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The Loki Redemption Files, My faves - Marvel
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Published:
2018-08-04
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2022-09-25
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104,695
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26/26
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Beautiful Figments

Summary:

“Hold on,” Stark says, attempting flippancy but falling well short of the mark. “I’m confused.”

“I think that makes two of you,” Rhodes says under his breath, but his visible concern remains.

Vision is not confused. If anything, he thinks the situation is suddenly, painfully, clear. “You do not remember yourself, do you?” he asks gently, and Loki finally meets his eyes. The hollow fear Vision sees there is obvious, and he wonders why he did not notice it before.

Chapter Text

He cannot clearly remember how he got here. He remembers even less from before.

When his thoughts are allowed to surface and reform, he finds this fact alarming, but the heavy tangle of confusion and lethargy that weighs down his mind for much of his waking existence rarely permits such urgent feelings.

Anger too is dampened. But not fear. This they let him keep, albeit in small enough doses that he can build up no real momentum. It's an ever-present anxiety, one that prevents complete rest and aids his captors' purpose. Whatever that may be. He thinks they mean to keep him pliant, and without the peace needed in which to gather his thoughts he is left defenceless when they come for him.

His only real moments of clarity come in the transition between states. When they come to test him, or interrogate him, or otherwise torment him. He both dreads and anticipates these times in the vague, fuzzy way he can still fear or hope for anything. He experiences precious moments of near lucidity when they do, and the scant opportunity he has to properly think is something he never wastes.

He's not sure why it's so important to do so, but he needs something to hold on to, and although he knows almost nothing about himself or who he was, he is almost unaccountably determined to maintain a sense of self, paltry though it is.


The room they take him to is always the same.

Although he remains uncoordinated and laughably weak, they insist on walking him there shackled and under guard. He's had time enough to wonder (even without any clear sense of how long he's been here) if they are afraid of him. Of what it is exactly they fear. Perhaps if he knew, he could use this knowledge to his advantage. As it is, the speed at which they frog-march him along their empty and characterless corridors is usually enough to exhaust and bewilder him.

He concentrates as much as he can on picking up his clumsy and uncooperative feet, but the vice-like grip on each of his upper arms keeps him upright and moving. His escorts never speak, and anyway he'd find it difficult to respond. It's all he can do sometimes to understand a barked order, let alone command his sluggish thoughts and tongue to protest in a timely manner.

He is deposited into a chair when they reach their destination and strapped in securely, wrists, ankles and neck. He has just enough command of his thoughts to understand that this means another test today. They will need to release him from some of this stupor if they are to deliver it.

He attempts to roll his head to one side and peer through the hair that's fallen across his face. He's been away from the cell they keep him prisoner in for long enough that he can feel some strength returning already, but he knows he won't be left to recover for long.

The man who takes a seat opposite is one he doesn't recognise, but he's not too far gone to acknowledge that his faculties aren't always at their best when he needs them. He's fairly certain he has a number of different tormentors, distinguishable from his other keepers and caretakers by the long white coats they come attired in. There are women sometimes, too, although they're no more disposed towards kindness than their male counterparts.

Today's examiner places a tray on the table between them and snaps on a pair of tightly-fitting gloves. There is no introduction of any kind. No words or acknowledgement at all, in fact. This is normal. This is as expected. He's known nothing else, and he's not sure why there should be a suggestion of any other kind of treatment.

He watches as a needle is lifted from the tray to the light, its cylindrical body tapped with a finger, its contents emptied into the port taped to the back of his left hand. He doesn't have to wait for long. Almost immediately the familiar icy rush shoots along his veins, the ache of it travelling up his arm and into his blood. It's an uncomfortable mix of sensations that he's ill-prepared for every time, a combination of the tingling numbness of inebriation and the hyper-alert apprehension of nausea.

Where before he was blunted and heavy, he begins to regain awareness. The buckles bite into his skin where they are strapped too tightly, the deep tenderness of old bruises reasserting themselves beneath. The room is cold, the thin layer of clothing he has been allowed barely sufficient to muffle the sharp difference in temperature he can now detect. His mouth is dry and foul, his stomach painfully empty.

They never feed or water him, he remembers all at once. He raises his head. Yes, he remembers now. This was his discovery the last time. The tube, the metal hook. The bag of dripping liquid. He'd focused his mind on that single mystery and laid another fear to rest. Some sort of food replacement, he'd deduced. He would not be allowed to starve.

This time he uses his opportunity to puzzle over another nagging enigma. He tests his jaw gingerly, covering the action by working up some moisture with which to speak. (They always expect him to speak. They often demand it.) There is some pain, but nowhere near as much as there was when he was here last.

He has had time to heal. He files that information away, doing his best to commit it to memory in the simplest terms he can. He will need it later, when it gets too much. When he'll need the assurance that whatever they do to him, the damage won't be lasting.

It isn't much, but it's all he has time for. He's grateful for it. Now is the time to start fighting.

He has flushed hot, and already a fine sheen of sweat is coating his face. He blinks rapidly against the stinging in his eyes and tries to control his breathing, already too fast and erratic and almost painful to drag in.

The man across from him is holding fingers to the inside of his wrist, pressing down with some force and consulting a small, ticking device. When the hand is removed, it produces a small but blindingly bright light that's shone directly into each of his eyes in turn. The palm against his forehead and the thumb anchoring his eyelid prevents him from jerking away and he endures it as best he can.

Another white coat is readying his equipment, placing sensors and attaching wires and turning dials. Notes are scribbled on parchment, data tapped into devices, screens and recordings readied.

A hot drop of sweat rolls down from his hairline and patters onto his chest. An itchy, crawling feeling floods over his skin like the march of a thousand skittering insects and he wants to get away. He wants to make it stop. He forces shaky words out between panting breaths.

"Who are you?"

This they never answer. It's a question they've heard (and ignored) many times before. He always means to follow it up with another, with 'what do you want?', but he never seems to quite get that far. Those scant few words have stolen his breath for the time being, and the pain is starting. His knees begin jiggling with nervous energy and he twists as much as he can in his chair. It won't be long now.

The white coats exchange a few words. They are ready to begin. One rolls a large screen a little closer and activates it, returning to his equipment as moving pictures begin to appear.

The footage is grainy and the colours washed out. There is no sound. (His pulse is thunderous in his ears which is sound enough.) The picture jerks and shakes, then settles and focuses. The effect is nauseating, and he screws his eyes shut against it. A hand fists itself painfully in his hair – one of his ever-present handlers, he supposes – and rattles his head until he opens them again.

The picture has levelled out somewhat, and he can make out the figure of a man. He is tall, striding slowly from a grand building. The angle suggests the picture has been captured off to one side, whoever it is recording striving to remain out of sight. The man on the screen is dressed in dark colours and emerges with purpose. With no apparent gesture or mechanism, the man's appearance begins to change as he walks, his formal attire morphing into elaborate armour with a shimmer of greenish gold. The glowing staff he carries elongates and sharpens, and a golden helm of wicked points materialises to crown him.

He is terrifying.

The picture cuts out and begins again from where it started, the figure once again distant and blurry as the camera moves and settles.

The white coats watch him with interest as he squirms in his seat, his breath now coming in snatches. The jittery feeling has hold of him fully now and his body vibrates against his restraints. Every instinct he possesses is urging him to run, to fight, to act. He needs to move with a desperation that tightens his chest. Everything behind his ribcage is being squeezed and the tension in his muscles burns.

Coloured lights are blinking benignly on the equipment he's connected to and he tries to focus on that, tries to slow his breathing to match the steady pace they're setting. He knows what comes next, and he can't bear it.

Change, they command him. The order lances through his head like a dart of purest agony and he bares his teeth at them to contain a sound of pain. Ample time for that later. He must save up what release he can.

After several prolonged seconds the pain recedes and he loosens his clenched fists. This is manageable. For the moment. He knows it won't be for long.

The white coats talk into their machines, cataloguing his reactions. They refer to him as 'subject', but they never address him as such. He understands distantly that this is a label only. He never learns his true name.

The footage is looping again and he wrenches his face away. Change, they demand again, and again he grits his teeth against the pain. This time when he can breathe again he rocks himself forcefully against his bonds and growls out his frustration. This behaviour is met with quiet disapproval and the scratching of pens. A second needle is inserted and plunged, and fresh sweat breaks out over his top lip.

The room begins to expand and contract in sickening waves and his vision blurs with tears. He hangs his head forward and someone yanks it back up. He can't get enough air.

Change, it comes again. A wordless grunt of pain forces itself out and tongues of fire lick their way along his nerves. He can't. He can't. He doesn't understand.

An insect whine starts near his ear and he panics. He fights now with all his strength, throwing himself against his restraints with bruising force.

Change, they command again, and this time it’s accompanied by a cold kiss of metal and the snapping, electric bite of lightning. His body arches and he screams, and a feeling like static flickers in his fingers. He sags back against his chair to murmurs of interest from the white coats, and gulps in air as dials are adjusted.

No, his mind screams frantically. No, stop.

Again, the white coat instructs his tormentor, and the current pours all his sound from him. It's too much. It's too much.

I can't I can't I can't I can't—

Aftershocks curl through his limbs even as the device is removed, and his muscles jump and dance of their own accord. He gasps a single shuddering breath before even this is taken away from him, a large hand closing round his throat and squeezing until black spots fill his vision.

Change, the white coat orders, and he screws his eyes shut.

Nononononono.

An alarm shrills a warning somewhere in the distance but the grip doesn't lessen. Someone somewhere is protesting weakly, and someone else is arguing back.

He feels his grip on consciousness loosening, a black maw opening up to swallow him. A presence at his ear leans in close, the voice impatient and insistent. Change! it demands as a fist connects with his abdomen, and his mind fractures. The whole world goes white.

There's a split second of vacuum, then a pulse of power that throws his assailants back with incredible force. Screens shatter and alarms blare. Broken pieces of debris clatter around him. The larger furniture is tipped over and shoved against the walls. Sparks jump from a smoking console, and somewhere someone groans.

He starts to return to himself, his eyes wide and frantic. He's shaking with pain and fear and anger. And laughter. Manic, sobbing laughter.

He remembers now. This is how he'd earned his cracked jaw. This is why the white coat is new. He's done this before and he'd laughed and they'd hurt him. They don't like to be bested. They don't like to be mocked. He's suffocating with it but he can't stop. He laughs harder.

And look, here it comes again. His brawny tormentor hauls himself up with murder in his eyes, and when the backhand comes the blackness it brings is bliss.

Chapter Text

"You're gonna want to see this, Tony."

Tony stops just as he’s about to leave the room. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, even though he’s fairly certain Rhodey won’t be able to see him doing it. He’s just got back, he has a mountain of paperwork waiting to be foisted off on someone else, and he’s nursing the mother of all headaches. A three day conference with a bunch of people he barely tolerates at the best of times has pretty much eroded his patience quotient for the week.

He’s already tried fobbing his friend off with a promise to listen to him properly later, but Rhodey is a persistent son of a bitch when he wants to be. And he’s using a tone. That tone. The tone that says this is A Thing and he'd better put his summer plans on hold 'cause this is going to shit all over them. He really hates that tone.

"You're killing me," Tony replies with a sigh, and Rhodey doesn't so much as crack a smile.

Yep. It was A Thing.


Rhodey hits play, and a clinical room Tony doesn't recognise appears on the screen.

"What," he says, savouring his first sip of bourbon, "no trailers?"

Rhodey's face remains grave. "Just watch, Tony." He's no fun when he's like this.

Tony takes in the scene. The picture is canted at a slight angle, as though the camera has been knocked out of alignment and not yet rectified. The room is oddly featureless, no windows, no wall fixtures, no colour. A plain, empty table takes up the centre of the room. The edge of a free-standing console of some description is visible just to the right of the picture, but not enough of it is in view for Tony to guess at its purpose. Behind the table is an empty chair, half of it out of shot. The arm rest in view has a wide leather cuff hanging from it.

A time code in the bottom left hand corner of the screen counts off the seconds, the only evidence that the picture hasn't frozen.

Tony casts a questioning look up at Rhodey, but the man doesn't take his eyes from the screen. With a sigh, Tony settles himself more comfortably and waits.

The sounds of shuffling break the silence and a broad man's back comes into view from the left of the screen. He manoeuvres somewhat awkwardly between the table and the chair, eventually making room for a second man who sidesteps in next to him. If Tony had to guess he’d say they were both wearing stab vests.

They jostle and heave, and Tony can just make out a limp hand that disappears behind them, presumably belonging to a third person being moved into place between them.

Before Tony can get a better look the view is blocked by the looming face of a man in a lab coat. The guy frowns at the camera, adjusting and turning it to square off the picture, his eyes flicking up as if checking the angle is more to his liking on a corresponding screen. Satisfied, he moves away, revealing a colleague puttering about at the room's table. The two larger men are no longer in sight.

As the man goes about his task, he repositions just enough to allow glimpses of the chair opposite.

Its occupant is strapped to the armrests by his wrists and appears to be semi-conscious. The only signs of movement are the slight flexing of his long fingers. His head is hanging forward, dark hair obscuring his face, a strap just discernible across his throat which seems to be keeping him somewhat upright. The sight is an uncomfortable one.

Tony fidgets uneasily in his seat and places his glass on the coffee table in front of him. Rhodey remains ominously silent.

The two lab-coated men exchange a few words in a language Tony doesn't immediately recognise. Eastern European, perhaps? One of them checks his watch and scribbles something on a clipboard, moving out of view to the right. The second moves around to the side of the seated man, finally revealing a tray of medical paraphernalia laid out on the table. A number of syringes are laid out in a neat row alongside small glass bottles of clear liquid.

Tony sits up straighter in his seat and swallows.

It's difficult to see what's happening without clear line of sight, but from his movements Tony surmises the lab coat is in the process of delivering an injection to the occupant of the chair. His guess is confirmed when the man then turns to place an empty syringe on the table, stripping off plastic gloves as he does so.

The other lab coat comes back into view with a handful of wires, and together they begin attaching sticky pads to the seated man's chest. Several disappear beneath the neck of his shirt and a monitor is clipped to the end of one of his fingers. The guy's head is then tipped back and his hair moved to one side so that more pads can be attached to his temples.

Tony feels the blood drain from his face as he gets his first good view of the man in the chair. He looks gaunt and pale and his eyes aren't tracking, but there can be no mistake.

This time when Tony looks up, Rhodey meets his eyes.

"What the ever-loving fuck?"

Rhodey has a fist to his mouth and a pinched expression to his face. He extends a single finger towards the screen without lowering his hand and flicks his eyes back at the picture. Watch.

Tony drags his eyes back to the screen with a conflicting mixture of reluctance and fascination and leans further forward in his seat. He needs to work on believing what he's seeing. His eyes rake more carefully over the figure in the chair as though his eyes have been deceived. The long limbs, the black hair, the time stamp apparently dated less than a week ago... It's adding up to something his mind doesn't quite want to examine too closely.

Loki is beginning to stir and hold up his head, and any lingering doubt Tony was holding onto is banished. Glassy eyes regard the lab coat taking his pulse for a moment before giving the room a sluggish once over. He's forced front again by fingers on his chin and hisses as a penlight is shone in his eyes. He's released and the lab coats exchange more words, their attention momentarily on their notebooks.

Tony studies Loki's face carefully. He doesn't think he's imagining it when Loki squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in deeply through his nose, seemingly gathering himself. When he opens them again they seem clearer, and his face has lost its slack expression. He gives his head a single sharp shake and starts to surreptitiously test his restraints, his hands fisting and unclenching in a steady rhythm at his sides.

He licks his lips, and Tony startles slightly to hear him speak.

"Who are you?"

The words are delivered haltingly between little huffs of breath. He watches the men around him closely as they go about their business, turning his head to follow them as much as he's able, but if he's expecting an answer he doesn't get one. Tony expects an impatient sneer or a clever remark to follow, but instead Loki grits his teeth, a spasm of discomfort screwing up his face. He's starting to sweat, Tony can see, and he's becoming restless in his chair.

Several long minutes pass. Tony can’t understand them, but he gets the impression the lab-coated men are shooting the breeze while they wait for the juice to take effect. They seem perfectly relaxed.

Loki, on the other hand, does not. He says nothing more, but his eyes become gradually wider, and he trembles as though enduring something incredibly unpleasant. His panting finally becomes audible, and bright spots of colour appear high in his cheeks. The lab coats are watching now with interest, although Loki no longer seems to have eyes for them. His gaze skitters wildly, and Tony feels something turn over in his stomach. He knows panic when he sees it.

The view is once again obscured as one of the men approaches the camera, retrieving something from behind it. He returns to the table and pushes the tray to one side, placing whatever he's fetched in its place. He retreats back a couple of steps and takes up his clipboard again. A plain ceramic mug now sits innocuously on the table.

Loki eyes the thing like he's never seen one before and as though there's a chance it might leap from the table and bite him. He starts tugging at his cuffs in earnest and flashes panicky looks between the two men. One of them says something, loudly and clearly — an instruction of some kind — and Loki bounces the back of his head off the head rest like he's been backhanded. He lurches forward again with a snarl that runs Tony's blood cold, his eyes promising slow and brutal murder.

The effect is quickly lost to him as he pants for breath and he starts to rock back and forth in his seat. If Tony's reading him right he's fighting to hold back sounds and knows he will soon lose the battle.

The same words are repeated by the clipboard-holding lab coat, and again Loki's body snaps forcefully against his chair. The defiance is stripped from him this time, a whine escaping as he strains forwards. Drops of sweat snap from the ends of his hair as he leans, his body shaking with effort.

Tony watches several more rounds of this with his thumbnail clamped firmly between his teeth.

"What are they even doing?" he finally demands as the Loki on the screen reverberates in pain once more. He has to avert his eyes. Loki is throwing his head back and forth almost mindlessly.

"They want him to make it disappear," Rhodey discloses. Tony doesn't ask him how he knows this.

His attention is drawn back to the screen by a whimper that makes him wince. A second syringe of chemical persuasion is being emptied into the cannula on the back of Loki's hand and he's frantically scanning the ceiling like his salvation might be found there. One of the large men who first brought him in has returned to the room, carrying what looks suspiciously like a taser in his beefy hand. Loki sees this and lunges at the man with a snap of teeth that miss by a wide margin. A huge fist fixes in Loki's hair and slams his head back hard in remonstration, and Loki growls wordlessly.

The hand lets go and when the instruction comes again, the taser is pressed firmly against Loki's exposed neck.

Loki screams.

"Ah, Jesus," Tony mutters and has to look away. "Rhodey..."

"I'm sorry, Tony. But there's more."

"Well yeah," Tony growls in irritation. "That's kinda my point here."

Rhodey stabs at the remote and mutes the sound, but he doesn't stop the playback. "It's coming up," he insists.

Even without the gut-wrenching sounds, Tony recognises agony when he sees it. The taser is touched to his skin again and Loki bucks violently against his restraints, his head tipped back and the cords of his neck standing out as he screams.

