Every Anguished Soul - lizziegrace970 (2024)

Chapter 1: But now this room is spinning while I'm trying just to fill in all the gaps.

Chapter Text

In the depths of his solitude, he was shackled not by the chains but by the weight of every anguished soul he had condemned.

His solitude. How long had he been without contact, with only his reflection in the window as company? Day? Weeks? Months? Pacing anxiously back and forth in his cell desperately hoping for some sort of communication. When was the last time he had even seen a person?

But... he wasn't anymore.

There was light. Infiltrating all of his senses, overwhelming them. Blinding. Stifling. Suffocating. He couldn't move his arms, as though they were underwater. Everything was heavy, his eyelids begging to close again.

"Good morning, Sir. How are you feeling?" A cheery voice spoke up, it tasted like honey, the voice. Sickeningly sweet, like nails on a chalkboard.

Then he felt his lips. Actually felt them. Probably for the first time in months. This had to be an illusion, a hallucination of sorts. He shot his tongue out of his open mouth. Tracing it over the cracked lips that had the texture of sandpaper. His tongue was heavy too, after months of misuse.

Blood, there was blood racing down his throat. Taste, he could taste the blood. As gross as it was he relished every second of the metallic flavor, savoring it.

"Sir?"

He snapped his head up, ignoring the pounding pain radiating throughout his mind. Looking up at the voice. A petite woman with copper hair just above her shoulders, wearing an all-teal shirt and pants, a mask wrapping across her ears, gloves on her fingers.

"We're grateful that you're awake, Sir," her screeching-sweet voice spoke, but muffled, "I have to recommend you don't try talking immediately. Based on the scar tissue around the... wounds, it appears that the injuries have been around for several months," the woman trailed off, unsure of how to describe his injuries.

He attempted to roll his eyes, only sending a wave of nausea and dizziness throughout his body. Vaguely aware of the woman stepping closer to him, he looked away, only to notice the tube running up his nose.

His eyes widened, and his heavy arms clawed at the tube, trying to pull it out only to make a strangled gagging sound.

"Hey, hey, hey," The woman said gently, pulling down her mask as she sat on his bed, revealing an equally sweet smile, "You don't have to panic, those are only there to help you, how many fingers am I holding up?"

He ignored her, continuing to thrash and attempt to pull the tube out of his nose. It wasn't there to help him. Only hurt. She didn't want to help him. It didn't matter.

That was until she actually grabbed hold of his hands, stopping them from moving, the sweet gentle look in her eyes even more prominent, "How many fingers am I holding up?" It was a distraction, he knew it was a distraction. Just so that they could keep putting the poison down his throat. But he decided to play along anyway.

So he held up a trembling two fingers, watching as her eyes lit up, "Very good! How about now?" She asked, showing four of her plump fingers, grinning in delight as he gave the correct answer.

He wasn't sure how long it continued on for. The mindless questions, as if she took him for a toddler. He needed to get up, to do something. He was stuck, trapped, imprisoned.

Just as he was about to try and make a break for it, the door swung open, and a man wearing a long white coat stepped in. It took all of two seconds for his face to pale, the sound of a dying horse coming from his mouth, and then turning to the woman who was still holding up her fingers, "Come with me, now," his voice warned, clearly trying to keep the fear out of his words, and failing miserably.

Had he been slightly more coherent, he might have realized that perhaps the man had recognized him. But instead, he only watched in confusion as the woman co*cked her head, giving him a sympathetic look before following behind the white-coated man.

It only took a couple of seconds for the honey voice to shriek in fear, "LOKI?" promptly followed by a loud shushing noise.

Loki sat up immediately, panic and bile rising up his throat. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

He had to get out of here. Now.

Then the white-coated man stepped in again, holding a large object in his hand that made the god's blood run cold. It was a tube with a clear liquid inside, a needle on the top.

He needed to say something, for his silvertongue to come and save him from the syringe. But he could not speak. His tongue was coated in lead and unmoving in his mouth.

So like an idiot, he stood up from the cot he had been lying in. Tripping over his own feet as stepped away from the needle. That was a bad idea, especially when the world tilted dangerously to one side. He crashed back into the wall, his lungs refusing to work. His vision blurred as nausea overcame him. Just before he dropped to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the floor.

•••

"Glad to see you've joined us again," somebody said. Loki could somewhat recognize who was speaking, someone he had conversed with before, but as his eyes remained closed, he couldn't identify who they were.

Loki inhaled sharply, trying to remember what had happened. His eyebrow contorted as he thought. Sweet voice, tube, fingers, mouth, needle-

He shot his eyes open desperately, fingers brushed on lips, a small sigh of relief when he found he could still open.

"What are you doing here?"

The god turned, trying to keep an impartial face when he saw who it was. A bald, dark-skinned man, with a notorious eye patch over his face.

He paused, tongue trailing over teeth subconsciously as he thought. He couldn't talk. The words fizzled and dried up on his aching tongue after months of misuse. But Fury couldn't know that. He couldn't know that the villain who attacked New York was vulnerable.

"Let me ask again. What are you doing here?" Fury growled, his arms folded over his chest.

Loki said nothing. Opt for the silent treatment. Pretend that he was going on a speaking strike. Do not let the enemy know that he is incapable of talking. The Liesmith without his words.

He let his eyes trail around the room, refusing to focus on any of the needles or medical equipment around him. Stiffening when he saw the man that sat in the chair in the corner.

The man had strawberry blonde hair, pale skin, and thick circular glasses on his face. Loki had seen him somewhere before, he remembered. He remembered how the man made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Stark had mentioned something to Thor about him being the man above Fury. What was his name?

"Don't look at him, look at me," Fury spat, forcing Loki to turn his gaze to the mortal, "Why? Are. You. Here?"

The Prince of Lies still remained silent. What could he say? How his most powerful, sharp, weapon had been stolen right from him? Leaving him helpless and weak. Worthless?

"Nick, maybe I can talk to him," the man in the corner said quietly, standing up from his chair. Fury just scoffed but obliged, taking a step back.

"Hi there, Loki," the man said. His voice tasted bitter. "My name is Alexander Pierce, I just want to help you,"

Help him? Nobody wanted to help him. Not even Odin Allfather himself, the so-called protector of the nine realms. So he kept his mouth shut.

"I understand that you might be a little... uncomfortable right now, but we want to help you," he reeked of false sympathy and lies. Loki, being the god of them, could tell.

"But we can't do that if you don't help us out a little bit. Can you tell me what you're doing here?" He asked, sitting down on the end of the cot, staring at him with cold blue eyes.

Loki just stared straight ahead, his tongue tracing along his mouth, poking through his teeth.

Fury cleared his throat, ignoring Pierce's protests, "We can do this two ways, either you can tell us what the hell you're trying to do, or we can send you back up to Asgard. And I'm pretty sure they won't be happy to find out their number one criminal tried to escape,"

He just swallowed hard, a bitter laugh burning in his throat. Good guy, bad guy, how ironic. Loki could hardly remember all the times that he and Thor had played that game before bashing enemies' heads together.

Thor... Norns how he missed him. But that was foolish. Why should he miss the Golden Prince? Who never visited him once in his cell, glad to be rid of the burden he was? He hadn't even spoken to him when Odin found out that- Nope, stop thinking.

Loki blinked, trying to keep the stinging of tears firmly behind his eyes. Why did he deserve to miss people? He who had murdered hundreds of innocents? He who was the very monster whom Thor and him had sworn to destroy? He didn't deserve anything.

"Nick, please," Pierce interrupted, looking at Fury with a disappointed sigh that sent chills down Loki's spine. "I'm sorry about him," he smiled, turning back towards the wary god, "He's still a bit bitter about New York,"

That prompted an eyebrow raise from Loki. Why shouldn't he? He had killed countless numbers of Fury's men. What gave him any right to feel obligated to treat him with the slightest ounce of sympathy?

"Loki, we want to help you. We really do. But if you're unwilling to work with us, we'll be forced to resort to... other methods," Pierce said hesitantly. As if any of the 'other methods' they could concoct would be worse than anything he'd already been through.

Pierce went to open his mouth again but was stopped short by the sound of a small black box in his pants ringing.

"Hello?" He asked, seeming to listen to somebody on the other end, lips twitching in amusem*nt as Loki couldn't help but stare in wonder at the contraption. That stopped suddenly when his face dropped, a dark scowl taking over.

"What? You lost-" He stopped, apparently remembering that Loki and Fury still existed, "I- I need to go," he said to his partner, "Can you take care of this here?"

Fury raised an eyebrow but nodded stiffly, "Yeah, what's the problem?" He questioned, giving an exasperated sigh when Pierce just shook his head.

"I- just take him to the SHIELD headquarters, place him in a cell, can you take care of it?" Pierce said, more giving an order than actually asking. With that, he hurriedly marched out of the room.

Loki just stared at the closed door for a moment, puzzling over what had just happened before Fury regained his composure and started talking again.

"So, Ant," he glared while Loki just co*cked his head. Was that a name of sorts? Back on their first encounter? If so, it wasn't very creative.

"Looks like I'm taking you to SHIELD," he announced, gesturing for him to stand up.

Loki sighed, slowly standing, ignoring the dizziness that overwhelmed him. He steadied himself on the cot frame before turning back towards the director with an impassive look in his eyes.

Fury just grimaced, grabbing a... handcuffs? Out of his back pocket, clasping them around his hands. Tapping on his gun in a subtle way to remind him who was in charge.

The god knew he should be feeling something. Fear, regret, anger, anything. But he didn't.
He just felt numb.

Numb as he ignored the withering looks that the people outside gave him. The white-coated man who ratted him out and the smiley copper-haired lady. The dozen guards that surrounded him and the director. As if Loki was currently strong enough to do any sort of magic at the moment.

Sitting in the back of a prison van, driving to the SHIELD facility where he would no doubt be locked up once more, chained and starved.

And yet, even though he had managed to escape from Asgard, why was he foolish enough to believe anywhere he ran to would be any different?

Chapter 2: I'll call out your name, but you won't call back.

Chapter Text

Loki heaved. Retched into the toilet basin, spitting up the remnants of his dinner. It had been a bad idea to begin with. Going months without food or water and then devouring an entire meal hadn't been the most thought-out plan.

But he had been so hungry. Savored and enjoyed every single piece of nourishment that crawled down his throat. Even happy to taste something as he vomited the food back up. It had been months since he'd tasted anything other than blood and saliva on his tongue.

He just closed his eyes, resting his head against the cool porcelain. It was so hot. Sweltering and sweating under the heat. He blamed the room, that he couldn't cast a cooling spell on himself. Not that he would speak of his weakness to heat to Fury. Give him ideas of tortures he could use to get the god to speak.

Loki knew he should get up, and leave the bathroom before Fury tried to make sure he wasn't plotting murder behind the shower curtain. As if he even could, his magic was toast, unable to be used due to the collar wrapped around his neck compliments of the Allfather.

He groaned, or at least tried to. Only a feeble rasp coming out. Pressing on his frail hands, he stood up, wiping the acidic fluid from his lips.

There was nothing much in the bathroom. Metal floors with metal walls, screeching nails driving into his skull. A plain shower with a clear curtain. A pure white toilet and sink and a mirror above.

Loki hated the mirror. Loathed how it showed off how frail and gaunt his body looked. His skin stretched too tight around his cheekbones, dark under-eye bags the size of melons. Pale, cracked, lips with dried blood and vomit caked on. His hair, once a source of pride he maintained well, was now matted together and greasy, falling in front of his once sparkling emerald eyes.

Anyone could've seen it. How each rip and vertebra in his spin could be seen poking out through his thin clothes. His stomach concaved inwards. It was ridiculous. He was shivering. He had beads of sweat forming on his hairline, his skin had a pale blue tint to it. He was a Jötnar and he was shivering.

Try as Fury might, the fact that his resident God still refused to talk was getting on his nerves. It had been days, weeks even. Loki was trying, he really was. Each night in front of the mirror that displayed his quaint figure, desperately attempted to make a play at words. His throat was raw and red, any noise coming out only being a pathetic gasping.

It was humiliating. Here he was, Loki the master of words, Liesmith, Silvertongue, to have everything he had built his power and abilities on, ripped out from underneath him, leaving him falling and drowning in the aftermath.

Falling and drowning. Falling and drowning. Falling into the heat of his stifling clothes and drowning in the freezing air where the fabric wasn't. Something was wrong, very wrong. He was a god, he didn't get sick. He wasn't, it was his own mind playing tricks on him.

And he was thirsty. So thirsty, but trapped in the sweat of his own skin. Dry and dehydrated, he needed water. He knew he would just throw it all up regardless, but he couldn't breathe. Suffocating in this bone-dry, waterless room.

So he stumbled over to the sink, placing his head under the faucet and gulping down the tap water. He didn't care if it would make him sick. He was already, ill in the mind and ill in the body. He was going to die if he didn't drink something.

But he wasn't able to. Even as the water poured from the sink, it only ran down his lips, unable to open them.

No, this couldn't be happening again. His head shot up, fingers hysterically trying to force his mouth open. it wouldn't. He was trapped, again. He couldn't open his mouth and he couldn't live and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't be. His hands uncontrollably tearing at his lips. Finally, finally, the thread tore from his face, landing in his bloody hand.

But when he looked down, there was nothing there. Just his own blood and the panic of a fallen prince. A muffled, broken sob managed to claw it's way out, horror and shock at what was happening. He was losing his mind, imagining non-existent strings like he was a puppet without the master. He had only been on Midgard for days, and he hadn't been able to keep anything down for months. He hadn't been poisoned, the only thing he had was water.

The water... the glasses that they gave him with every meal. It wasn't him, no, he wasn't losing his mind. He was completely sane and okay. It was the water, they had done something to it. That was most definitely the reason.

But he was still so thirsty. No, he mustn't. That would only lead to more hallucinations, more shivering, and sweating.

So he collapsed to the ground, pulling his knees towards his chest as he tried to quiet the weeping hiccups erupting from his body. Pathetic, a god, a once Royal of Asgard sobbing on a cold tile floor in a lowly realm. Pathetic. He was pathetic.

A tired feeling taking over his body. For him to fall asleep, or fade into unconsciousness, he couldn't be sure anymore.

•••

He was awake again. That was the first thing Loki noticed. The second thing was that his limbs refused to move, and there was a loud banging on the door next to him. That probably wasn't good.

Then the door exploded.

Blown backwards off its hinges as what looked like a battering ram swung through instead. Several agents burst into the room, pausing and visibly confused when they saw the god lying in a tangle of limbs on the ground.

Then he saw the same one-eyed man step forward through the haze in his vision, "What's... matter... him?" he demanded, his voice cloudy and cutting out through the ringing in Loki's ears.

Words swirled around him, not that he could make any sense of them, "Burning up... sick? God... what... do? Docter? Yeah... maybe Banner..."

That was all Loki heard before he blacked out again.

•••

Loki really needed to stop waking up in cots where he didn't know where he was.

The sheets on top of him were like plastic and paper, flimsy and cool to the touch. Then there were voices, ones he recognized.

"I would assume it was a trauma response," the first one said, and Loki tried not to flinch. The monster in a man's skin. The green beast smashed him to the ground and freed him from her sickly grasp.

The other voice scoffed dubiously, "A trauma response?" Fury asked as Loki fought not to swallow hard. Where was he? Why was he in a cot pretending to be asleep whilst listening to a private conversation?

"A trauma response to what?" Fury repeated, his tone becoming more annoyed than anything.

Loki could almost feel the scientist shrug, "I don't know, but the scar tissue around his lips? That's not something that happens naturally, that's time and precision and most definitely on purpose. If I didn't know any better I'd say that-"

That prompted Loki to immediately open his eyes, his breathing heavy and raspy. Anything to stop Banner from figuring out his secrets.

The two men whirled around immediately, fear rippling through Banner's face before calming. Loki blinked, lifting his head to find out why his arms and legs wouldn't work. They were restrained, heavy metal binding his extremities to the cot. The magic-suppressing collar was still firmly snug around his neck like he was a dog.

"Loki, you're up," Banner said, his voice ringing with constricted judgment and... sympathy. That couldn't be right. He didn't care about the villainous god. Nobody gave a damn. They don't care about him.

So he said nothing, fighting the desiring urge to make sure he could still open his mouth. Fury just rolled his eyes and scoffed, "Loudmouth refuses to speak suddenly. Don't get why, he could yack up a storm back when he was set on world domination," his lips twitched upwards when Loki winced slightly.

Banner just sighed, turning away from the restrained god "Could I maybe talk to him... alone?" He asked, ignoring the surprised looks on both Fury and Loki's faces.

"Yeah, because your last few encounters have been all lovey-dovey," The spy snorted, still staring down at Loki like he was an insect. A plaything ready to be picked apart like meat. "I wouldn't even let you talk to him if there were a dozen guards stationed in here. I didn't even want you here in the first place. This guy's a threat. He knew exactly how to get to you last time, who's to say he won't try it again?"

Banner took a step back, eyes flashing a thousand feelings of hurt before he opened his mouth again, "Right," he muttered, his voice angry and betrayed, "Just make sure he gets a lot of fluids. Keep his room cool too. Be careful he doesn't pick at the injuries, don't want them to get infected,"

With that, Banner turned on his heel, walking out of the room before Loki could roll his eyes. Meanwhile, Fury just glared at him. Apparently blaming him for spouting those hateful truths to the mad scientist.

"Get a team to take him back to the cell," Fury growled into a device he had inside his ear, stepping backward as agents immediately surged into the room, taking the restraints off his wrists and ankles, roughly placing handcuffs soon after.

Loki still remained silent as they bound him, demanding he get out of the cot. He was in the exact same position. Being forced to be locked up again, just like the nice lady with the fingers. It was his fault. He was the one who pushed and destroyed every bond that had ever tried to be established. Frigga, Odin, the finger lady, Thor.

How many times had he silently cried out to them? Hoping that someone would be observant enough to notice how deep the soul wounds went? Banner had noticed, Banner had noticed the scars around his mouth when nobody else had even bothered to look. But he had pushed Banner away too.

Calling out to people he knew wouldn't call back.

Chapter 3: Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon.

Chapter Text

Seven days.

At least that's how long he thinks it's been. Seven days since Banner had come. He only knew by how many conversations and interrogations Fury would try to have each day. Eventually threatened food and water. Even though Banner had explicitly said not to.

Loki didn't care. Didn't care about any kind of sustenance anymore. He had stopped caring long ago. He could deal without meals, he had after he fell.

And he had come to enjoy Fury's interrogations. Appreciated having somebody talk to him, to see if he would answer. Actually wish to listen to him. He knew Fury didn't care. Fury would probably be happier if he dropped dead to the floor right now. But he still waited. Listening for an answer that would never come. Listening to the silenced Prince.

But then Fury stopped coming. Took the guards that surrounded his cell out too. Actually fulfilled his empty threats of no food. Loki shouldn't have minded. He knew he shouldn't have minded. He was a god, Skywalker of the nine realms. He would not be broken by mere silence.

He would not be broken. He would not break. He would refuse to have survived years of torment just to have silence push him over the edge. Refused to let the deafening echoes of his empty footsteps haunt him.

It's quiet. Too quiet. Quiet enough that he could hear his rapid heartbeat and panicked breathing. He said he wouldn't break but apparently, his body says otherwise.

And the thing that hurt him most was that for once in his life, he had no exit strategy. Because even if he could call out to Heimdall, why would he? When he was the one who betrayed him. Heimdall who ratted him out to the Allfather? That it was a crime to speak to his Mo-Frigga. He was responsible for the thread coating his lips like poison.

No, he would not even entertain the possibility of begging Heimdall to take him back to Asgard. Back to imprisonment. Back to the unspeakable punishment.

He was alone. Completely and utterly alone.

And it was shameful that isolation had been the thing to break him.

He couldn't do this. Loki couldn't do this. He couldn't speak, he couldn't eat, he couldn't exist. He was worthless without his words. Words were his power and without them he was nothing.

He sighed, lying in his uncomfortable bed. His head facing upwards, examining the glass ceiling and the piping lining the roof. He was tired, so tired. Tired of longing for a death that would never come. When Thor had dropped him into the abyss, he was falling. Falling, falling, falling down.

And ashamed as he was to admit it. He hoped it was the end. Wished that that would've been the end. So peaceful after a life of pain. Go to Hel and wander amongst ghosts in the afterlife forever. A world without memories and love. A world without pain.

He had to do something. Loki was bored. Bored, tired, and lonely. He sat up, that was something, right? Sitting cross legged on a wilted bed. He couldn't pace, much as he wanted to. Pacing would show anxiety, anxiety showed weakness. That their isolation methods were working.

And he couldn't scream. Couldn't mindlessly taunt others as a source of therapy. Couldn't yell at the Norns for cursing him this way. Beg them to give him another fate. Cry out to the world to make it stop. That he was done. The Fates had successfully broken him. Nothing more than an empty husk of the one confident Prince.

So he just kept sitting up, he would not cry. He would not cry.

He just examined the cracks forming in the cement.

•••

Bruce was conflicted.

He wasn't entirely sure what to do.

Granted, most people would have no idea where to go after treating a villain God who tried to take over the world. Especially a certain terrorist who forced Bruce to kill dozens of innocents.

But he had seemed so... broken. Like the Titan Atlas with the weight of the world in his hands. Seconds away from collapsing and falling apart.

Something didn't sit right with Bruce. The dangerously underweight, bony frame with tired green eyes. The delirium and half-conscious state the god had been in. It wasn't right, the way he seemed fevered, shivering, and sweating but his skin was still critically cold for a human. And his mouth...

The scarring around his lips. Tiny, delicate, precise holes. Bruce had nearly been sick when he saw them for the first time. And the fact that nobody realized it either maddened him. No wonder Loki hadn't been speaking. It had probably been agony to even open his mouth. He hadn't lied to Fury, no. Those weren't a battle wounds. That was torture.

And what annoyed him the most was that he knew something about it. Something in a Norse mythology book he had picked up after the New York fiasco. But he couldn't remember. It was something important to. Something important about the scars and Norse myths that would reveal anything. And he couldn't remember it.

Neither could he go to the nearest library to pick up a book either, as he was currently camping out in a small village in El Salvador. After the invasion, he had been compromised in most countries. And he absolutely refused to stay with SHIELD like Steve. Locked up like a lab rat for them to poke at him.

He had only come to SHIELD in the first place due to the... extreme circ*mstances. Then leaving in the middle of the night to go to another remote location.

He was tired, of all the running. Hiding and never getting to live a normal life. And stuck. He was also stuck. Unable to get the goddamn book he needed to figure out what was wrong with the murderer.

Bruce groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with frustration. He knew who he could call, who would have the answer in less than a second. The problem was he just didn't want to deal with him. At least, not without a bottle of Advil and a healthy dose of alcohol.

He knew that he should contact him. Just like he knew that he shouldn't even care in the first place about Loki. The guy had murdered hundreds of civilians for the fun of it. He was a bloodthirsty monster.

Although, wasn't Bruce's other side the same way?

No, Bruce didn't have a choice. He had no control over what the other guy did. Loki, he did have that choice. And he abused that decision, using his power and scepter to hurt populations of people. He knew that morally, Loki probably deserved whatever had happened to him.

But the wounds around his lips...

Bruce was going to regret this, he was most certainly going to regret this. Calling the idiot with the books and helping Loki. This whole thing was a disaster waiting to happen.

Yet he still dialed the number on his tiny flip phone. An emergency Blackberry he had that SHIELD couldn't track.

Straight to voicemail.

That wasn't surprising. The guy probably got thousands of phone calls a day. But this was important, plus, they had saved the world together, Bruce figured that owed him a conversation.

So he called again. And again. And again. And-

"You have reached the life model decoy of Tony Stark. Please leave a message. Official consulting hours are between eight and five, every other Thurs-"

"Just cut the crap, Tony," Bruce interrupted the billionaire, already annoyed at the fact he hadn't had a drink on hand.

That stopped Tony dead in his tracks, a stunned silence before his voice rang out through the phone, "Doc Green? God, it's been so long, where'd you vanish off to? Italy? Greece? Bora Bor-"

"Norse mythology,"

"What? You went to Thor's big ol' home in the sky?"

Banner sighed, biting back a frustrated scream behind his teeth, "Loki. Norse mythology. What do you know about Loki in Norse mythology?"

Tony paused, the humor fading from his tone, "Why are we talking about this? It's over. It's done. Prongs got sent back to the golden sky place years ago," he rambled, and Bruce was unsure of whether he was trying to convince his fellow scientist or himself.

"Listen, it's probably nothing. It is nothing. I just- can you find some article and read it to me? About Loki? And... mouth injuries?" Bruce trailed off, wincing at how the last words came out.

Stark sighed, and Bruce could almost imagine his eyes rolling to the back of his head, "Yeah, just gimme a sec. Why can't you do this on your own by the way? And JARVIS, can you pull up... yeah, that's it," Tony spewed, words flying out of his mouth faster than he could keep up with.

Yep, Bruce was definitely going to need a drink after this, "Because I'm on a flip phone! Now what does it say?" He burst out before taking a breath. It was nothing. It was probably nothing. He just needed to be sure.

"Yeah, uh..." Tony hesitated before speaking again, "Apparently he made a bet with some dwarves, costing his head. That's strange by the way. What kind of idiot makes a bet with his head as the price? Anyways, apparently, he got out of it with, surprise, surprise, tricky words. And as punishment he, uh..."

Bruce couldn't help but groan, "What? He what?" But he was sure he already knew the answer. But it couldn't be. He had to be mistaken. He couldn't be what he thought.

"He got his mouth sewn shut,"

Bruce would not get angry. He would not get angry. He would not. He would not march over to whoever did this and Hulk smash them into the ground.

"Uh... Bruce?" Tony's voice cut through, "You okay?"

He glanced down, unaware the phone had even slipped from his hands. Shaking as he picked it up, he grit his teeth.

"Yeah, just... how fast can you get a plane to Mexico and get the other Avengers together?"

Chapter 4: I see the danger, it's written in your eyes.

Chapter Text

Loki's sitting in the bathroom again when they come. He doesn't know why. Why the scientist helped him or why he's sitting on the tile floor? Maybe because it's the only place where there aren't cameras showering every corner of the cell.

He has in head in between his knees, listening to the constant drip of the leaky sink. He knew that he should've felt something. But he'd long since given up on pathetic emotions. He was prepared to sit on the floor for the rest of his godly life, whether he wanted to or not.

It was the angry knock on the door that surprised him. Barely holding back a relieved, mangled, gasp. He hated Fury, absolutely despised him. But he had reached the point where he would do anything for even a drop of social contact.

Because he might even be willing to try and show Fury that he can't talk. Just so that he won't be so alone. So that maybe he can have food for the first time in weeks.

"Loki? You in there?" A voice calls out. Only, it's not Fury. It's Banner. Banner is talking to him. Asking and waiting for an answer.

And he tries to open his mouth. Tries to give Banner a reply to some degree. But he's just so tired. His lips are slack, refusing to move. The world turned various shades of yellow when he jerked his head up.

"Loki? I'm coming in," Banner says. And Loki can't even make a feeble noise of protest. He just wants to be done. He's given up on looks and pride. He knows that the Fates are cackling down at him from Yggsdrail.

Loki just turns his head back onto his knees, trying not to notice the way Banner's looking at him like a hurt puppy. He knows he's not looking the greatest. He knows that. The mirror tells him those insults every time he has the energy to stand. He's aware of how the baby blue prison garments seem to hang off his frame, the way his bones jut out of his skin. He's aware more than anyone that he looks like a disaster and a mess. He just doesn't need Banner to point it out.

And then the scientist is crouching down, hesitantly looking at him with his big brown eyes. "Loki... what happened?" He trails off because he knows the answer. It's a rhetorical question because anyone who took a look at him for a second would see the state he's in. And even if Loki could answer, he wouldn't anyway. He didn't need Banner to see how weak he was. Banner was here for a reason and it sure as Hel wasn't to help him.

Banner stares at him for a couple more seconds before he sighs and stands up, walking back out of the room much to Loki's relief. He hates this. He hates how small and insignificant he feels compared to Banner. He knows he said he didn't care but Banner was an Avenger. A companion of Thor's misfit friends.

Loki just bit his lip, ignoring the bitter tears hiding behind his eyes. He can't do this. Can't deal with Banner coming in only to judge and poke fun at him to the world. He's just so... tired. He isn't even sure of what anymore. He's just, tired. Tired and hoping that maybe death will be the catch-all nap he needs.

Bruce was seconds away from releasing the Hulk and smashing Fury into a giant blob of meat. Sure, Loki was a villain, he needed to pay for his crimes. Bruce agreed with that as much as the next person. But that? The way that Loki looked at him? The tired, dull eyes with monstrous purple eye circles underneath? The cheeks that caved inwards? A small, trembling body that reminded him of a person in hospice, he was certain that the god didn't even notice the shaking.

And that was the strangest part, he was a god. Not a civilian who screamed when they stubbed their toe. He was the god who had the ego to ask for a drink after getting attacked by the Hulk. He had murdered Phil without even batting an eyelash. He wasn't supposed to be... well, weak.

Bruce was still fuming when he marched into the conference room with the rest of the team. In all honesty, he hadn't kept in contact with the team, although he had been trying to run away from SHIELD in his defense. But he had gotten the main gist from blabbermouthed Tony.

Steve and Nat had been camping out at another SHIELD location in Washington D.C. Bruce never really thought he would see the day where Captain America became a spy, but, there they were. Tony had been enjoying life in his fancy Stark Tower. Clint had been on some month-long mission to Iowa of all places. And Thor was still off-world. He had mentioned something about a rainbow bridge being destroyed so he wouldn't be able to visit Earth. That raised the question of why Loki was here, but Bruce wasn't going to investigate. Researching magical teleporting was way too far out of his pay grade.

He walked into Tony arguing with Fury about harboring the 'dangerous' criminal. Although, from the looks of it, Bruce doubted said criminal could even throw a ball of yarn five feet. So promptly ignoring what Tony had been saying, he marched right up to Fury, holding a finger up to his face.

"You asshole!" Bruce shouted. Surprising even himself with his word choice. But the situation called for it and he specifically told Fury to keep a close eye on him and it's obvious that they did the exact opposite. He knows that he looks like a deranged animal but he can't help it. This is America, the land of the free. This type of stuff isn't supposed to happen. America was supposed to be a safe haven for all.

Only that's not true. And Bruce knows it more than anyone. And he'd be damned if he let that happen to someone else.

But he's smart enough to know that he can't chew out the director of the nation's intelligence agency. At least, not yet. So instead he turned to a very confused slightly concerned team, "With me. Now," he growled before anyone got the chance to protest.

He ignores the sarcastic remarks from Tony and Steve over worrying about him letting the Other Guy out. But the Other Guy isn't the one they should be worried about.

"Bruce?" Nat asked, finally breaking through his racing mind, "Are you okay? What's actually going on?"

And he wants to answer. He does, but he can't. Because all he could think about was how exhausted Loki looked, the books he was able to scrounge up about him and the dwarves.

So Bruce and the Avengers arrive at the cell, and he glares at the nearest guard, who thankfully is smart enough to open the door.

Loki hadn't expected anyone to come back. He knew that Banner had called out to him, but he had later assumed it had been a mistake. Because nobody wanted him. Nobody wanted the cast out runt of Jotunheim.

He still hasn't moved off the bathroom floor when there's another knock. But this time he doesn't even bother to look up. He can't take it anymore. The possible hope of having somebody talk to him only to be disappointed is too much. So he really is surprised to hear Banner's voice again.

"Loki? I-I'm coming in. And I brought a couple of friends," Banner says, and before Loki even has time to react, the door is blown off it's hinges with a blast and a flash of gold and red.

And the worst part is that he knows who it is. He knows who Banner's 'friends' are, who are silently judging him. And he finds himself waiting for the Thorish loudness, but there isn't any. Thor doesn't care about him and he was a fool for believing that he might.

He couldn't deal with them. Physically or mentally. He couldn't deal with Stark or Rogers or Banner or... Barton. Maybe he could deal with Barton. Barton, who forced him to eat when his mind was not his own. Who helped him stand when his body felt like fire.

So he took the time to move his head up, looking directly into the archer's shocked eyes. Grateful when he took a step forward, crouching down beside him. Silently extending a hand to help.

"Jesus, Reindeer Games. What happened to you? You look like you went through torture,"

Loki snapped his head up as he fights back a bitter laugh. Because what can he say? He was the Silvertongue without his words. Thor without his hammer and Stark without his suit. What is he but nothing more than a powerless Jotun runt? But he deserves it. The Allfather decreed it and Frigga said that everything he does has a purpose. So he deserves it. The literal King of the nine realms told him so.

"Loki!" Barton screeched, ripping Loki from the negative spiral. He's vaguely aware of Barton shooting Stark a glare as he tries pulling Loki up, only for most of his weight to fall onto Barton's shoulders.

"sh*t, did you?" Stark asked, still staring at the God, a little concerned.

Loki just squeezes his eyes shut. He can't do this. He can't deal with the questions, the stares, and the judgment. Anything. He just wants to go home. But he doesn't have one.

"Loki, can Cap carry you?" Barton said. And Loki knows that he should let him. He knows that it'd be easier on everyone if he let Cap carry him. But he can't. He doesn't want to be treated like a child in need of assistance.

And he's thankful that apparently both Barton and Cap get this gist, as Barton just continues to assist him out of the room.

He hates this. He's weak and vulnerable in front of the very people who were dead set on destroying him a year ago. He can't take it. The glares that the guards send him and the electric sticks in their hands.

They almost make it to the exit when they see Fury standing in front of the door.

"Where are you taking him?" He growled, venom lacing his words.

Stark opens his mouth to no doubt say some snarky remark but Banner beats him to it. "To the Stark Tower,"

That caused the billion to whip his head around, "What? You dragged me into the mess and now you're making the murderous psychopath stay with me?"

The murderous psychopath in question has most of his weight on the hawk. Still swaying slightly and looking as though he was seconds away from passing out.

Bruce sighed, turning from the wilted god, "Because after what SHIELD did to him? You're the only person I trust," and he probably had the proper medical equipment for the extremely malnourished Loki. "Now, come on," He said, gesturing to the black SUV Nat had driven them in, "Let's go,"

Chapter 5: You better pray I don't get up this time.

Chapter Text

Loki's anxiously picking at his left palm when Banner steps in, this time with Stark. He supposes that the team doesn't trust Banner alone with him. Which isn't all that surprising. He can barely trust himself alone with his thoughts.

He just wished that it wasn't Stark who had to accompany him. Maybe Barton, Barton still hates him. But maybe less so than the others.

"Alright, Reindeer Games," Stark announces, clasping his hands together, "Let's get this over with, I wanna have dinner, yeah?"

Loki can't help but roll his eyes gratefully when it doesn't send a wave of lightheadedness coursing through his veins. He turns to Banner expectantly, trying to hide the suspension in his face.

Banner sighs at Stark's comment, walking towards Loki, "Can I give you an examination?" Banner asked, and for a moment, Loki's confused. Because he is asking him. He cared about whether or not Loki actually wants to. And normally, he would say no. Absolutely not, not with the scars that lace his back and stomach. The wounds around his mouth and the dead-thin limbs. But maybe... just because Banner cared enough to ask, Loki might say yes.

So he gives a small incline of his head, before examining his bony fingers, not wanting to see his reaction. But he can't help but watch with intrigue when Banner pulls out an instrument. Placing two ends in his ears with a larger circle on the end.

Stark snorts, watching Loki's curiosity, "It's called a stethoscope. For listening to hearts and stuff," he said condescendingly. And Loki flushes, glaring down at his fingers.

