehow they're exactly what he expected and nothing like it. They're—old is the first thought that comes to mind. Loki and Thor look like they're in their early twenties, so Clint had sort of expected their parents to be mid-forties. They aren't.

Odin's hair is stark white as if it hasn't known a single dark hair in decades. His face is filled with wrinkles and stress lines, his body worn with time and almost soft in comparison to the bulky, muscle-popping guys around him. Loki looks nothing like him, but Clint can see some of Thor's facial structure in his jaw and nose. The god-king is dressed in thick armor, a staff gripped in one hand.

Thor said he hated it once. Clint had never really gotten a straight answer out of him as to why.

Frigga is an elderly beauty, seeming decades younger than her husband. Maybe mid-fifties, in comparison to like, a hundred and fifty? Her long golden hair is hanging across her shoulders, and though she has bits of armor in her clothing, she seems more prepared for some sort of social tea than a war. Her mouth is pressed into a tight line of unhappiness, rigid tension causing her shoulders to draw together. Neither of them has laugh lines, just pinched ones of stress.

Powerful, is the second thought. Even from feet away, he can feel it rolling off of them in choking waves, like an ocean crashing into shore to grab an unsuspecting wanderer and drag it out to sea. It feels like he's standing in the midst of tear gas. He just wants to puke and weep.

About two dozen guards and other Asgardians are behind the king and queen, and Clint spots the Warriors Four there as well, which just seems about right given all of this. Why not, right?

Fury, who had at some point been told of this stupid plan and been unable to stop it, takes a step forward. "Your Highnesses," he says, the words somewhat awkward as they roll off his tongue. It's almost funny. Fury has addressed royalty before, he's worked side by side with them, and yet, standing here, in front of these gods, he's fumbling to talk. "Thank you for coming. We appreciate your assistance."

Odin snorts at that. His voice is angry, but silent, like he wants to shout everything but can't. Clint realizes just how good Thor is at mimicking it for mocking purposes as Odin says, "Our assistance? You would dare declare something so bold after hiding a wanted fugitive from me for half an Midgardian year?"

Fury visibly fumbles. He grips the edge of his coat with his right hand.

"Odin," Frigga says, tone sharp. She doesn't even look at him. Honestly, from what Clint can tell, she just seems annoyed by this whole affair. The single word draws the old little angry man back, his face tightening. The one-eyed Asgardian sweeps a sharp gaze across all of them, his gaze lingering on Clint for long seconds before he snaps back to Fury.

"Where is Thor? Has that ludicrous child gone and done something else stupid to get himself killed?" he demands. "He needs to come back with us immediately to be under Asgard's protection."

Ah. Right. That Alfheim business. Who are they really for then? Loki or Thor?

"We—" Fury struggles, clearly unsure how much to say—he's possessed by the Chitauri and beat Loki nearly to death, and we have no idea where he is, but he broke the rest of the Chitauri out of prison and killed seventeen people—before appending carefully, "we haven't seen him since Loki was attacked."

"He—" Odin starts, an edge of actual anxiety cracking his exterior, but Frigga cuts him off.

"We can discuss this later. Thor can wait, Loki can't. Where is he? Heimdall said that the injuries were severe," Frigga says in a rush, "we will do what we can to aid him. Just show us."

Fury nods once, then slowly turns to indicate the inside of the base. The hot New Mexico sun is burning down on them like it intends to sizzle them all away before they can make it to the door. "This way," he says tightly.

"Wait," Steve says before anyone can take a step. "I want to make one thing absolutely clear," Steve takes a step forward, eyes pinning on him. Steve doesn't seem to care. Even only looking at his back, Clint can tell that he's furious. Clint watches with a vague feeling in his chest. "If you hurt him—in any capacity, there is nowhere in your hell or mine where you can hide from me. We"—Steve presses this word, so Clint forces himself to look up to give the pretense of a united front—"will never stop trying to find a way to kill you to avenge him. Do you understand?"

Odin's lip curls up a fraction with distaste, but he doesn't say anything. That's probably for the best. Frigga's hands twitch and she nods, taking several steps forward. Steve grabs her shoulder to stop her. The Asgardians around them reach for their weapons, but Steve doesn't even seem to register that as he growls out, "Do you understand?"

Bravery, some would call this. Stupid is what Clint wants to slap on as a label. Sure, let's piss off some of the most powerful people in the universe. Not that he doesn't agree with the sentiment, but still.

"Yes," Frigga snaps, her eyes flashing. "Yes, I understand, Captain Rogers. Are you going to let me see my son, or shall I ask you permission for that, too? I have never done anything to intentionally cause him ill." At this, she slides a scathing look toward her husband, who returns the glare with equal fervor. Yup. Nothing but rainbows and glitter in that marriage. Frigga looks back at Steve, that same resentful anger in her eyes.

Steve hasn't let go of her shoulder, keeping her in place. "You know," he says these words low, like they're a threat. "The fact that you honestly think that is the reason I don't trust you with him."

Okay. Yeah. He's going to get smited.

And yet—

Same.

"Spare us the dramatics, Captain," Odin snarls, the tone making Clint flinch and Natasha do the same beside him. "Do you want our aid or not?"

Steve lets go of Frigga's shoulder with a light shove. He gestures back toward the base, smiling with teeth, "Please," his voice is dry and filled with venom, daring them to do something he doesn't like in his presence, "be my guest."

Frigga's eyes narrow, but she says nothing and walks past him with her head raised. Clint wonders in a vague, distant way if that makes her feel better.

Clint and Natasha share a look.

The walk is one of the most silent, tense things he has ever had the displeasure of experiencing. Words are clipped and minimal, if they're spoken at all. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents practically mold themselves into the walls to avoid the Asgardian escort, watching the entire thing with bugging eyes. Clint can't say he would be doing much different if their positions were reversed.

However bad the presence of the Asgardians was outside the building, it's much worse inside. Clint barely feels like there's room to breathe inside the cramping space.

When they finally reach Loki's hospital room, the Asgardian soldiers take positions lining the hall all at once, eyes up and forward like they're not living creatures anymore. It's disturbing.

Fury releases a sharp, clearly anxiety-riddled breath before shoving open the door and stepping inside. The hospital staff is gone, having already been told to avoid this area for the next couple of hours. From the way that Fury is holding himself, he's clearly waiting for the Asgardians to blow up to some extent.

Honestly, Clint doesn't know what he is. Odin to smite Loki into tiny blistering flesh flakes on the spot? Yeah, probably. That one is high up there on his list of possibilities.

Frigga inhales sharply as she takes in her son, exhaling a shuddering gasp. Her face drains of color and for a silent moment, she's completely still. Odin just sweeps one eye over Loki's prone form without a reaction, seeming completely emotionless.

Frigga comes forward, taking Loki's hand and cupping his face. "Loki," she says, strained. "Oh, lillie venn, hva skjedde?"

Odin's jaw tightens at the question, like he's annoyed rather than worried. Clint, who had never really been willing to give Odin a chance to begin with given all that he does know about the man, decides then that he really doesn't like him. Despite being unable to see her husband's face from this angle, Frigga's back goes rigid and she glances back, face dark.

"Odin," she says with barely contained anger, her fingers tight around Loki's.

"What?"

"You said you would help me, so help me, husband."

Odin releases a heavy breath, ground out through his teeth, and takes the needed steps until he's standing beside Frigga. Steve plants himself at the end of the bed solely to scowl at the both of them, and Clint wonders if maybe he did get a little drunk after all. Clint watches, swallowing hard, as Odin and Frigga begin talking in rapid Asgardian, back and forth with increasing levels of vocal tones.

He doesn't like the two of them being so close to Loki. Just in general, but more so when they can't understand what's being said. He really wishes there was someone who spoke Asgardian or at least Norwegian that could translate, but Asgardians have a tendency to pronounce the vowels weird, so he's not sure how much it would help anyway. Regardless, it would be nice to have someone on their side who could monitor what's being said.

Frigga near-shouts something, Loki's hand still clutched in hers tenderly, and Odin shakes his head with a huff before turning back to their child.

The woman sets Loki's hand down on the bed before carefully spreading her fingers and flexing them out. She pushes her hands forward, like she's pressing against a wall and there's a ripple in the air. Golden light swirls around her fingers before she starts to twist it into complicated figures and ruins. Odin lifts up his right hand to grab one of the ruins and slide it toward himself, almost like it's one of Tony's computer screens. He spreads the figure into a spiderwebbing interlock of pulsating figures, one of which looks like a heart.

Both of them work in tandem until it's almost painful to look at because of how bright it is. At some point, Odin releases his staff, and it just stands up on its own without explanation, which sure, okay. Not the weirdest thing he's seen. He'll allow it.

The ruins and complex shapes keep growing, colors like red and green also joining the fray. Whatever the two of them are doing, Clint can tell that they're practically holding a nuclear bomb over Loki's head and it's a delicate balance to stop this from going horribly wrong.

Long minutes pass.

Finally, after what feels like no time at all and years, Frigga and Odin rotate their interlocking, webbing mess horizontally. As it tips, Clint realizes that they've recreated what looks like the nervous system with tiny, pulsating ruins over every organ. The one for the heart is pulsating in the same rhythm as Loki's heart monitor.

Once it's several feet above Loki's body, Frigga turns her head to look at Steve. "You. Remove this," she gestures with her head toward the medical equipment. "It will interfere with our spell."

Steve hesitates, his mask of anger crumbling. "We can't. It's the only reason he's alive right now. We remove it and he'll die."

"No," Frigga's voice is clipped, "he won't."

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing out long and slow. Healthy confidence or arrogance?

"Now, Captain," Odin snaps.

Steve's mouth sets and he exhales tightly before he looks over at Bruce helplessly. The two of them carefully move to the other side of the bed and start to remove the various medical equipment. Bruce turns off the heart monitor and pulls the electrodes off Loki's chest. Everything goes, the oxygen mask being the last. When it's gone, Loki's chest falls once and doesn't raise again.

Natasha takes a step forward, but Tony grabs her arm with rigid fingers.

With everything removed, Steve and Bruce take several steps back.

Frigga and Odin do the same, carefully lifting up their hands. The pressure in the room grows heavy and painful until it's almost physically difficult to remain upright. Frigga spreads her arms out once before clapping them together sharply. The flash of light is blinding and Clint squeezes his eyes shut.

He hears a snapping crackling sound, then this…wet slapping? Almost like a soaking blanket being shaken into the wind. Bone snapping. A hoarse, wailing sound. A distortion of swirling sounds, loud humming, then—

Nothing.

Silence.

Choking silence. No one even breathes.

The light fades and Clint, sucking in a gasping breath, snaps his head up. Part of him fully expects to see Loki floating by him in fluttery little skin pieces and is not emotionally prepared to handle that on any level.

Loki's entire body, whole and together, shudders once on the bed as a traveling light crosses through blood vessels, surging up toward his face. Loki jerks forward, eyes snapping open and flaring vivid green once. He gasps sharply, deeply, painfully. His face is unblemished, the bruising on his neck gone.

But he's alive.

Alive.

Clint makes a little sound in his throat. Natasha grabs his arm, squeezing it tight, burying her head against Tony's shoulder as she exhales sharply. Clint has to remind himself to exhale.

He didn't think it would work.

He didn't think that they would help.

Loki's hands rapidly pat himself down as if searching for some sort of injury, his eyes still wide and clearly confused. His right hand grabs his left forearm, over the bandages, and his breathing picks up speed. Recognition seems to spark in his eyes because a moment later, he says, "Thor," then looking up, a more desperate, "Thor!" He starts to move to climb out of the bed on trembling limbs before his head snaps to the side, looking directly at his parents and he just...

Stops.

He doesn't move. His spine stiffens. What little color came back drains away, eyes pinning on Odin. Clint can't even tell if he's breathing.

He watches, with an almost visceral horror in his chest, as life bleeds from Loki's face-hope. He draws in on himself, as if, should he make himself a smaller target, he'll be safer. Clint has rarely seen Loki terrified, but staring at his face and watching him crawl inside himself, there is nothing else this could be.

Loki is scared.

The sight of that fear triggers an old one in Clint's chest. He used to do that with Barney. Trying to shrink into nothingness.

"Loki," Frigga says, her voice relieved and warm. She leans forward and wraps her arms around him, exhaling into his hair. Even if it was meant in comfort, Loki isn't even looking at her, not moving, his eyes fixed on Odin, growing horror rapidly being replaced by emptiness. "I'm so glad that you're alright, lillie venn. What happened? Who did this to you?" Frigga draws back and cups the side of his face, trying to draw his gaze up to hers. It doesn't work.

Loki reaches up a hand to grip her wrist gently and pull her hand down, the most acknowledgment that he's given that she's there at all. "Why…" Loki swallows hard. His voice is small and lost. "I thought I was…"

"Where is Thor?" Odin demands. Loki flinches at his voice, cringing hard, his mouth moving soundlessly for several seconds. Odin repeats the question with more force, "Where is your brother?"

Loki looks down at his wrists, then the bed, his brow furrowing with confusion. One of his hands, in a jerking, awkward movement, comes up to touch his lips, feeling over the smooth skin. Once, twice, a third time. He swallows hard.

My father had his lips sewn shut. Loki said until he could speak the name of every soul he killed during the invasion he wasn't worthy of speaking at all, Clint remembers Thor saying.

A bout of nausea swirls in his stomach as a realization strikes him. Loki doesn't know where he is. When he is. He's trying to find the stitches.

Oh, man.

Odin releases an impatient sound, hand tightening around his staff. "You stupid boy"—another wince, more violent this time—"do you not understand what is at stake here!? Queen Siygn's council has threatened to drag Thor into this Norns-cursed war by force if we can't find him first! Thor could be in danger because of you! Heimdall can't find him, which I assume is your doing, so I will ask you again, where is your brother!?"

Loki shakes his head, visibly drawing back. His eyes are pinned on his father.

"Hey," Tony's voice feels as strong as a whisper in comparison to the booming roar of Odin's. "Hey, time out, maybe we should just—"

"Silence!" Odin shouts.

Tony snaps his mouth shut, taking a step back. Clint finds himself doing the same.

Loki's breathing continues to pick up speed and he claws his fingers through his hair, gripping at the sides of it. "I-I don't know—I don't know where Thor is. I don't know where he is. I don't—pappa, vaer så snill—"

Clint doesn't even see Odin move, but Frigga does. She grabs her husband's wrist before it can connect with Loki's face, Loki ducking beneath his hands and waiting, braced, for the blow that isn't coming. None of them seem remotely surprised this has happened at all, but Clint watches the entire scene with growing horror.

Oh my gosh.

Oh my GOSH.

Frigga holds Odin's wrist for several long seconds before she shoves Odin back, her face growing increasingly incensed. Whatever hold she had on her temper completely snaps.

"Stop it!" Frigga shouts, "Stop it! Loki doesn't know for the gods' sake, Odin!"

"He has to!" Odin bites back, gesturing sharply at Loki. His son cringes at that, too, and Clint can feel this tight pressure crawling in his chest. He can't tell what it is, only that it hurts the longer it goes without release. "Heimdall can't find him and there are none in the Nine that can't be found by his gaze—that type of magic is forbidden! Loki has to be behind this!"

"Have you perhaps considered the fact that Loki isn't the only one who knows how to shroud from our Gatekeeper? Not everyone is going to obey some stupid rule from a thousand years ago!" Frigga snarls. She gestures at her head, all her movements sharp and animated. "Use your fucking head for once! Think, if you're so capable!"

Odin rolls his eyes up, throwing up his hands. "Oh, on the Nine, woman!" he groans. "This again? I told you I had no idea where Loki was when he fell and that hasn't—"

Frigga releases an enraged sound. "Don't lie to me! You knew and you did nothing while our son suffered at that monster's hands for over a year—"

"He's not our son!"

Frigga slaps him. Hard. Odin's eye narrows and a flaring breath escapes from his nostrils, but before he can say or do anything, Frigga keeps shouting. "You don't get to say that! Not after you brought him into our family! Not after all that you did to keep him there!"

Clint releases a staggered breath and snaps his eyes away from the two for the briefest second to look at Loki. Their son's eyes have dimmed, his body braced and tight, like he's just waiting for the storm to blow over with as minimal collateral damage as possible.

Odin exhales hard. His voice, when he speaks, is low and thunderous. "What did you expect me to do? The Titan has legions of armies at his call. There was no way for me to rescue Loki without the death of hundreds in the process. It was one life."

"Loki's life!"

"Do you think I don't know that?"

"Stop," Loki's voice is weak. "Stop, please stop." He reaches out to grab his mother's arm but she slaps him away, focus zeroed in on her husband. Loki drops his hand.

"You fucking coward," Frigga snarls. "You fucking—"

"I did what I could!" Odin shouts. "Loki is the one who got that madman dragged into our lives in the first place and I had to chase him out. You know that Thanos wanted one thing in return for a deal to stay away from the Infinity Stones and—"

"Deciding that torturing our son was an acceptable payment was never something I approved of! Our fucking child, Odin!?" Frigga gestures at Loki. She looks ready to hit something again.

"Loki brought it on himself." Odin snarls, jabbing her in the shoulder. "If he hadn't been so Norns-cursed stupid as to get caught by Thanos in the first place, then I wouldn't have had to do something so horrendous in return. Once Thanos turned his eye away, I intended to stop. None of the torture was real in the first place."

"I know it wasn't, but—"

"'Not real'?" The words, quiet and spoken slowly, are a knife plunged into the conversation. The two Asgardians go utterly still, as if they completely forgot they had an audience in the first place. Both their heads turn toward their son slowly as Loki looks between them, something in his eyes.

Defeat.

Betrayal.

Rage.

"'Not real'?" Loki repeats, again, this time his voice is stronger. Angry. "It wasn't—Right. Of course. Forgive my ignorance, but it didn't feel fake. When you were sewing my lips together and I was being beaten and cut open, it was real to me."

Odin releases an exasperated sound. "Loki," the name, drawn out carefully, is annoyed and pressed in such a way that suggests he thinks Loki is an idiot. "We could have done much worse than that."

What?

Is he serious? That's what he's going to say?

Oh, sorry that hurt, but it could have been worse? My bad?

"Is that supposed to make me feel better!?" Loki's voice is rising.

"Thanos would send someone to look in on you." Frigga's voice is still angry, but there's an edge of defeat. "He wanted to make sure that you were suffering. I tried to help, unlike your father, because I care about what happens to you."

Odin growls. "Frigga."

"Defend yourself then," Frigga snaps. Odin's jaw clenches and he starts to make a sound in his throat, but he's cut off.

Loki shakes his head, lifting up his hands as if he can't process any of this. His voice, when he speaks, is measured. Careful. "The deal that you made—Thanos agreed to stay away from the Nine's Stones as long as I was suffering?"

Thanos.

The name feels familiar to Clint, like it's from some sort of distant memory. A cold, itching sensation crawls up his back. It occurs to me that it has been some time since we had one of our talks. He can't place the voice. Or the memory.

"It was the only way that I could keep you on Asgard," Odin agrees, actually sounding faintly frustrated about the idea for the first time. "Despite my displeasure with it. All of this was so I could protect you."

There's a long silence. Clint's tongue pushes against his teeth. He swallows hard and it seems to echo in his ears. Loki's throat works, like he's trying not to scream.

"I did what I could to help, millie venn," Frigga says softly, her next words are as scathing as her glare at Odin, "but your father was adamant."

"Help," Loki repeats tonelessly.

Clint thinks of Loki screaming in the night and the days of disassociation where he couldn't tell what was real. He thinks of Loki begging them to stop hurting him and pleading with Thor to kill him because he thought Thor was Odin. Because Frigga convinced Loki that any time he wasn't being hurt was when he was away from the prison.

She tried to help.

Help.

"Woman—" Odin starts to warn, turning his piercing stare to her.

"What the fuck is wrong with both of you!?" Loki explodes. Both of them flinch back from the full force of his anger. "How dare you sit there and tell me that none of this was real! I was the one who was being cut into! I was the one who couldn't talk for years because you said I had to pay penance. You got to go home and you were safe and I was under your feet as your scapegoat—as always!"

"Loki," Frigga says sharply, like this is an old argument she doesn't have the energy to revisit.

"No!" Loki shouts. "No! How do you have to ability to grasp an understanding of your actions? How can you see that you don't give a fuck about me? Or Thor! Do you have any idea what you did to him by pretending I was dead?" The two Asgardians share a look, and Clint can tell pretty clearly then that they never bothered to think much about that, "You claim to love me, but you never have! How did it never once occur to you to explain what was going on? If this was supposed to be pretend from the start, we have fucking magic to create something fake."

"It wasn't that easy," Frigga starts to defend, but her face is twitching with something like guilt.

"Thanos getting involved in the Nine again is entirely your fault, you have no right to judge how we handled—" Odin snarls.

"You're blaming me?!" Loki shouts. "Thanos—He—Do you have any idea what happened—?"

"Do you?" There's something nasty in Odin's voice as he says that. Clint's blood rushes cold, remembering their earlier conversation. In truth, Barton, much of my memory is hazy about the entire event. Loki's face drops for a fraction, real fear showing through the mask. Odin latches onto this opening, looking over at Clint with a stare that feels oily, "So you still haven't regained your memories then. Which must mean you still have no understanding of what you did—what you chose—to those you possessed?"

Frigga's eyes slide up now, too, and after several long, studying seconds of Clint, her face pales.

Feeling self-conscious, and rather like something big and red is sitting in the middle of his forehead, Clint doesn't breathe, ducking his head as much as he can. It doesn't help. What did he do? What did he do that Clint can't see it?

"I—" Loki intones weakly.

Odin humphs, voice low, "You parade around as if you are better than all of us. You're not. You still have no margin of understanding of what happened because of your choices regarding the Mad Titan. You accuse us of not thinking of Thor? What about you—?"

The mention of his brother scrapes together the last remnants of Loki's temper. His eyes flare. "You have no right to talk about Thor after what happened—"

Odin grabs the front of Loki's shirt, hauling him forward. "We don't? After you tried to murder my son?! Gods, you disgusting creature! After all that we did for you, after all that you were given you are still so ungrateful—"

Loki shoves back from him, falling back hard against the hospital bed. "Shut up! SHUT UP! You threw me off the bridge! How am I un—?"

"Loki, that's enough," Frigga interjects sharply. "We're just trying to help you, stop trying to blame us."

"I don't want your help! The last time you tried to help me, you fucking tortured me for years! The time before that, you dumped the throne and a war on me and I tried to kill myself!" Loki exhales hard, furious, shaking his head, "Get out. I hate you. I hate both of you. Gods, I hate you so much! GET OUT! GET OUT!"

Odin's hand comes up again, but Frigga doesn't catch the swinging hand. Steve does. The captain holds the old man's wrist in a white-knuckled grip until Odin starts to grimace with pain.

For a moment, there's nothing but Loki's ragged, panting breaths. Then Fury gives Odin's arm a light shove. "Think your son made himself pretty clear." Fury says, gesturing toward the door. Odin turns a furious expression on the director, but Fury doesn't even bat an eye, hand raised steadily. For a few heartbeats, there's a staredown that seems to hold the weight of worlds in it.

Odin drops his gaze first, then yanks his arm from Steve.

Odin and Frigga, both visibly furious, cast one more scathing look on their son and then each other before exiting the room with snapping anger. Fury follows after them, probably to make sure they don't smite anyone in the hallway.

For a long minute after they're gone, all Loki does is breathe in ragged gasps. He sits up slowly.

"Loki?" Bruce asks, tentative.

Loki shakes his head several more times, mouth parting, gripping at the sides of his head. "Thor intended to kill himself," he says, the words clipped and still furious. His gaze slowly raises up to the door where his parents are beyond it. Clint is deathly silent, watching.

It isn't the first time that heard this.

He doesn't think it will be the last.

He hadn't realized that Thor and Loki had talked about it, though. Loki and Thor seemed to bounce between a distance wider than the opposite ends of the universe and a closeness that was beyond conjoined twins before Thor went missing.

"He was fucking going to kill himself because they didn't tell him what was going on," Loki seethes. "The night that he was told where I was, he was WRITING A FUCKING NOTE and they have the audacity to say that none of this was real? What the FUCK!?" Loki grabs the nearest thing available to him—the oxygen mask—and hurls it across the room. It lands with a clatter. The oxygen tank makes a snapping thump as it's tipped on its side.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" Loki screams again. "WHAT GIVES THEM THE RIGHT? I would thrown myself into Thanos' hands if I knew this is what their kindness looks like! I hate them! I hate them. I hate—" A gasping, wheezy shudder. Loki blinks rapidly, hands trembling. "It was real. It was. They were hurting me and I felt it. Odin—it was real. It was…I was useful. Again…" his voice grows weaker as the rage leaves him, dissipating into a desperate gasp. Tears begin to fall down his face. "They—"

A sob, desperate and broken. "Oh my gods," he moans, "oh my gods, Odin is going to kill me. What was I thinking? Why do I never think before I speak? Everyone tells me to be quiet and they're right. It was—I was—I—why did I—?"

"Hey," Bruce moves around the bed, grabbing Loki's wrists. Loki twitches. "Hey, look at me. You're okay. I promise. Just try and take a few deep breaths."

"What more do I have to give to be in his good graces again?" the question is desperate. "I can't—I can't—"

"One breath. Can you manage one breath?" Bruce asks, overlapping Loki's increasing rambling. Loki shakes his head, looking at the door with increasing terror.

Clint forces his feet forward, breaking whatever spell of before that kept him in place, and carefully approaches Loki's other side. He rests a hand on his back. The other Avengers draw closer, encircling the Asgardian.

Loki looks up at him, probably just on instinct at the touch, looking painfully young, and his eyes slide up, just a fraction, to look up at Clint's face and he freezes. "Oh my gods," he whispers, dawning comprehension in his eyes.

He lifts up a shaking hand to Clint's head, his fingers hovering just beside Clint's left temple. Which is just—um. Okay, wait a minute—A sharp, wracking pain that lances through his entire head like a blow by a hammer causes Clint to flinch back with a jolt, nearly tumbling into Natasha's lap. She grabs his arm. Loki snaps his back.

"What...what did you—Loki?" Clint asks, breathless, squinting through the dimming pain. He lifts up his hand to his head, but he can't trigger the same pain that Loki did. What did he do? What does this mean?

Do you have any idea what you did to those you possessed?

For a long moment, they just stare at each other, before Loki's voice, laced with horror and a bitter sort of resentment asks, "Oh Norns, what—what did I do to you, Clint?"

Chapter Text

"Wasn't that the defintion of home? 

Not where you are from, 

but where you are wanted."

-Abraham Verghese

What did I do to you? The question hangs between them all like a noose the silence wants them to choke on. Everyone is quiet, waiting for some sort of great revelation, suspended in time that’s only moving forward.

The world is upending itself like they’re a box of cereal being poured into a bowl. Everything is rattling. A distracting, buzzing hum persistently lingering in the back of his mind like a scream. Clint watches himself jerk backward, he listens as he says some sort of profane expletive, but he doesn’t feel any of it.

This is happening to a different person.

This has to be happening to a different person.

Natasha’s hand, warm and present, settles on his back. He thinks it’s meant to be in grounding, a way to help him settle back inside himself, but it doesn’t help. His hands are shaking. He's not breathing. 

Loki actually did something. 

It wasn’t an accident. 

Or a coincidence. 

Loki did something. To him. On purpose. 

The Asgardian is staring at him with such abject horror that it’s making Clint’s skin crawl. For long seconds, no one says anything. Clint doesn’t breathe. He just stares at Loki and Loki stares back. Clint’s mouth moves a couple of times, but he can’t talk. He’s struck with the sudden urge to throw himself backward off the bed and put as much distance between them as he can. He can't look at the Asgardian. He feels nauseous and gross and wrong. 

He stays there.

He can’t really move. 

Loki’s expression crumples, a faint trembling sound escaping his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes out hard. 

“What are you talking about? What did you do?” Natasha asks, presses more like, because there is a great deal of anxiety in her voice that isn’t helping Clint’s at all. When the Asgardian does little more than just sit there, Natasha reaches out her other hand to grip his wrist. Not hard, not in restraint, just enough to get his attention, but Loki flinches like she struck him violently. 

It does, however, at last jerk a verbal response from him. At least, half of one. “This--This is my--I--this is my fault.” Loki breathes, rambling, clearly frantic. “All of this. Oh my gods. What was I--what did I--? What on Helheim is wrong with me!?” 

“What--what are you talking about?” Clint fumbles. His voice sounds strange. Is it his voice? Did he say that? He thinks his mouth was moving but now he’s not sure. 

“Hey,” Tony grabs at both of Loki’s shoulders, forcing the Asgardian to look at him. “Hey, breathe, Grumpy-L. What’s going on? What are you talking about? Is Clint in danger?” 

That last bit is said with an anxious look in Clint’s direction.

Danger. 

He hadn’t even-- is he in danger? Is that why Loki’s freaking out so much? Because he’s accidentally attached Clint to some sort of metaphorical bomb and now Clint is going to die? That would be fitting, wouldn’t it? It would--what is happening? Freaking crap, this was all supposed to be over after the invasion ended. 

Three. Freaking. Years. Ago. 

Loki, breathing hard, looks at Clint again, his eyes sliding to look at something just beside his head and he cringes hard. Tony’s fingers tighten around the sorcerer's shoulders, but the physical contact seems to be helping him about as much as Natasha’s hand is reassuring Clint. It feels like physical background noise. 

Clint’s hand, jerking and fumbling, raises up toward the area that Loki is looking at, but all he manages to do is bump the edge of his hearing aid which makes him flinch. There’s nothing there. It’s just empty air. It’s always been empty air and what the heck is Loki looking at--what are all of them looking at? The Asgardians see something that isn’t there, and it’s not a good thing, obviously, because Frigga and Odin had stared at him with a mixture of pity and disgust, and Loki looks like he’s having his fingers physically removed from his body. 

Clint’s fingers scrape through his hair, still finding nothing. 

He has to find something.

There’s something there and he wants it gone he doesn’t give a crap if it will hurt or be painful, his entire head aches with the weight of it and he needs it gone. Gone, gone, gone--

“What--what are-- Loki?! ” Clint's voice is filled with panic. 

There is, he thinks, a desperate, soundless help me strung up between the syllables. 

With an empty expression, Loki reaches out and grabs Clint’s wrist to guide it down. With reluctance, he reaches out and touches empty air between them with a single finger. That same discomfort from earlier, a sharp, sporadic pain slithers down Clint’s spine, pulling out a pained hitching sound before a thin, wispy blue light bleeds into view, like snapping a glow stick. The light lurches forward from Clint’s left temple to Loki’s, bridging them together. Clint can see two similar, thin strings hanging in the air branching off from Loki’s skull, but they’re gray and broken, moving listlessly as if they’re dead. 

Once it’s settled, the light pulses slowly, glimmering between them like a small, translucent rope. 

Clint looks at it.

He doesn’t process it. It’s just there. Magic. Connecting heads. It doesn’t mean anything. It should mean something. It should mean everything. It doesn’t mean anything at all. 

He feels very far away. 

Almost as if he’s transfixed, Tony reaches out a hand to poke it. The light shies away from his finger, bending out of shape to avoid him. Tony stops, then looks at Loki, “What will happen if I touch it?” 

Now he asks?

“Nothing,” Loki promises, “It’s more of an illusion than a physical object. This type of spell doesn’t have an actual physical manifestation.” He bites on his lower lip, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Clint reaches up a hand to wave a finger through the light, but it just reforms as if nothing happened. There’s no pain, no sudden death. Nothing. Like it’s not even there. 

He watches dully as Natasha’s fingers carefully slide into his other hand, squeezing her fingers against his trembling ones. Clint swallows. His tongue feels like sand in his mouth, heavy and grainy. 

It occurs to him later that Natasha might have been doing this to try and calm herself, rather than him. 

“What is this?” Natasha asks, her voice a little sharp. She’s edged herself closer to Clint, like she intends to simply wrap him up inside her arms and hide him from the world. Part of Clint wants to let her. “Is this the physical tether to the mind control from the invasion? I thought that we broke it when I slammed his head against the guard rail.” 

“No,” Loki says immediately. “No. That link would be long gone by now. This is…something else. A tether between our minds. I created it, but the why of the matter escapes me utterly. I didn’t recognize it was there because my magic was--distorted, at best. I couldn’t sense anything I had done because it was everywhere. Odin and Frigga…healed it.” Loki says this last bit after a hesitation, mouth twisting. 

“Wait--you’re…okay?” Bruce asks, sounding hopeful but hating himself for it. “Your arms? Your magic? They fixed that?” 

Clint’s heart is pounding in his ears. 

Loki nods after a moment. “As far as I can tell, yes.” 

He swallows hard. 

“Thats--that’s amazing!” Bruce exclaims, running fingers through his hair. “Oh my g--You’re okay!” 

The entire world is bending out of shape. 

Loki’s lips press together tightly. “I didn’t…I don’t--”

His chest is crumpling, wringing out his lungs. 

With a burst of sudden energy, Clint shoves off of the hospital bed and all but throws himself as far as possible from Loki as he can get in one single movement. Everyone stares at him, but Clint is shaking so badly that he doesn’t care. “What the--what--you--” Clint can’t get words to form. 

There is no way to verbalize this. 

Natasha immediately gets to her feet, reaching for him, but Clint backs away from her, too. He’s backing up and up and up-- nineteen again, nineteen again, waiting for Barney to hit him, no one gets out. No one leaves the Circus. No one leaves. No one leaves the control. No one leaves anything-- until his hip slams against some sort of table or chair and he grabs hold of it to stop himself from tumbling. 

“Ptitsa,” he can’t place the tone of Natasha’s voice. 

Clint shakes his head. “No. No I can’t--I--” 

Loki reaches up to touch the tether and it vanishes like it was never there to begin with. Clint’s grip on the table--chair? What is it--slips and he rams his elbow against it. Everyone is staring at him now. Concern. Pity. He doesn't know. He can’t read their faces. Everything is blurry. He has to get out of here. 

“Clint,” Loki says. The word is an apology. It’s broken and upset and a thousand things stuffed into two syllables. 

Clint shakes his head. “I can’t--Oh my gosh, I can’t handle this right now. No. I can’t--you tethered yourself to my brain!?” the words explode out of him. “Why would you--No. I can’t. I can’t.” Clint starts to make a move toward the door on trembling, exhausted legs, but something spasms in his spine and he crumples before he can make it more than two steps. He doesn’t even realize what’s happening until he smacks into the ground, barely catching the worst of the fall on awkwardly bent wrists. 

He doesn’t get up. 

The Avengers are suddenly just--there. Like they popped into existence in front of him. He can’t remember them moving. Natasha frantically rolls him over, her fingers already moving for his throat to locate a pulse-- you scared N-Ro pretty bad-- but Clint grabs her wrist to stop her. 

“D-Don’t--I’m.” Clint says, like that is actually helpful. 

Their eyes meet, Natasha’s expression flooding with such intense relief that she closes her eyes to hide most of it. “Oh, slava bogu ,” Natasha whispers under her breath, bowing her head. 

Beyond her, Steve, Bruce, and Tony all slump with relief, Tony physically jerking away to turn and face the other side of the room, unable to look at him. 

(And I died twice and it hasn’t even been a day?) 

Oh. 

Oh. 

“Clint?” Bruce asks. “Clint, can you look at me?” 

Clint ignores him. He doesn’t really have the presence of mind for it. He pins his gaze on Loki, who is halfway out of the bed despite how exhausted and bone-weary he looks, clearly prepared to help. 

Clint forces himself upright slowly--his spine feels like fire, tangled up at the base and angry with how much work it’s making him do. God forbid Clint demands it do what it was built for. Natasha’s hand’s grab at his back and shoulders to help keep him upright, her expression pinched. 

Clint breathes out heavily. “Get rid of it,” he demands. His voice is scratchy. “Get rid of it now. I don’t want--I don’t want it. This is--this is the reason that I’ve been having the dreams, because you freaking tethered our brains together? ”

“I--” Loki hesitates. “Yes.” 

Clint squeezes his fingers into fists. “I don’t want any part of this. Get rid of it."

This body isn’t mine. The thought slides into the forefront of his mind and he can’t make it leave. Looking into mirrors and seeing Loki’s reflection back. Dreaming Loki’s memories as Loki. Being able to freaking speak Chitaurian. This body isn’t his. 

It hasn't been in years.

Maybe ever. 