Tony has almost turned away again in disgust when he sees it on the third round. Loki arches again and his hands fly open. The image vibrates finely and the picture breaks up. When it returns the table is still rocking slightly and the mug rolls back and forth on its side. Loki's breath is heaving and his stare vacant, but the lab coats are in a frenzy of motion.

The sadistic bastards look inordinately pleased with themselves.

One of them rights the mug on the table and steps back again, the thug with the taser back in position.

Tony's seen enough. He takes a breath to protest but Rhodey's already hitting the fast forward. The frames jerk past with much of the same — and Christ if there isn't minutes of this shit — until Rhodey hits play again just as a brawny arm locks an elbow over Loki's throat. Loki struggles for several agonising seconds and Tony snatches for the remote.

"Stop," he barks angrily when Rhodey dodges him.

"It's okay," Rhodey says, and Tony thinks the fuck it is.

The picture fuzzes out white and when it comes back on Loki is alone in his chair, his breathing still laboured but his face otherwise blank.

The mug is gone. So too is what was left of the row of syringes. One of the lab coats staggers past the camera with one of them protruding from his neck and makes a hasty exit from the room. The other is nowhere to be seen.

Tony watches with no small amount of horror as Loki's face splits into an eerily familiar grin, crazed and desolate and with tears of pain still streaming down his face. It's hard to tell without the sound, but he's making small choking movements that look like sobbing laughter. They don't let him get too far with that.

The taser-wielding guard re-enters the room and cracks Loki one across the jaw. A huge hand appears out of nowhere to fumble with the camera and the screen goes black.

Tony feels sick to his stomach. He lurches to his feet and paces jerkily to the other side of the room. Rhodey sighs behind him and sinks into the place on the couch he's just vacated. Tony turns to see him scrubbing his face with his hands. He picks up Tony's abandoned drink and tosses it back in one.

"That doesn't get any easier on the second watch," he says almost to himself.

Tony doesn't know how to feel about this. He's actually lost for words. He paces a couple more times, runs a hand through his hair, turns to Rhodey, thinks better of it. Paces some more, leans against the window with both hands, straightens. When he turns again, Rhodey is gazing at him contritely.

"Tony..."

"No. Just don't." He takes a breath. "What the fuck did I just watch?"

Rhodey assesses him with a measuring look and seems to come to a decision. He's all business when he speaks, and it gives Tony the time he needs to collect himself. He can't quite find it in him to feel grateful.

“It came in two days ago. I tried to get hold of you, but you kept dodging my call.”

Tony draws a hand down his face. He’s been keeping so damn busy. He knows exactly what he’s been doing. “Came in from where?”

Rhodey’s pause is eloquent. “A source.”

“Uh huh,” Tony replies, and damn if this doesn’t have Fury’s bloody fingerprints all over it. “Is the date accurate?”

“Far as we can tell.”

Tony lets that sink in for a moment. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“You’re not the only one with friends on the inside, Tony. I had to check it was legit and I had to run translation. I wasn’t going to bring in something I couldn’t verify.”

Tony feels like he’s barely holding back his frustration. “So you come to me for that.” After everything they’ve been through. After this last crappy year. He doesn’t trust anyone who isn’t them to deal with something like this properly. Rhodey should know that, dammit.

The look Rhodey gives him has so many layers it’s painful to look at. “No offence Tony, but that’s not exactly been easy lately.”

He doesn’t want to examine that one too closely. He’s not having a conversation about his availability, or his feelings, or his questionable coping mechanisms. He’s not even having one about how out of the loop he is now, because that way lies deep, shark-infested waters.

“So why all the cloak and dagger?” he asks instead, dropping heavily into a chair. “Where has this even come from?”

“Best we can guess, we’re looking at some shadowy weapons outfit out of Eastern Europe. Language is Latverian, but spoken with an accent, so chances are we’re just talking ballpark. It was on a flash drive intercepted making its way in at top level. My guy seems to think it shouldn’t get there.”

Tony guesses ‘top level’ means military, maybe NSA. He’s not sure who Rhodey is in bed with these days. Not sure he’d find out if he asked. And isn’t that sad. What he does know is that Rhodey’s right: this can’t get anywhere near Ross.

“So, thoughts?”

Rhodey looks uncertain. Like he’s not sure which way Tony’s going to jump with this. If he’s honest, Tony’s not sure he’s entirely made up his mind either. But he isn’t feeling generous. He’ll let Rhodey hang for a bit longer.

“This is a problem,” Rhodey hedges. “A big problem. We’ve got unknown interests dicking around with a high level security risk. We’ve got covert US interests picking up the scent. And we’ve got people on the inside not liking the way that’s shaping up. And I happen to agree with them.”

“You think we should handle this ourselves,” Tony concludes, and the solemn look Rhodey returns is enough to raise the hairs on his neck.

“You really want someone like Ross getting an idea like this?” Rhodey asks. “You really want to start on that slippery slope?”

“I thought you were all for oversight,” Tony returns, just because he can.

“This is different and you know it. This is weaponising people. This is rounding up people of interest and writing them off as assets. And after Barnes? After Wanda and the others? This scares me, Tony.”

“Gotta be a person first though, right?” What is wrong with him? Why can’t he stop? “Last time I checked, this guy—“ he jerks a thumb at the black screen, “—damn near levelled the city. And that was just the appetiser.”

Rhodey looks about as disappointed in him as he’s ever seen. And that’s saying something.

“I know you don’t believe that,” he says firmly. “You just saw the same thing I did. There’s no way Loki’s there by choice, and no matter what he’s done, no one deserves what they’re doing to him.”

Tony nods decisively and slaps his thighs as he stands. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page. Because I happen to agree. I don’t like it, but it has to be us.”

Rhodey raises his brows and sits back in his seat. He looks like he’s caught between relief and a scowl, and settles for a cool glare. “You’re a real dick sometimes, you know that?”

Tony flaps a dismissive hand. “So anyway. I thought Loki was dead.”

“Yeah. So did I.”

He and Thor are going to have words, if ever he sees the big blonde lightning rod again.

“We’re sure it’s him?”

Rhodey affects faux innocence and leans forward with the remote. “Oh, you want to watch it again? ‘Cause I can just…”

“Okay okay. It’s probably him. And you’re the worst, by the way. So how’d he end up with this bunch of clowns getting poked with pointy objects? And how are the clowns not yet dead?

“Maybe he never made it back to Asgard. Or maybe he came back and got himself whammied. He doesn’t exactly look in great shape.”

“Performance issues,” Tony agrees distractedly. “So, what, is this a Manchurian Candidate kind of deal?”

“Doesn’t look like it’s working out for them too well if it is. Maybe it’s early stages. They’re studying him, trying to work out how he does it. Replicate it, maybe.”

Tony makes a scoffing noise. “Do they even know what ‘it’ is? Do we?”

“Well whatever it is, it’s powerful enough to short out the camera, and make a mess. And anyway, you’ve seen him in action.”

And ain’t that just the rub. Tony’s seen some completely unexplainable shit these last few years, not least of which has been alien armies, mythical beings and unliftable hammers. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to start believing in magic.

“Maybe I’ll ask him,” Tony decides. “When we, you know. Spring him. Which I’m assuming is your plan.”

“Yeah. See, this is where things get a little… hazy.”

Here it comes. “I take it from your tone that we’re low on intel.”

Rhodey waves his hand vaguely at the still black screen. “That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. My source couldn’t give me any details.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” Tony challenges, and Rhodey just looks apologetic. “We’re going to need a little more to go on if we’re going to do something about this.”

“If I might make a suggestion.”

Both of them startle at the interruption and Tony clutches at his heart. He turns to find Vision looming serenely at his shoulder, completely unconcerned. They’ve talked about this.

“I recall an instance when large energy outputs were mapped to determine the location of certain wanted persons,” Vision continues. “A similar approach may prove effective a second time.”

“Great idea in principle,” Tony agrees, considering and then discarding the algorithms he and JARVIS had used to find the Extremis combustibles. “But we have access to sensors for reading thermal energy events. Not so much for spikes of mystical mojo.” He’s not going to call it magic. Not even in his head.

Vision considers this. “Then perhaps I can be of assistance.” He touches the yellow crystal at the centre of his forehead with something between reverence and caution. “This entity emits exotic energies the likes of which are unknown to your science. Were we to calibrate a device to recognise such frequencies, we might use it to scan for anything similar.”

Rhodey raises his eyebrows at Tony. “There is a connection there,” he says. “Loki’s sceptre. Wanda’s… weirdness. It could work.”

Tony will be the judge of that, thank you very much. But even leaving that aside, he has more pressing concerns. “Okay, so hypothetically. We locate the Bond villains’ lair, then what? Ask them nicely to hand over their prisoner? Who just so happens to be dangerous and unstable, by the way. You guys haven’t met, but trust me. Not fun to be around.”

Vision acknowledges this with a polite incline of his head. “I believe I was able to gain some small insight into Wanda’s abilities while in her company.”

Tony snorts softly remembering how well that went. Vision ignores this and continues.

“I am confident we have the tools we need to contain any threat, and if you’ll permit me, I’d like the opportunity to explore these phenomena further.”

Rhodey gives Tony an unreadable look. It figures that the two of them would underestimate the risk involved here. They weren’t around the first time, and all they’re seeing is a bust up skinny guy getting worked over by nut jobs and their evil henchmen. They think they can be reasonable about this and that Loki will fall in line, but they’re wrong.

Tony has an uneasy feeling lurking in the pit of his stomach and he doesn’t know what to do with it. So he does what he always does in situations like this: he sarcasms the hell out of it.

“Okay, Vis, you got it. You make Mr God Complex there play nicely and he’s all yours. The two of you can knock yourselves out. But I’ll be taking some serious precautions. I dunno, just call me over-cautious, I guess.”

Again Vision concedes to this with a bow of the head. If he understands the nuances he chooses not to comment on them.

“So that just leaves an actual rescue plan,” Rhodey adds, and yeah, no lack of sarcasm there at least.

Vision bestows upon them one of his rare, enigmatic smiles, and the twinkle in his eyes leaves Tony wondering if he hasn’t misjudged him after all. “Well,” Vision says without a hint of irony, “I can walk through walls, after all.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes when he sleeps he is tormented by beautiful figments. These he fears more than his next waking hours. More than the room. More than what they will do to him in it.

He dreams of gleaming towers and golden spires. Of turrets, bridges and resplendent glass. Causeways of crystal stretch through a shining city, buttresses vaulting high above satin waves. Gardens and fountains adorn its terraces. Courtyards grace its hollows. And above it all stretches a vermillion sky, the eternal patterns of the cosmos but a veil's width from reach.

He cannot bear the sorrow he feels when they come to him. They do not feel like home.


He has been spared sleep this day. The price has been high, but one he has paid willingly.

He curls his fingers slowly, the tubing pinched and kinked between them. With the poison in his bloodstream reduced, he’s been able to observe the comings and goings around him and discern their patterns. There has been discomfort. And humiliation. And fear. But there has also been knowledge, and an escape from the confusing tangle of his sleeping mind.

He is rarely left unattended. A constant cycle of nameless people attend to him as he lies prone, checking monitors, recording data, testing his restraints. Sometimes he’s deliberately provoked to test his awareness, but the jabs and pinches are easy to ignore. He remains quiescent and quiet. Waiting. Watching.

His cell (if indeed it can be called such) is a simple room without windows or ornament. He lies on a surface he supposes passes for a bed, although it is uncomfortable, hard and cool. His wrists and ankles are secured with straps to its railings which prevent him turning onto his side. These restrictions do not trouble him. If he wills it so he can break them, but he does not wish to test his returning strength just yet. He must hoard his advantages and learn more about his captors if he’s to best them, and that’s something he sorely longs to do.

He thinks perhaps they mock him.

There appears to be a hierarchy of some form among them, marked somewhat by their strange and uniform garments. The white coated ones inflict the pain. They ask the questions, set the tests, give the orders. They are the ones who invade his mind.

The larger ones are the warriors. These carry weapons, enforce order, respond to their masters’ commands. They guard him at all times and ensure his cooperation. Their black-clad bulk is lightly armoured, their hands rarely without weapons.

Then there are the underlings in pale, unremarkable green. Servants of some kind, tasked with menial labour. They see to it he continues to function, attend to his basic needs, aid his captivity and torture. These duties must be lowly ones, because they go about them with resentful malice.

He has snatches of memory of times on the floor. Of less than gentle handling. Of casual abuse and taunts. He notices these now and catalogues them. Searches for weaknesses. For lapses of judgement. When his opportunity comes, he will be ready.


The rattle of the cart is one he has come to recognise. It echoes along the corridor to his cell long before it arrives, accompanied by two of the smock-clad servants. He watches through carefully lidded eyes as the guard at his door moves aside for them, a bored expression on his square-jawed face.

He recognises these two. They come to take his blood from him, for what purpose he can only imagine. They change over the bags of liquid suspended above him. And sometimes they clean him in the most perfunctory manner they can manage.

The young female is in charge. She goads her companion into acts of casual cruelty, somewhat mindful of the guard at her back but without the caution that would suggest anyone would step in to stop them. The boy seems eager to please and delights in her creativity. They banter and snigger as they perform their duties and enact their unkindnesses, apparently oblivious to the subtle trickery he has managed. He will not risk repeating it until they have left, but that will require enduring the steady slide of poison into his blood in the meantime. With any luck he won’t have to suffer it for long.

They make their first mistake soon after.

The guard at the door barks at them to finish their work. The brute is impatient to relieve himself and requires them to seek out another to take over his watch. A calculated look passes between the two underlings that the guard misses, and they make their complaints. They still have work to do. They suggest he cross his legs.

The guard replies to this insolence with some choice insults that only amuse them and orders them to remain in the room. With a final promise to cause them bodily harm if they disobey him, he departs in search of relief.

The two servants grin at each other and hurry into action.

They release him from his bonds and haul him upright, urging each other to speed as they do so. Careful to remain limp and pliant, he allows them to manhandle him from the bed. They kick his legs out from under him and lower him to kneel, a fist in his hair enough to keep him upright.

The boy rummages amongst the items on the cart and removes a small rectangular device hidden beneath folded sheets. The sight sends a thrill of adrenaline through him, but he forces himself to remain still. It becomes quickly apparent that it is not intended to cause harm. It is unlike the one the guards carry.

The woman at his side strikes a pose above him that he supposes is meant to represent dominance. Her free hand she contorts into a fist with small and index fingers extended. Her tongue she extends with an open-mouthed grin, revealing a small metal stud through its middle. The boy laughs, raises his device before his face and activates it, producing a small flash of white light and an electronic noise.

This done, the boy insists upon another pose. One he wants both of them to participate in.

This is their second mistake.

With only weak protest and a glance towards the door, the woman agrees, and they lift him back to his feet. He is propped against the cell wall and the two of them crowd in to either side, their faces pressed close to his. The boy outstretches his arm in front of them, the device pointed towards them. A small screen displays their image back to them, and the boy adjusts the angle to best capture the scene.

To either side of him, the pair of them choose their pose. The woman leans in to kiss his cheek, her eye playfully directed towards the recorder. The boy pulls a face like a child, presumably to suggest scorn. Again the device emits a flash and a sound, and the two pull away laughing, fists bumping together in a display of triumph.

That small distance is all the space he needs.

The pair of them squeak in dismay when he captures them both by the throat. He allows himself a brief moment to enjoy their shock before bringing their heads together with a crack. The device clatters to the floor and he releases their limp bodies to join it.

He steps over their inert forms to the cart and inspects it for anything that would serve as a weapon. The needles are sharp but flimsy and do not look likely to stand up to much force. He dismisses them as useless. He will be better served relying on his reflexes until he can procure something more substantial. He finds nothing else of use.

He steps from his poor excuse for a prison and considers his options. He takes a right. It’s the direction the guard took when he left, but it’s one he hasn’t been forced along before. More importantly, it’s a route away from the white room.

It has evidently been some time since he last walked unaided. Even without the poison in his veins he does not feel as strong as perhaps he should. His muscles ache with disuse and neglect. He rolls his shoulders to loosen the stiffness there and flexes his arms. He will need to work with what he has.

He is tested soon after. He slows to a stop as he nears an intersection and cocks his head to listen. The sounds of booted feet approach. He readies himself. The returning guard rounds the corner, coming to an abrupt stop at the sight of his prisoner standing in his path. The man gapes and scrambles for something at his side. He doesn’t quite find it in time.

The man’s cheekbone makes a satisfying crunching sound as it meets the corridor wall.

After some investigation, he finds an object strapped to the guard’s belt that extends into something resembling a baton. It won’t help him in close quarters, but its weight is reassuring. He finds no blades or projectiles, but to his disgust he does locate a means of torture. He considers taking it and attempting to operate it. Using it to bring down his enemies would be sweet revenge indeed. He finds however that even handling the device causes his gorge to rise, so instead he smashes it into pieces under the heel of the baton.

The last thing he takes is a ring of metal keys. He rips these from a belt loop and examines each one, but there is little to distinguish between them.

He rises to leave when a sound of static emanates from another device at the prone guard’s shoulder. He can’t quite make out the words, but there’s an undeniably urgent tone to the voice that follows.

Almost immediately the overhead lights go out and he’s plunged into total darkness. Next comes the shrill blare of an alarm and the distant sounds of people shouting.

This is inconvenient.

He supposes the discovery of his escape was inevitable, but he had hoped for more time than this. His captors will be all the more difficult to overwhelm with prior warning. Still, the darkness could also play to his advantage. He finds he feels comfortable in it for all its unknowns.

He pads further into its embrace, one hand skimming the wall, the other clutching the weapon at his side. It is several frustrating minutes’ work to open the metal gate that bars his way, but with patience he’s able to fit the correct key to the lock he locates with the pads of his fingers. He locks it behind him before he goes.

He encounters two more guards soon after. The first he takes by surprise with a swift upper cut, the club catching him just below the jaw. As that one staggers back he rounds on the second, blocking a similar blow to his collar bone and using the momentum to throw the guard to the ground.

The thrill of the fight is electrifying, and he finds he needs little conscious thought to guide his movements. He trusts to the simple wisdom of his reflexes, instinct driving each block and counter-attack. These men cannot seem to match him for physical strength, and their almost negligible body armour barely offers any protection from his blows.

It is over quickly, but there is no time for a further weapons search. Drawn by calls for aid from their struggling comrades, he hears the ominous approach of reinforcements.

There is nowhere for him to hide. He will not return the way he came. He pushes onward, and he will face what may.

Hand-held lights strobe through the darkness ahead of him as the group of men approaches. They stop when they see him emerge from the shadows and raise their weapons in warning. He ignores their commands to stop and begins to sprint. They fire.

Projectiles whistle over him as he throws himself into a slide, taking out the legs of the man nearest him. A second trips over his fallen comrade with a yelp as he rises, disarming a third with a sharp blow to the man’s wrist.

He’s required to flip one attacker over his shoulder when the man attempts to tackle him bodily. The distraction allows another the opportunity to bruise his ribs with a vicious strike, then follow it up with an agonising jolt of current that forces him to release the choke-hold he’d like very much to maintain.