He's vaguely aware of Banner shooting Stark another glare before unexpectedly placing the device on his chest. He flinches, before reddening and grimacing at his palm.

"Breathe," Banner says, forcing Loki to release the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "It's not going to hurt you. It's just to help me hear better. Now, can you take a deep breath in?" He asks, treating Loki like an infant. He isn't, he knows how to breathe but he doesn't know if Banner is telling the truth or not. Every word he utters is coated in sympathy and fear it's hard to distinguish any lies in between.

It goes on for quite a while, the heart listening and 'blood pressure monitoring' and temperature taking. To which Banner mentions something to Stark about him having an extremely low temperature. Loki only pales and pretends that he didn't hear them. They can't know about the monster he is. He refuses. It's only when he starts asking questions that the panic sets in.

"When's the last time you ate?" Banner asks suddenly, sitting down in a chair beside the cot he's lying in. Loki swallows, hard. Because what is he supposed to say? That the last time proper meal he had was the breakfast of Thor's coronation? That getting proper nutrients when he was with Him wasn't exactly his main goal? That he couldn't even use his mouth in his cell the past months?

So he stays silent. Because he can't even talk. He is the liesmith with no lies.

Stark just gives an exasperated sigh while Banner tosses him another sympathetic look. "You don't have to answer. I just want you to think about it," the doctor reasons before asking more annoying questions, "When was the last time you slept?"

Loki finds all of this pointless. Pointless and humiliating. So humbling in the fact that he can't remember a time where he hadn't fallen asleep due to passing out or from utter exhaustion. Because even in Fury's cell, he couldn't. Because that was when the nightmares started. He doesn't even remember the last time he slept without nightmares. Of Jötnar or the void. His mind is broken and there's nothing he can do about it.

Banner just gives another pitiful look, and this time Loki can't tell if it's real or not. "I just have one more question," he says sympathetically and he just rolls his eyes. He's tired. Tired of the invasive questions and pretend looks.

"Did you have your mouth sewn shut?"

Loki snaps his head up. Panic rises through every fiber of his being. He's raw, exposed, like a nerve. And he can't breathe because there is thread lacing his lips together so he can't live. All of his secrets spilling out in front of Banner and he's helpless. And he tries to dart his tongue out of us mouth but it won't work. His lips are tied together and he can do nothing. Nothing as his lungs forget how to work, rapid, trembling breaths consuming him.

He's vaguely aware of Banner reaching towards him. But he doesn't care. Banner is the least of his concerns because his mouth is sewn shut and he is dying. This is what death feels like, the world is spinning and nothing in his body works properly.

And then he's falling.

Falling and falling.

Down, down, down.

Until he lands on the floor with a crack, something hard crashing down onto his chest. Searing black spots into his vision. He's in pain. So much f*cking pain.

He gasps, managing to pry the block of concrete off his ribs. Feeling around the jagged, sharp, pieces of bone gently showing, appearing as though his skin has lumps in it. His rib is broken. It's broken. Most definitely. He can tell by the way it feels like he's being stabbed every time he inhales.

He isn't sure how long he sits there. Rasping shallow, gasping breaths until he coughs wetly, a trickle of blood dripping onto his chin. That probably wasn't good.

It probably wasn't good when the masked agents started shooting at him either. He ducks, wincing as the echoing gunshots screech into his enhanced ears. It's comical, honestly. For them to think that simple bullets could kill a god. Harm him? Sure. But kill? Never.

He manages to crawl through a small opening in the debris. Pain laces his lungs with every breath he takes. But he can't even groan, because they will find him. Whoever the agents were that were shooting at him would find him. And he can't let that happen.

He's almost to the end of the tunnel. He's so close. So close to the end and then he can escape and maybe try to find the Avengers. He hates them but he hates the idea of getting shot at even more.

Then he feels a dull thud in his shoulder. Almost as if someone's punched him. But when he looks over it is soaking in Jotun-blue blood. That also probably wasn't good. Not lethal, just painful. Though the amount of pure adrenaline he was running was dulling it, but only slightly.

He turns, glaring at wherever the gunshot came from. It's a single agent, aiming their gun right towards him. Pulling the trigger only for it to make a weak clicking sound before tossing it aside. Promptly crawling faster through the tunnel to catch up.

This isn't good. He's fighting a losing battle and he knows it. His ribs are shattered and he's bleeding out of his arm. He can maybe try to get out of the rubble tunnel before the agent catches up, but who knows how many more are outside?

Then he hears a shout. A faint one from the agent behind him. But he recognizes the voice. The lead agent in charge of his cell. A friend of Pierce's. Rum-something. Rumlow. Why is Rumlow trying to kill him? Because he left SHIELD?

And he's so close to the end. Maybe ten yards left. Seven yards. Five yards. Three.

Something pierces his side. He ignores it, only stinging a little bit. It's not a gunshot, and if they tried to sedate him it won't work. But he glances down, ignoring the panic rising in his throat when he pulls out the syringe.

He bursts through the tunnel. His vision blurs slightly. Dirt and ash cover everything, faintly able to hear more gunshots and grunts. A red and gold blast, a shield. Maybe he's lucky. Maybe SHIELD was after the Avengers instead. But he doesn't believe in the false hope.

Especially when an agent spots him and speaks hurriedly into his helmet. He somewhat notices the rest of the agents chasing him, Stark shouting muffled words. Loki doesn't care. He just runs. The pain in his ribs muted and softened compared to the fear he feels right now.

Darting behind a collapsed wall, desperately praying to whatever Norns are laughing down at him to just save him. It's pointless. If he had his magic he could escape and cause them all to crumble to dust in a second. Teleporting away before anyone even realized what had happened. But he wasn't. He couldn't. Trapped in a sack of flesh that refused to obey him.

So instead he crawls inside a small hole made by the ruins, his small frame allowing him to fit inside. Listening intently for any signs of Rumlow or the agents. His breath hitches in his broken ribs when he hears him.

"Yeah, son of a bitch got away. Yeah, maybe... but he didn't have it with him," Rumlow growls into his helmet, "Yes, I'm aware of his collar thing, but he's a god. Who knows how many tricks he has up his sleeve,"

Loki bites his tongue to stop himself from gasping or heavy breathing. They're talking about him. He knew Rumlow was after him but hearing it makes it feel so surreal. Like knowing that He would be searching for Loki after he failed. Partially grateful to be locked up in Asgard.

"Do you want me to stay here? See if he's somewhere in the mess?" Rumlow asks, a grunt of submission before grabbing a gun from an agent nearby, "Keep searching the perimeter, he can't have gone far,"

With that, Rumlow walks away, but the echoing footsteps of agents behind him refuse to leave. So he waits. And waits. And waits. Until he hears nothing.

So as small as possible, he stumbles out from the crawlspace he was hiding in. Dirt and soot cover his face, and he holds onto his side with every breath he takes.

The agents are gone now. He isn't sure where they went. He doesn't know where the Avengers are either. But he refuses to feel upset by that. They don't care about him. They never did. He was just an instrument in their game.

So he walks. Staggering down the streets of New York, too battered and bruised for anyone to recognize him. Until he finds an alleyway. Managing to make his way into it before his knees buckle under him.

His eyelids threatening to flutter shut. His back pressed against the brick wall. Every time he moves his chest sends a wave of agony over him. He isn't sure if he's bleeding internally or just from the gunshot wound on his shoulder. It isn't a lot. But with everything, he loses consciousness.

And right before he does, he can't help but wonder if this will finally be it.

Chapter 6: Do or die, you'll never make me, because the world will never take my heart

Chapter Text

Thor was feeling particularly proud of himself today. Granted, he was proud of himself most days after vanquishing some mindless beast. But he was proud of himself because he was going down to the dungeons to visit Loki.

Granted, it wasn't for as noble reasons as he would like to admit. He had been attempting to smooth out what remained of the Jötnar population since Loki's vial attacks. He figured it was the least he could do. Part of the plan included bringing Loki back to Jotunheim to face justice in the crumbled realm.

But he was going to see his brother no matter the reason. So that had to count for something, right? Thor's mind was racing as he marched down to the cells. He missed his brother. He really did. But he didn't miss the power-hungry beast who he now claimed to be. Demanding a throne and hurting whoever was in his path. So, in a way, Thor was dreading seeing him.

"I need to speak with the Prince, Loki," he announced to the guard stationed outside the prison.

The soldier paled, gulping before answering, "I'm afraid that's not possible your Majesty,"

Thor sighed, confused as to why. He could probably try to manipulate him, the man was young, probably only 1,000 or so. But that type of control had always been more Loki's style. So he resulted in what he did best, brute force.

"I am the crown prince of Asgard. Why are you refusing me entry?" Thor hated this. Hated using his court titles to get what he wanted. But this wasn't about using Loki as a way to make peace anymore. It was about why. Why was he suddenly banned from visiting his brother?

"The Allfather's orders, Your Highness,"

Thor's blood freezes. The Allfather. The king. His own father. Loki's father. Odin, Allfather almighty has refused Thor to see his own brother. He needs to talk to somebody, now. Because the gauze that his father had placed around his eyes is beginning to slip.

So he gives the guard a glare that could kill him before he turns on his heel to find his mother.

•••

"What is the matter, my son?" Frigga asked calmly, trying to comfort her son to no avail.

Thor just huffed in response, "He lied to me! He is my father and he lied to me,"

Frigga sighed, placing her hand on top of his, "Everything your father does is for a reason," she trailed off, unsure of even her own words.

He scowled, huffing in annoyance, "I'm the crown prince of Asgard. He's not supposed to keep secrets from me,"

"What about the truths he kept from Loki? Were those also not to protect him?" Frigga countered, a warning evident in her eyes that Thor couldn't be bothered to notice.

"That was different," Thor scoffed, ignoring her expression darken, "Father did so to give Loki a proper childhood," he also chose to ignore the way his voice cracked when he spoke his brother's name.

"Your brother was stripped of his childhood. Stolen by your father as a bargaining chip!" Frigga burst out, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath before reopening them again.

But Thor just gave an oafish look of confusion, "Father said he was abandoned and left?"

"If you only hear one side of the story, you have no understanding at all," She said gently, a small, broken, smile twitching across her mouth as she walked away, leaving behind her puzzled son.

•••

It was an hour of pacing later when Thor figured out what she meant. Hence the reason he was marching down the broken rainbow bridge.

"Heimdall," he called out, facing the golden-eyed man, "I am in need of your assistance,"

"I am forbidden to speak of the matter, Your Highness,"

Thor blinked for a moment, confused before remembering that the reason he knew everything was the reason he was even down here. Shaking his head, he laughed, "Why not?"

"The King has decreed it so,"

Thor's blood was boiling again. Refusing to believe it. What did his father do that was so terrible that his own son may not know about it? "I have to go," he growled, about to walk away before Heimdall spoke again.

"Of course, the ears and eyes are two very different things," he mused, eyes still glazed over as he spoke.

Thor whipped around, blonde locks falling in front of his features, "So then let me see. Let me see where my brother is. What happened to him?" He nearly begs, reduced to nothing more than pathetic pleads.

Heimdall remained passive, his words the only sign he'd even heard, "It will not be the most pleasant experience. His memories are... harsh," He decided to say finally, "Are you prepared?"

The Prince only nodded, desperate to see if the boy he once called his brother was okay, "Show me,"

And then he's plunged into the terrors.

•••

Loki wakes up sitting in a cold and wet cell. Every movement feels like he's just run a marathon. Even attempting to open his eyes. There's sweat racing down his back like a waterfall. His brain threatened to explode out of his skull.

Then noise flares through the aching silence, but his ears can't decipher it. Nore will his eyes obey his attempts to open them. The sound is words, he just can't understand them. His brain is muddled and he doesn't know if he's alive or dead.

He fell, and he let go of Gungrir. He tried to kill himself. A part of him still doesn't believe it and a part of him wishes he had succeeded. Maybe this is Helheim. Maybe he did die. Because he knows this isn't Valhalla because he's a monster and he deserves to rot in Hel.

But then a screeching pain explodes through is body. Rocks squeeze him together as they float into the air. Compressing his lungs. Too exhausted to stop the cry of pain.

"You'd do best to obey a child of Thanos," the voice spoke. Surprised that he could actually understand this time, he forced his eyes open. A strange humanoid creature, with pointed ears and no nose. He's tempted to taunt the creature or ask where he was. But he knows better than that.

The creature just stares at Loki, co*cking his head and looking at him with pity, "Consider yourself lucky, Jotun runt. Father has found you powerful enough to be of use in his Great Plan,"

Loki paled, eye flitting around nervously. The creature knew who he was. Who he truly was. The beastly blood that ran under his skin. "Who are you?" He asked, his voice cool and monotonous, masking the panic underneath.

The creature narrowed its eyes, "For a master sorcerer of Asgard, you are quite dull," He tsked, "I am Ebony Maw, a child of Thanos. My father has resurrected you from the dead"

His mind whirled. He succeeded. He had died. He finally reached peace. But it was just his luck that the Norns had refused to let him get his happy ending. "What do you want from me?" He spat, whilst simultaneously trying to access his seidr. Why wasn't it working?

Maw's lip twitched upward slightly, "Father will explain that shortly. And don't try to use your magic, Jotun runt, it is bound,"

Loki paled, he was a spell caster. He needed his seidr. Needed it like a fish to water. He was powerless, worthless, without it. His secret weapon when fighting battles. Had he been in full strength with his seidr he could've destroyed Maw from the inside out. Then the truth dawned to him. He was stuck. Stuck with no one to call out to.

"Stand up, puppet," Maw commanded, releasing Loki of his power and dropping him to the floor in a pile of limbs. "Father wishes to see you,"

•••

He's sitting in his cell again. A pool of blood covering the floor. A mass of scars and burns coating his body, especially one on the side of his head. Which is currently leaking out blood.

Loki doesn't know how long he's been here. Time had started to blur together, as did his vision. He'd tried calling out to Heimdall multiple times, but at some point, he just gave up. Heimdall wasn't coming to rescue him, none of Asgard was. Heimdall was probably laughing from the Bifrost, seeking joy in the demise of the fallen Prince.

He was lying against the wall, blue blood soaking from his shirtless back onto the metal. But he didn't care, he needed to actually feel something real, otherwise he might be sick. Sick with blood or vomit, a mix of both. He was over it.

He wasn't aware that someone had been in his cell until there was a slimy hand clawing onto his shoulder, ripping it out of its socket with a sickening pop. His voice too raw and mangled to scream in pain.

He's practically dragged into the throne room, where He sits on the chair. Golden armor shining bright, too bright for the world He rules over.

"I believe today will be the final day," Maw says in a joyous tone. "I believe our Jotun pet will break,"

Loki manages to grit his teeth, glaring down at the ground. He knows what they're talking about. Through his rare fits of lucidity. The scepter, the scepter with uncontainable power inside. Pressed against his mind, sending waves of hurt and anger rolling over his body.

The Mad Titan nodded, handing the scepter over to Maw, sending the battered god a pitying look, "We could've avoided this," He murmured, sending chills down his spine.

Then Maw presses the agony through his sanity. And everything Loki has known is ripped apart to shreds.

He thinks that he doesn't want the throne, and remembers the insecurity and hesitation when the guard proclaimed him king.

Although he claimed to have tried to destroy Jotunheim for his father, it was because of him. Because he is ashamed to be a frost giant. A monster seen by the rest of the nine realms. It makes him sick, sick and writhing with shame. So he destroyed Jotunheim because he cannot be from a place that does not exist. He would be doing the nine realms a favor. Eradicating that race of mindless beasts. He was not Jotun, he never was.

Or when he failed, his ribs cracked from Mjolnir on his chest. Holding onto the staff that Thor clung to. Trying to save him. But what was there to save? The Golden Son was back and he had failed what he set out to do originally. He had wanted to make his father proud as well. And he had failed that too. Because that's what he was. A failure. A failure with nothing more to lose.

So he lets go.

But that isn't what happened now. The scepter was infecting him with her might and there was nothing he could do as his very origin was ripped out from under him.

Because suddenly he deserves a throne. Craves and desires it. His birth family had a throne, as did the people who claimed to be his family. He is owed a throne because Thor is the one who took it from him. Coming back from exile, Mo-Frigga immediately runs back to him. Away from Loki. It was always away from Loki. A chapter in their book where they were the title of his.

He's now hanging onto Thor's hand. Begging for Thor to pull him up, saying that he's sorry and he made a mistake. But apparently, that's not the truth. A lie, a bitter attempt at control. At living.

But Thor is the one who lets go. Tosses him into the abyss. Leads him right to Hel.

And there is so much anger coursing through him. So much rage and betrayal. He wants to hurt Thor. Kill everyone he loves so dearly. Thor likes Mid-Terra. He can conquer Terra, destroy, and make the world crumble. Have the crown he so desperately wanted.

"Who are you?" Thanos asks him.

"A child of Thanos," he replies. Because that is the truth. He is not a child of Laufey, Odin, not a brother any longer. He relinquishes those titles. He is not an 'Odinson' anymore. He is Loki, of Asgard. And he is burdened with glorious purpose.

Thanos looks down at him, impressed, "Invade Terra, seize the Tesseract and bring it to me," he says, before Maw adds on.

"Make sure he brings the scepter," Noticing Thanos' glaring look, he elaborates, "He is not mortal. If he strays too far from the mind stone, it might lose it's touch,"

Thanos pauses, nodding, "Bring me back both the Tesseract and the scepter. Do not fail me, my child," He murmurs, smirking as a blue portal appears in front of the runt.

And he steps inside.

•••

Loki's pacing, ignoring Frigga trying to make attempts to speak with him. She's talking about New York, no surprise. But he doesn't get why she can't understand. His mind is muddled and he cannot talk about it. No matter how hard he tried. To tell Thor and the Allfather that it was not his fault. That he didn't want to be the villain and he would go back and change everything if he could.

He's too wrapped up in his own self-pity to hear anything but the words 'your father' escape Frigga's lips.

"HE'S NOT MY FATHER!" Loki screams, before realizing who in fact he has shouted that too. Regret raging through every part of his soul.

Frigga just smiles, wetness glimmering in her eyes, "Then am I not your mother?"

He wants to say yes. He needs to say yes. He needs his mother to know that he identifies her as the only family he has left. But his pride and ego are too much, his desperate attempt for vanity in front of the woman who put up with him for a millennia.

"You're not,"

The words cut deeper than his polished daggers. Watching as the tears shine ever harder. The look of a mother who knows her son his destined to the wrong path but is defenseless to it.

"Always to perceptive of everyone but yourself," she smiles softly, the illusion shimmering away just as Loki reaches out to touch her.

He curses and runs his hands through his head, collapsing into his knees, the sobs silent to everyone except the inside of his prison cell.

•••

Frigga is in the bedroom chambers when Odin walks in. She quickly tries to dry her tears, rubbing the redness around her. But it's no use, he notices.

"Who did this?" He asks gruffly, tilting her chin up to face him.

Frigga just shakes her head. Because the truth is she doesn't know how her husband will react. To her secretly visiting her son or because he had originally wanted to kill him. And she was the only reason that he had stopped. If he found out... no.

"My Queen," he said, more firmly this time, "Who did this?"

She's stuck. Unknowing of what to say. Because Odin has always been kind to her and Thor and harsh on Loki. But maybe if she tells him then he won't be as brutal with punishment. After all, it worked before. Directly after the New York incident. Talking Odin down from executionn.

But then she remembers Hela. How she thought that she would be able to talk him down from exile. How she stood, begging for Heimdall to tell her where her daughter was for years. No, she refused to let that happen to her son.

"It's nothing,"

•••

It's the next when Loki is brought before Odin. He can usually keep up the Aesir illusion with ease, but with the magic suppression collar wrapped around his neck, so he can be brought before the king, the illusion is barely holding on.

"Loki Laufeyson," Odin speaks, ignoring Loki's flinch at the name, "Have you or have you not been speaking with the Allmother in your imprisonment?"

He pales, masking the terror with a neutral expression. He knows that Frigga wouldn't rat him out to the Allfather. His mother loves him, right?

But she's not his mother anymore. Not after he screamed at her, taking out all of his frustrations on the only woman who had shown him kindness. So maybe he'd burned that bridge too. Maybe Frigga abandoned him too.

He bit his lip, thinking of what to say. Perhaps Frigga didn't betray him and the Allfather was just suspicious. And if Loki admits anything then he'll know for sure. If Odin realizes that Loki was lying then the punishment would be much, much worse. But that's a risk he's willing to take.

"My, my, dear Allfather. I am but a prisoner, remember? What makes you think that I am speaking with the Queen?" He asks innocently, particularly avoiding the use of the word mother.

"Do not lie to me," Odin growls, his voice getting lower, patience wavering.

He's desperately trying to keep his calm and avoid having a panic attack, "I know not what you speak of," he mused, slightly relieved at the fact he had kept the quaver out of his voice.

"LIAR!" Odin finally screamed, "ALL YOU DO IS LIE!"

Each word felt like a punch to the gut. He should've been used to it by now. Realized that it would just be easier to move on. But each letter was like a venom knife, twisting and stabbing into his heart. He would not let it show on his face. He would not. He would not. He would-

"The Silvertongue," the king mused, trailing his hand along Gungrir, eyes settling on a loose thread in his robes.

"I know the perfect punishment to make him lie no more,"

•••

Thor gasps, stumbling away from Heimdall, panting as he clutches onto the wall. Quiet tears formed in his eyes.

"It should've been me," he manages to murmur, "It should've been me. How could I have been so foolish? He is my brother, how could I have not noticed..." he trailed off, glaring at Heimdall, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Heimdall continues to avoid eye contact, "I am permitted to only speak what I see when questioned," he states, the unspoken truth screaming in the spaces. Thor never asked. He never asked to see if there was a chance he was alive. Gave up just like that.

"Where is my brother," he spat. Guilt and remorse hanging off his frame, "Tell me,"

Heimdall sighed, "You know I cannot do that, my liege," but before Thor could protest further he spoke again, "But you might want to pay a visit to your Midgardian friends,"

Thor nodded, a small smile on his face despite all that had happened. Although the bifrost was gone, him and Loki had explored enough hidden entryways between the realms. He gave another nod to the watchman, before speedily turning away.

He would reach his brother if it was the last thing he did.

Chapter 7: I paced around for hours on empty, I jumped at the slightest of sounds.

Chapter Text

The first thing he notices is the sickly sweet smell of blood. Along with the sandpapered brick wall he's leaning up against. His long black hair matted against the dried blood on his shoulder.

He blinks his eyes open, and it's raining. Because of course it was, that was just his luck. He could almost hear the sad, dramatic music in his ears. Feeling his seidr trying to pull him back into unconscious. His shoulder had already healed and he could feel his ribs knitting back together. But he would need to be asleep- or unconcious, to finish the recovery.

The rain pattered on his skin, every rumble of thunder making him wince. Under normal circ*mstances, a mortal would probably have been shivering in the cold wetness. But these weren't normal circ*mstances, and Loki wasn't a mortal. And he was secretly relishing the chill.

He knew he should try to stand soon. Especially while the pain in his ribs was milder. Because he needed to think and he thought best when he paced. And realistically, he was just going to be staying in the alleyway, it wasn't safe for him elsewhere with the risk of being recognized.

He groaned, the sound coming out more like a whimpered gasp as he sat up. The adrenaline had worn off, and although the injuries were dimmed somewhat, it wasn't exactly pleasant to have his rips threatening to puncture his lungs.

With some difficulty, he stood up. Focusing on the raindrops on the asphalt when his seidr tried to force him into unconsciousness again. Peaceful pitter-pattering with car horns honking and the sound of thousands of footsteps.

This was pathetic. A pathetic play for control. He was all alone. Asgard wasn't coming to rescue him, Asgard would be coming to hurt him. But he craved validation more than anything. He needed Heimdall. Just to know that somebody was there. Even to be laughed at, just that somebody was listening to his desperate pleas. He's tempted to ask 'can you hear me?' but he can't. Because his greatest weapon has been stolen from him, leaving a dry, rawness in his throat. He just wants for somebody to tell him everything will be okay.

He wants Thor.

He wanted his big brother back. From the nights he would be scared of thunderstorms and crawl into his bed. Thor complaining for all of five seconds before feeling the trembling Prince next to him. He wanted Thor and his oafish optisism.

But that was more pathetic than anything else he'd whimpered about. Thor had left him. Left him with the might of the Allfather and didn't come visit him once. Thor who called his cries for help imagined slights. While Thor could not see that he was suffering. That he could not breathe without the blue attacking his sanity. Because he tried to show Thor that his mind was not his own and Thor left him.

Thor left him.

He was alone. He has always been alone. He would always be because nobody cared enough to notice him.

He needed to think, escape the minefield of painful memories. So he began walking back and forth along the alley. Trash littering the ground. He had so many questions. None with explanations.

Like why had the Stark Tower been attacked? He knew the answer to that one. Because he had been there. He, Loki, caused the destruction of all who showed him kindness. And with such brute force too, that didn't seem to be his style. More with scare and manipulation tactics. And demolishing an Avenger's living environment probably wouldn't go over well with anyone.

All the ruin reminded him more of Rumlow's manner. He didn't know that much about Rumlow. But from his time in the cell, he knew he was a witty man with a short temper. A recipe for chaos. Plus, Rumlow worked for Pierce more than Fury.

Pierce... Loki tried to remember through the haze of his pacing and escape to Midgard his brief encounters. Pierce was the man above Fury, Rumlow worked for him. Rumlow had been in charge of the explosion at the Tower. It made sense, if anything. Pierce came across as the kind of leader to force his soldiers to do the dirty work for him. That included trying to kill villainous gods.

Loki just couldn't figure out why. He understood that SHIELD would want him back, but going to such extremes without bartering first. That was Thorishly idiotic.

SHIELD, Pierce needed him back for a purpose that even Loki's enemies wouldn't like. That had to be the only reason for such barbarity. He just needed to figure out what that was.

The rain came down ever harder, he could barely see five feet in front of him. Water dripped from the ends of his hair, making a bloody orange color. Puddles at his feet, his thin, prisoner sneakers soaking through. He needed rest, now. He had gone far too long without proper sleep and nutrition to function properly. Much less try to figure out the plans of an evil mastermind.

But as soon as he looked out of the alleyway, with the screaming and shouts of the city. He quickly lost confidence. He was the god of chaos, yes. But of controlled chaos. Watching kingdoms crumble and teams turning against each other. Causing destruction and downfall. Not the god of venturing to places unknown. Especially not on a realm he had tried to conquer.

He was in for a very long night.

•••

"I decide to be the real nice guy for taking in a supervillain and he blows up my house," Tony grumbled, placing his helmet over his head, "JARVIS? Run diagnostics,"

"Building structure has completely collapsed, sir," says the British AI unhelpfully.

"Thanks," Tony mutters, rolling his eyes, "I couldn't tell. No, tell me where everyone else is,"

"Captain Rogers and Agent Barton are near the entrance. Agent Romanoff is currently calming down the Hulk,"

Tony groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course Loki had somehow managed to get Bruce to Hulk out. Nat probably had that under control, or he would like to think so.

So he flew off to find the others, tried to at least. Because his suit did not work and he promptly fell on his face.

"JARVIS? What the hell was that?" he demanded. Annoyed and dusting pieces of rubble off his suit.

"It appears as though the left-hand blaster was damaged in the explosion, sir," JARVIS replied, "Recalculating energy to other thrusters,"

Tony grumbled a 'thanks' before actually managing to fly off to find Clint and Steve.

The two in question were exactly where JARVIS had said they were. Clint perched on a rock, speaking in a hushed tone with Steve, who was trying to dig up his shield underneath a boulder. A pleased expression settled across his face when he managed to pry it out.

"Not exactly what I had in mind today," Tony scoffed sarcastically, "Take in the evil super god Banner said. It would be fun he said-"

"Tony?" Clint spoke up, interrupting his tangent, "Just stop," his voice reeking of exhaustion and an unrecognizable emotion, "Do we even know where Loki is?"

Stark rolled his eyes, "I dunno, I was a bit busy trying to not get killed off by SHIELD agents. What was that by the way? Why did SHIELD decide to blow up my humble abode,"

Steve just mutters something about his 'humble abode' while Clint pinches the skin between his eyebrows, "I don't know, okay? I'll figure it out, but right now? I got no clue,"

"Well, that's perfect. What's the use of a spy if you don't know anything?" He retorted, not quite under his breath.

"Well, let's think. Why would SHIELD attack the Stark Tower?" Steve asked, trying to get the billionaire back on track.

"Gee, I dunno, Spangles. Maybe because I was being forced to harbor a homicidal psychopath?" Tony knew he was being unfair. Under normal circ*mstances, he would've been butchering the god a lot more. But every time he had looked at Loki in the med room, it sent chills down his spine.

Clint shakes his head, "That doesn't make sense, Fury tries conversation before just blowing up things,"

"He tried to make weapons out of the Tesseract. I don't know about you but that reminds me of another secret intelligence group that went by the name of HYDRA," Steve says, exchanging a look with Tony.

The Archer groans, rubbing his temples, "So what do we do now?" It's a rhetorical question, so he wasn't really expecting an answer, but he gets one anyways.

"We have to find Loki," a voice says, and it's Banner, who's currently throwing a t-shirt over a pair of sweatpants.

Tony scoffs, "Right, let's find the crazy who caused the crazy,"

"That's not what I meant," Bruce tried to explain, "You were there when we tried to examine him. Whoever he was when he tried to take over New York, and who he is now... it's different," he turns to the rest of the team, "And you all were there when we got-rescued him from SHEILD," he said. Everyone had equally guilty looks across the board.

"Clint? You've been awfully quiet considering that we're talking about the guy who had you brainwashed," Stark snorted.

He sighed, shaking is head, "It's," he paused, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. A flicker of panic crossing over his face for half a second before vanishing, "It's nothing, let's just find him,"

Nat raised her eyebrows, giving her friend a concerned look. Clint just shook his head, mouthing 'later' so only she could see.

"So, where would a mass murderer have gone?" Tony asked, clasping his hands together.

Steve shrugged, "He can't have gone far, Fury said the collar around his neck seemed to have stopped his magic,"

"He's a god. Probably has a faster metabolism than you do," Nat explains logically. Tony rolls his eyes, he really hates logic sometimes.

"Not with the state he was in," Banner says, nodding towards Tony, "It was taking most of his energy to just stay awake,"

"Right," Tony sighs, ignoring the stinging pain of empathy he has for the god, "JARVIS? Can you scan for any signs of... anything?" He asks, wincing.

"You're going to have to be more specific than that, sir," The AI retorts, causing Nat's lip to twitch upwards as Tony throws his hands up.

"Well, I don't know what to look for," He exclaimed, a loud groan echoing across the debris.

"He's cold," Clint says suddenly, "Like really cold. Like you and I would be dead if we were him,"

Tony shoots a grateful look towards the agent, "Right, JARVIS? Look for any signs of life that are really cold. And maybe find a bar nearby,"

Steve sighs but nods, "Let's go find our needle in a haystack,"

Chapter 8: I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier.

Chapter Text

He isn't sure how long he's been walking along the streets. Ignoring the concerned looks of pedestrians from blood-stained clothing. He was grateful, for once, that he was probably too frail and weak for the general public to identify him.

So he just keeps walking. A painstaking attention to placing one foot in front of the other. His entire body soaking from the rain. Trying to make his aura seem as intimidating as possible so that the mortals wouldn't bother him. Which was relatively easy to do considering he was coated in blood.

Pale moonlight dimly lit his features. The stars here were bland. The branches of Yggdrasil were made mundane by the decimation of humans. Stars were just the branches of Yggdrasil and the few mundane that remained visible didn't sparkle the way Loki was used to.

He missed walking along the branches. A strange gift that only he had been gifted. Perched on the tree, watching thousands of worlds communicate and intertwine with each other. Each star on the planet a pathway and image.

He used to miss venturing to worlds unknown. But now the thought of it is enough to make his stomach churn. Because He took away everything Loki ever loved. Because Loki isn't Loki Skywalker anymore. He took that from him too.

So he just keeps walking. Because what more can he do? He just walks and walks, ignoring the dull hurt in his ribs. He's restless and he needs to do something. But what can he do but walk?

His legs are burning from the constant movement but he does not stop. He needs to think and brainstorm but he does not know where to start. He knows that Pierce is somehow involved but he can't think of a plausible reason as to why they resorted to madness before civilized speech.

The sun is starting to poke through the skyline when he realizes where he is. Back at the place that helped him. Removed the poisonous thread from his lips. With the lady who aided him when he was having a pointless breakdown. He's back at the infirmary.

And every part of his body is screaming at him to run away. Because they were also the people who ratted him out, not that he can blame them. But they forced him to Fury. Towards the judgemental eyes and hurt. To the aching pain of his worst enemies finding him weak and vulnerable.

But for some reason, his legs are still marching towards the glass doors. And he is powerless to stop them. Or maybe he doesn't even make an attempt to try. He's too tired to notice.

And inside just greets him with disorder. He immediately shrinks back, disliking the Midgardian atrocity already. But this is pitiful too. He is the god of chaos. And here he is cowering against the wall like it is the only thing to stop the world from spinning. It's a broken piece of logic. He is broken.

There are around twenty people in the room. Most of them sitting in chairs, either on their phones or fidgeting nervously. There are a few people in teal outfits behind a desk. The door screeches behind him automatically and he winces.

One of the women behind the desk glances up. Her annoyed expression instantly turns into one of panic as she jumps up from her seat. Racing towards him spurting words he's too tired to understand.

And suddenly there are two more people surrounding him, touching him. He instinctively flinches away, barely managing to hear the words, 'trauma' and 'malnourishment' leave one of the people's mouths.

But he isn't paying attention because their hands are all over him. Like claws burning and clasping onto his clammy skin. Pulling him underwater, drowning, suffocating.

The Other's talon, burnt nails, and fingers that won't leave him alone. Yellow, raspy teeth, and a mouth that won't stay off him.

Pain. Agony. Misery. Torment. Suffering.

He's vaguely aware of the fact that he's curled up into a ball in a corner. The three people staring at him with... not pity. One of their mouths are moving but he can't distinguish the words.

"Can you tell me five things you see?" The voice asks, muffled. Gently as she leans down next to him.

Loki shakes his head pathetically. A white-knuckled grip wrapped around his trembling knees. He is a god, he shouldn't be panting or whimpering. But the shaking won't stop.

He can't do this. He can't do this. He can't- wooden chairs. Wooden chairs and blue cushions. Five things he can see, maybe he can do that, he can think of them at least. A tile floor, a trash can across the room. A woman with honey-blonde hair in a ponytail speaking with him.

"That's good, yeah. You don't have to say it, just think. Can you breathe for me? In through your nose, out through your mouth," she coos. And slowly, Loki doesn't feel like he's dying so much anymore, the invisible arms crawling up and down his body seemed to have vanished.

And when she asks him to stand up, his legs don't crumble under his weight. So he pushes away their attempts to hold him up. He is watching himself mindlessly follow the people to a room. Closing the door behind him as they instruct him to sit on the cot. A picture framed across from the cot.

There are horses on the image.

Because of course there are, that's just his luck. The black stallion chasing after him. Because he is only around 650 and he has just learned how to shapeshift. He has always loved the palace stable horses. So on a day when his mother is in Vanahelm, he turns into a small, cream-colored mare. Unknowing that the glee and joy was all for nothing. That his very being would he torn from him mere moments later.

Galloping through the forests in the outskirts, not having a care in the world. The childhood innocence he misses dearly. The chirp of happy birds and the smell of lavender and flowers.

Sitting next to a stream, the black stallion appears. And he is too young to understand what is going on. Too young to understand that horses can be aggressive by nature. Too inexperienced to find a way to shapeshift back into his Aesir form.