There’s a long lull. 

“I don't know if I can,” Loki admits at last. 

Clint swears, gripping harshly at his scalp. “F--You haven't even tried! Do you not want to? Is that the problem? You want this stupid thing keeping our heads linked together? When did you do this? Was this after you came back? Was this punishment ?”

“No.” Loki says, wilting beneath his anger. Part of Clint is grossly relieved. Finally, you’re as freaking terrified of me as I am of you. Finally we’re equals in this. Just as quickly as the feeling arrives, it dissipates leaving behind only disgust with himself. Clint forces out a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, without much feeling. “I don’t know--”

“It’s fine.” Loki interrupts. “You’re entitled. I can try to remove it, but without knowing what the spell is meant to do, I can’t guarantee any results, or at least the ones that you want.” 

Clint’s jaw clenches. I’m not entitled to hurt you, you self-deprecating idiot. No one ever is. 

“You can’t figure out what the spell is supposed to do by, like, reading it or something?” Tony asks. 

“I'm uncertain. It depends on whether or not I masked it.” Loki says. 

Loki slowly makes his way over to Clint, taking stumbling steps that look like he’s sort of dragging his feet across the floor. Steve starts to stand up to help, but Loki is already over before he can. Loki lowers himself into a slumped seated position in front of Clint.

Clint draws his legs into a butterfly and Loki does the same. He doesn’t have on any shoes, dressed in only the hospital gown and his hair a dark mess of curls around his face. Loki honestly seems like he couldn’t care less. All of them look worse for wear, Clint hasn’t showered since before this entire mess started and is certain he still smells a little like burned hair. 

Loki takes in a deep, slow breath. When he opens his eyes, they’re calm. “Natasha,” his voice is soft, “you will need to let go of him.”

Clint hadn’t realized Natasha hadn’t yet. With obvious reluctance, Natasha releases him, giving his shoulder one final squeeze. As soon as her hands are gone, he misses their warmth. 

Loki raises his eyes up to meet Clint’s. They're tired and redrimmed and empty. “This will likely be painful.”

“I’m kind of beyond the point of caring right now,” Clint admits. 

Loki nods, like that actually made any sense. Loki gestures for Clint to rest his hands palm up on his knees and he does so, Loki clasping his wrists with cold fingers. The Asgardian breathes in and out again before closing his eyes. It takes a few seconds before a faint pressure starts to build at the base of Clint’s skull. Loki’s hands start to glow faintly, a surge of yellow pulsing from his veins into his fingertips and underneath Clint’s skin. 

It’s itchy, cold, and hurts. Like a bruise being pushed on until it breaks another bone beneath the pressure. 

The pain starts to get worse, until it feels like there are several dozen pins being pushed in and out of his brain. He starts to squint, then closes his eyes entirely and squeezes Loki’s wrists back as it gets worse. It’s not the worst pain he’s experienced, not anywhere near the worst headache, but it’s enough that it’s uncomfortable. Loki doesn’t really seem to mind that he’s probably cutting off circulation, so Clint keeps doing it.

He waits, in a mindless place, counting long seconds. 

Silent. 

Aching. 

It could be anywhere from thirty seconds to an hour before the pressure releases without warning. Clint’s entire body slumps with relief instantly, and he would have tumbled back entirely if not for Natasha and Bruce’s hands on his shoulders and back, steadying him. 

He groans faintly.

“Are you okay?” Natasha asks.

“Ow.” He mutters. “Head hurty.” 

With exasperation, Natasha says, fond, “How bad?”

Bruce’s fingers push against his throat and Clint leans away from the touch by instinct, blinking squinted eyes open. “Your pulse is racing,” Bruce says, “you need to lay down.”

“Probably,” Clint mutters. He squints through blurry vision until he can focus on Loki, who looks a lot more put together than Clint does, which is unfair. “Did it work?” It didn’t feel like anything changed. 

“No. I’m sorry.” The words are low. Loki looks...slumped. His body posture is shrunk in on itself and he just seems small. 

Clint swears softly, pushing his fingers into his temples. He has the whisper of a headache knocking at his skull. “How can you not remove it if you’re the one who put it there?”

“The spell is well guarded. I wouldn’t expect anything less from myself. It’s…” Loki licks his lips, gripping his forearm and digging his nails tightly into the skin. He seems calmer than he should be. “The spell isn’t a tether. Well, it is, but it's a different type than I first assumed. It’s a memory implantation. Sometime during the Chitauri’s invasion, I implanted several months worth of my memories into your head. I think--I assume-- it was only in safe keeping and I intended to collect them later. Memory implantation isn’t meant to be used long-term. Being near the caster makes the spell start to malfunction, hence your sleeping troubles. You…weren’t even supposed to know it was there.”

Clint thinks of Swenson. And Selvig. Sleeping troubles, they said. Living Loki’s memories every night. Not because of some ulterior motive on God’s part, but because Loki put them there. 

“You did that to all of us. Everyone you mind controlled.” Clint realizes.

Loki looks away. “Yes.” 

“Memories of what?” Tony asks, throwing up a hand. “What the heck did you want to hide inside their brains that you couldn’t just tell someone?”

Loki shakes his head, gripping his arm tighter. “I don’t know. I assume…Clint can speak Chitaurian now. Whatever I put in his head must have had to do with that, because there’s no way he would have been able to speak it otherwise.”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold up. You can speak Chitaurian?” Tony demands, looking at him pointedly. 

Clint winces. “Yeah, um.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose tightly. “And you didn’t think this was important?”

“We had other things going on.”

“Things that this would have been relevant for!” Tony argues. 

“I didn’t want--”

“Oh norns, ” Loki interrupts. His face has paled, his hands stilling. Everyone looks at him, and they keep staring as the green eyes flit across the room frantically. 

“What?” Steve asks, cautious.

Loki’s eyes pin onto Clint’s arm, staring at the lichtenberg marks. Loki’s face seizes. “Oh my gods,” he whispers. “ Oh my gods. This is my fault. Everything. Thor killing them--that was-- I did that."  

"How is that your fault?” Clint demands, exasperated. 

“Because I did this! Don't you get that!? The reason that Selvig and Swenson were killed was because of me! At some point in the invasion, I put my memories in your heads and I don’t remember it, and now the Chitauri are having my brother kill anyone who holds them!” 

Wait, that--

Oh.

Oh. 

Clint's heart pounds in his chest. “What? Why would--” 

“I don’t know,” Loki shakes his head. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember why I--but I had to. And-- Dritt. ” Loki grabs at Clint’s upper arms. “Thor wasn’t trying to kill me, Clint, he was trying to kill you.” 

(He kept saying he was sorry. 

Thor raising Mjolnir over his head. 

He kept saying he was sorry.) 

Clint swallows hard. “Because I have your memories.” 

“Because you have my memories,” Loki echoes, squeezing his fingers hard. His eyes close with regret. “And I can’t remove them to save you." Loki curses in Asgardian, slamming a fist against the ground harshly. “Until I figure out how to unlock the spell from your head--information I suspect I would have had if I hadn’t gotten concussed shortly after this happened, I can’t do anything. I can’t do anything! Dritt!” 

Natasha’s mouth moves soundlessly. 

Bruce’s face closes off suddenly and he gets up to his feet, running rigid fingers through his hair. “Hulk. You don’t remember any of this because Hulk smashed you face-first into a floor so hard that you left a crater. ” 

Tony grabs his arm. “Bruce--” he tries. 

“No, don’t--” Bruce shoves him off. Loki’s silence is enough of an answer and Bruce swears harshly, rubbing a hand over his mouth, then pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “We could have resolved all of this months ago. Maybe none of this would have happened at all if I hadn’t done that.” 

“We don’t know that,” Steve says. 

“The heck we don’t!” Bruce exclaims. “If Hulk hadn’t concussed him then Clint wouldn’t have had to endure this for six months and, oh, I don’t know, Selvig and Swenson would still be alive?”

His stomach drops to his feet. 

“Swenson’s dead?” Clint blurts. It feels like the worst thing to bring up in the midst of this, but it’s kind of hard for it not to come tumbling out.

“Thor’s attack on the Helicarrier,” Natasha explains. She rubs at her forehead. “He must have been the actual target, not the release of the Chitauri.” 

Swenson is dead.

So is Selvig.

Thor would have killed him if Loki hadn't been there. 

All of this within the span of ten hours. 

“Oh.” Clint raises up his hands a little, gesturing wildly. “Awesome. So I’m next in line for the firing squad?” 

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Loki says. The words are so full of venom and conviction that they almost feel like they can bend the force of the universe to their will.

Almost. 

Clint laughs, somewhere between despair and a desperate why not? “Are you sure? Because Thor has already gone two for three and the odds aren’t looking too great for me. Look at what he did to me--look at what he did to you. I’m going to die.” He sort of means it as a depressed joke, but the words come off sarcastic and brittle, settling heavily in the air. 

It’s not a joke, it’s reality. There is no way for them to stop Thor from killing him until they get him unpossessed, but even if that does happen, the Chitauri aren’t going to stop. They obviously, for whatever reason, want all of Loki’s hidden memories gone. Clint, as the sole carrier of them now, is living on borrowed time. There is no way to stop this. 

What the heck is in those memories that the Chitauri want hidden so badly? The only thing that Clint has found incriminating is--

“Holy crap,” Clint breathes. “The Chitauri are trying to hide the fact that they tortured you into doing the invasion.” 

Loki releases an aggravated sound. “On the Norns, Clint, for the last time, I wasn’t--” 

“Oh. Oh. Crap. ” Tony takes a physical step back. The words seem to process fully because a fit of blistering anger washes over his face, “Wait, what the heck?! You were tortured?” 

“No!” Loki says, throwing up his hands as Clint says “yes” loudly. 

Clint glares at him. Loki just looks at him, tired. Clint pushes on anyway. He is so done with all of this. Today, tomorrow, the Chitauri, Odin--everything. “You said that you can’t remember most of the invasion. You implanted memories in my head and I speak Chitaurian now and you’re going to--”

“ I had a concussion.” 

“Your concussion gave me foreign language skills?”

“The Chitauri--” 

“Your scars,” Natasha says, her voice level. “Most of them too old to have come from your parents. The Chitauri…did all of that to you? You were terrified of them. They freaking hurt you?” 

“No--it wasn’t--” Loki denies, frantic, but seeming a little hopeless. “It wasn’t them.”

“Why the heck is this so hard for you to accept!?” Clint exclaims. Loki flinches. “They hurt you. Those freaking creatures damaged you so badly that your back looks like you lied down on a bed of hot coals. This isn’t--why are you denying this? The invasion wasn’t your fault. Honestly, at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that you were under the control of the scepter--”

A panicked, blank look is beginning to envelop Loki's features. "It wasn't--"

"--You're not even the same person anymore. The Chitauri did that to you. One of the few things I can remember from the invasion is you being so freaking terri--" 

“If the invasion wasn’t my choice, then everything my parents did to me was for nothing!” 

The room is cloaked in silence. 

Loki exhales hard, wrapping his arms around himself. He shudders. “Every knife wound, every hit, every spell they used, it was all because there is something wrong with me. I proved that, successfully, at last, and now--now I’m the victim?” the word is sour and comes out like some sort of curse. “No. I’m not a good person. Even if the Chitauri did…hurt me, I deserved it. After what I did. For what I am.”

“You deserved it?” Steve repeats, aghast.

“Yes,” Loki insists, “my parents had to have had a just cause for what they did. Beyond--beyond my talking to Thanos. My mother insisted my father always had a reason for doing what he did. Always. There had to have been--if I was tortured, then the invasion wouldn’t have been my fault, and…my father would have declared war on Thanos. Not…”

My father always had a reason for doing what he did.

What has he done to you that she was always justifying? 

That’s so messed up. That's so messed up. 

Natasha reaches out and separates Loki’s hand from digging to bone. He’s dug so hard into his forearm that there are sluggishly bleeding half-moon scabs. Natasha just holds his hands in her own, the grip not restrictive, but supportive. 

Natasha says gently, but firmly, “Odin and Frigga are sadistic morons. They will never have a reasonable justification for hurting you.” 

Loki shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I’m not Asgardian, I’m--” 

“Thor told us.” Steve interrupts. “That you’re Jotun,” Steve’s tongue moves the word around awkwardly in his mouth, unfamiliar with it but trying anyway. “And we don’t care. You know that, right?” 

“I…yes--No.” Loki admits. He seems more confused than anything. “You… how? I’m…a monster.”

Tony scoffs. “Knowing what you do about us, can you honestly say that any of us aren’t? Look at me.” Tony pokes him until he does, “ All of us did shady stuff, okay? Natasha and Clint killed people for a living. I used to make weapons that killed thousands. Hulk has hurt people, Captian America has killed. Normal people don’t worry about the blood on their hands when they go to sleep.” 

Loki looks down.

Tony sighs, rubbing at his face. “Sorry. That came out weird. Look, the point is…you’re in the company of monsters here. We’re all trying to do better. That’s the point. We don’t care about you because your record is squeaky-clean, we care because none of us have clean hands either.” 

“And yet,” Loki’s voice is soft, his face rapidly processing a dozen emotions, “your people regale you as heroes. I am not. I never will be. Asgard hates me, and I know my parents are ashamed of what happened.” 

What? What is he talking about? Asgard doesn’t hate him. That’s the whole point of the stupid civil war--

He--

Wait.

Clint buries his face into his hands and groans. “Oh my gosh, we didn’t tell you. We’re horrible. I swear we promised and everything. Crap. Loki, the reason the civil war is happening is because of you.” 

Loki’s mouth tightens. “As everyone has assured me. I know--”

“No, no, no, you don’t get it. Let me rephrase. It’s for you. People were furious at what happened to you.” 

Loki stares at him, eyes wide. “ ...What? ” 

Clint explains hurriedly like the faster he talks the easier this will be to get out, “Odin said that you had been executed, and Asgard reacted…poorly to this. Thor said that things were tense to put it mildly, but when your guards came and told him what was going on and then anyone else that would listen to them, Asgard decided to wage war to retrieve you from the palace. Apparently, Thor got a lot of pressure to usurp your parents. That’s, um, partially why he’s with us.” 

Loki eyes are wide. The disbelief and shock there makes something Clint’s stomach hurt with sympathy. He doesn't think that this is real. That that many people could actually care about him. 

“One of the other realms declared war on Asgard to force Odin to release you from prison and step down from the throne.” Steve continues. “It was...ugh, I can't--Elfheim?” 

“Alfheim.” Loki corrects automatically, eyes still far away. 

“Yeah. That. The others followed suit after that.”

“Oh," Loki whispers. 

“Siygn.” Steve says suddenly. Where he pulls the name from is beyond Clint at this point. His brain is overprocessing and giving up. “Siygn. She’s the one that started the war. Thor was helping her even if he was politically a neutral party.” 

A fond sort of sadness settles in Loki’s face. “Of course it’s her.” 

“You know her?” Natasha asks. 

Loki nods. “Yes. Our marriage has been arranged since we were children. One of the few friendships I have managed to maintain has been with her.” His hands flex anxiously inside of Natasha’s grip. “I hadn’t realized she’d been told what happened. She…didn’t have to drag all of Alfheim into this.” 

Clint’s head tilts a little, vaguely remembering something that the Warriors Three and Sif were ranting about. “Wait, wasn’t Alfheim the realm that Sif and her hearty crew were trying to keep Thor away from? Why the heck are they all afraid of her if Thor’s helping her?” 

Loki sighs. “Alfheim is notorious for their torture. If Siygn decided to force Thor to help her, she could. She wouldn’t. Siygn and Thor have known each other for centuries, she would never intentionally cause him harm. My--Odin must be desperate to keep Thor from claiming an opposing side publicly. It would suade the opinion on the war. I didn’t realize that the threats they were speaking of came from Siygn, not her councilmen. I wouldn't have panicked as much."  

“We didn't know that,” Bruce points out. “The Warriors weren’t explicit about it.”

“Not that it matters much.” Steve sighs. “The Chitauri are holding all the cards here. Until we get Thor back, Alfheim doesn’t really matter. Honestly at this point, if they can get Thor back, I’ll kiss them full on the mouth.” 

Loki snorts. 

There’s a lull of silence. Loki looks back at Clint, his shoulders slumping a fraction. “I am sorry, Clint. I wish…”

Clint smiles tightly. “We’ll figure it out, right?”  

He doesn’t believe the words. 

Loki doesn’t either. 

000o000

They talk for a while after that, until everyone is calmed down enough that no one is about to pass out from an anxiety attack. Most of it is light-hearted, but Clint is fully aware there is plenty they didn’t address that they need to later. This just isn’t the right time. They talk about a few funny stories regarding hospitals as Natasha carefully sweeps Loki's hair back into a braid to tame the curls. Clint goes into vivid detail about the time he thought he had appendicitis and had to break cover for it because it hurt so much, but it turns out it was actually just food poisoning. Tony's story about how as a kid he was left alone and unsupervised because he was sick for a few weeks and colored with red all over the floor until it looked like blood and wouldn't come out kinda takes the cake. 

(Even if Clint very sincerely wants to punch Howard Stark in the face. Who on earth leaves a six-year-old unsupervised and doesn't allow them any visitors for two weeks when they have pneumonia so bad that they have to be on a feeding tube?) 

That is, of course, until Steve tells them that he took heroin occasionally as a cough medicine until he was six and it was outlawed in 1924. But he digresses. 

Eventually, Loki’s energy starts to flag and they unanimously shove him back toward the bed. (Clint feels like dead weight, but he hasn’t said anything and isn’t going to. He doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t want the dreams. His body hurts. His body always hurts now.) 

Bruce stays behind to keep watch, and the rest of them quietly leave the room to let Loki get some well-deserved rest. They’re a few hallways away from the hospital wing headed toward the cafeteria before a sea of overlapping voices coming from the singular council room on the base catches their attention. As soon as he recognizes them, Clint, annoyed, plans to keep walking past it. 

Steve’s expression darkens and he stops. 

"No," Steve says as if that is enough of an explanation. It's a breathy word, more for himself than anyone else. 

Changing their trajectory abruptly, Steve turns toward the conference room and all but throws open the door, stalking inside. The abruptness of the movement startles a half dozen people. The Asgardians are grouped around one end of the long table, Frigga seated and Odin standing beside her, arguing loudly with Fury and Hill. The latter are all tight with restrained violence. 

Clint has no idea what exactly they’re talking about, but it doesn’t really matter in the end anyway. With all the grace of an avenging angel, Steve slinks across the room, grabs Odin by the lapels of his armor and slams him against the nearest wall. Clint’s eyes widen with surprise and he takes a step forward to stop him. 

Then he realizes he doesn't really care. 

Every Asgardian draws their weapon, but Steve couldn’t give less of a crap if he tried. “What the heck did I say!?” Steve demands, his voice rising with his fury, “I told you what would happen if you hurt him and you decided to try and HIT HIM ANYWAY?” 

“Stand down,” Odin commands harshly. For a bizarre moment, Clint thinks he’s talking to Steve, but realizes he’s speaking to the Asgardians. Odin turns a piercing, disgusted stare back toward Steve. “I have nothing to fear from a mortal.” 

Steve’s head cocks dangerously, a dark, visceral smile spreading on his face. “You really want to try me?”

“Captain,” Frigga says in warning. She’s halfway raised to her feet, apparently willing to protect her husband even if the couple appears ready to murder each other at the slightest inconvenience. “Unhand him.” 

Steve stares at Odin for a long moment before, with revulsion in his voice, he says, “You don’t regret it, you son of a gun. Any of it. What is wrong with you? Loki is your child."

“Loki brought this on himself.” 

“ How?” Tony scoffs. At Odin’s annoyed look, Tony shakes his head, gesturing wildly with his hands, “No. Seriously. Give me an honest answer. What did he do to deserve you chopping him open? You said it was to put on a show for this Thanos person, but you couldn’t even be bothered to give him the courtesy of knowing you didn’t mean it?" 

“Circumstances were beyond our control,” Frigga says. “You don’t understand--”

“Here’s what I understand,” Steve interrupts, his voice level. “You knew that Loki was in the hands of some sort of war criminal, and it didn’t occur to you to wonder why he suddenly wanted to conquer a planet? I’ve barely known him for half a year and I can assure you that Loki could want nothing less.” 

Odin shifts underneath Steve’s grip, but can’t get a position that eases the worst of the pressure. Good, Clint thinks, dark and heavy, let him squirm.

Odin says through gritted teeth, “Loki admitted to me under duress that he loved Thanos. A creature that has murdered hundreds of thousands and he loved him. He refused to answer questions about the invasion unless we forced them from him. It took me the better part of a year before I realized he retained no memories from his fall and limited ones from Midgard.” 

Wait. If it took Odin only a year to realize that…Loki was in their prison for two years and a handful of months-- He said that I killed thousands of Midgardians --Odin knew that Loki didn’t remember the invasion. He told Loki that he’d killed thousands anyway. 

“Dude, what the fu--?” Clint starts the exclaim. 

Steve shakes his head in disbelief, voice overlapping Clint's. “Loki told you that he loved Thanos while you were torturing him?”

“He wouldn’t talk.” Odin says, teeth gritted. He’s starting to get wiggly now, but Steve seems no more interested in releasing him than he did initially. “We had to know.” 

“And I’m sure he was just completely honest with you in between the screaming.” Tony’s voice is flat. “That’s usually how these things go, isn’t it?” 

“Director Fury, would you care to control your agents?” Frigga asks, her hand tight around the edge of the table. Her body language is rigid and furious, but controlled. So, so controlled. 

Clint glances up at Fury, sees the man eye them, fold his arms across his chest, then say with a slight shrug. “They seem to have everything well at hand.”

Frigga's expression darkens. 

“I don’t see why you’re defending him.” Odin snarls, “Not after all that he’s done. His invasion alone aside, his memory implantation spell has clearly tormented your agents. Clearly, he thought to hide more incriminating evidence from me before he was arrested, therefore proving more of his guilt. He's always been different. Wrong. And now that he's spent a year with someone who shares his ideals, likely getting coddled in is murderous ways he's--”

Clint doesn’t really remember moving. He’s not even sure what’s really happened until it’s over. 

His fist slams into Odin’s face with a sickening crunch on his knuckles part, Steve releasing the king with surprise. The old man goes tumbling to the floor as Clint stands there, shaking with fury. 

“You selfish --You want to know what he’s hiding? Torture. The Chitauri flayed him alive over and over again until he didn't remember what it was like not to hurt and he hid that from you. Not some--some sort of evil plot to overtake your stupid planet--” Clint starts to say, enraged, the words tumbling out of him like a gut punch. 

Odin surges to his feet, summoning his staff with some sort of Force-like power from across the room. He turns on Clint, furious, every crease of his face narrowed or bent with anger. 

Clint feels the hairs on his arms and neck stand up and the swallowing wail of power that strips the air of any comfort makes him take a step back.

I have made a horrible mistake.

Natasha grabs his arm. Steve takes a physical step between the two of them, but instead of smiting him, Odin stops, just looking at him. He stares at Clint for long, long seconds then shoves Steve out of the way with little effort into the table with a hard smack and reaches out for Clint. 

No. 

Clint attempts to take a scrambling step backward, but he can’t move fast enough. Odin grabs his wrist as Natasha’s gun comes up, and Odin forcefully twists Clint's wrist around painfully to stare at his forearm. His vision goes white for a moment as nerves and tendons are bent or squeezed the wrong way. 

Clint makes a gasping sound. In his peripheral vision, Clint sees Fury’s hand go to his weapon. Clint’s entire body alights with a buzzing energy and he stares the old man hard in the eye. They’re almost the same height, but somehow, Clint feels tiny. 

Odin stares at the twisted burn pattern climbing up Clint’s skin from Thor’s lightning strike. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, Odin's gaze raises up to Clint's eyes with a piercing blue gaze, staring through his soul, and Clint can tell that Odin knows what the source of the burn is. 

Odin's grip on Clint’s arm tightens to something just above crushing, and Clint is frantically reminded by his panicking brain that pulling off a broken hand is just in the range of human force so Odin could probably do it without a problem.

Frigga makes a choked sound. “Thor struck you?” she asks, apparently having followed her husband's gaze. Then a more pointed, breathless, “How are you alive?”

Clint grinds his teeth together. “I’m stubborn.” 

Odin’s lips narrow. “Where is my son? These burns can’t be more than a day old on a mortal.” Odin shoves his arm back and Clint staggers a step backward from the force of it. 

Frigga scowls at Odin, reaching out to help Clint steady. Clint quickly pulls away from her hands. She’s just as unsettling as Odin is, leaking power. Natasha puts herself in between them, much to Clint’s private displeasure and growing panic. He doesn't want her to get hurt. Asgardians aren't variables they can count on. He doesn't know what will happen. 

“Clint Barton,” his name rolls off of her tongue as if Frigga’s spoken it a hundred times before. Clint twitches. “Please, tell us where our son is. I know that something has happened. He would be here if it wasn’t, with his brother.” 

Clint barely suppresses a groan. “I’m not going to talk--” 

Something breaks in the woman. Frigga’s eyes flash, and she grabs Natasha’s shoulders harshly. “ You will talk to me! My family is falling apart and you and your Avengers have been standing in the epicenter for years now! Tell me where my son is! Where is Thor!?” 

“Get your hands off of her.” Fury’s voice is low.

Natasha physically shoves away from Frigga, her body tense and ready for a fight. “The Chitauri have him.”

Frigga’s face drains of color. “What?” 

“They would DARE--! ” Odin roars, slamming his staff against the ground. The entire earth trembles and Clint has to desperately work to keep his balance. His exhausted, overshot body loudly pleads with him to just lay down on the floor and give up. “After the deal we made with them!? After all that they forced us to do, they would dare lay a hand on Thor!?” 

“‘Forced you?’” Tony chokes on a laugh. “Oh my gosh, what is the logic hoop you’re going through? You chose to do that to Loki! No one forced you!” 

Frigga’s expression narrows. “You don’t know--” 

“And we don’t care!” Clint exclaims, throwing up his hands. “We really don't! Okay!? You can keep bending backwards to try and justify your actions if that makes you feel good about yourself, but--” 

“ You would defend Loki even after all that he’s done to you?” Odin growls. His gaze lands on that-- thing. The tether, and Clint’s stomach drops to his feet again. His mouth keeps running. It usually does despite his best efforts. 

“Do not drag me into your martyr complex!”

“Then why did you not mention this earlier!?” Odin shouts, apparently declining to ignore that. “How long have the Chitauri had my son?”

“Oh, so now you care that the Chitauri have one of your kids?” Tony asks. It’s maybe a little too pointed, because Odin actually straight-up growls at him with a pointed finger to shut up. Tony flinches a little in response to it, but doesn’t back down. “Really? Do I look like some sort of dog to you?" There's a moment and then--"Actually, you know what? There is almost nothing I wouldn’t do to help Thor, but resigning myself to your help is just above being in cahoots with the devil, so if you want to find Thor, you’re going to have to do a little legwork.”

“Tony Stark,” Frigga’s voice is pleading now. “Please. Please don’t make Thor suffer because of your anger. We made mistakes with Loki, I admit that freely, but Thor shouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of that.”

“He won’t.” Steve says. “We’ll find him first. Without you. Go to hell.” He smiles, turns, and stalks out the door. Clint gives the two of them a rude gesture with a cocky smile and follows his captain out of the room. He’s pretty sure he broke one of his fingers, but the pain is entirely worth it. 

000o000

It’s a slow, tense couple of hours. They do finally make it to the cafeteria, where Steve angrily pokes holes through his food with his fork and Tony watches him with his eyebrows faintly raised. Natasha doesn’t eat anything, squinting against the light--her hangover has obviously not lessened that much--so Clint forces her to drink some water and chews on tasteless food. Natasha gets him an ice pack for his fingers. Later, he sluggishly pushes himself through a shower before collapsing on the closest available bed and sleeps.

They don’t talk about Odin and Frigga except in angry passing. Clint is pretty sure none of them can process it in a productive way anyway. 

According to Natasha, Frigga approaches them once more to ask for their information regarding Thor, and left just as empty-handed as she'd started. Frigga and Odin want to help their son. They get that. But at the same time, they haven't exhausted all their options yet. And after what happened to Loki, whose to say that they won't do something worse? 

None of them trust the king and queen with Loki. Or Thor. 

It’s over thirteen--sporadic, nightmare filled--hours later before Clint’s body gives up on sleep entirely. The burns look only a little better today, and his doctor eyes the entire mess unhappily before prescribing him more medicine for the pain and encouraging him to “get some rest”, Clint declines to tell her that’s probably not an option.

Odin and Frigga apparently slunk away while he was asleep, off to somewhere--probably to start looking for Thor, but the important thing is that they aren’t in the S.H.I.E.L.D. base. The tension in the air is gone like everyone is breathing deeply again.

Fury’s only comment about the entire thing is to ask Clint if he broke any fingers. Clint says no, and Fury dispassionately tells him to hit harder next time. 

Clint kinda thinks that says enough of Fury's opinion about the entire debacle. 

A handful of days pass in a blur. He thinks it’s three, but it could be up to five. As promised, the litchenburg burns fade to dull red lines across his skin, no longer as inflamed, but still painful to touch. Natasha carefully helps him apply some sort of cream the doctor recommended every morning, which helps. Clint makes sure to have her coffee on hand as thanks. 

They don’t find Thor. 

They don’t even find anything that alludes to Thor. He’s not sure how the Chitauri are hiding, but whatever they’re using to mask themselves is beyond any earthly technology that they have. It’s terrifying. What little they hear from Asgard proves that they’re just as frustrated with the whole thing. They still don't collaborate their efforts. Clint doesn't think any of them are ready to let the argumentative mess go. 

Clint technically hasn’t been released from medical yet--the doctors don’t think there’s any permanent damage to his heart, but they’re nervous about the pain in his lower back and want to keep an eye on it--so whenever he does see someone, it’s usually because they’re orbiting him. He sees a lot of the Avengers, coming in and out, sitting silently or talking to him, and he's fine with that. Tony promises him a sandwich when his stomach is less upset with everything. 

Mostly, the days pass in a blur. He lives them and he's aware of that, but everything is so far away. 

Eventually, while Natasha is taking a shower Clint had to lovingly threaten her into, Loki shows up, looking kind of twitchy. It's not the first time he's been here--Loki is cleared from medical--but he does look considerably worse for wear than normal. Dressed in dark clothing and a long coat that makes him look freezing despite the weather, he looks like a pocketwatch dealer. 

Clint watches him linger in the doorway for a long moment before sighing, turning off his phone, and looking at him pointedly. “What? Did you sell some cocaine or something?”

Loki shoots him a puzzled look. “What?”

“Drug. Culture joke you don’t really have context for.” Clint supplies. “What’s up?” 

Loki submits, closing the door, walking into the room, and sitting down on the chair beside Clint’s bed. Natasha has practically lived there the last week. (Half a week? He really needs to look at the date.) The Asgardian claps his hands together over his knees. He licks his lips. "May I ask you something?” 

“Uh. Sure. What?” Clint asks, frowning. “Is something wrong?” 

They have not talked about Odin and Frigga. They should, but Clint doesn't feel ready to have that conversation until he can sit up without his lower back deciding to spam the pain button. 

Loki rubs at his face, then brushes his fingers through messy curls. He does it again before clasping his hands together once more. “I wanted to ask you…about the Chitauri. You have…you have more details than I do regarding it. I have given what you said some thought. I think…” this, too, is broken by a long delay, the following words soft. “I think that I was under the influence of the scepter. I can’t think of another reason for loving Thanos. I do not..." Loki trails off, as if he can't put his next thoughts into words.  

Clint is quiet for a long time. He closes his eyes, exhales slowly, then opens them again. 

“Thanos. The…guy who was holding you captive?” Clint asks for clarification. 

“After a fashion, I believe. I was--the invasion I did under his direction. That much I do know. The Chitauri are employed to him.” Loki explains. He’s watching Clint carefully, as if waiting for this to go bad somehow. Clint to yell, maybe. “I am wondering what you remember, about Thanos. I want to know what happened. If--if it’s too much, or I’m imposing, I don’t have to--obviously, you don’t have to tell me--” 

Clint pokes him on the arm until he shuts up. “It’s fine. They’re your memories. You have a right to know your own story.” 

Loki’s face clenches. 

Clint sits up a little more, leaning awkwardly against the mountain of pillows. His arms still ache, and any contact with the cotton is a little like poking at bruises. He stares at Loki for long moments, thinking over the dreams and trying to click them into place. Nothing feels coherent. There isn’t any sort of timeline he can follow, just…pain. 

Clint shakes his head. “I don’t even know what Thanos looks like. Honestly, none of the memories feel coherent to me. You were…in a bad way.” 

There's a brief flicker of disappointment, probably at the fact that Clint can't chart this all out, then Loki's frown deepens. “What do you mean?” 

Clint thinks of the blood and the screaming. The begging. The fire. The phantom pains of wounds. A gentle hand reaching out to comfort but the pain of that. Crumpling to knees before an imposing figure and pleading for quarter. Being denied it. Apologizing. So much apologizing. Demands for information. Being left alone in the darkness to be swallowed into madness. 

(The looming figure in front of him gives a curt nod, and something smacks him in the back of the knees, and he goes tumbling into suffocation all over again, gasping, choking, oh, Gods, help me—)

“I mean,” Clint squeezes a handful of thin blanket beneath his fingers. He reaches for Loki’s arm with his other hand, and Loki watches him with a furrowed brow as Clint turns his arm over. He gestures at a faint scar looped over Loki’s wrist. He didn't notice it until a few weeks ago, when he first had that dream. “You were suspended from your wrists for a long time. It cut open your wrists at one point. They just let you hang there until you passed out from suffocation and blood loss.” 

Loki’s brow furrows. He looks at his skin as though he’s never seen it before, then turns over at his other wrist to see an identical mark on the other side. “ ...Oh,” he whispers, "I had wondered…I didn’t realize…” 

A sudden, horrific realization occurs to him. Clint breathes out, unsteady. “You don’t recognize a lot those anymore, do you? The scars?”

It’s a long, silent few seconds. Loki meets Clint’s gaze after a beat. “No.” He whispers. “I don't. This body doesn’t feel like mine anymore.” 

Clint licks his lips anxiously. He thought something like that a few days ago, and the echo of it out loud sends an uncomfortable crawling sensation down his spine. “Yeah.” He says, out of lack of anything else to. 

Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. 

He sighs and runs a hand through his messy hair. “I get that. If I remember right from a few months ago, there’s some sort of knotted circle or something on your back? That was some sort of brand, I think. They joked about putting it on your face.” 

Loki twitches at that, turning his head toward his back as if he can see it through the shirt. His fingers reach up awkwardly, and in a show of more flexibility than Clint would have originally given him credit for, he runs his fingers over something. Clint’s back aches in a phantom pain as Loki flinches as he finds the area. He drops his hands almost instantly. 

“There’s so much that I don’t remember,” Loki whispers. “So much that I don’t know.” 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “There is. Which is why you need to trust me. They hurt you. They put you through hell over and over again. They tortured you, Loki. Do you believe me now?” 

“Yes.” Loki admits, looking away. He drops his hands into his lap heavily. “I think I did when you told me, I just…didn’t want to believe my parents would…” 

“Family can be crappy,” Clint mutters, dropping his head against the pillows. “Doesn’t mean that’s our fault.” 

Loki huffs, rubbing his thumb into his palm. “I suppose.” 

There’s a lapse of silence. Clint waits, unsure what to say without prompting. Loki keeps pushing his fingers together, intermittently turning his hands over to look at the scars on his wrists, clearly thinking. At last, he looks up. “The memories are encased in a powerful protection spell, one that would take time to break without the nøkkelkode. I would have had it before…I wish I remembered why I felt the need to implant the memories.” 

Clint rolls his eyes, a surge of annoyance washing through him. “Your dad thinks you were hiding a second, eviler plot from him.” 

Loki’s mouth pinches. “He said that?” 

“Not in so many words, but yeah. He really believes in your character, doesn't he?” 

Loki considers this, then sighs. “Is it terrible that I’m not surprised?” 

“I mean. I’m not and I barely know him. So probably not.” Clint assures. He shifts his feet. “When you break the spell or whatever, can you take the memories completely?” 

“Yes,” Loki says, “It will not be pleasant for either of us, but it will be possible. But...it is in your head now, so you deserve to have an opinion in this. If you don’t want me to remove them...I won’t.”