A pulse of purest terror lends him the strength he needs to push his assailants back, and with a renewed sense of fury he launches himself back into the fight. He cannot afford to allow them a second strike with their electricity, so he opts for speed over finesse. The last guard to drop is dispatched with a sharp twist at the neck, but not before he’s earned himself a number of additional bruises.

He stands over the collection of fallen bodies and works to bring his exploding breath under control. If he’s to leave this place he needs to avoid open confrontation. He’s not certain he’ll be able to hold off better prepared assailants in greater numbers.

He takes a moment to examine the projectile weaponry the guards have dropped. He’s disappointed to find them seemingly inert, though whether this is because they are empty or because he is unable to operate them correctly he is not sure. He wastes no further time lamenting this and lets the darkness of the hallway ahead swallow him once more.

His heightening senses lead him easily toward a promising doorway. It opens into a spacious area that must act as some sort of waypoint, with many other doors and passages leading from it. The unmistakable coolness of sweeter air draws him towards one in particular, but when he pushes at its smooth, metallic surface it resists his efforts. His questing hands find no lock or even a handle, just a seam running vertically down its centre.

He is considering how best to leverage it open when the sounds of people approaching disturb him. He tucks himself around a corner as a group of three people skid into the space, beams of light bouncing from their hands. They are white coats, and they are agitated.

He watches as one of them swipes a flat rectangle through a protuberance in the wall next to the door that interests him. They repeat the action with progressively more frantic motions, apparently not achieving the desired effect. A short argument ensues and he listens with interest. The door apparently leads ‘up’, but without power they are unable to open it. They opt to go for help or to search out an alternative exit elsewhere, and he lets them pass unmolested.

He waits for a full minute before he emerges from his hiding place. The white coats do not return. He focuses his attention back on the door and runs his hand along its seam. He’s able to hook his fingers into the narrow gap, and with some repositioning wrenches a wider space in between.

His eyes begin to adjust to the darkness again as soon as he’s on the other side; light must be filtering in from somewhere nearby. A shaft disappears up into a shadowy recess above him, cables hanging from some unseen mooring, and a network of wires, pipes and runners spider across the brickwork on all sides. Cooler air caresses his upturned face. He decides to follow the draft.

The cables are greased, but with some effort and the aid of unclad feet he pulls himself up into the dark.

The climb is awkward, and before long he finds his way blocked. He quests in the dark for the exit the white coats talked of but finds no hatch or opening above him. He is about to descend when he makes out a sliver of pale light in the wall before him. Another sliding door.

This one is more difficult to open without the leverage necessary, and he is required to wedge himself onto the narrowest of ledges in order to get purchase at all. It’s almost more than he can manage, but with a final push that strains at his shoulder he gets the doors moving.

He tumbles out into a corridor similar in layout to those he has left behind, but this one has small, high windows lining one side. The night’s sky is just visible through them, but even if he were tall enough to reach them they are too small to force a way through. He is encouraged however, even despite the sounds of chaos around him.

Were it not for the lack of people in his immediate vicinity, he would assume he has emerged into a scene of battle. To his left he hears the sounds of running. Shadows flicker past the panes of glass in the doors at the far end of the hallway as people hurry past. To his right he hears shouting and what could well be the report of weapon's fire.

He wastes no time wondering at this development. Neither does he move to investigate the commotion. A short distance from where he stands is the door to a room he has a view of through a pane of meshed glass. It is lined with desks and monitors and uncomfortable-looking chairs, but these are not what interest him. Beyond is a line of windows, and beyond those is an outside space.

He tries each of his stolen keys, but none of them fit this door’s lock. He throws them away in frustration. Backing up a couple of steps, he waits. A fresh round of weapon’s fire is all the cover he needs, and he slams his heel into the centre of the door. It splinters down the middle, and with a second kick gives way entirely with a crash and a heavy scrape.

Ignoring the cut to his foot he negotiates his way around a jumble of overturned furniture displaced by his violent entrance. The crude barricade has done precious little to stop him, but it does beg a question. He sweeps his gaze over the room.

Two white coats cower beneath a desk in the far corner, their arms cradling their heads. One of them whimpers when they see him.

Outside is an area of grass enclosed by a high wire fence. Vehicles idle haphazardly along a track leading to a heavily-guarded gate. Fighters swarm like ants at the perimeter, long-barrelled weapons in their hands and baying hounds straining at tethers on their wrists. At a shout a group of them pivots to aim their weapons at the sky, and a volley of explosive blasts strafes the ground around them. It’s enough to send them fleeing for cover, although their attacker remains out of sight.

He watches this with some apprehension and considers his options. He cannot stay here, he will not go back, and yet ahead of him lies a veritable army and an unknown assailant. Perhaps if he could find an alternative way out…

Louder shouts reach him from the interior behind him, followed by projectile fire only a corridor away. The white coats respond to this by trying to make themselves smaller where they huddle, and a particularly reverberating hit is enough to make him flinch. It ricochets off something metallic and is followed up by a building whine. There’s a pause, then a pulse of light, then the airborne figure of a man hurtling past the ruined door.

He makes his decision. He flings a chair at the largest window with all the power he can manage, heedless of the cacophony of shattering glass. He yanks the nearest of the two white coats from their hiding place by the collar of the man’s shirt and swings him towards the jagged exit he has just made.

The man begs for his life as he does this. He has no intention of taking the white coat’s life himself; he’d make a poor shield if he were already dead.

He’s about to launch them both through the gaping window when something monstrous steps into the room.

It is man-shaped, but it is no man. It gleams red and gold, an unnatural blue glow shining from its chest. There’s a pneumatic whirr as it moves, and its eyes glow with baleful light. It is terrible to behold.

There is nothing to be done but to hold his ground, and he pulls his living shield to his body with a single arm. The other holds a shard of glass to its fluttering throat, his own blood running freely down its side. He barely feels the slices to his palm. His attention is entirely focused on the threat before him, the adrenaline singing in his veins.

He stares the metal man down and waits for it to make its move, but move it does not. Instead it speaks with an electronic voice, its words both baffling and absurd.

“Huh. Well, this I was not expecting. Do me a favour, Cuckoo’s Nest — put the mad scientist down.”

Chapter Text

They had gone off plan almost as soon as they’d begun. If there’s one thing Tony hates, it’s being on the back foot.

He’s not sure how they lost the element of surprise. One minute he’s doing a count, relaying positions to Rhodey in the tree line over yonder, and the next people start running around like someone’s stirred up their ant nest with a stick. A pointy stick. That’s on fire.

He’d told Vision to wait for the signal, dammit.

He pulls the power relays and fries them. Quick and dirty, but the time for subtlety has passed. They’re not really ready. They’re going to have to improvise this thing.

“Vision,” he says into his comm. “In case you were unclear, that was the signal.”

“Noted,” Vision replies with his usual measured tone. “I should report however that I remain beyond the boundaries of the base as we discussed. I thought perhaps your activities had been noticed.”

Oh. Well colour him humbled.

As if the dying lights aren’t enough of a giveaway, someone starts cranking a siren. It’s like one of those prison camp movies from the sixties, only with fewer Nazis.

“Rhodey, what do you see?”

“A whole lot of pissed off people,” Rhodey replies. He’s sounding worried, and Tony can’t say he blames him. “Are we still thinking we’re doing this? Because I’d say our cover is blown.”

Tony doesn’t like this. He really doesn’t like this. But this might be the best they can hope for now. “If we don’t try we might lose our chance. They’ll move him, and they’ll be better prepared for uninvited guests. I say we go with it.”

They’re closing the gates. A row of armed personnel scrambles for strategic points along the fence line, and snipers take up position in the two guard towers. Dogs are barking. Engines are running. Claxons are blaring. This is not exactly what he’d hoped for.

“Would you like me to begin?” Vision asks.

“Go,” Tony agrees. “Do your thing. But let’s try to keep the fireworks to a minimum, shall we? In and out. Rhodey, keep ‘em occupied. I’ve got the back door.”

“One shock and awe, coming up,” Rhodey confirms, and Tony hears the tell-tale sound of repulsors before he sees him. War Machine streaks over the yard to the astonishment of the men below and draws their fire. He has their attention. Now he just has to keep it.

Tony doesn’t see Vision enter the building, but he trusts him to do his part. He’ll search out their target, in whatever state he may be in. Tony’s job is to clear a way out.

There’s a skylight towards the back of the building that looks promising.

“Three heat signatures, boss,” FRIDAY supplies, and that’s good enough for him.

He drops through in a shower of dirty glass fragments to the surprised yells of his audience and lands among long canteen tables. Three people in chef’s whites scurry away from him and he lets them go. They’re just the worker bees. What he needs is one of two things: a clear route towards the sweet spot in this joint or someone in the know who can lead him there. At this point he’s not too worried about which it is.

FRIDAY displays the immediate layout for him in crisp night vision. The dead, glassy eye of a security camera stares sightlessly at him from one corner of the room. The remains of several meals stagnate on their trays along one table. There are three exits to the hall (other than the impromptu one he’s just smashed through the ceiling). One leads onto a kitchen which he dismisses. Another is the route the canteen staff have just taken, which he guesses could lead to an exit from the building. He picks the third.

The trail feels warm. Almost immediately he passes what looks like a guard checkpoint, although there is no one on duty. The distant sounds of gunfire clatter outside as Rhodey puts on a performance, and the muffled slap of boot soles on vinyl echo from somewhere further into the building.

Tony heads towards them.

“Vision, any joy?”

There’s a moment of silence before Vision replies. “I believe I have managed to avoid detection, but I am yet to locate our Asgardian friend.”

“Keep looking,” Tony tells him. “Let me know when you find anything. I’m headed your way.”

“Of course. There is something else however. I have found several persons in need of medical attention.”

Tony grimaces at that. “Prisoners?”

“I do not believe so. They appear to be base personnel.”

That brings him up short. “Injuries?”

“Various. I suspect more than one may already be dead.”

Oh, wasn’t this just turning out perfectly. “Okay. Urgency level just got bumped up to eleven. Find him, Vis.”

FRIDAY preempts his next thought. “Shall I alert emergency services?”

“As soon as we’re done. Ten minutes, tops.”

He hits pay dirt not long after. Two goons in riot gear skid to a stop ahead of him and curse colourfully. Tony’s not sure of the translation, but he doesn’t need a dictionary to make an educated guess. They don’t hesitate to fire on him, and the shots deflect harmlessly off the suit.

When they pause, he aims a single repulsor blast at the ceiling above them and they cover their heads with their arms.

“Fair warning,” Tony says. They don’t take the hint.

The two men barrel towards him and he lets them come. He uses their momentum to throw one of them bodily into a room behind him and pins the second to the wall with an arm across his chest.

“Look, Incredible Bulk. This is a no win for you. So how about you take me to the goods, and we’ll take the guy off your hands.”

The man stares back at him uncomprehendingly. He really should have taken the time to upgrade FRIDAY’s language centres.

“You know what, never mind.”

He throws the guy to join his friend and pulls the door shut, melting the handle just enough to jam it closed before he goes. Further down the corridor he comes to an intersection. He’s deciding which direction to take — would it kill them to put up signs? — when he hears the sound of wood splintering a fair distance ahead. He heads towards it.

Light is filtering in from somewhere nearby and it gets brighter as he walks. When the corridor turns a corner it widens into a larger hallway, elevator doors gaping open in the wall to his left. Bingo. He’d lay money on a trip downstairs being his ticket out of here.

Angry shouts behind him whip him around, and again he receives a peppering of bullets. When this does little to inconvenience him the goons decide instead to box him in. One of them lunges in close enough to thwack him with a stick that goes as far as to leave behind a small dent. They’re really not getting the message.

He’s about to point this out to them when he’s tasered. The suit absorbs the charge, but it shorts out a joint closest to the point of impact and forces FRIDAY to compensate. Okay. He’s had enough of this now.

Twin repulsor blasts send the whole bunch of them flying in pleasingly varied directions.

There’s a resounding crash from a neighbouring room. “Rhodey? That you?”

“Kinda busy here, Tony,” Rhodey replies, which he guesses means ‘no’. Only one way to find out for sure.

The scene he’s presented with when he steps over the busted door is one it takes a moment to absorb.

A cabinet lies on its side across the doorway among a stack of toppled chairs. There’s broken glass everywhere. A battlefield scene is playing out beyond the shattered window, and a woman in a lab coat is sobbing loudly beneath a desk in the corner of the room.

And in front of him stands Loki, tattered, bloodied and dirty, a man as chalky white as the lab coat he’s wearing clutched in front of him. Loki has a wickedly sharp piece of glass pressed flush against his hostage’s neck, thick ropes of blood snaking down his forearm. He is utterly still but for the trembling of the poor sap in his grip, and he’s eyeing Tony like he’s weighing up his options.

“Huh,” Tony says. “Well, this I was not expecting. Do me a favour, Cuckoo’s Nest — put the mad scientist down.”

Loki tilts his head like Tony’s said something completely incomprehensible. He flicks his eyes to the doorway at Tony’s back and shifts his weight just so, and Tony raises his hands very slowly.

“Please,” the lab coat says in heavily accented English, and Loki bares his teeth. The glass is slicing the hostage’s neck now, and he’s beginning to whimper.

“Woah, okay,” Tony says, taking a cautious step forward. Loki backs up and drags the man with him. “I get it. It’s been a long day. Tensions are running high. This douchebag probably has it coming. But you don’t have to do this. I can’t believe I’m actually going to say it, but we’re here to help.”

Loki narrows his eyes. “You won’t take me back,” he says with quiet menace, and it’s so gravelly Tony wonders how long it’s been since he’s spoken more than three words together.

He has to think carefully about how he’s going to handle this. He’s not going to promise something he can’t deliver, and he fully intends to find a way to get Thor on the phone as soon as he’s got a minute. It’s not that he has a problem with lying to the guy, more that he knows trying to bullshit his way through this would only embarrass them both.

“Look, that’s really not priority one at the moment,” he tries, going for patient. And possibly not succeeding. “And I gotta be honest here, I’m not even sure how we’d do that just now. So how about we focus on getting the hell out of dodge, and we can talk about calling the folks later. Deal?”

Loki doesn’t so much as blink. Tony wasn’t expecting gratitude exactly, but maybe he should have been a bit more prepared for uncooperative, surly and fractious.

He’s thinking of a way to get through to the guy when Vision phases through the wall beside him. Loki’s eyes widen. The man in his grip goes rigid, but whether it's from the shock of what he’s seeing or the tightening grip Loki has on him, Tony’s not sure.

“Ah,” Vision says delicately when he notices the situation. “I see my timing leaves something to be desired.”

Not taking his eyes off Loki, Tony extends a hand towards Vision to warn him against approaching any further. “Vis, why don’t you go lend Rhodey a hand? I’ve got this.”

He sees Vision consider this out of the corner of his eye, then turn and leave the way he came. But the damage is already done.

Loki’s gaze snaps back to Tony with a wild edge that wasn’t there before. Tony has just enough time to register the sinking feeling in his gut when Loki shoves his hostage forward and vaults cleanly through the broken window behind him.

The terrified scientist knocks into Tony with enough violence to stagger him backwards, and it’s a moment or two before he’s untangled himself enough to follow. By the time he’s made it out into the yard, Loki is nowhere to be seen.

Tony curses to himself. “Rhodey. Vision. Anyone got eyes on?”

The sound of gunfire comes from around the corner of the building, and a dull explosion throws flaming pieces of vehicle chassis several feet into the air.

“Fire escape,” Rhodey supplies a little breathlessly, rifle reports loud across his comm. “And you might want to hurry it up. I’m running out of ways to— oh shit.”

“Colonel Rhodes?” comes Vision’s concerned voice.

“Rocket launcher,” Rhodey confirms. “That’s definitely a rocket launcher.”

“I’ve almost got him,” Tony tells them, and hopes he’s not far off. “You’re doing great.”

He scans the roofline overhead and just catches movement disappearing over a ledge. His thrusters make short work of the distance, taking him up and over in seconds. Loki is already halfway across the flat roof at a sprint.

“God dammit,” Tony mutters to himself as he pursues. This is not how today was supposed to go.

He’s aiming to take the guy out at the legs when Loki anticipates his approach. He banks sharply and leaps the gap between the roof and the one adjacent, tucking and rolling as he hits the other side. He’s back up and running again without breaking stride, heading directly for the high wall enclosing another storey of the building. Tony can see what he’s about to do. He won’t reach him in time, but he heads that way anyway.

“No, no, no,” he chants to himself, “don’t—“

Loki does. He throws himself shoulder first through the large window and disappears back inside the building.

“God dammit,” Tony swears again, moving to follow. This is going to be fifteen times more difficult in close quarters. And Loki’s counting on that, the little shit.

There’s a smear of blood on the wall opposite where Loki has braced himself, and plenty more on the floor besides. Tony tries not to wince at the thought of bare feet among all this glass as he follows the trail it's left for him.

When he catches up he has to duck back to avoid being flattened by the body hurtling backwards in mid-air. Two more guards are attempting to parry strikes from their enraged prisoner and taking a beating for their efforts. Loki fights with a feral desperation that leaves Tony in no doubt of how the bodies Vision found came to be there. He needs to put a stop to this before more people get seriously hurt.

He steps in and yanks the two bouncers out of the way. “Okay,” he says with his ‘in charge’ voice. “That’s enough. Just stop.”

Loki rounds on him and damn, he’s fast. He takes several hits that push him back, and when Loki hooks an ankle around his to topple his balance it’s only his repulsors that keep him upright. When he finally gets a grip on the slippery little sucker he’s determined not to lose it. Tony pins Loki face first against the wall and twists an arm up behind his back. “We done?”

Loki struggles. Even leaning all his weight on him, Tony has to fight to keep him there. He almost loses his grip on one particularly violent heave and decides he’s not making his point clear. He slams Loki back forcefully enough to loosen plaster from the wall.

He realises his mistake too late.

There’s a suction at his ears that he shouldn’t be able to feel through the controlled atmosphere of the suit and a sudden absence of sound that’s deafeningly loud. He only registers he’s flying backwards when his side clips something hard and sends him spinning to the ground, his in-helmet display fizzing and glitching as he goes.

He sits up and raises his face plate to see Loki stagger back away from him, looking about as dazed as Tony feels. He almost trips over the downed guard at his feet.

Loki jerks when a hand wraps itself around his ankle. The guard lurches forward from his position on the floor and slams his fist against Loki’s calf. When it comes away it leaves a red-tipped dart behind.

Loki rips himself away with a snarl and snatches the thing out. He flings it angrily to the ground and pushes himself from the wall at a run.

It takes Tony a couple of tries to push himself up from the floor and he has to shake his head to clear it. He feels fried. And bruised. The suit’s joints are stiff and slow, and FRIDAY’s voice stutters incomprehensibly. This is not good. This is very not good.

He takes off at a loping trot in the direction Loki took, his gait heavy and clumsy. A door clicks shut just as he rounds a corner, and he opens it onto a stairwell. Tony looks over the railing and sees Loki standing on the landing below, one palm against the wall. He seems to notice he’s being watched and looks up, wobbling unsteadily. He wears the look of a trapped animal.