The stallion draws closer still. His childhood innocence was ripped away from him like cold, dousing water.

He sits there next to the stream, trembling and shaking and crying until his mother comes back the next day. Finding him crying still as a horse.

Frigga wrapping her arms around the quivering young Royal. Unknowing to him, but using her magic to undo the damages. Because he did not yet know that he was a frost giant. That Jötnar have both male and female organs.

That he had been left with child.

He refused to ever visit the stables after that. Still refuses. Thor has asked him many of times why he doesn't like horses, but he refuses to tell. Thor doesn't need to know. He doesn't deserve to know.

He still hates horses. Hates them like a firey passion on his tongue. Hates them like an anger like no other. Hates-

Loki. Suddenly his name is in the air. At least, he thinks that's who he is. He doesn't know anymore.

Loki. The name is in the air once more. He can't tell from where though.

"Loki," He snaps his head up. Surprised that someone had actually been calling his name. Suddenly the world is blurry, he wonders if the pain in his ribs is worse but he realizes that the world is blurry with tears and he is hyperventilating.

Quickly wiping his eyes dry, he glances up at who says- his name. Somebody recognized him. He the murderous, terrorist. He whirls around towards the door, panic written all over his face. Prepared to fight whatever the person is planning on-

It's the finger lady.

Her short, copper, hair pulled behind her in a wavy braid. Same teal clothing and a face not filled with terror but with confusion.

"I thought SHIELD was supposed to take care of you," she remarks, masking her worry with amusem*nt. Loki just rolls his eyes, her personality seems to have changed a lot since she figured out who he was.

"You don't have to speak. I don't think you can anyways," she says, continuing on, ignoring Loki's wince, "But you look even worse than you did when you first popped up here, just saying,"

Norns, this woman will not shut up. So Loki just grits his teeth and scowls. Not that he'll say anything. But her annoying chattering is a nice distraction from the... image on the wall.

"But I um... I took a look at your file from the triage and erm... you're not doing so hot, are you?" The woman asks, bluntly, stupidly. So Loki only replies with a scoff, turning away from the woman. Picking at his left palm.

"I mean that much is obvious. Sorry, I've been out of the game for too long," she rambles, seeming to ignore the fact that he appears to no longer be paying attention. A co*cked eyebrow was the only indication.

He plans on disregarding her until she loses hope and leaves. That is until the world 'SHIELD' lifts off her tongue. That makes him perk his head up, eyes wide with shock and intrigue.

"Yeah," she chuckles, "I was a SHIELD medic for a while. When I was younger at least. But there comes a point where you can only handle so many near-death experiences before quitting for a normal job," her voice is smooth, comforting like a lullaby. Yet perky as well, like an energized storyteller.

"So I was kinda surprised when I found out one of my patients was well... you," she deadpans, her incessant discussion still going strong. Maybe it's to fill the awkward silence between them, or to calm her nerves. Either way, he hates it. Being powerless to a simple mortal. At her mercy for her to do whatever he pleases.

Because canonically, that hasn't exactly gone the greatest for him in the past.

"Come on," she says, jerking him out of his thoughts. Groaning when she notices his confused expression, "You didn't think I'd let the mass murderer who seems more f*cked in the head than a crazy cat lady run rampant in a hospital? Please, I'm getting you out of here,"

Loki co*cks his head, under normal circ*mstances, he would've taunted the woman. Said something threatening about killing her. But these aren't normal circ*mstances and he has lost his voice, his most essential weapon.

So he just narrows his eyes as she gives another exasperated sigh, "I'm taking you back to my apartment. Unless you wanna stay here?" Matching his own glare she adds on, "I've got some nice food and a bed and a shower," she trails off.

It's the promise of being clean that gets him to follow her.

Chapter 9: Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days.

Chapter Text

Loki isn't sure how long it's been since he actually took a shower. But he does know that he's probably been in the current one longer than normal. But he doesn't care. It's been years since he's properly been clean.

Because the woman has coconut-scented shampoo and body wash. Something called a body scrub, which he's never tried before but he enjoys it immensely. It does a great job of freeing him of the grime and blood caked onto his body.

He's washing his hair for the third time now. Make sure to wash every single inch of skin. He doesn't know when the next time he'll be clean, so he's enjoying the fresh, cold water as much as he pleases.

Then there's a knock on the door, interrupting his personal hygiene time. He scowls, continuing to run his hands through his shampooed hair.

"Loki?" A voice calls out and he pauses. It's the finger lady, who he has yet to learn her name. But considering the fact that she's actually attending to his basic needs. Maybe he'll listen.

"You've been in the shower for over two hours, you planning on coming out anytime soon? No rush, don't worry. Just... you just finished up the rest of my cold water so uh..." she trails off. Her footsteps echoing away from the door.

Loki just stands in the shower. He didn't think the water was that cold, nor that he was cleaning himself for that long. But when he stares down at the water controls, he realizes it's on the coldest setting there is. Whoops.

And he also notices that the water is heating up. Probably just to about lukewarm, but burning for him. So he quickly rinses the rest of the shampoo out of his hair, being sure that not a drop of soap remains on his skin. Even if the water is hot he is still going to make the most of his shower.

Stepping out of the tub, he toweled himself off. Nearly dropping it in shock when he found his thin prison drapes gone, replaced instead with an oversized green t-shirt and baggy black pants.

He frowns, unused to the Midgardian clothing. But when he hesitantly places it on, he grins. The fabric is so comfortable. Much better than the leather he used to trudge around in. So with his clean, combed hair and clean, washed, clothes, he walks out of the room.

"You look better," The woman smiles, "There's a peanut butter sandwich and some water if you want any?" She says, gesturing to the plate on the coffee table next to her.

Loki glances down at the food slightly, still picking at his hands. He can't remember the last time he ate, maybe with Fury before he was isolated. But even then that could've been weeks ago. He stares at the slices of bread. He's so hungry and he wants nothing more than devour them like a starving beast. But the last few times he's tried to eat food haven't exactly gone the best and he doesn't feel like getting sick in the nice woman's home.

And yet for some reason, he finds himself wanting to show her some form of gratitude. Which surprises him. He's not usually one for trust or thankfulness, but after all she has done for him, he should give some sort of appreciation.

So he nods, sitting down gently on the couch, careful not to lay his wet hair on top of his comfortable shirt, and grabs the glass of water. He takes small sips, content with the silence they have now. But of course, the woman has to break it.

"My name's Ramona, by the way," she adds on, "Just in case you wanted to know,"

Loki did indeed want to know, not that he would ever admit it. Then he notices what looks like some sort of shiny white piece of cardboard and a black marker, the words 'dry erase' flashing across.

"It's a writing tablet, well sort of," Ramona- no, that's weird, he'll have to figure out her last name- "Basically you write down stuff and can erase it. If you ever wanna like... words," she mumbles, confidence wilting away by the end.

Loki's lips twitch upward in amusem*nt and happiness. He had known it was possible to write but just assumed that nobody would care enough to listen. That he didn't need to demonstrate his weaknesses out to the world. But if the woman seems to have already figured out he is powerless, maybe he can give it a try.

"Last name?" he writes, the thick pen strange compared to the feather quills he was once used to on Asgard.

The woman chuckles dryly, "Perez. Ramona Perez," she smiles.

Loki nods, content with that answer. He's hoping a little she doesn't ask any more mindless questions. Partly because he doesn't like the invasion of privacy, and also because of the growing nausea in his stomach from the water. Which is ridiculous, it's just water and he is a God. Simple necessities shouldn't make his insides churn.

But of course, it's his luck that the woman- Perez, keeps talking. "I'm gonna ask you some questions, and you're gonna write down the answer, okay?"

He scowls, already knowing that the questions will be rude and invasive. He's not going to answer personal things if he doesn't want to and he'd bet money that the questions she's going to ask aren't going to be pleasant.

"Okay," Perez says, clasping her hands together, ignoring his expression, "Why did you show up to the hospital covered in blood?"

Loki co*cks an eyebrow, "Isn't that what infirmaries are for?" He jots down smugly. Just because he isn't going to give any real answers doesn't mean he can't be a nuisance about it.

Perez groans, throwing her hands up in the air, "No, I mean, why did you show up to the hospital covered in blood?"

His jaw tightens, even though she has said she used to work for SHIELD. She's been kind to her and he doesn't want to drag her into his mess. So he just gives a co*cky smirk, watching when she rolls her eyes.

"Fine, be that way then," she pouts, "But at least listen to me. I'm not gonna ask you about your... mouth injuries or the mental breakdowns you seem to have every ten minutes. But I do think that I deserve to have an answer to why you were coated in blue blood. Because if someone is after you, then they'll be after me too,"

Loki hesitates at that. She's been so kind to him, even if that means she's only offered him food and a shower, that's more than most people that he's met these past few years have ever wanted to do. And if she's an ex-agent maybe she'll have an idea of why in the nine realms Rumlow and possibly Pierce were after him.

"What do you know about a man by the name of Rumlow?" He writes down. It's not an answer, but hopefully, it distracts her sufficiently to answer.

Perez narrows her eyes, "Enough, why?"

He smirked, now they were getting somewhere. "Who does he work for?" This is a painstaking process, he'll admit. His Allspeak doesn't work as well when it comes to writing, and when it's his only form of communication, there'll be long stretches of silence when he writes. Not that he minds the quiet, but he would like to get answers slightly faster.

"Pierce. At least, I'm pretty sure he works for Pier-" She stops suddenly, eyes widening as though she's just had the greatest epiphany of her life, "I-I need to..." she trails off, as does her stuttering.

Then her little black box rings and she jumps. She whips her head around to face the Midgardian device. Walking over cautiously, she looks at it, a blue-tinted light animating her features as she pales.

"I gotta, uh... I gotta take this," She mutters, snatching the contraption off the table and speedily walking into another room. Slamming the door behind her.

Loki frowned, staring at the door where she had marched into. He knew he should be polite, attempting to eat the food while patiently waiting for her to return. Alas, he had never been one for following rules.

So instead he closed his eyes, drawing onto his Jötnar hearing abilities from the couch. Able to make out her side of whoever she was speaking to, but not the other.

"Haven't heard from you in a while," she says, the playful innocence that she had when she spoke with Loki gone. Replaced with an icy warning.

"I've been pretty good, all things considered. It's nice to be out of the field," she replies to whoever's on the other end. There's a formality in her tone, but her words border the edge of compliance and sarcasm. She is playing with fire and she knows it.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Sir," she says, a touch of concern edging its way into her voice.

Loki frowns, she refers to him as 'Sir' so obviously whoever she's talking to is important, but he could've gotten that from the formalness.

Then she scoffs, mimicking a sound of disbelief, "Are you smoking something? Why would I harbor him? I just told you how happy I was to be out of the field,"

She's talking about Loki. Of course she is, because who else would be spoken of with such disgust? He knows that she's probably- hopefully- faking it. But a part of him knows that the feelings she has towards the murderous God aren't out of nowhere.

There's a very long pause, so much so that he wonders if she's tried to escape out the window before there's a heavy breath. "Yes, Mr. Secretary,"

It's silent for a few moments. Leaving Loki to stare at the door, confused. Then said door bursts open, and a very panicked-looking Perez follows suit.

"We need to go. Now," She growls, marching over to the kitchen sink, disappearing from view for a moment.

The god frowns, scowling before picking up the board to write down a singular word, "Why?"

Perez pops back into view, holding a small metal- it's a gun. Perez is holding a gun, which cannot be good. She grimaces, noticing the fact that he is still perched on the couch, leaning over to examine his words.

"Why? I'll tell you why," she yells bitterly, "Because Alexander Pierce is about to blow into my apartment to try and get you back. And I don't know about you, but considering that you look ten times worse than you did when I first met you, I can't say SHIELD has treated you the best. So get your ass off the table and come help me,"

Admittedly, he makes no move to get off the couch, only using his hand to wipe off the marker, replacing it with more words.

"You're lying," She is not lying, the furthest away from it really. But for all Loki knows with his god of lie-sensing, he could be in danger with Pierce but she could be trying to lead him to said danger. So he's not going anywhere until he gets more details.

Perez fiddles with the weapon, shoving it in her pocket, her hand wrapped tightly around the holster before she looks over. She lets out a frustrated groan when she sees his words.

"I'm lying? Really? I'm the one who's lying? Boy, I am literally busting my ass off to save your life. But please, if you think I'm lying you can ever so nicely walk out of that door, I'm positive it isn't swarming with agents. So if you give a goddamn sh*t about your life, you're gonna do as I say," she growls, not a hint of dishonesty in her words.

And before Loki can reply that he doesn't give a 'goddamn sh*t' about his life, the door explodes on its hinges. Throwing them both flying backward.

Loki blinks, slowly standing up. The apartment is still intact, but a layer of dust coats the air and furniture. Perez is next to him, equally winded as she rubs her head, pulling the small gun out of the holster, hands tightening on the trigger.

Then the soldiers pour inside, and leading them is one in particular.

"Rumlow," Perez spits. Venom laces every syllable and she raises the gun. But the fear in her eyes screaming louder than her words as she stares the opposite barrel down across the room.

"Perez," he replies calmly, a smug smirk etching across his lips.

Perez- Ramona glances up at Loki, big, frightened orbs, trembling lips that silently mouth the words, 'I'm sorry'.

And then a trigger clicks.

And Loki can't tell whose it is for a moment.

He can't until he's aware that both he and Rumlow are still standing and there is blood pouring out of her chest. Her eyes were dull and glazed, her chest unmoving.

Rumlow says something, he can see his mouth moving but Loki doesn't care. There is a ringing in his ears and the world is swimming in confusion as the floor tilts.

He barely notices the gun aiming at himself, he doesn't care. She's dead. Ramona's dead. She tried to help him and she died for it.

"Pity," Rumlow tuts, but his voice sounds underwater, reloading the gun, fingers tightening around the trigger once more.

And before he can even think, Loki does something incredible, horrifically, stupid. Whipping around, bolting towards the wall of the apartment, a window showing off the tops of trees.

And he leaps out.

Chapter 10: Can't you see that you're lost without me?

Chapter Text

The team hadn't even been searching for an hour when the chaotic rainbow lights flashed down to the ruins of the tower.

Tony couldn't help but roll his eyes as the rest of the group gawked and stared. That man had no regard for lawn maintenance.

And he was going to crack a joke until he saw the murderous look on the thunder god's face.

"Where is my brother?" He growls. Gone was the regal sound of royalty, left with the rasping gravel of a warrior.

Tony knew he should've kept his mouth shut. Based on the little lightning spurts crackling around the Thor and the quiet rumble of thunder. But Tony had never been one for common sense.

"Funny enough, I feel like we should be asking you the same question," he says, ignoring the warnings from Steve and Nat, "Because what in the actual f*ck was Rudolph doing back here on Earth?"

That was when he was promptly grabbed by the throat and lifted off the ground, furious storm-blue eyes snarling at him. "Do not jest, Stark. This is not a laughing matter. Where. Do. You. Have. My. Brother?"

"Well, it's a bit difficult to answer when you're attempting to strangle me," Tony should shut up. He should really, really, really shut up. Especially when Thor's callused hands just tightened their grip.

"We don't know," Steve spoke up, trying to calm the chaotic situation, "All we know is that we found him at SHIELD. We took him back to the tower with us but then it erm... exploded," he says, gesturing to the debris and rubble they were all standing in.

Thor's expression immediately turned from one of anger and rage to worry. "How was he? Was he okay?" His words jumbled in the mess of emotions.

Steve paused, mouth gaping open and closed, turning to Bruce for help. Because what was he supposed to say? That Loki, the very god who released the Hulk and threw Tony out of a window. That he looked like death warmed over?

Bruce cleared his throat, removing the pressure off Steve's shoulders. "Well, he wasn't in the greatest condition. Pretty pale and malnourished. But the building blew up before I could make any diagnoses," he wasn't going to tell Thor about how severe the injuries had been. Nor was he going to tell Thor about Loki's reaction to being asked if his lips were sewn shut. Nope, if Thor wanted those answers, he could ask Loki himself.

Thor nodded, seemingly- relieved?- by that answer. "So where is he now?"

"That's kind of the question of the day," Nat retorts, with the perfect amount of sarcasm and formality.

The god frowned but seemed somewhat understanding, "My brother has never been one for captivity," he muttered to himself, "Do you have a way to find him?"

"Do you have some godly magical way to find him?" Clint asked dubiously.

Thor shook his head, "Maybe if I was an argr, but I fear not,"

Tony snorts, mentally noting to look up the word 'argr' later. "If we knew that's where we'd be. Not that I want to track down a crazy devil god but whatever,"

"Banner's working on that right now," Nat says before Thor can get mad at Tony again for his latest remark.

"Yeah, I'm scanning everywhere within a 20-mile radius for signs of enhanced life," Bruce spoke up.

"Don't forget the cold. Cold enhanced life," Tony added, somewhat annoyed.

Thor's frown deepened, a look of contempt flashing across his face before straightening out, "When will we find him?"

Bruce shrugged again, "I'm not sure. If he's within 10 miles, all we can do is wait,"

•••

Loki was going to kill someone. He was going filet their skin and gut them like a fish. Watch as they screamed and writhed in pain as he watched.

Because Ramona was dead. She was dead and it was all his fault. She had been one of the only people in his sad, miserable life to show kindness and she had been murdered because of it.

And Rumlow had killed her without a drop of hesitation. So he was going to die. Loki was going to slaughter him in the most painful way imaginable.

But right now he had to focus on the fact that he was probably dying.

Well, he felt like it at least. Jumping out of a four-story tall apartment building hadn't been his best move. But he hadn't had another way out of the situation.

But now he was bleeding out of his head, which, unsurprisingly, hurt like Hel. The screaming agony in his ribs had increased tenfold. Every breath threatened to drag him into unconsciousness. Every step he took felt like trudging through glue.

But he kept walking, he wasn't sure if Rumlow was behind him and he wasn't waiting around to find out.

He wasn't sure where he was, a big forest in the middle of the city. Squashed between tall buildings on all sides. Claustrophobic. The trees are barren and desolate, orange-brown leaves crunching against his heavy footsteps.

Step. Step. Step.

How many times would he just push away the people who cared for him? Killed them even? He slaughtered Laufey before he even had the chance to hear his pleas. Screamed at Frigga

Step.

Pushed away Thor.

Step.

Thor who had been with Loki through thick and thin in their childhood. Who Loki idolized like no other. With a burning desire, lust, to be just like the Golden Prince.

Step.

Thor said he would protect him. Who said he would never leave?

Step.

But turned a blind eye when Loki finally cried out for help.

Step.

Letting him drown in the power and corruption. Abandoning and walking away when his brother needed him most.

No, Loki had not pushed Thor away. Not like he did Frigga. Thor had left of his own free will, tired of his 'imagined slights'.

If only they were something as luscious as imaginary.

If only He hadn't been real. He and His army and His scepter so that Loki could get His Tesseract.

If only Thor hadn't tossed him into the abyss.

Maybe then Loki would be able to enjoy life one last time.

Then he screams in pain, the world turning a sickly shade of red as he collapses next to a bench. His hand somehow brushed against his ribs, sending hot, sharp needles piercing through him. Biting his tongue as he groaned, so hard he could taste the cool blood trailing down his throat.

The trees were blurry, so was the bench and his hands. That didn't make sense, it was like someone had smeared oil in his eyes.

Then he felt the sticky blue blood running down his scalp, bleeding next to his ear. Ah, that probably explained a lot. Why his legs could no longer support him, and why everything was hazy and woozy.

He was just so... tired. He needed a nap. Maybe sleep, a deep, eternal, slumber. That sounded nice. One he would never have to wake up from.

He was just so tired.

He wasn't even sure of what anymore.

Slowly blinking his eyes closed as unconsciousness overtook him.

•••

He woke up with a pinching feeling in his neck. That was strange, he didn't recall injuring any part of his neck. Granted, he had been overwhelmed by the fiery pain in his head and ribs to pay attention anywhere else.

And he could feel that his ribs were still broken. His seiðr tended to focus on areas that needed the most help, and bleeding out of his head was probably the best one to mend first. The hurt was less, somewhat, his head no longer roaring at him. More of an angry yell.

He groaned, leaning up against the bench, he didn't feel ready to try standing just yet. Even sitting upright was exhausting, his lungs compressing against his ribs with every breath.

Panting, he looked around. It couldn't have been long since he was unconscious. Considering the moon still seemed to be in roughly the same spot, the sky was a little darker if nothing.

That still didn't do anything to calm the uneasiness pulsing through his veins. The goosebumps running rampant on his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

It was the almost silent footsteps that made him stiffen. Would've been noiseless to a mortal or Aesir, but his monstrous ears picked it up immaculately.

Quiet shuffling, like someone was sneaking around the trees. Trying to make themself scarce from the god.

No, he realized slowly. It wasn't just one pair of footsteps. There were more, dozens maybe. And Loki's seiðr was blocked with the collar from external use. Rendering him useless. This was bad, very very bad.

The footsteps were drawing closer. He could hear the hushed whispers but was unable to decipher the words.

His breath hitched in his throat when he heard the co*ck of a gun. Attempting to summon a dagger, only to be left with a searing, aching misery. The collar burned and grated into his neck as he bit his cheek, swallowing to avoid a gasp of pain.

Another gun co*cked, footsteps even closer still. He paused, closing his eyes. He just had to wait, pretend to be asleep as the intruders crept closer. Then he could try to fight them with his hands.

He just had to wait. Taking nervous, shallow breaths. He knew it would be SHIELD or some other third party. The Avengers were too loud and impulsive to sneak up on him. Pierce? Rumlow? If it was Rumlow he was going to rip out his heart and shove it down his throat.

Footsteps were yards away. Feet. Inches.

He snapped his eyes open, looking straight down the barrel of a gun. Swinging his legs out from underneath him, he tripped the man who had been holding it.

Grabbing the back of the gun and hitting the agent next to him in the head, falling to the floor. Continuing to try and fist fight and avoid gunshots.

It was going great until he got hit by one, right in the back of his neck. He paused, swinging the current agent he was fighting over his shoulder, trying to examine the wound.

It was a syringe that he pulled out. A syringe with remnants of what looked like a clear liquid. That really wasn't good. Especially when his legs gave out, collapsing to the ground.

Why wouldn't his arms work? The sky was spinning and taking his head along for the ride. Black spots danced in his vision and ringing in his ears. World tilting dangerously to one side.

"Yeah... upped... dose... for 'em," words aimlessly call out, but Loki didn't pay any attention. Because his lungs filled with water and fire. Leaving him with strangled gasps for air.

And the last thing he saw before blacking out was Rumlow's smug face looking down at him.

Chapter 11: All the lights going dark and my hope's destroyed.

Chapter Text

"The stars are so pretty," Loki purrs. An actual, cat-like purr. He had been the only person he knew who could, self-conscious about it when he was with Thor and his brother's friends. Enjoying the rumbling feeling in his chest when he was with his mother.

Frigga nods, wrapping an elegant arm around the young prince, "They are indeed, my love," she says, pressing a gentle kiss in his hair. Standing on a balcony, away from a ball the Raven got so overwhelmed by. A cool breeze ruffled her golden locks. The waves of the ocean lapped up against the cliff on the edge of the palace was perched on. A thousand stars dazzled in the sky, lighting up the nights.

Frigga smiles, hugging Loki tighter, "They say that each star is a soul. A warrior who has died a glorious death, cherishing the afterlife in the halls of Valhalla,"

Loki's mischievous look of wonder overcame his face, "Will I go there, Amma?" He smiles, laughing when Frigga taps her finger on the top of his nose.

"You will, my love. Do you know why? Because you are destined for great things, Loki. You might not understand yet, but you have the world at your fingertips. You are gifted with glorious purpose,"

Glorious purpose.

"You think yourself full of glorious purpose, Jotun scum? You are nothing, a rat. Your only purpose is to serve my Great Plan,"

Burdened with glorious purpose.

To be a child, so young and filled with innocence. Not yet corrupted by the world's cruel fate. How he longs for that. Longs for a time before horses and Jötunheim and Him.

"Glad to see you're up, Princess,"

He turns, lifting his head towards the voice. A man had strawberry blonde hair, pale skin, and thick circular glasses...

Alexander Pierce.

"Well, this is a funny little surprise," he commented blandly, walking across the side of the room. Pretending to pay no attention the the god.

Loki narrows his eyes, examining him. The Secretary who carries himself with such dignity and prose. Pretending to be above the mortals he acquaints himself with. The slight smirk in his lips. He knows he is in control and it sickens him.

"Let's keep this simple, shall we?" Pierce deadpans, "I'm going to ask you a question and you're going to answer, okay?"

Loki resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose automatically at the lie. He would have to play along, he had to. He had no other choice. For his wrists and ankles were shackled to a wooden chair. He was trapped, stuck. With nobody to find him. He inclined his head, etching for Pierce to continue.

"Where is the scepter?"

What?

"The scepter, where is it?"

The scepter with her deadly grasp on his mind. Shattering his sanity like broken glass, leaving him clawing at the shattered pieces.

Burning. Darkness. Anxiety. Pain.

"Loki. Where. Is. The. Scepter?" Every word out of Pierce's mouth is foul bile. Acidic as they burn through Loki's skin.

There is blue in his mind and a sickly power in his hands.

"Loki. I need you to answer me. Otherwise, I'll have to resort to... Messier methods," Pierce says, "Where do you have the scepter hidden?"

That causes him to glance up because he doesn't have it. He has not seen the poisonous thing since New York. Because he does not wish to see it even if it means spending the rest of his miserable locked in Asgardian dungeons. So what in the Nine Realms was Pierce talking about?

He quirked an eyebrow, finding a simple joy in the fact that he seemed to remain in control, a part he knew wouldn't last. Making a face as if to say 'What are you talking about?'

Pierce sighs, "I need you to open up to me, Loki. Whether you want to or not," he says, leaning down to face the chained god, "Whether that be voluntary or not is completely up to you,"

Loki swallowed, hard. Pupils flicked around nervously as he watched Pierce. Eyes full of sympathy, pretending as though it's Loki's fault for the scepter. He tries to make his confusion viable, letting the facade crack.

Pierce pauses, seeming to notice before a small smile plays across his lips, "Let me give you a refresher. Two months ago, you showed up 'injured' in a hospital?" He asks, fingers making quotation marks, "Same day that the scepter disappeared from SHEILD property?"

He frowns, it made sense, logically. That Loki had stolen it, got injured, winding up in the hands of SHIELD. The only flaw with that logic was that Loki actually didn't have the scepter. And it was gone, so somebody else must've taken it. So-

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

The Titan with His Great Plan. Screaming, demanding for them both. And he had failed. So He had come back, taking what was His.

And there were so many hands crawling on his skin. Maw tearing through the fabrics of his very being. Ripping them apart and reducing him to nothingness.

Power. Scrambled. Torment. Agony.

"Pity," Pierce says, yanking him out of his thoughts, "Was hoping we could've done this an easier way,"

Then he pulls out a syringe. A syringe with a needle on top. A bright blue, bubbling liquid inside as he flicks the glass.

Loki pales, he knows what that is. The screaming, hollering pain squirms under his skin. The poisonous feel of the Chitauri venom.

"Talk. Or you get some of this fun stuff,"

But he can't talk. He is without a voice. Without his prized weapon and powerless. Pierce can laugh at his misery, but he refuses to open his mouth. The Silvertongue without words. The Liesmith with no to tell. Nothing. He is nothing.

Pierce lets out another sigh, "I really wish this could've gone better,"

Loki screams as the liquid is injected into him. Fire raging rampant through his veins. Pain. Pain. So much f*cking pain. Back arches as he sobs, the venom ripping through his insides like a parasite.

And that is all he can do. He screams and screams and screams. Cold tears spilling from his eyes. Begging and crying out to Heimdall, to anyone, for the pain to stop.

Setting his blood on fire, agonizing, torturous misery. His body engulfed in flames. Pleading and writhing for mercy, for death.

It leaves him feeling hollow and raw. He no longer felt the blue venom racing under his skin. But he still feels the agony hot and angry beneath him. Gasping for oxygen he can't get enough of.

Clutching the sides of the chair, heavily panting. Vaguely aware of the blue blood he can feel dripping from his nose. Feel the metallic taste rushing up his throat, gagging and spitting blood onto his dirtied clothes.

"Now, talk," Pierce demands, "Where do you have the scepter kept?"

He wants to laugh. A dry, manic laugh. Just because of the sheer amount of irony. Because he can produce enough noise for blood-curdling shrieks of misery, but when he tries to say simple words, they choke him.

So he just stares down at his lap, examining his blood-soaked rags. Trying to stop the wetness behind his eyes from showing.

Pierce sighs, clicking his tongue, "Ready for round two?" A pitying smirk overtakes his face when Loki widens his eyes slightly.

He will not scream. He will not scream. He will not-

The blue venom is injected in him once more and he loses it. Crying out in tormented misery. The fiery hot liquids exploding inside him. It hurts. So much worse than the first time. So much worse.

Venom running rampant. Attacking him, wishing for something as sweet as death.

Scorching. Burning. Tearing. Pain.

Why can't it just kill him?

He clenches the chair even harder. The splintered wood dug into his palms. A whimpered groan escaped his mouth. The sickness left nowhere in his body that is not dominated by suffering and misery.

He just wants to die. Let the toxin take him over and force his gasping lungs to cease working. He won't go to Valhalla but he doesn't care anymore. He just needs to escape. Get away from Pierce and his blue sickness.

"Have Rumlow take him back to a holding cell," Pierce adds. Loki can see through the haze of hurt a finger pressed up against the Secretary's ear.

It's moments later that he hears Pierce leave the room, Rumlow marching in instantly with a band of agents. But he keeps his head down, slumped over. He's just so tired.

He waits for a beat, listening as Rumlow obviously hesitates before unclasping him from the chair. His wrists and ankles too sore and aching to flex them, red rings etching across where the chains were.

"Get up," Rumlow huffs, attempting to knock the chair over, only for it to refuse to budge. He growls impatiently, resorting to attempting to drag Loki from the chair. His legs immediately crumble underneath him. Sending him crashing into Rumlow, both tumbling to the floor.

"Jesus Christ, you're heavy," Rumlow mutters, "Zola will have fun with your god body," gesturing to the agents nearby to help haul him.

"Come on, walk," he snaps. And Loki tries to walk, he does. But his mind is scrambled and unable to think of any complex thought. Able to focus only on the blistering, steaming, pain.

The agents manage to drag the half-conscious god to a metal cell that reels of mold and urine. Tossing him in, his body collapsing into a pile of limbs as he whimpers softly.

He's passed out before they even close the door.

Chapter 12: I haven't slept in days, but who's counting?

Chapter Text

"Thor, we're going to find him," Steve says, trying to reassure the pacing god.

He whirled, face beat red with anger and fear, "How do you know that?" He roars, "How do you know that my brother has not wandered to another realm?"

He collapses into the sofa in the lab, rocking back and forth. His head folded into his hands, "I was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to protect you," he mumbles over and over.

"Thor," Bruce coaxed gently, "I saw Loki, he wasn't in a position to walk five feet. Much less interdimensional travel,"

Thor looked up, "What do you mean?" He asks, a warning evident in his voice, "I thought you said he was fine?"

That was it. Tony couldn't take it anymore. "Thor, he was tortured! Nobody just heals from being tortured. Not physically, not mentally, nada! Your sky daddy sewed his mouth shut! Do you think you would be okay after that?" He was screaming, panting heavily. Because nobody understood it. Nobody understood what kind of scarring torture left you with. Tony had only spent three months in Afghanistan but it was enough to make him want to die. And the scars that littered the terrorist made his time with the Ten Rings look like a five-star holiday to Bora Bora.

"He's f*cked in the head, Thunderbrain. Your one-eyed space pirate but his brain in a blender and tossed him to Earth," Tony growled. Unsure of where he had gotten that idea from, but he decided to stick wit it. From the injuries Loki had sustained, he had half a mind to march up to the Golden Palace in the sky and smack the living sh*t out of whoever the person in charge of punishments was.

"Tony," Steve interrupts, breaking him out of the rabbit hole he had fallen down, "Breathe. We're going to find him,"

"It's been a week since the tower blew up. Any chance that he's still in New York is limited," Tony retorted bitterly, ignoring the glowering looks from Bruce and Thor.

"We'll find him," Barton says, much to the shock of everyone. Who hasn't said anything about Loki since that very first conversation, "Tony's right. But we're gonna find him. Because we have to,"

"We're not gonna get any information here," Bruce says, "With the lab destroyed, the resources I've been using to try and find him are minimal,"

"So where do we go?" Steve asks, an eyebrow raised.

Thor shrugs, "Back to SHIELD? I'm sure they have adequate materials to track him down the mortal way,"

Bruce winces at that, how had nobody managed to tell him that the reason they had Loki in the first place was because of SHIELD? "See, here's the thing..." he trailed off, biting his lips hesitantly.

"SHIELD is kinda the place that uh... well-"

"They're the ones that stuck us with this problem in the first place," Nat deadpans, ignoring Thor's confused expression.

"Actually, I think it was Jolly Green's fault over there but-" Tony grumbled, rightfully shutting up when the rest of the team sent him equally withering glares.

"Explain," Thor growled, a warning evident in his voice.

Steve opened his mouth to speak but Bruce beat him to it, "Starved him. That much is obvious. They starved him, I don't know why. I-I don't think SHIELD gave him any injuries besides the malnourishment. The... scars seemed to have been from the past,"

Thor closes his eyes, ignoring the stinging wetness behind his pupils. "I thought-" he stopped abruptly. Because what did he think? That Loki would recover from the void and from his... punishment in an instant?

"Never mind," he muttered half-heartedly. "Just- find him," he scowls towards Bruce, his expression softening at the end.

"Please,"

•••

He's sitting in a cell stained with blood and vomit. His face was pale, like a ghostly apparition. One knee tucked by his chest, the other spread out. His voice was hoarse and strangled.

"Heimdall?"

His hair matted and disheveled. So underweight and malnourished that his bones jutted out, tucked just under the skin.

"Heimdall, if you can see me..."

The gatekeeper who had betrayed him. Left his priorities to the once-exiled Prince and the sleeping King.

"I-I don't know where I am. I know that I am onboard the one who calls Himself the Mad Titan's ship. He and his mindless drones called the Chitauri,"

The Chitauri. Shoving the corpses down his throat. One by one with disgusting delight. The fallen prince's wails were silenced in the echoes of laughter.

"Just... just let my family find me. Let them know I'm alive,"

His family. Frigga who had called him her son no matter what. Thor who had been his brother for eternity. Frigga who taught him magic in his youth. Thor went exploring with him in the forests behind the palace.

"Tell them I'm sorry,"

He was. He was so so sorry. For everything. For letting the Jötnar in during his coronation. Tricking Thor into attacking Jotunheim. For allowing Laufey to try and murder Odin. Trying to kill Thor and all of Jotunheim. Sorry for letting go.

"For everything,"

He was vaguely aware of the frigid tears streaming down his cheeks. Just focused on the ceiling. The cracks that indented the top. The blood stains everywhere. Too much for them, suffocating, drowning. Curled into a ball, the wall cold and sweaty against his back all the same.

It sickened him. The familiarity of it. Of the room and the drip drip dripping of the moldy water from the ceiling and the echoing silence that deafened him. The wet stone pressed against his trembling skin. The fact that he was alone. Completely and utterly alone. He was stuck, trapped.

And.

He.

Could.

Not.

Breathe.