There's desperation there. A longing. Loki doesn't want that. He wants to know what happened. He wants to run his fingers along the torture and bite into every gritty detail. But he's not willing to do that at the sake of Clint's comfort. 

It is, at once, both incredibly selfless and disheartening. 

Clint shakes his head. “They’re your memories, not mine, Loki. When do you want to do that?” 

Loki frowns. “I don’t have the energy for it now and neither do you. Perhaps this evening?” He sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Maybe later. I hope they will give us an answer as to why the Chitauri want to destroy them so badly. Dragging Thor into this was crass and impulsive. There must be something. ”

“Maybe it’s just their existence in general.”

“What do you mean?” Loki asks him. 

Clint shrugs. “They prove that you weren’t in cahoots with Thanos, right? Odin was pretty pissed Thanos broke their deal. Maybe Thanos made a couple of other deals hinged upon you working with him on purpose.” 

Loki stares at him. “I can’t imagine what. My father won’t wage war on him for me." A bitter resignation settles in eyes at that, "No. It’s something in the memories themselves.” 

Clint gives him a tight smile. “I guess we’ll find out tonight then.”

“I suppose we will,” Loki whispers. 

000o000

Loki leaves soon after that to eat something and get some sleep to prepare. A few minutes after that, Natasha, with half her hair wet still soaking wet, climbs onto the hospital bed beside him and lays her head on his shoulder. He groans dramatically. “Babe, you’re wet.”

“Don’t be a baby.” She says immediately. 

“I am a half-burnt up baby,” he grumbles. "Who doesn't want to be wet." 

She rolls her eyes, kicking him lightly on the ankle and Clint kisses her forehead. “You good?” he asks quietly. Natasha closes her eyes, burying her head against his neck.

“I’m worried,” she admits after a while, “About you, Loki--all of this. We need to find Thor and we can’t. It’s been over three weeks now. The Chitauri broke him in ten days. What have they done to him since?” 

Ten days. 

Ten. 

Clint’s blood rushes cold. He hadn’t…really thought of the timeline like that, but yeah. Ten days. Thor killed Selvig on day eleven. Man. If the Chitauri could do that to Thor in less than two weeks, what did they do to Loki holding him for a year? “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m scared, too. We weren't trained for this.”

"That seems to be a pattern as of late," Natasha murmurs. 

Clint exhales. "I'm sorry. What can I do to help you?"  

Natasha wraps an arm around her stomach. She bites her lower lip, before exhaling on a sigh, curling up against him. “Will you talk to me? I don’t want to think anymore.”  

“I mean, do you really want me to?” Clint warns, sneaking an edge of humor into his tone. 

Natasha pokes him in the side hard.

Clint laughs, “Okay, okay, okay. Oh! Great. A captive audience. I’ve gotta tell you about this thing. Apparently, they developed this bionic lens thing in May that can give you perfect vision regardless of what you started with, which is super cool. I was just thinking that if something like that could be developed for hearing aids…” 

Clint talks at her for a while until Natasha relaxes and eventually settles into sleep. Her hair soaks the pillow and his shirt. He doesn’t say anything. Clint stays with her for a while, incapable of sleep despite his best efforts. His thoughts are spinning. After more than an hour, he finally submits and slides out from under Natasha’s grip slowly. 

He carefully covers her with a blanket, staring at her for long seconds with an overwhelming twist of love in his stomach. He kisses her softly on the forehead and she shifts a little in response to him, but remains asleep, her body recognizing him as something safe and relaxing. 

Clint sighs and leaves the hospital room. His lower back still aches, almost like it’s trying to pinch with every step he takes. He wanders around the base for a while before finally making his way outside. It’s a little after five p.m., so the sun is blistering hot and boring down on him with vicious, murderous intent. 

The fresh air smells vaguely like dirt and hot. 

It’s still one of the greatest things he’s ever experienced. He hasn’t been outside since they were attacked. He stays out there for as long as he can stand--maybe ten minutes, given the heat and his general desire not to get a sunburn on top of his newly healed litchenburg scars--before realizing he’s hungry and forces himself back inside to find some sort of sustenance. 

He’s in the middle of limping down a weirdly empty hallway when a deep voice says loudly: “Boo.” 

The voice should be indistinct enough that it's unrecognizable as anything but "probably male." Clint knows it before the final "o" is out of their mouth. 

No. 

Clint lurches backward, hand going to the small knife at his belt. He whirls around as that same deep, male voice laughs in the background. Clint inhales raggedly, backing up. He has to put space between them. He has to put space, he has to--

He doesn’t breathe--

He can’t--

His back slams against the other end of the hallway. The open room is dark. 

“You know, I was wondering if you could clear something up for me,” there. In the shadows. Tall, white, blond, scruff of facial hair, dark clothing, a waking, walking nightmare. He has a .45. “Are the Avengers aware that you got your last team sent to prison, or have you just…withheld that information?” 

He can’t move. He just watches. Every muscle in his body is locked up.

He’s nineteen again. 

“I--” Clint’s voice is strangled. “I don’t--”

Barney levels the gun at his head. Five feet away. Clint’s hand is shaking so badly that he drops the knife. It lands with a clatter in between their feet. He can't breathe. Oh man, he can't--

Is this real? This can't be real. 

They just stare at each other. Barney looking him over, Clint watching his hands. It’s several long seconds before Clint can get his throat to work. His voice, when it comes out, is barely more than a gasping wheeze. 

“What--how--how are you here?” 

This is a S.H.I.E.L.D. base. This is supposed to be safe. 

Barney’s face morphs into a sneer. “Clint, really? After all the work you did with the Circus, you don’t think that I have the capability to hunt down one famous little bowman?” 

“The Circus is dead.” Clint says flatly. He can’t think. He knows he needs to move again, but he can’t. He’s stuck. He’s trapped. He doesn’t have any other weapons and Barney has a gun. He’s nineteen again. Barney is beating him into the dumpster. Clint’s head is ringing and all he smells is blood. 

Barney’s eyes narrow. “Yeah. You did make sure of that with your exit, didn’t you?” 

Clint inhales thinly. His vision feels like it's spinning but trying to hyperfocus and drawing everything into a jumbled mass. “What--what do you want?” 

“Yeah, that’s a funny story.” Bareny adjusts his hold on the weapon and Clint flinches. It doesn’t go off. The threat is still there. “Word got out that S.H.I.E.L.D. had the scepter and I was offered a good amount of money by an employer to collect it for them. I didn’t get there in time, but I was in the area…and then your buddy Thor shows up, and he told me the funniest thing. He says that he needs me to go collect you for him, ‘cause apparently, his allies don’t want him near your group, so--” 

Thor. 

Thor is involved in this? 

Thor sent Barney? After all that they--how-- why--

Clint. Sitting across from Thor. Long nights, stretched thin and tired, discussing anything. Clint talking about Barney. Clint telling Thor about Barney hurting him to make him feel better about Loki. Thor saying that he was sorry. Clint having only ever told two people about his brother, Natasha and Thor, and trusting they’d take it to their grave. 

Clint.

An idiot.

No. 

No. 

Not this time. 

Clint doesn’t care what Barney has to say. He’s not nineteen anymore, he hasn’t been for fifteen God forsaken years and he’s not going to just stand here and let Barney beat him again. Clint slams his hand against Barney’s wrist to dislodge the gun before he tackles his older brother. Years of pent up rage and helplessness pour into every movement. 

(“He did that to you?” Natasha asked, her finger trailing softly over the scar behind and over his ear. Her finger, so gentle and soft, makes him want to curl around himself in shame. Even after all this time, he’s not used to softness. 

“No,” Clint told her, bitter. “I was just too stupid not to stop him. It’s my fault.”) 

They land in a heap on the floor, Barney grunting loudly as Clint impacts fully with his body. Clint doesn’t waste any time, quickly working to overpower him, muscles straining as he wrestles to desperately fight his brother into a chokehold to force him into unconsciousness. 

He can't hurt him. After all this time, after everything that happened and he still can't hurt him. 

Barney shoves him off heavily, fingers reaching for the gun. 

(Natasha stared at him levely for a long time, after that, as if she didn’t know what to say. Clint doesn’t blame her. He didn’t either. Finally, his partner settles on, “You didn’t throw the first punch.” 

“Maybe I should have.” Clint retorted. “Next time, right?”) 

Clint smashes at his brother's wrist with a well-placed kick and Barney forces Clint upward, kneeing him in the groin. Clint wheezes, falling backward, unable to think beyond a kaleidoscope of painful colors. Barney grabs the gun. Clint’s hand scrambles and he grabs the knife from off the floor. His fingers wrap around some of the blade but it doesn’t matter, with wobbly aim he throws. 

He misses. He never misses and he didn't hit him. The knife goes sailing five feet away from Barney's head into the wall. 

The gun discharges. 

(Natasha frowned at that. “There won’t be a next time.” 

Doubtful, Clint asked, “No?” 

“No. I’ll kill him first.” She meant it. Clint didn’t know what to say. It was the first time someone had ever offered to protect him from his brother before. Coulson said it was handled, but not that it wouldn’t happen again. Natasha made him feel safe. Secure. Barney was in prison. The worst of it was over. Barney was a bad memory for a different person. He wasn’t nineteen anymore.) 

The bullet enters his thigh. He doesn’t even feel it for long seconds, just sees the blood beginning to pool near his knee. Clint pants. Barney points the gun at him again. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be, little brother.” He threatens. 

He doesn’t have any more weapons. 

Clint glares at him, fingers wrapping around the bullethole, trying not to cry out. “Screw you.” He whispers, laughing. Horrifed. 

His leg gives out instinctively as if it finally realized what happened and he crashes to his knees. The jolt of pain from the jarred wound is blinding. 

“You little--” Barney storms toward him and grabs the front of Clint’s shirt, hauling him up. Clint grabs at his wrist, flinching back. The skin is as warm as he remembers, the scars all up and down his arms in haphazard lines. There’s more of them. “After everything that I gave so you could have a freaking childhood you--” Barney cuts himself off. "How can you have not changed? You're still a selfish little kid who--" 

Clint spits in his face, managing to duck away from the following enraged swing. “I mean, between not being able to go to school and when Swordsman was beating me every time I missed a shot, I had a great childhood. Thanks. Meant a lot.”

"You--" Whatever profound insult Barney had to say to that Clint doesn't remember. Barney slams the butt of the gun into his head. The world spins and rotates, Clint’s body giving one pain-filled attempt to give up. But Clint stays conscious, and Barney hits him again. And again. And again. And--

Clint is still nineteen, waiting for his brother to beat his body into a dumpster again, his ears ringing and screaming. 

He’s always nineteen. 

Chapter Text

"For most people, it's history now,

but for me,

when I close my eyes,

it all comes back clearly."

-(J.V)

It occurs to me," the voice is smooth, collected. A balm on wounds too infected and raw for him to do anything but whimper at anymore. His entire body locks up beneath the sound, tensing against the hard ground. "That it has been some time since we had one of our talks."

He lays in the middle of the floor, his stomach pressing against the drain they use for gathering blood, unrestrained. He's in too much pain to move, his back raw and blistered from the fire. He couldn't escape even if he wanted to. He remembers wanting that. Waiting for an opportunity. For them to let down their guard. It never happens. There is no escaping this hell.

He is damned and this is his punishment.

His breath is wet. He can taste blood.

The figure sits down beside him, large and ominous, a shadow leaning over his broken body to block out any of the light. "Speak with me, lost one."

He licks dry, split lips, his body shuddering. He doesn't think he has the energy to talk, but he's afraid not to. "What…" his voice is hoarse and dry; it hurts like it's cracking the soft edges of his throat as it slips out, "what would you…like to speak…of?"

Blood dribbles down the side of his face, from his mouth, trailing toward the floor. He's too exhausted to wipe it away.

The voice is soft, "I sympathize with you, do you know that? My father hated me as well. He could never see the value of my ideas. Family…so complicated. So cold. I've heard you pleading for them, but I'm curious. Do you think that any of them would come if they could?"

An exhausted, wet cough escapes him, pulling on the raw skin of his back. He moans, desperate, his fingers clenched as he waits for the wave of pain to disperse.

Please, please, please.

(Thor, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, please help me I—)

"Yes," he whispers.

It is not the truth.

He knows it as well as the other.

"Oh, lost one," the voice is cold, "you've been taught better than to lie to me."

"I—" raw terror whispers through him. The word was instinctive, he didn't think. He's in too much pain to think anymore. "I didn't—please—"

"I came here to speak with you, not to be manipulated. Your tongue is dripping with lies you seem incapable of stopping. Even after all that I have given you, all that I have done for you, I have tried to understand you, and you make this far more complicated than it needs to be." The figure whispers, angry. The master's head tips, staring at the fresh burns across his back, and he smirks, the faintest edge of humor sparkling through his eyes as he sees the brand.

He remembers the Chituari taunting him they'd put it on his face.

"I see my soldiers have claimed you. Perhaps it will teach you a lesson." His hand reaches out, and pushes down on the fresh wound, and he screams—

Blood dribbles down his back, across layers of raw, blistered skin, and he can't. Oh, gods, he can't—he can't draw in the breath to speak. The screaming is dragged out of him, hoarse and guttural, more a desperate sob than his lungs being emptied out.

The pressure stops and he gasps in heaving breaths, wanting to curl in on himself, but stops himself, knowing that it will only cause the wounds across his back to pull. It's long minutes before he can speak, but the master waits for him, patient, carefully cleaning blood and bits of skin off of his fingers. The red almost looks ethereal against the purple.

"Please," he whispers when he can speak, "Please…I don't know what you want. Please just tell me what you want."

"What I want," there's a pause here, the master considering the question. Too late, he realizes he should have said from me. "What I want is justice in this universe. I want to save people." A large hand comes to softly brush the hair away from his bloody face and he shudders at the kindness. "On Titan, we believe in a god, the all-powerful creator of the universe. She spat in our face. We should have endured hardship instead of blessings, corruption instead of peace. Starvation was our reward for our goodness." The master snarls the last word. "I will become God and I will save us all from the punishment of life growing too prosperous."

The master continues to stroke his hair. It's lulling him to sleep despite himself. His body is too exhausted to try and stay awake anymore. Perhaps he's dying at last.

(Please, please, please—)

"What I want from you," the master's voice has grown softer. It's almost far away, like a distant echo. "Is quite simple. Loyalty. I know who you are. What you are. They call you a god where you come from. I think you are mistaken. There are no gods, only me."

He's not the god of anything. Not anymore.

"I won't help you," he whispers. "I won't help you kill anyone."

"We'll see," the master says mildly, unconcerned, "rest now. You're exhausted. Don't you want to sleep?"

He grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. Courage, some may call it. Stupidity, it feels like, as he pushes. "My father would destroy you if…if he knew what was happening…my brother...take your head…"

The master laughs. "Do you threaten me? You? Truly, Asgardian, what makes you think they aren't aware?"

His stomach seizes. "What?"

The master stops smoothing his hair and grabs it in clawed, angry fingers. He gasps, hands weakly lifting to protest, gripping with failing strength to try and get the Titan to release him. "You have no idea how lucky you are. I am the only person who will ever love you. Thor doesn't give a damn about you. Do you not remember when you told me some time ago that he threw you into the abyss?"

"I—" confusion washes through him. He can't remember that. "Thor didn't—"

"Have I ever lied to you?" the master interrupts.

"...no."

Thor threw him into the abyss? Thor let him go. Odin watched, didn't he? He can remember both of them above him blurrily. They were there. Thor...threw him.

"You are exhausted." The master sighs, releasing him back to the floor. He doesn't move. His scalp aches. "You must rest. We will speak about this later."

"I think I understand," his voice is quiet.

"What do you understand?" the master asks, patient.

"Your brother betrayed you." he whispers. "I think I understand why you hurt so much."

The master is silent for a long moment. "Rest." He encourages. He gets up and starts to walk away. Even before the door is closed, he is desperate for the lost company. He squeezes his eyes shut, a wash of loathing washing through him. You always chase them away. Disgusting. Despicable. No one will ever want to stay with you. Help isn't coming because they never loved you in the first place.

His eyes are slipping shut. His body is so tense that he doesn't know if he can relax into sleep anyway, but he still tries. Everything is shutting down. It's not a conscious decision anymore, but a desperate slide toward nothing. He welcomes it.

Clint jerks awake falling into nothing.

The world is blurring above him. Blinking in and out of focus. Bright light, dark ceiling. Empty sky, hot blinding sun, it vanishes again. His head is throbbing. He can't feel his toes. Everything is silent. A shudder of cold washing through his veins. Fingers wrapping around his arms. Being hauled somewhere. Dragged. The ground feels like sand, but when he tries to look it's concrete.

There's a distorted jumble of sensations. Everything is raw. His head aches. He can see a blond looking over him and the face fills him with terror. He tries to fight, but he can't find his body. It's very far away and only getting further.

He doesn't know where he is. He can't figure anything out. Nothing makes sense. He keeps blinking out of focus. Here one moment, gone again. Always gone. He can't—

He passes out again.

When he finally, finally manages to hold onto consciousness for longer than a few scattering seconds, he becomes aware that his skin feels like it's blistering against the heat. When he squints he swears that he can see the sun glimmering, almost like he's staring in between the slats in a window. Everything is coated in a shiny, simmering sheen, like a weak, ghostly halo. Nausea curls at the back of his throat.

Clint groans weakly, hands curling into fists at his side. He's not restrained. This surprises him. Was Barney that stupid?

When he manages to fight his eyelids apart, the room he's in is so dark it feels like a living, breathing entity holding him close enough to strangle. A low, thrumming sound is coming from somewhere, like a ventilation shaft lazily blowing air into the room. He doesn't know where he is. He can't breathe. A new, furthering surge of wild panic washes through him. His face is going numb. He can't feel his feet. His heart is slamming inside his chest, howling. He can't remember how he got here, or even where here is.

He pats himself down, for weapons or a phone or something, but his clothing is empty.

"Barney?" Clint whispers, his voice low. He doesn't really expect a response. There isn't one, even as he waits for it, not daring to breathe. Carefully, slowly, Clint pushes against the ground—hard, cold; concrete then—and eases his way upright. He winces on instinct, his nervous system convinced he's about to smack his head against something. There's nothing there but empty air.

When he breathes in, he can taste the dust. "Barney?" Clint tries again. He looks for a sliver of light to indicate some sort of door or window, but no matter how much he strains his eyes, he can't find anything. He's hot enough that he feels like he's beginning to broil, but he shivers anyway. He's freezing and burning alive. His mouth tastes terrible.

"You know," a light flickers to his left, and Clint whips around to face it, seeing Barney behind the high beam of an ancient flashlight. Clint grimaces, lifting up a hand to block out the blinding assault. Barney lowers the beam to the floor. "For someone who hates me, you certainly seem desperate for my company."

Clint glares at him, annoyed. "You're one to talk."

They're in some sort of…container, maybe? It sort of looks like the inside of a shipping container, which would explain the heat, but they're not moving, so it's not a truck or a ship. There are boxes piled off to the far right, floor to ceiling in haphazard piles and marked with unreadable black ink. Everything is coated with a fine layer of dust.

Clint wipes two fingers across the top of a box, grimy gray and black dust swiping off onto his fingers. He looks up at his brother skeptically. "This, uh, your latest hideout?"

Barney rolls his eyes. "No. This is just a holding place. For you. I rented it."

Underneath the dust, the box is marked as Christmas - 1987 which strikes Clint as a little strange. Maybe this isn't a shipping container. Aren't there those rent-a-container-for-belongings or something? But who the heck has this many boxes that they want to keep from their lives? Personally, Clint is not a sentimental man and would gladly burn anything that had to do with his childhood.

He swallows thickly, before, unable to stop himself he mutters, "A rental? Really, Charles?"

He waits, with a painful lurch of anticipation in his stomach for Barney to return their lifelong retort of first names back and forth. It doesn't come. Part of him is a little relieved, another bitter. Maybe they've at last grown out of their Charles/Francis game. Barney is the only person besides Natasha and his birth certificate that knows he doesn't go by his first name anymore.

"Yeah. Put down my real name, social, and everything because I'm also an idiot." Barney has gotten close enough to touch and cuffs the back of his head hard. Clint winces. "Don't smartmouth me. As much as it may surprise you, I do know what I'm doing, little brother."

Clint scoffs, rubbing at the back of his head with a wince. Barney peers over his hand to look at Christmas - 1987, expression neutral. Unable to help himself, Clint asks, "You tracked me down from halfway across the world and broke into a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, but you can't pick a lock to an abandoned warehouse or something?" Clint neatly avoids the rebuke. "Where are we?"

"Wyoming," Barney answers readily, scowling at him. "We're just waiting for Thor to show up, but he's taking his sweet time. He always late?"

"Great," Clint mutters, dismissing the last question. A rolling wave of unease curls down his spine. Thor is coming here. To kill him. Again. Thinking about what Thor did to Loki...He can't just wait around for that to happen.

Unconsciously, Clint starts playing with the edge of Christmas - 1987, eyes rapidly roving around the space to try and find some sort of weapon. If he can incapacitate his brother, maybe he can find some sort of way out of here. He hasn't seen a door, but that doesn't mean there isn't one.

Unfortunately, there aren't any baseball bats or metal polls conveniently laying around, only sealed boxes and dust. The only weapon is the gun at Barney's hip. Clint's mouth thins into a pressed grimace. He doesn't know if he could get the gun off of his brother before Barney shot him, and part of him feels a little resigned at the prospect. He feels like he's spent most of his life waiting for Barney to shoot him. His brother was never someone anyone should have trusted with a gun. Especially after their parents died. It's a Glock, German made. Natasha prefers those.

Barney's hand slides toward the weapon as he follows Clint's line of sight and when Clint raises his gaze up, his sibling's gaze is dangerous. "Try it." Barney dares, jutting up his chin. "Our last fight didn't go so well for you. You really want me to shoot you again so soon?"

(I hate you! I HATE YOU!)

Clint's brow furrows a fraction. What? What is he talking about? The last time that Barney shot him was when they had a fight in the ally, and that was over fifteen years ago. That's what they're qualifying as soon now?

Clint pushes his lips together. Regardless of the strange phrasing, the threat holds. He glances at the box again, Christmas - 1987, and wishes desperately that he had Iron Man's scanning capabilities. If he knew what was in these boxes…any sort of weapon would be enough. Anything that isn't Christmas lights or one of the freaky Stalker-Elf on the Shelf things.

Apparently seeing the capitulation in Clint's face, Barney relaxes a fraction, leaning against a stack of boxes. Dust smears off as his elbow slides a little, revealing more markings. The Park - August 25th, 1989; Driving Lesson - July 3rd, 1996; Proposal - January 4th, 2011. Clint's brow furrows a fraction, again wondering who on earth is this meticulous. Barney grimaces, wiping off the dust from his flannel jacket. Clint thinks it's almost a little funny. Barney hated flannel. Insisted he wasn't a lumberjack. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Barney sighs. "This place is disgusting."

Clint raises an eyebrow, then suggests helpfully, "Next time try breaking into somewhere more expensive."

Not that there's going to be a next time for me. Thor's going to kill me today and that will be it. A swirling, twisty wave of nausea settles in the back of his throat.

Barney brushes a hand through his hair. "Tell me," he says, seeming almost bored, "Thor was pretty vague with the details, but I'm curious. How exactly did he go from making lily crowns and—uh, braiding hair to being in league with the Chitauri?"

"Flower crowns." Clint corrects automatically. "And it's with daisies. Dude, how do you not know—?"

Barney slaps him. Clint sees it coming but doesn't try to fight, moving his head with the blow to lessen it. An aching pain shoots down his spine and his teeth gnash together sharply. Clint squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, forcing himself to exhale. After a moment to catch his breath and swallow the blood from biting the edge of his tongue, he lifts his head up. Barney's glare is fierce. "Do not play games with me."

You feel better? is on the tip of his tongue, bitter and wicked. He swallows it back down with force.

Clint rubs at his jaw, breathing out harshly. Slowly, and with bite, he explains, "Thor is being mind controlled by the Chitauri, you idiot. He's not really calling the shots right now."

Barney considers this, rubbing at the lower half of his face. His eyes flash blue as the flashlight beam shifts his grip. Clint's eyes narrow. Flippantly, Barney says, "I'm a little surprised, to be honest. I really thought that it would have been you and your Avengers driving him to this madness."

"We lived together for months. Pretty sure if he wanted us dead he could have found easier ways to do it." Clint's laugh is dry. "You really have so little faith in his character. I'm insulted on his behalf. Honestly, that's—" Clint winces as Barney raises his hand again, quickly muttering a sharp, instinctive "sorry." The blow never lands, but it's not a relief. Sometimes it's worse when it doesn't.

"Your mouth is still running ahead of your brain, I see." Barney's hand clenches into a fist with deliberation. Clint eyes it nervously, taking a half step back. Sweat rolls down his back and he bites on a grimace. Holy crap, it really is hot in here. His mouth is dry and he's sweating enough that it's starting to give him a minor headache. Barney curses under his breath and looks toward where Clint presumes the door is. "Where on earth is Thor coming from anyway?"

"Do I look psychic to you?"

Barney slams the flashlight against his gut and Clint gasps, hands wrapping around the area as an agonized wheeze escapes him. He curls over the area instinctively. Barney repeats, harder, "Where is he coming from?"

"I don't know," Clint hisses between gritted teeth, looking up at him. His abdomen is pulsing underneath his fingers. He's the right kind of nauseous that throwing up would definitely help. "Kinda the whole problem here isn't it? Are you that desperate for him to kill me? Actually, for that matter, why in God's name did you not just shoot me in that hallway? Does it really matter if Thor does the deed that much—?"

"As if you don't know." Barney interrupts furiously, "You and the Avengers have been tracking him for the better part of three weeks now, haven't you? Surely that's enough time to find some evidence of an Asgardian. Especially with Loki's help."

With Loki's...?

Wait.

How does Barney know who Loki is? S.H.I.E.L.D. spent a great deal of time and resources wiping Loki from the Battle of New York, downplaying it to a random assault from the Chitauri and nothing more. Loki was a footnote to a footnote. It wouldn't do thinking that the Chitauri were more than a disorganized mass. People would have panicked if they realized that Asgard was—kinda—behind the attack.

Even if Barney talked with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents about Loki, no one would have suggested to him that Loki would help them. That doesn't…

Barney's eyes are brown, not blue.

Clint stares at him, his head tilting a fraction. The longer he stares, the less begins to make sense. Barney's stance is wrong. There's a scar he got from prison that's no longer there. He's a little shorter than he should be. The flannel. Not playing their Charles/Francis game when it's practically branded into their DNA. And—a sense of unease washes through him, a dawning, frantic realization slowly beginning to settle. "Barney," the word is guarded. He straightens up, hand curling around the edge of one of the cardboard flaps of Christmas - 1987. "What happened to your accent?"

They're from rural Iowa. Clint never really developed one because of how rough their upbringing was after their parents died when he was almost six, but Barney's was thick and grated on his nerves sometimes. He never pronounced the last g and sometimes skipped ts. Clint always made a point to do so as a kid just to annoy him.

There's a beat, heavy and crushing.

Barney's eyes raise up to meet his with deliberate slowness before his brother grins broadly. "It's always in the details." He says, the familiar twang now present in his voice. The scar is there, stretching across his cheek and underneath his eye. His clothing flickers, switching from flannel to something plain and recognizable. His eyes remain almost graphicly blue. Clint's stomach leaps into his throat.

What is going on?

Barney raises his hands up and takes a few steps back like he's giving some sort of presentation. "Game's up then. You always gotta notice the little details, don't you? Oh, Agent Barton…this could have been so much easier if you hadn't fought it."

A wave of painful cold slinks through Clint's body and he gasps.

There's a shimmer in the air before Barney vanishes with a ripple of yellow, leaving only behind the remainder of the grin like the Cheshire Cat. Clint's breathing picks up speed. He takes several steps backward, dragging Christmas - 1987 with him. There's probably nothing in it be pictures and twinkle lights but right now, Clint doesn't really care. It's something.

"I do wonder," the voice is behind him now, and Clint whirls, grabbing the first thing in the box—a whisky bottle with a pealing sticker what the? what type of madness encourages someone to put that in a Christmas box?—and wields it out like some sort of knife. Sharp, unrepentant denial surges through him. No. No way. It can't be— "How you managed to convince yourself that this whole thing was your brother for so long. Truly, Barton, did you really think that Thor would go and seek assistance from some lowly criminal? Thor is a god, you imbecile. He could have destroyed you with ease."

Clint's breathing hitches. There is no mistaking that voice.

Oh, man.

He's spent the last six months listening to it. Protecting it. Helping it.

There's a whisper of clothing before a flaring green light washes across the air in a blinding scattering of vivid, piercing light. Clint squints, ducking his head against the onslaught as the shipping container washes away into the communal room in Avengers Tower. The box, absurdly, remains, the bottle still clutched in between his shaking fingertips.

Around him, bound with some sort of magical, invisible restraints, the Avengers are kneeling on the floor around him in a semi-circle. All their faces are filled with terror, eyes pinned on either him, or—

Clint slowly, achingly, raises his gaze up to Loki.

The Asgardian is standing in front of him, dressed in the leathers Clint's seen rarely over the last few months, hands clasped behind his back. His head has tilted a fraction, watching Clint with something close to pity. "Agent Barton," he sighs, softly, sympathetic, "you really don't seem to understand how this game works. If you had simply let me interrogate you as your brother, perhaps we wouldn't have had to resort to such drastic measures."

What measures?

Clint grits his teeth, swallowing hard. He stares at Loki's eyes, blue, but not scepter-blue. Loki has green eyes. This—something is wrong. Right? Something has to be wrong. He takes a hesitant step backward. The Avengers watch him do so with dread.

"What's going on? …Loki? Let's—let's talk about this, okay?" Clint says, trying to be reassuring.

How did they get to New York? They were in Wyoming. Clint wasn't unconscious for that long, was he? Wait. If that wasn't Barney, then what actually happened in that hallway? He swears it was his brother. He swears on his mother's grave that it was his brother. And if it wasn't his brother in the hall, then how are they in freaking TWO THOUSAND miles away in MANHATTEN?

"Don't-don't try to bargain." Tony whispers, groaning faintly, trying to wrestle against the invisible restraints. A vague wave of Loki's hand makes Tony go completely rigid. Tony squeezes his eyes shut. "Just give him what he wants. Please."

Loki lifts a finger to his lips in the universal signal for silence and around him, their team releases choked sounds as some sort of spell quiets them. Nothing comes out when they try to speak.

what what what what what what

"Shh, Agent Barton and I are talking. Don't interrupt, it's rude," Loki chastises.

Clint looks around frantically. Jarvis, they need—police, S.H.I.E.L.D., something. Why hasn't Jarvis called someone?

Clint's gaze jumps from Tony to Loki. The Asgardian meets his stare, indifferent. Clint's fingers tighten around the bottle, the few remaining tablespoons of amber liquid sloshing inside the glass. His breathing picks up speed. He remembers this bottle. He was…the peeling sticker. He did that. The bottle was resting on the table. He peeled it back anxiously as his parents yelled at each other.

That—

There is no freaking way that Clint just pulled a freaking bottle from thirty years ago out of his head into this.

"What…do you want?" Clint asks. He tries to be diplomatic, but part of him is tempted to simply slam the bottle against Loki's head like that would be some sort of reboot. "Loki," his façade breaks, "Loki, come on. Whatever's going on, we can help, okay? Just calm down and let us help you—"

"What," Loki's tone is dangerous. "Makes you think that I want your help, Agent Barton?"

Clint's gaze skirts toward Natasha, trying, desperately, to make sense of this. Natasha's nose is bleeding and the look that she shoots him is helpless. "Loki," he lowers the bottle. The alcohol sloshes against the bottom. He slowly sets the box and the bottle down on the ground then lifts up his hands to show he's unarmed. "Calm down. Let's—"

"What I want," Loki interrupts sharply, "is for you to give me the information that you have on Thor's whereabouts. Thus far, you have been delightfully vague." Loki's jaw clenches. "No more. I'm going to find my brother and I'm tired of waiting for you to incline to share this with me."

Again, Clint finds his gaze skirting toward Natasha. This time with confusion. "What…what are you talking about? You know—we haven't withheld anything from you. You know just as much as we do. All the information we have you have too."

Loki's eyes flash with anger. His hand snaps out in a clawed fist like he's some sort of angrier Darth Vader and he jerks his wrist. There's an audible snapping of bone as Bruce's head twists violently toward the left, his neck breaking. Bruce tumbles to the ground face first, his neck horribly bent out of place.

What

How

Why

It

Oh my gosh, Bruce.

"What—" Clint inhales raggedly. "What did you do!?" He takes a sharp step toward his friend but finds that he can't get any closer. There's some sort of—force, stopping him. The world feels very far away. His breath is picking up speed and he can't feel his hands. They're shaking. Bruce doesn't move, blood slowly beginning to trickle out of his mouth. His glasses lay next to his face. Clint can't speak. All that wants to escape him is a ragged, desperate scream.

Bruce.

Bruce.

No. No. NO.

He can't remember the last thing he said to him. The last time he saw him was before they left Loki's hospital room. He can't—He hopes…it had to have been something important, right? He should have—he should have—

"I believe I've made my point, then." Loki's voice is toneless. There's not the slightest edge of remorse, just cold calculation. Clint breathes in harshly. He can't exhale. Bruce keeps laying there. He's not moving. He's supposed to move—"If you continue to ignore my questions, I will kill your Avengers. So let's try this again. Where is Thor?"

"You—" Clint's mouth forms around a thousand words. A million accusations and things screamed in anger. In the end, all he can find is that there's a hoarse, panicked feeling in his stomach that doesn't go away. There are no words he can say to convey this.

"You—You—what—?"

Loki does something close to rolling his eyes. "Do try to keep up, Agent Barton."

"I don't understand."

"An unfortunate side effect of not paying attention."

I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU'D HURT US.

"No," Clint shakes his head, taking a step back. His ankle rams sharply into the edge of the box. Christmas - 1987 rattles a fraction. For a moment, he vividly hears his father yelling out at his mother to stop being so ungrateful. The sound of a harsh slap. Barney arriving in the corners of his vision, taking his hand off the bottle.

"No," Clint repeats, shaking off the memory. "You-you don't get—you don't get to freaking kill our—my family!"

Loki makes an exasperated sound in his throat. He waves his hand in that same jerking motion again, and Tony violently twists as his neck is broken, his head swinging in the wrong direction. His body tumbles to the floor beside Bruce, eyes glazing. Clint can't move. He can't think. Can't feel. Can't—

("I survived. Yinsen didn't.")

"I really do think you should start trying to cooperate before all your friends die," Loki says calmly. Clint swallows thickly, his throat dry. Everything is still hot and it should be cold because death is cold and and and

Clint looks up at him.

"I don't know where Thor is." He says, his voice low. It's not steady.

Loki nods his head in acquiescence. "Yes. But I wasn't asking for you to tell me where he is. I was asking for what information you have on where he was. And, of course, your speculations as to where he went."

Clint grits his teeth. He doesn't look at Natasha and Steve, but he can feel their piercing, silent stares looking at him with desperation. "After Thor tried to kill us, Jarvis tracked him a few miles east before he vanished. S.H.I.E.L.D. satellites said the same story. Fury thinks it's some kind of magic."

"Yes, yes," Loki waves a hand. "I know that. It can't be anything but some sort of cloaking from an advanced sedirmaster. Where do you think he is now?"

Clint's mouth goes dry. He doesn't know what to say. His hand bounces anxiously against his leg. The longer the silence draws out, the more Loki's eyes narrow with frustration. "I don't…you were there. You know that we don't have any more ideas than—oh my—please—" his voice is cut off in a strangled, hoarse sound as Loki snaps Steve's neck.

The soldier tumbles to the floor. All of them are bleeding, a halo of red bleeding around their skulls. Angels. They look like bloody angels.

Natasha catches his eye, and Clint feels a sob of hopelessness escape him at the terror on her face. None of this feels real. He can't—oh God help me. "Loki, please," he begs, falling to his knees, unable to hold himself up, "please. Stop. What are you doing? Please. Please. We don't know."

Steve's lips look glossy painted with blood. His dead eyes are staring at Clint with accusation. Why didn't you stop it? Now you're pleading, after three of us are dead?

Loki's mouth presses into a frown, his eyes scathing. He's so apathetic yet so, so callous. It's nothing like the person Clint has come to know.