“Stay right there,” Tony tells him, and of course Loki does exactly the opposite. He lurches away from the wall, grips the bannister and flips himself neatly over the edge. It’s two floors down.

Tony raises his eyes to the heavens and breathes. Then with much less grace and a hell of a lot more noise, he takes Loki's example and follows.

The impact is a heavy one but the shock absorbers take it. The floor’s going to need remodelling, though. He extracts himself from the crater he’s just punched into the concrete and straightens. He hears the clicking of safeties and the readjusting of firearms and does a cautious scan of the room around him.

He’s surrounded on all sides by men bristling with weapons. Several train rifles and handguns on him. The rest are busy barricading the door against the battlefield they’ve given up on outside.

Between him and them stands Loki, his shoulders heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The room is silent but for his harsh breathing.

Tony slowly raises his hands. “Uh, guys?” he tries sotto voce into his comm. “Need a little help here.” It gives a pained splutter in response but otherwise produces nothing of use. Oh boy.

One of the armed men gestures aggressively with his rifle and shouts an order of some kind. Surrender or else, Tony supposes. When neither he nor Loki reacts, the man repeats himself, and a number of his men shift their grips on the trigger.

“Hey!” Tony says, stepping forward. He needs to defuse this thing, and fast, or there are going to be stains on the wall that probably won’t come out. “Just… everybody chill for a second. Nobody do anything stupid.”

And of course that’s when things go sideways.

Some trigger-happy genius fires a dart that Loki snatches out of the air and sends sailing back at his assailant, pointy end first. Tony has just enough time to tackle him to the ground as the other men open fire in response, and the shower of sparks the bullets strike off the suit leave golden smears across his retinas.

He may as well be trying to shield a large and angry cat for all the help Loki gives him. Loki struggles and thrashes beneath him, trying to buck him loose. He bears down as much as he can until something sharp is jammed into a seam in his armpit and twisted. It doesn’t quite pierce his skin, but it does screw with the circuits in his shoulder joint and makes moving even more difficult. He wraps his arms around his reluctant charge and cinches them tight, and if he’s a bit more rough than is needed he doesn’t exactly feel bad about it.

He sends a small prayer to anyone who might be listening and engages the thrusters. His left boot fails altogether, but the right chokes into life with enough intermittent power to force the pair of them past the surrounding ring of men and through the doors behind.

They careen down a short row of concrete steps and thud to an uncomfortable stop in the turf of the yard outside.

Tony sits up and wrenches the jagged piece of metal from beneath his arm. It comes away with a fair few components he’d rather have kept hold of but frees up a bit more movement. Men begin pouring from the exit he’s just made from the building but hang back warily, their eyes scanning the sky. It’s a two minute reprieve, but not one Tony wants to waste.

Loki rolls away from him with a shove and tries to get up. He staggers sideways a short distance before dropping again to one knee, seemingly running out of juice. This could make things easier, or it could make them even more difficult. The suit’s fried, and the guy is heavy.

Tony backs towards him, one eye on their audience and another on the sky around the building. Come on, guys, he thinks to himself. A little back up would be welcome right about now.

He hauls Loki up and drapes one arm over his shoulders. “Got any more surprises for me or can we go now?” he asks as he starts dragging, but he gets no reply. He ducks and moves faster as a smattering of pot shots narrowly miss him.

Loki leans more heavily on him the closer they get to the gates, and Tony begins to worry that he won’t be able to hold them both up. He stumbles when Loki suddenly goes slack and has to readjust his grip. He gives his burden an impatient shake, and Loki just about regains his footing. “Oh no you don’t. No checking out. Not yet.”

There’s a sharp whistle from the group of men still lingering by the cover of the building, and Tony's blood runs cold to the sound of baying dogs. He forces the both of them around and raises his free hand, jerking it forcefully. His gauntlet tries to power but doesn't quite catch and he grits his teeth hard. He tries again with the same result. "Come on."

A pack peels away from their handlers and thunders towards him, slaver flying in their wake. His gauntlet fails a third time. He doesn't have time to try for a fourth.

The dogs are brought up abruptly by a beam of light that slices the ground in front of them. Vision’s cape settles behind him as he alights silently on the scrubby grass, and the animals scatter whimpering and yelping before him. Always with the dramatic entrances. Tony wonders where he gets it from.

“About time,” he grumbles, tugging Loki's sagging arm a little tighter around his shoulders.

“You’re welcome,” Rhodey answers as he sets down at Tony's side, flipping his face plate as he does. “What happened to ‘check in regularly’? And what’s with the new look?” He runs a metal finger over the pock marks and dents decorating Tony's flank with a barely restrained smile and Tony swats his hand away.

“Can we save the snarky debrief until after we finish the mission? Here.” Tony thrusts an armful of slumped Asgardian into Rhodey’s chest and gives him a saccharine smile. “And be careful. The little bastard shanked me.”

Rhodey frowns. “He okay?”

I’m fine, thank you.”

The men at their back start to reform and advance, although the effort seems decidedly half-hearted. Time to go.

“Might I lend assistance?” Vision offers with a tactful but pointed look at Tony’s busted suit.

It’s not his preferred way to travel, and it’s been a while since he’s needed a lift, but Tony’s not about to walk to the jet. “Let’s hit it,” he agrees, and with Rhodey following close behind with his burden, they peel off into the surrounding trees.

Chapter Text

Rhodey tugs one last time at War Machine’s harness and satisfies himself that it’s anchored securely to the bulkhead. He gives the breast plate a solicitous pat. That rocket had been a little close for comfort, and there’s some loosened plating that’s going to need attention in the left flank, but it’s nothing some tinkering can’t fix.

He stretches his back out carefully, mindful of the twinges he still gets sometimes if he overbalances or twists wrong, and works the stiffness out of his hips with some careful pacing. He’s pretty much mastered the transition from suit to braces now, but there’s always a moment of regret when he has to give up War Machine’s intuitive embrace. Sometimes, he can almost forget. Like when his movement’s aided by pistons and power. Or when he’s flying, or standing, or walking. Almost.

Tony’s still bitching at the front of the jet as Vision attempts to help him from the suit. The release mechanisms are well and truly cooked, as are most of the rest of his systems, and he’s about as pissed about it as Rhodey’s ever seen him.

“Hey, go easy with that!” Tony chides as Vision wrenches a gauntlet away. “That’s still good for parts, and I’m kind of attached to what’s underneath. Figuratively and literally.”

Tony rubs fretfully at the parts of him Vision has so far managed to liberate and casts Rhodey an unhappy look. He’s beat up, and he’s down a suit, and he doesn’t like how close that brought him to vulnerability. Rhodey can’t say that he likes it much either. He likes it even less when he imagines the same happening to his own suit, given the way things are now.

From what Tony’s told him, it took a split second for that amount of damage to be done. Which means they have a serious problem on their hands. One he’s hoping to hell they’re equipped to deal with.

Rhodey crouches down stiffly across from their guest. He’s trussed up in a harness of his own with his hands cuffed together in front of him. He’s not said a word since they brought him onto the jet, and he’s been kinda out of it for most of the journey. Whatever it is they used on him, it’s strong; but there are signs he’s already shaking it off. He’d pulled his hand away when Rhodey had tried to assess the damage, and he’s been shifting in his seat a little like someone trying to wake from a nightmare. Rhodey guesses that analogy isn’t too far from the truth.

A final piece is peeled from Tony’s body and he stands with a groan. “Finally,” he complains, shaking a cramp from one arm. “I thought I was gonna have to shower with that thing still on.”

He walks over to a tool kit set into the bulkhead and rummages around in it.

“How’s the patient?” he asks glibly as he saunters over, flipping whatever he’s found into the air and pocketing it.

Rhodey has learned to be wary of that tone. He leans back a little to give Tony room to approach, but he doesn’t entirely move out of the way. He’s marking a line in the sand here, and they both know it.

Tony claps a hand down on Loki’s shoulder and snaps his fingers in front of the guy’s face. “Listen up, buttercup. You and I need to have a little talk.”

Loki tips his head back to rest against the bulkhead and regards Tony wearily. He’s looking a little green around the gills, not to mention spacey as hell, but he holds Tony’s gaze steadily. Rhodey imagines god-strength dope comes with the kicker of all hangovers.

Tony digs in his pocket and pulls out what looks like a flat metallic bracelet. He holds it up in front of Loki’s face and spins it slowly. “You see this?” He grasps Loki’s cuffs and pulls until he has access to Loki's arm. He snaps the bracelet over the guy’s right wrist, and Loki winces slightly as it closes.

“That,” Tony continues, “is insurance. Call it your shiny new conscience. You pull a stunt like any of the stunts you pulled today, you look at us wrong, you so much as twitch suspiciously, and FRIDAY will have that thing activated before you can spit. And that is some weapons-grade stuff in there, let me tell you. I’m talking 24 hours of down time, drooling into the carpet, liquefied brain cells, the whole deal. Are you getting this?”

Loki blinks lethargically, and Tony raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure he’s really in a condition to understand you, Tony,” Rhodey tries, but Tony just smiles humourlessly.

“He understands just fine, don’t you, Reindeer Games?”

Rhodey thinks maybe Loki’s warming up to more of a sullen glare now, and Tony seems to think so too. He breaks into a hard grin, claps Loki’s shoulder a couple more times, then moves off back towards the cockpit.

Loki’s eyes follow him as he goes, then return to meet Rhodey’s own. Rhodey isn’t sure quite what he reads in that gaze, but he doesn’t like it. He purses his lips and stands, creakily. He’s going to have to draw more than just a line in this sandbox.

For someone who’s not had that long to get the hang of all things human, Vision has picked up the meaning of non-verbal cues surprisingly quickly. He is fast to contrive a reason to move away to the back of the jet when Rhodey gives him a subtle sideways nod, leaving Rhodey alone with his teammate. Tony works hard to ignore him, punching buttons on the console with slightly more force than is warranted.

“What the hell was that?” Rhodey asks him in a low voice, and watches Tony’s jaw clench.

“Necessary,” Tony returns without looking up.

“He’s barely conscious. And I thought we’d talked about this? What happened to ‘Vision can handle it’?”

“Never hurts to have something in reserve. I give it ten minutes.”

“For what?”

“An excuse to test that baby out. Give him a taste of his own medicine.” Tony smirks, but the levity is forced.

“Not cool, Tony. Not cool.”

Tony’s veneer of unconcern vanishes instantly. “Oh look, you didn’t really think I was going to let us come into this without backup, did you?” he returns hotly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t mess with Vision. He’s a powerful guy. And between the three of us? We’ve probably got most threats covered. But my faith in all of us only goes so far when we’re dealing with shit that can do that—“ he waves a hand at the pile of suit pieces on the floor, “—without so much as a magic word.”

It’s not that Rhodey hasn’t expected something like this. Tony has said as much to him and Vision both, and the security measures they’ve put in place back at the compound are heavy duty and entirely reasonable. But for some reason this doesn’t sit well with him, and he suspects it’s partly because it doesn’t seem to sit comfortably with Tony, either.

“I get it,” Rhodey says. “I do. He’s strong. He’s mean. You don’t like him. But that doesn’t give us free rein to decide what’s right. You’re talking about serious harm here, Tony. I think anyone would call that thing cruel and unusual punishment.”

“He’s dangerous,” Tony growls back. “Don’t let the act fool you. He’s been doing this longer than Christmas and he’s looking for a way to screw us. If it takes a nuke strapped between his eyes to keep us all safe, you’d better believe I’ll be the first one drawing up the blueprints.”

It’s not that he wants to, but Rhodey has to push this. He has to. For all of their sakes. “So, what? We’re just going to keep him living in fear and hope that does the trick? He doesn’t have rights?”

Tony turns fully to face him, and the moment of silence is icy. “I’m going to say this one time. You. Weren’t. There.” Rhodey tries really hard not to read an accusation into that, but Tony’s not making it all that easy.

“I just think provoking the guy is a fast way to nothing good. You’ve got to give him a chance to fall in with us, otherwise he’s not going to.”

“He’s not staying. As soon as I can get Thor on the cosmic telephone, he’s outta here. In the meantime he needs to know who has the power. And anyway, it’s not like he doesn’t have a choice. He behaves, he stays fine. He doesn’t, FRIDAY zaps him. Easy.”

“I’m not sure he’ll consider that much of a choice, Tony.”

Tony snorts. “My heart bleeds. Tell it to Barton, or to any of the other puppet men he had doing his dirty work for him.”

Rhodey looks over his shoulder at where Loki sits, examining the wrist wavering woozily in front of him.

“Don’t pick at that,” Tony calls over to him cheerfully. “You’ll only make it worse.”

“Can you just promise me one thing?” Rhodey asks, calling Tony's attention back. Tony gives him a look that says he’s considering being contrary and saying no off the bat, but since Rhodey’s a friend — pretty much his only friend — he will hear him out anyway. “Promise me you won’t let him get to you. That you won’t let this change you. You’re calling the shots here, but don’t lose sight of why we’re doing this. I really don’t want to have to play that tape again.”

Tony’s expression is unreadable for a moment, and Rhodey half suspects he’s going to smile this off like he always does. Instead he drops his eyes and nods gruffly, turning back to check readings that have never needed adjusting in all the times Rhodey’s flown on this boat.

Rhodey’s not the sort of man to revel in his victories — he’s not Tony — and he’s not going to push his luck with this. Satisfied for now, he drops heavily into one of the pilot seats and props his feet up on the console in front of him.

They’re still a couple of hours out. He just hopes it’s enough time for Tony to cool off.


When the jet touches down it’s mid-afternoon and the light beats mercilessly against Rhodey’s tired eyes. The closing hangar doors soon plunge them into a comforting and cool dim. He always gets a headache when he flies. In all his long career, that has never changed.

He longs for his bed. He’d settle for a shower. He knows neither of those two things are on the horizon any time soon.

Loki still looks pale, and there are circles under his eyes like fading bruises, but he’s perked up considerably in the time it’s taken to finish the flight. It’s possible the water had something to do with that, and Rhodey’s only sorry it took him as long as it did to figure that out. He hadn’t quite been prepared for the urgency with which the bottle had been snatched from his hands, and even Tony’s indignant protest had died on his lips as they’d witnessed the almost obscene relief with which Loki had proceeded to down it.

Loki had spent the remainder of the journey watching them all in wary silence, jealously guarding the second bottle Rhodey had given him as though he expected it to be taken away again. The hunted look he’d flashed at the suggestion had also been enough to convince Rhodey to leave any further medical intervention until they touched down.

The jet powers down as the hatch opens. Rhodey watches Loki peer out as much as he can from his seat and thinks he looks nervous. He has to admit that this is not matching the picture he’d built in his head, but he’ll reserve judgement for now.

“Vision, you’re up,” Tony says as he exits the jet without so much as a backward glance. Rhodey knows exactly where he’s going, but he’s not going to mention it. He lets him go without comment.

The deliberate care Vision takes as he unbuckles Loki’s harness puts Rhodey in mind of someone negotiating their way around a wounded animal. Loki stares at Vision as his deft hands move, tense but acquiescent, and Vision gives him a gentle smile. “We mean you no harm,” Vision assures him, then stands and offers a hand. “Allow me to help you.”

Rhodey is prepared to intervene if he needs to, but the drama he’s half expecting (thanks in no small part to Tony’s paranoia) doesn’t materialise. Loki studies Vision’s offered hand for a moment and draws his brows together just slightly. If this is an act, Rhodey thinks, it’s a very good one.

Vision takes this as permission and, slowly, reaches to brace beneath Loki’s arm. He helps him to stand and gestures to the back of the jet. “Come.”

Rhodey follows them both a few paces distant and marvels at the way Vision is able to make it seem like he’s simply escorting a guest rather than herding a prisoner. Loki needs only token support as they make their way across the cavernous expanse of the hangar and towards the interior of the base. He takes in his surroundings with a naked interest that borders on awe, and Rhodey notes that the slight limp he’s been trying hard to disguise becomes more noticeable as he’s distracted.

This is not at all what Rhodey had expected.

He’s anxious to get a closer look at some of those injuries, and there’s a disturbing amount of blood on the whites the man is dressed in. Tony assures him it’s not all Loki’s, but Rhodey suspects there may be bullet wounds hiding under there somewhere.

When they enter the elevator he keeps his eyes forward, but he can feel Loki’s assessing gaze traveling over his body and lingering on the braces. It’s a feeling he’s getting used to and not one he particularly minds. Let people look. Let them underestimate him. He’s not ashamed of who he is.

They emerge into one of the large open areas that serves as a reception space, floor to ceiling glass letting natural light and warmth flood in. The view from here is a good one, and Loki drinks it in with a fierce concentration that requires Vision to steer him a little more forcefully than he’d like.

“So I know it’s not the tower, but it’s still pretty impressive, right?”

Loki’s head snaps round at the sound of Tony’s voice, and Rhodey doesn’t miss the flicker of interest that passes across his face at those words. It’s gone in an instant and is replaced again by wary hostility as he notices the new gauntlets Tony has changed into and is making no effort to hide.

Tony looks down at them like he’s just noticed he’s wearing them. “Oh, you like these? They’re new. Prototypes really. Not quite ready for the field, but I figure I’ll give them a test run. It’s nanotechnology. Fewer pesky circuits and gears to worry about, you know? Less that can go wrong.”

If Loki perceives the barely veiled threat he doesn’t respond.

“Talkative today, aren’t we?” Tony needles, smiling when this earns him a glower. He turns to lead the way deeper into the compound to the room they’ve prepared in advance. When they arrive, he sweeps an arm out in mock invitation at the door.

Vision moves Loki over to the edge of the bed and is much more polite when he says, “Please, sit.”

Loki does so, if warily, and eyes the three people surrounding him. Tony leans against the doorjamb with his arms crossed, his casual stance belied by the way he worries at his lower lip. Vision offers another reassuring smile and steps back, creating a bit of space.

Rhodey pulls a chair close and sits opposite. “I’m going to take these off now,” he tells Loki, gesturing to the cuffs. “I don’t want to have to put them back on, but I will if I have to. Understand?”

Loki stares at him hard, then nods his head minutely. Tony pipes up behind them and taps his own wrist pointedly. “We’re not going to have a problem. But please, give me a reason. I’d be happy to give you a demonstration.”

Rhodey ignores this and releases the cuffs. Loki pulls his hands to his body without breaking Rhodey’s gaze and his fingers immediately start exploring the circle of metal at his wrist. It’s a tight fit — the thing is flush to the skin and doesn’t budge an inch — but it doesn’t seem to be hurting him any. Rhodey supposes he’s grateful to Tony for that.

Vision hands Rhodey the first aid kit without being asked, and Rhodey sets it out on the bed. A shallow bowl of warm water and a cloth follows soon after. “I’m going to need you to take that off,” he says, nodding meaningfully at Loki’s filthy shirt.

Loki stiffens almost imperceptibly, but the message is clear.

“You are injured,” Vision observes calmly. “We need to assess the damage.”

This does nothing to unwind their reluctant patient. If anything he retreats into himself further.