The floor was too sticky and the walls were closing in. Heart quickening and his lungs forgetting how to work. Something cold and slimy wrapping around his neck, choking and strangling him. Bile rose up his throat, fingernails digging into his palms so hard blue blood dripped from his hands. Shaking and shivering which was pathetic. He was Jötnar, he did not shiver. He was a prince, he did not break.

But it was easier to break a mind already shattered.

His breathing slowed, but the clawing in his throat did not stop. Tears still flowing like an uncontrolled waterfall. This was pathetic. He was pathetic and this whole ordeal was goddamn pathetic. He was once a prince and princes did not break. Thor never did, neither Odin nor Frigga.

He was ashamed of how quickly he had descended to madness.

But no, he had realized. He had been beaten and humbled before he even fell from the bridge. Back in his times of youth and innocence with the black stallion chasing after him faster and faster and-

No, he was beyond help.

Beyond any luxioury of life. What good was it for a broken man to invest in anything? Showers, baths, food. It was all the same to him, what was the purpose of surviving only for more torment?

Sleep... he was so tired. Tired from whatever that freakish breakdown had been. Tired from the blue venom that still ached in his bones. Tired of sleeping. Because sleep brought him nothing but memories. Jerking the weak God back to Him and horses and the blue venom and all of Asgard laughing down at his demise.

He was tired, but sleep would not come to him unless it was his dying breath.

"Get up," a voice growls, clanging on the metal bars that caged him like a wild beast.

Loki scowls, instantly putting back up his mask of indifference. Turned from the ceiling to Rumlow, who was glaring as he unlocked the cell.

"Get up," he repeats, slamming the gate open as more soldiers swarm in.

He grits his teeth, fighting the urge to scream at the brainless soldier that he is up. He is up and standing much to his dismay. He is swaying slightly as he legs threaten to buckle under him. But he starts to follow Rumlow like a lemming. He doesn't know why. Maybe because there are dozens of guns pointed at his head. Maybe it's because he just doesn't care anymore.

"You heal fast," he muses, ignoring as Loki jerks upwards at the notation. "Means we can test you more. Get answers faster,"

He swallows, he isn't sure he wants to find out what those tests are.

He's led to a room. A dark room with ominous green and gray lighting. Filing cabinets inside all of the walls. Open and closed, papers and wires and guns littering the shelves. And in the center is a chair. A chair with what looks like a ring above, and clasps on the armrests and legs.

Loki squeezes his eyes shut. He can't do this. He can't do this. He can't-

"Sit down,"

It pains him that he complies so easily. Watched with wide eyes as the soldiers strapped his limbs to the chair, his frail biceps and wrists. Covering half of his face in a metal contraption. His left eye and his right cheek. He doesn't understand what the purpose of it is, and he sure doesn't want to know.

"So, Pretty Princess," Rumlow taunts, leaning down to face the clamped-down god, "Pierce wants us to give you another chance before I get to do things my way. So lemme ask you this one time, where is the scepter?"

Loki manages to give a somewhat co*cky smile. Slightly proud of the fact that he can still manage to give out a weak illusion of the idea that he is in control. But his grin drops as Rumlow only responds with an equally sickening smile of his own.

"Ya know, I was kinda hoping you'd stay silent. Cause now we get to do things, my way," He laughs, stepping aside as a filthy-looking man with the eyes of a wolf, hungry and vicious takes his place.

The man holds up a long plastic tube. A gag at the end.

No no no no no. Not again. Not again. Not aga-

"Begin,"

And it's shoved down his throat. Screaming, blistering, metallic pain. All he can do is retch and heave as the straw inserts itself in his mouth. Driving down his throat and he feels it jam into the side of his stomach.

He can't scream or cry out in pain. Arms tightening on the armrest. He is suffocating and trying to rid himself of the poisonous tube they push in his throat. His vision was red with screaming, blinding, torturous pain.

He doesn't remember what happens after that.

Chapter 13: It comes and goes like the strength in your bones.

Chapter Text

He wakes up back in the cell. Which is odd, considering he doesn't remember returning to the cell, or passing out.

What he does remember is the pounding headache thrumming at the front of his skull, giving him a sense of vertigo. And the tube-

Humid, sharp plastic attacking his throat, his lungs and stomach. Heaving and gagging to be rid of the cruel item. Moaning and writhing on the wet floor. The screams of his mind blinded him. An impossible symphony he could not calm.

Pain. Hurt. Misery. So much pain. Excruciating, miserable pain.

Tight black threads weaved between his lips. Piercing his skin with every movement. Back arched and holding back cries as the guard knitted his greatest weapon together. Fists and ankles cuffed to the bed, blood leaking from limbs and mouth.

Needle smooth and stinging at the same time. Tearing through his skin and pride like nothing more than pieces of wet parchment. A sickening grin on the guard's face. Ropes tying with Gungrir. Magic washing over him like acid.

"What is the matter? Is the argr hurting?" A guard taunts, throwing him into the cell once more. Bloodied and bruised.

Loki, the argr. Silvertongue without words. What was he? He was nothing.

His body is screaming with cowardice again. Heart pounding out of his chest, exploding through his ribcage. Shivering and sweating and nausea coming in waves over him with hysterical mania. It was almost comical. Because he felt like he was dying and he was laughing because it was his own mind forcing him to lose it. His own mind forcing his thoughts to be matted and scrambled and although he was aware of it he couldn't stop.

Needle piercing his lips. Blood on his tongue. Loki the argr. Unmanly one. The unmanly one with his other form. He who pretended to be a man in a hideous Jötun body. He who pretended that he did not have another form with breasts and curves.

Choking back a sob and whimpered because he could not breathe. He was dying and he was going to die and it would not be at the hands of Him or of horses or of needles but because of his own insanity that made him carve into his skin and punish himself with sickly pleasure for being who he was.

All the time in the world seems to pass and none at all before he manages to regain a hold on reality. His hands and body still trembling, inhaling shaky breaths but no longer dying. Quivering with useless paranoia. His eyes pleading for rest and sleep. He twitched around at every noise, picking at his left palm.

He just sat there, feeling nothing but an emptying numbness. Slouched against the wet stone with his legs sprawled out in front of him. He wasn't sure if that was normal. He was convinced he had been dying earlier but now he didn't feel anything. As if all of his emotions had been viciously sprayed by a hose and fled. Left only with careless indifference and an overwhelming urge to sleep.

It wasn't as bad as it could've been. But he wasn't sure if he preferred the apathy to the paralyzing fear from before. Because it was the first that scared him the most. If he even had the energy to be scared. Throughout all of the traumas he had been forced to endure in his life, he had always felt something. Whether it be agonizing grief or rage or vengeance, he had never just felt so utterly and completely hollow before. His eyes trailed to the large wooden splinters that had dug into his hands days ago. Sprinkled in the corner, sharp enough to cut skin.

Loki couldn't help but stare at the stranger in the mirror. The stranger with cornflower blue skin and blood-red eyes followed his every move. Heritage lines raised on his skin, small, caramel-colored horns protruding from his head.

He narrowed his eyes and the stranger copied the creature. That couldn't be him. The wretched beast who had terrorized home- Asgard for millenniums. The 'prince' of Jötunheim. Abandoned by the king- his father because he wasn't good enough. Wasn't enough for Jötunheim or for Asgard or Frigga or Thor or Odin to see him as more than just his bro- the Prince's shadow.

He hated this. He wasn't this, this foul creature, beast. The burning crimson eyes that bore into his soul, wide with fear and antagonizing hatred. It didn't surprise him though, the monstrous orbs that glared back at him. It was a monster, the stranger was a monster, he was a monster.

Had Laufey recognized him? When they ventured to Jötunheim? Had Laufey recognized Loki as being his offspring? The babe he had left out to die all those years ago? Remember the dark Prince as one of his own? Had he just chosen to do nothing? Not want anything more the the Jotun runt? Seen what Loki had grown up into and realized he dodged a bullet?

Grateful that he had left the Prince- his son, abandoned and alone once again?

Then without warning, the mirror exploded. Loki ducked, glass shattering and hitting every corner of the bathroom. Angry flecks of green seiðr flickering around the remnants.

He stared at the destroyed mirror for a brief moment. He couldn't say that he was surprised with the outburst. His seiðr tended to do that with strong emotions. What did surprise him, was the frost rapidly forming all around the room. Coating every flat surface with a light sprinkling of ice.

Panic spread deep and rampant throughout his blue body, desperately trying to make it stop. But it wouldn't. The ice wouldn't stop and he couldn't figure out how to make his Aesir illusion come back and he was stuck in the monstrous Jötun form and he couldn't breathe.

And before he realized what he was doing he had a pair of antique scissors in his hands and was trying to cut away the horns that swelled from his head. Crying out in pain the second they made an indent, blue blood gushing from the small gash. Horns were very sensitive, he realized and they hurt to much to get any sick satisfaction from harming them.

He felt out of his body, watching a tragedy happen. Climbing into the bathtub to not make a mess, taking the scissors to his forearms, his wrists. Pressing gently, just enough to draw the slightest amount of blood. Pushing harder and harder in clean, precise lines into his Jötun skin.

It was foul, the disgusting satisfaction that he got from it. The addicting thrall that came with every fresh cut. Lining his wrists like a battle wound. And with frightening terror, he realized he craved it. A way to let out his emotions without confiding to anyone. The downward spiral that sucked him down. He should've stopped, he knew that. It wasn't right nor what Asgard expected of a prince but he didn't care.

He was embracing his monstrous heritage onto himself.

And now he was watching history repeat itself. A particularly large wood splinter was in his hand as he waited to strike, the jagged piece hovering inches above his skin. For a moment, he considered cutting deeper than in the past. Hard enough to do possible damage beyond scarring. He shook his head, deciding against it. Although the idea was much more appetizing than he cared to admit, it would just prove to Pierce and Rumlow that their attempts to break him had been successful.

So he decided to go slightly less than deadly, just enough to satisfy him for the time being.

Time seemed to faze in and out, only focusing on the gratifying slush of blood that leaked from his hands. Enticing him like a sickness. A poisonous dream. Because he is drowning drowning drowning and he is enticed by the way the wooden splinters make him feel something.A tarnished joy from the split blood on his hands because there is red in his ledger and why should it matter if he adds his own to the tainted mix?

He's too focused on the blood, on the blue blood spilling from his pale hands, but his hands aren't pale because he is a Jötun monster hiding in an Aesir body and cutting is the only way to relieve the pain because it makes him feel so good. Too focused on the steady stream to hear the creaking door open, to hear Rumlow mutter 'You've gotta be sh*tting me' until suddenly there is a boot in his abdomen. Kicking rock hard into the place where the tube ends in his stomach. He cowers away from the pain of the tender area and his gut explodes with fire and pain from the boot rendering him breathless.

"Pathetic," Rumlow spits, words like poison as he twists the bleeding skin on the gods forearm. Loki bites his tongue so hard that it draws blood, but he will not admit weakness. He will not. He refuses.

But Rumlow grabs a hold of Loki's jaw, the tube between his rough fingers, "Look at me," he growls, a sickening smirk when Loki finally looks up with full eyes. "You are nothing, bitch. If you think that this is helping then you're even more of an idiot than I thought. Now get up, we got work to do,"

Loki wouldn't stop a whimper as Rumlow dug his dirtied fingernails into his flesh, sluggishly following him to the same chair. The same chair where they had stolen him of his words once more. Made the weaponless Liesmith.

"Come on, be a good bitch and sit down," Rumlow taunts as Loki sits down, momentarily distracted from the pain. His Allspeak is translating the word as 'female dog' but he's certain there has to be a more derogatory connotation. Plus, even if there wasn't, it wants to make his blood boil. He is not a dog. He is not an animal and he will not be treated as such.

"Now, since you went and did... that," He says, every word leaking with disgust, "We gotta clean this mess up. Specially before it gets infected," he says, a smile shining across his face. He steps, aside, revealing the same agent- doctor?- who shoved the tube down Loki's throat yesterday.

Then there is acid in his wounds. Acid burning down the tube and in his wrists and there is so much screaming and burning and pain. Ripping and scavenging for any part of his body that is not in pain and infesting it. Infesting and plaguing his body and he wants to explode. Because there is no way to scream or cry out and detonating like a bomb would be less than the misery he is suffering through right now.

Because he can feel the acid bursting through his veins and corroding his lungs and stomach and he can't breathe as he gags and bits of the acid erupt from the clear tube they were poured down. His eyes widen because along with the acid are little pink bits that he soon realizes are pieces of flesh. He is vomiting up acid and bile and tissues and parts of him.

And he cannot scream so he whimpers and clenches and jerks, moving his hands around so much that he feels a crunch in his wrist but he doesn't care because there is acid in his arms and his body and it is killing him.

The acid coursing through him began to die down, slowly, painfully. Until he feels it just barely below the surface, aching to bubble over once more. The world wibbly-wobbly, tilting to the right and warping like water. Words fading in and out and black covering a majority of his sight.

"Yeah," someone says, but he's too disoriented to tell who, the words blending together like sand, We just continue the treatments until he breaks. Then he'll tell us where the scepter is. It worked with Barnes,"

Loki blinks, trying to keep his eyes open from the pain, who is Barnes? The name sounds familiar but he can't remember. He can't do anything, he realizes. His movements are sluggish and weary, stumbling and leaning onto the wall for support when Rumlow drags him back to the cell. The taste of blood, flesh, his flesh drowning his senses. The acid worming and prying at his open wounds. The doctor speaks to Rumloe a bit more. But Loki doesn't care, he's too out of it to notice the gentle drip of blood leaking from the tube. The deafening silence of the cell was stifled only by his own ragged breathing.

And yet he still firmly kept the wooden splinter in his hand through the whole ordeal. If the urge to feel something overtook him again.

Just in case.

Chapter 14: Feed me poison, fill me 'til I drown

Chapter Text

"She was five,"

Loki immediately flinches, tearing his eyes away from the little girl on the piece of paper. Pale Blue eyes and tan skin, a mop of brown curly hair on the top of her head. She was missing her two front teeth in the image, but she wouldn't grow them back.

"She was five when you killed her."

He hated this part. If anything, he prefers the physical agony over the mental. Because the girl is dead. Her name was Kaitlin and she was five and loved unicorns and books and she's dead because Loki murdered her in cold blood.

Because even though he could not properly feel, his actions were his own and he was the one that opened the portal and he was the reason that the little girl was dead.

He was the reason so many innocent people were hurting. It was all his fault because the people of Midgard had done nothing to him and he didn't want to rule but there had been so much rage running in his veins and he hadn't cared about who was in the way.

"Do you remember the number?" Rumlow asks, hatred dripping from his voice like poison.

546.

That was the death count. Of how many people Loki had killed like ants under a boot. Not that he would ever tell Rumlow that he remembered the number and tried to remember all the details about the people he hurt. And Rumlow knew it too, because he couldn't talk with the tube lodged in his throat so Rumlow just wanted to make him hurt. Burn with guilt and remorse but he isn't wrong because Loki is a monster and he deserves to feel like this.

"Let's move into another one," Rumlow says, placing another picture in front of the broken God.

It's another woman. Maybe in her mid to late twenties, Loki isn't sure how mortal years work. But she's just probably just passed the cusp of young adulthood. She had strawberry blonde hair that reached her waist, pulled into a sleek ponytail. Blue eyes flickering happily beside a round face dotted with freckles.

That isn't what caught his eye though. That wasn't what made the nausea claw its way up his throat. Made him squeeze his eyes shut to stop the burning of tears. His breath hitch in his throat as the shame consumed him raw.

Because the woman was holding her hands around a very swollen abdomen. She was pregnant. She had been with child, the strongest thing anyone could do, mortal or not. She was carrying an unborn babe and Loki had stolen that from her. She had her child stolen from her because she was dead and Loki killed her.

546 and one unborn child.

"Her name was Katie Maslow,"

Katie. The name like fresh water and fruits. A name so pure and full of hope. With so much wonder in her eyes, full of love as her hands caressed her stomach. She had so much left of a life to live. And Loki had taken it away.

Oh, how he wished that they were pouring raw chemicals down his throat instead. Because screaming, vulnerable pain were easier on the mind. Easier to feel vengeance on Rumlow and Pierce than the devastating guilt towards himself.

Although didn't he deserve it? Did the monster deserve to feel wrong for his sins? Was he worthy of feeling anything, anything at all?

"Let's do another one," Rumlow says, his voice taking an icier, colder tone.

Loki glares down at the ground. He'd like to be done. He'd really really really like to be done. At this point, he's willing to sacrifice his pride and grovel at Rumlow's feet to make him stop.

He slaps down another picture, this one of a teenage boy. Scruffy dark brown hair and chocolate eyes. A dimple on the right side of his lopsided grin. Faintly tan skin with moles lighting covering bits of his face. His ears are pierced with little diamond studs.

"Do you remember him?" Rumlow spat, but his words are less. Less angry and more broken and hurt.

Loki frowns, staring at the boy. Maybe in late adolescence. Mischievous eyes full of life and sparkle, innocent and naïve about the world to believe there was still good in it.

He wants to remember. He wants to remember the boy. Because he had the world at his fingertips and it was stolen. He wants to remember the boy because even if it plagues his mind with the lives he had taken the boy deserves to be remembered.

But he can't. Because as hard as he stares at the face and squints and co*cks his head to faint flicker of recognition comes to mind. So Loki just shakes his head glumly, reaching his fingertips towards the photo, but unable to touch it with his arms clasped down.

Rumlow's face darkens, eyes filled with murderous rage, crumpling up the picture and shoving it in Loki's palm. "We're done here," he growls, trudging out of the room.

The agents take him back to the cell, but they seem different this time. What's normally anger without any regard for the prisoner is replaced with sympathy, not for him, he doesn't think.

He's tossed in the cell, blinking back the stinging tears in his eyes. Adding the three pictures to his steadily growing pile. He's already memorized all of them. Commit all of the people he's killed to memory.

The young adult, with dreams of becoming an author. The college student, is so excited to get a degree. The single father with two twin girls. Two men who had married and moved to New York for a fresh start.

Their names, lives, and everything that Rumlow had told him was burned into his mind. He couldn't forget even if he wanted to, how could he? Their blood was on his hands.

All of the pictures were in a neat pile as he flipped through them. It made him sick. How stacked and proper the stack of cards was. Because they weren't cards because they were people. People that he had killed and if he killed them then why should he have the right to mourn? Why should he feel any remorse for Midgard but bitter at the fact he had failed to destroy Jötunheim?

And suddenly the cards were shaking with little droplets falling onto the paper. Trembling so horribly that the pictures dropped from his hands, scattering around the cell. He shouldn't be doing this. Wallowing in his own self-pity, when he had been the one to hurt. Injure the souls and bodies of innocents who wanted nothing.

It was comical. Loki, the God of Mischief and Chaos. Liesmith and Silvertongue. Skywalker of the nine realms, the one who used to care for wyverns in his youth. Broken by simple words. Words were his speciality and he had been shattered by them. Not the acid or chemicals poured into him until he was raw, he, was broken by taunts and pictures of stolen fates.

He grips the piece of splintered wood a bit harder.

•••

He's scrubbing the blood off his wrists when Rumlow barges in again.

"Come on," he growls, digging his fingers into his wounds. His voice of venom and anger, nobody else with him. He was all... alone.

So Loki follows, not like he has much of a choice. But he's curious about why Rumlow is unaided and taking him to a room away from the normal one.

He holds back a wince when Rumlow slams something down on the table he's chained to.

"Let me ask you this again," He snarls, but a vulnerable undertone to the words, making Loki furrow his brows, "Who is this?"

The soldier lifts his hands, revealing another picture of the same boy. With the same dimpled smirk and wonder-filled eyes. Only now it's a full-body portrait and he's wearing a green t-shirt and black sweatpants. A ball casually tucked under his arm.

Loki frowns, he's trying to remember who the boy is. Even for an ounce of familiarity, only to find nothing. He debates whether or not to tell Rumlow that, but he doesn't think that lying to his captor is exactly the best idea.

"His name was Adam," Rumlow says, voice cracking on the name. There's a vulnerability in him, a pleading. A broken man trying to get closure.

"He was my son,"

Loki snaps his head up at that. Not caring that the tube scrapes against his throat, the metallic liquid running down his throat. Rumlow... Rumlow had a son?

But as he gazes at the boy once more, he can see it. The same nose, same cheeky grin that Rumlow had when he tortured the god. Similar skin tones and eye shape.

And everything made sense. The greedy, hungry eyes that consumed Rumlow when he saw Loki. Predatory looks, like a hunter to prey.

"He was my son. He liked football and art and school-" his voice cracks, a wetness in his eyes, "He's dead. You killed him. And you deserve to suffer for every bit of it,"

Loki bit down on the tube, hard. The truths shattered any bit of sanity he had left. Because it was his fault. It was his fault that Adam was dead and Rumlow was half a man without his son. Because he had hurt so many people without a care during New York but why now did he feel the need to grieve so deeply? Why should he, the monster, feel anything at all for the lost souls he had taken?

Rumlow was right, he deserved far worse than anything he had ever endured to even make up for a scrap of the crimes he had committed.

And then he glances up and Rumlow has a knife in his hands, clean, sharp, and deadly precise. He stiffens, desperately trying to wriggle away from the blade as he draws closer.

"So since apparently you aren't phased by our normal tactics," he says and Loki can't help but shudder. He is very much phased by their tactics but he's just learned to minimize his reactions and whatever Rumlow has planned is probably much much worse.

"So I'm gonna try something different today," his words are so casual that it makes him sick. This is something that people expect of Loki, the feigning unimportance and relaxed stance as the screams of the victims erupt across the room.

Rumlow brings the knife closer and closer as the pitiful god tries to squirm away. But Rumlow doesn't aim towards his face or abdomen but brings the attention towards his hands which are chained to the chair. He immediately recoils, balling his hands into fists, splinters digging into his fingers but he doesn't care.

He doesn't care because Rumlow is prying his thumb away from his curled hands and the dagger is coming closer and closer.

And then the blade is digging into his flesh and carving out his fingernails as his screams split open his skull. The knife makes a disgusting 'squelching' sound as it slides under his nails. There is so much blood. Blood everywhere, on his clothes and his fingers and covering the blade and pooling at his feet.

He was going to be sick. Because there was nothing he could focus on but the screaming, suffering, agony in his hands. Because his fingertips are burning and panic is rising up his throat and he can see the raw skin underneath the nails that are being removed. The sick, bloody, pieces of him in a pile next to Rumlow.

Because all he can think about it the painpainpainPAIN. And he can't scream or cry out because that's weak and there is hollow tube going down his throat. It'd be easier if his fingers were just chopped off because they are itching and searing in pain like he couldn't have ever imagined. Because he can't breathe because all he smells is his blood and the horrific delight of his torturer. And his fingernails are bloody with pieces of skin still attached and there in a heap on the table.

That's when the sick bile erupts from his mouth. Forcing itself up the tube and onto his battered clothes. Green and bitter and raw because there is acid in his body and it's eating him from the inside out and he wants to die.

He wants to die. The truth hits him like a sack of bricks. The thought has been simmering in the back of his mind but until Rumlow is placing his nails and the picture of Adam into his mutilated hand has the idea of killing himself ever been so loud and enticing like a sweet disease.

"Remember his name," Rumlow growls, digging his hands into Loki's destroyed nail beds, biting the tube to stop a shriek of pain. Loki only stares at the ground, his voice seems underwater through the ringing in his ears. Everything seems fuzzy, like someone's wiped grease on all his senses.

Then Rumlow screams. "REMEMBER HIS NAME!" Gripping Loki's chin and forcing the god to stare at his manic eyes, "Remember his name as I tear you apart limb from limb,"

Only then does Loki nod half-heartedly, still in a state of semi-shock. But one word still rings true in his head.

Adam.

Chapter 15: I don't need you to help me, I can handle things myself.

Chapter Text

His hands are a bloodied mess, every single thing that brushes against his once healthy fingertips sends screeching agony up his forearms. It had been weeks, weeks and his fingernails had not grown back. His seiðr working to fix the acid in his veins that he could not escape. Focusing on keeping him alive and the Chitauri venom from eating away at his insides.

How long has it been, weeks? Months? Certainly, at least seven more days have passed since his fingernails were stolen from him. The days are starting to blur together and the only reason he has even a scrape of time awareness is because of his growing learning of all the people he's killed. Two or three each day, followed by physical punishment of torture. He doesn't even think it's about the scepter anymore. Because if it was then they would've pried to tube out of his throat so he could speak. It's not about trying to find the scepter that Loki does not have. It is about trying to break him. To shatter and destroy the sporadic god in every way imaginable.

His stomach suddenly curdles underneath him, roiling with the poison in his abdomen. Loki swallows, managing to push the wave of nausea down. Exhaustion deep in his bones but refusing to close his eyes. He couldn't sleep here, plagued with nightmares and surrounded by untrustworthy people.

He just glared at his mangled fingers, bony and frail and caked with blood. And the hardest part was that he could feel his seiðr running in his veins, sheltered from the world. Once upon a time, he could've made Rumlow and all of the idiotic soldiers' minds collapse into madness, teleporting away without breaking a sweat. Once upon a time, he could've burned down buildings with a flick of the wrist.

There are bitter tears welling in his eyes, using the back of his palm to dry them. Because he is a prince and princes don't cry. He was taught to be strong for his godhood and royalty. He would not break, he would not break, he would not break.

He did not break with the horse. He did not break on Jötunheim. He did not break in the void or when having his mouth wired shut or with acid and Chitauri poison venomous in his blood.

He refused to let fingernails of all things be the catalyst to his insanity.

Then there's a quiet creaking, causing Loki to jerk his head up, hiding the shock when he sees who is walking up to his cell.

"So, it's been a while," Pierce laughs shallowly, clicking his tongue as he stares at him through the bars.

Loki's jaw tightens because the man is right there. Pierce is the one who captured him, demanding for the destructive scepter that he does not have. Rumlow has caused most of the hurt but realistically he is just following orders. Pierce is the man at the top, too prideful to get his own hands dirty with blood. Giving them permission to concoct the worst tortures that they can think of. Yet here he was, pretending to be a balm.

It was more cowardly than Loki giving in to the scepter's temptation. He's tempted to sneer and taunt him, but he is the Liesmith without words and he knows he is not in control. He is at Pierce's mercy and there is nothing he can do.

Pierce grins, an evil, awful grin, he is enjoying this. He enjoys watching Loki squirm under his predatory eyes and it sickens him.

"Hopefully our treatments have softened you up a little," he says, opening up the door with a creak, "That you'll actually be willing to answer our questions,"

He leans down, back straight with his hands wrapped behind him, "Where is the scepter?"

Loki furrows his brows, scowling to the best of his abilities. Not this again, anyone with a single brain cell should've been able to see that he doesn't have it. And Pierce should know that he physically cannot answer. There is acid in his throat and a tube in his mouth. His lips were sewn shut and his seiðr had limited abilities with the collar.

So he just quirks his lips up innocently, inclining his head slightly. Watching as Pierce's face grows beet red, eyes darkening as he stands up.

A sickening crunch erupts across the cell. Pierce's fist makes contact with Loki's nose. He swallowed blood as it ran down and into his mouth, biting the tube and squeezing his eyes shut from the pain.

"I'm going to give you one more chance to answer before we decide to up the force," He growls, wiping Loki's blue blood off his hand, an eyebrow-raising when he sees the color before turning back to the defeated god, "Where do you have the scepter,"

He just stayed silent, the smirk still clear across his face. Then pain explodes across his body as Pierce jams his foot into his neck, slamming the collar against the wall.

"You're going to listen to me," He growls, hoisting the collar in his hand and shoving it against the wall again, Loki's skull colliding with the stone.

"Now, I don't know how you do it in your Palace in the clouds," Pierce spits, pulling Loki's ear next to his mouth, "But here on Earth, I'm in charge. Which means, you listen to me," with the last word, Pierce bangs the collar one final time, the smell of sweet blood wild in Loki's nose.

"We're gonna try this one more time," he says, facing the half-conscious sack of blood on the floor. "Where is the scepter?"

Loki tries not to let the panic show on his face. Because he doesn't want to even think about the scepter. The scepter and her sickly grasp, clawing and ripping apart his mind. Destroying any part that he ever identified with himself. There is blue in his mind and mad power in his hands and he is not himself because it has filled him with so much rage. Rage towards Thor and heartbreaking sadness when Thor asks who controls the would-be king, because Thor was so close to realizing that his mind was not his own but he fell just short because he could not see.

And so he lets Thor fall down not because he wants his brother to die. But he needs for him to know what it feels like to be out of control, wild and crazed and falling with no knowing of what is happening. Senses thrown in a blender and screaming panic just to stay alive. He is sick with power and he is crying out to his brother for help but Thor ignores him. Ignores how his eyes aren't emeralds but glowing blue.

No, he does not know where the scepter is and he hopes to never see her might ever again. Even if it means death, refusing to answer Pierce's questions with lies, even if it means he is trapped here in agony for the rest of his life, he refuses to witness another Infinity Stone once more.

Pierce sighs, "Shameful," he tuts, turning to a soldier accompanying him, "You can tell Rumlow to up the antics. Harder than we ever had to push Barnes," with that, he gives one more false pitying look to Loki, before strutting out of the cell. Leaving him lying in a heap on the floor, blood sluggishly wetting his matted hair.

He swallows, panting and staring at the door for minutes, anxiously awaiting to see if anyone is going to get him. He's already done the victim guilt treatment today. Logan, a young adult who wanted to become an author. Joseph, a two year old boy who used to live with his mother in a rundown apartment. And Derek Bishop, a wealthy business tycoon and father. Their pictures were already added neatly to the stack, slightly wet with shameful tears.

And he's right because it's only moments after he's pulled himself together enough in an upright position when Rumlow marches into his cell. A devilish grin plastered on his face.

"Come on, up," he spits, "Be a good little bitch and get on those hind legs," he says, forcing Loki to stand and lead him to the same room with the same wooden chair and the same pain.

"We're gonna do things a little... differently today," Rumlow says, stepping aside to reveal a man. The same man who shoved the tube down his throat, white coat stained red and a sinister smile on his lips. Like watching a caged animal.

"I don't think I've formally introduced myself," the man says, "Pity really, I prefer to know my subjects before testing them," his lips twitch upward, a small scoff at the end of the sentence, "You can call me Dr. List,"

Loki frowns but decides to play along anyway, it’s not like he has a choice in the matter.

He holds back a whimper of pure terror when List brings out large, rusty scissors stained with blood. Clenching all of his frail muscles like that will do anything.

“This might hurt a little,” List says in his thick German accent, “But it will be fun for me, learning what makes a god tick,”

The scissors inch towards his fingers once more. And he resists the urge to cower away, swallowing his visible fears as he glares at the scientist defiantly.

His has already had his fingertips removed in the most painful way he did not know existed, whatever List tried to throw his way could not possibly be as bad.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Because suddenly his left ringer finger is hovering in between the twin blades, their sharp beauty taunting on his skin. He tenses more than he thought possible, trying to jerk away but trying to avoid getting cut by the pair.

“Do not move around, my bitch,” List sneers, voice sending chills down his spine, “It will only prolong the procedure,”

The scissors close even more, with just enough pressure on his flesh to draw the slightest amount of blood. And for a moment, Loki’s tempted to give in. To give some bullsh*t answer that he has the scepter stowed away in Siberia and to get the Hel out of here. Because he does not want to lose his fingers because he is too vain to tarnish his image of perfection even more. Although his body is littered with scars he has never lost a part of him before. A part that even with his seiðr at her fullest might could not fix. aaBecause he needs his hands to fingers to even perform seiðr and without his seiðr he is nothing.

Yet the scissors close more, and Loki can feel a being sliced through like butter, stifling a groan. And he tries to convince himself that it is not so bad, he has been stabbed before, surely he can withstand this.

But the edges reach his bone and quiet moan escapes his lips, flinching from the pain. He has never been so aware of his body before because he can feel the scissors gently pressing into his bones, hard and defensive against the foreign object. His flesh a bloodied mess and bleeding sluggishly onto the scissors and the chair and there is so much pain.

He barely has enough time to process the subtle look that the two captors exchange before there is a sickening crunch and he screams because his finger is no longer attached to his body and there is so much blood.

His hands are numb and cold, he’s aware that his finger has just been sliced clean off but he screams not because of the pain but because his finger is gone. His heart is beating out of his chest and he is shivering but there are beads of sweat on his forehead. He is shaking and clammy and his skin is too tight and suffocating him.

And then there's pressure again, and he barely manages to glance down before swallowing acidic bile down his throat. Because the scissor blades are pushing against his pinkie finger he can’t help but watch in horror as the

Blade

Slices

Through.

He can’t hold back a sob because he can see the bone and his hands are burning with cold and black spots are dancing in his vision and he shivers as List continues.

When List finishes he is missing his left ring finger, pinkie, and thumb, and he no longer has a right middle or pointer finger. He lets out a feeble whimpered gasp because although he has no more feeling in his hands it is the mere concept that his fingers have been taken from him that is enough to break him.

And when he thinks it can’t get any worse, it does. It’s gets so much worse. Because his mutilated fingers are being pushed down the tube and he is forced to swallow. List’s interested face as he sobs, screaming as he eats his own limbs. He hasn’t eaten in weeks but he’d rather starve if it mean’t being saved of this fate.

And he keeps screaming and crying and begging for Heimdall until he feels a familiar pinch in the back of his neck.

And the world goes black.

Chapter 16: Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Chapter Text

He wakes up vomiting. His entire body shuddering, trying to rid itself of morbid taste on his flesh on his tongue. On all fours with his concaved stomach shaking from effort, finally managing to collapse back against the wall, reveling in exhaustion from the simple effort that was puking up his guts.

Loki hated this. Hated this more than anything in the entire world. His marred hands a reflection of how weak he has become. He had thought that losing fingernails would've been the worst and he was so wrong. Because he is left with scraps of his former glory.

Because he is the Silvertongue without words because the man who claimed to once be his father stole his voice. Stole it with the needle bleeding through his lips and puncturing his tongue. Odin Allfather who wanted to tie him to a pole and let a snakes venom drip into his face. Saved only by the one woman who seemed to care for him. But that one woman would always chose her husband or firstborn's side unless Loki was about to die.

Who was he? He was nobody. He was the broken child who carried his last name like a burden. But he didn't have a last name because he was the son of none. He murdered his biological parent and was a disgrace to his false ones.

Worthless. A worthless nobody, Jötun monster. Each word echoed in his mind, banging his head against the wall, doing nothing but agitating the sluggish wound on his head, nose still throbbing as his damaged seiðr struggled to heal his broken body.

And although the shock had worn off, he couldn't help but sob half-heartedly whenever he looked down at his hands. Bleeding little knobs of flesh, barely humanoid and shaking. His once-nimble fingers that used to cast magic refused to stop shaking, refused to stop his remaining limbs from hovering over where the rest of them should've been.

No, nothing could fix that. His hands were a lost cause, he had to accept that. Even the grasp on the jagged wood he had used as an escape so often was useless in his quaking fingers. And sickeningly, disgustingly, he needed the getaway, he needed a way to be in control of himself for once. In control of his pain and even diverting his attention to something else for just a few minutes.

His teeth bit down on the tube, an image flooding his head of Jötun fangs scraping on his skin. A getaway. He just had to get the damn tube out of his body.

Loki frowned, forcing his trembling hands to find their way to the gag attached to the end, taking several moments before the remaining half could manage to latch on. Pulling before his fingers lost strength, collapsing to the ground as his head slammed against the wall from agitation.

He had to get the gag out of his mouth, he had to. As much as he wanted to pretend that it was because he wanted to have his weapon, his words returned to him, he wanted to hurt. It was the reason that burned him rotten to his core but he didn't care because he needed an escape. The tainted euphoria that was watching blue blood trail down his forearms.