Loki continues, clearly thinking aloud, "Yes. Well. Let me make sure that I understand this. Thor went missing weeks ago and the most information you've managed to gather is that it was by the Chitauri, he's mind controlled, and that he has a kill list for some gods-unknown reason. Yet you seem to have no concept of whose on that list."

Is he…is he playing with Clint now? What on earth is—

Breath escapes him in a shuddering gasp. "Me. I'm-I'm the last person Thor has to kill. Loki, please, why—"

"You." Loki looks at him sharply, head cocking with genuine puzzlement. As if this is the first time he heard the information and not like he was the one who freaking suggested it days ago. "Why?"

"You told me!" Clint screams. "Stop this! I don't know—NO!"

A harsh, rippling pulse of anger washes through the air. The faint, whispered noise Natasha makes as her neck snaps harshly echoes in his ears. His partner collapses to the floor, tumbling like a lifeless doll. Clint can't describe the sound that he makes. There are no words.

Natasha.

Natasha.

His hands, trembling and bloody, reach out for her. Unlike before, there is no restriction. Nothing stops him from reaching out to touch her like the others. Clint gasps, inhaling and inhaling and inhaling. There is not enough air in the universe. He slowly pulls her body to him with deliberate carefulness.

Natasha is limp against him, but still warm, her head rolling listlessly against the movement. Clint's hands are shaking. His entire chest feels like it's trying to rattle apart. He cups the side of her cheek, letting go to hold it again. He repeats the movement, frantic. Blood is beginning to dribble out of the side of her mouth, her eyes staring forward listlessly.

"Tasha," Clint gasps, his voice thick. The strands of her hair feel like silk beneath his hands, which is strange. They've always felt course and rough before and this doesn't—"Posmotrite na menya, pozhaluysta. Nat…? No, no, no, this isn't—no. Vy menya slyshite? Posmotri na menya. Pozhaluysta. Please. Please." He turns her head to face him, but her eyes just keep staring forward, glazed over and lifeless. She isn't looking at anything. She doesn't see him. She can't hear him.

"Nat…"

He can't breathe. His chest is constricting, warping around his heart and squeezing it.

Natasha isn't supposed to die. None of them—None of them were supposed to. God help him. Steve is laying on the floor. Tony's neck is disjointed and Bruce is laying in a small pool of blood. His blood vessels are shot.

Natasha's face is so pale. Clint rocks them both, clutching her tighter to his chest. Her head falls listlessly against his shoulder.

A shadow falls over him and Clint looks up, gasping in harsh, desperate sobs as Loki carefully kneels in front of him. The Asgardian stares down at Natasha's corpse dispassionately. "I think," his voice is soft, but venomous, "that you don't try hard enough, Agent Barton. This is entirely your fault. I warned you what would happen. Why," the word is pressed, "is Thor trying to kill you?"

Natasha is dead.

His partner

Natasha

Everyone is

Gone

And he's still

He's here and he's

"You…k-know why," Clint whispers. He clutches Natasha tighter to his chest, suddenly terrified that Loki will try and take her away from him. Loki's eyes close with frustration, and Clint almost feels like laughing. What more can you take away from me now? You've already killed nearly my entire family.

"Remind me." Loki grits between his teeth.

"I…" Clint feels lost, trying to steady his voice before he speaks. "You implanted your memories through the tether…about the Chitauri…"

You already know about this. You TOLD ME.

Loki stares at him for long moments, searching. "Ah," he intones at length. "And the Chitauri, then, are trying to destroy those memories before they can be viewed. Well then. This will likely be painful."

"Wait, what—?"

Loki's hand snaps onto his forehead. It's not a weighted presence, persistent and there, but neutral. It's a blade. Slicing and stabbing, cutting and ripping, snapping apart his mind and bending it this way and that. There is no greater agony he can imagine.

He screams until his voice gives out and shakes until his body does as well.

The pain doesn't stop.

It never stops.

Clint frantically backs into his mind, cornering himself behind walls of nothing.

And he finds himself falling.

down

down

down

And crashing.

"Shh, shh, just stay quiet. No fussing, okay?"

Clint sits wrapped in the arms of his brother crying silently. In another room, he can hear his father shouting. The walls feel too thin, cowering beneath every blow by his father's voice like Harold Barton intends to shatter every shard of wood with the decibels of sound alone.

Clint clings to Barney's arms. He whimpers. "I'm scared."

"I know," Barney promises. He rests his chin on top of Clint's head. "I am too. But I'll keep you safe. I promise. Let's—let's play a game, okay?"

His mother cries out in the other room. Clint tenses. Barney's arms tighten to the point of pain around his frame. A gasping, terrified sob escapes him and he buries his face into Barney's shirt. His brother pulls his head away, cupping Clint's face between two hands and forcing him to look up. "It's okay, just look at me."

"Is Mom going to die?"

Barney hesitates. It's a brief moment, but Clint sees it clearly. A surge of horror washes through him. "No." Barney's face splits into a wide, open smile. It's strained and fake. "Of course not. Mom's fine, okay? Let's play a game, okay? How many brown things do you see in the room, Francis?"

"I'm not in the mood, Charles," Clint whispers. He listens, strained, for any signs of his mother. His father is still shouting.

"Freakin'—play the game with me." Barney hisses.

I don't want to play this game.

Fresh tears well up in Clint's eyes. He looks up at his brother hopelessly. As he opens his mouth to say something brown—Barney's eyes—their mother releases a muffled scream. Barney seems to forget about him entirely as he shoots up, scrambling toward the hall, leaving Clint alone in their shared bedroom. Clint reaches for him, but his brother is gone.

Barney throws open the door to their parents' bedroom, already shouting. His voice is just as loud as Harold's is. They bellow at each other. Clint tries covering his ears and curling in on himself, but things just keep getting louder. Barney yells out in pain and a surge of panic wells up in Clint. Looking around himself, he grabs the ratty baseball Barney stole from school from under their bed.

Clint stumbles out into the hallway on shaky, adrenaline-riddled legs. His hands are steady. When he stands in the doorway of his parents' bedroom, he sees his mother laying on the floor beside the dresser motionless with a black eye already beginning to form on her face, Barney standing in front of her. His lip is bleeding, his face already red from where their father hit him.

None of them have noticed him.

"WHAT do you think you're doin' boy?" Harold bellows. "Get out of the way!"

"No!" Barney shouts. "Stop it! You're not helping anythin', can't you be normal for once? Why do you have to make this worse? You're drunk off your butt and you're not thinkin' clear—" Clint sees the hand moving and reacts before he can really think about it. Before his father can strike his sibling, Clint hurls the baseball at his father's head.

It lands dead center in the back of his skull with a loud, clattering smack. Barney exhales.

"Don't hit him!" Clint wails, "Dad, stop. Dad—"

Harold turns to look at him, his expression incensed. Clint cowers, all five seconds of bravery dying as he ducks away from the doorway to run down the hall. Harold catches him before he can hide underneath the bed.

Clint screams and screams, but Harold doesn't care. He grabs Clint around the throat, squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter. Clint bucks against the weight of the fingers, small fists pounding against his father's chest. He can hear Barney yelling somewhere in the background.

The world is turning to a disturbing shade of gray and white.

A woman stands at the edge of his vision, blurred, and horrifying. Tall and unknown. Blonde. "Show me." It whispers, repeating over again and again until it's a rattling background. A scream. "Show me the memories, Clint. Show me, show me showmeshowmeshow—"

Clint feels as his father snaps his neck, and the crunching, blinding pain of nothing.

(Show me)

"...and we your family. You must know that." Frigga insists. She's sitting across from him, completely earnest.

Loki stares at her, wondering how she never seems to get the point.

He's falling. The world is screaming into echoes. Time has lost all meaning.

He has lost meaning.

He can't remember how he got here. He remembers wailing at first. Begging for help that was never going to come. The air has been sucked from his lungs, leaving him dry.

He stares up at the blurring sky, whirling past him. The stars are blinding, not a comfort. A curse instead of a blessing. He's cold. The absurdity of this feeling strikes him and he laughs, a hoarse, croaked sound that he only feels in his throat. Rubble falls around him, golden flakes of a building he used to remember.

I could have done it, father.

He didn't do it. He didn't do anything.

He —

f

a

l

l

s

Forever. Endless. This is all I'm meant for now, isn't it?

(Show me)

The air reaches up and he drowns on it. He never crashes into the bottom. There is no air out here. Only blackness.

(show—)

"I'm sorry," he gasps, choking, on his knees before the throne, "Please let me live."

"You swear your allegiance then?"

"Yes."

"Do you think that love is real?" Natasha's voice is soft. She doesn't look at him. She's staring up at the sky, cloud-covered it may be, like it's one of the most beautiful things she's ever seen. Clint tilts his head a fraction to look at her. Her nose red and hair a mess around her face, she seems more relaxed than he's ever seen her since he brought her to S.H.I.E.L.D. a year ago.

They snuck up onto the S.H.I.E.L.D. base's roof somewhat illegally an hour ago. Not that it's technically banned, they've never been told explicitly that they can't come up here but feels like one of those things that should be illegal. Like calling in sick for work.

Natasha wanted to see the first snow. She insisted. Clint had made it happen.

(When he asked her years later, why she insisted on this every year, Natasha's eyes had dimmed. "Yelena always wanted to see the first snow," she didn't add any further details and Clint didn't press.)

"I don't know," Clint admits quietly. They're buried beneath a pile of blankets, waiting for the first snowflakes to drift down from the heavens. "I think...I want it to be."

Natasha turns her head toward him. Her brow is furrowed. "Because it's useful?"

"Because it seems…nice," Clint admits, clasping one of his hands behind his head. "Being able to trust someone that implicitly. To know that you're not so alone in this God-forsaken world. I hope it does exist, in a true form. Somewhere. I don't know. I sound stupid."

"I don't think so," Natasha assures. She slides her hand into his free one, intertwining their freezing fingers. Clint goes rigid, looking at her sharply. Natasha barely even flinches, seeming to ignore that it's happening at all. Clint smiles a little, squeezing her hand back.

"I hope it's real too," Natasha admits. She looks at him pointedly.

Clint slowly lowers himself back down onto his back. "I'd like that."

Natasha smiles at him gently. She leans toward him a fraction like she intends to bring their faces closer together for a gentle kiss. Her fingers, warm and soft, claw harshly into his throat as she pins him down and there's a horrible, pinching pressure as she stabs him in the neck.

(show—)

"You've got good aim, kid," Swordsmaster notes with raised eyebrows.

Barney scoffs. "Clint's got the best. He never misses a shot."

Swordsmaster's gaze shifts to him, something glinting his gaze with a question. "Is that so?" Clint shrinks beneath the gaze, trying to hide behind his brother. Barney doesn't let him, shoving him forward.

Thor shoves him off the edge of the Bifrost, fury twisting his face into something unrecognizable. For a moment, a desperate, hopeless moment, Loki looks to him for help. There is nothing there. Odin watches with approval, clapping his son on the shoulder. Clint feels himself tumbling backward into nothing, off the edge. He reaches out his hands, desperate to claw onto anything. He screams, begging them to help him. Clint thinks it's strange. Loki could have sworn he let go.

They shoved him.

Frigga pears her head over the edge, watching him descend slowly. "You did this to yourself," she says with a soft sigh, "why are you asking for our help? This is your fault. You should have known better."

I still need you!

Don't let me fall.

(show—)

He falls.

He lands. Crashing. Breaking bone. Snapping himself apart into a thousand pieces. He never puts himself back together again.

"You would be willing to hold my memories for me?" Loki asks them. Clint doesn't even know why it's a question. He nods his acquiescence and beside him, he sees Selvig and Swenson do the same. Loki looks relieved. Exhaustion eats at his face, "Thank you. This is not meant to be permanent. I need to keep them safe for now, but I will collect them later," Loki promises. "You won't even know they're there."

"We're glad to help, sir," Clint says earnestly.

Loki's smile is strained. He reaches out a hand and rests it on his forehead.

Clint lets the arrow go. Black Widow doesn't move out of the way. It impales her through her entire chest, ripping through bone, muscle and skin. She makes a choked sound, tumbling to her knees. She didn't even fight him.

Clint collects her body. He wishes he felt more.

(shhhoooooow meeeeeeeeee~)

There's blood. Dripping. Falling. Inside him. Everywhere.

Everything hurts.

"You do this to yourself," the master's daughter whispers. Her cybernetic hand is cold against his burning, trembling skin as she wipes away the blood. "What are you even fighting for?"

"Please help me," Loki whispers. A low, hopeless groan escapes him as his body shivers against the pain. "Please."

The master's daughter hesitates, her gaze shuddering. "Nothing can help you now. Nothing but giving up."

(show me)

"Your father and your mother…I think they were wrong to keep such an important fact from you. Biology dictates life." The master says. "You had the right to know yourself."

Loki stares at him, bewildered. "I…I did?"

The master tilts his head, "Why wouldn't you?"

Barney is shouting, insisting how selfish he is and how much they need him in this. Clint is trying desperately trying not to cry, putting the counter between them. Just in case. Always just in case. Clint asked if he could skip the Circus' mission in favor of school again. He has midterms.

The next week, after Clint ducks out of the heist, Barney pulls him out of school.

N

O

"Mommy! Mommy, do you see me!?" Clint yells from across the park. He's desperately clinging to the monkey bars, every finger wrapped around the metal painfully as he clings to it with all his trembling strength.

"I see you, baby," Edith Barton assures, smiling brightly. Her long blonde hair is wrapped up in a tired bun. Despite the hot Iowa weather, her jacket is zipped up to the collar. The sunglasses she's wearing don't quite cover her black eye. This doesn't bother Clint, he's having too much fun.

"Barney, Barney!" Clint shouts, "Look at me go!"

Barney laughs, nodding with reassurance. The bruise forming on his face looks painful, but he still smiles anyway. "You're doin' amazing, lil' brother. Just a couple more to go, you can do this."

Clint falls before he manages to reach the end, but Barney catches him. Barney always caught him. His brother shushes his frustrations with assurances that he did amazing and carefully helps him try again. When Clint falls again, Barney carefully sets him on the ground to kneel in front of him and wipe away his tears of anger. Because he's five, and about the age that hugs fix about everything, Barney gives him a quick embrace before they're back at it again.

They're completely alone in the isolated, rusting park and stay there until the sun slowly starts to set in the distance. It casts long, lonely shadows from the surrounding trees across the ground in definitive, sharp lines.

When Clint has conquered the monkey bars, he and Barney play endless laps of tag with varying editions until they hear a car's engine in the distance. Tires crunching over a disastrous road that hasn't been maintained since before Barney was born.

A car pulls up at the edge of the park and all of them freeze, looking up. Edith gets to her feet, her smile gone. A figure starts to get out of the car, already shouting, fingers wrapping around the edge of the door and—

The scene freezes. Stopping in a moment of breathless, painful HD before it resets, whirling through time backward.

They walk into the park again and his mother carefully dishes up the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she brought between him and his brother. Clint gets peanut butter on his nose and his mother fondly wipes it off, licking off the peanut butter despite his wailing protests not to. His mother laughs. Soon after, Clint loudly says that he wants to learn how to do the monkey bars and he's running off in that direction, dragging his brother with him. After cleaning up, his mother takes a seat on the bench. Five-year-old Clint yells if she can see him.

From across the park, Clint watches the entire scene over and over again, the beginnings of panic clawing apart his chest into slices. "Stop," he whispers. "Stop."

The car pulls up and Harold Barton starts to get out of the car. The scene resets.

He watches as his mother, himself and his brother all come back into the park again.

"Stop," Clint gasps. He tries to grab at himself, at his brother, at anything, to rattle the scene out of shape. Nothing helps. His fingers go through the figures like they're nothing more than a suggestion to the universe instead of a guarantee.

His past self leaps off the monkey bars into Barney's arms, laughing madly. Barney catches him, his laughter echoing in the space. From across the park, Edith's smile is soft and sad.

Clint tries to grab at Barney's shoulders to force him to turn around. His hand, again, goes through Barney's chest and Clint stumbles toward the ground at the sudden imbalance. Desperation claws through him. He has to make this stop. He can't—stop, stop—

Barney and his past self run circles around the weed-ridden ground, Edith denying any of their attempts to drag her inside the game. Her exhaustion is evident as she sits slumped against the bench.

"Mom," Clint pleads, turning around to face her, "Mom, please. Please, help me. Mom."

Edith stares through him.

She's looking at her kids. The ones she actually cares about.

Clint grips at his hair, turning around rapidly in panic. Time moves faster than it should, passing it what feels like seconds instead of the hours that Clint knows it must have been logically. Harold's car pulls up at the edge of the park again. His father starts to get out of the car and Clint flinches. Harold is staring directly at him, his eyes filled with disgust and face narrowed with anger. Even from this distance, Clint can see that he's clearly drunk.

He was drunk.

He was so freaking drunk when he—

The scene resets. Clint is jerked back to the edge of the park, watching as his family moves toward the playset again. Nothing he does gets their attention. He keeps watching it play out over and over and over and over and over —

The scene resets.

Five-year-old Clint comes skipping into the park, pulling Barney along with him in excitement.

Clint sits on the bench, his head buried in his hands, weeping silently. No one at the scene cares, too focused on the monkey bars or the peanut butter or Harold arriving and—

The scene resets.

"Tasha," Clint whispers, desperate. She doesn't magically appear along the treelines. She's dead. Clint remains alone, surrounded by the memory that has haunted him since it happened. Clint feels something happening far away, like he's been skewered. He can't figure out why he's here, but he knows that he needs to leave.

He watches the memory again and again and again.

His past-self leaps into Barney's arms, laughing. Barney catches him. Clint's tears of helplessness have dried to apathy and resignation.

The scene resets.

Twelve-year-old Barney and five-year-old Clint run around the park.

"Clint."

No

No.

NO.

Clint practically propels himself off the bench, whirling around, frantically backing away. His leg catches on something and he stumbles, but he doesn't care, continuing to put distance between them.

Somewhere, distant and faint, he can feel the pressure of Natasha's body in his arms. The burning heat of the sun. "No, no, no, get away from me—don't—don't get any closer."

Loki, no longer dressed in his leathers, but in black clothing with Steve's brown jacket pulled across his thin shoulders, stops immediately. "What? What's wrong? Clint?"

Clint shakes his head. "No. Get out. I don't want—no. No. Get out of my head! GET OUT! I hate you, I HATE YOU!"

Loki's face tenses. Something visceral, dark, and dangerous passes across his expression. "Clint," his voice is flat, trying to be gentle but failing. Clint can't process anything beyond growing hysteria in his chest. "None of this is real. You're…dreaming. After a fashion."

Not real?

Clint laughs, pointing sharply at the approaching vehicle. "Right. And that's not my father pulling up in a car to drag us inside and then crash it and get both him and my mom killed. Nice try. Right. 'Not real', you gonna snap my neck for that? I know this freaking day because it's branded into my eyelids, okay? You can't freaking trick me!"

The scene resets. Loki jerks violently at it, gritting his teeth with frustration as he has to work to find his balance. Clint laughs hoarsely. Not because it's funny, but because what else can he do?

Loki looks up at him, resignation settling on his face, "Dritt," he hisses under his breath. "Forgive me, my friend," he mutters.

"Wait—" Clint gasps, fully expecting to feel the painful numbness of his neck breaking.

The sorcerer's eyes glow a sharp, painful green before he lifts up his hands and spreads his fingers, then begins to draw the scene toward him, like he's wrapping long strands of watery taffy around his palms. The blue sky, the tree, the unoccupied benches, and his mother all swirl into that taffy in between Loki's fingers until it's just Clint dragging Barney into the park. With a snapping, harsh rippling effect, Loki throws his hands forward and shoves.

A concussion wave with the force of a tsunami crashes into Clint. He's pushed from the memory, shoved from an overlapping, persistent blue haze, and goes tumbling. Falling and falling and falling and

And

Then

The world is hot. The ground is sand beneath him.

and

Clint's eyes snap open and he throws himself forward with a harsh, wheezing cry. Nothing processes for long moments except for overwhelming, blinding grief. The Avengers are dead. My family is dead. My partner is dead. Loki killed my family.

Hands grab at his arms, gripping at his shoulders with deliberate, gentle force. "Clint. Clint? Look at me. Clint."

Clint's eyes snap up, flinching back violently. Loki is kneeling in front of him, Steve's jacket still drawn around his shoulders despite the heat, green eyes searching his face, touching him and Clint forcefully jerks back, shoving him away with a sharp, desperate "don't touch me!"

Loki lets go immediately and Clint takes in sharp breaths and

wait.

This isn't the communal room in Avengers Tower. There are no bodies. The sun is beating down on them with persistence. He's laying in the sand, outside the fenceline of the Wyoming S.H.I.E.L.D. base, where he was hours ago. This—Clint inhales deeply, looking around, confused and terrified.

Loki is there.

And, behind him, Frigga stands with the scepter, looking haggard, her expression dark. Clint's brain tries to process that and immediately discards everything, crashing.

Nope. That is a No Can Do TM at the moment. We're just going to sit here and panic, thank you.

"The Avengers will be here momentarily," Loki assures him quietly, continuing to study him. Clint continues to try, and fail, to breathe. A crushing, unspeakable wave of relief crashes into him. He could be lying. He killed them. You saw it. You felt it.

"They're alive?" he doesn't care about the desperation in his voice or the sobbing relief.

Loki's expression flickers and then darkens before he nods. His voice is gentle, "Yes."

"What—what—?" Clint tries to shove up a fraction, but the sand feels like nothing. He's not sure where his fingers are. The sand is warm against his legs, but he can't feel his hands in it. Maybe they were chopped off. Why not at this point?

After a long, weighted moment, Loki squeezes his arm, his face creasing as Clint flinches beneath the contact, "Just breathe. Everything is okay. You're safe, as is everyone else. This is real, I promise."

Frigga makes an impatient sound behind them. "Loki, you're overreacting. There was no need to stop this, I wasn't hurting him and I was making progress, do you not care about your brother—?"

Loki jerks up to his feet, letting go of Clint to whirl around and face his mother. Every line in his body is bowed beneath rigid, dangerous tension. Clint finds himself bracing for another snapping neck. Another tumbling body.

"Don't." Loki hisses. "Do not try and excuse yourself to me. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"If it means that we find your brother, then I don't care." Frigga's voice has dropped, frustrated and angry. It's familiar. Painfully so. Clint whimpers, biting harshly on his lower lip. Finding his hands, he clenches them into tight fists filled with sand.

"There is no we in this situation!" Loki shouts, shoving his mother back hard. Frigga barely takes a step back for all the force Loki put into it. "I lived years with you messing with my head and you have no Norns-idea how much it does hurt, and now you're doing the same thing to Clint!? What gives you the right—?"

"I'M TRYING TO FIND MY SON!" Frigga roars, an edge of wildness crossing through her features.

Loki draws back and there's a moment of silence, before Loki says, voice low, "It must have been so exhausting for you, when I was missing. Searching with this much desperation day after day…"

"Gods! Loki!" Frigga throws up one of her hands, the scepter's stone rippling with a wave of uncomfortable, pressing power. Clint swallows bile. "Do you have to make everything about yourself? It isn't the same!"

"It never is, is it?" Loki's voice is a low, bitter mutter.

Before Frigga can find an answer to that, there's a clattering of footsteps and a jerking sound of metal. Clint turns, shoving up with weak, trembling hands against the sand and sees as his team—living, breathing, necks smooth and exactly how they're supposed to be—wrapped around the Iron Man armor, drop. Natasha and Steve let go of Tony's arms and Bruce climbs off the back as Tony assesses the situation.

Natasha has a gun, Steve his shield, both of them looking like they just got dragged out of bed. Bruce's glasses are MIA and Clint's stomach curdles as he remembers them laying next to his broken face.

Natasha drops her fighting stance to move toward him, taking the hand that he outstretches to her. Clint inhales sharply at the contact. He wasn't sure if this was actually happening or some sort of visceral hallucination until their fingers connect. Clint throws himself forward, wrapping his arms desperately around his partner.

He has no idea what is going on. He really does not. But he finds it's really hard to care if his team is alive and safe and not in a pile around him, blood a halo.

A sob of relief escapes him. "I'm so sorry," he gasps, not sure what he's apologizing for exactly, only knowing that he needs to. "I'm sorry."

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Natasha promises, holding his just as tight. She kisses the side of his head. "You're safe now. We're here."

Alive.

Steve, Bruce, and Tony, after stepping out of the armor, move to surround him, hands touching at his back, his shoulder, his arm. And Clint wishes that he could reach up and hold all of them against his chest, cradling this small family and hide them from the rest of the world. From broken bodies and warm blood.

"You're okay," Steve repeats, as if he's saying it to himself. "You're okay."

Frigga says something sharply to Loki in Asgardian as the sorcerer turns to look at them, and Loki's face flashes with anger and he snaps something harder back. His mother's mouth tightens and her grip on the scepter tightens before she looks at the Avengers, her face crumpling. "Please, you don't understand, I was close. He must have the information that I'm seeking. Let me continue my search, it won't harm him, I swear."

Loki's jaw does this rigid bending thing like he wants to speak, but he's too angry to get the words out.

Natasha's back freezes against his hands. She pulls away from him after a moment with reluctance and an apologetic squeeze of his hand before she gets up to her feet. She turns around to face Frigga. "Are you joking?"

"No." Frigga's voice is earnest. "Please. Please, I must find my son."

Natasha's hands clench into fists. "You hurt him."

"Collateral damage, nothing important," Loki's mother insists, still somehow earnest and pleading. "Thor is more important than anything that may happen to your archer."

Natasha's head tilts and she studies the woman for long seconds. "I see." Her voice is toneless. Then, without the slightest bit of hesitation, his partner strides over to the Asgardians and punches Frigga in the face.

Chapter Text

" I couldn't even explain to you, 

how good it felt to look up across a room, 

and see you standing there. "

- Unknown

Natasha descends on Frigga with fury, slamming her fist into the woman’s face. The queen goes down with a tumble of clothing and flailing limbs from the force of the blow, landing in a splash of scattered sand. Natasha doesn’t stop there, leaping onto the woman’s downed body and beginning to beat her with relentless, forceful punches. 

His partner doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t scream, she doesn’t yell, she doesn’t accuse. The wretched, heavy silence is broken only by the horrible sound of flesh pounding against itself. 

Clint doesn’t think that Natasha plans on stopping. He’s not sure if Natahsa does either. 

It takes several heavy, painful blows before Frigga manages to react, shoving Natasha off of her with an explosion of magic. The Widow goes flying back several dozen feet, spared from a bone-breaking collision with the S.H.I.E.L.D. wall by Loki. Clint doesn’t even see the sorcerer move, one moment he’s watching Natasha beat his mother with a horrified, panicked look on his face, the next his hands are raised and he’s catching Clint’s partner with a wall of green. 

Natasha barely misses a beat, stumbling to her feet away from Loki’s shield, her face enraged. Her knuckles are red and splotched with swelling. She must have broken fingers. 

Frigga wobbles up to her feet. There’s blood spilling down her face from her nostrils beneath a clearly broken nose. Her skin is split and cracked across her left cheek in several places. Her lip is split. Nothing is swelling yet, but it’s red. For the first time since Clint met her, the queen looks more than immaculate. Her gown is spotting blood and her hair is filled with sand. 

For a breathless moment, they all just stand there. Waiting. 

Natasha takes an intentional step forward, her stance dangerous. She doesn’t draw a weapon, but she doesn’t need to. Natasha’s body is the weapon, it always has been. Clint’s stomach drops, but even as he makes to get up, he can’t. His legs won’t support his body. Bruce scrambles up to his feet and all but throws himself at Natasha, wrapping his arms around her to stop her. “Natasha,” he says, urgent, “Natasha, stop.” 

Natasha struggles against him, but Clint can see that she’s holding back, likely out of a desire not to hurt Bruce. “Move,” Natasha growls. 

“Tash,” Bruce insists, fighting harder as Natasha’s struggle starts to get more real. “No. You cannot kill the queen of a foreign government.” His body language twists into a grimace as Natasha digs her nails into his wrist, applying pressure with the intent to hurt but not harm. 

“Try and stop me.” Natasha hisses, digging her elbow harshly into Bruce’s stomach. Bruce emits a sound of pain but doesn’t let her go. 

Clint flicks anxious eyes toward Frigga. The woman is watching the exchange, her head slightly tilted. The motion reminds him nausately of Thor. She doesn’t seem threatened. She just seems annoyed. Clint thinks of Odin, completely ready to smite him on the spot before he saw the Lichtenberg scars, and a pounding, aching no no no no starts to make rounds inside his skull. 

Ha. 

Man.

That would just be his luck, wouldn’t it? The Avengers live long enough for him to see Frigga kill them all personally. Steve’s hand tightens on Clint’s shoulder. He thinks about the weight of Natasha’s body in his arms, her dead, glassy eyes staring up at him. Queasiness curdles in his stomach. He can’t move to stop her. His voice feels like a useless weight in his throat. 

“You would kill your comrade’s mother then, Lady Romanova?” Frigga’s voice is low and a little clogged, but no less impactful. Natasha’s eyes slide to Loki and she stops fighting Bruce. Her throat works. She gradually raises her eyes back toward Frigga, her expression blank. The queen takes a deep breath, wiping at the blood on her lip. “I understand that you’re upset,” she starts, clearly trying to mediate. “But you don’t understand the full nuances of the situation. I’m certain that once I explain everything you will agree with me.” 

Natasha’s fingers curl over Bruce’s forearm. 

Frigga seems to think that this is permission to keep going, “Once Odin and I found the scepter, but realized that Thor wasn’t there and that the cloaking spell was indeed as formidable as we feared, I decided—” 

“What honestly makes you think that I care?” Natasha’s voice is level. 

Frigga falters. “You want to find my son.”

“Yes.” Natasha agrees without hesitation. “We do. But not at the cost of Clint. What you did was inexcusable.”

It’s probably pretty terrible of Clint, but her protectiveness of him makes something in his stomach settle. Frigga’s eyes flare with frustration. “I’m not trying to provide excuses, you wanted an explanation.”

“No. You assumed an explanation would help you look like less of a monster. It won’t.” Natasha’s voice drops. “I may not be able to kill you, but I can still hurt you. You’re not going to get us to agree to let you hurt Clint so drop it.”  

Frigga’s eyes narrow. She carefully wipes away blood from underneath her nose, regarding Natasha. Then she looks up at Loki. Her son’s body language practically snaps audibly with how rapidly it tautens. “Loki,” she implores, her face crumpling at the sight of him, “please. We need to find your brother before it’s too late. We don’t know what’s happened to him. The Chitauri are not a force to be ignored. Please, I was making progress.” 

Frigga stretches out a hand, “Help me . Help Thor. Vær så snill. ” 

Clint swallows hard. His eyes flick anxiously toward Loki. 

If Loki agrees, this is all over. 

Oh, gosh. Frigga would be back in his head, and there would be the jumbling mass of nothingness and Barney and Loki killing them. Snapping bone. One by one by one by one and jumping between nothing and reality mashed into atrocity. He can smell the park. Feel the stare of Harold Barton getting out of the car boring into his skull. Hear the snapping of bone crunching explicitly. 

Loki doesn’t move for a long, agonizing minute. Everyone watches him. Frigga’s eyes are earnest. She’s so freaking earnest. No one says a word. 

Loki raises his head up to meet her stare. Clint’s not at the right angle that he can see the sorcerer’s face, but Frigga’s fills with relief at something she sees there. Dread, harsh and unbearable, knots in his stomach. Clint starts to shuffle away, like any distance he could put between them would matter. 

Loki’s voice is tired. “Give me the scepter, mother.” 

There’s an immediate, overlapping sound of protesting voices. Clint finds his own is mixing in, but what he’s saying is beyond him. It’s useless noise, background chatter; pointless. They’re extras in a movie. They don’t mean anything here. Clint’s hands are digging into the sand, but it’s swallowing him, devouring past his fingers and pushing against his wrists, warm and brutal. Bitter. It intends to swallow him, and Clint is prepared to let it. 

Oh gosh. 

No no on no no. 

Steve hauls Clint back several feet and Tony takes a half step in front of him, like any of them can stand in the way that is the unstoppable forces of the Asgardians. These are gods. There is nothing they can do. Frigga is going to eradicate him. A hopeless, gnawing feeling eats up his throat. He’s going to be sick.

I can’t do this. I won’t survive. 

Frigga hesitates only a fraction before she drops her hand and extends the scepter to him. Loki takes it from her, holding it, testing the weight, and then he turns to look at Clint. There are no words to describe the horror that washes through him. Loki’s face is blank. His eyes are empty. In front of him, Frigga’s beginning to relax, margin by margin. 

It lasts only half a second. 

Without a word of warning, Loki throws the scepter toward Clint’s feet. It lands with a scattering spray of sand. The edge of the humming, blue stone pushes up against Clint’s bare ankle. It’s so cold that it burns and he jerks his foot back on instinct. Steve’s hand jerks along his back. No one touches the scepter. 

“Loki—” Frigga starts, confused, but angry. 

“How could you think that I would ever help you now!?” Loki exclaims, turning back toward her. 

Clint forces himself to exhale. 

Loki wasn’t going to help her. (But, a treacherous part of his brain insists, but.) 

“Because you are my son! And Thor is your brother!” Frigga shouts, just as infuriated if not more so. “You have no idea what I have done to keep this family together, what I have endured. I’m not going to stop now just because you’re being petty about us keeping Thanos away from you and some mortal—”  

“Clint’s not ‘some mortal’!” 

Frigga’s jaw clenches and she reaches a hand out to the side. The scepter rattles like it wants to shoot across the ground toward her. Loki grabs her arm. A violent, red energy causes his fingers to glow. The fabric of her sleeve makes a weird fizzling sound. “Don’t.” He warns, voice low. Frigga’s eyes crease with pain, a low groan escapes her. 

“Stop, you’re hurting me.” 

“The pain is almost worse when you expect those words to mean anything, isn’t it?” Loki’s tone has dropped to a hissing, angry whisper. Frigga’s eyes start to crease with misery before she tumbles to her knees and a voiceless, agonzied sound escapes her. Loki releases her almost immediately. He takes no pleasure in her suffering. If anything, it just seems to make him even wearier. 

“Siygn,” Frigga gasps, cradling her arm to her chest, looking up at him. “When did she start teaching you torture spells? You know they’re kept from the Aesir without explicit permission.” 

Loki stares at her blankly for long moments. “I learned that one from Odin’s torturers. When they used it on me.” Frigga’s mouth moves wordlessly. There’s a heavy weight of silence as Loki’s shoulders tense before he slowly, with effort, leans down in front of her. He reaches out a hand and rests it on her face, healing the cuts and bruises Natasha caused. Then he heals the burn mark and drops his hand, just looking at her, his eyes lost.

Frigga stares at him like he’s an unknown, wild creature. 

“I begged you for kindness,” Loki says. The tone is nonchalant. The words aren’t. “I plead for a retrial. I begged Odin for execution so many times the words became meaningless to me. And to him. And you stood there, insisting that you were helping and that if I only told you what I needed, you would give it to me. I needed my family. Instead, you cracked my head open. Your mercy broke me more than Odin ever did.” 

Frigga's face collapses. “Loki,” the word is strained and thrumming with tension. “I-I didn’t realize…” she trails off, looking away from him, her fists clenching. She doesn’t continue the thought, and in all honesty, Clint isn’t sure that even she knows what she’s trying to say. 

Loki looks at her. “Are you? Remorseful?” 

Frigga snaps her head up. “I am your mother. It is my sworn duty to protect you. To help you. I was helping. You were so miserable in that cell, son,” she reaches out for him and Loki allows her to cup his cheek. She smooths her thumb across his face. “I just wanted to help you remember happier times.” 

Loki’s face is blank again. 

Clint grits his teeth. 

“Oh, screw you,” Tony says loudly. “Good intentions do not negate crappy outcomes. You want to know what would have actually been helpful? I don’t know, stopping the torture? Just a thought. Just. I can’t deal with you right now.” 

Frigga looks at Tony, dropping her hand from Loki’s face. “This isn’t about you, mortal.” 

“No,” Tony agrees, “but it’s not about you either. Loki was suffering and it bothered you, so you did something that helped you feel better. Not him. Good job. Pro parenting skills there. Really selfless and everything.”

“Stark,” Loki says, voice thin. 