Rhodey decides to start with the visible problems first. He holds out his hand and waits. A decision wars over Loki’s face for a second before he cautiously offers his own hand, cut palm up. It’s deep but the incision looks clean, and it already seems to have started healing. It’s no longer bleeding, at least. Loki watches closely as Rhodey bathes it and cleans it. He barely flinches as Rhodey applies an alcohol solution that he knows has got to sting like a son of a bitch. He finishes up by winding a bandage over his work.

The glass in Loki’s feet is more of a challenge. There are fragments embedded deep in the soles of both and the blood and dirt make finding the smaller pieces difficult. It’s twenty minutes’ work to wash the filth away and extract the worst of it, with new blood soaking everything in the meantime. Loki endures all this without a sound.

When he’s satisfied he’s dug out as much as he can find, Rhodey wraps everything in bandaging. He sits back and gestures again to Loki’s shirt. “Anything else we need to know about?”

Loki’s eyes slide to where Tony watches from the doorway. Rhodey sighs.

“Tony,” he says without looking round. “Think you can give us a minute?”

He hears Tony snort. “I’m not going anywhere.”

As is becoming normal around here, it’s Vision who is the voice of reason. “I will remain with Colonel Rhodes,” he says, giving Tony a level look. “We will join you shortly.”

Tony shifts where he stands and looks between them both, clearly bristling at the dismissal and trying not to show it.

“Please, Tony,” Rhodey adds to soften it.

He looks like he wants to argue, but he surprises them. “Fine,” Tony concedes. “But I’ll be right outside. Watching.”

Rhodey knows that last part is for Loki’s benefit. The reinforced door slides closed when Tony leaves and locks with a heavy ka-chunk.

Rhodey thinks perhaps some of the tension leaves Loki’s frame, but he could be imagining it. He capitalises on this by nodding again at Loki’s shirt. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Loki hesitates briefly. He scrutinises Rhodey’s face with an assessing gaze and seems to come to some understanding before gingerly shucking the ruined garment. His torso is an ugly patchwork of bruising, grazes and burns. A network of old scars thread beneath the fresh injuries, including a shining whorl that scores from his lower abdomen to his ribs.

Much of the skin remains unbroken. Tony was right — most of the blood on Loki’s clothes clearly hasn’t come from him. But there are two bullet wounds Rhodey can see, one in the meat of his right upper bicep that seems to have passed right through, and another at his collarbone that Rhodey has no doubt would have killed a human. It still bleeds sluggishly, and he suspects the bullet is lodged somewhere inside. He needs to check the other side to be sure.

“Turn around, please.”

Loki narrows his eyes at this. He looks at Vision, who nods in encouragement, then back at Rhodey. There’s a warning there that says a breach of trust now will never be forgotten, but reluctantly he shifts around.

The large scar has an exit wound at the back, Rhodey notices, but he can see no more bullet wounds. The abrasions and cuts that decorate the musculature are much the same as on his front.

“Okay,” he says as Loki twists back around. “Looks like you got off pretty lightly.” He doesn’t add that he guesses the guy is used to worse than this. Especially if those scars are anything to go by. “I’m going to go ahead and assume your healing will take care of most of it. You seem pretty robust. But I’m still going to look at these two.” He gestures to the sites of the two bullet wounds on his own body.

Rhodey tackles the arm first. He tries to ignore the way Loki’s eyes bore into his face as he starts to clean the ragged wound and jumps slightly when Loki finally speaks.

“You know me.” It isn’t a question.

He covers his surprise with a quirk of his lips and doesn’t stop his work. “Well you are kinda famous. You made pretty sure of that.”

Loki only frowns at this, then changes topic. “Who are you?”

The familiar query is one he’s been waiting for. One he hopes he can work up some favour by answering.

“Colonel James Rhodes. I missed the party the first time around, but I work with Tony. And this is Vision. He’s new.”

Vision lifts his hand in a little wave.

Loki considers this in silence for a minute and winces this time when Rhodey applies alcohol to the wound he’s just debrided. It’s ugly, but Rhodey would rather trust to Asgardian healing than an attempt to stitch it himself. He roots around in the first aid kit for adhesive strips to help close the edges.

“And Tony…” Loki prompts, tasting the word like he’s saying the name for the first time.

“Don’t mind him,” Rhodey tells him, fully aware that Tony’s probably listening in right now. He sticks a square of gauze over his handiwork.

“You have nothing to fear from Mr. Stark, or from us,” Vision adds, responding to some emotion he reads in Loki’s face. “Provided we can say the same of you, of course.”

Loki’s expression looks pained, but he says nothing more. Rhodey sits back and assesses his work. One down, one to go.

“That bullet’s got to come out,” he says, pointing to the second wound. He rummages again in the kit for what he needs. “It’s not going to be pleasant, but I can give you something to numb the pain first.”

He’s barely withdrawn his hand from the kit when an almost bone-shattering force knocks his arm to the side. It sends the hypodermic clattering to the other side of the room and a bolt of crippling pain shooting along his nerves. He has a moment to open his mouth in alarm before he is slammed against the wall, and the breath leaves his body all at once. The oxygen his lungs demand in return cannot squeeze past the vice-like grip on his throat that holds him in place.

Stupid, is all his brain supplies for him before coherent thought stops altogether.

Chapter 6

Notes:

A heartfelt thank you to everyone who has read, kudosed and commented so far. I treasure each and every one.

Chapter Text

The incident is an unfortunate one, but perhaps not entirely without its merits.

If Vision has learned anything about human behaviour during his time here, it is that a mistake can be a powerful teacher. Everyone knows where they stand now, at least.

Stark’s cuff performs as promised. The current it delivers is enough to lock and then release muscle, and Colonel Rhodes falls gasping from Loki’s hold like a stone. Vision may not have anticipated the speed with which Loki had launched himself forward, but he’s fast enough to step in and restrain him now before further damage can be done.

The pain of the shock must be considerable. Loki writhes breathlessly in Vision’s grip but is not entirely incapacitated, and it is only seconds before he’s released from whatever torment the device inflicts. It would seem FRIDAY has judged the situation and adjusted her response accordingly. The same cannot be said for Stark.

The door slides open at their backs and Stark bursts in, a building whine accompanying him. He trains his gauntlet inches from Loki’s face and barks at Vision to step back.

Vision ignores this command. He turns and presses his shaking charge back into a seated position on the bed, a firm hand on his shoulder enough to keep him there. Then he lowers Stark’s arm with a pointed look.

Stark trembles with anger and simply brings his other hand up in its place. He flashes Vision a look of betrayal. Vision notes that he has yet to fire, however.

“Colonel Rhodes, are you well?” Vision asks over Stark’s shoulder.

“Peachy,” Rhodes confirms with a cough and a wince. He rubs tentatively at his neck and shifts on the floor. “Someone help me up.”

It takes Stark a moment or two more to break the intense eye contact he holds with his opponent, but eventually he does. Careful not to turn his back on Loki, he bends to assist his friend back into a standing position.

“It’s okay,” Rhodes assures as he straightens. “It was my fault.”

Stark is immediately incensed. “Your fault?” He turns a glare back on the man on the bed and Loki growls at him. Stark steps forward, again raising his arm in challenge. Loki strains against Vision’s hand but is unable to rise to meet the threat. “Oh, please, just make a move,” Stark warns dangerously.

“Tony,” Rhodes cuts in, his voice slicing through the air like a whip crack. “Come talk to me a minute. Outside.”

The tension in the room is palpable. Stark is seething, and Loki’s body thrums beneath Vision’s palm. It’s with visible effort that Stark eventually backs down, but he doesn’t look pleased about having to do so. Without another word he turns on his heel and marches from the room. Vision shares a complicated look with Rhodes before the colonel follows Stark out.

“We will return shortly,” Vision tells Loki before exiting as well.

The door has barely closed before the argument begins.

“Well that was helpful. Feel better now?”

“Oh, save it. Are you out of your mind? You can’t let your guard down like that.”

“You’re the one coming in guns blazing. Are you trying to get us all killed?”

“I told you he was dangerous.”

“It was an accident.”

“He had you pinned to the wall! Looked pretty intentional to me. You can’t trust him.”

“I don’t.”

“Whatever. I’m benching you. That’s it. And you—“ Stark rounds on Vision, “—you should know better. FRIDAY is supposed to be a last resort. You’re supposed to be doing the heavy lifting around here.”

“I believe the situation was handled appropriately,” Vision returns patiently. Stark simply glares at him.

“He’s playing you.”

“Tony,” Rhodey intercedes quietly. “You didn’t see his face. He was terrified.”

“I saw plenty. He’s a time bomb waiting to go off and as soon as you lose sight of that you’re toast.”

“None of us here are unaware of the risks,” Vision interrupts. He is not unsympathetic to Stark’s concerns, but neither is he prepared to allow tempers to dictate the situation. “Allow me to continue with what must be done. Our friend cannot harm me, and I believe I can act as a neutral party.”

“Friend,” Stark mutters under his breath with a huff.

“I do not count him as our enemy.”

“Well maybe you should.”

Their attention is drawn to movement on the viewscreen next to the door. Loki has shuffled back on the bed to put the corner of the room at his back, his legs drawn up before him. Blood stains are already maring the clean white bandaging the colonel has applied to his injuries.

They watch as he raises his uninjured hand and probes the open wound they’ve yet to attend to. With a grimace he digs his fingers deep into his flesh, and after a brief and gory struggle, extracts the buckled remains of a bullet. He lobs this across the room with a snarl of disgust and curls himself tighter against the wall, heedless of the bloody mess he’s just made.

Colonel Rhodes looks horrified by this. Stark looks faintly ill.

“Bag of cats,” Stark tells them both emphatically, although Vision’s not entirely certain he grasps the man’s meaning.


Vision finds Stark again in the small hours, his demeanour subdued. He sits in the dark of their under-used sitting area, the subtle glow of the viewscreen before him the only illumination in the room. It bathes his face in ghostly light; a lonely figure on an all-night vigil. He appears to have had no sleep.

His eyes remain on the screen in front of him as Vision approaches and he chews absently on the pad of his thumb. He is deep in thought, or at least appears to be, though Vision knows this is sometimes a play for time. He will speak when he is ready, and not before.

The screen displays the holding room much as Vision had left it many hours before. The food he had brought sits untouched to one side, as does the medical aid he left for self-administration. The clean clothes also remain folded in a neat pile, with the exception of a long-sleeved shirt that has been taken to replace the ruined garment he’d confiscated. The room’s occupant remains with knees drawn up at the head of the bed, eyes staring sightlessly ahead.

Stark straightens in his seat with a sigh and rubs his eyes. “Been like that all night,” he admits peevishly. “It’s been a laugh riot.”

Vision doesn’t need to ask why Stark has felt the need for this vigil. He also knows it would be unwise to comment on the result.

“How is Rhodey?” Stark asks.

“Still resting. The damage was minimal.”

Stark tenses his jaw but says nothing to this. He throws back whatever liquid remains in the cup he cradles, makes a face, and hastily discards the cold beverage on the table in front of him.

“I thought I might suggest an interview in more open surroundings,” Vision offers. “Here in the sitting room, for example.”

Stark examines him sidelong, like he’s trying to work out a particularly trying puzzle. Vision is accustomed to such an expression, even from among those closest to him. He is not as guileless as he perhaps appears, although he admits it can be to his advantage to be considered so. He finds it allows him to address thornier issues more forthrightly than might otherwise be tolerated.

“Think you can get him to talk?” Stark asks, clearly with some misgivings.

“Perhaps. But if not today, certainly with patience.”

“Hmm,” Stark says. It’s a non-committal noise, but it’s an improvement on outright distrust.

“Your presence would be appreciated,” Vision continues. “I would however ask for your cooperation.”

“You want me to play nice,” Stark guesses with an ironic smirk.

“I would simply ask that you put your preconceptions to one side. As I have done.”

“Vis, you’ve never met the guy before. You don’t have any preconceptions.”

Vision has no intention of arguing the point. Instead he outlines his thought process, and if Stark doesn’t exactly look convinced by his plans, he at least agrees to them.


Loki is quick to stand and face him when Vision opens the door to his room. He leaves space around himself as he positions his body and plants his feet with purpose. He lowers his head just slightly. The effect could be viewed as marginally sinister, Vision supposes. But instead of reading defiance in the stance, Vision chooses to see an attempt at self-defence. It’s certainly not enough to intimidate him.

There is no need to enter the room. Instead Vision steps to one side, leaving a clear path into the corridor outside. “We’d be grateful if you would join us,” he says pleasantly, and waits.

Loki shifts slightly as though expecting a trick of some kind. He cranes his neck to get a better view of whatever might be waiting for him outside, then draws his brows together in a small frown. “Am I not to be shackled?” he asks with no small amount of suspicion.

“I would prefer not to,” Vision answers.

“But you fear me.”

“I am concerned with our safety, yes. But yours as well. I imagine we would all like to avoid a scene such as we had last night. I think we can work together to achieve that.”

Loki licks his lips. “What do you want?”

“Simply to talk. You may return here at any time.”

The pause contains a wealth of unspoken sentiment that Vision is certain is not all polite. “I wish to leave.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment. But if you would talk with us, we may be able to find a means of returning you to your home, if that’s what you would like.”

Loki’s frown deepens. “Home?”

Vision supposes the prospect of trading one cell for another may not be terribly attractive, but until they can discover more about the situation and how Loki came to be here, it’s all they can realistically offer. “Come. We can discuss alternative arrangements, too.”

He watches as Loki makes his decision, his shoulders squaring and chin raising just slightly. He approaches the door with a keen eye on Vision and stops just shy of the threshold.

“This way,” Vision gestures, allowing Loki to go ahead of him. Loki does so with caution, uncomfortable to leave his back vulnerable but intent on leaving his confinement. He is careful to keep Vision in his periphery as they walk, checking back over his shoulder on occasion.

The journey to the sitting area is a short one, but it’s clear to Vision that Loki wastes not a second of it. He registers and catalogues every turn and doorway, alert to any threat or opportunity. They have made sure to keep doors closed and to secure any loose items that might present temptation, but they’re taking a gamble here. One Vision is confident will pay off in the long run.

Loki comes to an abrupt halt as they enter the sitting area, immediately on edge. Stark putters casually in the kitchenette as they’d discussed, seemingly ignorant of their approach. The sweet smell of pancakes mingles with the rich coffee flavour already infusing the room.

“Be right there,” he calls over his shoulder without turning to look.

For a long moment Loki doesn’t move. It is only once he considers Stark otherwise occupied that he deems it safe enough to move further into the room, and he immediately heads towards the large windows at the opposite end of the space. Vision wonders what it is he is looking for as he takes in the dawn-flushed landscape, or if it has simply been some time since he last saw the sky. Perhaps he is merely considering a means of escape.

Stark is playing his part admirably. He barely checks behind him as he moves about the counter, for all appearances completely unconcerned by the predator prowling the very limits of its cage. Vision joins him, accepting the stack of plates he’s handed and transferring them to the table they will dine from. He returns for cutlery and glasses, laying them out neatly. He sets four places, even though he will take no food himself. Stark insists upon it, and Vision has never seen fit to offend his sensibilities.

“FRIDAY,” Stark says into the air. “Give Rhodey a nudge, would ya?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Vision takes a seat as Stark deposits a stack of pancakes in the middle of the table with a flourish, dropping into a chair of his own. He forks several onto his plate and douses them liberally in syrup.

“Get ‘em while they’re hot,” he says to no one in particular.

Loki watches all of this out of the corner of his eye with a sort of fretful agitation, otherwise examining the room thoroughly. Vision is careful not to be caught evaluating Loki directly but notes his every reaction and movement intently. He truly hopes he has not misjudged this, and that an indirect approach is the correct one.

Loki backs up quickly when Colonel Rhodes enters from a door just beyond his field of vision. There is only a faint mark on the skin of his neck, and he appears untroubled by the bruising he is likely to still carry across his shoulder blade. An admirable man, Vision thinks.

“Morning,” Rhodes greets the room in general, a knuckle digging firmly in one eye. He heads directly for the coffee maker and pours himself a cup before joining them at the table.

Rhodes peers at Stark’s plate as he pours himself some juice. “How can you eat those?” he asks with a faint air of distaste. “They’re swimming.”

Stark grins at him. “More syrup than pancake. Just as nature intended.”

“At least eat some fruit or something.”

Stark motions at his food with a stab of his fork. “Blueberries,” he explains around a large mouthful.

Rhodes loads his own plate and begins to eat, a subtle flick of his eyes the only signal he gives. They are all ready to begin.

Stark chews a while longer, swallows and clears his throat. “So. Sleepless in Seattle. You gonna eat these or what?”

Vision allows his head to turn, interested to know what the answer will be. But Loki has his back to them and apparently isn’t listening. The growing light silhouettes him against the view outside, his stance stiff and angular and conspicuously out of place.

The silence starts to feel uncomfortable and Vision can detect the beginnings of irritation in the lines around Stark’s mouth.

“Hey,” Stark calls. “Loki.” Then with more force when he gets no response, “Yo. Loki.” He snaps his fingers impatiently and Loki finally turns to look. “Yeah, you. Pay attention. You’re being rude.”

“Tony, cool it,” Rhodes murmurs with a significant look.

“Will you not join us?” Vision asks before Stark can forget himself further.

“Do they even have pancakes in space?” Stark wonders aloud. Loki casts him a confused look. “Or, you know. Breakfast. It’s a thing, right? You guys actually eat sometimes? Wait. What am I saying. Of course you do. I’ve seen the big guy put it away. Guy’s a machine.”

The silence stretches further, and Stark’s knee begins to jiggle beneath the table. Vision exchanges a look with the colonel.

“I gotta say,” Stark continues, his fork dropping to his plate with an overloud clink, “you used to be more the loquacious sort."

Loki returns a flat stare, and Stark intentionally misinterprets.

"You know," he expands with a flamboyant twirl of his hand, "loquacious. As in talkative. Chatty. Annoyingly verbose. In a prim and sinister sort of way, I’ll grant you, but—."

"Yes thank you,” Loki interrupts with forceful irritation. “I know what loquacious means."

"Ah ha!" Tony crows. "So you do speak. Good to know. And I know what you're thinking — I'm one to talk, right? It's a nervous habit. Part of the charm. But even I get tired of hearing my own voice sometimes.”

“Wonder of wonders,” Rhodes mutters and receives a swipe to his shoulder for his pains.

“I think what Mr. Stark means to say is that we are anxious to hear your version of events, whatever that may be,” Vision concludes.

“Yeah,” says Stark. “What he said.”

Loki scowls and begins to pace, fingers wringing absently at the cuff on his wrist. Vision notices the darting glances he gives the doors, though whether for fear of what might come through them or the means of escape they offer he cannot be sure.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Rhodes asks, his plate of food forgotten. Loki flashes him a look but continues to pace. “Like how you wound up where we found you? If we can understand, maybe we can stop it happening again to someone else.”