So he closes his eyes, steeling himself once more. The leaky cell around him faded, drifting away from reality and towards painless delusions. Tremored fingers grasped onto the gag once more, firmer this time.

And as he pulls it is a feeling like no other. As he gasps and heaves, he feels the end of the tube release its grip on his stomach tissues. A pressure he didn't know was there was gone, the nausea he had become accustomed to in his abdomen vanishing. And he breathes sighs of relief even as he retches because the end of the tube is halfway up his throat.

He vaguely notices how most of the plastic has been eaten and chewed away, no doubt by the Chitauri venom and acid. But he doesn't care, because as he manages to to pry the last of the tube out of his mouth with a final push of pain, he is free.

A wet cough erupts from his throat, blue flecks speckling onto his clothes. He doesn't know how long he sits there, gasping and panting for air that he cannot get enough of because he is free. The air is his and he could try to speak if he wanted to and it feels exactly like how it had been when the green beast smashed him into the ground, freeing him of the scepter's poison.

And at some point, he closes his eyes, a delicious smile clear on his face. Falling into a sleep he had not allowed himself in so long.

•••

He dreams of falling.

Into the void. Away from Asgard. He wonders if this will be the end.

The ocean of darkness swallows him whole. The silence screaming in his ears. Echoing, deafening, is this the end?

He dreams of falling.

Falling through the abyss, into the black hole. Gravity ripping him raw, ending in the inky depths of space. Panicked, more at the fact that he failed. Failed his escape of life.

He dreams of falling.

He welcomed death with open arms. Not yet a corpse. Still, he rots.

He dreams of falling.

The butterflies in his stomach of childhood naïveity turn to bees. Stinging him from the inside out.

He dreams of falling.

Cold, plummeting, darkness. The god of lies, betrayed by his own people. Betrayed because he wasn't good enough.

He dreams of falling.

He likes death because life is a beautiful lie and death is the ugly truth. He prefers the truths no matter how hard they burn. Beautiful lies allow hope, hope allows pain.

He dreams of falling.

He dreams of death.

He

Dreams.

Falling. Death. Welcome. Darkness.

There is ice on his fingertips, turning his skin a sapphire hue as frost races up his forearms.

It is not the cold that kills him, but the ice wrapping around his lungs. Suffocating. He cannot breathe.

He longs for death.

He closes his eyes.

And smiles.

•••

He wakes up thinking he is dead. Thinking that he is truly gone in the void, a lifeless corpse.

He tastes blood on his tongue. The feeling of bones, his bones, and flesh and fingers that were once pieces of him in his throat.

He stifles a sob, looking in horror at his deformed hands once more.

He dreamt of death.

He places his head between his palms, pulling his legs in, rocking back in forth.

How long ago was it that he had been just a child? Joyful and mischievous youth, pranking Thor in good fun and playing with the animals in the forests?

He dreamt of childhood. Before horses. Before he lost the definition of privacy.

He dreams of splintered wood, scraping on his wrists. He dreams of the release, dreams that his body will not give out the moment another drop of blood falls.

He feels scarily at peace. A calm before the storm. It won't last, but he welcomes it. The harmony he feels in his bones.

A change from the dirtiness he feels so raw inside of him. Of hands that won't stop touching him. Burning and screaming and tearing misery.

He has survived so many fires he can no longer tell if he is alive or still burning.

Dirty.

He shakes away the memories. He is at peace, he welcomes it.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

He longs for peace.

He closes his eyes.

And smiles.

•••

"The f*ck did you do?"

Before Loki can open his eyes there's a sharp punch to his jaw, sending him crashing to the floor, face colliding with the concrete.

"You little bitch!" Someone is screaming at him, the words blurring together as he wakes up fully. A hard boot kicking him in the back, bruised spine crying out in agony.

"You f*cking bitch!" The voice, who he recognizes as Rumlow, shouts, "What the Hel did you do?"

He blinks, eyes swimming in black through the pain, managing to focus on what Rumlow is yelling about.

There is blood. So much blood. A cascade of blue leaking from his mouth and he can't find the strength to open it. Blood pooled on the floor, the tube he wrenched out of his throat on the floor. Frantic shouts are around him, the words blurring together like syrup.

"Stupid f*cker... tube... attached- to stomach... can't find scepter... if dead... call... List,"

The words he hears are jumbled nonsense and he can't make a coherent thought out of any of them. The only word he recognizes is 'List' and he doesn't know why.

He doesn't know anything. Can't remember where he is or why anyone is fussing over him. All he knows is that there is so much blood. There is blood painting the ceilings and the walls and he's coated in it. Is it his? He doesn't know. Blood, there's just blood. Cold against his clammy skin as he shivers. His body collapses into the arms of whoever's holding him up, sending both of them falling to the floor with his weight.

His eyelids are threatening to flutter shut, but he refuses. He gets the gist that the people helping him want him to stay conscious.

Conscious. Blood. Mouth. What?

He can't make sense of anything. Sounds fading in and out, tattered clothes being ripped off his quivering chest. A metallic taste grating in his mouth, managing to roll over at just the right time before he vomits. Blue liquid spewing out of his mouth, the same blue that the blood in the cell is.

There's a man above him, a blue bloody mask on his face, pulling Loki back onto his back. What looks like a small knife in his hands.

"Hold still," he says, and that's all the warning Loki gets.

A cool pressing on his concave stomach, numb compared to how lethargic he feels right now. Vaguely aware of it tearing through flesh as he groans uncomfortably, more blue building in his mouth. Chest heaving, staring at the cracked ceiling above him.

He wonders if he's dying. If this is what dying feels like. Scarily calm outweighing what should be dread. Time moving too slow and too quickly all at once, limbs refusing to move, blue choking him, trying to turn on his side to heave once more but his head won't listen. Won't let him, blue gargling on his lips.

He knows the halls of death frighteningly well.

He feels floaty, that's the only way to describe it. Like he's not in his body anymore, watching a stranger fighting for a life he does not want.

Watching List slice open his stomach, speaking words about ruptures from brutally ripping the tube out. It's not that he cares much if anything, he had the preference that List would fail and he would bleed out to death.

It doesn't feel real. Life doesn't feel real. This state of consciousness that he's in right now, watching an evil organization try to save his life just to torture him more.

He feels... floaty. Sitting on a cloud or lying in a bathtub. A warmness coated his body, cozy all over.

He watches as the stranger's chest ceases movement.

The floaty feeling lifts him up to the sky.

He is flying.

Chapter 17: You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest.

Chapter Text

He is a boy. Drowning in the water. Shackles dragging him down of his parent's wrongs. He screams silently, pleading for someone to reach out. Lend a hand to the dying scared little boy. But no one does. Nobody ever does. Not when the bargaining chip they stole, the little runt left to die causes an inconvenience.

He drowns in the empty halls.

A child should not have to beg a parent for affection. But he is standing here, shivering all alone.

Son of Odin. Daughter of Frigga. Child of Laufey. Youth of none. A juvenile of disappointment and abandonment.

He tries to tell himself. That one day they'll wake up and notice that they should've tried. He was worth the fight... right?

Here's to a lonely child who was never the first choice. Can they hear his silent screams?

A thundering rage of emotions boiling underneath. Standing before his father. The fault of the monster he is. Thrown out and abandoned.

Monstermonstermonstermonstermonster.

But now as he stares dead in the eyes of his true heritage all he feels is a fury and wrath like no other. Here is the terror who left him to die.

And yet Laufey still demands to kill him.

Does he know? That the sole child putting in a brave face is crying to him on the inside. Begging to know why. Why would he abandon the lone boy?

The quiet babe takes aim, and shoots. Not at the liars, but at the one who abandoned him. Maybe he could be good enough for the ones who cared for him, regardless of whether or not it was because he was a bargaining chip.

They are his family. He knows they are.

Until they aren't.

Until Odin is looking down upon the broken youth, contemplating death. And he says 'no'. No, he will never be good enough. No, he couldn't have done it. No, he would've failed, been a disappointment.

No, Odin should've left him to die. No, Odin did regret his mistake. Taking in the boy who will lead them to ruin.

The boy aims at himself. Slender hands slipped from the staff.

Cold blue skin and crimson eyes haunt him still.

•••

Loki feels like he's floating in a bathtub. Limbs light like paper, able to float away at the slightest touch.

His mind feels blank. He isn't sure where he is, or why he feels like this at all. He tries over and over again to remember but all that results in is intensifying his headache.

His eyes are closed, his body sinks into a cushion. A crisp breeze blowing on his naked body. What happened to him? Aware of a soreness in his abdomen, and he can feel his organs. Aware of his stomach tissue pressing up against muscles, sending waves of agony with every forced breath he takes with the device that's in his mouth.

The device that's in his mouth...

It all comes flooding back to him. And he bites the urge to scream through his distorted throat.

Tube. Stomach. List. Floating. Flying.

He died.

He remembers that now. Ripped the tube that was attached to his stomach out, gut filling with blood. Choking and List tears him open.

He died. He ended his life. His poor, pathetic, miserable, life. He did it. He knows it is sick in the mind to be relieved by this but he cannot help it. Too infatuated with lust to care that it is the coward's way out.

He snaps his eyes open, expecting to be greeted with the enticing chills of Helheim. It is List staring down at him instead.

No. NononononoNO. This is not happening this is not possible and he's surely just imagining this. A jest played by the Norns.

But that's not true. Because Loki can feel the doctor's warm, wet breath on his face. Wicked smile with foul teeth and predatorous eyes. He feels a silent scream bubbling in his throat.

"Was beginning to think you would never wake up, yah?" He deadpans in a disgusting German accent. Fingers flicking along the panicked god's heaving chest.

Loki squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his legs together so as to not feel so exposed. It doesn't work, it never works. He feels like prey, a pet for the man. He bit back a sob because this is just like The Other and his hands won't stay off of him. Screaming, crying, dirty tears because he is filthy on the inside because there are so many hands. Bitterly, he thinks, why can't the world just leave him alone?

"Now, we couldn't have you die, that'd be a waste of a perfectly useable experiment,"

The acid in Loki's stomach lurches.

Such a pretty little creature Father has allowed me to use.

But List remains oblivious, or basks in his discomfort, the whimpers that are barely being kept back as his delicate fingers run over his concaved abdomen.

"But when you flatlined, I couldn't help but notice a rather peculiar thing," List says, a smirk twitched across his face as he pauses, "You seemed to have... another form,"

His eyes widen in horror, burning wetness in the back of his blood-stained eyes. This is not happening right now. This is most certainly not happening right now.

Because the only person to whom he's ever voluntarily shown his Jötun form was Odin when he held the casket for the first time. Usually keeping his glamour up, hiding the monster he is.

But if he's dead, he doesn't have access to his seiðr. And the illusion will shatter.

This is happening. And List has seen him at his most vulnerable. Not when Loki is naked on the table with the doctor's prying fingers on him but his monstrous skin. The sickening blue skin and red eyes glared into everyone's souls.

His mouth betrays him when a whimper escapes his lips.

"Would you be as so kind to show me again?" List demands, more as an order than a question.

Let me see your true form, little Jötun.

The tears slip from his eyes. Swallowing hard when the man clutches his jaw upon Loki's refusal.

"I'm not going to ask again," he growls in his accent, "So do as I say, yes? I would hate to have a repeat of..." he trails off, hands digging into the open wounds where Loki's fingers once were, forcing him to cry out in pain. Twisting as List's own fingers writh around inside the wound.

Tingling numbness in the stumps. Wiggling inside like parasites, dirty nails digging into flesh. There is fire in his hands and all he can think about is painpainpainpainPAIN. Screaming, burning, f*ckf*ckf*ckf*ck.

He's panting and whimpering and screaming and trying to brave it out but List is still digging his hands inside the stumps and he laughs. Loki laughs. Hard, breathless, maniacal laughs and he wonders if he is going insane.

But List keeps pressing and pressing and pressing and the hurt only gets louder and louder in his ears. A roaring symphony of pain until he can't breathe and he is gasping for breath and he can't take it anymore so he lets the illusion break. He breaks.

Azure blue bolted up his arms, wrapping around him like a sick disease. A tingling behind his eyes and he feels the blood-red color appear. A second pair of eyelids that blink horizontally emerges, wrapping his eyes in a membrane-like substance. A forked tongue, slitted pupils and two fangs in the front of his mouth. Norns-awful cursed heritage lines forming on the blue. A reminder that he was abandoned by everyone.

He feels his hands itching to grow the long black fingernails that once were. Replacing the tips of his hands like claws. Sensing the same happen to his toenails, which blessedly have not been removed, nor are they as long as the hand claws should've been.

And the horns... the same ebony as the pitch-black claws of his once fingernails. Warping and reaching back behind his head. Reminding him hypocritically of the helmet that Odin gifted to him when he came of age but without any of the Royal cleanliness. Jagged and rough and sharp and the perfect showing of a Jötun monster. The horns a wild statement above his head. And he can't stop a sensitive moan from bursting from his mouth when List drags a callused hand across the sensitive horns protruding from his hairline.

How pretty you are, my Jötun pet. Such a stunning little bitch.

"What an interesting specimen. I've never seen anything quite like it before," List muses, smirking when Loki flinches. And suddenly panic overwhelms the god. He's going to die here. Normally he would be relieved by that conclusion but his dying right now at the hands of List would mean he lost. He didn't die heroically in battle nor by his own hand, however cowardly that might be. No, he's going to die in the hands of the enemy and massacred in the most brutal way a monster can be slain. List is going to gut him like a fish and examine the way a monster's organs work and he is going to die because he lost.

He lost.

He only shivers with disgust when List goes to lay a bare hand on his chest when the man jolts away and hisses. Loki pauses, craning his neck over to the apparently injured mortal. And the sight either makes him want to laugh or be sick.

Because now the palm of List's hand is entirely black, and horrid blisters reach up to his forearms. His hand radiates cold and the man is swearing and hissing as he spits angry German at Loki. And when List rushes out of the room, leaving Loki in the chains he had woken up in, it appears as though the doctor couldn't even move the limb.

Loki just lies there for moments afterward. Did he do that? That's a stupid question, he must've. Nothing else could have done that. But he was wearing the collar. Frigga had sadly explained to him that it blocks all outward use of his seiðr, save the illusion he wore of his Aesir form. But Frost Giant's magic wasn't seiðr. Calm and collected, no, Jötun magic was barbaric and vicious, causing chaos in it's wake.

Just like his magic... he thinks he's going to be sick. Because there is no way that he has been using Jötun magic his entire life, whether it be sprinkled in with seiðr or entirely on his own.

But didn't the public on Asgard call his magic-seiðr (it was seiðr, it most certainly, definitely was seiðr) the same thing? He remembered in his youth, maybe around 650 or so, traveling with Frigga and Thor to Vanaheim to visit some friends of hers. And the magic-users calling his young, underdeveloped seiðr a disordered mess.

And there was the fact that ice and cold spells had been second nature to Loki, while he still struggled to even keep a simple candle aflame.

Luckily, someone bursts into the room before Loki can fall further down into spiraling. Unluckily, it's Rumlow who has burst into the room.

"What did you do!?" He shrieks, "Seriously! What the f*ck did you-" he pauses mid-sentence, tongue hanging out of his mouth when he sees Loki's true form.

"I see List wasn't lying when he said your other body was even more hideous than your personality," Rumlow smirks. A child-aged insult, but its words still cut Loki like a knife. Because he knows this is how everyone would react. Everyone would be revolted and disgusted by him and his blue and aim to kill him immediately.

He shies away from the words, closing his eyes, the sideways membrane wrapping around his pupils before closing, he hears Rumlow scoff in disgust as Loki winces.

MonstermonstermonstermonsterMONSTER.

The words are screaming and banging in his head over and over again. And suddenly Rumlow is coming closer and closer and he is still naked and exposed and raw. And now he's aware of the fact that the table he's lying on is coated in frost and so are the cabinets and the floor.

There is fear fear fear spilling out from the trembling god and Rumlow is trying to stick him with the pinching syringe but as soon as it touches his skin he jerks away and the tip freezes and snaps off.

And although he screams and screams through the mechanical breathing tube and the metal has frosted over, it won't break. Why won't the metal break and-

Why is Rumlow coming at him with a vibrating metal sword? But it's not a sword, because there are little ridges that line the metal and roll around the edge with a handle at the bottom.

He's barely able to hear Rumlow over the screeching weapon but manages to listen to words about 'samples' and 'List' and 'horns'.

Because the shaking weapon is coming towards his head, towards the monstrous horns on the top of his head. And he knows what's coming and he tries to brace himself and tries to place the glamor back over himself but it won't work. And all that's left is firey hot burning on his neck where the collar is. And he shrieks, not from the pain but because he cannot access his seiðr.

And the quaking weapon touches his left horn.

And he screams.

Chapter 18: I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened.

Chapter Text

You have heart.

A man with long raven locks stepped through a portal. He is too thin. Nimble, bony fingers barely conceal the tremor in his hands. Under-eye circles the size and color of plums. Sweat covering his entire face in a heavy glaze. Lighting blue eyes haze over everything, staring only at the spear in his hands with a wild look.

Nobody else seems to notice. The way he favors weight on his left side, his right threatening to collapse under him. Or the way he clutches the stick tightly. Pale, chapped lips breathing heavily as he jerks up towards Fury.

He looks like he has been through hell and back.

And maybe that is why Clint doesn't block himself when the man presses the glowing rod to his chest.

You have heart.

And his head is filled with rage.

There is someone in his mind but it is not him and suddenly he is a shell of a ghost over the soul of his body. Voices whispering in his ears and they won't shut up and his only purpose is Loki. Loki and the Tesseract and getting the portal open. There is a fire in his blood and a lust for death.

Nothing more than a weapon. And Loki's filthy crown has matted his hands with blood and ruin of-

A moment of lucidity. The night before Germany.

"Save me," he pleads, eyes frantic and wide with madness, "Save me save me save me save me save me. There is blue and sickness and he's going to kill me and I need you to put the knife through my heart. Before any more lives are lost, please," Loki is begging. His master is begging. Pleading for death and shaking hands are holding up a dagger to Clint, begging for Clint to kill him.

The scepter glows brighter.

And Loki falls to the floor. Every muscle clenched and he grits his teeth and spits blood onto the cracked cement and for a moment Clint swears he hears the word 'sentiment' screaming through the scepter.

A laugh. A cold, bitter, sour, laugh full of mania erupts from the god's face. He tilts his head up and his mouth is full of blood and his grip on the scepter is tight once more. Gone is the scared little boy who begged for mercy. Gone is the villain who wanted no hurt. Gone is the humanity in him.

Freedom is life's great lie.

•••

He jerks awake. Heart pounding out of his head. Mangled gasps for air and wet tears race down his cheeks. Quaking fingers grasping onto his forehead and running through his hair as Clint tries to calm down. The room is too cold but the sheets are warm and suffocating like the scepter's clutches on his mind.

No. Stop it. Stop thinking about the scepter. Stop thinking about Loki. Stop thinking about how the room is too small and too loud and too quiet and how he is being smothered and cannot stop.

It took several minutes before he managed to calm himself down enough to be able to take a breath somewhat normally.

God, he thought to himself, running a hand through disheveled hair again. Why would the nightmares still haunt him? He had been through countless missions, none of them ever gardering this reaction.

It takes even longer to make his hands stop shaking.

He let out a groan, he knew he should tell someone. Natasha knew that he had nightmares about the ordeal, just not the specifics. How could she? When Clint couldn't even let the sour words leave his tongue.

Trying to speak the truth of what really happened when Clint was with Loki was impossible. Telling the rest of the team that he had to hold the god's matted hair back as he vomited blood, caring for the horrid, torturous injuries he had somehow acquired. Forcing Loki to try to rest against his wishes. He had tried, several times in fact. The latest attempt being promptly after the tower blew up, Tasha casting him a strange look as he just shook his head.

He had tried, tried to be the better man for once and tell the Avengers that there were probably bigger cards at play, not the pawns that he and Loki most likely were. After all, where does one just obtain an evil alien army?

And he had been such a horrible person too. Blinded by rage and hurt after, that he didn't even care if Loki was just a puppet anymore. Because Loki had made him a monster. A monster that killed his own coworkers and innocents and it was unlike any of the blood he had ever shed before because these people had done nothing.

So he forgot about Loki. Forgot about his mania and injuries and obvious signs that something was wrong. Ignored that after the attack, his eyes were a sage green and no more the electric blues.

He was a horrible person. Which was why he was now suddenly standing in front of Nat's door, bated breath on the wood and knuckles hovering above.

Fortunately Tasha swung the door open before he could manage to knock.

"Hello?" She asked somewhat sleepily, but eyes awake and cautious, "You okay?"

Clint took a shaky exhale, avoiding his best friend's gaze.

Tell me about that friend of yours, Agent Barton. Romanoff, was it? What makes her tick? Haunts her? Her deepest fears?

"I need to talk to you,"

Tasha quirked an eyebrow but nodded, stepping to the side as an invitation.

The room was dark, but Clint could still faintly make out the main things. Since the tower had blown up, they were all staying at another one of Tony's houses in upstate New York. A bed in the center, a vanity across with makeup and hair products, and guns. Lots and lots of guns.

"What's wrong?" She demanded, sitting down in the vanity chair, allowing her spy composure to drop so he could see the concern written on her face.

Clint shrugged, sniffing as he still refused to look her in the eyes. Even before saying anything, he could already feel the sick clasp on the mind stone hot on his forehead. He swallowed, bracing himself. He was going to do this, whether he could or not.

"When I was with... Loki, things were-" the words are ripped from his tongue. His mouth is dry and heavy and hot and there are pools of saliva in his cheeks and the pressure in his head explodes tenfold.

He shudders and grimaces, pinching the skin between his eyebrows. Ignoring Tasha's troubled look.

"WhenIwaswithLokithingswere-" he blurts the same words out to no avail. His tongue hangs out of his mouth idiotically as the sound leaves him. Mouthing what was supposed to happen next. Mouthing that Loki was not okay. That he could barely stand on his own and he was drowning in the madness of the scepter. Controlled by an unfathomable force.

But nothing comes out, nothing except for a weak gag as Clint buries his face into his hands.

"Clint..." Tasha trails off, placing her palm on his sweaty shoulder, "Are you okay?" Her contact is cool and comforting and grounding and reaches him through the haze of chaos and disorder in his mind.

And the dam breaks. A shallow sob escapes his lips as he leans into his friend's touch. "He f*cking broke me," is all that he mutters. But he knows that's not the truth. Because Loki was broken too, maybe even more so than him. But it's easier to put the blame on him than think about all the ways that the world is gray instead of black and white. Easier to be mad at the fractured god for being afraid and scared than to have sympathy.

Here he stands, bleeding and bruised and breathless. Lip trembling and he is helpless as his only support holds onto him for dear life. So he just sits there, clinging onto Tasha and praying for this nightmare to be over as his body finally gives out.

There is blue in his mind and he is doing sickly things and no one is there to stop him.

He just sits there. Sits there on the edge of the bed and cries. Cries for the broken man who has been holding it in for too long. Cries because how could Tasha and the world even look at him the same way ever again? Cries because his world his crashing down around him and he is left to pick up the broken pieces.

Cries and cries with Natasha holding him for who knows how long.

That is until Tony bursts into the room.

"Yo, Stalker Spider! Wake up! Come on, it's-" He stops halfway through his spiel, staring in confusion at the pair. "What the- you know what? Nevermind, this is important,"

Tasha scowls, glaring daggers at Tony, "What do you want?" Her voice is icy and cold, a warning and also a signal telling him to 'get the hell out'.

Tony scoffs, dimly rolling his eyes in the darkness, "Look, I'm not gonna judge you're little pity, cuddle party you're having right now. But you're gonna wanna hear this..." he trails off, taking a deep breath.

"We found him,"

•••

Loki isn't sure what to make of himself at first. But he's aware of two things. First being the fact that he is lying face-up on the metal floor of his cell. The second being the unmistakable, raging, ache on the left side of his forehead. So much so it feels like he is being split open.

It takes several moments for the vertigo to calm down enough for him to piece together what remained of his thoughts.

Touch. Frost. Rumlow. Horns.

And he laughs.

A sickening, hollow laugh filled with delusion and enjoyment. Because didn't Rumlow and List accomplish the very thing he tried to do years ago? When he first found out about the monster beneath his skin?

He cackles, cackles between bitter sobs and tears that trace down his chin. Not for the pain, no. Not for the pain, but because his captors had managed to do the very thing he wanted.

He laughs at the irony.

He manages to sit up without his arms giving out, crawling over to the wall, and leaning against it as he pants, breathless from the wicked amusem*nt and exertion.

Yet he still refuses to look at the indigo that paints his hands. He is the architect of his own destruction and he revels in it. Because the one thing that has remained true in his life is that he can never be rid of the past, of what he runs from. Because the Warrior's Three and Sif simply called him a coward but is it truly so cowardice to run in order to survive?

So he laughs as the foundations of his beliefs crumble.

Is this what madness feels like?

He is violent and bitter, inside and out. His mother once told him that 'a fox may change its skin but never its character'. And now the words sting truer than they ever have and he is living proof.

He is the fox that has used all its skins and has been left with nothing.

His tongue tastes of mockery and blood.

He's standing in the ashes of who he used to be and he is choking in the dust. His soul was too dark for anyone, filled with too much madness and chaos to make him loveable.

The laughter turns into weeps. Weeps with more hiccups and sobs than words. And now he grins at that. No more words he spoke because the needle pierced his tongue and glued it to his lips and although he could probably grit out a few words if he tried to, but he couldn't.

Because Odin Allfather said that all he did was lie and shouldn't liars be silenced? Isn't it better for him to never utter a sound again? It's better for everyone and it heals him a bit. Because if he says nothing then he cannot be punished. One cannot penalize a mute one for talking.

His body quakes with despair as he stares with fascinated horror at the blue on his skin.

He hates the color blue. Hates it hates it hates it hates it hates it. Blue is the color of a Frost Giant and blue is the color of the Tesseract. Blue is the color of His eyes and the sky when his childhood was ripped from him.

Blue is the color of loss and it demonstrates to him that he has lost everything.

And so he sobs. Sobs for everything. Sobs for Adam Rumlow and Ramona Perez and all the innocents that he murdered in cold blood. Sobs for Odin and Thor and Frigga for burdening them with his presence.

And he sobs for himself. Cries for the fact that he was not fed love on a silver spoon so he learned to lick it off of knives. Wails because he can no longer dream when he has walked through nightmares. Weeps because he doesn't even know who he is anymore for he not been himself in a long time nor can he remember when that was. He forgot who he was and so he became this.

Cries because List and Rumlow and Pierce cannot break what's already broken. And he still feels the clutches of Him and of the scepter and Tesseract clinging onto him like a disease he cannot be free from.

He cries and cries until his ruby eyes have run dry and all that is left is the husk of a living corpse. Leaning against the cold wall that grounds him to the very reality he wishes to escape from.

Sobs until the cell is silent, echoing nothing but the despair of a fallen Prince.

And then there is an explosion in the far-off distance, promptly followed by gunshots.

And the sound of thunder...

Chapter 19: I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.

Chapter Text

Under normal circ*mstances, Thor would've been relishing in the blood that painted his armor, streaking gorgeous red lines across Mjölner. While he had come to learn that war was not the ideal solution, that didn't mean he didn't get a kick out of beating enemies to the ground.

But these weren't normal circ*mstances. And his brother was hurting. His brother needed him. Nobody hurt his family and lived. No one.

So even has he heard the satisfying crunch of bones when Mjölner's might caught against skulls, he ignored the euphoria. He had one thing on his mind and one thing only.

Continuing to kill and make harm to the people who stood in the way. Because every single time he closed his damn eyes he could imagine Loki screaming out for him. First in the Asgardian prisons and now on Midgard. Pleading green eyes begging for big brother to just come save him.

"-or!" The metal talker in his ear screeches the last bit of what seems to be a sentence as Thor slams his hammer into the ribs of another soldier.

He frowns, staring at the pile of dead bodies he is standing on top of. "What?" He demands gruffly, already annoyed and confused.

It's the Man of Iron's voice that replies back to him, finishing the sentence that he started.

"You might wanna come take a look at this,"

And his voice is laced with fear.

•••

Such a pretty little thing. To be blessed with both a vagin* and co*ck.

Stop it stop it stop it stop it stop.

Thick malformed hands squeezing and angry teeth tearing at a tongue. Talons that are dripping with blood and tears and desperation. And he screams and screams and screams until his throat is raw and his mouth is open and suddenly it is filled with warm fluid and he is forced to swallow.

Stopitstopitstop-

Until he gives up. Gives up on the fighting and gives up on emotions and gives into The Other and his sickening wishes until he can no longer feel.

His body is not his own any longer and he can taste the bitter acid on his tongue and he can feel his insides squirm afterward as he is left in his cell, bruised, and broken.

But he feels nothing.

And then there are hands on him once more, warm and calloused instead of claws but they are prying at his shoulders and he feels the shadow above him and he holds back a startled cry because he feels the hot breath on his face and this cannot be happening.

Not again not again not again.

NonononononononostopstopstopstopSTOP.

He jerks away from the calluses fingers on his shoulders shaking him awake, scrambling to the other side of his cell in the Sanctuary.

Donotspeakdonotwhimperitwillonlymakeitworsejustbeagoodlittlewhor*andSHUTUP.

He cowers away in the corner away from His bare flesh and His body and his hands instinctively cover his crotch as wet tears run down his cheeks.

He is so dirty.

"Just f*cking shut up!" The Other screams, but that doesn't make sense because The Other took pleasure in his pained moans and The Other does not sound like the noise that is in his ears besides the roaring blood.

The screaming gets only louder and more annoyed and so frozen with fear, he blinks his eyes open through the haze of tears because complying always makes it easier, makes it quicker, and then he can be free of Him and His sickening touch.

His vision clears through the burning wetness and-

And it's Rumlow. Rumlow and his brown hair and angry eyes who is screaming at him from above and shaking him with gloved hands. And Loki nearly weeps with relief for it not to be Him. It is not The Other and it is not The Mad Titan and he is not stuck in between the cracks of worlds anymore. The Sanctuary and the Void have no hold on him anymore and he is free.

Wait- it's Rumlow.

It's Rumlow who cut out his fingernails and watched with sickening delight as his fingers were stolen from him. Who screamed through the tears that Loki had taken his son from him.

And now Rumlow is screaming at him again and shaking him harshly with gloves and slamming his head against the wall. Yelling about how the base- prison is being attacked and Loki has to leave with him.

But that isn't the full truth, and they both know that. Because Pierce wants the scepter back that Loki does not have and he will not be satisfied until Loki promises him the sickly power.

So he nods, looking up at Rumlow with wide eyes before his lips curling into a powerful smirk. And he grips Rumlow's face with all his might, allowing the sheer coldness to spread through him. The skin that coats his face turns a disgusting black and blisters form over his entire body he tries to scream from the pain but even the insides of his mouth are coated with cold and nothing but a strangled gag comes out.

The coldness slithers through the room and for a brief moment Loki shivers with delight, watching as Rumlow's heaving chest slows to a stop, a dead weight hanging in his weak arms.

Loki drops the corpse. Rage coursing through every fiber of his being. This is one man that he can hurt that might be able to suffice for all of the tortures he has been forced to endure. So he hits alone in the cell and glares at the dead body.

And then he punches. He punches and kicks the remains over and over again until his vision is speckled with blood and red rage and he does not care because he will make Rumlow pay. Rumlow has made him hurt and now he is repaying the punishment.

He takes the fragile bones in his own hands and snaps his fingers. One. By. One. Each new break doing nothing to soothe the fury and nausea building in his stomach. But he does not stop. He kicks and punches and maims him in any way he can think of, ice forming in the cell and doors and freezing the metal gates shut but he does not care because he will make Rumlow pay.

And then... If thunder was a person it roars in his ears.

•••

Thor was going to be sick. He wasn't entirely sure what would be of his brother when he eventually found him, but he certainly wasn't expecting this. He had sprint to the destination that Tony had told him, not bothering with any of the soldiers who attempted to stop him. Growling at the Man of Iron to tell him where his brother was.

Tony only sighed through the helmet he wore, placing a metal hand on his shoulder in almost warning, "Thor, bud, I'm telling you right now, it's not gonna be pretty..." He trailed off, tilting his head back as Thor glowered.

"I know not what you speak of. Where is my brother?"

Thor could almost feel Tony wince through the armor, "See, that's the thing... the body in there," he said, gesturing vaguely to a cell at the end of the hall, "If it were a human, its-" he shuddered, "But, i-it matches the energy signature,"

Thor was bolting down the corridor before Tony got a chance to finish. And he suppressed the urge to vomit at what he saw.

For a moment, he wasn't even sure if that was his brother in there. A body so depleted it looked like a corpse. And the cell... the cell was disgusting. There was so much blood everywhere and vomit on the walls and the floors and it reeked of sickness and death. A calm dripping of water that leaked from the ceiling.

And there is a Frost Giant standing in the wake of the chaos. Pummeling and tearing apart what looked like a dead body. Charcoal fangs dripping with bright red blood that contrasted it and blue skin and blood eyes filled with violence and rage. The monster jerked and shook as it continued to destroy the corpse.

No- not a monster. That was his brother.

Yet he could not stop the shudder that raked over his body when he stared at the Jötun-Loki for too long.

Because there stood the monster that Thor had been taught to fear and hate for so long. There stood his brother he had grown up with. He closed his eyes and he pictured Laufey and the biting cold and frigid stares and he is filled with hate.

But the monster still has the same raven locks, and the same jutting cheekbones, the same height and it is his brother.

His heart and soul is brimming with love but his mind and wits tell him to kill the beast. The dangerous beasts who ruined his coronation and harmed Fandral and sought to seek destruction upon Asgard.

His brother needs him.

So before he knows what he's doin, he is bursting through the iced gate with Mjölner. Grasping the mo-brother with his own hands, ignoring the stinging chill, roaring in Loki's ears to stop this madness. Stop harming a corpse like a monster.

The word 'monster' gets Loki to calm from the delirious fever he was in. Blood eyes widening in surprise and relief for a brief moment before his breath hitches in his throat, gagging on panicked inhales and scrambling away from Thor and to the corner of the cell. Curled in on himself and his bone-thin hands covering a shaking head.

And it hits Thor like a wall of bricks.

Loki is afraid of him.

I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all.

Loki thinks that Thor is going to hurt him.

The Jötun's must pay for what they have done.

Thor pauses, ignoring the pounding sobs of heartbreak that wring him dry. Crawling over to where his baby brother was cowering from him. And Thor briefly worries that Loki is going to pass out. Suffocated from his own panic.

And for a moment, Thor just hesitates. Arms aching to pull Loki into a firm hug and to never let go. But he could feel the sheer iciness that radiated off of his brother, forcing his teeth to chatter.

"Loki, Loki, please," Thor whispered, opting for verbal comfort, hovering beside him, "Please, it's me. Thor. Please, you're safe, we shall get you out of here. Please, just-" his voice breaks off, because what can he say? His brother looks like he has walked through the pits of Hel and Thor did nothing.

"Just..." he trails off, sinking back into himself, watching sluggishly as Stark injects him with some sort of sedative. Thor's tempted to protest but stays quiet. Because it is his fault that Loki is hurting and he should've done more so if that means putting chemicals into his body just so that his baby brother can rest, then it's the least that Thor owes him.

"Thor," Someone says firmly, and he jerks up frantically. Surprised to see Nat, eyes full of sadness and empathy as she offers him a hand. "He will be okay. He's going to be safe now. You saved him, now Banner's going to heal him,"

She speaks with such kindness that Thor shivers. Because Nat did not see the fear in his brother's eyes, mortified that Thor would hurt him. And Thor absolutely did not save him. Thor was the reason that Loki ended up in the mess and now he was wracked with guilt.