Tony's mouth closes and he swallows whatever he was going to say. 

Loki’s eyes raise, looking beyond his mother to something in the distance. Clint follows his line of sight toward the entrance of the base.

There, storming through the sand like they’re some sort of cliche power team, is a group of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Fury at their head. They’re armed and obviously so. Clint is filled with overwhelming relief and confusion. What the heck did they think was happening that they felt the need to arrive ready to attack, but thank God they are here at all. 

Fury immediately gets into Frigga’s face once they’re close enough, the woman getting to her feet smoothly once she realizes what’s going on. Her expression is filled with barely controlled agitation. The director, Clint notes with something twisting in his chest, purposefully plants himself halfway between the Asgardian queen and her son. Like he’s some sort of safeguard between them. Clint doesn’t think the gesture is conscious. 

“What the heck do you think you’re doing?” Weaker men would have crumpled underneath the tone alone as it barrels out of Fury’s mouth. Frigga merely bristles. 

“What does it look like? I’m trying to find my son? How do none of you understand that? Isn’t that what you want!?” 

“You kidnapped my agent.” Fury’s voice is flat. 

“He came willingly enough.” Frigga protests. “He agreed to the mind read.” 

What? 

When? 

Clint stiffens. He doesn’t have any memory of that. But then again, his only memory of leaving the building was when Barney attacked, and if that was all in his head then…then what? Clint did give consent for Frigga to go rifling through his head? Why? 

He feels like he was dropped into the middle of a class and told he needs to take a test. He doesn’t understand anything. Why Frigga is here at all, why the scepter is here, how did he get outside of the building, how long its been since he left in the first place. 

Why Frigga has the freaking scepter?! 

Wait. 

Oh, gosh.

Frigga… Frigga wasn’t the one who sent Thor after them, was she? The thought is appalling, but it makes a sick sort of sense, in a way. Frigga has been trying to get their family together, she’s trying to ease Loki’s suffering by tampering with his head…but if she was the one behind all of this, why would she be so desperate to find Thor? She would know where he was. 

Fury snorts darkly, folding his arms across his chest. “B.S. all you want if it makes you feel better. Either get off of my base or we’ll arrest you.” 

“You can’t—” Frigga starts to protest. 

“We can. We will. Happily.” Fury presses the last word. Clint can’t see his face, but he can almost see the man’s expression, filled with teeth and predatory. 

Frigga’s mouth sets. She looks toward Loki again, her face anxious. Earnest. So freaking earnest. She waits, clearly for Loki to interfere or speak up for her, but her son doesn’t. Loki looks at her, blank and numb and empty. Frigga’s hands curl. 

“ Du forråder broren din, sønn. ” Frigga says in Asgardian, toneless. “Ville du se ham død?” Loki does something close to a full-body wince. “ Betyr han så lite for deg?”  

“I—Mother,” Loki protests in English. 

Fury puts a hand on his gun. 

Frigga looks at the director, her expression murderous, but her focus is clearly elsewhere because she continues to talk to Loki as if nothing happened, “ Thor ville gjøre alt for å hjelpe deg, vil du ikke gjøre det samme?”

Loki takes a step back, his face almost gray. He looks like he might be sick. 

“Jeg vil bare at familien vår skal være lykkelig igjen. Vær så snill , Loki.” Frigga whispers. 

“I-I can’t,” Loki says, in strained English. “I can’t help you. I won’t. Not like this.” 

Frigga waits for him to retract that statement. 

Loki doesn't. 

The Asgardian queen withdraws, straightening up to her full height. She sends a scathing look in Clint and the team’s direction, clearly blaming them for this. Frigga takes a step back. “ Fine,” her words are acidic. “You will regret this. When you continue to be unsuccessful and Thor is brought to us dead, it will be your fault. If my son dies—if either of them die—I will wage war on your planet until it is decimated and not even the dust remembers your race.” 

The threat—promise—makes Clint’s stomach tighten. 

Frigga reaches out her hand again, fingers outstretched in the direction of the scepter. It shoots across the ground toward the woman’s hand, but Loki catches it in a movement too fast to even resemble human. 

The two hold a long stare, both their eyes flaring with something unnatural.

Frigga backs off first. 

“You’re acting rashly,” Loki says in a voice a heck of a lot calmer than Clint would have in this situation. “The scepter is influencing your thoughts. I would be a fool to let you take it again.” 

Frigga’s gaze darkens. She looks at Clint for a brief, scathing second before sneering and lifting up her hand. She vanishes in a swirl of blue light, the very air around her rippling. It’s offputting, to say the least. 

Clint exhales on the tail-end of a shudder. He clenches his fists in the sand again. Exhales. Loki looks down at the scepter in his hand with unmistakable loathing in his eyes. Clint doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much hate in the sorcerer's expression. With a sudden, heavy weight of dread inside his chest, Clint wonders what Frigga said to him. 

“What the heck is going on?” Clint breathes, then louder, “Will someone tell me what is happening!?" 

Steve, beside him still, sighs. Tony rubs his fingers into his eyes like he’s trying to restrain himself from violence. 

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific,” Steve says. 

“Okay, uh,” Clint pushes up weakly on his trembling arms, gesturing toward the scepter in Loki’s hand, trying really, really hard to not think about the last time he saw it there. His brain feels like it’s blanking out. “How the hell did Frigga get that?” 

Everyone looks at him. 

That very bad, no good feeling in his chest only grows. 

“Clint,” Natasha’s voice is careful, resigned almost, but with a hint of yeah, why not that, sure, throw it into all this crap? “When was the last time that we saw Frigga and Odin?”  

Clint pauses, knowing with sudden surety that the answer he gives is going to be the wrong one. “...Five days ago? Wednesday. When they healed Loki?” 

Loki’s eyes close, his fists clenching and he swears under his breath. Tony and Steve share a look over Clint’s head. It’s Fury who answers, his tone fatalistic. “They were here yesterday, Agent Barton.” 

Well, fantastic. 

000o000

Three days. He doesn’t remember three days. Or, as everyone keeps trying to reassure him is better, he remembers a very watered-down version of the last three days. Because somehow that’s supposed to be less frightening? Don’t worry, you forgot only the important bits for half of a week. Cheers. 

After he’d been helped to unsteady feet, puked once, and nearly toppled over several times, he’d finally made it back into the S.H.I.E.L.D. base where things didn’t get better. His head felt like someone slammed it against a metal pole, every smell induced his gag reflex, and his feet sometimes didn’t seem to remember where the ground was. He’d misstep, or step too far and go tumbling to his knees. 

Everything about the world feels off somehow. Like sensation is something from a dream and he finally woke up. 

Clint was promptly taken to medical, much to his private protests. He just wanted to crawl into a very small, dark place and hide there. Like how five-year-old him used to when he was scared. Barney used to have to drag him out of some strange places. Tiny, dark places have never quite lost their comfort. 

He doesn’t know what the heck is going on. 

But at least he knows the dark doesn’t change. 

The doctors treat him for exposure, sunburn, and dehydration. All of it makes Clint think about how hot the storage room was. Or whatever that place was supposed to be, stacked high with boxes of memories but filled with the heat of hell. Maybe it’s one and the same, in some sort of twisted irony. 

Clint is given an IV, painkillers for his headache, slathered with ungodly cold aloe vera cream on the one sunburn that actually hurts, and handed a water bottle with instructions to drink it slowly over the next hour. In all honesty, it’s all relatively minor. He thinks it should be worse, given everything, but he actually feels.. .okay . 

Physically, that is. He just needs to get some sleep and drink a keg of water, and he'll be fine. Mentally...

After giving a brief overview of events that he remembers, including the reappearance of Barney, he was checked extensively for head trauma. No signs of a concussion, even from the portable MRI S.H.I.E.L.D. tech produced. Nothing to naturally explain the gaps in his memory.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? 

This isn’t natural. 

It’s magic. 

When the medical staff finally allows visitors after what feels like an eternity, Clint isn’t too surprised to see the Avengers and Loki walk in. He feels drained and rattled. And, if he’s being completely honest with himself, he’s not entirely convinced he’s awake. He doesn’t know how to tell anymore. He keeps counting his fingers compulsively, but he always has ten. Everything he reads is coherent and makes sense. 

He doesn’t trust it. 

Christmas - 1987 looked perfect, too. He only had ten fingers. He wasn’t asleep then either. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, her voice low. She’s cleaned up since the fight, her fingers scrubbed of any blood they had from punching Frigga. They’re still a garish red and starting to bruise at the knuckles. She may not have broken fingers from what he can see, but she clearly did damage. Natasha takes the seat next to him, taking his hand in her own. Her fingers are warm. Something in his chest clenches painfully at the contact. 

Look at me. Please. Tasha. 

Clint pulls his hand away, trying not to be obvious and drawing it onto his lap. At this point in their relationship, it’s rare for either of them not to welcome physical contact. Mostly because neither of them thinks much about it anymore. Being in contact with one another is like breathing. 

Natasha’s expression is as puzzled as it is a fraction hurt. 

Clint looks away from her eyes. ( Dead. Staring at nothing. Look at me, please?) The most important person in the world to him and he can’t even look at her. He watches, with a twist of guilt, as Natasha slowly folds her arms across her chest. 

“You look terrible,” Tony says apropos of nothing. “You kinda seem to be into the half-dead look lately.” Bruce smacks the engineer’s arm pointedly. Tony rubs at his arm, turning to him sharply, “ Ow. What?” 

The exchange is so normal that it almost hurts. Like they didn’t all die a few hours ago. 

“ Timing,” Bruce laments. 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Like we don’t insult each other as soon as we see each other. I think it’s kind of our love language now. Right, Artemis?” 

“You’re an idiot,” Clint assures. His voice is still quiet. He doesn’t know how to get it louder than this hoarse sound. He takes a swig of the water, trying to ignore how much his hands are shaking, but it’s kind of hard when he keeps spilling water down the front of his shirt and the bed. 

Tony gives Bruce a see? look, gesturing at Clint, who gives up on the water bottle. 

He’ll just die thirsty. 

Steve takes a seat on the other side of the bed, Loki lurking behind him. Clint bites on his lower lip compulsively at the sight of the Asgardian before forcing himself to actually look at him. It’s not the same. It’s really not. This Loki is all soft edges whereas Frigga’s version was hard and callous. This Loki, their Loki, is in Steve’s jacket for God’s sake, whatever the story behind that is. He’s not a screaming murderer. He wouldn’t hurt them. 

Clint knows this. 

He does. 

But. 

Clint counts his fingers again. Ten. The Led Zepplin on Tony’s shirt is spelled right. 

“What happened?” Steve asks. 

Clint releases a sound that might count as a laugh somewhere. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” 

Three days. 

Steve does something close to a wince, which makes Clint feel worse for having said anything at all. “Yeah. I guess.” The captain mutters. He takes in a deep breath, adjusting his position. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer. “Why don’t you tell us what you remember and we’ll fill in the gaps for you. Unless someone already did?” 

“No,” Clint says, shaking his head, “not really, at least. The nurses just promised that I’m missing gaps.”  

And isn’t that all levels of messed up that strangers know more about what happened in Clint’s life the last couple of days than Clint does?

“What is the last thing you remember?” Natasha questions. 

Clint rubs at his forehead, trying not to disturb the IV. His vision feels weird. Five fingers on his right hand. 

“I don’t know. Everything’s a distorted mess,” Clint admits, “Loki came to talk to me about the tether and we said we’d fix it that night or something. You got out of the shower. I couldn’t sleep so I went outside. When I went back to the base that’s when Barney attacked. After that things get…murky.”

Clint gnaws on the inside of his cheek. Everyone assures him that the Asgardians showed up yesterday, but Clint has no memory of this. Nothing. Every time he tries to reach for the missing time, it’s not like it’s just beyond his reach, it’s just not there. He might as well be trying to remember someone else's memory at this point. 

“We did discuss the memories last night,” Loki confirms, when no one else says anything. “But as far as I’m aware, your brother has never stepped foot in this base.” 

“Barney,” Tony repeats, looking at Clint, flabbergasted. “Your… brother?” 

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Do you naturally assume everyone is an only child?” 

Tony’s mouth moves for a moment. “I mean. No. But I swear to God that I thought Thor and Lokes were the only people who had a sibling,” Tony admits. He shrugs, casual, “Okay. Yeah. Right. Wait, are you older or younger?” 

“Younger,” Clint answers, dropping his hand back into his lap. He fiddles with the blanket. It doesn’t feel right. He braces himself to drop from this memory into something else for long seconds. 

Nothing happens. He stays here. 

He's going to stay here. That's the point. 

Tony is nodding and he has a strained smile on his face as he says some sort of joke. Clint doesn’t really understand what it is that he said, but Natasha raises an unimpressed eyebrow in response to it. You don’t have to make this funny, Clint wants to tell him, it’s okay. It’s not your job to make us feel better. 

“ Ha.” Natasha intones, her voice dry. 

Clint decides, rather than try and get any context, to just push forward. “If Barney…if Barney wasn’t here, then what happened? Actually?” 

Is it worse that the memories lingered after Loki pulled him out of whatever Frigga was doing? Would it be better if there was nothing there to fill the space? At this point, he’d rather have nothing. This is so much worse. He can’t trust himself.

“Three days ago, Frigga and Odin showed up here and said they’d found where the scepter was. They didn’t specify where, and they didn’t want our help when we…argued. All they were here for was to take Loki with them and immediately return to Asgard.” Steve explains. 

Clint looks at Loki, who is, clearly, still here. “What did you say?” 

The sorcerer’s lips curve up in a ghost of a smile as he says, “no.” It drops a second later, tired, “Odin wouldn’t have let me leave if I had gone with them. I suspect I would have ended exactly where I began. Truthfully, I am surprised they didn’t force my hand.” 

Because expecting your parents to kidnap you is totally normal. He does not have the head space to process this. 

“...Ah.” Clint intones. 

“Clearly they found the thing,” Natasha says, her voice hard. Clint’s not sure what happened to the scepter on the walk back here. The last he saw it, Loki was clutching it with white fingers and a pinched look. “But not Thor. With the…cloaking spell or whatever Frigga said covering the Chitauri.” 

Loki stops digging his thumb into his palm. “It’s a complex cloaking spell, hiding Thor from any type of magical tracking. Since retaining use of my magic, I’ve attempted to locate him with no success. I would need something much more powerful to help aid me to find him. It’s…strange, admittedly.” 

“What?” Bruce asks. “I would’ve thought this was normal in magical attacks.” 

“It is,” Loki agrees, “But neither the Chitauri nor Thanos, the man in charge of them, have any sort of magic. I don’t know who cast the spell,” Loki admits, shaking his head, “perhaps the Chitauri roped in an unlucky third party.” 

Great. 

Cause that’s exactly what they need. Someone else in on the murder plot. 

“So why did Frigga target Clint?” Bruce asks, “What was she even looking for?” 

“Just…information,” Clint answers vaguely. He does not want to talk about the scene in the Tower. They will pull that out from his corpse. “She wanted to know what we knew about Thor. I guess she decided to start on ground zero. I’m guessing Odin and Frigga put all their chips in on finding Thor with the scepter.” 

“I’m surprised it didn’t work,” Loki admits. “I expected them to find him. I don’t know why they didn’t.” 

“Which is comforting,” Tony says, scraping a hand through messy hair. “Where the heck is he if he’s not with the Chitauri? Did the Chitauri see Asgard coming and bail?” 

Loki frowns. “After all the work they went to? Clint isn’t dead and Thor was their best bet for accomplishing that. They wouldn’t have left Thor unless they had to.” 

“Maybe it’s the third party’s fault,” Natasha suggests. “They did something and the Chitauri were forced to bail. That would explain why they didn’t try to kill Clint again. If they don’t have Thor, but the third party does then…” 

“Then what?” Clint asks, rubbing at his eyes hard enough that he sees white spots. “They’ll send him after me next? Why on earth would anyone else want to remove those memories?” 

Clint thinks again about Frigga and the scepter. You really don’t seem to understand how this game works. Frigga kept insisting that she wanted to help Loki feel better. Help him be happy. None of the memories are exactly anything Clint would label as even lukewarm. They’re terrifying. The type of thing that insanity is borne from. Maybe she wanted to remove the memories, permanently, so Loki wouldn’t even have the option of viewing them again. 

Odin and Frigga clearly knew about the tether. What was it that Odin yelled at Loki, you don’t know what you did to those you possessed? or something like that. Maybe this is some sort of weird, absurd act of motherly love. 

But, again, why then would Frigga be so desperate to find Thor? 

…Unless she was the third party. And then the Chitauri betrayed her and took Thor. But would Frigga do that to Thor? Force Thor to kill so many people? Honestly, Clint doesn’t know. Frigga kind of seems like a parent violently swinging between loving and heartless.

“I don’t know,” Steve says for everyone, then rubs at his forehead with the edge of his thumb. “Son of a gun this stupid thing keeps getting more and more complicated. I wish it really was just about the civil war solely so we’d know who to blame.” 

“The universe is rarely so torpid,” Loki says. 

Unfortunately. 

“But if Barney wasn’t here…then what actually happened?” Clint asks. He squeezes the cap of the water bottle between his fingers, the pain from the ridges almost comforting. It feels real. He counts his fingers again. 

Loki tucks messy hair behind an ear, sighing heavily before he says, “There are ways of casting spells that alter one’s perception of reality. With the scepter, she likely removed any memories you had of her returning to make it believable to your mind. I felt your distress along the tether and came looking. As for how you got outside, it’s hard to say where your true memories end and the fake ones begin.” 

Clint squeezes the water bottle tighter. The plastic crinkles beneath his fingers. “Will I get those memories back?”

Loki wavers. “...No. This is different than implantation. It’s…like if I handed you a stack of papers. The papers are still there even if I’m no longer holding them. My mother essentially burned them. There is nothing that your brain can restore anymore. The scepter to blame for that. Magic in its natural state is incapable of altering or removing memories, only replaying them. The scepter is different.” 

Oh. 

He expects to feel anger. Or despaired. Or something. Clint doesn’t feel anything. Three days. It still doesn’t feel real. He keeps waiting for someone to start laughing. In the corner of his eye, he sees Tony pull out his phone and start searching for something. 

Natasha’s jaw flexes. “I should have hit her harder.” 

“I think you hit her plenty.” Steve counters, sending a pointed look toward Natasha’s knuckles. There’s a little more snippy arguing that feels forced before Tony exclaims “Ha!” from across the room.

Everyone looks at him. 

Tony lifts up his phone in explanation, walking toward the bed. He all but shoves the phone into Clint’s face. 

“Okay, T-man, personal space,” Clint mutters, shoving the engineer’s hand back. 

  “I forgot that I was looking for this earlier. There’s security footage from when you leave the building.” Tony explains. 

“Oh, give it,” Clint grabs the phone from Tony, handing the nearly-empty plastic water bottle to Natasha. The rest of the Avengers crowd around the bed like this is some feature film. Steve and Natasha are touching him and it makes his skin crawl. Clint presses play, doing his best to ignore this. 

He’s expecting to see Barney. He wants to see Barney, chasing him down the hall, dragging him out into the dark. Shooting him. Three days doesn’t feel real to him. At least, not until he watches this. Then it sinks in, slowly, oozing across his subconscious.

He watches himself leave the hospital room he and Natasha were staying at. He looks pretty terrible from this angle, frail and fatigued. The Lichtenberg scar is graphic against the back of his neck. Does it still look that terrible? His camera-self makes his way down the hall. Clint remembers this, at least. His past self goes outside, where the camera angle changes to something a little farther away. 

He remembers this, too. 

Standing outside, basking in the warmth of the sun he hadn’t felt in days. 

Before Camera-Clint turns around to go back inside, where he was attacked by Barney, the air ripples behind him like it’s getting torn open. Frigga steps out from the undulate, looking disheveled with blood streaming from her nose. She looks ancient and horrible; a stretched-out, golden wraith ready to kill. She’s pale. Disturbingly pale, almost like she’s a streak of sunlight trying to pass as a person. 

She has the scepter wrapped in one hand. From what Clint can make out of her expression, there’s nothing there but hate.

Frigga stalks toward Camera-Clint, who finally seems to realize something is wrong. He starts to turn, stance rigid, fist raised in defense—he didn’t have any weapons, he remembers. Stupid, stupid. Natasha had been with him. He was on a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, so trusting and stupid —Camera-Clint stops when he sees Frigga. 

He looks at the scepter, then at her. 

Frigga doesn’t give him any time to react. She raises the scepter, tipping it against his chest. Camera-Clint goes rigid. Clint can’t tell if it’s because he’s afraid or if Frigga has done something to him. The queen backs him up several steps until Clint’s face is out of the frame. 

He must have said something because Frigga snarls in return. 

“Is there audio to this?” Bruce asks.

“No.” Tony answers. 

Maybe it’s horrible of him, but Clint is deeply, deeply relieved by that. 

Frigga’s face flashes with emotion. She lifts up her other hand toward the scepter, her fingers spread and flexing. Blue, frothy strings begin to wrap around her fingers like she’s drawing in spider silk. When there’s enough of it that it’s wrapped around her wrist, she reaches forward and slams it into Clint’s chest. 

Camera-Clint crumples to his knees, grabbing at his head. There’s no sound, but Clint can see with relative ease that he’s screaming. 

Frigga wipes the blood away from under her nose. Then, as if a thought occurred to her, she looks up at the camera. The image blurs before shorting entirely. When it comes back on a few seconds later, Clint and Frigga are gone. 

The security feed continues to play for several seconds after that, showing the parking lot. Tony reaches out a hand and pushes pause. Clint drops the tablet onto his lap, his mind spinning. 

Three days. 

Three days. 

“You agreed to that, my butt,” Tony mutters under his breath. Clint blinks, then blinks again, and looks at him. His shirt still says Led Zepplin. 

“ What?” 

“Frigga said that you agreed to it.” Tony runs a hand over his mouth. “Clearly. I mean, didn’t you just see yourself loudly yelling out your consent to it? Victim-blaming, narcissistic sadist.” Tony growls the last bit, his hand curling. He looks at Natasha. “You should have hit her harder.” 

Natasha’s answering grin is vicious. 

Clint looks back down at the tablet. Three days. “I remember some of that.” He admits. His hand bunches inside his hospital gown, careful not to dislodge the IV. “She…I don’t remember her attacking me. Any of it.” 

It’s like it happened to a different person. His exhale is sharp. He can’t draw in air deeply. 

There’s really nothing there. Not even from a dream. Clint wonders if this is what Loki feels about the Chitauri, and realizes that missing an entire year is so much worse than a handful of hours. Something curdles in his stomach. Guilt. Anger. 

Natasha’s hand rests on his arm. She doesn’t say anything. Clint doesn’t think there’s anything she could. What could be said to encapsulate any of this? Clint breathes out. Everything feels a little gray. Three days. Natasha’s hair is red, and it keeps sticking out in the corner of his vision. Her face looks colorless in the lighting and pale. 

Look at me. Please. 

Everyone bled so much. 

Bruce tilts his head, then reaches out to grab his other hand. Would they stop freaking touching him!? He remembers what they feel like dead, he can’t bare the pain of the weight their living bodies cause against his skin. “Clint? Are you okay? You’re pale.” 

His voice sounds far away. 

Clint inhales deeply. His lungs hurt from how much he keeps forgetting. “Um. Yeah. I’m good. It’s fine.” He promises, giving a weak smile. Everyone is staring at him now, which doesn’t help. He takes the water bottle from Natasha and sips from it. The water tastes like grimy, wet sand in his mouth. His hands are shaking so bad that he can’t twist on the cap and Natasha has to do it for him. 

Can’t even put on a water bottle cap, Hawkeye?

“What happened exactly when she was talking with you?” Tony asks, now sounding suspicious. 

“Nothing,” Clint says, too quickly. He looks away from Natasha’s hair, but his gaze instead lands on Bruce, and then he can’t stop thinking of what his glasses look like splashed with blood. He looks at the crease between the wall and the ceiling. Natasha’s skin burns against his.

Funny. He would have thought that their contact would have been comforting instead of torment. 

And yet. 

“Nothing,” he repeats, again, more subdued. “We just talked. That was it.” He doesn’t look at Loki. He’s not sure if he can. 

Steve bites his lower lip. “Did she find anything?” Clint looks at him. Steve’s eyes drop. “About Thor? That you remember?” 

Clint’s mouth works for a moment. He thinks about all the blood. All the death. The spinning, horrid loop. It’s hard to think. He wonders with a sudden, nauseous feeling how much Loki saw. He was there, in his head. He saw Harold. He shoved Clint out. 

“No. She doesn’t know any more than we do. So apparently finding the scepter was meaningless, because we still don’t know how to find Thor. We’re never going to figure this out.” Clint drops his head back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, miserable.  

All of this suffering. 

All of this pain. 

But for what? 

“Not…necessarily.” Loki’s voice is cautious. Clint doesn’t look at him, still staring at the ceiling. He snorts. Right. Clint gets memory surgery or whatever the heck they’re calling this, but yeah, it was worthwhile. “I…have an idea. Perhaps a stupid one.” Loki admits. Clint rolls his head to look at him and sees that Loki is picking at his palm again. 

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Tony sighs. “What is the stupid plan?” 

“My mother, she…made the point that I have thus far been unwilling to go to great lengths to find Thor,” Loki says, looking away from them as if ashamed. As if he hasn’t spent almost every waking moment since they learned Thor was missing trying to find him. Clint opens his mouth to call B.S. but Loki continues before he can start, “I am ready to approach those lengths. The scepter was created with one of the most powerful forms of mind magic in the universe. I might be able to find Thor’s mind with it, and by the nature, where Thor is.” 

Silence. 

Loki breathes out unsteadily. “I know that I have done nothing to earn that level of trust for me to use it again, but I truly think that—” 

“No, stop, that’s not it.” Tony interrupts. “This has nothing to do with trust.” 

There’s a flicker of genuine confusion. “... It doesn't ?” 

“No,” Tony promises. “I think we’re all just a little overwhelmed. Sorry. Yeah. Okay. Sure. Why not at this point, right?” Tony exhales like he’s attempting to empty out his lungs. “What do you need—No, first, why is this at a great cost to you? ”

Loki licks his lips anxiously. “I’m uncertain. I’m not as familiar with the scepter as I am the Tesseract. I do know that I would be connecting myself with every mind in the universe. I risk driving myself to madness or exposing my exact location to Thanos. He may be able to trap my mind away from my body. The possibilities are endless.” 

Steve frowns, “But how likely are they?” 

Loki shrugs. “Again, I’m uncertain. I’ve never done anything like this before. It might not even be possible to find Thor given the cloaking spell. Hopefully, it will be enough to bypass it, but I don’t know.” 

Clint bites the inside of his cheek. 

“How comfortable are you with putting yourself at this level of risk?” Bruce asks. 

Wait. Are they…are they really going to encourage this? Clint remembers Loki staggering away whenever he would go talk with the guys on the other end of the mind control, scepter connection, whatever they’re going to call it. Thanos? The Chitauri? Whoever. And now they’re going to encourage Loki to use this to maybe drive himself insane? Are they really that desperate?

Loki hesitates. “Enough? I have to be. And in any case, it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes. It’s one possibility to try, at least.” 

There’s another silence. “We won’t force you, but like you said, it’s worth a shot,” Bruce says. 

Loki exhales, “Yes, well then.” 

He waves his hands in a circular motion toward his stomach and withdraws the scepter from some sort of invisible cache. Ah. That’s what happened to it, then. Clint wonders vaguely if Fury was actually okay with that or if he just didn’t notice it. 

Strangely, Clint only feels calm seeing it in his hands again. Maybe it’s because none of this feels real. Maybe because it feels too real. Loki is in stupid Midgardian clothing, looking like a messy goth emo, but their messy goth emo. 

Trust, Clint thinks. 

“A map would be appreciated,” Loki says, taking a seat on the floor crosslegged. Tony taps his phone and a holographic image of a globe appears off the back. He hands it to Loki, who sets it on the floor in front of him. 

“Loki,” Natasha says, her tone serious. Loki looks up. “Don’t do anything stupid.” 

Loki’s grin is tired, “My dear Lady Romanova, when have I ever?” 

“You want that alphabetized or in order of emotional distress?” Natasha answers dryly. 

Loki’s grin grows into something more genuine before he relaxes his face and closes his eyes. He exhales, long and slow. The power in the room flickers as the scepter glows a bright, painful blue. Clint feels an overwhelming rush of feeling. Nothing distinct or that he can place exact, just a slamming wave of emotion. 

At first, it’s kind of pleasant before it starts to grow uncomfortable and then aching. 

Clint doesn’t know how long it’s been. Hours, minutes, days? Really, why should anyone trust his ability to tell time anymore? 

Loki’s hand starts shaking around the scepter. Then his entire body begins to vibrate. Sweat breaks out along his hairline. He starts inhaling in gasps. Blood leaks from his nose, then his ears, then he starts to cry. The tears are a watery red. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Steve gets up to his feet and moves over to grab Loki’s shoulder. Loki’s hand grabs his wrist before he can make contact, his fingers trembling so bad he can only hold the contact for a few scarce seconds. His eyes are still closed. How the heck did he even see that? 

“Wait,” Loki rasps. He tilts his head, gagging. “Almost…”

“Loki, enough. This isn’t working. You’re hurting yourself,” Steve protests. He starts to reach for the scepter. “You need to stop—” 

“ Wait.” Loki persists. 

Steve hesitates, clearly torn. He looks up at Tony hopelessly, but the engineer doesn’t have any more answers. Clint sees that all of them are braced, ready to interfere but waiting for a go. 

Loki mouths something before he reaches out a finger toward the map. The blue hologram flares a low green before the map glitches. It goes from a globe to a city, then to a building. A familiar building. Clint feels his eyes widen. 

“Oh, you have got to be messing with me,” Clint whispers under his breath. 

No way. No freaking way. 

Loki drops the scepter to the floor with a loud clatter and opens his eyes. His eyes are almost violent in how intense the blue is. He immediately starts to topple and Steve catches him. Loki breathes in desperately, looking toward the map. He laughs, hoarse and a little mad. 

Tony exhales sharply, “How sure are you about this?” 

Loki grips at Steve’s arm to keep himself upright. He shakes his head several times, squeezing his eyes shut. With a shaking hand, he attempts to wipe away some of the blood from his face but only succeeds in smearing it. “Enough,” he says thickly. 

“Okay, okay, just breathe,” Steve says, his hand hovering over Loki’s chest as if he doesn’t know where to touch so it won’t hurt. Loki manages to sit up of his own volition. 

“We need to move. We don’t know how long this will last,” Loki says. 

Steve closes his eyes, exhaling slowly, torn. “Fine. We leave now. Anyone not on the Quinjet in ten minutes gets left behind.” He’s already starting to get up, helping Loki up on uneasy legs. 

The six of them are on the plane in seven. 

000o000

The New York S.H.I.E.L.D. field office has a gaping hole in the middle of the roof, smoke rising idly toward the cloud-covered sky in harsh, rippling plumes. The rain is coming down like it’s prepping for the flood of Noah, complete with crackling, violent lightning, which is probably the only reason the NYFD isn’t there. If there was a fire, there isn’t anymore. 

When Clint was here a few weeks ago, it looked like it belonged in a museum, but now it’s a demolition site. The police are already there, just outside the building and getting completely soaked, but it doesn’t look like they’ve breached it yet. 

Natasha lands the Quinjet in the middle of the tiny parking lot. Thunder crackles overhead. Loki looks up toward the sky, his expression something Clint can’t read.  

Clint doesn’t really remember a whole lot of the journey from the parking lot to the building if he’s being honest. He really shouldn’t be walking. He should be asleep. But. Their presence alone seems to ward off the police, who quickly back up. Clint admits it’s probably not a good look when the entire Avengers team shows up to deal with what’s supposed to be a run-of-the-mill distress call. 

“What happened?” Steve asks the officer in command once they find them. 

The man is an older white guy with graying hair, his last name stamped on his jacket as Gregson. “We’re not sure. The calls weren’t clear. Someone said they saw somebody fall out of the sky,” Gregson’s tone shows how highly he thinks of this theory, “there have been several lightning strikes on the building or the surrounding area.” 

They share a look. 

Gregson barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “So obviously this means that someone just got their lightning gun out of the workshop. You would not believe how many calls we got about that.”

“LIPC,” Bruce says, like that means anything to anyone, before appending clearly disappointed, “Laser-induced plasma channel? 2012? Research by the military? Lightning canon? …it’s not exactly pocket size yet.” 

“You need a hobby,” Tony says. Bruce rolls his eyes.  

There’s a loud snap of thunder above them. Clint winces. The rain, if possible, starts to fall harder.  

“We’ll take it from here,” Steve says, ignoring the two. “Thank you for your help, Captain.” Gregson nods and backs up and starts yelling at the officers to get back and let the Avengers take the first look. 

Clint feels a twist of anticipation roll through him as he turns toward the looming, ugly building. His hand tightens around his bow. There’s a moment where none of them breathe, before Steve squares his shoulders and stalks toward the door. 

He shoves it open with force, stepping inside. The building is dark. Clint is pretty sure S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t even bother to install emergency lights. They were waiting for the building to rot away. Clint and Natasha both pull out tiny S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued pen lights that have a tiny beam. Tony turns on a light from his armor and Loki casts some sort of witch-light, which is the most helpful. 

The door swings in the wind behind them, spraying their backs with rain. It creaks and makes this feel far more horror-movie-esque than Clint really thinks should be legal. It’s got the perfect set-up, really. Now all they need is a handful of bad decisions and a murderer. Oh. Wait. They already have those. Okay, someone’s going to have to sacrifice and kill everyone. 

Clint rolls his eyes at himself, following Steve. 

The building is blackened in several areas like there was a fire at some point, but it’s been out for some time. The structure probably would have fared better if it had been updated since 1930, but with the failed maintenance, it looks like it went through a violent earthquake. There are bits of the second story on the first floor, walls caved in, beams broken. 

Their communication is clipped and to the point as they slowly advance toward the epicenter of the explosion. There are several bodies in the rubble, but no one living. Clint sees one of the few doctors he’s seen twice on the floor and looks away with a pang. 

The closer they get to the epicenter, the louder the rain gets. It’s several long minutes before Clint can see an opening in the building, showing the sky. The room is some sort of garage. Well. It was. There are large crates lining the walls as well as four exploded cement trucks and spills of oil around them, still on fire, which explains where the worst of the damage came from. One of the cars has a dramatic split down the middle as if something hit it. 

Clint puts the tiny LED light between his teeth and grabs an arrow pressing it against the string and pulling slightly, prepared for something to leap out at him. Chitauri. Something. The building has been empty so far. 

Too empty.

… where are the Chitauri? If this is where Thor is, then the Chitauri are supposed to be here, protecting him so they can keep their murder weapon. He swears to God, that if this is another dead end, he’s going to lose—

Oh, f—

Lightning slams into the ground through the massive hole in the ceiling and Clint rips his hearing aids from his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, ducking beneath his hands from what he can. He feels the vibration of the thunder through his entire body. Powerful, burning. 

His heart smacks against his chest. 

When the thunder has stopped rattling in his ribcage, he blinks several times, but all he can see is the afterimage of white. He forces himself to breathe. It's okay, you're alive. It's fine. Breathe. Tentatively, he slides his hearing aids back in, blinking the worst of the light away. His heart is thumping, screeching at him. 

Last time this happened, you weren’t so lucky.

What if you weren't this time? You can’t always escape unscathed. 

Clint counts his fingers. Ten. His bow says Made in the U.S.A proudly. Clint does not think about the feeling of the lightning bolt as it hit him in Wyoming. He does not think about what his skin smelled like when it was burning. He does not think about the sensation of fire in his blood. 

The rest of the Avengers, save Loki for some reason, all look rattled. Natasha has a permanent grimace plastered to her face. Bruce looks green, his eyes wide. 

Steve breathes out sharply, his voice loud when he asks, “Everyone okay?” 

“Yeah,” Tony says weakly. 

They keep going. 

The rain continues to pour on them. The lightning dances above their heads in mockery. They get closer to the split cement truck, and one of the fires. The dark shadows reach for them. Clint waits. For actual claws, for the Chitauri, for something. 

Where is everything? 

Loki turns his head to look at something and stops. 

“Loki?” Steve whispers. Tony swings his light toward whatever caught the Asgardian’s attention. Clint squints, the afterimage of the lightning strike still lingering at the edges of his vision. But it doesn’t matter. Although much dirtier and somehow smaller Clint still recognizes that body in half a heartbeat.