“Or,” Stark adds, “you could tell us why you’re here at all. Last we knew it was ‘so long Midgard’, ‘sorry it didn’t work out’, ‘better luck next time’ and all that jazz. And I really want to believe this isn’t a relapse, really I do, but it’s not looking that great from here, gotta say. So what’s the deal? Snuck back and wish you hadn’t?”

“Tony,” Rhodes warns.

Stark holds up his hands. “Okay okay. Sorry. Sore subject, I know. How about an easy one, then. How did you get back here?”

Loki frowns to himself but doesn’t answer.

Vision notices Stark’s fingers gripping the table edge, his patience fraying. “Oh for the love of— would you just say something?”

Loki whirls around. “Speak. Move. Change.” The scorn in his voice is apparent, the pitch rising as he speaks. Vision straightens as he hears it, his focus crystalising with every word. “I am tired of your orders and tired of your games. Stop speaking to me in riddles and just tell me what you want!”

Stark tenses as though to rise, and Vision lifts a hand towards him to motion for calm. It works, but barely.

“This is not an interrogation,” Vision assures Loki with a pointed glance at Stark. “We simply wish to understand. Do you know how you came to be captured?”

There’s a pause before Loki replies, and it stretches so long that Vision is almost sure he isn’t going to. “I don’t… know,” he admits quietly.

This does not satisfy Stark. “You don’t know, or you won’t tell? ‘Cause I’m not exactly inclined to take your word for it.”

Loki grits his teeth and turns back to the window, his hands balling up into fists.

“What were you doing before all this happened?” Stark continues to press. “Polishing your antlers? Perfecting your sneer? Planning world domination?”

“I don’t—”

“I mean, did you even get home at all, or did you pull a fast one on us all? Or did you just dupe your brother? Hey, does Thor even—”

Loki’s outburst is sharp. “I don’t know!”

Stark sits back in his seat, arms crossing across his chest. “Uh huh. Look, you can play it that way if you want—”

Loki fists his hands in his hair and makes a sound of frustration, and this time Colonel Rhodes raises a hand for Stark’s silence.

“What can you tell us?” Rhodes asks carefully.

The burst of laughter that follows is dry and entirely without mirth. It takes a moment for Loki to master himself, and when he does it’s almost as though the effort has exhausted him. He presses his forehead against the window and traces a finger in an aimless pattern across the glass.

“I was there, and then I was here. That’s all I know.” His voice is almost toneless. It’s clear the admission has cost him much.

“Wait a minute,” Stark says incredulously. “What? You expect us to believe—”

“I expect nothing of you,” Loki returns sharply, his shoulders suddenly heaving. “And if you think this laughable charade will teach you more than your tortures and your poisons you are sadly mistaken. I can tell you nothing and I will give you nothing. If you try to force me again I will stop you, and if I cannot stop you I will make you kill me.”

The silence that follows is broken only by Loki’s harsh breaths and the intruding hiss of the dripping coffee filter on the counter. Stark gapes openly, and Colonel Rhodes exhibits a state somewhere between compassion and revulsion. Vision experiences a sensation he imagines must be similar to what humans describe as dawning understanding. He has indeed misjudged the situation, but for reasons entirely different to those he’d feared.

It is Stark that breaks the tension, perhaps unsurprisingly. “Hold on,” he says, attempting flippancy but falling well short of the mark. “I’m confused.”

“I think that makes two of you,” Rhodes says under his breath, but his visible concern remains.

Vision is not confused. If anything, he thinks the situation is suddenly, painfully, clear. “You do not remember yourself, do you?” he asks gently, and Loki finally meets his eyes. The hollow fear Vision sees there is obvious, and he wonders why he did not notice it before.

Chapter Text

The journey back to Asgard is not an easy one.

The blade had missed vital organs, true, but neither did it inflict a mere graze. The performance he’d put on for Thor had not been entirely fictional; such is the way with the most effective lies. He has lost blood and the pain is not insignificant.

But still, it was an opportunity. One he is relieved he had the presence of mind to act upon.

The way is arduous but not completely beyond his strength. Scaling the ridge proves to be the most taxing endeavour.

He’s fortunate this desolate rock holds little combustible material. It had pained Thor to abandon his martyred brother’s body to the elements without so much as a funeral pyre to mark his passing, but Loki had counted on that. What he hadn’t quite expected was how easy Thor would make this for him. The golden imbecile had departed on foot.

His einherjar form is not necessary just yet, but he dare not dispel the illusion he has conjured. (It had worked. Thank the ancestors, it had worked). Maintaining a glamour costs a fraction of the effort each new change does, and he does not wish to overtax himself. And besides, he must master all the subtleties of his new disguise if it’s going to be convincing. He holds the threads of the magic in his mind beside the camouflage that thwarts Heimdall’s gaze and focuses his concentration on the task at hand.

Once he’s confident his movements won’t give him away, he assesses the idling skiff for damage. It is listing slightly to one side and some of its panelling has been shorn off during the journey, but it’s a simple matter of clearing the coating of fine black sand that has settled over the vents before it lifts smoothly from the ground. The approaching storm buffets and rocks it as it rises, but it should hold steady with some speed. It will certainly outrun the worst of it.

He’s confident its absence (and that of his body) won’t be missed. A search party will undoubtedly be dispatched to locate his brother, and he supposes there’s a chance Thor might feel sentimental enough to want to return for what he’s left behind, but it’s doubtful he’ll be confident of the location. Thor always did leave the logistics of their little jaunts to Loki and this time has been no different.

He coaxes the vehicle into proper flight and turns it, heading back the way they came. The shattered remnants of this world pass by like skeletal fingers, the hulls of ships long scuttled exposing the bones of their structures to the indifferent grey air.

The quiet of it gnaws at him and he urges the skiff to fly quicker.

If he’s being generous to Thor, he must admit the passageway would be difficult for a layman to locate again. He might struggle himself were it not for the invisible pull of the tear. The disturbance, the wrongness, the otherworldly crackle of it whispers to his senses. He can almost taste the petrichor flavour of it on his tongue, and the nearer he approaches, the sharper it becomes.

He has no one to impress this time and a wound to favour, so he eases through the tear at a more sedate pace than before. It takes slightly more from him than he had hoped to commit to increase his shield against the gaze of the gatekeeper as he passes the threshold, but it is necessary.

The craft coasts over smooth and agitated water alike. As he nears the outskirts of the city, he cloaks both himself and the water the skiff displaces. It is a further strain and his wound protests, but he won’t have to maintain it for long.

At the shore he finds a spot not far from the dock to sink the craft beneath the waves. It’s a sturdy beast and not predisposed to capsize, but by flooding the vents and overburdening the upward thrust he’s able to rend a weakened panel in two. It welcomes the steady progress of water and accepts its fate. When it is fully submerged, he releases its cloaking with a sigh of relief and rests for a moment among the rocks. His wound burns in the saltwater and his limbs begin to feel heavy, so he doesn’t linger for long.

He intercepts the search party on their way to the observatory. He does not try to turn them back, but instead suggests silently to them that they will find some of what they seek. There will be no sign of Thor or his woman, no sign either of the weapon. But they will find a body, and circumstances will prevent them from bringing it back. A sandstorm, perhaps; he will leave the details to them. The Allfather will be notified, of course. They needn’t trouble themselves with that.

Their minds accept this fiction willingly. They have no great love for their fallen prince and in their hearts they fear Thor may be lost to them. The illusion so closely matches their innermost thoughts that the magic required is little. They continue on their way with barely a pause.

He remains unmolested for the rest of the journey to the palace; an officious aura and purposeful stride is all that’s required to pass unnoticed. He will not court discovery, however, and looks to take hidden ways into the palace proper.

The way is long but requires no more than instinct and memory to navigate. He has been a shadow on these paths for centuries, the routes between destinations well-trod over the years. The underground network has been his hideaway, his accomplice and his ally since he was a child, its rooms and chambers never closed to him. He draws that knowledge around himself now as he heads deeper into its embrace.

The scents of the healing hall reach him first; marjoram, fennel and citrus combine in a heady mix of soothing and sharp. These are the scents of his boyhood, of misdeeds and adventure, of safety and comfort. The low murmur of patient voices reaches him next, and he takes a steadying breath before slipping entirely into shadow.

He helps himself to a salve from a shelf of medicinal ointments, jars and pumices. The ingredients he needs for a powder are easy enough to purloin, but he has to employ distraction to spirit away the pestle and mortar he needs. While the healers are still puzzling over the toppled bell jar, he snags a length of wrapping from a neatly folded stack.

He finds an empty alcove at the secluded end of the hall and pulls the privacy drape in place. He’s confident he can disguise himself again in time if he’s disturbed and finally allows his cloak and glamour to dissolve entirely. He perches on the edge of the bunk and closes his eyes for only a moment.

It’s an effort of will to peel his bracing arm from his midsection, and when it comes away his clothing is sticky and damp. There is heat and a rich copper smell that even the saltwater hasn’t completely dispelled.

He takes a dagger to his ruined tunic and suppresses a hiss as it comes away from the wound. It bleeds sluggishly but is not as ugly as he’d feared; the edges are clean instead of ragged and no part of the blade remains inside. It will scar, but it will not be too unsightly.

Once he has stripped and bared his torso, he cleans the site of the wound as best he can. The sealing powder he crushes burns when it comes into contact with his exposed flesh and the angle is a little awkward, but he manages. It stems the worst of the bleeding. The salve will ward off the poisons that can take root in a wound of this kind, and the wrappings he winds tightly around his midsection should prevent him from reinjuring himself as he moves.

He finds when he is done that he feels weary. His body longs for rest. The time he has spent languishing in his cell has hardly been conducive to maintaining peak condition, and he supposes even Thor would concede rest for a battle wound like this.

But he cannot rest just yet. There is still one more thing he must do, and the task will be no hardship. If he’s truly honest with himself (and he tries to be even when no one else will), this is a duty he relishes.

He finds Odin alone in the throne room, pacing haltingly among the detritus of battle. The Allfather looks worn and weary, the twin hurts of grief and betrayal weighing heavily upon him. Loki feels a confusing surge of anger and pity when he sees this and reminds himself this is all the old man’s own doing.

Odin climbs the dais as Loki-as-einherjar approaches, the patriarch’s proud shoulders hunched with burden and age. The old man is turned towards his broken throne and looks every bit the elderly dictator coming to the end of his reign.

“Forgive me, my liege,” Loki begins, addressing the back of the mighty ruler brought low. “I’ve returned from the Dark World with news.”

The last time he was in this room, a supplicant at the mercy of Asgard’s might, he’d had the Allfather’s full attention. Swift had been his judgement then. This time he sees he will have to work to coax forth the emotion he craves: not anger but sorrow, or — dare he even hope — even one small scrap of approval.

Odin’s head turns just slightly, the promise of hope enough to move him to speak.

“Thor?” he asks, and the longing in it is enough to ignite Loki’s ire. He will dash the old fool’s hopes with casual dismissal and watch as he stoops even lower.

“There’s no sign of Thor or the weapon, but…” He lets the pause stretch and steps closer, the anticipation delicious. Yes, he has Odin’s full attention now.

“What?” the Allfather prompts, and is that apprehension Loki can detect in his eye?

“We found a body.”

It is almost too perfect a moment to contain, but contain it Loki must. This is it now, what he’s waited a lifetime to hear. A declaration of regret, perhaps, or a single tear of loss. Surely a spasm of paternal grief, if only for the tiny foundling he once felt the compassion to deliver into the kindness of his wife’s arms. At least some sign of kingly sorrow, even in the presence of such a lowly servant.

Loki bows his head and waits, and the Allfather speaks his name.

He savours the sound. He perhaps fails to hide all of his triumph when he meets Odin’s gaze, his silence enough to confirm his king’s fear.

The absence of reaction from the Allfather echoes loudly around the chamber, and Loki experiences an exquisite stab of anxiety. He is caught, his mind insists. His glamour has been too weak or he has given himself away. Odin has recognised him and will call for his arrest. He will laugh at him as he sends him away and mock this pathetic attempt to gain favour.

But no. No. It is much worse than that.

Odin turns away from his news-bearer with the dismissive air of the high born. When he speaks, it is with such flat detachment that Loki can barely believe his ears.

“Then justice has been served,” Odin decrees, and Loki reels where he stands.

His wound throbs beneath its bindings to make its presence known, and for a moment his glamour flickers before he regains mastery of himself. He takes a hurried step forward as Odin ascends towards his throne. There is a way to salvage this, he is sure. The old fool clearly doesn’t understand.

“Forgive me, sire,” Loki stammers. “There is more. It would appear as though battle was met. There were many elves slain, a number by the prince’s hand.”

Odin is unmoved by this and apparently has no comment. Loki flounders for a moment for the right thing to say, for the words that will garner Odin’s admiration. He must lead the old man to the correct conclusion without tipping his hand.

“Your son died valiantly in battle,” he continues with a worryingly genuine waver of emotion. “His body was laid as if in state, his weapon in his hands.”

I died a hero, Loki thinks. Will you not even acknowledge it?

“Clearly my son yet lives,” Odin answers with some impatience. If there is any regret for Loki’s passing, he hides it well. “You will return with fresh men to seek him out, and you will not stop until he and the Aether are found.”

So that is all the thought he is to be spared. As only a footnote to his brother’s story, a distasteful accident of fate, an embarrassment, a family’s shame. He is passed over even at his most glorious hour.

Loki feels stunned. He’s too removed from his own emotions to question why he’s surprised.

“And what of Prince Loki,” he forces himself to ask. “Would you have us arrange funeral rites?”

“The ceremony is not for traitors, even royal ones,” the Allfather answers. “Have him interred beyond the city walls, well out of sight of the people.”

He is dismissed by a raising of the royal chin, but it takes him a moment to respond.

Confusion and hurt are crashing in, hysteria threatening to burst free. He will not even be granted a commoner’s wake, deserving nothing at all for his sacrifice. Were his mother still here perhaps it would be different, but on Odin’s part it seems there really was scarce little affection to be had.

More alarming is the power the old tyrant’s words still have over him, on a disgraced son already so utterly convinced of his father’s disdain. He had not expected this level of cruelty at all, but to have it rip the still beating heart from his chest with such force is to admit to his own lingering weakness.

“As you command, my liege,” he manages to choke out, and turns to make his retreat. He is only a few steps in when the anger and hatred rise up to swallow him, and he clings to these old friends like a drowning man to a raft.

“You would disown your own son so readily,” he hisses as he turns back, spittle flying in the force of his contempt. Odin reveals no displeasure in the face of this impertinence, and his calm demeanour goads Loki further into fury.

Does he know, Loki thinks. Does he toy with me even now?

He bares his teeth at the man he once called Father and advances once again. His fingers itch for a real weapon.

“There is nothing to be done that pleases you,” Loki accuses sweetly, “no deed or gesture that conforms to the Allfather’s standards. We are all of us judged before we so much as try, and woe betide those who fail to meet their king's lofty expectations.”

“Be silent!” Odin bellows, his pride finally piqued.

Where once Loki may have quailed in the face of his father’s temper, the command only serves to fuel his rage. He will be silent no longer, hold his peace no more. He will have his victory one way or the other and he will bring the Allfather to his knees.

The power he summons is there at his calling without need for conscious thought. Even unplanned, the spell weaves itself with intricate care, and almost before he realises he’s doing it, he’s casting it at his father with all the seidr he can muster.

The angry tears track unnoticed down his face and his wound flares white hot. He grits his teeth and growls out his agony as he works.

The Allfather counters his efforts with a surge of magic that staggers them both. They battle furiously without landing a single blow, the air around them sharp and acrid with duelling forces.

Weary and ageing though he may be, the Allfather’s seidr is powerful, and Loki struggles to master his defences. He drops all pretences now, his presence exposed to the sight of Heimdall and Odin alike. Despite the extra edge this gives him, it is not quite enough, and within moments he feels the Allfather’s efforts begin to overwhelm him. The tear in his side screams at him, and he has just enough time to rue this attempt while so badly injured.

Oh shit, is all he can think when the spell turns back on itself and slams Loki into perfect darkness.

Chapter Text

He has said too much.

If this is some kind of trick, a ruse to put him at ease or a new gambit to reveal his weaknesses, he has played right into their hands.

If it is not… Well. He’s not sure that possibility offers him any comfort.

The hot water pounding his back is soothing and luxurious. It soaks into his muscles and sluices blood and grime from his skin. The pain of his injuries is easing as they heal, although the mess he has made to his front will likely take longer to seal than the rest. He lets the water run over them and leans heavily into the small measure of privacy he has been allowed. He is caught between a desire to relax into the relief the water offers and a visceral urge to remain alert. He is not alone, and he cannot afford to let his guard down even if he were. Regardless, it feels good to finally be clean.

The steam and the heat starts to make him feel light-headed, so with reluctance he shuts the shower off. He dries and dresses under the watchful eye of his artificial caretaker and is escorted back to his cell. He does not answer any of the questions put to him as he goes.

He will not let his frustration get the better of him next time. He will tread more carefully. He will determine the course of any future interrogation, and he will guard his discoveries more closely.

He’ll certainly be more mindful about exposing his ignorance. He’s been careless. Foolish.

His captors had finally been at a loss for words. He had gained a grim sense of satisfaction from that at least. Once they’d recovered their equilibrium he had tuned them out, their questions and doubts and strangely earnest assurances allowed to pass over him without comment. In hindsight he perhaps should have used the opportunity to learn something, or to turn the situation to his advantage. He had not wanted to reveal just how overwhelmed he had felt at that time. How little he knows. How completely defenceless he is. He hadn’t trusted himself to remain calm.

Loki. They’d called him Loki.

It had sounded strange to his ears, a word that had not inspired even the slightest sense of ownership. But it was something. Whoever this person was, he’d had a name.

He’d focused on the view outside and let himself retreat from the demands on his attention. He’d wanted to go out in it, to feel the wind on his face and the sun on his skin. More than anything he wishes to leave these confines behind and to be allowed the space to breathe. He doesn’t know where exactly he would go. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter.

Whatever this place is, it is different to the last. Different also to the pictures that come to him in his dreams, already vague and distant apparitions that no longer feel quite as real as they once did. They spoke of a tower, but there is no sign of any structure resembling what some unknown part of him half expects. Everything here is so very ordinary. So very unremarkable.

“Will you not speak to me?” the one called Vision says when they enter the small room, finally breaking into his reverie. His tone suggests he has tried many times to draw Loki out.

Loki keeps his eyes fixed ahead and doesn’t allow Vision’s disappointment to affect him. The synthetic being finally takes his leave, and he is left alone in his cell.

Vision had at least kept his word — Loki had been allowed to retreat not long after the insistent babble had become too much. He’d cut across them with an insistence he be allowed to return, and with obvious reluctance they had finally acquiesced. A small measure of power, perhaps, but any control he can exert over his situation he will gladly use.

A tightness he has been carrying in his muscles melts away a little now that he’s alone, but he keeps the door in sight as he reclines. More food has been left for him which he tries to ignore, the sickly smell of it turning his stomach. His mind is too full to heed the demands of his body, and he’s not sure he’s quite ready to trust their food anyway.