But he sniffles anyway, taking Nat's hand as she helps him up.

"Let's go home," Nat says, but her voice is muted inside Thor's raging thoughts.

Have sympathy for the devil.

Loki had told him once.

Please, paint me as the villain. For is there anything left worth saving now?

He had said.

It is easier to stay silent because you hear other's fears without displaying any of your own.

Silence is the most powerful scream.

Yet Thor remained deaf all these years.

Chapter 20: People don't change people, time does.

Chapter Text

The way back to the Quinjet was unbearably awkward. And Thor winced when he went to pick up his now unconscious brother. Too frail and light for any Aesir or Jötun. He was too thin, too weak.

In his naked body, Thor could vividly see every single rib sticking out of his chest. His hip bones threatened to break cornflower skin with how prominent they were. And although Loki had always had pronounced cheekbones, it was nothing compared to now. The bones cast dark shadows on his face. Through the grime and dirt that coated Loki, Thor could see his skin was mostly purple with bruises, if not bleeding.

And his fingers...

Thor wanted to vomit when he saw them. Because he was missing a majority of them. Only having five in total now between mutilated hands. And the fingers that remained were bloody and mangled around what should've been fingernails- or claws?

Loki's heart thrummed sluggishly in his chest, each shallow breath he managed to take shaking his entire ribcage. His brows furrowed even as he was unconscious. He bore creases that no one his age should wear.

And then there's an angry long scar that stretches across his entire abdomen, from the bottom of his sternum to the top of his hips. It's fresh and crudely stitched back together. Blood still leaking out between sutures. It looks as though an infant had taken a needle and thread and sewn it back up. Along with the original cut itself. Jagged and uneven between a concaved body.

The group trudged towards the Quinjet wearily, where Banner was. The scientist tended to be a last resort on missions, and Thor hadn't thought that Loki seeing the creature who pummeled him into the ground would be the best thing.

However, as soon as Bruce saw the state that the half-dead god was in, he had a moment of shock. His eyebrows shooting up as his hand clasped over his mouth, the shock winning over before he steeled on his doctor's face.

"Right, uh..." he mumbled, scratching the back of his head before whipping his head around to Tony, "I need you and uh... yeah, your suit actually. I need JARVIS to scan vitals, can he do that?"

Tony nodded once, his face an unusual shade of gray. "Yeah, I uh, yeah," he muttered, "JARVIS, just... do whatever sh*t Bill Nye asks,"

With that, he took a step back. And Thor didn't notice the way his hands were balled into fists through the armor, nor the way that they trembled slightly.

Bruce raised an eyebrow at his partner but soon turned away, his attention focusing back on Loki.

"JARVIS, could you, uh, please give me weight, height, and vitals?" Banner asked. Within a moment, the robot replied, a blue laser exploding from the arc reactor in Tony's suit and scanning Loki's body.

"Certainly, Loki seems to have a pulse of 45 beats per minute, a temperature of 30 degrees Fahrenheit, eight breaths per minute, and a blood pressure of 87/54. He is 6 foot 2 and weighs around... 374 pounds,"

Tony's eyes widened at that while Thor's furrowed even further, while Bruce just stared at the concerned Thunder God.

"Holy sh*t!" Tony snorted, "That's f*ckin-"

"Is that normal?" Bruce cut in, grabbing an emergency Medkit from storage and snapping gloves over his hands.

Thor shook his head, true panic beginning to seep in, "Aesir men are typically between 500-600 of your... pounds, I believe. While my brother is still a Frost Giant," He trailed off, grimacing at the term, "He is a runt, he should be within the Aesir range,"

Bruce nodded, gesturing vaguely to Tony as he ripped open the Medkit, "JARVIS, can you translate that human weight and then give me a BMI?"

Before the AI could respond, Tony interrupted, "Do you have any like, spare after-Hulk clothes he can borrow? I don't really feel like seeing Rudolph's birthday suit,"

Bruce winced, "I mean, yeah, but I'd doubt he's short enough to wear them,"

Tony scoffed, "I don't care if it looks strange, I just don't wanna see bright blue alien balls,"

With that being said, Bruce got a pair of sweatpants and boxers for Thor to change his brother into. And as Thor was holding Loki like a limp ragdoll, JARVIS answered Bruce's original question.

"According to calculations, he would have a BMI of 13.7. And a reminder that a BMI of 13.5 or lower can lead to organ failure in humans,"

Thor stilled as Bruce swore heavily. Clutching his baby brother closer into his embrace, trying to stop the burning wetness behind his eyes. Thor had failed. He had failed the one thing he set out to do all those years ago.

He had only been 450 or so, old enough to be confused as to why Mother kept her pregnancy a secret, but young enough that as soon as he saw a glimpse of his brother, nothing else mattered.

He was tiny, small for an Aesir. Pale skin like glass, sparkling green eyes and a mop of wavy black hair on the top of his eyes. Cooing through pink lips and giggling when he saw Thor, reaching up to touch Thor's short blond locks. His smile had an impish look to it. A mischievous spark in his sage eyes.

He was perfect.

And Thor would do anything for him.

But now, as his brother laid back on the table, even more frail and weak than he had been when he was a babe, Thor felt the knawing guilt chewing at his stomach. Thor had sworn to protect him, and what a mighty job he was doing with that.

And if Loki-

"Are you ashamed of me yet, dear brother?" Loki asked, full of sarcasm and ego.

Thor scoffed, scowling at his brother, dragged down and weary from the argr chains.

"I am ashamed of the monster you have grown into,"

Loki's jaw twitched at that, but nothing else moved. Turning away as he was led by the guards to Odin.

- No, Thor refused to that to be his last words to his brother. Loki would survive. He had to.

Thor still didn't say anything for the rest of the flight.

•••

The first thing that Banner decided to do as soon they got back was stick his wrist with fluids and tubing of some sort.

"We can't give him a feeding tube just yet, since that leads directly into the stomach and we want to avoid refeeding syndrome as much as possible," He had said, talking non-stop about mortal medical treatments, placing another clear tube in his nose that apparently supplied a steady stream of oxygen since his lungs were too weak to do so for him. A clear bag with liquids inside full of vitamins and nutrients that he was severely lacking.

Thor wanted to be sick the entire time.

It seemed like decades before Bruce cleared out of the room. Eyes frazzled and rubbing the back of his neck. Refusing to maintain eye contact with Thor.

"Just let him rest," he finally mumbled, "And when he wakes up... take it easy on him,"

Thor frowned but nodded. Who did Bruce think he was? Thor was always easy on his brother! Or so he'd like to think.

His hands were numb and shaking when he walked into the room. A strangled gasp escaped his throat. There was a salve of some kind on his massacred hands and lips and gauze on one of the horns.

He couldn't help but shudder at the sight of the horns. And he hated himself for it.

A marble swirl of blacks and grays, twisted and curved reached above his head. The damaged one was sharp and jagged, weighing his head back against the pillow.

Thor tried, he really did. To convince himself that this was his brother. No matter what his appearance was or how his body radiated biting cold. This was his brother, whom he had grown up with and protected and loved with every part of his soul.

This was his brother, whose species' horns were kept on display in the grand dining hall. Amongst elk and boar and deer. Horns of the Jötnar on the mantle as a sign of victory. The Allfather himself who put them there.

He urged the sickening feeling at the bottom of his stomach to wither away. But it didn't, it never did. Not when Frigga told him of what Loki truly was, nor when Loki had wreaked havoc across Midgard.

Thor turned away, facing the window. Away from Loki, away from the blue skin and Jötun before him. Away from his brother.

He always ran.

•••

At some point, Thor awoke from his half-dazed state when he heard shuffling from behind him. Panicked, he whipped his head around, watching as Loki slowly blinked his eyes open.

Immediately forgetting what Bruce had told him, he grinned wildly, jumping up and walking over to him, "Brother!" He declared, unsure of if his tone was with wariness or relief. "I am grateful you are awake,"

Loki, however, did not garner the same reaction at all. His blood-red eyes slowly focused on the blonde-haired man in front of him. Widening with panic, and the same fear that gripped him in the cell.

Thor watched in horror as his brother scrambled back away from him, slamming his head against the bed frame with far too much force for how weak he was. Hands covering his face and head, curling in on himself, rocking back and forth.

The Thunder god reached out against better instinct, trying to pull Loki's arms away from his head. And jumped back when Loki fully hissed at him, the cold so much worse and agonizing than it had ever been before. Black and necrotic skin spread across his palm as he yelled in pain.

His attention immediately averted from Loki to his hand, unmoveable and lifeless. Thor squeezed his eyes shut, because though Loki had stabbed him before, it had never truly been with malicious intent. And this was worse, harmful, dangerous, the touch of a monster.

His remaining hand strayed towards Mjölner, which answered his call. Only panicking Loki more.

That was when Tony and Bruce burst into the room, immediately shoving Thor out of the way. Bruce staying calm and trying to tell Loki that he was safe, while making various gestures, which included pointing a thumb towards Thor and then the door.

Thor just shook his head, "Loki, I-"

Tony whirled around from the frantic god, eyes full of empathy and anger, "Thor, you need to get out of here," and there were no jests in his words.

"But-"

Tony glared deepened further, "You are scaring him! Don't you see that?" He was practically shouting at this point, "So do us all a favor and get the f*ck out of here!"

Thor blinked, palm numb and glancing at his brother. Who's ruby eyes never left Thor's face, trembling and cowering away still.

He turned, nodding once to Tony. Walking out the door.

He ran once more.

Chapter 21: See the chains around my feet.

Chapter Text

He’s still a child. Barely past the youngest part of his life. But he remembers the night vividly.

Cool air drapes over him like a blanket, soft and full of comfort.

Back when he still embraced the cold.

He was barely 500 at this point, his brother almost 1,000. A horrifying age difference now that he remembers. Eight and 14 in mortal years.

He was so foolish…

Because he had missed his big brother. His stupid, idiotic, big brother and his stupid, whiny, child self could not bear with the fact that Big Brother was not there to coddle him.

Sneaking out of the palace, into the courtyard. Even then, he could sense Thor’s magic, crackling of ozone and might.

He spots him hidden in the shrubbery, magnificent statues cast shadows over his body.

In his hands a girl. Curly red locks that brush her shoulders. Dazzling blue eyes that sparkled even in the moonlit night. Her lips were pink and chilled in the cold.

He knew better… he always knew better.

But shapeshifting had always been his specialty.

And Thor and the girl's lips draw closer together, puffs of air intertwining with one another.

No, please, Thor, you can’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone. Please, without you I’m nothing.

Against better judgment, he flicks his wrist.

Thor kisses a frog.

He panics, obviously, chasing after the frantic once-girl who hops away. Jumping into a bush and out of site.

Thor curses a string of words that would make Mother wash his mouth out with soap. Perhaps even see his lips shut like Loki had read about in a fairytale once.

He giggles against his will.

Thor pauses, turning slowly to where Loki is hiding.

No.

No no no no no no.

Everything is a blur after that.

He remembers that somehow his head lands upon dirt. That somebody is shaking and screaming at him. Somebody apologizing… somewhat.

“You just make me so angry sometimes. Just, why did you have to do that Loki? Why do you have to screw everything up?”

“Just don’t do that again.”

That he wakes up the next morning and his left eyes is decorated with a sea of blues and purples, even yellow tints the sides.

“It was an accident,” he tells his mother. Because that’s what it truly had been, an accident.

The memory comes unwelcome in his mind.

He pushes it away.

Thor promised to protect him. But also swore to kill the foul race of monsters.

Perhaps he had been filling out those prophecies even in their youth.

A young adult against a child.

Thor would never hurt him.

It’s just an accident. Just an accident. Just an accident. Just an accident.

Thor would never hurt him.

(Thor holds him by the neck, above a cliff. Demands to know where the Tesseract is, does not ask how his brother has survived in the darkness all this time.)

But his fear isn’t justified.

-It was just an accident.-

•••

Loki.

What?

Loki, come home.

Mama...

Just come home to us, Loki. Can't you see that you are safe?

Mama, please I'm so scared and I miss it when you could kiss my hurt away.

Just come home, Loki.

Do you even have one?

He's aware that there are two people in front of him. Babbling nonsense. He's also aware that he's curled into a corner, shaking like an infant. He knows that. Just like how he knows that he cowered in front of his brother.

No, not brother. Never a brother.

He is so so lonely.

Fear slowly morphs into silent laughter, entire body shaking with the might of how powerful his delirium is.

Because it's just his luck that he ended up stuck with his enemies and it's just his luck that he is at their mercy. Quakes with hysteria because when is he not at someone's mercy? When has he been anything but a worthless monster?

A worthless monster that deserves to die. And Thor said he would hunt the monsters down and slay them all so why can't he just finish the job?

Can a broken heart still weep?

Mama, I'm so sorry just take me back. Just do something so that I don't have to live like this anymore.

Do you even hear me?

He shivers in the solitude.

A hand on his shoulder jerks him back to reality. To blood roaring in his ears and his heart pounding boom boom boom in his chest.

A chest that they ripped open and sewed back together.

Are they still out there?

He hurt Rumlow the same way. But it's not enough. It's never enough. Vengeance is a pit in the bottom of his stomach and it's hungry for more.

"Loki, you are safe, okay?"

No crevice, where he cannot find you.

"You are in the Avenger's Tower. You are not at HYDRA anymore."

Just tell us where the scepter is and we'll let you go.

The hand on his shoulder itches. Burns with warmth and comfort and it's not right. The Other's hands were cold and Pierces gripped him firmly, demanding answers.

Do not touch me do not touch me do not touch just get your filthy hands off of me.

"Do you know who I am, Loki?"

Thanos. The Other. Pierce. Rumlow. List. Father.

"I'm Bruce Banner. You remember me."

And the haze clears away. No longer is he fighting with an invisible force, hands- claws dragging him down. The voices do not screech but whisper sweet nothings of a lullaby.

He stops fighting, allowing scarred wrists to be held by the Man of Iron. Brown eyes meet red, both full of understanding and anger.

He was fighting about something... what was he fighting about? Something important, about Thor.

Will you still see me as a brother while I wear this skin?

The Frost Giants are nothing mindless beasts, eliminating their race would do the Nine a favor.

Finish the job, Thor.

No- see me still. I am your brother. Why can't you see it?

FINISH THE JOB, THOR.

He collapses against the bed frame, avoiding eye contact with Stark. He stared aimlessly at the door where his brother left.

Shameful that he could be frightened of his own family.

Odin seals the black rope closed.

Does he not have a reason?

Tony steps away, towards Bruce. His lips are moving but he can't hear. Tony's mute and he seems like he's in another dimension.

Can't think. Can't breathe. Can't hear. Can't speak. HELP HIM.

Wires around his mouth suffocate further.

Banner steps towards him, but the words are muted, underwater.

"Do you know what all of this stuff is?" Banner asks, gesturing to the tubes- (tubes shoved down his throat. He rips them out.) that are pushed inside his body.

Loki shakes his head, the movement immediately sending a wave of vertigo and nausea over him. He grips the bed sheets tighter.

"Okay," Banner sighs, pointing to first one, a clear bag with a line inserted in his wrist, "This one's an IV. Basically, it's giving you all the nutrients and calories you need."

The words that Banner speaks tune out as Loki examines his wrists. Banner saw them. Banner saw them. Clean precise lines massacred by acid, sticky, and burning. Banner saw his scars. His betrayals of fear and emotion. Shameful. Why is Banner not saying anything about it?

But perhaps the scars are too marred by the acid. Acid that he can still feel in his system, though flushed out, it burns.

"Loki, breathe. You're safe." Somebody else is talking, a voice of salt and amusem*nt.

Pathetic. Just be normal for five seconds.

He forces his gaze to focus on the man, keeping his eyes low and avoiding eye contact. He's short, a blue light beaming from the center of his chest.

Tesseract-

No, Stark.

His lips twitch, tempted to ask the egotistical hero for a drink. He is so, so, thirsty.

Unless you plan on telling me where the scepter is, you keep your mouth shut.

"That's it, good, keep breathing," Stark says, mimicking big inhales for Loki to follow instead of the hyperventilation he is all too familiar with.

This doesn't make sense, he realizes. It doesn't make sense. Because why the Hel would Anthony f*cking Stark be coaxing him through whatever self-pitying bullsh*t he’s dealing with.

Even when he was back There, The Other and Maw would always make illusions of Thor and Mo-Frigga and Odin. Besides, he wouldn't have even met Stark at that point.

A dream then.

It all makes sense now. And he lets out a muffled sob of despair. It's not real. Any second now Rumlow or Pierce or List is going to march into his cell and ram his head against the wall of whatever horrors they can concoct.

It’s not real. Not real. Not real not real not real not real notreal notreal notreal notrealnotrealnotrealnotrealnotreal.

“What the f*ck is he blabbering about?”

sh*t… was he speaking allowed?

Isn't the silver tongue so much more well-behaved? All silent and submissive?

He didn't mean to speak out loud.

This is bad.

Very bad.

When was the last time he spoke out loud?

Certainly not very recently.

He wonders if he should give speech a try again.

Silver tongue turn to lead?

He decides against it.

After all, Frigga said that everything the Allfather does is for a purpose and Odin sewed his lips because the only foul words that spewed out of his mouth were lies. So even though the black wire no longer jaggedly cuts into his flesh he should shut up because the Allfather is always right.

“Do we just give him a paper bag of something? My dude’s hyperventilating,” Stark says, sounding somewhat panicked.

Can you still weep, little prince?

“I don’t know,” Bruce replies, “I don’t have a lot of experience with trauma survivors… maybe a sedative?”

Loki frowns, eyes sluggishly trying to stay open and shut at the same time.

He’s so tired.

Something sharp injects itself into his wrist.

No…

No.

No no no no no.

Acid burning through his veins, Chitauri poison. Needle sharp and cold and flaming on his skin, drawing blood before blinding white overtakes him and he screams.

No no no no no.

He tenses, waiting for the pain.

He will not scream. He will not scream. He will not scream.

His limbs don’t feel attached to his body anymore. Floaty, like when List pried open his stomach.

He’s too tired to check if Stark and Banner are sifting through his organs.

He feels no pain.

But maybe he’s used to it.

He’s so tired.

Blackness overtakes him.

Pathetic.

Chapter 22: They never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor.

Chapter Text

Tony was never exactly known for his stellar emotional control.

That was why he was currently downing shots like there was no tomorrow.

Although with the hangover he would surely wake up with, that was probably the truth.

"Can't sleep?" A voice asks, making Tony jerk, almost dropping his precious scotch.

Rolling his eyes, he turns towards the assassin, "What the hell are you doing up at," he pauses, craning his neck to look at the clock, the words were blurry, which probably wasn't good, "Whatever time it is?"

Nat just raised an eyebrow. "You're drunk."

Tony snorted, taking another sip, "When am I not? And what are you doin' up anyways?"

Nat's body betrays nothing, but Tony knows wheels full of lies and secrets are spinning in her mind.

"Is anyone in their right mind sleeping well tonight?" She asked finally, after a moment too long of pause.

Tony scoffed at the non-answer but didn't have the energy to protest nonetheless. He frowned, his attention focused on pouring himself another shot without spilling any.

He wants Nat to leave. He really wants Nat to leave. So he can drink away the rest of his problems.

But of course, Nat personally sees it to make his life miserable and pulls out another barstool, sitting a bit away from Tony.

"Is he gonna recover?" She asks eventually, voice demanding authority, but there is a vulnerability he barely notices.

Tony giggles at that, whether it's from the alcohol or the sheer stupidity of the question remains the question.

"Gee, I don't know, Agent Romanoff," his words fly like acid, "It's a f*cking miracle this guy's still alive in the first place. I mean, physically? Maybe. Mentally? Absolute not." He's rambling now, he knows that, but he can't stop.

"A-and you weren't there! The way that Loki looked at Thor. He was f*cking terrified, Nat. Okay? You don't get that. He was scared of his own brother. What the f*ck? Do you know how f*cked up that is? And you didn't discover Loki in the stupid HYDRA facility first anyway! I thought that something died Nat. I just- you don't get it!"

There's a liquid under his eyes, it's not tears. It's absolutely not.

He storms away before Nat gets the chance to respond.

•••

The bed sheets were too warm against his skin, stifling.

You could've saved him.

No- that wasn't true.

Clint gritted his teeth, rolled over.

You could have told somebody.

He still would have ended up with HYDRA anyway...

You don't know that.

Clint kicked the sheets off.

What would Laura think?

Are you too much of a coward to tell her?

He ignores the burning behind his eyes, a growing wetness on his eyelashes.

Why didn't you tell anyone?

Stop it stop it stop.

You could have saved him.

Were you so naïve to see the world in black and white?

You know Loki wasn't at fault...

What would he think when he realizes?

You could have saved him.

Clint bites his tongue so hard he can taste metal and salt and blood.

What makes you any better than him?

Clint rolls over again.

Maybe if you told Thor that his eyes were the color of sapphires. Maybe if you told Fury what you saw. Maybe if you hadn't just stood there like a coward as he was shipped off to Asgard. Maybe if you told somebody so he could be cared for then he wouldn't have ended up with HYDRA. Maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe.

"SHUT UP." He roars, bolting upright, cheeks aflame with tears and guilt.

It's your fault.

"I know." He whispers weakly.

You could have saved him.

•••

Bruce woke up to the sound of beeping. The sky was still a shade between pitch black and the murky grays of the clouds.

He was in a chair, the fabric sticky and itchy against his skin.

Why was he in a chair?

What was beeping?

He blinked his eyes open, a pure white room, half the lights on and the other half off. In the center, a cot with a sickly body lying in it.

Oh, right.

Immediately guilt pours through his entire body, oozing out of him like some sickly parasite.

Bruce grits his teeth, trying to focus his attention elsewhere, anywhere but the god whom Bruce had hated for so long. The villain who had been brought back from the brink of death.

He closed his eyes, trying not to think of the scraggly body beneath the hospital gown. Littered with scars... and horrifyingly, a brand burnt into the base of his neck.

Thanos.

He shuddered at that. Whoever was powerful enough to mark Loki that way... no, he wouldn't think of that. Nor would he think of the painfully familiar fear that lights Loki's eyes when he sees Thor.

Because Bruce knew that fear. He knew that fear like the back of his hand and he knew that that sure as hell didn't come from a one-time thing.

N-n-no, Daddy stop it. You're scaring me.

No, Bruce squeezed his eyes shut even harder. He was just projecting. There was no way, Loki, a god, had been abused.

But the fear in his eyes...

Thor wouldn't hurt Loki.

Would he?

Yet memories flashed through his mind, how quick Thor had been to dismiss his brother's biological relations. How bloodthirsty Thor seemed at times like he yearned for battle. A temper that could lash out within an instant.

Thor wasn't abusive. He wasn't.

Because Bruce wasn't sure what he was going to do if he was.

He stood up from his chair, hands itching to do something. If he thought about possible dysfunctional relationships anymore then he was going to have a breakdown on the floor.

His eyes scanned over the oxygen tube, double-checking the IV pumping him full of nutrients. Loki had lost too much blood for his liking, but he wasn't sure if mixing human blood and... whatever species he was together would be safe.

Bruce had about a thousand questions for Thor concerning Loki's blue skin, but he couldn't help but feel slightly relieved if anything.

Because Loki, Loki looked terrifying. Crimson eyes and a singular ebony horn curving above his head, the other looking as though someone has taken a chainsaw to it.

Perhaps the Hulk wasn't the only beastly murderer on Earth. And he knew more than anyone it was wrong to call Loki a beast, but possibly he was trying to find a single grain of solace. In both himself and the injured god.

He straightened the bedsheets. Made sure the gauze on his wrists was secure and reapplied antibacterials to whatever horrific experiment his abdomen had been victim to.

He collapsed back into the static chair across the room, exhaustion setting into his bones once more. His eyelids finally fluttered shut.

Daddy, please... don't hurt Mommy.

Thor wasn't abusive.

Thanos.

Are you the only beast on Earth now?

Or are you even worse?

•••

Steve had been cooped up in his bedroom since they had returned back to the Tower. He needed time to think, away from people. Just to sort out his thoughts.

A sketch pad on his lap, furiously scribbling away with a pencil in his hand.

Everything felt wrong under him. The paper and the angry lead and the constant thrumming of the stupid air conditioning that was driving his enhanced hearing crazy and the colors blinding his senses that he had resorted to sketching in monotonous shades of gray.

Because they found Loki in an abandoned SHIELD base. A SHIELD base. SHIELD was supposed to represent freedom and liberty, not torture experiments. It didn't matter what Loki was, in Steve's book it was a violation of rights.

And there was a body found in Loki's cell, or, the remains of one at least. A body that was once Brock Rumlow, who Steve had once called a friend. Mutilated and frozen to the touch.

It all felt wrong.

He realized that he was shaking, his breaths slow and shallow. The pencil snaps between his fingers.

Buck would've known what to do.

Buck always knew what to do.

Knew how to deal with Steve's panic attacks, kept an extra inhaler with him since Steve was stupid enough to lose his own a majority of the time. Always made sure to talk with his best friend in his right ear, since he couldn't hear out of the left. Taught Steve how to differentiate the hues in his color-blinded eyes.

My Stevie.

But never knew that Steve loved him.

How could he? Being gay in the 1940s wasn't exactly the greatest idea. He had considered telling Buck as soon as they rescued him from HYDRA, but he had been Captain America then and what good would it be if the nation's hero turned out to be a fa*g?

Besides, Buck was straight anyway. Steve had seen him with enough girls to populate an entire village. Steve tried to be straight too, he really did. While the rest of the world saw Captain America and Peggy Carter, they had been nothing more than friends in a time of need.

And Buck was dead. So why did it matter if Steve was still in love with him?

Steve dropped his face to his hands, the paper and pencil long forgotten about on the floor. He hated this. Hated this hated this hated this. Because all his life it had been a clear set of right and wrong, black and white, the Allies and the Nazis.

But Loki walked the line of both, setting destruction in his wake.

It all felt wrong.

It was times like this when he wished he could get drunk. Vodka was easier to swallow than the fact that Buck wasn't coming back, and that Loki was more than a villainous monster.

He sighed, turning off the lamp beside him, crawling into bed for an uneasy sleep.

It all felt wrong.

•••

Nat wasn't sure how long she stayed there, frozen to the barstool after Tony had stormed away. Rattling with embarrassment over the sheer stupidity of the question.

She, Black Widow, who had always been sharp and manipulative with her words, had asked if someone who had undergone at least weeks of torture was okay.

She knew that that wasn't how it worked the best out of all of them.

Ballerinas. Targets. Blood.

They made you into a monster and told you to find peace.

Maybe she was just trying to find a grain of hope, of comfort in these godawful conditions. Yet a part of her mind screamed at her still.

This was Loki. The evil worm who had exposed her secrets, the red in her ledger, killed Phil and destroyed her best friend's mind.

This was Loki. Who was currently lying exposed in a hospital bed above her, pale and tortured, been reduced to less than human.

"You and I are the same." He had whispered in the cell, electric blue eyes taunting Natasha's own, "And you are terrified."

Nat had remained a passive face then, but even now, months after, the words still haunted her.

Can you wipe out that much red?

Natasha had tried to convince herself it was different. Loki had a choice and she didn't. But that wasn't the truth, the joy painted across his face as he watched people squirm. Hadn't Natasha been the same way? Wasn't she still the same?

Because she relished in it. Getting under people through words, forcing their own bodies and language to twist and betray them. It was the same with Loki, she knew that. So was the bloodthirsty hunger, itching to prove themselves. She knew that face, she had seen it in the mirror for countless years, and she still did.

We are not the same.

Are you so sure about that, Little Spider?

•••

Thor had never so much as felt like a failure as he did now.

Stupid stupid stupid.

Banner had told him not to startle his brother. Banner had said he would've been disoriented. But Thor had never imagined Loki being scared of him.

I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all.

But if this past day had been nothing else, it had at least told him what a blatant lie he had been telling himself.

What had happened between them?

What happened to the childish boys who got into trouble together? Slayed wyverns and boars in the woods. Who played Hnefatafl and sparred?

Thor had lost something that he didn't know he could lose. And now that he was aware the grief was so much it wrenched his heart into two.

His brother was right there. Merely on another floor of the tower. But yet so far out of reach.

Would Loki consider him his brother still?

Only one of you can rule, but both of you were born to be Kings.

I never wanted the throne, I only ever wanted to be your equal.

But weren't they equals? Had Thor been truly so naïve throughout childhood that he could not recall what Loki had told him?

I remember a shadow.

Or had this been another one of Loki's imagined slights?

Who controls the would-be King?

Something hadn't been right. Thor knew it, he knew that something was off with his baby brother. But he could never distinguish what. But then again, everything had been wrong. The gleaming anger and madness in his eyes.

He had asked who controlled the would-be King and Loki stilled, changing the subject.

Something hadn't been right. And Thor was too stupid to figure out what.

Too stupid and too angry. Figuring out the inner workings had always been Loki's skill while Thor just bashed skulls in. And now Loki needed him. His little brother. But Thor couldn't figure the damn thing out and all he felt was boiling, burning rage in the bottom of his stomach.

He let out an animalistic roar, temper finally taking control of him. Punching through the wall, leaving a fist-shaped hole. Turning his attention to the window outside. Whereas the rest of New York was still burning brightly.

And for the first time, Thor felt afraid.

Afraid that he had lost something he would never get back.

Chapter 23: It’s gonna get me by the end of the night.

Chapter Text

Bruce blinked his eyes open sluggishly, vague remnants of last night seeping into his foggy brain. Almost remembering what happened.

That was until a pair of scarlet eyes stared back at him, wide and confused.

"Huh?" Bruce murmured, "Oh shoot! Uh, yeah... you're awake that's good." He was rambling now, but he wasn't even sure if it mattered. Whether Loki was lucid or not remained a question.

The scientist scanned over his vitals, more stable compared to what they had been, but still enough to send a normal human into a near-death state. Although to be fair, Loki did only look like death warmed over.

"Can you hear me?" Bruce asked, unsure of how to deal with this. Sure he had a doctorate in biology and knew a decent chunk of medical knowledge, but dealing with traumatized- severely traumatized ex-villain gods was a whole other problem.

But to his relief, Loki made the smallest vertical nod of his neck. His eyes squinted as if trying to focus on Bruce more.

"Okay," Bruce said, still trying to maintain an aura of calmness, "Do you know where you are?"

A tiny shake of the head. Not that Bruce was surprised, the last time he and Tony had tried to have this conversation Loki hadn't exactly been... coherent.

"You're at the Avengers' Tower, okay? You're safe."

His eyebrows furrowed, a slight twitch of his lips.

Bruce couldn't help but chuckle humorlessly at that, "Yeah, I guess those are just words. But for both of our benefits, I'd appreciate it if you could try to believe them."

Loki swallowed, his tongue jutting out and running along his mouth. A defense mechanism, Bruce realized. His lips looked better, the torturous holes reduced to no more than scar tissue, but he knew the mental scarring was still there.

And throughout all this time, Loki had not uttered a single sound. Other than some hysterical mumblings from the first time he woke up, he had not made a noise.

Bruce felt sick. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Loki was reduced to nothing more than dirt and then forced into torture. Physical torment was horrible enough, but psychology? Whatever those monsters had done to scare him into submission? Into silence?

Inside him, the Hulk cried in outrage.

Unfortunately, that was when Loki looked down to examine his broken body, and all hell broke loose.

Normally, Bruce thought, anybody would rightfully be confused and a bit freaked out by the brilliant shade of blue that was his skin. But Loki reacted differently. Amongst the tired half-glazed eyes was pure panic. Panic, recognition, and horror.

He jumped, with way too much force for how thin he was. Scrambled out of the bed, as if trying to run away from his own skin. The IV ripped out of his wrist, blood immediately pouring from the small wound, blue blood, the color of deep navy, and the ocean's bottom.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey," Bruce stumbled over words, tripping as he desperately tried to reach Loki, who was now scratching at acid-washed wrists, breaking the skin into tiny marred scrapes of blood.

"Stop it. Loki! Loki!" He practically cried, trying to get him to reach lucidity once more.

His mind whirled. There wasn't much he could do. He saw what Loki's skin did to Thor, an Asgardian and he wasn't about to test it out on himself.

f*ck. f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck. His eyes snagged a blanket in the corner of the room. Frantically grabbing it from its place, tossing it over Loki's arms haphazardly. Then able to snatch Loki's wrists in his own. He could sense the cold even through the blanket, prickling him as if he were holding his hands in a bucket of ice water. He hissed unintentionally but tried to revert his attention back to Loki.

"You're safe? Okay?" He swallowed, pushing ice waters down, "Whatever... this is? It's fine, okay? I don't mind. Let's just, try to get you back into the bed." Bruce gave a sigh of relief when Loki seemed to come back to himself, that there appeared to be a soul in those ruby stares

Still tense, his entire body shaking under the force of his trembles. He opened his mouth, tongue flitted anxiously, and finally, finally, he met Bruce's gaze. His eyes widened in relief before his figure collapsed against the wall. Head lolling to one side.

He looked... lost. A person strayed too far from the path with no way home. He stared at Bruce like he was his savior, a flashlight in the darkness.

Bruce shook his head, dismissing the idea. "Alright," he breathed, still trying to show compassion despite how freaked out he was, "Can we try to get you back onto the bed?"

Loki's eyes flickered back to the scientist, head still tilted as if it was too much effort to stay upright. He blinked sluggishly before nodding.

"Great, uh..." Bruce trailed off when he took in the weary body, who was certainly by no means to get up by himself. Besides, Loki still weighed 300 pounds.

"Right, erm, I might have to call Tony, is that okay?" He cringed at the reluctance in his words, but even more so at Loki's shocked expression at being offered a choice.

A hesitant nod.

Bruce didn't want to take advantage of somebody who clearly had problems between saying 'yes' and 'no'. But there was no way that he would be able to drag Loki's 300-pound stature back onto the bed.

So he texted Tony, saying Loki was up and lucid and needed help. Unsure of how Loki would react to JARVIS he wasn't eager to find out. They both sat there for a few minutes in awkward silence, Loki examining the scientist in a beast's body and Bruce picking at his fingernails. Trying hard to ignore the evil madman next to him.

Finally, after what felt like hours of piercing stares from haunting red eyes, Tony walked into the room with a surprising amount of gentleness.

"Hi, Prongs, uh..." he huffed, scratching the top of his head, "Why are you on the floor?"

Bruce exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a chuckle, "Well, that's kinda the problem. Can you, uh, like help maybe? Him up?" His words came out fuzzy and disjointed, pretending like this was a normal patient and not at all Loki.

Tony nodded, but his expression didn't reach his eyes, "Right, you okay with that, Smurfette?"

Something caught in Bruce's throat. He was not going to have a repeat of minutes earlier, he refused.

"Tony!" He hissed, tossing a glare towards his co-worker.

But other than the slight eyebrow raise in the billionaire's direction, there was no reaction, unaware of the connotations behind Tony’s nickname.

Tony grimaced, apparently realizing his mistake, “Yeah, Yeah, my bad,” he said haphazardly, “Let’s try and get you into the bed, okay?” He paused, staring at the blood lazily bleeding out of his wrist where the IV had been, “Uh, Bruce?”

“Yeah, I’m working on it,” Bruce groaned, “But he needs to be actually in the bed for me to fix it.”

“Right,” Tony said, clasping his hands together, “Tell me what you need me to do.”

It took them over five minutes to finally wrangle the god back onto the cot. Mostly because Loki was no more than a limp ragdoll but still weighed as much as a lion.