Thor. 

Thor. 

The Asgardian is laying in the debris, gray, gritty light slowly streaming down from the hole in the roof. Rain is streaming onto him in waves. He’s laying on his back, his limbs a crumpled mess beside him. For all he looked terrible the last time Clint saw him, it’s worse now. Thor looks dead. Thor might be dead. 

But he's here.

God freaking curse it, it worked. 

Loki actually found him. 

“Thor,” Loki breathes. He doesn’t look for any trap, he doesn’t even seem to care about the possibility. Loki runs to his older brother, landing beside him on his knees. Clint’s not exactly in the place to judge, because he and the others are half a step behind him. The storm pours over them, but Clint couldn’t care less about the rain if he tried. 

All of them land on their knees beside Loki, whose hands are hovering over Thor’s chest as if he’s afraid to touch him. Thor’s skin looks an alarming shade of white, bruises in varying states of healing on his face and his neck. Open gashes are red, but the blood is being washed into a pool of blood around the prince. His eyes are closed. He's unconscious. 

Or.  

Clint breathes out hard. He counts his stupid fingers again. 

Loki finally manages to set his hand down on Thor’s chest, fingers curling around the threadbare cloth that would be hard pressed to pass for a shirt. Natasha reaches out and pushes against Thor’s neck for a pulse. Clint doesn’t breathe for long seconds. Four, seven.

Please, God, just this one thing…

“There’s a pulse,” Natasha says, sagging, “He’s alive. He’s alive. ” 

Alive. Thor is alive. Tony looks away from Thor sharply as if it’s painful to behold him. Bruce lifts a hand to his face to hide his relief, Steve’s hand curling on Thor’s shoulder. 

Loki’s eyes close. If Clint had any lingering doubts about how much Loki cares for his brother, that expression, filled with relief beyond words, would have ended them. “ Takk gudene,” the sorcerer whispers, under his breath. He opens his eyes and shakes Thor’s shoulder. “Thor,” he says, his voice low. “Thor, can you hear me?” 

Thor’s body moves listlessly against the movement. His face remains slack.

Steve gets up to his feet, moving a few feet away and pushing a hand to his ear, “Director Fury, this is Captain Rogers.” Steve says. The director was about half an hour behind them, solely due to the fact that they forgot to inform him about this until they’d been in the air for twenty minutes. 

Loki’s hand curls around Thor’s and something like a gasping shudder escapes him. No, he’s crying, Clint realizes. Gasping, horrible things of pain, relief, and distress. Loki bows forward, his forehead pushing against Thor’s sternum. 

Lightning flashes above them, like the sky is sharing in the grief. 

Clint reaches out and grab’s Thor’s cold, boney ankle, only realizing after he’s done so that all of them are touching Thor in some way. As if none of them can believe this is actually happening. How could they? After this long, after imagining the horrors ceasing, now it’s over? Without a fight, without blood split for Thor’s return, Thor is just here. 

Abandoned in a warehouse, left to die. 

Loki’s fingers tighten in Thor’s shirt, crying harder. Clint reaches out a hand to rest on the younger Asgardian's arm, giving it a squeeze of reassurance. Something glimmering catches his attention in the next lightning strike, and Clint sees Mjolnir resting on the floor several feet away, beyond Thor’s reach. 

What happened? Clint wonders.

“Fury said that he’s twenty minutes out with medical,” Steve reports, coming back toward them. Tony nods absently. Clint’s not really sure that any of them care about that right now. Just that Thor is here. Alive. Unwell, yeah, but alive and that’s all that matters. They can fix the rest of it later. Figure out why Thor is here, why the Chitauri left him, what happened with the scepter, none of it matters right now. 

Steve rests a hand on Loki’s shoulder, who doesn’t look up at him, continuing to grip onto Thor like his very life depends on it. Steve sinks down next to them on the floor, around Thor like a protective shield. 

His voice is both relieved and thick as he says, “Let's get him home." 

Chapter Text

 "It is possible to live without memory, Nietzsche said, 

but is it possible to live with it? "

NOVEMBER: 

He thinks that he should remember how he got here. 

He doesn't.

All he can focus on is a persistent haze; a cloud settled over his mind. Rolling fog. Impossible to see through. Pushing through the haze is worse though because he knows that the world is spinning around him. All he has to hold himself in place is that haze. 

He wants the haze to go away. 

He also never wants to escape it. It's a good thing. He clings to it. With rigid, white-knuckled fingers. He can't let it go. If he lets go...

Then…

…then what? 

He doesn’t know. It doesn’t really matter though. He knows that it’s important he not feel anything. When there’s the haze, he’s not able to focus on the pain.

He doesn’t know how he got here. 

Thor hazily blinks his eyes open. He can feel himself being dragged somewhere, but he can’t dredge up the will to fight. His head feels wrong. Detached. He’s honestly not sure if he exists outside of it anymore. His head, that is. But maybe the dragging, too. Surely they must have reached where they were going by now. All there is is that dreadful haze. And the pain, circling, hungry, waiting. 

Thor watches the light slowly pass through slits in what he assumes is the ceiling. Little flecks of sunshine. 

It takes him a long, long time to realize they’ve stopped moving. He blinks in a daze, tempted to try and fight the haze, but the dark is lingering now, trying to welcome him into its warm embrace. He wants to, but it laughs when he tries to follow it to the abyss.

Too slow.

Thor’s eyelids feel like flickering shadows jumping in and out of his vision. He wishes he would pass out. He doesn’t remember why he has to stay awake. 

A familiar face leans over him, blinking in and out behind his fluttering eyelids. The features of the woman make something jolt sharply within him. I know you. He tries to move his mouth, tries to speak, to explain, ask for her help. Her name slips away from him, but he knows. Her blonde hair fluttering around her shoulders, hiding the grim lines on her face. 

He wants, suddenly, for this dreadful wrongness to go away. He doesn’t want the fuzziness anymore. He needs to understand. What is… she… doing here. Gods, if he could just remember a name. What is her name?  

She speaks, and the words are far, far away. He only picks up a handful of syllables and the final two words. “Nothing permanent,” the woman instructs, resting a hand on his shoulder. It reassures him, the familiarity of that touch. 

Her name slips away from him again. He can barely even remember his own.  

Another face joins that one, leaning over him, horrid and crooked, like decaying fruit, weathered with rot. The smile is dreadful, the words slurred and barely recognizable as High Eleven, the language of Alfheim. “Define permanent. ”

Alfheim. 

Oh, gods. 

The woman. That’s--

“Wait,” his own tongue is sloppy, and the word comes out more like a gagged sound than language. “Waaaiiit.” He grapples for her hand when she starts to walk away. 

The woman smiles down at him sadly and kisses his forehead. “This is for your brother,” she murmurs, “I hope one day you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.” 

Brother? 

On the Norns, what is happening? Loki--

The woman lets him go, her fingers gentle when they squeeze his own. It’s the kindest touch he receives in a long, long time. 

000o000

DECEMBER: 

S.H.I.E.L.D. shows up a few minutes later and Clint remembers the remainder of the rescue in a haze-filled blur after that. Thor is assessed on sight by the EMTs, who keep sharing grim looks and talking in increasingly indecipherable medical jargon. Bruce’s face gathers increasing dread the longer they talk, however, and Thor is put on oxygen, given an IV, and a pulse oximeter before being loaded up on a stretcher. 

Clint remembers Fury trying to talk to them, but he doesn’t know what the conversation entailed. It wasn’t a pleasant one. A trade of horror stories maybe? 

Tony argues for taking Thor to Stark Medical, which is only a few minutes away instead of a S.H.I.E.L.D. medical base because the closest one is the Helicarrier, which is several thousand feet above them. No one is entirely sure how Thor’s body will handle the pressure change like this.  

Tony must have won the argument eventually, because the next thing Clint knows, they’re leaving CSU and Fury inside the remains of the NY field office and returning to the Tower. Thor is taken in for medical evaluation by Tony’s on-call doctor, Dr. Cho, which then turns into an emergency surgery and a long, long wait without details. 

Clint starts it anxiously seated in the chair, playing with an arrow between his fingers, Natasha next to him, hands steepled over her face. Tony and Steve both sit next to each other, the former’s foot tapping anxiously, Steve completely still. Loki and Bruce both pace restlessly, looping circles and circles around the room. 

By hour six, everyone is seated and drained of any residual energy, just waiting for the worst. 

Fury stops by at hour seven, taking in the scene with a frown. “We didn’t find any evidence of the Chitauri having been in the building,” Fury says at length, after rounding through blundered small talk. “CSU combed the building, but it doesn’t even seem like they were there. CSU’s preliminary report suggests that Thor was there alone. Their suggestion is that he fell when he was flying, fell, and knocked himself unconscious.” 

“Which means what?” Tony asks, sounding depleted. 

“Thor escaped?” Fury sighs, “Heck if I know. It just means we’re not as compromised as I thought we were.”

Oh, well at least there's that. 

Clint scrubs his hands up and down his face. That makes more sense, doesn’t it? That the Chituari didn’t have anything to do with Thor being there than them knowing where the field office was? But at the same time, it doesn’t, because none of this makes any sense. Thor knew where the base was, if Clint’s remembering right. 

Why wouldn’t he just go to the Tower? If Thor had escaped and was trying to get back to them, why didn’t he try to get in contact with any of them? Where was he? 

Why did the Chitauri let him leave? 

Fury sinks into one of the chairs with a sigh, rubbing at his brow. “Have the doctors said anything?” 

“No,” Steve answers, looking up from the magazine he’s read probably three times by now. It has some sort of technology theme, and the cover is the latest Stark phone, which Tony keeps grimacing at whenever he looks at it. With Steve’s memory, Clint is pretty sure the captain could quote entire sections back to them at this point. “They took him back for surgery a while ago, but we haven’t heard any updates since.” 

“Did they say what the surgery was for?” Fury asks. 

“No,” Steve says, again; this time his tone pessimistic. 

“Hemothorax would be my guess,” Bruce says from behind his fingers. His head is tilted back against the wall, face buried inside his hands. His glasses are still missing and it makes Clint agitated. “You could hear his broken ribs. I would be surprised if he wasn’t bleeding into his chest cavity. Or maybe they’re trying to set his broken femur or stitching together the gashes covering his chest. Could be internal bleeding. There were bruises on his neck, maybe they needed to perform an emergency tracheostomy to help with the swelling. Or whatever number of broken bones we couldn’t see.” 

All of them are staring, but Bruce doesn’t lift his hands to look at them, instead sinking his face deeper into his palms and digging his fingers into his messy bangs. It’s a level of agitation that seems painful. 

The longer that Clint stares at him, the more he realizes something.

Despite his insistence that he’s not that kind of doctor, Bruce has medical training. He was in med school for years before dropping out, and that level of knowledge, on top of all his Ph.D.’s, must be more like a curse than a blessing. To have a complete, total understanding of how horrible something is instantly… no slow, gradual processing, you just know.

Immediately. Every time. 

Clint looked at Thor and saw blood and damage. 

Bruce looked at Thor and saw a diagnosis . Broken bones, lacerations, throat damage. He knew what that meant when he caught the first glimpse. He’s been churning around that diagnosis in his head for hours, unable to do anything but dread what’s coming. 

(I have seven Ph.D.s and not one of them can tell me how to help anyone.) 

Unbidden, a memory from the Quinjet last week-- was that only last week?--c omes to mind, after Clint got slashed with the knife in the cafeteria. He’d been hysterical on shock, but Bruce had looked at him with wide eyes of horror. Can one of you keep yourself together for five minutes? Tony had pulled him away and assured him it was fine. Tony knows. He knows that Bruce’s brain processes things at an inhuman speed and he was trying to help. 

Because the engineer’s does the same. Crap. Clint can’t even imagine…constant, overwhelming sensory input. It must be terrifying when the input is how damaged someone you care about is. 

“Do you think the damage is that bad?” Steve asks Bruce, his tone apprehensive.

“Yes,” Bruce mutters. 

Tony slaps his own magazine shut and all but lurches to his feet. “I’m going for a coffee run. Does anyone want coffee? Actually, none of us have eaten and it’s been a long couple of hours. I’ll order in, too, but coffee first. Anyone?” 

All of them raise their hands. 

Tony nods, pointing a rolled-up magazine at Fury. “I’m going to guess. Straight black?” 

Fury rolls his eyes but concedes a moment later. “With cream, if it hasn’t expired.” 

“I should probably be offended you think that I have expired cream in my fridge, but that is completely valid. If it won’t poison you, I’ll get that. Steve, I need some extra hands.” Tony says, tossing the magazine onto the waiting table. Steve nods methodically, getting up to his feet. 

The two of them leave, coming back about twenty minutes later with coffee and chinese. Clint doesn’t feel particularly hungry but forces food down anyway. The coffee doesn't have a taste. At this point, it's just a drug to him. 

Hours eight and nine pass in relative silence. Fury leaves after that, called away by Hill about something that Clint doesn’t have the willpower to try and listen in on. The coffee does little for their combined exhaustion.

Natasha falls asleep against his shoulder, but he’s too nervous to try and sleep, and any contact with her makes his entire body ache a little. It makes him hate himself a little more. Loki falls asleep slumped against Tony, who is holding amazingly still to try not to disturb him. He can't determine if Steve and Bruce are awake. 

He doesn’t know what the hour count is when Dr. Cho, looking worse and more fatigued than all of them combined, comes into the room. Her face is grim, pale, and a little pasty. 

After several nudges have been passed around, all of them stare at her, blinking away lingering sleep.

Dr. Cho has a folder in her hands, and she takes several steps into the room. “I’m not sure if HIPAA applies here, but I’m just going to assume no. You would all tell each other anyway, I’m assuming?” There are a series of nods. 

Dr. Cho sighs, indicating for them to get closer together. “To preface this, Thor is alive and he’s stable. That’s what I want you to focus on, alright?” 

Oh good. 

So it’s good news then. 

Dr. Cho opens up the folder and starts to indicate to various x-rays, “The surgery was successful and we were able to stop the bleeding and drain his lung. But I won’t lie to you, he’s in bad shape. The left side of his ribs is more of a suggestion than a reality. There are four breaks and two fractures. We have him on oxygen, but this could and probably will develop into some sort of pneumonia. His right femur was broken in three separate places and healed wrong. We broke and rest the bone, but we’ll need to monitor it for nerve damage or lingering pain.” 

Clint grimaces, thinking about Thor’s awkward, hobbling stagger. 

“There are dozens of open abrasions. I’m not sure what caused those, but a majority of them were infected. There is evidence of severe scarring from some sort of stab wound, and,” Dr. Cho flips through a page to pull out a photo. “This.” 

Clint barely represses a flinch. Loki’s mouth sets tightly, eyes darkening in recognition. 

An awful, rigid burn scar is sticking out over the skin on his shoulder, infected and leaking pus. A mutilated symbol that Clint recognizes from a dream. They should put it on your face. 

“What?” Steve asks, looking between them. “What is it?” 

“A Chitauri slave brand,” Loki says between his teeth. “Clearly it was meant in humiliation instead of intention, or they would have shorn his hair as well.” The Asgardian’s teeth set unhappily, his hands rubbing over his wrists, tracing scars. Clint reaches out, squeezing his forearm in reassurance. 

Dr. Cho’s eyes shudder for a moment, and she looks like she wants to say something, but her professionalism kicks in instead. “...Ah. I had wondered. Thor’s healing factor has been severely depleted. It’s my understanding that any one of these could have healed in several hours,” at this, Loki gives a nod, “but together with prolonged starvation and dehydration has left him very weak. With how weak his body is, we weren’t able to give him any sedatives or painkillers. We’re worried about what it would do. He’s still unconscious, but I’m not sure how long it will last.” 

Okay. Nothing that can’t be fixed with time. That’s good. That’s good, right? No. It is. Clint is sure. 

“Can we see him?” Natasha asks. 

Dr. Cho hesitates. “Yes, but I would ask you to keep the visit limited. As I said, he's vulnerable to infection.” 

All of them get up, and a look of resignation passes over the doctor’s face. “Follow me,” she says and leaves the room. They follow. 

Clint’s hand finds Natasha’s in the walk. His chest feels tight, the overwhelming crash of emotions from earlier reemerging with a vengeance. This is more than anxiety, it’s like a dull, throbbing pain. 

Dr. Cho opens a door to a sterile-smelling room. It’s white, as is the wont of hospital rooms. Several machines are beeping rhythmically, and Clint watches the rise and fall of the heart monitor for a long moment, reassured by the repetition. 

Thor is laying on the bed, looking small. The blood has been cleaned up, leaving behind pale, almost gray skin in its place. Underneath the blanket, Clint can see the outline of a cast on the Asgardian’s right leg, presumably for the broken femur Dr. Cho mentioned. Peaking out from the hospital gown, various cuts have been stitched and covered with butterfly bandages. Over his left shoulder, it looks like there’s a patch of white gauze. 

His chest rises and falls mechanically from the oxygen he's being given. 

For a moment, all of them just stand there, breathing. There doesn’t seem to be anything they can do or say. Just waiting for something to come and break the awful weight seeping into everything. 

Loki takes the first step forward, hand tentatively reaching for Thor before stopping. He looks first at Dr. Cho as if needing someone to give him permission first. The doctor nods in reassurance, and Loki slowly lets his hand touch his brother's. Tentative at first, unsure, before he grips it more firmly. 

Thor doesn’t even twitch, breathing in, slow and pained. 

Clint takes the next step forward. “We got him,” he promises, resting a hand on Loki’s back. The Asgardian leans into subconsciously, and it makes something in Clint's stomach pull. “He’s going to be okay.” 

Loki nods, a tremulous smile trying to hold onto life on his face and failing. Clint looks at the two of them and is reminded of the scene in June so long ago, where the roles were reversed. When Loki was the one half dead on the hospital bed, Thor was the one afraid to touch his sibling. The realization strikes him as strangely depressing. 

What do these two have to give to stop circling this scene? One of them half dead and the other pleading with them to stay alive while the world falls apart around them? 

000o000

They orbit Thor. 

Clint isn’t sure if it’s intentional or just a natural effect of everything, but the orbiting happens all the same. Dr. Cho and her medical team don’t feel like Thor is strong enough to be taken off of the sedatives, and Clint thinks that’s probably for the best. Thor doesn’t look like he’s getting any better, if anything, he starts looking worse. Every breath dragged out of his body seems like it pains him. 

When Fury isn’t demanding their help in finding out what happened, trying to put a desperate timeline of events together, then they’re sleeping, and if they’re not sleeping, they’re back in Thor’s hospital room. 

Clint doesn’t know whose decision it was if it was anyone’s at all, but they don’t contact Frigga and Odin. Part of Clint thinks it’s because they aren’t actually sure where the royalty ended up. He doesn't really want to look. He thinks it might be spite, which he’s honestly okay with. At this point, why not? 

Loki spends the majority of his time in Thor’s room. Whenever Clint joins him, Loki is watching. Sometimes he has a book on his lap, unopened or he’s staring at the pages blankly, but more often than not, he’s just staring at Thor. A twisted, horrible expression haunts the Asgardian's face, like there’s a physical presence in the room that he has to fight off every time he’s inside. 

Sometimes Clint feels it too. The weight. 

He finds himself restless. He barely remembers to eat, his sleep schedule is squat and riddled with nightmares, but there’s little that he can do to ward everything off. He dreams about Loki standing over the Avengers’ dead bodies and laughing. Sometimes he dreams that he’s standing over their bodies, and watching himself scream in horror from far away. He dreams about the Chitauri. He thinks that everything is smashed inside his brain, crashed and filled with errors because it doesn’t feel coherent anymore. 

His own terror is bleeding into the nightmares. 

It’s almost bitterly appropriate. 

The rest of the Avengers cycle through this same thing from what he can see, a restlessness intermingled with almost unfathomable exhaustion. After ten days of fighting, of wanting, they’ve won and now there’s nothing to do but wait for the victory to go stale. 

It’s the evening of day three when it happens. Dr. Cho has been steadily reducing the levels of sedative, allowing Thor’s body to metabolize it naturally. He gets an oxygen mask. This, she says, will help Thor wake up when he’s ready. Looking at Thor’s bruised, battered form, Clint isn’t sure that will happen. Thor still looks so sick. So weak. 

Two adjectives that Clint didn’t even think existed in the same plane of reality as Thor. 

But it’s day three. 

Evening.

Probably.

Clint has spent the last twenty minutes trying to coax Loki into taking a shower, Natasha watching all of this from behind her phone on the other side of the room. She’s playing Temple Run, one of the few mindless games that she indulges in. 

There isn’t some sort of gasping, jerking motion when Thor wakes up. He doesn’t spring from the bed and start stabbing people. Not like Loki did. When the younger Asgardian had finally woken from the sedatives in June, he’d panicked and attempted to escape the room. He stabbed a nurse. Thor is different. One moment he’s asleep, and the next Clint is acutely aware of the fact that he’s staring at them. 

Clint stills. Loki, in the middle of his very bad argument, stops at the expression on Clint’s face and turns around to face the bed. Natasha leans forward, turning off her phone. 

“Thor,” Loki says, getting to his feet and moving to the bed. He reaches out for his brother’s hand, grasping it tightly. Thor blinks heavily at him, not reacting when Loki touches him. “Brother.”

Thor blinks again, releasing an exhausted sigh. “You…okay?” 

Loki’s expression flickers with momentary surprise, then pain, but his voice is soft. “Yes, brother. I’m fine. You’re the one we’re worried about.” 

“Hm,” Thor mumbles, and his eyes close again. Every word sounds like it’s physically painful for him to form. “Had…the worst…dreams…” he sighs. “Thought…killed you.” 

In the back of his mind, Clint can hear the Chitauri gleefully telling Thor to hit Loki. The sound that Loki’s ribs made as they crunched, Thor’s desperation, pain, and fury in his expression as he stared down his brother. Clint can almost smell the sand. He digs his nails inside his arm, shaking his head lightly. The images fade, but the vague nausea lingers. 

A dream. Thor thinks it was a dream. After Clint attacked the Helicarrier, it was easier to put the memories together in dreams, otherwise, they were too sporadic. Thor was under the scepter. Maybe it will be similar. 

Is that a good or bad thing? 

“Yes, well,” Loki says after a moment, smoothing his thumb across the back of Thor’s hand, “That's all behind us now. Get some rest, brother. We'll be here when you wake up.” 

“Hm,” Thor sighs. His eyes slip closed again. It doesn’t take long before the Asgardian’s breathing deepens, indicating that he’s fallen back asleep. Loki watches his face for long seconds, his own expression blank. 

Clint shifts anxiously. 

Loki exhales, closing his eyes. “He’s coherent. That’s all that matters.” 

“Will he continue to think this was a dream?” Natasha asks. 

“I’m not sure,” Loki admits. “I was delirious by the end of the attack, but I have a vague memory of attempting to throw off the control with brute force magic. It’s possible I may have damaged something. It’s too early to say, but it would be best not to overwhelm him. I don't...we shouldn't tell him about Frigga and Odin. Not now. He needs them to be stable.”

"Loki," Clint sighs. “We can’t just--” 

"He thinks I killed them," Loki interrupts before Clint can get another word in edgewise. "That's what he told me. In the fight. That I had committed parricide."

Oh. 

Clint had wondered. Loki had looked horrified. 

Clint and his partner share a look, but they don't argue. 

“Thor needs them to be safe right now. I can’t take that away until he’s better.” Loki adds the last part after a moment. He squeezes Thor’s hand tighter, looking worn. 

In the back of his mind, he had never considered the possibility that Thor would be anything but okay when they rescued him. He assumed that Thor would forget, like he did, and they would have to give him a brutal fill-in-the-blanks, but Thor would be fine. He never imagined that there would be lingering effects. 

But it will be fine. It has to be, right? The worst has to be behind them. 

( Ha. Ha. Ha.) 

000o000

At first, he’s pelted with snapshots of moments that feel like dreams. He feels hands touching him, knives being shoved inside his body. A woman saying that he’s conscious again and instructing them to put him back under. He feels himself laying on something soft. No suspension, no tricks, no hard, unforgiving earth. This, more than anything, feels like the most dreamlike. 

He hears voices. In and out of focus, like water lapping slowly against a shore. He recognizes most of them, finds comfort in the familiarity, and finds himself slipping further into unconsciousness. He thinks he remembers a brief conversation with Loki. 

Everything is exhausting. 

He hears them talking. Manages to pick up bits of conversation. Not sure what we’re going to tell him, the doctors say that he’s getting better, Loki you need to get some rest, we should call Jane, have you seen how bad Clint is? and on and on it goes. With effort, he manages to start to pull together rough lucidity between the overwhelming desire to sleep. It’s hard. His need for rest is all-consuming. 

His heartbeat pounds in his ears, beating with a weariness that feels intimately familiar. It’s ready to give out. 

Me too, he thinks, feeling very far away.  

What should we tell him? Is a common conversation topic. Admittedly, he finds it sort of funny and infuriating. Why don’t you just ask? He wants to say. He wants to scream at them. He wants to shout. Why would you think of hiding something from me now? After everything? 

But it doesn’t matter. Not really. Nothing does. 

Thor wakes up anyway.

He didn’t want to wake up. That was the point. 

000o000

The Avengers' joy at his waking feels blurred. Like he’s looking at it through dirty glass. He doesn’t remember much of it, and part of him is disappointed about this. There are well-wishes. They keep touching him. He sees Loki lingering, looking relieved. 

He wishes he had good memories to compete with how raw he feels. Maybe even better memories. The healer seeing him shoos them all out before long anyway, and Thor is drowned in her endless questions. He wants to tell her not to bother.

She asks him if he hurts anywhere.

Why don’t you just ask me where it doesn’t hurt, that would be simpler. 

Thor doesn’t tell her that everything hurts, though he’s tempted. He’s not sure he remembers what it’s like not to be in pain anymore. Every time he breathes it feels like he’s brushing his lungs up against knives. That he does admit, only because it makes talking nearly impossible. The healer assures him that’s normal and will fade with time. 

Thor wonders if she thinks that makes it better. It still hurts now. 

He falls asleep again. 

Loki is there when his body drags him into consciousness again, slumped over the edge of the bed, face smashed against folded arms, a book on the bed next to Thor’s feet, appearance uncharacteristically messy. His dark hair is a mess around his face. Even in sleep, he looks distressed, his body twitching minutely. Thor idly wonders what time it is. How long he’s been here. 

( Does it matter at this point? Centuries could have passed. Everything stays the same.) 

He wonders if Loki’s dreaming about Thor’s hands wrapped around his throat. He can hear his own voice, rattling inside his head, I hate you, he’d screamed, over and over, hand wrapped around Loki’s throat. He can remember, vividly, the way Loki had jerked beneath the stranglehold, his fingers digging into Thor’s arm with desperation. 

He never wanted to know what it felt like to have his brother writhing against him, fighting to survive. 

And yet. 

Thor didn’t let him go. Not until Loki had cast sedir on him. The pain of the mind control snapping. 

He remembers the Avengers arriving, the brief exchange with Hulk--Norns, the bruises from the Hulk--and the Chitauri pulling him away. He remembers Loki’s crumpled body, laying in the sand across from Clint’s, gasping. He’d stopped breathing by the time Thor left. Clint had been crying, Natasha leaning over him, wailing. 

In another world, maybe it should bring him comfort that Loki is alive and (it does, gods, it does, his brother is alive and whole, and looks better now than he has since before he fell into the Void) he’s here, but Thor can only focus on the fact that the Chitauri didn’t even have to force him to attack Loki. All they did was invite him and he went along with it gladly. 

If the Avengers hadn’t arrived, Thor would have killed him. 

Loki shouldn’t be anywhere near him. He’s dangerous. 

His brother sleeps on, oblivious, continuing to twitch. It’s distracting. He didn’t twitch before. Such a succinct way to put that, isn’t it? Before the Chitauri, Before his coronation, Before. After, is a dirty, despairing place. After means Loki waking up screaming. Loki covered in scars that Thor doesn’t recognize. 

After is. 

After. 

Thor has his own After now. 

Thor closes his eyes, wishing he was anywhere else. Somewhere, he knows, the Chitauri are laughing. Days of torture, and it’s being returned into the relative safety of his friends and family that breaks him. 

Breaks. Ha. You are already broken, Odinson. Look at you. Curled on a bed, unable to talk. You disgrace your family. And yourself. Disgusting creature. Murderer.

Part of Thor, quiet and childish, longs to wake Loki just to hear him talk. He doesn’t. He closes his eyes instead, trying to take comfort in Loki’s twitching arm pressed against his calf. 

He falls asleep before Loki leaves, at least. 

It’s sometime later when Thor wakes up again. The word feels tinged with gray. He’s already laying down, but his body is heavy. A burden. He feels like he’s being pulled inside the mattress to be consumed. Thor would let it if given the chance. 

He looks around the now-familiar white walls. Only Steve is here, carefully sketching inside a magazine with a pen. It’s a comforting scene. Steve often draws inside of newspapers and magazines, “not wanting to waste paper.” Sometimes he adds to the ads, which Tony is continually delighted by. An endless source of entertainment, the engineer insisted. Thor had found it funny once, too. Now the idea of laughing seems exhausting. 

He is consumed by the inescapable weight of everything. 

Waiting for it to drown him. Gasping for relief when there is none. 

Steve is scrunched over the paper, face propped up against one fist while the other carefully traces, slumped heavily against one side of the chair with one leg across the other. The position looks uncomfortable. If Thor tried to contort into something similar, he’s pretty sure he would slide his rib into his lung. 

It takes Steve a while before he looks up, then double takes. “Oh, my g--hey,” the captain says, scrambling into something more upright. He nearly drops the magazine in the process. “You’re up. Do you need anything? Should I get the doctor?”

What will they do? What can they? 

Thor slowly shakes his head. Even that is tiring. 

Steve relaxes back into the chair a fraction. 

Thor forces in a breath, ignoring the discomfort in his ribs. It’s getting better. Thor still doesn’t know how long he’s been here. He wonders dully if that’s information the Avengers will feel is important enough to tell him. He doesn’t know how long he’s been gone, how long it was before he killed Erik Selvig in cold blood--

“Where…” his voice is raspy and hoarse. He swallows compulsively. “Where’s Loki?” 

Do you honestly think he’d want to wait by your bedside? A nasty voice whispers in the back of his mind, after all that happened? After that fight before you left, with the argument that descended into rage on both sides, that he would ever want to see you again? What about when you tried to kill him? You told him that you hate him. He’s hated you for far longer. Which is no less than you deserve. 

Look at you.

Weak. 

“He’s resting,” Steve says, drawing Thor back to the present. “It’s the middle of the night,” Steve adds after a moment. 

Ah. 

Thor sighs. “Why…are you…here then?” he asks. Talking is hard. He wasn’t expecting that. 

“Hang on,” Steve says, getting to his feet. When he returns, he holds out a glass of water. Thor’s hands are trembling, but he adamantly refuses the captain’s help when he tries to offer it. After all that he’s done, he doesn’t deserve the simple kindness. He is a murderer. The Chitauri insisted this. Branded it inside his mind until it felt like an open wound. But it’s the truth. 

Thor can still see their faces. Selvig’s surprise and pain at being murdered by the man he trusted. Nathan Swenson’s resignation, as if he expected nothing less. 

“Thank you,” Thor says, surprised at how much the water helped. His throat feels better. 

Steve nods, taking his seat again. He sets the empty glass on the bedside table, staring at him critically. “How are you doing?” he asks. 

Do you want to know? Honestly? I wish you had just let me die. 

I didn’t want to survive that fall. 

“Tired,” Thor says, which is true. His skin also itches. It’s a minor annoyance. He doesn’t have the energy to do much about it. Steve nods to that, as if it’s expected. Thor wonders if they’ve had this conversation before. Everyone seems so much less surprised when he’s awake than he was expecting. He’s losing time. Part of him is thankful for that. He doesn’t want to remember anything anymore. 

“How long…was I gone?” Thor asks. It felt like years. He’s not naive enough to believe it was.  

Steve hesitates. “It’s December twenty-fourth. Last we saw you was in November. It’s been over a month.” 

A month. 

Only a month.

“Oh,” Thor intones without emotion. He wishes he could roll over. He settles for closing his eyes and turning his head away. His leg throbs dully. He remembers when they broke it, when they took him, the crumpled way his body had collapsed and he hadn’t been able to get up. 

“Hey,” Steve gently pokes him with the edge of the pen. Thor does his best not to jump, snapping his eyes open to look back at the captain, fists clenching. Steve withdraws the pen, hands raised a fraction. “Sorry. Do you want to talk?” 

Thor sighs, closing his eyes again. “No.” 

“Okay…we’re here. If you need it.” Steve assures. 

That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it? 

000o000

“Things are looking better,” Dr. Cho assures later that morning, looking over several screens on a tablet. She’s been talking at it for the majority of the conversation instead of him. Thor doesn’t mind as much as he should. It helps him fade into the background. Dr. Cho looks over the tablet again, humming softly. “The break is completely healed, and a majority of the cuts and bruises are looking better. I knew Asgardian healing factors were impressive, but you’ve only been here for four days.” 

This, she does look up at him for. Thor isn’t sure what she wants him to say, or if he wants her to say anything at all. He stays quiet. In the back of his mind, he can hear Loki drawling a sarcastic yes, congratulations are in order then, and he brushes it off. 

His brother feels like a raw subject. He hasn’t seen him since he’s been more lucid. This, he knows, is a very good thing. He doesn’t want to hurt him. It’s also a very bad thing. He misses him. 

Dr. Cho sets down the tablet. “I think we’ll get the cast removed and we’ll see about getting you up on your feet again. Does that sound okay?” 

No. 

He wants to let the bed consume him. 

“Yes,” his voice is still tired. “That sounds fine,” he promises. His fingers tighten in his hair, twisting the small section until it’s taut with tension. The woman nods, going over some more things that he doesn’t really register. He wishes he had accepted Steve’s offer to stay and go everything with him when the woman came inside. 

“Do you have anything for the pain?” he asks, more out of habit than anything else. Dr. Cho pauses, and Thor mentally kicks himself. This isn’t Asgard, he reminds himself, of course they won’t have anything. 

“Are you in pain?” Dr. Cho asks, frowning. 

Half of my ribcage is broken, what do you think is the answer to that question? He bites on the words before they can escape him. 

“Some,” he admits. 

“Is this…normal? I’m not familiar with Asgardian healing. Anything I know came from your brother,” the doctor says. So Loki has been helping, I wondered. 

The idea of explaining anything is tiring. Thor wishes Loki was there, but the feeling is intermingled with horror and disgust and fear. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if his brother does show up. Or Clint. He could have killed both of them. He can’t feel the effects of the mind control anymore, but that doesn’t mean something isn’t there. 

And even if he isn’t under the effects of the mind control, does it matter? 

They forced him to kill Clint.

Thor chose to attack his brother. The lies the Chitauri told him are no excuse. 

( If, that voice purrs, they really were lies. What proof do you have that Loki didn’t rein hell on Asgard after you let him go? What proof do you have that your parents are alive. You called him a Foreldremorder. And you meant it.) 

“There can be lingering pain from injuries,” Thor explains. Every word he has to pull out from behind his teeth. “Nerve endings and such,” he says, like that actually explained anything. He’s not going to get into the biology of it. 

The woman shoots him a confused look, for a brief moment, but it passes. “I’ll see if I can find anything for pain,” Dr. Cho promises. “But first lets get off the cast. I imagine that it itches.”

It doesn’t. 

000o000

Bruce comes back later, holding coffee. The smell makes Thor’s stomach roll with nausea. He doesn’t say anything, wishing he had closed his eyes so he could pretend to be asleep. His skin does itch without the casts now, ironically. He keeps rubbing his finger over the scar on his leg where the bone broke through, transfixed with it.

He’s never really scarred from a broken bone before. 

“Hey,” Bruce’s voice is soft. He takes a seat on the end of the bed, shaking his head softly, “Dr. Cho told us the good news. I can’t believe you got a cast off a spiral fracture in four days.” That’s supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it? “How is the brace?” 

Thor wishes he would stop talking.

“It’s fine,” he says. 

It feels too tight. 

“Oh. I’d offer to show you how to use crutches later, but your ribcage is still more of a suggestion than a reality,” Bruce says, frowning. It’s his concerned frown. Thor is tired of all of this. He wants to scream. He wants to run. He wants to fall out of the sky again. Maybe this time the fall would actually be fatal. 