He lets his eyes travel over the bland room they keep him in. The door has no window, but there are evidently eyes on him at all times. They know of his movements, and he must be mindful of what they might be watching for. A lack of activity would perhaps be the safest course until he can determine more.

He lets out a long breath. He feels empty. Hollow. As though he is slowly losing something, something important. He’s not sure what he has left to lose when it seems most everything else has been taken from him, but the feeling lingers all the same.

And he is tired. He has not needed to fight sleep (resist them, his body whispers, do not let them take you unawares) but his mind longs for a reprieve. He does not mourn the absence of the lassitude that imprisoned him more securely than walls and chains could, but neither does he relish this newfound disquiet that will not release its hold.

How did he come to be here? What has happened to him? Who is he?

There is a complete absence of memory, a lack of reference, a hole where his past should be. And it is not simply an emptiness that could pass unnoticed. This is not a benign forgetfulness or the blissful ignorance of something never known or missed. It has sharp and jagged edges where it has been ripped away, leaving him exposed and painfully aware of the gap. He knows there should be something there, but he can’t quite reach it.

He has already had all night to think on it. Those hours of solitude, while underpinned by apprehension and pain, had offered the first real opportunity he’s had to ponder his situation. His mind had shied from probing his scant few memories too closely, but he recalls only too well the impending panic that void of understanding had brought him to.

And more than this is the insidious curl of something dark inside him, something alive and powerful and frightening.

Something hums beneath his skin. It is a glimpse out of the corner of his eye that disappears when he turns to look. It is a missed step in the dark, a whisper in the howling wind. It is an instinct, a sense he can’t describe. He yearns for it without understanding what it is he seeks to control, an addiction he cannot satisfy but that pulls at him all the same.

There is something very wrong with him.

He curls himself tighter against the corner and allows his eyes to close. His racing thoughts chase themselves in ever tightening circles and he slows his breathing to quiet them. If he allows himself to rest now, he may be better prepared to face whatever comes next. To unpick his thoughts and begin to plan.

But he mustn’t sink too far.

He props himself more securely upright and leans his head against the cool surface of the wall. He allows his limbs to go lax, his breathing to deepen. He lets his mind clear and feels sleep rush to claim him. It is sanctuary and unwelcome intruder both, and he embraces it all the same. He knows what waits for him in that realm.

Sometimes when he sleeps he is haunted by comforting lies.

The woman who tells them is betrayed and betrayer both. She is robed in majesty and wisdom, her face bright and quick to laughter. She is a warrior queen, a protector, a ruler. Her lullaby is a war song, her touch a soft caress. Her absence is a lance to his chest, her acceptance a balm he does not need.

He hides himself from the promise of her open arms. She does not feel like love.


When they come to fetch him again it is much the same as before. He is not certain how much time has passed, but the heaviness in his limbs and the stiffness in his neck suggests he has slept for longer than he intended.

He is instantly alert when the door slides open, the remnants of sleep swept aside with a spike of adrenaline. He notes absently that his mind feels clearer for it, and on the journey to the interrogation area he decides upon his strategy.

He will use his opportunity to gain more information. If nothing else, these new people seem disposed to talk, though how much he can trust what they say he is not certain. He should formulate a plan, watch for a chance to escape. These people seem better prepared to contain him than the last, even if they appear more relaxed, but there are fewer of them, and on the surface their precautions seem light.

But appearances can be deceiving. The armour the metal man wears is formidable, and although barely tested the strength of this artificial creature seems greater than his own. It is powerful, that much is clear.

He smooths his fingers over the band of metal at his wrist, the surface cool and featureless to the touch. He is shackled as much as he ever was, even with no chain in sight.

The room is empty this time, and after a quick sweep to check for anything untoward he makes his way to the window. He feels Vision’s eyes on him as he goes and contrives to ignore him. It is possible to keep the room’s entrances and its occupants in his field of vision if he stands just so, while still allowing him an unobstructed view of the world outside. He makes sure to keep the activity on the other side of the room in his periphery at all times.

The sky is darkening outside. Much of the day has already passed, it would seem. There is still enough light to make out the distant water, although he can’t hear its movements.

He briefly entertains a bid for freedom. The glass before him is thick but not impossibly so, and the ground is not far below. He wonders how far he could run before the invisible servant delivers punishment, and if there are limits to her influence. He wonders if the damage that can be done to him would truly be enough to kill him, or if this is all an elaborate bluff. Perhaps he will test these boundaries. But not now.

They have not harmed him. Not yet. There might be more he can learn, if he chooses to stay longer. And it will be a choice. His choice. He did not speak lightly of his intention to die if he must.

He will not suffer their testing again.

The metal man and the colonel enter the room together, deep in conversation. He spares them a glance that covers a more appraising look and satisfies himself that they will not try to approach him.

“I’m telling you,” the loud one — Tony — is saying, “we can keep this under the radar.” He drops the flat, square boxes he carries onto the countertop and moves further into the kitchenette.

The colonel follows him. “Yeah, but for how long? Things are more… complicated than we were counting on.”

Tony follows the colonel’s eyes and casts a dubious look towards Loki’s back. “That’s assuming we’re buying what he’s selling,” he says with obvious scepticism.

The two of them continue to bicker. Loki watches all this out of the corner of his eye and gives no outward reaction to their words. They suspect he plays at ignorance, that much is clear. As much as he fears he has given himself away, he has at least made his situation plain. Their mistrust rankles for a reason he can’t quite identify.

He tells himself he’s not concerned whether they believe him or not. It matters little to him. What does matter is what they will do with the information he has already given them and whether they have a means to use it against him.

They seem to know him.

Or at least, they know who he is supposed to be. Much of what they say is incomprehensible, but it is clear they consider him an enemy. What purpose they could have for keeping him here if that is the case is a mystery to him. If it were simply vengeance for some previous forgotten crime, he would not expect the relative freedoms he seems to have been granted. And yet so far, they have not moved against him. They have not tried to take him to another white room.

He is weary of feeling vulnerable. Of waiting for the axe to fall. He decides to take the initiative and force their hand, to whatever ends that may bring him. And apart from anything else, he longs to finally know something.

The pair busy themselves opening bottles, pausing frequently to argue and gesticulate with the kitchen implements they’re using. When their backs are turned he makes his move. He approaches the counter separating them from the rest of the room under the watchful eye of Vision and waits silently for one of them to turn back around. It is Tony who does so first.

The man starts with a barely swallowed noise of surprise and half drops the bottles he holds onto the surface in front of him. “Jesus,” he huffs with poorly concealed alarm. The colonel also stops what he’s doing and turns quickly to check.

They make no move to defend themselves, but neither do they relax. They seem to be waiting for him to do something, though what that is he’s not quite sure. They both start to speak.

“Tell me,” Loki says, cutting their words off with his own. “Tell me how you know me.”

They stop and stare, then look between one another as though deciding their course of action. They are withholding information from him. Information that should be his by rights. He cannot allow that to continue.

“Uh, okay,” Tony says. The expression on his face suggests he finds the prospect of this conversation uncomfortable. Good. If he is unprepared and pressed, he will be more likely to reveal information of value. “But just for the record, I’m still on the dubious side of the fence. Call me agnostic. These guys might be ready to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you and I? We have history.”

Interesting. But perhaps not surprising, given the man’s behaviour. “Then you won’t mind revealing what that is.”

Tony looks at him hard for a moment. “The last time we met you threw me off a building. A tall building. Through an otherwise intact window, I might add. Ringing any bells?”

Loki has no idea how he’s expected to react to that, but the thought is faintly amusing. He settles for a mild, “Hmm. Well, you are incredibly irritating.”

Tony registers surprise at this before his expression darkens. He turns back to forcefully retrieve a stack of napkins from a drawer behind him and seems to work up some nerve before continuing. “Oh, and before that?” he adds with deceptive levity. “You killed a few people. Enslaved a few more. Did your damndest to subjugate the human race. Me and some friends, we stopped you.” The man meets Loki’s eyes with something of a challenge in them and waits for a response.

Alarming, Loki thinks, but not beyond the realms of possibility. He supposes airing these thoughts would be a mistake. “I imagine I had a very good reason,” he offers instead.

“Nope. Because see — you’re not the hero of this story. You’re what we call the bad guy.”

How quaint. “All men believe their cause to be just. The judgement of history does tend to favour the victor.”

Tony gives him a sour look. “Yeah. We’re going to have to agree to disagree there.”

He will need time to dissect all this later. For now he means to goad as much as he can from this man, even if he likes little of what he hears. “And how did I hope to achieve this diabolical feat?”

“Looking for pointers, are we?” Tony counters. He moves towards the room’s large table and hands what he’s carrying to Vision. “You’re not exactly from around here, but I’m guessing you’ve worked that out by now.”

They have hinted at such, it is true. What that means exactly…

“And what of us,” Vision interrupts after he has set everything down, steering the conversation away from the fight Tony always seems to be angling for. “What is it that you think we want?”

He seems insightful, this one. Less inclined to speak without thought. And perceptive. Lies are unlikely to be effective. “To prevent me from leaving,” Loki says truthfully.

“And what else?”

“To harm me. To force me to your will.” The admission seems to wound them, although that was not Loki’s intention. He finds himself feeling increasingly uncertain of his status here.

“I can assure you that is not the case,” Vision says. “What those other men did — that will not happen to you here.”

“You understand that we’re the good guys, right?” Tony says, miffed. “We’re the ones that bust you out of there.”

Perhaps he… does. “To what purpose?”

“Does there have to be a reason? Apart from it just being the right thing to do?”

Loki considers this. “But I am no friend to you.”

“Doesn’t matter. Still not gonna fly. And besides, we couldn’t risk them getting hold of what they wanted.”

“And what was that, exactly?”

The pause is significant. “You don’t know?”

Loki thinks perhaps he does. Or at least suspects. He doesn’t quite know how to explain what that means, even to himself.

He turns to move back to the window, taking that half-formed fear with him, and worries absently at the skin of his palm. Night has fallen quickly outside, and the light of the room they stand in casts reflections on the glass that obscure the view.

He falters when he sees his image in the mirror-like surface and he swallows down a swell of dread that flushes his skin cold.

The man from the white room looks back at him, his face pale and his frame angular. He is not imposing, not in the clothes he wears now, and his eyes hold something haunted that he did not detect before. But his hair, his height, the features of his face...

There can be no doubting it now.

“You should eat something,” comes a voice at his shoulder, and he jerks away before he can stop himself. The colonel looks at him with something like concern in his eyes and holds a plate out to him at arm’s length.

For a moment Loki imagines slapping it out of the man’s hand. He pictures vividly the colour his blood will be when he takes up a broken piece and uses it to effect his escape. He can almost hear the snap of bone, feel the crunch of it beneath his fingers as he fights his way free. It’s what he should do, a part of his mind insists.

Instead he stalks away and wraps his arms around his chest, the force of his grip enough to contain his racing heart.

He is the monster they say he is. Perhaps they are right to cage him.

Chapter 9

Notes:

Thank you all so much for your kind responses to the last chapter, and apologies for keeping you waiting for this chapter. You guys rock.

Chapter Text

Jesus Christ he’s tired.

Tired in that headachey, wired sort of way that will not ease up no matter how much booze, work or soft lighting Tony throws at it. The longer he lies awake the more he winds himself up, the wasted minutes ticking by without actually resulting in the rest his gritty eyes tell him he desperately needs. And he’s fixating on that. He knows he is. The injustice of it is that he only came up here because he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. Now that he’s horizontal it’s like the little bastards have got their second wind.

Fuck it.

He gives up on sleep halfway through the third attempt to untwist the sheets clinging to his restless legs and goes in search of coffee.

Yawning, he scrubs a hand through his hair that he’s pretty sure leaves it sticking up worse than it already was. He’s not worried. Rhodey is away on Mission Discreetly Point Someone Important At The Mess Still To Be Cleaned Up Out East and Vision is tucked up doing... whatever the hell it is Vision does at night. Not sleeping, presumably.

The brew he concocts is thick and bitter and exactly what he needs. He sucks down the first cup while he’s still at the counter, the chilly tiles beneath the pads of his feet a sharp counterpoint to the hot liquid scalding his tongue.

The remains of tonight’s predictably failed dinner attempt are congealing in scattered containers that no one could be bothered to put away. Tony nudges a particularly unappetising selection out of olfactory range and pours a second cup of coffee to go.

Vision seems to be conducting a vicarious tour through the foodstuffs of the world. Or at least he would be, if any of them were being eaten by their intended recipient. Today it was Thai. Yesterday it was something resembling Mexican. A variety of tempting offerings designed to coax their guest into some semblance of nutritional engagement. Tony doesn’t have the heart to tell him he suspects he’s wasting his time. Asgardians can apparently function for long periods of time on water and sheer pig-headedness alone.

The deserted air to the place becomes more complete as Tony heads drowsily downstairs. He passes workout rooms long gone unused, stores of equipment no longer checked out, training areas gone still and silent. There was a time when he found the quiet of the facility jarring. Tonight it’s what he needs.

He hasn’t checked the time, but it’s pitch dark outside. Cold rain pelts the glass of the windows in gusty waves as he approaches the workshop. The lights blink on reluctantly when he enters and the cool air of the room soothes the tension he still holds around his eyes. The comforting smell of solder and oil enfolds him like the welcoming familiarity of routine.

Mindless distraction has always worked for him in the past. Contrary to popular belief, his tinkering isn’t about escaping his problems. That’s what alcohol is for. And, admittedly, the bigger projects that absorb his focus for days on end, the pure discovery of it all enough to crowd out everything else. Like eating. Sleeping. Human relationships.

He pushes an errant, rueful thought of Pepper firmly to one side.

No. The smaller fish, the playtime stuff — this is how he relaxes. It gives a small part of his brain just enough to keep it occupied while the rest goes still. If he can focus his thoughts away from whatever’s bugging him, his subconscious can sometimes sneak up on the solution.

Inspiration often strikes while he’s in the shower. Or performing some other mundane task. Or driving a familiar route. Then wham, he has to pull over and find a pen because if he doesn’t write it down it’ll get lost before he can finish what he’s doing.

What’s on his mind tonight is the same thing that’s been kicking the shit out of it since Rhodey brought everyone’s favourite home video back for show and tell.

And he really, really would like to get the star of so many of his nightmares out of head, at least during his waking hours. Especially as there are apparently a hell of a lot more of those turning up just now.

Rolling his shoulders, Tony hunkers down over the magnifier and scrutinises the delicate circuitry he gave up on only a few hours ago. He gets to work, letting his fingers manipulate the fine tools with the focused calm he finds it so easy to slip into.

This is his happy place. This is his zen.

He lets his mind run back over the last couple of days, picking at the many threads that still hang loose. Maybe if he can break everything down into its component parts he can rebuild them again into something that makes sense. Because as it stands, the questions he has loom too big to properly answer.

Major Problem Number One? Working out how to send a supposedly mind-wiped, potentially murderous and seriously unhinged alien demigod back to where he came from, who knows how many light years away, without any means of contacting said home and the only people who might be able to help. All while their best shot at doing it either can’t, or more likely won’t, give them the information they need to see it done.

Major Problem Number Two? Deciding whether the supposedly mind-wiped, potentially murderous and seriously unhinged alien demigod actually is mind-wiped, whether they should help address that, and how they would go about it even if they wanted to. All while knowing the answer to Major Problem Number One is probably pretty dependent on undoing whatever might be causing the hypothetical (and highly convenient) memory lapse.

Major Problem Number Three? Coming up with a contingency plan if they a) can’t send their crazy powerful, crazy long-lived and just straight up crazy wanted war criminal home or, more critically, b) work out their crazy war criminal’s play when the amnesia act proves to be one almighty hoax.

Tony sighs, pushes himself upright and wheels himself over to the workbench behind him to search for the components he needs.

He can’t decide what to think. And it’s driving him insane.

Of course Loki would mess with their heads. He’s all about mind games. Misdirection. Mayhem. Lies and illusions and a subtle approach would be as natural to him as breathing. But something, some undefined, elusive unease is niggling at Tony’s carefully constructed defences. Making him question his very reasonable, very sensible suspicions.

Far as he can see, there are three possibilities.

Possibility One: Loki is telling the truth. He really doesn’t remember who he is, what he’s done and what he’s capable of. The knowledge to send him home is trapped in his head, along with who knows what else.

Possibility Two: Loki is lying. This is part of some convoluted plan to lull them into a false sense of security. Loki has some nefarious plot in the works that involves infiltrating their team, bringing them on side and blindsiding them.

Possibility Three: Loki is withholding the full truth. He’s found himself in a sticky situation and is playing them to his advantage now that they’ve given him a way out of it.

Much as he’d really like to dismiss Possibility One out of hand, Tony has to admit that the evidence is stacking up in its favour.

Firstly, he simply cannot think what advantage Loki hopes to gain with a lie like this. He’s looked at it every which way, worked every angle, and he just can’t see it. Tony may not be an evil mastermind, but he is a genius, and he’s had time to think this through. He’s coming up blank every time.

Secondly, it seems a clumsy tactic. It should be obvious it wouldn’t hold water. Not with Tony.

That serial killer smile is yet to put in an appearance, and levels of outright hostility are lower than Tony’s been expecting. And while they’re all tip-toeing around the ugly ass elephant in the room, there’s been a distinct lack of freaky space wizardry. Tony tested that cuff to a level bordering on obsession before they started this thing, and the hair trigger he put on that baby should flip at so much as a flicker. And yet so far, no dice.

There’s a chance, of course — a good chance — that the guy’s playing a long game. Laying up some sympathy. Putting them at ease. Watching for an opening (or an unprotected back). Tony hasn’t missed the covert glances at anything even approaching a weapon, an exit or a likely threat.

But then, that’s just it, isn’t it? Tony hasn’t missed them.

Loki’s either seriously off his game, or this? This is the real deal.

Kicked your ass pretty handily if I remember, Rhodey had said last night.

Tony had scoffed. I was trying to catch him. He was trying to kill me.

He’s not having so much luck this time around. Catching someone out in a lie is pretty damn hard to do when you know so little about them. That had become painfully obvious embarrassingly quickly.

They’ve been over it all.

All the weird family crap Thor has inadvertently let slip with a sad smile or a cryptic reference. All the mythic backstory and fantastical abilities. All the crazy shit Tony’s seen in person. The genocidal mania, murder and mind control. The alien hordes and gigantic space whales. The hole in space.

Hell. Hearing it all spoken out loud, it had sounded ludicrous.

Oh, and also? You were dead, by the way. We’re a little light on the details, but…

Loki has responded to every piece of information with a disturbing flatness. Because sure, no one wants to hear they’re a basket case. But something should have hit a nerve. Gotten a rise. Cracked that soulless, prince of darkness exterior the guy has going for him. Revealed the scam for exactly what it is.

Something should have tripped Tony’s bullshit alarm.

Apparently not. Because Loki has taken everything they’ve handed him and given them nothing in return. Not a twitch. Not a huff. Not a single word of defence. Not a play for sympathy, or an abject denial, or even a hint of surprise. Nothing. And now he’s stopped talking. Again.