But as soon as he was finally back on the bed, Bruce flew back into doctor mode, mumbling aloud to himself, partly for his own thoughts and also so Loki could have something to stabilize with.

It was going relatively well until Bruce tried to reinsert the IV. A small syringe with an even smaller tube attached to the bag of nutrients and electrolytes. A sharp, silver, gray needle at the end.

And Loki started to scream.

Pure terror, panicked sobs that choked him with every breath of air. Scrambling back from the needle, accidentally ripped the heart monitor out as he jerked. Hands rapidly covering his mouth, scraping at his lips desperately.

Oh. OH.

Bruce barely registers Tony complaining behind him. His focus is on his patient, who’s stuck in a very traumatizing flashback most likely.

Immediately he throws the needle, IV still attached across the room, making a hollow ‘clinging’ sound.

“Loki! Loki!” Tony says suddenly, taking control of the whole thing, pushing Bruce out of the way, “You’re safe, you’re at the Avengers Tower. I’m Tony Stark, Ironman, I’m helping you, okay?”

“Can you breathe with me?” Tony asks, making an exaggerated inhale and exhale, eyes almost pleading with the broken god. Loki’s eyes are glazed ahead, unseeing of everything, staring at Bruce with a look of murderous betrayal. But finally, he takes a ragged breath, pale hands lurching out and snatching Tony’s shirt, dragging the billionaire towards himself until his head rests on Tony’s chest. And slowly, silent tears leak out of his eyes, still pressed against Stark.

Bruce isn’t sure how much time passes, all that he feels like a stranger, invading a sacred ritual. He tugs at his collar anxiously before he grabs the IV with shaking hands, now unsterile, he tosses it into a biohazard bin.

He knew the basics of what Tony had gone through, from what he had told him in tiny chunks, but mostly from the paparazzi's prying tabloids. But he wouldn't be surprised if flashbacks were a part of the aftermath. Still, he can’t help but feel useless as Tony comforts the ex-villain.

The strangest part is that Tony doesn’t appear to be getting frostburnt. While Thor was left with severe burns, Tony only looks slightly chilled. Bruce frowns, his science brain hard at work. Maybe a defense instinct?

Bruce manages to find his way to a chair that he collapses in, sitting there awkwardly until Tony clears his throat, gesturing to Loki. Who has fallen asleep on Stark’s chest, and Tony gently places his head back on the pillow, a look on his face that Bruce can’t place.

“What do we do now?” Tony asks, surprisingly gentle.

Bruce shrugs uncomfortably, “Well, I’m not exactly comfortable with proceeding with any more medical treatments for the time being. At least, after all of… this,” he motions vaguely to the unconscious trickster in the bed, “So, I guess all we can do it wait.”

Chapter 24: I've got a head full of chemicals, mouth full of ridicule.

Chapter Text

Screaming.

Burning.

Fire.

It's hot. Hot hot hot.

Flames dance on his skin, throat too parched to scream.

Does it still think itself a god?

Do not speak do not speak do not speak.

Drowning. Fires so cold they burn as ice.

This is your doing, little jötun runt.

Ebony Maw has his frigid fingers pressed on his scalp.

Madness fills his soul.

Or was he already mad?

He cannot breathe. He cannot breathe. Breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe.

Trust in your madness, my pet.

But how? When I cannot even trust in my thoughts.

Warped tendrils prying at his mind.

Who are you, pathetic rat?

A child of Thanos.

And I embrace in the madness of my maker.

He has made me whole.

•••

Loki burst upright, a scream barely had back, replaced instead by a muffled cry.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe breathe breathe.

The air tastes of rot and death.

Stop it stop it stop. You're safe, breathe.

Just a nightmare just a nightmare.

Another sob escapes his lips.

His hands tremble. Eyes trying to focus on something, anything, in the dark of the night. Mechanical beeping of his heart on the machine. Yes, focus on that.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

He counts the beats as the minutes tick by. He gets to 257 beats before his breathing evens out.

He wonders if this is what true madness feels like.

Unsure of your own thoughts, itching to do something. All he has done for the past week is lie in the Norns damned hospital bed, pathetically staring out the window as the sun marks days ticking best.

He still has yet to sleep through the night, like some sort of weak infant.

His hands and legs twitch in annoyance. He needs to get up. He needs to do something. He bites his lip, carefully removing the blankets off his calves.

At first, he's struck by how feeble they are. He's always been skinny, but this is terrifying. Knobby knees and skin so pale he can see every vein. Completely depleted of muscle, he doubts he may as well be able to stand on them.

It was easier to function with Rumlow and Pierce. Running off of pure adrenaline and pain helped take the edge off everything else. Here, he is confined to the limits of his own body, and now he knows the extent of the damages.

He braces himself, knuckles wrapped firmly on the bed frame as he pushes himself up. His knees immediately buckle under him, his grip on the bed the only thing that keeps him from toppling.

It's easier, and harder than he thought, taking a step. Easier to put weight on his feet and actually move, but already his forehead is slick with sweat, legs trembling from effort.

He all but collapses in the windowsill of the room. Somewhat annoyed at how proud he is for such a simple accomplishment. He took five steps across a tile floor, it's not that hard, and yet it is.

Outside, he resumes his hobby of looking outside at the city. He sees everything from here, skyscrapers of dull gray that kiss the clouds. A faint box of greenery, the only one in the city.

A memorial directly across from the tower he resides in. A memorial he caused. Of every single soul that was lost the day Loki came romping in and destroyed everything.

546 souls. The number still sat with him.

Kaitlin. Katie Maslow. Adam Rumlow. Derek Bishop. Phil Coulson. Ramona Perez.

In the depths of his solitude, he was shackled not by the chains but by the weight of every anguished soul he had condemned.

He gazes upon the fallen city of New York. Desperately wishing this was a nightmare in which he could wake up. Hoping that this was a dream of Hel instead.

But this was not Hel. Still, Hel's demons had come for him anyway.

•••

He wakes up with his head pressed against warm glass. Sunlight heating the window on his temples. It feels nice, he realizes. How long has it been since he's felt the suns rays on his skin? Too long probably.

He wonders how long he can sit here, perched on the windowsill like a frightened cat. Reminiscing over past lives that had been lost. A past self... when had he lost that? When he dropped from the Bifrost, or before that? When that terrible jotun had clutched onto hi wrist? Perhaps even before, when he had felt the back of a palm, by the one he claimed to call 'father' for the first time?

He was wallowing in self pity again. Odin always got mad at him for it.

The door behind him squeaks open, making him jump. Standing upright, hands ready to summon a dagger with his tethered seidr.

"Hey, sorry 'bout that," A man, Stark, says, stepping through the door, "Didn't mean to startle-" He pauses, mouth gaping open, "You're up."

Loki snorts, his tongue once itching to issue a bitter retort now hangs limply in his mouth.

"I mean," Stark shrugs, "I'm not surprised, you're kind of stubborn as f*ck."

Annoying as Stark was, Loki had come to tolerate their one sided conversations. The billionaire speaks as normal, skirting around the fact that Loki was an evil monster who refused, unable to talk.

They provided a sense of normalcy, which was something Loki craved. He had allowed both Banner and Barton into his room before. Yet neither of them had known how to converse. Resulting in an awkward silent, or sometimes small talk, before they would mumble some feeble-minded excuse and rush out of the room.

Stark was different. Welcome. He still exuded his egocentric billionaire personality. But he treated Loki like a being. Not some pity exhibit in a little glass box. Stark often rambled, about everything and nothing, current projects he was working on, or how Lady Pepper was mad he had forgotten yet another board meeting or date.

He still had yet to see his brother. Banner had told him that he had had a 'panic attack' when he saw Thor. Which was ridiculous, first off, he was not ailed by mortal weaknesses. Neither was he scared of Thor, sure he could have been a little nervous over Thor seeing him in his jotun form, but he was certain he could get over that quickly.

He also didn't remember the situation, at all. So that probably suspended his disbelief quite a fair bit.

"Are you still with me?" Stark asked, still on the other side of the room.

Loki jerked, looking up from his lap, nodding quietly. He was drifting, again.

He is so, so, tired.

Remembered falling asleep on Thor in the past of their childhoods. When the thunder was too loud and the monsters under his bed to real.

Thor.

He misses him.

Which is pathetic, honestly.

A jötunn craving for a murderous golden Prince.

He misses his brother.

He is so, so, lonely.

Homesick for the place he is not sure even exists. When hearts were full and bodies loved. When his soul was understood.

He wants his brother.

Whether or not Thor accepts the skin he wears. Because of this, this in between? Of waiting? Of anxiously picking at his palm wondering if Thor will still tolerate him is enough to wrench his own eyes out of their sockets.

He wonders if Thor will accept this newfound muteness.

He's spoken nothing, save for what Banner told him were a few delirious ramblings. It's peaceful, in a way. He no longer worries about having to bite his tongue or fear saying the wrong thing. Angering Odin, angering his once-father.

Do not blame me, Loki. It is better this way. Maybe if you learned to speak the truth I wouldn't be forced to do this.

Frigga said there is a purpose in everything the Allfather does...

He doesn't utter a single noise. But his tongue still tastes of ash and rot.

"-Ki! Loki!" A voice is calling out to him, Stark, again.

Come on, just focus.

Banner said that what he was experiencing was a sort of dissociation. Happens when something so traumatic happens that the mind is forced to shut down.

But that doesn't seem right, because Loki's mind is still active, annoyingly slow.

Although it's not like Loki could tell him otherwise.

He looks at Stark through squinted eyes. The lights in his room have been reduced to 40%. His eyes are too sensitive to light after everything.

Dungeons of death. Dungeons of black thread. Dungeons of sceptres.

Stark stares back, somewhat curiously. Almost able to hide the concern. Almost.

I will protect you.

Is he really going to do this?

Running away to Big Brother, Little Prince?

He motions to Stark to come closer before he loses his courage. Stark, relatively reluctant, obliges. A singular eyebrow raises, either in confusion or amusem*nt. Loki can't tell.

His hands tremble already from the effort it took to even make it over to the windowsill. Still, he grabs Stark's wrist with such force that it surprises even him as Stark jerks away, eyes wide with fear.

Did you truly think he would've forgiven you?

Loki recoils. Flinching away and staring out the window.

Did you think he can forgive you? After all you've done?

Did you truly think your actions are worth redeeming?

Stop it stop it stop.

There is no savior for you, my pet.

Shut up shut up shut up shut up.

No savior for monsters.

Nonononononono.

MONSTER MONSTER MONSTER MONSTER MONSTER.

A ragged half-sob bursts from his mouth. He knows Stark is in front of him, trying to calm him down. But it doesn't feel real, none of this seems real. He doesn't deserve this, monsters don't deserve this.

He wants his-

Monsters don't deserve love. Brothers.

You deserve nothing.

At last, he manages to catch a small bit of what Stark is telling- asking him.

"What do you need? No- wait, sh*t that's a dumb question! You can't talk so-"

"Thor."

Shock rings through both of them. It's the first word, coherent word Loki has made since what?

Since Odin Allfather tore everything he knew apart, one, final, time.

His voice is raw, barely above a whisper, and sounds as though he has eaten gravel and inhaled razor blades but it's there. A part of him expected it to be gone. Forgotten how to speak or maybe just straight up lost the ability to.

He bites his lip, anxiously looking up at Stark between greasy hair.

Stark clears his throat, obviously shocked, "I-uh, yeah. Are you-" he pauses, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

He isn't.

And it is in fact a really bad idea.

But he needs this.

So he nods anyway.

And Stark walks out the door.

He sits there, for a few minutes, picking at his palm. Staring at the door before one last unwelcome thought punches its way through.

Will your brother still accept you? For all that you are? Does he still think you are worth it? Or has he given up?

But the door opens, and Thor steps through.

They both stand there for a moment, unblinking. Like two strangers.

And then the dam bursts. And Loki falls apart. And without saying anything, Thor rushes to his side. Holds him as he sobs, hot tears streaming down his face. Head turned and pressed into his big brother's chest.

In the depths of his solitude, he was shackled not by the chains but by the weight of every anguished soul he had condemned.

Chapter 25: You're not delivering a perfect body to the grave.

Chapter Text

His brother is here.

His brother is here.

Thor is here and he has been so, so lonely.

And his brother’s warm arms are wrapped around him as silent waterfalls rain down his cheeks.

Thor always included Loki in their adventures. Thor who taught Loki sparring. Thor who he used to call his friend for all eternity.

Thor swore to destroy the jötnar. Thor held his hand above the abyss and still said ‘no’ just like Odin. Thor did not ask who controls the would-be king and called his tortures ‘imagined slights’. Thor who did not see his brother once during his sentence when he was so lonely it hurt for his heart to beat.

His brother is here, yet the emptiness is still so heavy.

But his brother is here. His brother is here and holding him so what more does it matter his brother is here and he is giddy with joy at seeing him, being held like he was in his youth once more.

I am ashamed of the monster you have become.

He is Atlas the Titan and the weight of the sky has finally broken him.

His brother is here but it is too late to comfort him.

He had faded away slowly and Thor didn’t notice.

No, they are not friends, nor enemies. They were just strangers with memories.

His sobs wrack him harder.

But his brother is here, isn’t that enough?

No, it isn’t.

My poor, sweet child. You got a taste for blood when you were forced to lick your wounds.

He does not know how long he cries, nor does he care for once. Even though Odin has shamed him for crying because it is ergi, he does not care. Thor is here and holding him and Odin is not there are no threads on his mouth and he feels safe for the first time in a long time.

He cried until there were no more tears left in his ruby eyes and even then he was still a sobbing mess of breathless hiccups.

And Thor just held him, rubbing his back. Staying silent for once in his life. Although, Loki knew it was because he was uncomfortable. What else? Loki had called him here to have a tantrum and Thor was left picking up the pieces just like always.

Loki recoiled at that thought, pushing himself away. Eyes down and still blurry with icy tears. Had he been looking up, he would’ve noticed Thor’s bewildered expression but he didn’t, only picking at his left palm.

He took a breath, he should say something. They had been in this strange in-between for far too long. Thor probably wanted him to say something instead of just holing up in his muteness and self-pity.

He should say something.

He opens his mouth.

Closes it again.

Come on, you just spoke to Stark stop being so difficult.

Weak coward just be a big boy and use your words.

Silvertongue turn to lead?

His tongue is dry and tastes of ash and memories.

Come on just speak.

Speak.

Speak speak speak speak speak.

He shudders, Thor tries to envelop him in a hug but he flinches away. His knuckles are a pale shade of blue, almost white with how hard he is grabbing the windowsill.

Great, now you’ve done it. Surely he’s tired of your antics now.

SPEAK SPEAK SPEAK SPEAK SPEAK.

JUST SAY SOMETHING COME ON.

I can’t.

Ice tears land in his lap.

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

Be quiet be quiet be quiet maybe if you are silent then He will not hurt you maybe then He will not beat you and maybe Maw will not rip your mind to shreds and maybe The Other will not make you his pretty little Death.

I, Odin Allfather, sentence for your seiðr to be externally blocked, and your mouth sewn shut with threads no Asgardian or jotun can erase.

Do not speak do not speak do not speak.

He opens his mouth again, tongue hanging out like a dead fish. Closes it. Again and again and again. Over and over and over and over and over.

“...Hi, Thor.”

It is so quiet but so loud.

Thor wraps him in a bone-crushing hug. So warm and so safe and Loki is home and Thor is here and everything feels like it could be alright again.

“Hi, Loki.”

It is such a stupid sentence, and Loki cannot help it. He laughs. Not the manic laughter of his sanity being ripped from him, but an honest laugh. Because it is just like when the brothers were young getting into trouble and finding pleasure in the simplest things.

His voice is dry and scratchy but he does not care because his brother is right here and nothing else matters and maybe, just maybe things will be okay once more.

Maybe he will heal.

“I’ve missed you,” Loki whispers, his jaw already sore from the limited words.

Thor squeezes him even tighter, “I’ve missed you too.”

They are pretending right now. Loki knows that, Thor does too. They are pretending that they are not strangers. Strangers who know each others’ favorite colors, favorite foods, the way they walk, the way they talk.

They are pretending they are not each others’ strangers.

And for right now, Loki is okay with that.

He has missed having a brother again.

They used to be brothers who knew each others’ deepest secrets.

And Loki wonders if he should tell him the truth. Probably not without water, his throat is burning from the tears and laughter and words.

He still cannot believe it.

He spoke.

Even after Odin silenced him.

He has risen from the ashes and he has spoken even with threads pressing his mouth shut.

“Water?” He croaks, attempting to chuckle dryly, but it quickly turns into a coughing fit. Shaking his whole body as he pushes away from Thor.

His brother furrows his eyebrows, “I am unsure if that is a good idea. Stark and Banner have been avoiding solid foods, I believe,” he then gestures to the IV in his forearm, “They have been giving you nutrients through that.”

Loki scowls, “Were there not any other options?”

Thor winces, “Well, there was a tube… one that goes in through your nose and throat…”

The rest of his words blur out and Loki flinches, violently.

Tubes running down his mouth, Rumlow fills them with acid, and his fingers and the needle that closes his mouth so he cannot breathe.

Stop it stop it stop it breathe breathe breathe BREATHE BREATHE.

There’s a warmness around him once more, it’s callused and a scent that he has learned to recognize for so many years. And then Thor is crouching down in front of him, his hands holding onto Loki’s in his lap. Reassuring and comforting him. Thor is rambling on and on about nothingness, but Loki doesn’t care because Thor is here and he is not there and he will never go back no matter what.

Loki practically pounces on Thor, arms hugging his neck in a way that would normally repulse the touch-sensitive god.

“Thank you,” Loki murmurs, although he is not sure for what. Everything, most likely.

Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for coming to find me. Thank you for stubbornly calling yourself my brother even when I had lost all hope. Thank you for stopping me when there was blue in my mind. Thank you thank you thank you.

“Water?” Loki huffs, ignoring the fact that his face is wet, again.

Thor laughs, “Yeah, I shall find Stark or Banner.”

With that, Thor leaves. Only temporarily, because Loki asked him to. But an uncomfortable knot forms in his stomach.

You’re fine, stop it.

He’s more upset by the fact that he’s left alone with his thoughts more than anything.

He tries to focus them on the city outside, the birds sitting on the rooftops of buildings. Or towers that break through the clouds. A smell that taints his nose of gasoline and garbage. Not pleasant but it does not smell of vomit and death- no, don’t think about that- so he will take what he can get.

It’s several minutes before Thor arrives with Banner, who jolts at the fact that Loki is out of bed but covers it well enough.

Loki raises an eyebrow, wondering how well Thor attempted to explain these new updates to the scientist.

“Hello, Bruce,” he smirks, while he usually avoids first names until they have earned it, he gets a kick out of how Bruce seems to squirm at his name coming out of Loki’s mouth.

Or just any words coming out of Loki’s mouth.

“I- uh, hi, erm… I’m Bruce,” he smacks a palm to his forehead, “You just said that you know who I am, and you said that, wow, uh… hey,” he chuckles awkwardly, his face turning a brilliant shade of magenta.

And the mischief god cannot help the childlike smile that spreads over his face, “Water?” He asks, somewhat hesitantly. But his throat is burning and his stomach is about to eat itself.

Banner frowns for a moment, taking in Loki in all his underweight glory, “Um… yeah, I think that should be fine, just uh… small sips,” he says, fishing a container of water out of a cupboard and twisting off a lid.

He hands it out to Loki, who inspects the plastic bottle dubiously before taking a sip. His hands shake so much that half of the bottle ends up on his gown but he does not care.

Throwing out all of Banner’s advice on small sips he downs the whole thing in one gulp. His tongue burns from working muscles he has not in so long but he does not care because for once his throat does not taste of his flesh and acid and blood and he is so so thirsty.

He keeps drinking and drinking until someone pries it away from his mangled fingers.

“Loki!” Thor cries, “Did you not listen to Banner?”

Loki sinks, reaching back for the bottle frantically. He needs it back.

Please please you don’t understand I have not drunk water in such a long time and all I can taste is rot and blood and my own norn-damned fingers that Rumlow shoved down my throat. Please please I need the stupid water because my throat burns with acid and I can still taste my fingers please please please.

Then he’s aware of how still the others have gone. Shock and horror were written clearly across their faces.

And slowly, Banner speaks, “Loki, I-” he pauses, swallowing, “D-did Rumlow make you eat your own… fingers?”

Loki pauses, this is not happening, he just revealed his secrets to the scientist, again.

He’s about to protest when the water in his stomach curdles and he is sent stumbling for the sink across the room.

All the water that tasted oh-so refreshing comes right back up as he gags and wretches. His stomach clenches and his hands wrap around the edge. He feels someone rubbing his back and holding his hair up, but he’s too focused on not passing out from the sheer force of his heaves that he cannot pay attention. He hiccups, attempting to apologize before nausea sends his head back into the basin again.

In the end, he vomits thrice more before they seem to stop. And he collapses against the person who had been soothing him. No surprise, it’s Thor.

“I’m sorry,” Loki whimpers, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking I’m sorry-”

“Hush brother,” Thor says, “It is alright, I am not angry with you.”

Loki nods gratefully against his brother’s sternum, but anxiously chews at his lip, covered in bile, “But I ruined everything,”

He can feel Thor frown above him, but Banner answers first, “Not really, I mean, it was just water and stomach acid. We’ll up your nutrition bag intake and electrolytes, but at most, it’s just sapped you of energy.”

Loki nods at that, his exhaustion, already apparent being his nightmares, has grown tenfold. He stifles a yawn, leaning against his brother.

“Come,” Thor says, “Let’s get you to bed.”

Thor swiftly picks Loki up in his arms and carries him over to the bed as Banner pushes the IV alongside. And Thor wraps the blankets over Loki as Banner makes his way out of the room. Thor is about to sit in a chair next to the cot when Loki stirs, eyes flashing open from their half-conscious state.

“Thor,” he whispers, somewhat breathlessly, “I have to tell you.”

His brother frowns, “Tell me what?”

He fights back a shudder, “Everything.”

The Thunder god begins to shake his head, “You need rest,”

“No,” Loki repeats, voice croaky but still firm. He needs to do this now, while he is almost asleep and away from reality. As if he is recounting stories of another unfortunate soul.

And so Loki tells Thor

Everything.

And when Loki is finished, and finally falls asleep. His head lulling on his brother’s shoulder with no chance of waking up soon…

Thor falls apart.

Chapter 26: Sometimes I get so tired, I don’t even know myself

Chapter Text

Loki had met Medusa once.

On a planet far away, similar to Midgard, but different.

When he was foolish enough to traverse Yggsdrail without fear.

When he didn’t know what monsters lurked in the dark.

Medusa had been untrusting of him at first. It made sense, she strongly hated all men, especially gods. And he was known for trickery and deceipt.

But then he told her about Svaðilfari. He came seeking comfort, asked how to cope.

It had been years since his body was stolen from him, he was probably 14 in mortal years.

And maybe she pitied him, maybe that is what the reason was. Felt pity for the boy who had been unmade.

But they became friends.

And she helped him cope.

“You have been through darkness, youngling. But you can emerge stronger. Fractured still, but so powerful that he who hurt you will quake at your might.”

Yes, he called Medusa his friend.

(“How dare you, my son! How dare you bid your time with such a monster? Do you not know what shame you have brought to our family? To Asgard?”

“But Father, I-”

“SILENCE!”

The cool back of Odin’s palm on his cheek.)

Until they weren’t anymore.

But as he hides, behind the rot and trash in his cell, he reminds himself of her.

(You can emerge stronger.)

(He will quake at your might.)

Hiding as The Other searches for his pet.

Do not speak do not speak he will find you and he will hunt you and make you His. Be quiet be quiet be quiet.

But The Other always found his pet anyway.

The Other wanted his love, his Death.

No matter how unobtainable Death was, an entity so powerful none may comprehend.

But The Other wanted his sweet Death.

Love made The Other hungry.

Lust made The Other blind.

If The Other could not have Death, then he could be forced to make a substitute.

No no no stop it stop it stop it get away NO NO NO STOP STOP PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH ME DO NOT TOUCH ME PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

So The Other made him Death.

Loki screamed, jerking awake. His vocal cords yelled in a loud animalistic cry.

No no no no. Stop it please I beg you.

It was just a dream, a nightmare.

Was it?

Stop it, stop it.

Sobs shake his entire frame and he cannot breathe.

f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck just breathe come on norns damnit breathe breathe.

But he cannot, only panicked heaves and he wonders if he would pass out.

The Other would just force him awake.

No, no NO.

“JUST GET f*ckING AWAY.” He screams. He is so dirty that he is rotten with filth. There is no part of this body that is his anymore, not even the insides. He needs to get out, get out get out get out of this skin which is not his own.

“Please, please, please,” He begs, unsure of even what.

Please make the pain stop, just do something to END IT.

(Finish the job, Thor.)

He cannot breathe.

He cannot count to ten on his fingers.

He cannot eat solid foods without vomiting.

What is he? Useless, that’s what he is.

Breathe breathe breathe.

The door slams open.

Tbe Other was always so eager, always in such a rush.

“No no no no no,” Loki stammers, The Other is coming and he is here to take him and rob him. His knees pried open. He knew it was easier if he submitted willingly but he could not, cannot.

“Stop it stop it stop it get away from me please,”

A hand touches his shoulder.

“DO NOT TOUCH ME!” Loki is screaming hysterically at the top of his lungs but he does not care because The Other is here and he cannot run. He is trapped and stuck and he hates this so much more than Maw or Thanos because The Other is here to make him filthy.

The Other speaks once more, “Loki, what-”

He shakes his head, not Loki, never Loki. He wasn’t sure who that was anymore, “No, no, I am your Death I am your Death I am your Death,” he kept repeating, because this was not happening to Loki. It was Death who was with The Other, not Loki, Loki had died in the Void.

Still The Other did not move. He never taunted, only did.

“Just get it over with, please,” he says, begging. Desperate and pleading. He hated this. When The Other reduced him to nothing more than a pleading toy, asking for his punishment to come sooner.

The Other does not move but speaks once more, “Loki, you are safe. Please trust me. It’s Thor, remember me? We’re on Midgard, you’re safe, please believe me.”

Yet he only shakes his head, “No, no no, not safe. Never safe. Please stop. Please, I’m sorry,”

Not Thor. Never Thor.

Did you truly think Big Brother would come searching for you, Little Princling?

The not-Thor is quiet for a moment, before speaking again, “Do you remember, when we were children and you had figured out how to shapeshift others?”

“Transfiguration,” Loki says, correcting the speaker before he can realize what a terrible mistake that is and flinching away.

Breathe breathe breathe.

Yet the person only laughs, booming of thunder, like Thor, “Of course brother, Transfiguration. My apologies. But you had recently learned how to transfigure others. You wanted to try it out on me first, right?”

“Brother, please. You won’t be in any real danger, I promise!”

“Do you remember what happens next?” The man asks, and he sounds like Thor. Like the big brother, he had grown up with. Telling him only a story that he, Frigga, and Odin would know.

Breathe breathe breathe.

“I-I,” Loki inhaled, finally, taking a big shudder, “I, erm… frog,” the words felt heavy on his tongue. Like they were simply recounting old times. But that didn’t seem right.

“Iturnedyouintoafrog,” he blurts out, the words sounding childish but true. And as humiliating as it was, recounting the memory had warmed a part of him that felt warmed by the thought.

And maybe this was Thor. But there was no way to be sure.

“T-tell who your first partner was,” this was easy. A way to catch him if he’s Maw or a way to confirm if he wasn’t. Maw had never truly been interested in the life of Thor, and any memories of Thor and his lover together were ones he breezed over.

He could almost picture the maybe-Thor grimace, “Must I?” They said, in a perfect imitation of his brother.

The barest of a smile flickered across Loki’s lips, but no matter what humor the maybe-Thor brought, he needed his answer. He nodded.

And maybe-Thor scowled, “Fine, it was Sif, do not bring it up aga-”

But before Thor can finish his sentence, Loki has flung himself towards the thunderer, sinking into his embrace.

“Not a dream, you’re real. You’re real, you’re real,” he’s repeating the mantra over and over again because this is Thor. Not a dream nor Maw trying to toy with his mind.

And of course, that’s when he felt the familiar burning in his eyes, a wetness dripping past his cheeks.

Through the blurry haze, Thor co*cked his head, “Brother, are you alright?”

“Of course, I’m not alright,” Loki snarled, the words erupting out of his mouth before he could stop them, “You would think that after the Void a-and and Him, I would be accustomed to torture by now. But no, out of everything, pathetic Terra would be the thing to break me.”

Before Thor could interject, Loki continued his rant, “And this is f*cking pathetic! Loki, a once Prince of Asgard, bawling on a f*cking cot because of some tragic dream!”

He was shaking, his hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Tears were icy on his hideous skin and they wouldn’t stop.

Breathe breathe breathe.

Hands were enveloping him in a hug and he flinched away instinctively before sinking into his brother’s touch.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over again, finding solace in Thor’s reassurances. Yet he knew it wasn’t the truth, no matter what Thor said. There was no redemption for him. No way that Thor, nor any of the Avengers, could forgive him.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed, wrapped in his brother's arms. The steady heartbeat was the only thing stopping him from descending into further madness.

The sun rose above the buildings, orange in the early morning. Smoky clouds partly obscured his view. Already the world bustled with noise and movement, not that it had ever stopped.

It was Thor who broke the peaceful silence, “Brother?” He asked, somewhat hesitantly, “What… What happened in the Void?”

Loki felt his blood freeze.

No. No no no no no.

He remembered through a blurry haze of telling Thor everything. But that wasn’t true. Because he could never utter a word of what happened in the darkest parts of nothingness.

Ebony Maw sank his twisted fifth into Loki’s mind. Banning him from ever whispering His horrid name, or how he had been unmade, stripped of everything, and left only as Death.

And now Thor was asking him a question he could not bring himself to answer.

“And you spoke of a place called Terra, but…” he trailed off, the rest of the query screaming in silence.

Loki squeezed his eyes shut. This was not happening. This was not happening, this was not happening help help help.

No crevice, no barren moon where he cannot find you.

Did you truly think you could escape from me little pet?

Maggots, worming in his skin, burning holes in his body. Screaming as the mark of Thanos is burned into his flesh.

Breathe breathe breathe BREATHE.

“Does it matter?” He croaked out finally. Wincing as his tone was meant to be annoyed came out more as a plead.

Thor frowned, combing a finger through Loki’s tangled hair, “I just… I just wish to know you survived your…”

“My suicide attempt,” Loki finished, the angry words making Thor blink rapidly before speaking again.

“Your time in the Void,” Thor said.

Loki scowled, “Avoiding the truth doesn't make it any less true, Thor,” he opened his mouth to protest but Loki plowed on anyway, “Say it as what it was, I tried to kill myself, I failed. Do not be such a coward to avoid the exact events.”

He was riling him up. Loki knew that, he just wasn’t sure why. No, that was a lie, he always knew. Deflect, deflect, deflect. Get Thor angry so he would forget that he had even asked about the Void in the first place.

And it worked, Thor huffed, pushing himself away, “Do not think that I have avoided the exact events, Loki. Do you know how long I have spent rethinking those damned moments on the Bifrost? How long I wept over the fact that you thought death was a better option than being my brother!”

“I am not your brother!” Loki hissed, a hysterical laugh bubbling on his tongue, “Would you truly accept this as your family?” He asked, gesturing to himself and all his jötun glory, “You who swore to slay all the Frost Giants? We who played jötnar wars in our youth? You would truly call this monster your brother?” He was mocking, but a part of him needed to know the truth, whether Thor would still accept him stuck as this.

And Thor exploded, “Yes! Yes, I would, Loki. Because you are not like them, you are unlike the Frost Giants. Because you are Loki, Loki Odinson. We were raised alongside each other as Aesir, does that mean nothing to you?”

Loki felt his heart shatter. Although he wondered if it was possible to break even more, or if Thor had just stomped on the broken pieces, turning them to dust.

He is sinking, falling, sinking.

(Breathe breathe breathe.)

You don’t need water to feel like you’re drowning, do you?

“Get out.”

No, please-

“What do you mean?”

Stay-

“Get. Out.”

No no no, I am so lonely-

“Brother, I-”

“GET OUT.”

Please, can’t you see that my brain screams to go away but my heart begs to stay?

“If that is what you wish.”

No, it’s not, come back.

“Go.”

But how can you ask anyone to love you when all you do is beg to be left alone?

The door closes and Thor leaves him.

You are lying in a grave of your own making.

Chapter 27: You drew stars around my scars, but now I’m bleeding.

Chapter Text

Clint Barton was tired and in desperate need of a nap.

But he was also in need of some f*cking answers.

Which was the exact reasoning behind his stupid plan that consisted of banging on a neurotic god’s door. Very stupid indeed, Laura would kill him if Loki didn’t first.

But he needed answers more than he needed his wife to not murder him.

Freedom is life’s great lie.

The words are ripped from his tongue.

He knocked on the door, with no response. It makes sense, considering that the night still hums in his ears. A moment passed, then another, and he knocked again.

“Leave me, Odinson,” words spat from behind the door, full of acid and hurt.

Clint frowned, he’d seen Loki a few times, and all had been before whatever brotherly spat the two gods had that left Thor moping for five days straight. “I- uh… it’s not Thor,” he said finally, not giving his name because at least Loki should remember that much.

Remember his name after Loki begged Clint to kill him.

There was a pause before Clint spoke again when he realized that Loki wouldn't, “Can I come in?”

Loki made a non-committal noise from behind the door, “If you must,” he said hesitantly.

It’s not a ‘no’, but it isn’t exactly a resounding ‘yes’ either. But Clint would take some common ground where he could get it and opened the door slowly.

It took him a moment to remember that Loki is a vibrant shade of blue with marble horns, especially because the Loki that had haunted his nightmares for so long had been pale as a ghost with bright blue eyes.

But it was beautiful in a way, ethereal like how sirens or dragons were depicted in storybooks. Magical and enchanting, yet with a touch of ferocity to his appearance, like a creature that knew how to hunt, how to hurt.

“You’re staring,” Loki said quietly, using his remaining fingers to pick at his left palm.

“S-sorry,” Clint muttered, taking his eyes down from the trickster’s face to his hands, not that that was any better. Horribly deformed hands, fingernails ripped from the last five. The other five were gone, according to Banner and Stark, he had been forced to swallow them. Scar tissue had already begun to form around the blunt edges, but parts of flesh and bone were still visible, making him wince.

“Can’t you like, uh…” Clint trailed off, “Like grow your fingers back with the magic stuff?”

Loki laughed, a low bitter chuckle, that sounded more of a sob than anything else, “Seiðr heals injuries, it cannot create new ligaments. To do so would be considered black magic by many, and the punishment for doing so is execution.”

Clint opened his mouth that he was sure Thor wouldn’t mind, but Loki chuckled again, this one an actual sob.

“Besides… I would need both hands to do such complex magic.”

Oh, oh.

“But, I am fairly certain you did not come here to pester me about this. A fitting consequence, do you think?” Loki said, either to himself or Clint, he wasn’t sure, “After all I have… inflicted upon you.”

Clint shifted his weight between his legs, the question turning his stomach over, “Actually, that’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

Loki hummed, “Is that what this is about then? Demanding an apology from me at my weakest, make me beg at your knees for forgiveness? Grovel and plead to do whatever you please? As some form of humiliation? I am past that, Agent Barton. I have been stripped of myself in every way imaginable, whatever punishments you can concoct have no match compared to what I have endured.”