He just sits there. Waiting. Breathing in the scent of Bruce’s coffee and wishing he could throw it. 

Bruce tries to keep talking, but Thor doesn’t make a good conversationalist. He’ll probably feel bad about it later, but right now there’s only staggering relief when Bruce finally gets the point and shuts up. The chemist lingers, sipping on his coffee. One of his hands is anxiously picking at the seam of his pants. 

Thor closes his eyes. Maybe if he falls into a deep enough sleep he won't wake up next time. 

No such luck. 

He doesn’t have a good grasp of time. 

He’s not exactly sure when it is that the hospital room is flooded with the Avengers the next day. He wakes up to Tony shaking his shoulder, then blinks through confusion at the string of glittering, blinking lights along one wall. The Avengers have dragged in an impromptu meal, all of them wearing some of the ugliest sweaters he’s ever seen in his life.

Even Loki, lingering at the outskirts of the room with obvious anxiety, has somehow been forced into one of those sweaters. There’s a red-suited man on it, with letters above that are blurry and jumping around to form No Ho Bo, NO No On, and On Ho NO and back and forth. The words are jumping and Thor squeezes his eyes shut momentarily when he isn’t able to make sense of them. 

Reading English is no easier for him than Asgardian, but it’s worse when he’s tired. Normally the letters don’t jump this much. Right now it’s like the words are fighting him. 

“Merry Christmas!” Tony says cheerfully, handing Thor some sort of desert. It’s some sort of small, brown little man covered in frosting. The sight of it makes him feel a little ill. He looks up at Tony in bewilderment. 

“What?” 

Tony frowns at him, taking a swig of some sort of fizzling juice. Nothing alcoholic. Last Thor remembers the engineer had been desperately scraping to get three months sober. Thor wonders if he reached it. He doesn’t want to ask. 

“You know what Christmas is, don’t you?” Tony asks, beginning to pout. The expression is familiar. Teasing. 

Everything is so far away. Gods, he can’t focus. He’s watching himself. A third-party observer of his life. 

“Of course I know what--” Thor blinks. Tony’s shirt has something on it too. He has no idea what it says. It’s starting to make his headache worse. He shifts in the bed a fraction, trying and failing to hide the gasping wince when it sends a sharp pain through his entire chest. 

The Avengers stop for a moment to look at him, all with powerful stares of concern or worry, and Thor feels like he sees them. Hiding behind this festivity, but it’s glass. He can see it. The rigid, painful tension between all of them. The exhaustion. This celebration is a forced, tired thing, like it’s a game they have to play.

Christmas. The Christian holiday. A long, exhaustive game of pretending.

The moment passes. 

Tony grips his arm as the Avengers settle back down into their chairs, looking relaxed. Thor knows better than to believe it now. “You okay?” Tony murmurs. In the corner of his eye, Thor can see Loki watching him. Thor wishes he’d get closer. He wants to talk, but he’s also grateful for the distance. 

At least this way he can’t hurt his younger brother. 

He gives a soft nod. He takes in a deep breath. Facade, he thinks, spent. “I know what Christmas is, Tony.”

“Right. You probably met Jesus and all that.” Tony frowns, squinting as a thought occurs to him. “Wait. If you’re real and gods, is the big capital G god legit? Oh my gosh, am I going to have to rethink my entire worldview?”

“Not religious?” Natasha asks leaning into a slouch, her tone dry but slightly curious. 

“I don’t know,” Tony shrugs. “Space is pretty big.” 

Loki rolls his eyes a little, and takes a step closer, taking a seat on one of the chairs they brought in. “For your information, neither Thor or I are old enough to have met the Christian god. As for the question of if he’s real…” Loki shrugs. “I have met some of your other gods. Midgardians are unusually sensitive to them. Even if they aren’t real, if it does no detriment to your life, why shouldn’t you be permitted to believe something is out there?”

“Okay, you are getting way too philosophical, professor.” Clint says, jabbing him harshly with the edge of a long red-white stick. It looks like a small shepherd's cane. Loki does roll his eyes then, but before Clint can poke Thor’s brother again, Natasha slaps his hand down without looking at him. 

Something about their familiarity with each other makes Thor’s chest ache. 

He tries to blur into the background, but everyone keeps trying to talk with him and he can’t. Eventually, he stops trying and just accepts it. He watches them laugh with each other, telling stories. None of them are serious, most are funny. Stupid things. 

Bruce goes on in length about the first Christmas he had in college and how that resulted in him breaking two fingers. Thor isn’t sure he entirely believes him, but it’s an impressive tale.

Clint and Natasha pester Loki until he agrees to tell a misadventure of their youth, and Thor buries his head into his hands and refuses to look at anyone until Loki finishes, laughing. He’s never going to live down mistaking Sigyn for a servant when they first met, is he? Something loosens in his chest at the memory. The warmth of reassurance, of Before. When things were better. Easier.

When Loki didn’t hate him.

Something about Sigyn niggles at him though, like an itch he can’t satisfy. 

Natasha tries to teach him how to say Merry Christmas in Russian several times, but Thor’s tongue won’t wrap around the words. He keeps saying rozhden’ya instead of rozhdestvom by accident. Or something close enough to the former that Natasha starts laughing and at length, Thor joins her. 

The laughter is physically painful but somehow exhilarating. 

Natasha stills a little at his laugh of despair, her own expression flickering with the edge of relief and pain. It sobers him a little and makes his chest tighten up. He hasn’t laughed since he escaped the Chitauri. There hasn’t been anything to smile about. Not really. Not in any way that matters. 

Her expression cleans up smoothly and she’s smiling again. “ S’ rozh-dest-vom,” she repeats the words slowly, enunciating them with care. 

“ Es Rosdenivomi…ya.” 

Natasha snorts on laughter. Clint, sitting beside her with his arm wrapped around her shoulder, is beginning to laugh too. 

“What am I even saying?” Thor asks, exasperated, but letting a few tired laughs escape him anyway. 

“Happy birthday to you too,” Clint says in answer. He rests his head against Natasha’s, smiling genuinely. She leans into his touch, comfortable, and Thor sees the slightest flinch as the edge of her red hair catches his vision. If Clint himself is aware of it, it isn’t visible. 

“That is not what he said.” Natasha laughs. 

“Well, not that time, but I admire his commitment to birthday wishes. He’s getting closer. Kind of.” 

“ Rozhden’ya,” Natasha says it slowly, poking Clint in the side with every syllable. “ Rozh-den-’ya. Does that sound like Rosdenivomya to you?” 

“No, no it doesn’t. I yield, rozhden’ya, rozhden’ya! ” Clint says the word perfectly, slapping her hand away. “Don’t be mean to me. It’s Christmas.” 

“Not in Russia,” Natasha threatens, lowering her voice to something silky and dangerous. “And it’s Birthday , Agent Barton. Haven’t you been paying attention? ” 

Thor sighs in exasperation. “Merry birthday,” he says, which only sends the Avengers into another round of giggles. They look drunk, but Thor is positive that there isn’t a drop of liquor anywhere in this room. Even Loki is hiding amusement--not well-- behind whatever fizzy juice has been passed around. Thor wasn’t given any. Bruce warned it might make him throw up. That sort of put a damper on any efforts he had to convince them to let him try it. Tony assured him it tasted like crap, but all of them have been drinking like it’s fine wine.  

“ Schastlivogo Rozhdestva ,” Loki says, his tongue moving around the original version Natasha was trying to teach him earlier with ease. She switched to S’ Rozhdestva later because then he really only had to focus on the one word. Loki must have been paying more attention than Thor was to Natasha’s careful teaching. 

Loki raises the glass up in a toast and the Avengers follow with their own. Thor lifts up the little man he was given instead of a glass, as both Tony and Clint cheerfully exclaim “S Dnem rozhden'ya! ” at the top of their lungs. 

That, along with the little man, sends everyone into a fit of laughter again. 

It doesn’t last. 

The Avengers leave eventually. Loki first, claiming the need to sleep. Thor gets the impression that he’s avoiding Thor, and this isn’t just a massive coincidence. He doesn’t blame his brother in the slightest. He doesn’t have the heart. Thor tried to kill him. Why would he ever want to speak with Thor again? 

Time keeps sort of buzzing. He’s aware that it’s passing, but he can’t keep track of how much. 

He spends as much time in bed as possible. Dr. Cho encourages this, saying it will be good for recovery, but he needs to make sure that he’s getting some sort of movement so his muscles can recover. Thor is glad that he’s appeasing someone. Sort of. 

He doesn’t tell her he has no desire to get out of bed. 

Gods, he doesn’t even know what possesses him, but after he’s limped the required rounds around the room, ignoring Natasha watching him with poorly hidden concern and nearly getting up from her chair several times when he almost falls flat on his face, he’s hiding in the bathroom, taking in deep breaths. He’s soaked in sweat, shaking, and has been fighting the urge to vomit valiantly. 

He looks up at the mirror. 

The reflection looking back is…

It looks like someone else. His face is washed out and pale, the faintest edge of scars near his left eye. His blue eyes are empty. He looks… raw. Like someone scraped him out with knives, intent to maim. 

Very slowly, with a deliberation that feels outside of his body, Thor carefully takes off his shirt. It’s a little awkward with his still-aching ribcage-- Your ribs are looking much better, Dr. Cho had said, earlier, staring at Thor with amazement--but he manages. His chest looks like a battlefield, littered with the dead bodies in the form of scars. White-red scars are overlapping. Burns. Claws. He doesn’t even remember what the Chituari did anymore. It’s disconcerting. 

Staring at them makes him feel sick. He can feel anxiety beginning to pound in his chest like his heart is beginning to pulse outside of his body. It’s almost painful. His hands are trembling. He touches his chest, running fingers across the scars. 

Loki and he used to have a long-standing war between them about scars Before. They were always trying to one-up each other. Thor was in the lead until After. He’s seen Loki’s back. He could barely use his hands after Thor brought him for asylum. Thor never said anything about it, but in one of their better moments, Loki had, still delirious from pain and whatever the Norns the Midgardians had given him, said “ I win” in such a hoarse, tired voice, it was almost funny. But the topic matter was sobering. Thor didn’t laugh. 

(Instead, later, in the privacy of a bathroom, he had wept.)

Thor didn’t imagine there was a way that he would ever be able to outdo his brother, but looks like I’ve caught up, after all, he thinks bitterly. 

Tempted at the lines extending along his ribs and shoulders, Thor angles himself toward the mirror, trying to look at his back. What he sees is worse. That pressure in his chest is getting harder. Everything feels loud. His breath is echoing. Then he sees it. 

Oh gods.

Oh gods.

  Oh gods. 

His legs won’t hold him anymore like his upper body has collapsed in on itself, or his feet have grown far too heavy to stand up anymore. He barely feels himself hit the bathroom floor. His hands cling to the hard, rough skin of the brand. His breaths are coming out in heaving, panting gasps. He’s breathing. He must be. No. That’s not right.

He doesn’t care anymore.

His face is starting to sting. 

Distantly, he hears the door open. But he feels it banging. He flinches back bodily, desperately crawling backward. His back slams against the back of the wall, hand appraised. Asgardian, garbled and desperate, comes instinctively to him. 

No.

Not this time. 

The figure in front of him blurs. Like the letters, impossible to piece together when he’s tired. He doesn’t understand what they’re saying, but he flinches when they grab his arm. His other comes swinging, ready to fight, but the other hand catches his fist with a hiss of pain before he can hit them in the face. 

He knows that voice. 

“Natasha,” her name is a desperate gasp in his throat, “Natasha --” 

“It’s okay,” her voice is soft, “it’s okay, it’s okay. I promise. Look at me, Thor. Hey,” her tone manages to soften further. Her hand slowly reaches up to rest against his cheek. “It’s okay. You’re safe, I promise… Vet du…hvem jeg er? ” the words are a little unfamiliar to him, pronounced with an accent Asgard doesn’t have. 

Do you know who I am?

He nods. 

Natasha relaxes a fraction. Thor takes in gasping, deep breaths, closing his eyes tight against the pain. He feels Natasha settle down next to him rather than see it. Slowly, he stretches out his aching leg and buries his head into his hands, just breathing. Both of them are quiet for a long time. 

“I didn’t realize…about the”--his mouth is dry--”brand. No one…I didn’t realize…” he tilts his head back against the wall, wringing his fingers together. He tugs at his hair. 

Natasha watches him carefully. She lifts up her left wrist, licking her finger and rubbing it across the skin. Flakes of make-up come off in smears, revealing a murky black hourglass in the middle of her wrist. It’s small, only the size of a thumbnail, but obvious with its intention. She lifts it up for him to see. “It’s like they left a part of themselves inside you.” She says, quiet. Knowing. 

Like they left a darkness. 

Like they never left. 

“I’ve been tortured before,” his voice is more croaky than he wanted it to be. “This is…I’ve never been marked before. Not like this. Not…”

Slave brand.

He’s never been marked with a slave brand.

“Tainted,” Natasha offers. Thor nods. She drops her wrist, shifting a bit so her head is resting against the wall and her legs are outstretched in front of her. “They don’t own you, Thor,” she rolls her head to look at him. “Not anymore. You’re free.”

I still tried to kill Loki. Freedom doesn’t matter after that. 

“Tattoos aren’t scars, Natasha,” he says, gentle. 

“No,” her smile is sad. “No, they’re not.” Then why do you keep it? He wants to ask. Natasha looks up at him, her expression blank, her eyes almost painful with the raw emotion. “That,” she gestures with her chin toward the scar, “that is. I’m sorry.” 

The words are sincere. 

Thor wishes she had said anything else. The words rattle inside him, unsettling. I’m sorry. Because there’s not much else that can be said, is there? There’s only the all-encompassing nothing . He doesn’t know what to say. Words get caught in his throat, dangling, waiting to be released. Waiting. 

 I’m sorry. 

Yeah, Thor thinks, feeling far away, me too. 

Neither one of them gets off the floor for a while. 

000o000

Clint helps him slowly ease down onto the bed of his room in Stark Tower, and Thor gives a long, breathy sigh of relief. His leg aches almost constantly. Dr. Cho isn’t sure what’s wrong with it. Thor isn’t either, and he’s really beginning to lose the willpower to care. The cane, about the only support he can manage with his still-knitting ribs, goes against the wall when Clint takes it from him.

Thor lets out a long, worn sigh, looking up at the familiar ceiling. 

The sleepless nights he spent staring at this ceiling. Worrying about Loki’s injuries. Worrying about Loki. Just worrying, a knot of anxiety settled in his chest, refusing to appease. Sitting with his thoughts was torture. He was waiting. Always waiting. It felt like he was in the battlefield, constantly braced for something to explode. Go off. Die. He wasn’t sure who was more sleepless those nights After, him or Loki. It was exhausting. 

Clint flops onto the bed beside him, letting out a groan. “Ow.”

“Ow?” 

Clint shrugs. “I am not Asgardian. My poor mortal body is feeling the last couple of weeks.” 

When I tried to kill you. The feeling is acidic in his chest. “Ah,” he says, after a moment. He should apologize. He just stares back up at the ceiling. Loki isn’t here. Thor has barely seen him since Christmas. Clint says that today is January second. Avoidance was Loki’s preferred method for dealing with problems Before. 

Maybe he does still recognize that person, somewhere, deep beneath the scars of After. 

“Natasha says that you still aren’t sleeping well,” Thor says. It’s an open invitation. He’d rather talk about anything beyond how he’s feeling. 

Clint hesitates, that flickering look of momentary panic gone as soon as it arrived. He sinks further underneath the covers. “You know me. I don’t sleep well.” Clint says after a moment. Thor takes that in. It’s true. For as long as they’ve been acquaintances, then friends, Clint has always had troubles sleeping. 

“My dreams have been a torment themselves as of late,” Thor admits. After the medications had been weened and Thor had stopped existing in a state of persistent exhaustion, the nightmares had taken hold. 

He thinks he knows the Chitauri’s faces better than his own now. 

“Yeah,” Clint’s voice is quieter. “I know the feeling.” 

Thor thinks about the first couple of days in the hospital, where the Avengers had been whispering about Clint. Something happened. Something they haven’t told him. He wants to ask. He wants someone to tell him. Everything he remembers is scattered bits of nothing and a heaping handful of terror. He remembers attacking Loki. He remembers killing Swenson and Selvig, breaking the Chitauri free. He remembers that. Distant bits of the torture, relieved in dreams from what his brain conjures. 

But the why lingers. 

He doesn’t know what the Chitauri wanted. What their end goal was. He was supposed to kill Clint, Swenson, and Selvig, but he doesn’t remember why the Chitauri wanted him to. He killed Loki out of anger. From the lies the Chitauri fed him before Loki pulled his memories forward. 

( Did he? That voice asks, lurking, always. Or is that what you want to believe, Odinson?) 

Why, why, why? 

Thor braces himself. “Clint?” 

“Hm?” 

His next breath is shuddering. “Is Jane okay?” 

Clint sits up at that, his eyes a little wide. The information comes out of him in a gust, like he can’t stop once he starts. “What the-- yes. Yes, she’s fine. I promise. Has no one talked to you about what happened? Darcy and Jane are okay. They were just a little banged up. Jane visited, but you were asleep. Director Fury said it would be better to keep things quiet for right now. We don’t know where the Chitauri ended up. But yes. She’s fine.” 

Jane is okay. 

Jane is alive. 

He wishes she was here. He was afraid to consider the possibility that he’d hurt her before, but…he wants to see her. To bury himself in her arms and just be. 

Not that he imagines that Jane will want to see him after he murdered her mentor. “Oh,” the syllable feels like it contains a stifled scream when it escapes Thor, “I wasn’t sure.” 

Clint shakes his head, looking vaguely sick. “Sorry--we. That wasn’t…” he sighs, dropping back onto the bed. “We should have asked you. Do you have any other questions? I really thought you’d given someone else the interrogation. Crap, Thor, it’s been weeks. ” 

Maybe he would have cared more, Before. 

Now, there’s just no energy left. 

“How much does Loki hate me?” Thor asks. It’s not the first question he should ask, but it’s the first one that falls out. His hands curl into reflexive fists at it. It’s been circling inside his mind, waiting, always. Lingering. 

Clint’s expression flickers a bit. He doesn’t have a tell for lying. Neither do Natasha or Loki. It’s like the words fall out of them as naturally as breathing. But Clint is nervous. Thor can’t tell what are lies, only that Clint is worried that Thor can. 

“It’s…it’s not that bad. He doesn’t hate you. Things are just…complicated.” 

Lie number one, then.

“I’ve barely seen him,” Thor says. That sounds like he’s whining. He doesn’t deserve that. He has no right to Loki’s life. Not anymore. Maybe he never did. 

“Just…talk to him,” Clint says. Like that’s an encouragement. Loki could avoid him for the rest of their lives if he really put his mind to it. He’s good at things like that. Clint says, annoyed, “He’s being an idiot.” 

That could mean anything . 

Thor lets the topic drop, even though he wants to push it. He doesn’t want to force Clint to conjure up information he’s not willing to share. 

“Do you know why the Chitauri took me?” Thor asks. 

Clint bites on his lower lip. Nervous, Thor is reminded . “We…ah. We’re still putting that together, I guess. Loki implanted memories in me, Selvig, and Swenson before he left Earth. The Chitauri were trying to kill the hosts before he could get them back.” 

This time, it’s Thor’s turn to sit up, his ribs be norns-cursed. “Are you joking? Loki did a memory implantation without your consent?” 

Gods. 

“I mean…we kinda did? I vaguely remember him asking now.” Clint says, running a hand through his hair. “So there’s that. I guess. Look,” resignation now, “Loki said it would be better if we didn’t talk to you about this right now, while you’re still healing, but having reality warped is…ah, not exactly something I’m willing to do right now. You deserve to know. We need to talk about Frigga.” 

Thor falters. “Mother? What does she have to do with any of this?” 

Clint takes in a deep breath.

000o000

Loki tears the book from his hands, tossing it onto the bed beside him. Thor looks up at him mildly. Inside, rolling waves of nausea and what feels like vague pain are beginning to curl inside his stomach at the sight of his brother’s anger. 

He hasn’t seen him in days, and his brother looks horrible. He’s exhausted, he’s worn and nearly see-through, what little weight he did gain making a valiant exodus. His hands are steady, which seems about the only improvement. Thor’s gaze lingers on them, still struggling to take in what Clint told him about the healing.

They were here. 

They helped. 

 “No.” Loki says, the word barely more than a low growl. “Aboslutely not.” 

“Are we speaking then?” Thor asks, throwing as much frustration and annoyance into his tone as he can. All the pain, all the vented nothing starts to coil inside him, swirling into a mass of anger. He’s angry. The feeling is foreign compared to the void of before. 

But Thor isn’t numb now. He’s furious. 

“Thor,” Loki sighs his name like a curse, rubbing at his forehead. “ No. Not right now. You can’t handle this right now. ”  

“Clint already agreed.” 

“Oh, and because Clint agreed--” Loki cuts himself off, and Thor tilts his head a little. Clint? When did he get on a first-name basis with the Avengers? It’s always been indifferent Barton. Loki takes in a deep breath. He looks like he’s one hard step away from stepping off an edge he can’t come back from. 

Good. 

Just freaking look at me. Just this once. 

Look. 

At. 

Me.

Thor sits up, careful of his ribcage, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Loki continues to stand, boring down on him. Thor wishes that he could stand up without support. Thor looks up at him, into him. 

“I want to see them,” Thor says. 

“ Why?” the word is strangled, and Loki’s expression is tight to match it. “You have no idea what she was doing to Clint--” 

Right. 

Because you TOLD them not to tell me. Because you TOLD THEM not to say anything. Because you thought I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t know BECAUSE of YOU. 

“And whose fault is that?!” Thor shouts. Loki’s mouth closes, his eyes narrowing. 

Thor isn’t done. He hasn’t even started. Helplessness crawls inside him, wrapped in a coat of appealing, frigid anger. “You told them not to say anything to me! Nothing! How could I have known?! I have been here for three weeks. Do you know how many times you had the opportunity to tell me something?” 

Loki’s mouth works. “You couldn’t even get out of bed-- ”

So where were you? Thor wants to demand. 

“I had a right to know,” Thor snarls, getting to his shaky feet. He grips at the bedpost for support, gesturing at himself, the words cracked. “ I had a right to know. She’s my mother, too. This is my family, too.” 

Loki looks away, his jaw flexing minutely as he folds his arms across his chest. “How would this have helped?” Loki asks, “Honestly? Tell me.” Loki always gesticulates when he’s angry, and this time is no exception. “You could barely speak. I wasn’t about to give you another reason not to fight. I know what that fall was--”  

“Ha!” A delighted, whispering smile crawls onto Thor’s face. It feels more like a vicious baring of teeth. “That’s rich, coming from you. Tell me, brother, where were you, then? Do you think that your distance helped? I needed you. I needed you and you couldn’t even look me in the eyes--”

“Why would you have wanted to see me?” Now Loki sounds a little hopeless. “I’m the reason this entire thing happened in the first place. The Chitauri wouldn’t have had any reason to come after you if I hadn’t--”

“Oh my gods,” Thor throws up a hand. “Do I really have to spell it out for you?”

Exasperation overtakes the confusion. “I’m not an idiot. There’s a reason we didn’t tell them about your rescue, Thor.” 

“You don’t get to make that decision for me,” Thor says, moving toward the door. His leg aches. 

“What do you hope to prove by seeing them ?” Loki asks, still sounding desperate. 

“That you didn’t freaking kill them!?” Thor shouts, turning back to face him. The words escape him before he can stop them, and both of them stare at each other, absorbing it. Loki’s wide green eyes meet his own. 

“ Foreldremorder, ” Loki curls the word. It sounds venomous and ugly coming out of his mouth. 

Thor wants to take it all back at the look on his brother’s face, just so he has to stop looking at it. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he takes in a deep breath. “Three weeks. You didn’t say anything. How can I trust you after that? I don’t know what happened. I don’t understand any of this and the only person who was willing to tell me anything was Clint.  I just want to talk with them. They’re my parents, they would never hurt me.”

Loki wets his lips, but his defenses are dropping slowly. His next words are low and acidic. “Nothing permanent, at least” 

“ Loki.” 

“Fine,” Loki spreads his hands, “but I want to be there.” 

“Go to hell.” Thor says, moving toward the door again.  

Loki walks after him, his tone having lost most of its edge. He grabs Thor’s arm. “Thor--brother…I just wanted to keep you safe. I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Thor’s voice is firm, and he pulls open the door shaking off his brother’s grip, “you’re not.” 

000o000

Frigga smells like home. Her grip is desperate around his shoulders, a level of pain that can’t be expressed in words passing between them at the comforting embrace. Thor grips her back as tightly as he dares, keeping on hand firmly around his cane to stop from toppling over. 

His parents look old. Worn. Tired. 

He feels the part. 

Frigga begins to weep openly, drawing back, “I was so worried,” her hands are trembling as she cups his face, smoothing away his own tears. “When time kept passing without word…I didn’t know what to think. But it’s all alright now, we can put this dreadful business behind us.”

Thor drinks in the sight of both of them. The last time he saw them, he was furious. He punched Odin hard enough that he broke fingers. Even now, Thor can see a crooked line to his father’s nose that wasn’t there before. 

That fury feels like it belongs to a different person.

Thor is tired.

Odin clasps his shoulder tightly, his expression mostly indifferent, but Thor sees the glimmering edges of relief. They’re happy to see him. Thor is too. He falls inside his mothers arms again, letting himself hold onto this weakness. 

Behind him on the landing pad, he can feel the Avengers watching, wary. He doesn’t want to understand why, but he does. After what happened to Clint, they have some right not to trust his parents. Clint and Loki aren’t here, and Thor is privately glad for that. He doesn’t want to face his brother right now. 

“All that is behind us,” Frigga repeats, smiling, and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. 

“I’m glad that you’re safe, son,” Odin says, gripping Gungnir tightly. Thor catches the eyes of the Warriors and Sif behind his mother. Sif gives him a small smile of reassurance. “We need to return to Asgard immediately. Your safety is paramount. The war drags on and we can’t risk something like this happening again.” 

Thor thinks about the feeling of the Chitauri. “Yes. I--ah. Does we include my brother?” 

Do I want it to? Thor wonders privately. 

Odin’s hand tightens on his spear. He looks up at the Avengers, and Frigga’s expression is dark when she matches the stare. “Loki has made his decision. He wants to stay here. We’ve been instructed to respect that.” 

Thor hesitates. “I don’t want to leave without him.” 

Odin sighs. “There is nothing more that can be done for him. Come, Asgard’s healers will be able to provide the best treatment for you.”

He starts to turn. 

Thor doesn’t really know what happens. It’s a familiar feeling as of late. One moment everything is fine, the next a scalding blast of white magic is slamming into his father. He is thrown to the side, tumbling along the length of the landing platform, skin already oozing from burns. 

The Einherjar immediately draw their weapons, but they’re knocked away from their hands with a ripple of familiar power. I know you. 

It draws up memories. The haze, the woman… He thinks about the beginning. Before his kidnapping, before the torutre, before the murders. 

It wasn’t the Chitauri that took him. It was Alfheim . Those were elven soldiers, breaking his leg, dragging him. They delivered him to the Chitauri. And the woman, she was there--

Thor turns sharply, nearly toppling, as the Avengers are picked up in an invisible fist and slammed into the far wall. They crumple. The sound is like snapping bone. He raises his head up as the Einherjar are split effortlessly and the familiar figure is revealed, unlocking herself from some sort of invisibility. 

Short, bristling blonde hair is drawn up into an elaborate braid, pointed ears sticking out sharply. Her dark skin is painted with familiar lines of elven heritage. Dressed for battle, wielding a sword, Thor thinks about that beginning. That voice. He takes a staggered step back. 

Oh gods. 

No. 

Frigga takes a step in front of him, her hands pulsing with magic. 

The other woman makes eye contact with him, briefly, but barely even seems to register he’s there as she moves toward Odin. His father is trying to get up, but he can barely move from pain. 

“All of this,” the woman’s voice is low, dangerous. “ All of this and the solution to your death is so simple after all. Do you know what you forced me to do, Odin Allfather? I consorted with Chitauri to draw you out, I met with the Titan,” she spits this, “and you expose yourself for your son? How poetic.” 

“Sigyn,” Frigga’s voice is tempered. She lifts up her hands, a shield shimmering into view between them. “What are you doing? Stop this. You aren’t a murderer.” 

Sigyn looks up at them, her deep purple eyes wild. She laughs, delighted, but her voice is dangerous. “Don’t you dare try to teach me ethics when you sit on your throne painted with blood. You killed my best friend. I’m only avenging his death. Clearly, Odin believes in revenge, or else he would have given Loki a trial, so I’m returning the favor. Rapid judgment, and the like. This ends now. Someone has to care. You kill Loki, I kill him. Simple.”  

“Wait--” Thor starts to say, desperate. Loki isn’t dead, he wants to scream. Half a second and he would have done it. 

It doesn’t matter. 

None of it matters. 

Sigyn shoves the blade down, sliding the sword between Odin’s ribs before Thor can finish. 

Chapter Text

"and my hands, they are not clean, 

maybe they never will be, 

but they can still carry you home, 

when you are ready to sleep"

-unknown

“You shouldn’t have told him.” 

“So I was supposed to let him walk around thinking he killed his fiancée?”

“I didn’t know that he thought he killed Dr. Foster,” Loki snaps, giving Clint a scathing look. “And she’s been here. She was here, he just wasn’t awake for it. She had to take care of Selvig’s funeral arrangements. She’s coming back here tomorrow. Everything would have been fine.” 

“Right, but he didn’t know that. So again: I was supposed to let him walk around thinking he killed his fiancée?” Clint asks from the couch. Watching Loki pace back and forth across the length of the room is like watching a pendulum swing back and forth. Relentless. The carpet might as well be Loki’s mortal enemy for all the effort he’s putting into murdering it. 

“ No,” Loki says through gritted teeth. 

“So you admit that you think we may have handled this poorly?” Clint asks. Loki’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t say anything, which is pretty much a yes. 

Thinking about Thor’s face yesterday, pale and wanting, is Jane okay? will haunt Clint for a while. Thor looked so lost. It’s been two weeks since they found him. Weeks of Thor haunting the Tower like the world's most lethargic ghost. He’s barely spoken, hardly eats, and has spent most of his time sleeping.

But Clint had thought--had assumed-- that Thor talked to someone. Asked someone the usual post-coma questionnaire. But he didn’t talk to anyone. Loki said that they shouldn’t bring up the disaster fire that is Odin and Frigga and initially, Clint agreed. The heavy, all-consuming depression that Thor has been wrestling through made it pretty clear that he needed some time to sort things out before they started handing him more horrible things to think about. 

But he didn’t realize that Thor didn’t know anything. That he wasn't talking to anyone. 

And yeah, Clint didn’t really think before he started explaining, the urge to get it out more an impulse than anything else, but watching Thor’s expression go from apathy to despair to fury was almost a relief. Anger was emotion. 

He just…didn’t realize Thor would dump most of his fury onto his brother. Which was stupid, in retrospect. It’s Thor and Loki. They argue. Constantly. Clint remembers thinking, back before this whole mess started, when the two brothers got into another spat about what happened at the Bifrost and who threw who off of it, that it was worse when they weren’t fighting because they weren’t talking . That still holds. 

Loki’s shoulders slump and he releases a long breath. He goes back and forth across the common room again before he says, “He should have let me come.” 

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Do you actually want to be there?” 

“No,” Loki admits, which surprises Clint. He sort of expected to have to pull teeth before Loki would say that. “I don’t want to talk to my parents. Thor shouldn’t either. They’ll take advantage of his vulnerable state and drag him back to Asgard. It will be years before we can be in contact again. Odin isn’t frightened easily, but for this--he is. He's losing the war, that much is obvious. In my experience, Odin has never been unwilling to put Thor on the front lines.”

Can anyone’s father in this team not run for World’s Crappiest Dad? 

“And you’re worried that the team won’t stop Thor if he decides to go?” Clint asks, actually sitting up a little at that. The idea of Odin and Frigga sweeping in and taking Thor back to Asgard with them hadn’t really occurred to Clint when he agreed to set up the meeting for Thor, but now his stomach is tight with dread. Most of the team disagreed with this plan. Thor needed to see them. That had kind of trumped everything for Clint. He hadn’t seen Thor look that alive since before he went missing. 

“Oh, I know they won’t,” Loki says, digging his thumbnail into his palm. He already looked wrecked when they started talking, but now he looks on the edge of hysterical. “They won’t let Odin and Frigga hurt him here, but what about when they return to Asgard? My father’s relief at Thor’s return will only last for so long. What then?” 

Clint slowly sits up. “What exactly are you expecting to happen?” He asks cautiously. 

This entire idea is beginning to feel worse and worse. 

Loki shakes his head like he’s trying to dislodge a memory. “I don’t know. Thor is…unwell. Odin and Frigga will exacerbate that. He doesn’t need that. I know that…Thor needs help. What they’ll give him will be far from that.” 

Clint considers him for a moment. The dread is like a physical object now, sitting in his stomach. “You guys had a messed up childhood, you know that?” 

Loki lets out a derisive laugh. “To put it mildly. Thor has yet to see that. He insists that they did their best even if it fell short in many areas. We have been arguing about this for months.” Loki sighs. “Thor knows I’m the only person who could talk him out of going back. Me and perhaps Dr. Foster. That’s why he doesn’t want me there.” 

“She’s on the other side of the country, so maybe we should just throw personal boundaries out the window and you go down there and convince Thor not to leave,” Clint says. He drops his head into his hands, frustrated. “I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have let it get this far. After everything they did…I don’t know. Thor just really wanted to see them.” 

“Thor has a way of getting what he wants,” Loki says mildly. “It was going to happen eventually.” 

“Yeah, but…” Clint rubs his hands down his face, breathing out heavily. It didn’t have to be now . Not when Thor is a mess mentally and unable to yell back if it comes to that. Odin tried to hit Loki. More than once. There’s no telling what he’ll do to Thor, and Thor is…fragile. 

This was a horrible decision.

He forces himself to look up. “Why haven’t you talked to him?”

Loki freezes mid-step. The hesitation is slight but significant. “What?” 

“You haven’t talked to him. Once. Not since Christmas and even then. Why? I know that you’ve been stalking him when he’s asleep. You didn’t move from the hospital room. You sat outside the door for a week with Steve. You check on him all the time. But you aren’t talking to him.” 

Loki wrings his hands. He’s quiet. Pacing back and forth. Clint waits. The sorcerer is alarmingly good at latching onto conversation changers, and Clint has learned that if he doesn’t say anything, he’s more likely to get an answer. 

Loki stops moving, taking in a breath and sitting on the couch next to Clint. Their knees bump a little, but neither one of them moves away. “I didn’t think he’d want to see me,” Loki admits. He’s not looking at Clint, like the floor is easier to deliver this confession to. “None of this would have happened if I hadn’t made the deal with the Chitauri. If I hadn’t planted my memories in your heads for a trial that never happened. This was my fault. I thought Thor blamed me for that.” 

Clint rubs a hand along his ear, playing with the edge of his hearing aid as he thinks. “I think you might be selling Thor a little short. You stabbed him during the Battle of New York and he still broke you out of prison.” 

Loki shakes his head. “It’s not that. Thor and I have discussed that. I’ve seen the scar. The scepter…it can change memories. Alter your reality. They did that to Thor. He was forced to kill people because of me.” 

Clint nods. “And that sucks, but it’s not your fault. Thor knows that. And you know Thor knows that, so don’t tell me a half-truth and answer me honestly.” 

Loki fidgets. Clint stares him down harder. Loki relents with a sharp breath, “In the invasion, my captors assured me that I would long for something sweet as pain if I failed. And I do. I do long for it. They broke my brother. I barely recognize him anymore. Every time I see him, it’s all I can think about. I can’t help him. Not like this. I can’t even help myself.” 

He had the most gentle soul, Thor said of Loki when Clint had asked what happened a couple of weeks after Thor brought Loki back from Asgard, I don’t know what happened to him, but I suspect it wasn’t pleasant.   

The Chitauri break people. Snap and distort them until even their own family members barely recongize them. And they did that to Thor in ten days. 

Clint inhales slowly. He doesn’t know what to say. Part of him is tempted to make a joke, but it feels wildly inappropriate. “Loki,” he starts carefully, “I think maybe that--” 

And then everything goes to hell. 

“Mr. Barton, Mr. Loki--” Jarvis interrupts, his voice sharp, “a threat has entered the premises--”  

The air in front of them ripples like a knife is being sliced down the middle of it, and Frigga stumbles through with Odin’s bleeding body, landing in a heap of tangled limbs on the floor. For a long second, Clint and Loki just look at them, then each other, like neither one of them remembers how sight works. 

Frigga is crying, her clothing bloodstained and her hands streaked with red. Odin is pliant and still. 

Clint swears and looks around for a threat. “What happened? Did someone stab him?” That is definitely a stab wound. It’s big and bleeding profusely. The size of the blade must be inches thick. Not a dagger. Maybe a sword? 

“What the heck is going on?” Clint exclaims, on his feet, moving toward the bloody couple. Loki is already there.

“A woman has entered the premises, she is unfamiliar to me. She used magic and then stabbed Odin. Sir and the Avengers are injured, but it’s minor and they’re on their way downstairs. Mr. Odinson is with them.” Jarvis explains. 

“Where is the woman?” Clint asks. He moves toward the kitchen. 

Loki is kneeling next to Frigga, hands pushing against the stab wound to help apply pressure to the bleeding. He looks sick. Frigga is trying to use magic, but her concentration is shot and she can only keep crying. 

“Currently fighting with the Asgardian escort. They’re losing.” Jarvis answers. He doesn’t sound any calmer. 

Clint leans down to grab the gun holstered under the table. He can’t remember ever consciously choosing to stash weapons in the Tower, but he and Nat are kind of beyond conscious thought about things like that now. 

Loki and Frigga are talking in rapid, hissed Asgardian to each other behind him. Frigga sounds angry. Loki doesn’t. Clint moves back to them, checking the magazine. It’s fully loaded, so he has about nine shots. Not that he’s sure how much good it will do him. Loki generated forcefields against the bullets when S.H.I.E.L.D. agents shot at him in PEGASUS. 

“Mr. Barton, the woman has teleported from the landing pad,” Jarvis warns. “She seemed quite intent on making sure Mr. Odin was dead.” 

Clint backs up toward the Asgardians. “Lock down the Tower!” 

“Sir said that would be useless against a sorcerer,” Jarvis says. Clint swears again. Freaking Tony with his freaking logic. “Other means of defense are proving to be inadequate. Sir has not developed anything that can pierce magical shields yet.” 

“You know where she is?” Clint asks, carefully turning to look over the entire room. They’re too exposed. If the woman comes in with long-range weapons, they need some type of defense. A table, or a couch. If they could move Odin… 

Loki has traded places with Frigga. Now she’s applying pressure and Loki is just sitting there, looking a little dazed. Frigga is shouting at him. Clint picks up enough to know that she’s repeating “father” and “you” a lot. 

“Currently on her way upstairs,” Jarvis says. “I estimate you have one minute before she reaches this room.” 

“And where is the rest of the team!?” He adjusts his grip on the gun. 

“Three minutes out,” Jarvis says. There’s a moment before,  “I’ll tell Sir to be faster.” 

“Yeah, you do that!” Clint shouts. 

He can hear it now. The Tower’s internal defenses going off and the sounds of destruction down the hall. He breathes in slowly, forcing his heart to calm and the adrenaline rush to slow. He’s done this hundreds of times before. It’s just another fight. Clint knows how to fight. 

“Clint,” Loki says behind him, nervous. 

“I got this. Focus on him.” Clint snaps, not looking back. 

“It’s magic.” 

“Yeah. Got that.” Clint promises tightly. “Heard the same thing you did, mon ami.” Plaster explodes down the hall and Clint raises the gun. A woman steps into view, covered in dust. Her dark skin is lined with silver designs, like thin tattoos. It reminds Clint a little of Ahsoka Tano from Star Wars . Her short blonde hair is so pale it might as well be white and her dark purple eyes are almost consuming. 

She’s holding a sword. 

Because of course she is. 

Clint hates his life. 

He’s fired off two rounds before she’s even taken two steps into the hall, but they hit some sort of invisible wall. Clint shoves the gun into his waistband and draws his knife, taking a running start toward her. Swords are a horrible decision for close combat, intended for both participants to be fighting several feet apart. If he can just get past the initial defense, his knife will have the advantage. 

Probably. 

He hates swords. 

“Wait, Clint--!” Loki shouts behind him. Clint doesn’t really hear him. He’s already reached the hall and, skirting around the woman’s initial sword swing, he manages to close enough to her that they could kiss. The woman’s breath is cold against his face. Clint grabs her sword arm, wrestling for control as both of them fight. He ends up wrenching her elbow out of socket before she releases the sword with a cry of pain and it clatters loudly against the floor behind them.

Three minutes. He just has to make it three minutes. 

He lasts one. 

Even with only one arm, the woman is fast. Inhuman fast. Clint spends more time trying not to get beaten half to death than he does making any offensive moves. The knife gets twisted out of his grip and lands somewhere next to the sword.

Eventually, the woman grabs him by the throat and slams him up against the wall. Clint gasps, wrestling against her forearm, trying to kick his legs out widely and hit her. He manages to graze her ribs, but he’s only wearing socks, so it’s not as effective as his steel-toed combat boots would have been. 

“Why are you defending him?” the woman asks, disgusted. 

Clint can’t answer. He’s too busy trying to force air down his closing throat. Her ears are pointed and big. That’s so weird. It looks like a Lord of the Rings set piece. She’s an elf. Clint is going to be strangled by an elf. This is--oh crap. 

The world is starting to go gray and white. Black spots turning into black spot. The woman says something else, but Clint’s hearing is shot. 

There’s a ripple in the air and Clint is blasted out of the woman’s grip. He goes skidding across broken plaster and rolls to a stop. The woman lands somewhere in front of him. Clint coughs harshly, dragging in wheezing breaths.

Air is good. 

Oh, air is so good. 

“Clint?” Loki is suddenly there. Leaning over him. He grabs Clint’s arm and hauls him upright, staring into Clint’s face with an intensity that’s almost painful to look at. Clint blinks rapidly, trying to pull himself together. “Are you alright?” 

Clint hears the woman moving and just points silently, unable to talk. His throat feels swollen. 

Loki turns and drops Clint’s arm, raising them up in surrender, hands appraised. “Sigyn!” Loki shouts, “Sigyn-- stop!” 

He knows her? 

The woman, Sigyn, freezes immediately. She had been starting to get up, unfettered, terrifying power gathering around her uninjured hand. Grief collapses her features, making her look decades younger. Her hand falls slowly, the spazzing pressure of her power dissipating makes Clint’s head hurt. Loki and Sigyn stare at each other. 

“Loki?” her voice is breathless and small, a gnawing sort of hope inside that reminds Clint of death. 

Loki starts to get up, slow and careful, and edges closer. Clint scrabbles to grab at him, to stop him from moving. Sigyn stabbed Odin, and plowed over the Asgardian defenses and their team. Loki won't walk away from that fight unscathed. 

“Sigyn,” Loki’s voice is calmer. “Stop.” 

“You’re alive ?” Sigyn whispers. She just stares up at him, breathing in short, small breaths. Like she’s trying not to panic or cry. Maybe both. “Odin said…I thought… Loki?” 

Loki kneels down next to her, his voice soothing, “I’m alive. I’m alive, I promise. That’s all over now. It's okay. It's okay.” 

Sigyn moves. Clint twitches, but instead of stabbing Loki, or any sort of violence, she wraps her arms around him in desperation. Clutching him, like the universe will fall apart if she doesn’t. She begins to sob. The tension bleeds out of Loki’s shoulders and he wraps his arms around her in return. 

Neither of them speaks. Sigyn just cries and Loki holds her close. 

Clint is still sitting there, trying to take this in, when the Avengers burst through the elevator’s doors, weapons raised, looking prepared to start fighting to the death itself. All four of them freeze at the sight in front of them. Natasha looks at Clint, who shrugs. 

Tony flips up his face plate. “Did...did we miss something?” 

Sigyn is still crying. Loki, still holding her, looks toward the team and his eyes find Thor’s. Something passes between that gaze, some sort of internal conversation. Thor lowers Mjolnir, looking relieved. 

“No. Loki’s go-to battle strategy is apparently the very effective hug.” Clint says, voice raspy. Then, with a groan, “My head hurts. Someone help me off the floor.” 

Steve grabs his outstretched hand.

000o000

Odin, pale and moving stiffly, but unfortunately healed enough to be alive, sits across from Sigyn. Frigga sits beside the old king, the entire Asgardian entourage behind them. Loki is standing beside the Alfheim queen-- queen, which just, okay, sure-- with a gentle hand on her shoulder. Clint can tell it’s there for support as much as it is to stop Sigyn from leaping across the table and finishing the job.

Thor stands at the head of the table, on the outskirts of his family. 

And Clint, beside Natasha and the rest of the team, is watching all of this like it’s a bomb about to go off. The common room feels tiny. 

“Explain yourself,” Odin says at last, his voice heavy. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement. One that doesn’t include your execution for attempting to murder your king.” 

Sigyn scoffs. “You’re not my king.” 

“Alfheim is still under the protection of Asgard, is it not?” Odin counters sharply. “Or would you prefer to stand alone with the threats of the cosmos?” 

Sigyn lifts her chin, opening her mouth to respond with something probably scathing, but Loki squeezes her shoulder pointedly. Sigyn deflates some. “We have done fine the last year. No thanks to you.” 

Odin bristles, resting a hand flat on the table, like it’s all he can do not to shake her with it. “ You attacked Asgard. We did nothing and you dragged the entire Nine into--” 

“ You murdered Loki! You didn’t even give him a trial--” 

“All of which has an explanation. As you can see, Loki is clearly fine--” 

“ Oh!” the dry, humorless sarcasm packed into the syllable borders on hysteria, “ My mistake. You just declined to share that with us--” 

“Do you not think that I had my reasons? I have been ruling Asgard for longer than you’ve been alive and I always have a reason for doing everything--” 

“ Enough !” Thor exclaims sharply. Both monarchs look up at him, their gazes so severe and furious that it makes Thor withdraw a fraction. Clint edges closer. A civil discussion isn’t on the table. It’s not even in a rickety old trailer being dragged behind them. It’s in another universe. Part of Clint is tempted to just throw diplomacy out the window and let Sigyn and Odin fight it out. Survival of the fittest. He’s pretty sure Sigyn would kill Odin, and he’s okay with that. 

Thor takes in a deep breath and rests both his hands on the end of the table. His expression, when Clint catches a glimpse of it, is done. Not resigned, not angry, just done. “Both of you are acting like children. Father, she’s right. You had no right to hide any of this. If you weren't so blinded by your pride, you would be able to see that.”

“Thor,” Frigga rebukes sharply. 

“You would dare say such a thing about me, boy ?” Odin snarls, getting up to uneasy feet. He looks like he’s going to fall over. Or pass out. Thor still flinches, his body drawing up to attention. His eyes are filled with dread.  

Loki forgoes holding Sigyn back in favor of pratically teleporting to Thor’s side, half a step in front of him, putting himself neatly between Odin and Thor. Clint watches this, feeling nervous. And angry. So freaking angry. What do Loki and Thor expect to happen? 

“I have kept these realms safe for centuries. Despite what you and your brother believe, I know what I’m doing. ” Odin snarls. “I did what was best for both of you. For all of us. The Titan nearly decimated us the last time he was in the Nine, without Hel--without the hell we brought him, he would have killed us. You don’t remember that. I do.” 

“Torturing me was in the best interests of everyone?” Loki asks, his voice low. “Please, try to justify that to me.” 

Odin glowers. 

“Torture?” Sigyn repeats, looking between the two of them. “What torture?” 

Frigga closes her eyes with resignation. 

Odin looks like he’s about reached the end of his rope. He points furiously at Loki. “ He made a deal with Thanos that left all of the Nine in shambles. In exchange for Midgard, Loki was going to return three Infinity Stones to him. The very thing that we’ve spent his entire lifetime trying to keep out of the madman’s hands.” 

Sigyn’s face drains of color. 

“When Loki failed and was returned to Asgard, a messenger from Thanos arrived and said that they would take Loki from me or Thanos would wage open war on the Nine. I did what I had to. I said that we would punish him so severely Thanos wouldn’t feel the need to take him from us. I knew that if Thanos took him, we would never see him again. So I said I executed him, with the intention of sending Loki into hiding, but Thanos saw through the ruse. Then I had to torture my son so he would stay on Asgard, because I wanted to keep him there . Do you think that I took joy in this? Having to harm my own child?” 

Sigyn looks like she might throw up. 

Thor though -- Thor laughs. “Like that was the first time? Or even the hundredth? You sit here and tell me about all these sacrifices you’ve had to make as if it actually hurt you, or that it wasn’t something you wouldn’t have done anyway. Thanos didn’t force you to do anything. You chose that.” 

Odin growls, opening his mouth to shout, and both Thor and Loki look like they’re bracing themselves for evisceration. Frigga beats him to the punch. “How can you say that? Do you honestly think that any harm done to a child doesn’t hurt the parent? Every day that Loki suffered, we suffered.” 

Clint can feel his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

She’s joking. Oh, g-- really? How is this about her?

“And what about my suffering?” Thor asks. “What about every day that I missed my best friend? What about the grief I felt? I am part of this family, too. And you didn’t tell me anything. I thought that you killed my brother. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me!? I have grieved my brother twice and evidently whatever ‘child suffering’ you feel only applies to Loki.” 

Frigga’s eyes narrow. “That’s not true. You weren’t upset. We were going to tell you when the time was right.” 

Loki rolls his eyes, muttering, “Gods, you and Father’s obsession with timing.” 

“Loki, that’s not fair--” 

“I was going to kill myself. The day that Sif and the Warriors told me what was going on. I had it planned. I wrote you a note. I had a method. But yes. I wasn’t upset. Not at all that you had murdered my lifelong companion and it was my fault because I was the one who brought him back to Asgard.” 

Frigga and Odin visibly withdraw, sharing a long, unreadable look. 

They didn’t know. 

Thor has talked about this at length with the team. With Loki. He didn’t say anything to his parents. Which makes sense, doesn’t it? Thor broke Loki out of prison that day. And though there was a brief physical altercation when they tried to stop him and Thor broke Odin’s nose, that was the extent of them talking until now. 

But Odin and Frigga look surprised. As if the idea that Thor was suffering to that extent hadn’t even crossed their minds as a possibility. Neither one of them says anything, they just stare, like they’re waiting for the empty space to fill itself up. 

Thor looks away in disgust. 

“You made a deal with Thanos?” Sigyn’s voice is faint. Clint had kind of forgotten she was there at all. When he looks at her, the woman seems…pale is an understatement. Gray, maybe. Pasty? She looks bad. 

“Were you listening? Is that all that you managed to garner from that?” Odin sounds annoyed.

  “You made a deal with Thanos?” Sigyn’s voice is sharper. She looks up at Odin’s face, and for the first time since she arrived here, Sigyn isn’t scowling as she does so. Odin inclines his head, still irritated, but Frigga’s head is tilted, her brows furrowed. “I made a deal with Thanos.” Sigyn says. 

Thor visibly stiffens. 

Loki looks at the Alfheim queen sharply. His face is empty, but Clint doesn’t think he’s breathing. Steve reaches out and rests a hand on the Asgardian’s shoulder as Clint squeezes Thor’s wrist. Both brothers don’t react to the touch. Thor’s skin is cold. 

“You what?” Odin snarls. “You stupid child-- what have we instilled into everyone since the Titan’s defeat? How could you be so foolish as to reach out to him?”

“I didn’t. He approached me , after Loki’s death.” Sigyn says, in a tone that suggests she thinks Odin’s an idiot. Her next words are careful, almost as if she’s scared. “He said that he would tell me what happend to Loki and help me get revenge for his unjust death. In return for his assistance, when I overtook Asgard, I was to give him unfettered access to the Nine to search for some family heirlooms he’d lost.” 

“The Infinty Stones,” Frigga whispers. 

“You took this deal?” Odin sounds disgusted. 

“ You took his?” Sigyn counters, that anger seeping back into her voice. 

Odin presses a hand to his forehead, the first signs of actual distress that Clint has ever seen from him. He swears darkly in Asgardian, and Clint twitches a little at it. This is, he realizes, the first time that he’s heard Odin swear. For all that Frigga seemed willing to drop every cuss under the sun, Odin hasn’t. That surprises Clint. 

“Gods,” Odin mutters, “he was playing us.” 

Sigyn deflates. 

“Wait, this is the guy whose in charge of the Chitauri, right?” Tony asks, somewhere behind Clint. He’s been uncharastically silent this entire conversation, but he, like Clint, probably doesn’t even know what to say. This is a level of political mess that Clint has no experience with. These are kings and princes arguing about a war and a level of family dysfunction that would need an elite team of therapists to even scratch the surface of. 

“Yes,” Loki says, his voice faint. It sounds a little strangled. His words are slow, like he’s trying to find the right one. But there aren’t any. “Thanos used me to start a civil war? He used me to tear apart the Nine without ever having to lift a finger?” 

His breathing is starting to pick up. Steve squeezes Loki’s arm. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

“ How? How was this not my fault? People have died, Steve!” Loki exclaims. “People died and it was my fault. If I had never agreed to attack Midgard, then none of this would have happened. I don’t even… I don’t even know why I was helping him. I loved him. I loved him and he destroyed my country and my family and--” 

“You were there.” Thor interrupts. He seems far away. The distant absence that Clint remembers of these long weeks is back, settling over Thor’s emotions like a suffocating blanket. Loki is exploding but Thor is imploding, both of them completely unaware of the other. 

For a moment, Clint thinks that Thor is talking to Loki , but he’s staring at Sigyn. 

“You were there. When the Chitauri captured me. You were there.” Thor’s voice is gaining strength, but there’s no anger, only fear. “You could have helped me. You let them do that to me, you brought me to them--Sigyn, what did you do?” 

Sigyn is standing. Clint doesn't remember her getting up. Loki is looking at her now, still breathing heavy, clutching at Steve’s arm like it’s the only thing holding him up. The Alfheim queen doesn’t speak for a long moment, looking between them. The Asgardians, the Avengers. Then her eyes land on Thor and the guilt in them is almost painful to look at. 

“Thanos said that we needed to force Odin’s hand. Draw him out of Asgard. You…you were bait. The Chitauri were supposed to rough you up and I would exchange you for Odin’s surrender. You had remained neutral in all of this, but you were still Odin's only child. Thanos…I didn’t know that he…had a secondary agenda.” 

For a moment, everything is quiet. Thor sucks in a ragged breath. “A ‘secondary agenda’? I murdered people!” Thor shouts. “I tried to kill Loki. You gave me to them!” 

“I didn’t know--” Sigyn tries to defend. 

“ I don’t care!” Thor shouts. “ I’m the one who has to live with it, not you! They broke me open and scraped out everything that mattered. And you knew and did nothing. I have always considered you a friend. I trusted you. You knew they would hurt me and you didn’t care .” 

Loki’s expression is darkening. 

Clint’s hand is knuckle-white against Thor’s wrist. Thor is breathing heavy, and he looks dangerously close to passing out. His weight is leaning on his good leg, skin chalk white. “All of you see me as an extension of Loki. I am a person. Not-not some means you can use to manipulate--you should…why didn’t…oh gods.” Thor starts to fall and Clint grabs him, holding him up. He tries to lower Thor to his knees, but Thor fights that, seeming desperate for any other position in existence. Clint grabs fistfulls of his shirt, Thor’s wild eyes meeting his for a moment. 

“You’re okay,” Clint promises, his voice low. “You’re okay. I’ve gotcha. Just take a breath.” 

Natasha comes up to them, her hand touching Thor’s shoulder, her other on top of Clint’s. Both of them share a look over his arm. Natasha’s eyes are wild. Clint imagines his are probably the same. He’s not processing anything. Everything is just noise tinged with oh no. 

“How--how much did you…how--” Loki doesn’t seem like he can get the words out. “Did you help them take the scepter?” 

Sigyn looks away. “Yes.” 

“And you-you-- you masked Thor?” 

Another hesitation. “Yes.”

“Did--did you know--did you help?” Loki sounds sick. Sigyn swallows thickly. Her nod is barely perceptible. Loki sucks in a breath. 

“I did everything for you--I was trying to--” Sigyn doesn’t finish. Loki lurches forward, releasing Steve to punch Sigyn in the face. Violently. Something cracks, and the sound makes Clint wince. The Asgardian escort jerks, hands going to weapons like they fully expect Loki to try and behead her. 

Sigyn stumbles back a step, blood leaking from a clearly broken nose. Loki’s fingers are red and one of them is bent out of shape. He doesn’t say anything. Clint doesn’t know if he can. His jaw is clenched so tightly it looks painful. Sigyn composes herself, shifting her hands until her nose snaps again as it shifts back into place. 

She looks up, miserable. Thor is rigid beneath Clint’s hands. He’s watching the two of them with wide eyes. 

Loki releases a breath, sounding like it takes more effort to force the next breath in than it did to punch her. “The Avengers asked me if you had anything to do with Thor’s capture a few weeks ago. I said no--that there was nothing that could make you hurt one of us.” Loki’s voice is low. Dangerous and broken. 

Sigyn winces, but she draws herself up, her face smoothing. Closing. Emotionless and uncaring, like the words have no effect on her when Clint can clearly tell they’ve stung. She wraps her arms around herself in an obvious self-comforting gesture. “I would have done anything to avenge you. To punish Odin. Vengeance consumed me.” Sigyn’s tone is steady, and she casts a side-glance toward Odin. 

The Asgardian king is staring at her. He’s angry, but somehow dismissive all at once. 

Frigga’s face softens some. “Sigyn,” she says, soft. “You only had to speak with us. Why didn’t you request an audience? We would have told you if you asked.” 

Thor makes a soft, mewled sound, like someone just shoved something hard and sharp down his throat. Clint doubts that anyone elsebut Nat hears it. 

Clint feels a surge of anger and frustration on behalf of Thor wash through him. Sigyn gets the information about Loki, but Thor, who wept and mourned for his brother doesn’t? Thor had to find out second-hand. His parents wouldn’t tell him anything. Not even after watching their son collapse. But Sigyn could have? 

“You just murdered your son. Why would I want to speak with either of you?” Sigyn asks, then releases a long breath. “It doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done.” 

Thor looks like he wants to argue with that. Clint feels tempted to for the prince’s sake. 

Loki takes a step back, and Steve finds his arm again. Loki doesn’t even look at the captain. 

Sigyn turns to Odin, lifting up her chin. “Much as it sickens me, I would like to extend a truce. I am no puppet. Thanos may pull all he wants, but I have no intention of complying any longer. I intend to ruin him.” 

“After what he has done to Loki, and now to Thor, I will happily desecrate him with you.” Odin says. His expression is sharp. 

Sigyn hesitates, looking briefly toward the sorcerer. “What did he do to Loki?” 

As Frigga starts to explain about the torture, Clint realizes that Sigyn was running around with only half the story. Thanos neatly wrapped this entire mess to his advantage. Based on what Clint has seen of her, there’s no way that Sigyn would have helped him if she knew that Thanos tortured Loki for over a year. That Thanos broke him. The things that Clint has seen…if Sigyn knew any of that, the civil war would have never happened. Thanos wouldn’t have gotten any closer to his goal and--

Oh. 

“Oh,” Clint breathes, very soft.

The pieces fall into place. Like Clint has been staring at an optical illusion this entire time and just saw the image hiding inside.  

That was the point. Odin is losing the war. They kept trying to drag Thor back to raise morale and have one of their heavy hitters back, but Thor refused to pick a side. Sigyn was advancing on Earth. It was only a matter of time before she came across Loki, and Thanos knew that. He told Sigyn to drag Thor into this, and instead of using him as a bargaining chip, Thanos used Thor to kill everyone who shared the memory tether. 

Selvig. Swenson. Clint. 

With Loki’s memories destroyed, and Loki having no idea what happened to begin with, Sigyn would never learn that Thanos lied to her. She’d kill Odin and Thanos would have free reign to get the Stones and whatever else his endgame was. Maybe kill Sigyn and take power. Kill more people. Who knows. 

But Thanos could only do that if Sigyn never learned what Thanos’ part in this was. Thanos weighed this entire thing on Sigyn’s trust in him, which was a careful, but calculated gamble. But for that to be true, that also means that Thanos knew Loki was on Earth this entire time. And about the memory tether. Clint doesn’t want to know how he figured that out. 

Loki may have been freed of the mind control two years ago, but Thanos has been using him this entire time anyway. This entire thing makes Clint’s stomach roll with nausea. Loki was the puppet, and Thor took the brunt of the punishment. All of this -- everything -- was some sort of long handed game to Thanos. 

Sigyn looks toward Thor and Loki. Even with her broken, swelling nose, she looks every inch a queen in that moment. Angry. Powerful. She, Frigga, and Odin must have shared some more words, but Clint didn’t pick them up. Sigyn moves toward Loki and clasps his arm. Steve’s hand clenches, looking ready to deck her if needs be. 

“I swear to you, I will make this up to you. I will kill Thanos and bring you his head. You deserve nothing less. I am sorry.” 

Loki’s face is blank. “Don’t apologize to me .” 

Thor has managed to get mostly upright and Sigyn meets his eyes evenly. Thor moves like he wants to take a half-step back, but stops himself. The Alfheim queen nods and reaches out, like she intends to clasp Thor's hand like she did Loki, but Thor flinches hard. Natasha catches Sigyn’s wrist before she can make contact. 

The two woman look at each other, all but circling. Dangerous. Sigyn lets go first. 

“I am sorry, Thor. That you had to get caught up in the middle of this. I should not…I should never have let this happen. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make this up to you.” Sigyn gets down one knee in front of him, one fist over her heart, bowing her head. “I beg your forgiveness and mercy, my king.” 

Behind her, Odin visibly bristles. 

Looking at the king, the blood drains from Thor’s face. He grabs Sigyn’s arm and hauls her up. “There’s no need for that. I’m not king of Asgard.” 

“Not yet. But you are the rightful king of the NIne, and the only sovereign that I will recognize as such.” Sigyn doesn’t look back. The clear, pointed dismissal speaks volumes. Thor looks up at Odin nervously. 

“All is well, Sigyn,” Thor says, but the words have no feeling. 

Whatever. That’s fine. Thor can forgive and move on, find all that healing and crap. Clint is his friend, which means he gets to hold a grudge against her forever. He reaches out and clasps Sigyn’s hand. Her skin feels like static electricity against his own. He grits his teeth. 

“If you even think about hurting  Thor again, I’ll kill you.” He smiles pleasantly. His head tilts a little, as Sigyn’s piercing purple eyes stare into him. He thought it would be intimidating to have her looking at him directly. It’s not. Clint feels calm. Angry, but calm. Clint conders for a moment then adds, “Well, there will probably be a line. They don’t call us the Avengers for nothing.” 

Sigyn’s eyes are serious. “Good. He needs looking after.” 

Sigyn moves on. Steve grabs her arm, too, and whispers something low to her. He has that half-feral, you touch my team and I kill you look on, which means it was a threat. The Asgardians and Sigyn are clearly preparing to go like this entire thing is resolved now or nothing happened at all. Which is messed up. But fine. Clint doesn't want them here anymore. They need to look after Loki and Thor, and they can't do that the way the brothers need with the Asgardians breathing down their neck. 

Odin and Frigga stop in front of Loki and Thor. 

“Will you come with us, son?” Frigga asks Thor softly. She cups his cheek and Thor leans into it with longing. “We would look after you. You would be safe with us now, with the war over. Your father and I will explain what happened to your brother to the people…things will be able to return to how they used to be.” 

“I am where I want to be, Mother,” Thor whispers. 

Frigga looks upset, but she looks briefly toward Loki. And Steve, standing beside him, giving her a warning look. “...Alright. I will see you soon, I hope.” Frigga kisses his forehead. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” Thor says. The words sound toneless. “ Sjáumst, ha det, mother.”

Frigga turns to Loki. She doesn’t try to touch him. Her expression is closed. “For all of our struggles, I have never stopped loving you Loki, and I never will. When you are ready to come home, I will be waiting. We need to talk.” She gives him a significant look. 

Loki folds his arms across his chest. “Yes, I imagine.” He doesn’t sound happy about that. The next words are forced, “Sjáumst, ha det.” 

Frigga sighs. “I love you, Loki.” She says that like it somehow undoes everything. Like it’s the control Z for her actions of the last weeks. Don't worry, she loves Loki, so that fixes all the crap she’s put him through. The magic fix. Clint feels annoyed. 

Odin nods toward Thor. “I will see you soon, son.” He says. He looks over at Loki. For a moment, he hesitates, and it’s almost uncanny. Odin seems to say everything with such confidence and authority. He’s not a person that hesitates. “I will return with news of Thanos’ death for you, Loki.” 

Loki tilts his head. “If this is meant as an apology, it’s sorely lacking.” 

Odin’s teeth grit. “Loki.” 

“No,” Loki shakes his head, baring teeth. “You broke me. You have to live with that. I’m not going to say it’s fine now just so you can feel better. Kindly take your apology and shove it up your ass.” 

Thor reaches out and squeezes Loki’s shoulder. It’s probably as close to an open agreement that Thor feels comfortable giving. Tony, however, snorts loudly and claps once. “Seconded. Get out of my house, all of you. No one is actively dying anymore and I don’t need you to darken my doorstep anymore. Have a horrible day, all of you. You’ve earned it.” 

Odin and Frigga cast the engineer a mutually dark look. They look back at their children once before leaving, but say nothing. Sigyn leaves with the Asgardian escort. The windows rattle as the Bifrost sucks them back to Asgard. 

Thor slumps heavily into the nearest chair and buries his head into his hands. Loki takes the seat next to him and rests his hand on Thor’s shoulder. The two of them exchange a few murmured words to low for Clint to make out. 

“Alright, well that sucked,” Tony says. “And I for one would like to not think about how much that sucked for a minute. Movie, anyone?” 

000o000

Later that day, after binging several Mission Impossible movies--which are horrible to watch with Thor, he complains the entire time about inconsistencies--Loki and Clint are sitting across each other on either end of the coffee table on the floor, surrounded by popcorn kernels and crumbs from the pizzas Tony ordered. 

Clint almost thinks is kind of funny that this is where it finally happens, after everything. But he’s also completely okay with it. 

He doesn’t remember who started talking first, or who stopped, only that all of them came to the same conclusion that Clint did earlier: Thanos was using Sigyn and decided to take out Loki’s memories to keep using her. 

So now they’re sitting here, absolutely exhausted. Clint tries not to fidget while the sorcerer takes in deep breaths, holding Clint’s wrists. Clint is holding him back and feeling as Loki’s skin gradually warms. That must be the spell, because a rush of warmth starts trickling up Clint’s arms to his forehead. It feels like a fever. 

Clint closes his eyes and feels momentarily disoriented. Natasha is sitting next to him, not touching, but close enough that he can hear her breathing. Bruce is on his other side, and Tony, Thor, and Bruce clustered around Loki. 

Clint can remember doing this before. This feeling. 

In a dark, damp underground, with the overhead lights flickering. The scepter sat a few feet from them. Loki rarely touched it unless he had to. At the time, Clint had thought that was strange, but he didn’t ask. Loki had taken his hands, his skin feeling thin. “ You won’t even know that they’re there,” Loki had promised. “It will only be for a few weeks.” 

Clint then hadn’t cared. He would have held the memories forever if that would help Loki. 

Clint now would do the same. But not for the same reasons. Clint would do it because he wants to help Loki because Loki is his friend. Their connection is genuine, not scraped together from the scepter and forced upon them. And it’s because of that, Clint knows that he doesn’t have to hold the memories anymore. Loki doesn’t want him to suffer any more than Clint wants the same for him. 

Clint forces himself to relax and feels a lingering presence in the back of his mind. It feels like a tension headache, but he’s acutely aware that there’s something else there. At first, the sensation is sort of like being poked at, annoying but endurable. Then the headache starts to get worse. 

And worse.

And worse. 

Loki’s skin feels like it’s burning him where it’s touching him. He can hear something ringing dully and even with his eyes closed, he’s dizzy. He knows that minutes are passing. Loki warned that this could take hours to dismantle. Both of them have to be conscious, or Clint would have asked to be knocked out first. 

Time has lost all meaning when he feels something pulls in his mind, like some sort of mental wall just got shoved aside. 

And then the memories start flooding. He can only make out blurs and realizes that for as much as his mind had been trying to process the memories that aren’t his, Clint barely saw anything. 

…anything to take away this heat, quarter please…please…The hand comes back to caress his face, gentle, inviting, and almost sad. "Why do you continue to fight it, child? This is mercy. You're too shortsighted to see it." A long, weary sigh, "Stop fighting this, let me help you."..."Maybe if its so desperate to talk, we should put it on its face!"...lost one doesn't have a home to return to…It occurs to me that it has been some time since we had one of our talks…

Everything starts moving faster, blurring into vague images and distorted sounds. 

Then there’s this--

Snap. Like someone just broke a glow stick and shook it. Clint’s entire body twitches violently, a sharp, pulsing ache pushing up his spine. He can’t breathe for long seconds. His body forgot how. Everything is spinning. He can’t keep himself upright. He grabs harder at Loki’s arms so he won’t fall. The warmth comes back, and the ache eases considerably before it retreats again.

The tension releases suddenly and Clint collapses back, gasping. 

Natasha’s hands grab him, keeping him from falling against the floor, and Clint, shaking, grasps at her wrist, trying to find comfort. His body feels like one massive bruise. When he manages to squint his eyes open against the overhead lights, he sees that Loki is laying limp in Thor’s arms on the other side of the coffee table. 

Crap. 

Clint shoves up, wrestling his way out of Natasha’s grip. He barely manages to move. He keeps falling. 

“Hey, Ptitsa , Clint- -” Natasha’s fingers grab for his arm. Clint clasps Loki’s hand. His skin is cold, but it’s always cold, and that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but Loki’s skin is so pale it looks gray, and his eyes are moving rapidly behind closed lids. He keeps twitching. 

“‘s he ‘kay?” Clint’s words are slurred. He blinks a little. He sounds concussed. His head feels thick with fog. But Clint realizes something--Loki doesn’t hurt. There was always this constant pressure, a constant buzzing headache that he’d grown used to. It’s not there anymore. 

The edge of a migraine, the constant headache--

Gone.

It worked. 

Holy crap. It worked. 

He never felt the memories to begin with, so he can’t feel their absence, but he knows. Ever since Clint and Loki first got within five feet of each other after the Attack, Clint has been in pain. He’s not anymore. Just a vague sort of numb giddiness. There’s no edge of a migraine, no sense of wrong. Just… nothing. 

“I’d assume so,” Thor says, and Clint remembers his earlier question. Loki now. He can feel a thready pulse beneath his fingers. Alive. Thor rubs a hand over Loki’s sternum and Clint winces for his sake, but the sorcerer remains unresponsive. “He collapsed when you did. He’s not waking up.” Thor, to his credit, sounds a lot calmer than Clint feels about that prospect. 

Steve grips Thor’s shoulder. “What does that mean? Is he okay?” 

“Yes, he’s fine.” Thor says with a slight shrug, starting to gather Loki into his arms. “His brain needs time to re-set the memories inside his mind. He’ll wake up tomorrow completely fine. He just needs time to process everything again. For now, the best thing would be to let both of you sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” Clint says and realizes for the first time in months that it’s true.

Thor gathers Loki into his arms, giving Clint a pointed look. “You will be.” 

Like a mature adult, Clint sticks out his tongue. Natasha helps him up to his feet. His mind is willing but the flesh is weak. Exhaustion is beginning to hound his body. The walk back to their room is more of a stagger. His partner eases him down onto the bed and climbs in beside him, resting her head on his chest. Clint squints at the clock and realizes it’s past midnight. 

Huh. 

Natasha grabs his arm in the dark. “Go to sleep, ptitisa ,” she whispers. 

Clint wraps his arms around her. Slowly, overwhelming, aching exhaustion overcomes the adrenaline and, as promised, Clint quickly falls asleep. For the first time in months, he doesn’t wake up in a cold sweat, the horror of someone else’s memories running through his mind. He doesn’t wake up with phantom aches where he was hurt and an ache that can never be satiated. 

His sleep is deep, his own, and completely dreamless.