Clint was fairly certain that Loki meant for the words to be biting, a threat. But from the way his voice cracked and there was a wetness in his ruby eyes, Clint knew there was more to it than that. It was… unnerving seeing him like this. Here he was, this god, who had bent Clint’s mind to his will, and made him nothing more than a slave. Twisted and warped him so that he wanted it, wanted all the death and destruction.

Save me save me save me.

“I know,” he said quietly, pushing the memories away, trying to figure out how to ask his questions without his tongue turning into a pretzel, “I- I know, actually. That’s what I… Was it, was it-” you? He tries to ask, but he is voiceless again.

Loki’s hands fidget nervously, but nothing else betrays his emotions, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

Kill me, please.

“I think you do, and that’s what I want to ask. More specifically… why can’t I ask?” Clint laughed, somewhat surprised that whatever mind voodoo was going on allowed him to even get the words out.

That was when Loki’s eyebrows shot off his face, and he could’ve sworn the temperature in the room dropped several degrees, “It inflicts you as well? The-” he went to continue, but his tongue was left hanging out of his mouth as he winced before groaning.

“Yes!” Clint exclaimed, “That sh*t. What is it?”

Loki was silent for a concerningly long moment, to the point where Clint wasn’t even sure if the broken god was lucid anymore. But quietly, he whispered, “It wasn’t supposed to affect you.”

Now it was Clint’s turn to frown, before he gave an exasperated sigh, “What?”

“The-” Loki cut off, tongue flicking over the healed scars of his lips, “I can’t say it,” he mumbled, turning away.

Clint scoffed, “Look, I get that you were-” a puppet, just like me, “... Not completely sane, but can you get this-” magic sh*t out of my head?

“Are you asking if I can remove the-” Loki asked, still picking at his palm.

Clint nodded, “Yes, just please, get out of my-” head.

Do you know what it’s like? To be unmade?

Freedom is life’s great lie.

“I cannot.”

Of course it wouldn’t be that simple, Clint thought, failing to refrain an eye-roll, “Well who can?”

If it was possible for Loki to pale even further, he did. He swallowed, ruby eyes glazing over, and bits of frost began to collect at his fingertips. The windows fogged.

“Him.”

“Who?”

“Him.”

Clint had never heard Loki speak or look so afraid. Not even when he was half-dying on the SHIELD bathroom floor, not even when he had been tortured and mutilated by HYDRA. Never had Loki, a god, been completely, and utterly, terrified.

“Who’s ‘him’?” He asked gently, sitting down on the cot beside him, unsure of what to do with himself.

Loki flinched, inhaling shakily and pulling his arms to wrap around his legs, “I- I… nobody.” Once upon a time, Clint might have believed that this was some clever play to lower his guard, but now, he just seemed… broken, like a scared little boy.

A thought jumped into his mind, one that made his stomach twist.

“Can I- can I ask how old you are?”

Loki scoffed, but something in his voice made him seem grateful for the change of subject, “One forgets their exact age after so ut..…many naming days, but I am an adult if that is what you are inquiring.”

Clint frowned, the answer sounded reasonable enough, yet he had been to too many bars with people, either minors with fake IDs or recently turned 21 adults who had no idea how it worked.

“But… h-how old is that in Earth years exactly?” There was something about Loki’s face that concerned him, the lack of smile lines and the impish quality that his own kids possessed that unnerved him.

Loki paused, thinking for a moment, “Probably around 17 Midgardian years, why?”

Oh sh*t.

Oh sh*t oh sh*t on sh*t.

This was so f*cking bad. New York, almost demolished by a f*cking teenager.

A f*cking teenager went through all of-

Falling. Cold. Darkness. Couldn’t breathe. Was he dead?

Found him. Saved- no, stole his reward from him. His mercy of death.

“What a sweet pet Father has brought before me.”

Hands wouldn't stay off him. His body was taken from him. Cold fingers prying and mutilating his mind.

Such a pretty little thing, to be blessed with both a vagin* and a-

Who are you?

I-

Who are you?

This is your salvation.

(He saw glimpses.)

A f*cking teenager.

“Have I done something wrong?” Loki asked, quiet, shy, reminding him more of a child than ever.

“You’re a-” Clint broke off, gasping for air, “You’re a kid. You’re- I could f*cking adopt you! Oh sh*t, oh sh*t, oh f*ck-”

“I am not a-”

“You’re just a child and you, you went through- oh sh*t!”

“I went through nothing,” Loki spat, sounding like a cornered animal, with nothing left but to lash out, “Whatever you are thinking I can assure you that is not the case. I have not ‘gone through’ a single thing. This is who I am, Agent Barton. A madman, my mind full of cats. You forget, I am a wolf, and a wolf is a wolf even in a cage. Even in silks. Even after the runty thing has been unmade and turned into nothing. After it’s mind has been toyed with like a dog. This is who I am, a wolf who was forced into a weapon and told to find peace.”

The water beside his bed turned to ice, the glass shattered. His chest heaved up and down, frigid tears spilling from his crimson eyes. Fists curling and unfurling, gripping the linen like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“You’re okay,” Clint said quietly, “You’re on Midgard, right? You’re not… there, anymore.”

Loki just shook his head, suddenly jerking his hands out, grabbing onto Clint’s shirt and collapsing into his abdomen, “No… not free. Never free. Can’t… escape. Always there. Can’t leave. He’s in me, still, broken. Help help help, I-I-Ican’tbreathe!”

Clint held him, stroking his fingers through matted hair, whispering the same pointless affirmations. He was fairly certain Loki wasn’t even mentally here anymore. Back on wherever that hell was.

“Pathetic,” Loki murmured into the archer’s shirt, obviously not meaning to have said that out loud, or any of his panic-riddled thoughts for the matter.

“No, not pathetic,” Clint whispered, “Strong. You’re- you’re stronger than I’ll ever be. Then anyone will probably ever be.”

Loki hummed in response, whether he believed or even understood Clint was another question. Still, Clint didn’t find himself minding, not for himself anyway. But his heart ached, for the broken little boy who he held in his arms. Who had faced demons no one should ever even dream of.

But those dreams were real. And Loki was the aftermath.

“I shouldn’t have- I shouldn't have been-” Loki cut off, able to.

The hawk shrugged, “Maybe it doesn’t work on metaphors then…” he trailed off, “Can I tell you something? A story? Or maybe a metaphor maybe?”

Loki laughed, or attempted to, “I suppose so, I am the god of them after all.”

He felt his lips tug upwards, “Okay, so… sorry if I’m bad at this. I don't have much experience in creating my own.”

Loki shrugged, “It’s fine, I am just curious as to what you are going to speak of.”

“Well, I guess, once upon a time, there was a bird. And the bird, the bird was happy. Happy with its nest and little bird friends. But then one day, the bird was kidnapped,” Loki flinched, “Kidnapped by a… cow, reindeer? I don’t know, a reindeer.”

“And the reindeer made the bird do terrible things, things that made the bird feel so f*cking guilty about,” Loki flinched again, “But, there were a couple of strange things the bird noticed about the reindeer, both physically and mentally.” Loki stiffened.

“For one, the reindeer seemed sick, very sick. So much so that the bird had to hold the reindeer’s… fur? Fur back as it threw up, laid cold compresses on the reindeer. And one time, the reindeer asked the bird to stop, stop all of it. To-” Clint’s voice cracked.

Kill me, please.

A f*cking kid.

“Anyway, the bird managed to escape from the reindeer. And the bird, the bird was so angry. Angry at the reindeer for forcing the bird to do so many things. But more… more angry at the world, because some tiny part of the bird, even if I- if the bird didn’t want to admit it. The bird knew that the reindeer wasn’t at fault, not completely anyway.”

Freedom is life’s great lie.

What did it show you, Agent Barton?

“But then, afterward, after the reindeer was punished for kidnapping the bird. The bird, the bird began having… visions, glimpses.” Then Loki really stiffened, a short gasp exploding out of his mouth.

“Of- of why the reindeer had been… forced to kidnap the bird. Why the reindeer had done it at all.” Loki sunk further into Clint, his body beginning to shake with the force of sobs. But Clint had to continue, he could finally, finally get this off his chest.

“But, but by the time that the bird, got my- his sh*t together, the reindeer was gone. And the bird knew that the reindeer had to face punishment for something he didn’t mean to do. And that… that’s what broke the bird the mosth. That the bird, the stupid, f*cking, idiot, bird, he had condemned a soul to a punishment they didn’t deserve.”

There was something set on his cheeks. But he had to finish this, this stupid story. The most important part.

“I just- the bird wants the reindeer to know that if he could do anything differently he would. If the bird ever saw the reindeer again, he would apologize. Apologize for being so weak and not saying f*cking anything.”

“And the bird- I, I want to say I am so sorry. Not that it means anything, but I- I f*cked up, and I’m desperate to do everything in my power to fix it.”

Loki didn’t respond, he didn’t need to. The tiny nod Clint felt rubbing against his sternum said enough.

Chapter 28: We might not make it to the morning, so go on and tell me now.

Chapter Text

Tony was in deep sh*t.

Holy-

What had he done?

What had all of them done?

To Loki? A literal teenager? What had he endured? What-

Tony had f*cked up, big time.

It had started as a normal day, or as normal as his life could be. He had been tinkering in his workshop with whatever project that seemed so insignificant now.

And then Jarvis had called to him.

“Sir? It appears Mr. Odinson is in distress in his room.” That in itself was nothing new, Loki had his own slew of traumas, frequently sending him into panic attacks and breakdowns. Jarvis typically just announced it so that someone could go up to calm him down. Usually either, Banner, himself, or Thor. But for reasons unknown, Loki had refused to engage with his brother at all for the last five days.

Tony had nodded, wiping his grease-stained hands on his jeans, “Is there anyone up there, Jarv?”

“Indeed, Agent Barton is in the room with him,” the AI sounded uneasy, if that was even possible.

Tony whipped his head up towards the speaker, “What? You’re sh*tting me, right?” Loki was unstable enough as it was, and having a person that he traumatized in the same room was a recipe for disaster.

“I am not, sir,” Jarvis replied, “And it appears as though Agent Barton has contributed to causing the panic attack.”

“Okay, that’s it!” Tony groaned, throwing his hands up in the air and going to march out of the lab. A recipe for disaster indeed.

But then as soon as he reached the door, Jarvis spoke through the room again, this time sounding alarmed and frightened, “Sir, I strongly advise you to watch the live feed of Mr. Odinson’s room before jumping to any conclusions.”

Tony rolled his eyes, “I can put it together myself,” Clint was angry that Loki was here after practically mind-raping the guy and decided to enact his revenge.

“Sir-” the glass door that usually opened automatically for Tony stayed shut, “Please watch the current feed. Immediately.” Jarvis was almost pleading with him, and it weirded the billionaire out, Jarvis usually advised him against stupid ideas, but he never outright begged Stark to stop.

It weirded him out enough to turn on the live feed from Medroom.

And-

What Tony saw… what he heard…

Tony was in deep sh*t.

Holy-

What had he done?

What had all of them done?

To Loki? A literal teenager? What had he endured? What-

Tony had f*cked up, big time.

What had-

What?

He didn’t…

Understand.

Couldn’t.

Think.

The reindeer asked the bird to stop, stop all of it.

Stop all of it-

Did that mean?

Loki was a kid.

It couldn’t.

What?

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t breathe couldn't think couldn't notice that Loki had been forced into doing it all couldn’t shoulder his pride to see that Loki was suffering. Couldn’t- what had he done? WHAT HAD HE DONE?

Loki’s eyes the same color as the glow of his scepter.

What?

What did-

Couldn’t breathe can’t think what help please.

What color were his eyes after the Hulk smashed him?

What had Loki?

Afghanistan. Guns. Water. Drowning.

Had he-

Can’t breathe can’t think.

Couldn’t breathe, there was a knot in his lungs, chest heaving. Why couldn’t he breathe? Drowning in water, air, can’t breathe.

How could he have been so blind?

“Breathe in, sir.”

Why hadn’t Loki told them afterward?

“And out, sir.”

They would have helped him.

“And in.”

Right?

“Out.”

Did Thor know?

“Breathe in.”

Did whoever held his trial know?

“And out.”

What had he done?

“Breathe, sir.”

“Call- call Natasha,” Tony stuttered once he had gotten his breathing under control. That made the most sense, Clint was closest with Natasha, if anyone knew anything, it would be her. And he wasn’t exactly certain how Big Brother Thor would take the news.

“Right away, Sir,” Jarvis said, and it was a few minutes before she arrived. That’s good, it allows Tony a little bit to collect himself, to make it seem like ‘no, he did not just have a panic attack a second ago’.

What did he do? What has he done?

The door slides open, “Tony? Why are you demanding me up- what the f*ck?” Natasha stands behind the inventor who has his hands gripped to the work table, knuckles white.

“Natasha-” Tony’s voice cracks, “Nat, we f*cked up. I f*cked up. We all f*cked up. Like big time. Like big, big time. Huge, ginormous. sh*t, what was I saying? We f*cked up. Nat- we, we, Loki-”

“Tony,” Natasha says with surprising gentlness, pressing her hand on his forearm, “Calm down, breathe. What are you talking about.”

He’s shaking, a sob leaves him, “We f*cked up.”

Natasha snorts, “We tend to do that a lot, what’s the thing we’ve f*cked up now?”

Tony shakes his head, “Loki-” he stutters before his voice gives out again, “Just… Jarvis play her the goddamn video.”

It doesn’t get any easier the second time around.

It gets worse.

Because this time, Tony noticed all the little details that he didn’t really want to know. Like how Clint will mess up and refer to himself instead of the ‘bird’. Or the pure, animalistic, terror that Loki radiates when he panics. Something that Tony was all too familiar with.

Or that even though he tries to look away from the screen, his eyes are always drawn back to it. And on the screen, Loki looks even more like a kid than ever. Regardless of the strange lines on his blue face. His cheekbones, although sharp, still clearly bear the mark of a child. Not a single wrinkle on his face, and he’s lanky. Like a boy who’s yet to grow into his own body.

Natasha asks Jarvis to pause the video once it’s just the two angst guys sitting in silence.

She sits in silence for a while too.

“What’s the plan?” She asks finally without a trace of emotion.

Tony laughs dryly, “The plan? Why do you think I called you up here? I figured that if Katniss was gonna tell anyone it’d be you! I-I have no plan, shouldn’t you and all your Russian spyness have one already?”

Nat wisely decides to ignore all of that and instead poses another question, “Does Thor know any of it?”

“I don’t know how well Thunderpants is gonna react to hearing that his Lil’ bro who he decided to imprison and torture was somewhat innocent after all,” Tony snorts.

Nat’s quiet again, “We need to tell the rest of the team,” she says.

Tony sighs, “Really?”

“Really.”

I never wanted the throne.

Thor couldn’t think. How could he not have noticed? How could he have been so stupid? Why didn’t Loki at least try to tell him? Why didn’t Thor notice? His brother had been forced. Forced. He had been so quick to cast Loki as the villain.

It’s too late to stop it.

His eyes had taken more of a green hue, right before turning sapphire again and stabbing him.

“Sentiment.” He had hissed, yet it sounded otherworldly, like he hadn’t spoken it.

Why hadn’t Thor noticed?

Did Loki think Thor wouldn’t believe him?

If Barton hadn’t confirmed it, would Thor have?

He didn’t know.

He balled his hands into fists, ignoring the rest of the team who was sitting at a dining table while he paced back and forth. The sky responded to his anger.

Who was he angry at?

Such a temper, Brother.

Why didn’t Loki tell him? At least try.

He was angry at Loki for not even attempting, but he knew that wasn’t fair.

Loki’s been through norns-knows-what and you’re over here complaining that your feelings got hurt.

He still couldn’t help it.

“I need to speak with my brother,” He announced to no one in particular, already setting off towards the elevator. Unfortunately, he was met with unexpected backlash.

Clint barked a hollow laugh, “Absolutely not, I’m pretty sure the last thing he needs is an interrogation by the Golden Prince of Ass-gard.”

Thor scowled, “Do not insult my homeland, and it shall not be an interrogation, I just need to verify that he is alright.”

But he did have questions. But it wasn’t an interrogation.

“Thor, no matter what, that’s still not the best idea. I mean, Loki still has no idea that any of us know this. And we didn’t exactly find all this out the nicest of ways,” Banner said.

Thor huffed, fingers hovering above the door handle, “But I need-”

“What do you need, Thor?” Clin interrupts, “What do you need? How about what Loki needs? Cause Loki needs more help than you do, that’s for certain. So if you’re gonna be a big man baby about it then you better high-tail your ass to your room.”

Thunder rumbled outside quietly, “Have care how to speak,” Thor said through gritted teeth, “You would do best to not meddle in the affairs of gods.”

He knew Barton was right. He knew that. But he had never been one to simply brush off an insult.

Run home, little princess.

Know your place, brother.

Clint stood up from the table, his fists slamming on the wood, “No, I don’t think so. Considering that it’s somewhat your fault that Loki tried to f*cking kill himself anyway. I think that I can be the spokesperson for him. And based on the fact that he doesn't even want to hear your name right now, that is the worst possible plan ever.”

Each word felt like a blow to the gut. Thor had spent days, months, agonizing over the conditions that led to the Bifrost incident. Why Loki had chosen to fall -let go- instead of being a brother to him and owning up to his actions.

It wasn't until a week later that he understood why.

When Odin and Frigga had sat him down, and explained what he was.

I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all.

And everything clicked.

Don’t worry, brother. I’ll protect you from those foul beasts.

(But how could I protect you from yourself? Was it truly your instincts that led to self-destruction?)

No- Loki wasn’t like the Frost Giants.

But had it been Thor’s fault?

He had gone over the scenario so many times, so many what-ifs that he didn't know anymore.

“I- you’re right,” Thor said finally, “I apologize that you feel angered, it was not my intent.” He turned back towards Barton, “But I- I think I will retire for the night if that is all right?”

Natasha nodded, face as cold as ever, “Of course, you don’t need to ask.”

Without another thought, he fled the room of prying eyes, who stared into every one of his faults.

(But they were his faults, weren’t they?)

“I’d rather be a monster than an arrogant god,” Loki had once said, teasing.

He wondered now if he still felt the same way. The monster that was built into his blood.

Shame still nipped at his heels as he escaped down the hallway.

“Who controls the would-be king?” Thor had asked.

But he had never waited for an answer.

Chapter 29: I only sink deeper the deeper I think.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry,” Loki said quietly, his head resting on Thor’s chest in the cot. Weak, he knew that, but after five days of the agreement, Thor had not come to see him anymore. Those first few days had been spent with Thor pleading outside his door, but then he just… stopped.

Loki practically felt Thor furrow his brows, “For what, brother?” There was an odd note in his tone, the stiffness increased tenfold.

Thor was a terrible liar.

Loki had meant to apologize for spewing on about Frost Giants and being a general problem, but Thor was hiding something, something important.

He sat up, demanding to look Thor in the eyes, “What are you hiding from me?”

Thor paled, swallowed, refusing to meet Loki’s gaze. “I do not know what you speak of, brother.” Loki’s stomach tightened, the way it always did when someone tried to fool the god of lies. But it was different, typically, the larger the lie, the larger he felt it. And this was bad, he grimaced, refraining from curling over in pain, knives shooting through his stomach.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled through gritted teeth, “What are you trying to hide?”

Ha. Loki laughed in his mind, it was the first time they had seen each other since Loki had screwed up last time and here he was, tiling him up again. But he had to know, he needed to know.

“Thor,” he had meant to say it biting, the words cutting deep like knives. But his voice cracked and water had filled in his eyes.

His bro- The Prince of Asgard was silent for a few minutes, obviously struggling on whether or not to share this ginormous news.

“I know,” he whispered.

Loki’s heart plummeted.

But Thor couldn't be talking about… could he?

With this geas, nonce more shall you speak his name, Little Princeling.

“I would assume so, I mean, I did indeed say I had to tell everything,” Loki chuckled dryly, trying to ignore the knot that had suddenly appeared in his throat.

Thor shook his head, tears hiding behind golden locks, “Loki…” he trailed off, a sob forcing it’s way through, “Why- why didn’t you tell me, brother?”

Loki squeezed his eyes shut, this was not happening. This was not happening. He refused.

“I-I, we would’ve helped you, brother,” Thor said.

Liar. Nobody would. Who would listen to him, Loki Silvertongue, Prince of Liars?

(Odin seals the black rope closed.)

You would never have believed me.

“Loki…” Thor cut in again, “Say something, please.”

He squeezed his eyes shut even more, something dry and wet between a sob wrenching out of his mouth.

“Who told you?” He gasped finally, there was a weight on his chest and oxygen was rare.

Please don't let it be father. Please don’t let it be father. Please don't tell me he knew and chose this instead. Please, please, please-

“Heimdall,” Thor said at last, attempting to touch Loki’s shoulder but he jerked away.

No no no, not Heimdall, please. This was worse, this was so much worse.

“Heimdall?”

Heimdall had known. Heindall had known.

“Heimdall, if you can see me…”

Heimdall had known and he had still-

“I-I don’t know where I am. I know that I am onboard the one who calls Himself the Mad Titan’s ship. He and his mindless drones called the Chitauri.”

Why hadn’t Heimdall said anything?

“Just… just let my family find me. Let them know I’m alive.”

Told Frigga, even Odin? Come save him?

“Tell them I’m sorry.”

Did Heimdall not think him worthy of saving?

“For everything.”

“No,” he wheezed, “No no no no no. Not Heimdall. Not Heimdall. Not Heimdall. Please, Norns tell me it wasn’t Heimdall. Thor, please,” he begged, gripping onto the collar of Thor’s shirt.

Thor frowned- Thor, who Heimdall could’ve told. Thor, who could’ve come to save him- gave him an odd look, “I- brother?”

Loki could feel snot running from his eyes, icy tears on his cheeks, “No no no, Thor. Heimdall. Heimdall. Not Heimdall, please.”

But Thor gave a grim shake of his head.

“HEIMDALL!” Loki screamed, turning his head to the sky, before hiding his face behind his hands, “I-I would’ve been good, I-I promise. You- you could have told someone, please. I-I know I don’t deserve it but, I-I would’ve been good, I can be good. Please, Heimdall, I’m sorry…”

Something warm enveloped him in a hug, which he sunk into, his brother, he realized. “Thor,” he said at last, “Thor, I called out to him. Heimdall, I-I pleased with him, he-he didn't, he never,” he broke off, breaking into sobs again.

“Thor, I could’ve been good. I-I can be, will be good. I promise, I- why didn’t Heimdall? J-just because I’m a monster doesn’t mean I deserve to-” he cut himself off because that was the truth, wasn’t it? A monster did deserve to be with other monsters, weren’t the beings on the Sanctuary his people in a roundabout sort of way? Wasn’t Thanos just the king of monsters? So by that logic didn’t Loki belong with him, maybe that’s what Heimdall thought, maybe that’s why Heimdall never thought to tell anyone. The monster amongst its kind.

“Oh, Loki,” Thor whispered, his arms squeezing tighter around his ribs, “You are already good.”

He shook his head, tears soaking his brother’s hands, “But- But I’ve, I’ve killed so many people. So many f*cking people. What kind of sick monster does that?” Before Thor could respond, Loki plowed on.

“So many people, Laufey, an entire population of a dying planet. Thor, I killed 546 people in New York, who cares if maybe I wasn’t the one, but those were my hands, my hands, Thor. My hands are dripping with blood, waterfalls, buckets worth. But I deserve it? I mean, they all had lives. Thor, they all had lives.”

Kaitlin who was five and loved unicorns and books.

Katie Maslow who was pregnant and a smile booming with life.

Adam Rumlow.

“I killed his kid,” he whispered, panting, “I killed his kid. Norns, no wonder he wanted to hurt me I killed his kid and I couldn't even remember his f*cking name.” Thor just held him, softly stroking his hair until Loki pushed him away.

“Thor, I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve any of this. I-I’m a monster, please, Thor, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Finish the job, Thor.

“I don't deserve to live,” he muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. That was when Thor shot his head up, eyes filled with hurt and anger, making Loki shrink back.

“No,” Thor growled, thunder in his voice, “Loki, no. Do not go there, do not- do not do this to me again. Okay? Loki, do not. Please,” his brother begged, a firm grip on his shoulders. “I can’t do that, not again.”

Loki averted his gaze, looking at his tortured hands, “I think I’d like to be alone now.” He said, voice cold and moments of vulnerability over. Staring out at the gloomy clouds.

Thor shook his head, “No! Absolutely not! For what? I leave you here and then you try to… again!”

Loki kept his face neutral, ignoring the pit in his stomach, “I’m smart enough to know that it wouldn’t work.”

Thor gaped at him, struggling to speak, “So you- so you do want to.”

“What did I just say, Thor?” Loki snapped, “I just said that I wasn’t going to.”

Thor closed his eyes, rubbing his temples, “Loki, just tell me…” he unclenched his jaw, “Do you want to kill- kill yourself.”

It was silent for a long long time.

“I don’t know,” Loki said finally, aware of how small his voice was, tired.

“C-can you go now?” Loki pleaded, he needed to be alone. Needed Thor out of here.

Thor opened his mouth to argue, but the roar of the Bifrost drowned out his words.

Chapter 30: It’s okay just to say ‘I’m not okay’.

Chapter Text

Run.

That was Loki’s one singular thought.

Run.

The moment he had sensed the overflow of seidr erupting from the Bifrost, he had scrambled back, collapsing into a heap on the floor and practically dragging himself out of the room. The IV tore from his wrist and a steady stream of blood continuously streaming out.

He was dimly aware of his brother calling out his name behind him but he didn’t respond, couldn’t respond.

He’s back. He’s coming back for me. Please, Odin’s coming back and he’s going to drag me into the room with black thread and needles and pain. Please, no no no no.

Somebody was whimpering, like a cornered dog.

He couldn’t do it again.

He couldn’t breathe.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t speak, I promise. I promise, please, just don’t do it again. I’m sorry, Father, please.

Someone was begging, he couldn’t tell who.

All I’ll ever be is a liar, I know, I know. Please, I promise not to talk ever again, just don’t please, please, Odin, I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you want, please.

(Liar, all you do is lie.)

Do not speak. Do not speak. Do not speak.

It was ironic he ever thought that he could be free.

He felt the rough texture of the rope against his lips.

Stop it, stop it, Odin, please. I’ll be good. I promise I won’t speak. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.

There was blood on his hands, dripping from his tongue.

Someone tried to pry his arms, his defenses away from his mouth. Trying to dig his non-existent fingernails into their skin, prying his hands back towards chapped lips.

No no no no no. You cannot take my voice.

And then he could feel magic.

Sweet, like berries, a hint of humble power. Magic that taught him his own. Magic that helped him through his episodes after his body was taken from him.

A warm hand caressed his cheek, and he leaned into the touch.

He opened his eyes slowly, golden hair pulled into an intricate braid. Calming blue-gray eyes looked back at him.

A tangled sob came forth as he buried his head into the crook of her neck.

Mother.

He wanted to call out to her, scream and cry, and beg for an ounce of comfort. But his words were what got him into this mess after all, right? So he kept quiet.

“Oh, my son,” she murmured, running her fingers through his hair, “It’s okay, it’s alright, I am here, you are safe, my son.”

That wasn’t true, how could he ever be safe again? After The Sanctuary and Odin and Pierce and Rumlow and Lauf-

Oh no.

Panicked, Loki shot his eyes down at his skin, his hideous, blue skin. No no no, Frigga couldn’t see him like this, he refused.

Do you think she will truly accept you as you are, Princling? Who could love such a monster?

(Nobody.)

But the Allmother did not shy away from his monstrous touch, the cold that burnt when he ran on adrenaline.

You are our son, Loki.

And we, your family.

He was not sure how to react. Only blinking, back pressed up against the wall, examining his once-mother. Like a caged animal.

Two memories of betrayal and heartbreak trying to forget that that is all they were built on.

“My Little Mischief,” she whispered softly, and Loki winced at the old nickname, “What have they done to you?” She reached out and touched the tender spot where a jötunn horn once was. Loki had to bite his tongue to keep from whimpering in pain.

A thought burst fresh into his mind, a thought that made his stomach lurch. Frigga wasn’t wearing extravagant gowns like Asgard, but her outfit, while still luxurious, was simple. Emerald, with silver accents lining the bottom and sleeves, could almost pass as a nightgown.

He peered around, searching for dark skin and golden eyes. An eye patch and a booming voice. His fingers trembled. What if this was all a setup, what if Frigga had only come to be a distraction so Odin could drag him back? What if Frigga already had thread hidden in her dress?

“He’s not here,” Frigga said, and instantly a rush of relief washed over Loki. He could detect no lies in her voice, which wasn’t a surprise, Frigga knew not to lie to the God of Lies. But that still left one question unanswered.

“I- you don’t, um,” Loki squeezed his eyes shut, his breath catching in his throat, “You don’t have thread with you, right? You-you’re not going to-”

Hands were wrapping him into a thick hug, which he didn’t pull away from.

“No, my sweet. Never, and trust me,” Frigga started, a quiet rage bubbling, “As soon as I found out what he- what he did to you, I came right here. And when I return to Asgard, your father and I are exchanging words.”

“He’s not my father,” Loki muttered weakly. Even before everything, he barely considered Odin a parent. And after- after there was no way he could associate himself with that monster.

Frigga nodded, “That’s okay, that’s okay. He doesn't deserve that privilege.”

“Or burden,” Loki said under his breath before he could stop himself. Inwardly wincing at the look his mother gave him.

“Loki, look at me,” Frigga said, her eyes meeting his, “You are not a burden. Do you hear me? It is an honor to have you as my son.”

He laughed wetly, full of heartbreak, “Don't lie to me.”

Frigga sat up, and Loki flinched, unsure if he had pushed too much. Frigga’s eyes softened, reaching to cup his face. “Listen to my words and see I am speaking the truth. I love you Loki and you are not a burden.” When Loki’s stomach didn’t cramp with falsetities, Frigga continued, “Besides, if I did think you a burden, I wouldn’t be here now would I?”

Loki nodded, still not fully believing her words. But they calmed him, and he sunk into her embrace once more.

Here they were, mother and child. But there was so much in between them. Frigga had been Loki’s beacon, home, for so long, and here she was. Yet he was still so lost. When he saw his mother, Loki had foolishly, naively, hoped that it would make everything alright again. That she could wrap in him in her arms and make all the hurt go away.

But that didn’t happen. Because this was the real world. And the real world was a cruel, cruel, place.

After a while Frigga spoke again. Still stroking her fingers through his hair. There was a sadness in her voice as if she regretted the words she was about to say.

“Loki… why,” she paused and took a breath, “Why didn’t you say anything? I- Thor told me what- I could’ve helped you, my son.”

He dissolved. Gut-wrenching sobs and hiccups. Tears ran down his face like waterfalls and he clung to Frigga even harder.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he rambled in between cries, “I- I tried so hard, I promise. I tried and I lasted a long time before I was-” broken “I lasted long but He was stronger, Mama. You don’t get it, he-he has even more. The Avengers destroyed one fleet but he has-” millions “I-I tried to tell you, I promise, really, I swear it. But they- he, they put a-” geas “in my head and I couldn’t. Mama, I tried and I tried but there was dark magic and none of my seidr could make it go away. Mama, please, I’m useless without my words. Let me speak, Mama, please, please, I’ll do anything.”

He fell into a fit of tears again, babbling incessantly about something, he wasn’t sure.

(Who was he without his words?)

“Loki,” Frigga said, “Did they- did they put a geas on you?” Her expression darkened when her son nodded feverishly, “And you want me to remove it?” Another frantic nod.

She hesitated, “My son, you are aware that I must reach inside your head, your memories, to remove it?” Loki ignored the dread that pooled in his stomach, he knew that. He had gone over every single possible scenario and outcome as to remove the damned geas. He knew that in order to remove the dark magic, Frigga would reach into his mind, the memories the geas covered up.

“I don’t care,” he whispered, “Mama, please.”

Frigga looked at him with sad eyes, either with pity or disappointment, Loki couldn’t tell which, nor was he sure he wanted to decipher the look.

“Alright, my son,” she murmured, “I shall try my best.” With that, she tipped her fingers to his forehead, and he felt his entire body go cold.

-Drifting in the darkness- Cold wrapped around him- He smiled-

“I am Ebony Maw, a child of Thanos. My father has resurrected you from the dead.”

-You have been saved by The Mad Titan-

“Who are you, little Jotun?”

(They shove the rotting corpses down his throat.)

-Burning flames-

-Madness fills his soul-

(Do not fear, I have found you, my child. I am your savior.)

-Love made The Other hungry. Lust made The Other blind.-

(The Other made him his Death.)

There is blue in his mind and a sickly power in his hands.

The mind stone screaming against his head.

Thoughts turned to mush, a puppet and Thanos has the strings.

“Bring me back both the Tesseract and the sceptre. Do not fail me, my child.”

He has died a thousand times over and is left with nothing but the husk of a broken prince.

“Heimdall…”

(Who would believe the God of Lies?)

“With this geas, nonce more shall you speak his name, Little Princeling.”

(Who was he without his words?)

Loki tore away, a sob and scream on his lips. Curling into a fetal position. Away away away from the magic user, away from the dark and sickness in his mind and made him relive it.

He glanced up. The magic-user -his mother- was silent, eyes wide with horror, and tears running down her cheek.

They sat, staring at each other, neither daring to make the first move. Yet Loki broke eye contact first. Realistically, she probably thought him weak. Not being strong enough to stand up against Ebony Maw and Thanos and the Chitauri.

He paused, hesitating. He wondered if the removal had worked, if he could utter such terrible names. He knew before he even opened his mouth, that is had. He felt lighter, like his tongue was not covered in lead, not bogged down by dark magic and words left unsaid.

“Loki…” Frigga said, her voice choked, “Did you- please tell me you did not fall into the hands of The Mad Titan.”

He turned away, and an ugly, heartwrenching sob that only a mother was capable of, tore through the air.

“I tried for so long,” he mumbled, “I tried holding out for so long, Mama. But Th-” his voice broke off, even without the geas he found himself unable to say the name, “He was stronger. I… I am sorry I could not fend him off.”

“Loki,” Frigga said, strong and firm, Loki flinched, “Do not think for a second that you are weak for not lasting. It is astonishing that you held out for as long as you did, but he had an infinity stone, and you were injured,” Loki opened his mouth to protest but Frigga plowed onwards, “Odin’s father, Bor, fought Thanos a long time ago. It was horrendous, far greater casualties then any war Asgard has ever seen. Even Bor barely fought him off, and it was only when he called on the other nine realms was Thanos truly banished from the nine.”

Loki frowned, “So then, so then how did he- he find me?”

Frigga sighed, “Bor banished him to the Void. Where he believed no sane person would venture.”

Loki flinched. But to be fair, he had been so stricken by grief and betrayal that he was fairly certain he wasn’t sane during the incident.

“It took nearly a billion warriors to fend off Thanos, before he had access to an infinity stone. For one person to last a full year, that is remarkable.” Frigga said, crawling towards him and tucking loose strands of hair behind his ear.

“I do not see you weak, my son. I see you as stronger than I ever could be.” She whispered, and Loki could detect no lie in her words.

They sat there, Frigga toying with Loki’s hair as he rested his head on her lap. A broken bridge finally starting to mend. It was quite nice, Loki decided. But one question that had been gnawing at him since Frigga arrived was still left unanswered.

“You won’t make me return to Asgard, will you?”

Frigga replied with no hesitation, “Asgard is not worthy of you, my son.” She went back to braiding his hair. “It does however raise the question of where you shall stay,” she said after a moment.

Loki grinned, a coy smirk that had not appeared on his face for a very long time.

“I know of a certain hawk that will surely not mind taking in one more child.”