The last couple of days have left Tony with a bad taste in his mouth and a whole load of unanswered questions. He’d expected to feel like an idiot, laying it all out like that. Playing to the act. Having Loki stand there laughing at him, a mask in place for the others.

But Tony’s not getting that. Not at all. Instead he’s finding himself re-evaluating his take on the situation, and he’s got to be honest — he doesn’t like it.

Tony leans back in his chair and shoves his fingers into his eyes.

The guy is shutting down. Closing off. And Tony’s finally worked out why that seems so familiar.

Remind you of anyone? Rhodey had asked.

What’s worse is they’re getting nowhere.

Tony likes to think of himself as a pretty easy-going guy. Got skeletons in your closet? So does he. Have a tendency towards some of the more extreme personality traits on the spectrum? It’s cool — he’s not exactly the poster child for meek and mild himself. Got a past you’re not so proud of? Welcome to the club.

But give him nothing to work with and Tony’s patience goes off the deep end in a big way. Loki’s pulling tighter into his shell with each one-sided conversation and wielding the only weapon he still can with devastating force: Asgardian-Strength Silent Treatment™.

And if there’s one thing Tony cannot resist doing, it’s filling a silence.


The nail of Tony’s left thumb is well and truly fucked. His teeth continue to worry at it despite that fact, the wall at his back propping him up as he decides.

This is a mistake. Irresponsible. Asking for trouble. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many ways this could blow up in his face.

He should wait for Vision. Or at least discuss this with Rhodey. Let them talk him out of it, maybe. But then he’s not sure he wants to have that conversation or to find out where it would lead. Rhodey would be so painfully understanding, of course. So earnestly accommodating. Tony doesn’t want to examine his own motivations for doing this thing too closely, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let someone else fill in those blanks for him. He doesn’t particularly want an audience for this, either.

He almost turns and walks away twice. In the end it’s frustration with his own hesitation that has his hand moving to punch the code into the panel.

Loki’s perched at the head of the bed on his haunches, arms draped over his knees and head lowered. Creepy bastard that he is, he puts Tony in mind of an enormous, hibernating vampire bat.

He barely spares Tony a glance when the door slides open, and the lack of reaction only adds an edge of impatience to the confusing tangle of emotion that’s making Tony irritable. He’s had enough of this. He’s had enough of this whole ridiculous situation.

“Okay,” he says with what he hopes is just the right balance of authority and patience. “We’re getting out of here. Come on. Let’s go.”

Loki turns his head to Tony listlessly but doesn’t move to get up.

“Take a walk with me,” Tony insists and leaves the room again without waiting for an answer.

He doesn’t have to hang around for long. Loki emerges from his lair with all the enthusiasm of a teenager invited on a grocery trip and falls reluctantly in step just behind Tony’s left shoulder. Tony tries really hard not to let this proximity bother him and, in his considered opinion, does a pretty convincing job of projecting casual self-assurance. The prototype nanotech nestled discreetly in the palm of his hand sure helps in that respect.

They take a route deeper into the heart of the facility that Tony’s pretty sure Loki’s not been led down before, and as it becomes obvious they’re not heading towards their usual destination, Loki begins to fall back a little.

Tony allows himself a small smile. Twitchier than a long-tailed cat.

Tony forges on ahead without letting on he’s noticed the hesitation and pushes his way through a set of double swing doors. He slips the shades over the bridge of his nose, satisfies himself everything is ready, and waits.

A few moments later, Loki cautiously follows. Tony watches his expression carefully.

As soon as he enters the room, Loki’s eyes sweep upward. His gaze follows the towering lines of giant redwood trunks as they reach high into the sky, their immense girth barely tapering as they rise. Their laden branches are soon lost to thick mist, their crowns some unknowable height above them.

A winding forest path meanders between the living monoliths and into an open glade carpeted with soft needles, the bank of a mountain river skirting its edge. The loud chitter of birds and other critters gives everything a sort of Disney quality, and the over-vibrant colours of the picnic blanket spread out at the base of one particular veteran stand out vividly against the otherwise muted scene. The only thing missing is the heady alpine scent that Tony’s senses expect.

Loki takes this all in without saying a word and eventually casts Tony a questioning look.

“Go ahead,” Tony tells him. “Knock yourself out.”

After a beat or two Loki steps forward, absorbing the scene around him. He takes a few short paces before he turns back to examine the wall behind them, noting the way it blends seamlessly into the forest. When he approaches a tree and reaches out to touch its bark, his fingers pass through it with a flicker of pixels.

“This is not real,” he concludes somewhat unnecessarily.

“Figured you’d appreciate a change of scenery. This is the closest I can offer to, you know. Actually going outside.”

Loki looks at Tony then. Really looks at him. It’s not a sensation Tony particularly enjoys, so he turns his attention to the chipmunks scolding one another on a nearby tree and concentrates hard on not noticing the appraisal.

This is pragmatism. That’s all this is. God knows being cooped up would be a fast ticket to driving Tony nuts, and if a little fresh air is what it takes to break the stalemate, it’s an olive branch Tony’s willing to extend. Even if that fresh air is nothing more than air conditioning and fancy visual tech.

He doesn’t state the obvious. That apart from the clear flight risk, a trip out even as far as the yard is not something they can chance just now. They don’t know who might be watching, and they don’t want to advertise Loki’s presence here.

Whether Loki accepts the gesture for what it is, Tony’s not sure. He watches as Loki heads further into the trees, stopping to turn a slow circle in place. He tilts his head to one side as a peal of child’s laughter reaches them from some distance away, its clarity somewhat lost to the distance of time and imperfect memory.

Loki meets Tony’s gaze and raises a curious eyebrow.

“Welcome to Yosemite, circa nineteen-seventy-something-or-other,” Tony says with a small smile. He wanders further into the scene, folding creaking knees to sit cross-legged on the waiting blanket. He has improved on the projection technology in recent months to rely less on physical props and anchors. He has to remind himself to brace for the discrepancy when he sinks a little lower than the uneven ground appears, settling not on the soft dirt his brain expects but on the cold hard floor of the room underneath.

He can still pretend, though.

“My folks brought me here on the way home from one of Dad’s business trips,” he says as Loki makes a slow circuit of one of the smaller sequoias. “The car broke down and we had some time to kill while the thing was in the shop, so we took a day trip to the nearest attraction. I remember it because it was one of the few times we were all together. It was just us, you know? No work. No meetings. Nothing to rush back for. I had a blast.”

More high-pitched laughter makes its way through the trees, and Tony can just make out the form of a boy flitting breathlessly from one hiding place to another.

“The child is you,” Loki guesses from his vantage point, watching as the indistinct shape of a woman creeps with over-dramatic menace towards her squealing son.

“Bears,” Tony remembers fondly. “I had this weird thing about bears.”

The two grey and faded figures chase each other playfully until they eventually disappear again into the mist. Tony’s still not certain if the hazy scenery is a true reflection of that day so many years ago or simply a result of the passage of time. It’s certainly harder to reconstruct vague memories than those burned into clarity by trauma or obsessive revisitation. And the further back he goes the less success the tech seems to have pulling out anything coherent.

“How is this all possible?” Loki asks absently as he gazes up into the trees. “Is this…” He twirls a hand in the air with obvious meaning but doesn’t elaborate further.

Tony’s mouth twitches. “Magic? Nope. Just your good old, garden variety science. And a splash of my brain’s poetic licence.”

“It is impressive,” Loki allows, and much as Tony would like to think it’s his brain being complimented, he takes the guy’s meaning. Loki checks back again towards the exit at their back and something begins to shutter behind his eyes. “I take it you’re not just showing me this to relieve my boredom.”

“See, that’s what I like about you, Lokes. Always thinking a few steps ahead.”

“I’d rather gotten the impression there was nothing you liked about me.”

Tony can’t help a smirk. He raises a finger to tap the side of his shades. “I can calibrate one of these babies for you,” he says. “Could probably do it without your permission if I had to. But it’d be a hell of a lot easier with your cooperation, and I’m guessing you’re about done with people screwing around in there.”

Loki scowls and wraps his arms around himself. The dangerous look he gives promises swift and disproportionate retribution for any attempt at unsolicited contact.

Yep. Called that one right.

“Look,” Tony continues, taking a small measure of pity on him (and very much valuing the current location and arrangement of his own internal organs). “You want to get out of here, right? And believe me, we want you off our hands. Seems to me the quickest way to do that is to try and fix whatever it is our white-coated friends have managed to jimmy with in there and get your input on how we might do that.”

“And here I was thinking you didn’t believe me. Silly me.”

“There’s no need to get snippy,” Tony continues, intrigued by the sarcasm despite himself. “If you’ve got nothing to hide, I can’t think of a better way to prove me wrong, can you?” If it works, they’ll get answers. If it doesn’t, at least they’ll know for certain where they stand. It’s a win-win situation in Tony’s books.

Loki doesn’t look so sure. “You’re assuming I want to be shipped off to wherever it is you would send me.”

“I guess I’ll take my chances. And besides, it’s gotta beat hanging around here with me for the foreseeable future, right?”

That earns him the barest flicker of a smile. It’s not much, but Tony will take it. “Besides,” he continues, “aren’t you curious about all the things you can’t remember? Hell, I know you better than you know you. That’s weird. And unhealthy. You’ve got to be dying to get that stuff back.”

Loki doesn’t exactly rush to agree, and Tony supposes that in his position, he might be more than a little leery of what could be lurking in the dark recesses of his mind. Still, there’s interest there, he can tell. It’s there in the way Loki gives him the side-eye (as though he thinks Tony won’t notice). It’s there in the lack of outright refusal, in the hesitation and the silence. It’s there in the nervous gestures Tony’s starting to pick up on now that he knows to look for them.

As though he’s become aware of the way he’s fidgeting, Loki moves further into the trees around them and is silent for some time. Tony is working himself up to try a new argument when Loki breaks the silence.

“If I agree to this… what do you suppose we will find? What… what am I?” The questions are quiet. Cautious. Almost… resigned. Tony isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do with them.

A hundred different answers queue belligerently on his tongue.

Sociopath. Villain. Monster.

He’s not shied from using those words in the past. But now that it comes to it, he finds he can’t give voice to any of them.

Tony’s seen acts of evil. And he’s seen amorality in action. For the longest time he’d counted Loki among that number, but it’s easy to write off everything as either black or white with enough distance that the greys get lost in between. If he’s completely honest with himself he hates to think of anyone as completely irredeemable, but he’s not about shirking responsibility either.

“You’re…” Tony stalls. What’s the word he’s looking for? ‘Misguided’ would be to duck the truth. ‘A lost cause’ isn’t quite right either. He doesn’t want to sugar-coat this, and he’s not going to make excuses for the crazy son of a bitch, but even he can see that complete vilification is the wrong way to go here.

He changes trajectory and tells himself he’s not dodging the question. “You’ve made some bad calls. Done some shitty things. For reasons I can’t begin to guess at. I’m not going to call them mistakes, ‘cause I think you knew exactly what you were doing, but I’m also pretty sure we’re working with two completely different frames of reference here.

“We let Thor take you home before because of that. We didn’t have to, and you’d better believe there were a whole lot of people very unhappy with that decision, but it was a call I would make again. Am making again. And I’d like to be able to get away without the political fallout this time if it’s all the same to you. I’ll never hear the end of it otherwise.”

He doesn’t add that apart from those calling for justice, punishment and, let’s face it, blood, there were others more interested in the asset they let slip through their fingers. One for which torture and experimentation would seem oh so reasonable when balanced against the crime. One that wasn’t even human to begin with, and certainly had no constitutional rights.

“Thor,” Loki murmurs, almost to himself. “You keep mentioning him. I should know who he is.”

Now there’s the understatement of the century. “Yeah, you could say that. You guys are…” He thinks about this for a sec. Close? Important to one another? The absolute personification of family melodrama and dysfunction? He goes with: “...complicated. But trust me. I don’t know you all that well, but I do know Thor. And I think you’re gonna want that back.”

He’s not sure what it is that does it. Perhaps it’s the note of sincerity that creeps into Tony’s words despite his best efforts, or perhaps something he’s said piques Loki’s interest. Whatever it is, it works, and Tony realises that he’s… well, surprised.

“Very well,” Loki says, finally turning back to Tony like he’s facing his own execution. “Let’s see what there is to find.”

Chapter Text

Rhodey’s not sure exactly what has changed, but on his return to the compound things are… different. It’s like a breath they’ve all been holding has finally been released, and while he wouldn’t call the situation relaxed exactly, the atmosphere has definitely improved.

The afternoon he gets back he finds everyone in the kitchen. Tony pokes distractedly at a tub of takeout as he manipulates a circuitry blueprint on the display in front of him. Vision is at the sink washing dishes and is the only one to offer Rhodey a hello.

It’s the third person in the room who stops him in his tracks as his hand is halfway to opening the refrigerator door.

Loki sits at the breakfast bar entirely unconcerned by Rhodey’s entrance. As if that wasn’t unusual enough in itself, his attention is focused with single-minded ferocity on the sub in his hands. The almost indecent efficiency with which he’s devouring it is a sight to behold.

Rhodey looks meaningfully at Tony across the room, who without meeting his eyes simply shrugs. When Rhodey then turns to Vision he receives a pleased smile that borders on smug.

Okaay, Rhodey thinks, and without further comment fetches himself the soda he’s been craving all day. He leans back against the counter and tries to hide his fascination behind an appreciative first pull at the bottle.

“Was your trip productive?” Vision enquires politely, and Rhodey has to tear his eyes away from the spectacle of Loki neatly unwrapping a second footlong.

“Um, sure,” he manages intelligently. “It went great.”

Vision doesn’t push for more, well aware that the debrief will have to wait for now. They’re playing safe, keeping Loki out of earshot. If they’re right it’s probably unnecessary, but if they’re not… doesn’t hurt to be cautious.

Rhodey’s pretty confident he’s nudged the right people in the right direction, although he’s going to have to be careful about how he confirms the desired effect. Something he intends to get Tony to look into, provided he can tear his friend away from whatever this shiny new project is that has caught his attention.

What they really need is intel. They need connections, funding streams, affiliated groups. They need to know what (if anything) has been achieved by their friends out east, what’s been shared, and what’s been done with whatever’s been learned. And they need to know how to stop any of it going further.

Rhodey has pointed good people at the problem, but what comes back might be out of their hands. If that’s the case he wants to make sure he, Tony and Vision are in a position to act on it first.

“Hey, Loki,” Tony calls over his shoulder, breaking Rhodey’s reverie. “C’mere a minute.”

Loki rolls his eyes with a long-suffering air that suggests this isn’t the first time he’s been asked to inconvenience himself recently, but to Rhodey’s surprise he sets his meal down and approaches Tony at the table. Tony points at something on the glowing screen, and the two of them move closer together to study it.

Rhodey leans in discreetly to Vision as this happens. “So…” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the pair at the table. “This is… new.”

Vision dries his hands off on a towel. “I understand our guest and Mr Stark are collaborating on a project of some kind. They appear to have had a ‘heart to heart’.”

It’s still weird to hear Vision use idioms like this, especially when the way he pronounces them gives them obvious air quotes. Rhodey frowns. “Should we be worried?” he asks. The question is at least half serious.

He watches as Tony produces a pair of shades and thwaps Loki in the chest with them. “Here,” Tony says, barely paying attention. “Try these on for size.”

Loki stares at the man without moving to take them. “You have got to be joking.”

The bickering that ensues ends with Loki crossing his arms and Tony looking sullen, but to Rhodey’s increasing wonder no blood is spilt. Tony agrees to work on something else, clearly aggrieved at having to do so. He mutters something about entitled higher beings and punctuates this by invading Loki’s personal space, crudely measuring the side of Loki’s head with the span of his fingers. Loki endures this for a moment before irritably swatting the offending hand away.

Rhodey watches this open-mouthed.

Vision rests a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome back, Colonel Rhodes,” he smiles.


The room Tony has commandeered for this little experiment is large, mostly empty and located in one of the unused wings of the facility. Judging by the set up it was last employed as an assembly area of some kind, a screen and projector still awaiting use and gathering dust on the far side of several rows of seating. Between them, Rhodey and Vision push stacks of chairs against the walls to create a space big enough for the visual tech to work unhindered. Something to do with providing a blank canvas, Tony had said. Less for the brain to seize on and try to populate with matching scenery. Rhodey’s not entirely clear on the specifics, but he gets the gist.

If he’s honest, Rhodey’s still not entirely sure about this. He gets what Tony’s trying to do, he does, and God knows having something to concentrate on has done wonders for Tony and Loki both, but there’s a niggling unease there that won’t go away.

Of course Tony is keen to push ahead. He’s invested now. It’s his idea and his design. He doesn’t want to back down from a challenge and he wants to prove his theory could work. Rhodey’s seen him like this many times before.

Tony tells him he should live a little. And Vision just seems to want everyone to get along so badly he’ll go along with anything. But Rhodey… Rhodey’s never been one to rush into anything without a damn good reason and a back up plan to boot.

Tony is putting the finishing touches to the improved tech he’s worked up for Loki. The guinea pig himself looms at Tony’s back, his gaze intense.

As Rhodey approaches, Tony leans in close to solder the last connector in place and sighs. “Would you stop doing that?” he says without looking up.

Loki ignores this and continues to scrutinise the work, prompting Tony finally to straighten and look at him. When he registers just how close Loki is to him he jerks back slightly.

“You are next level creepy, you know that?”

The smile Loki returns is almost predatory. Yeah, Rhodey thinks. He knows.

“Is there anything else you require?” Vision interrupts, and Tony casts a speculative look over the room.

“I think we’re good,” he declares. “Time to road test this baby.”

The device he hands to Loki is small and compact, no bigger than a large coin. Loki inspects it carefully, apparently finds nothing too concerning, then raises an eyebrow at Tony.

“Really jam it on in there, right here,” Tony instructs, tapping a spot just behind his ear. “Once the spike’s in it’s not so bad.”

The look Loki returns is flat.

“He’s kidding,” Rhodey hurries to explain, sliding Tony a warning look. He takes a moment to think about it, then double checks. “You are kidding, right?”

The grin Tony produces isn’t exactly an answer. “Just press it lightly and relax. The tech’ll do the rest.”

“Hmm,” Loki says, doubtfully. “And what are we to expect? A charming scene from early childhood, perhaps?”

“Well that’s kinda up to you, or your brain at least. This thing roots out the meaty stuff, the memories with meaning. Anything with enough neural pathways to suggest it’s important and revisited often. Usually I’m able to direct things with enough concentration, but as you don’t have anything, ah, in mind I guess you might say, we’ll have to just spin the wheel and take our chances.”

“And if we don’t like what we find?”

“Just remember none of it is real. This will all be, quite literally, a figment of your imagination.”

Tony claps what Rhodey is sure he thinks is a reassuring hand on Loki’s shoulder and gives him a little push.

“Go ahead. Just like we practised.”

Loki purses his lips at this but doesn’t say anything more. He moves off slowly to the centre of the room.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Rhodey murmurs to Tony from the corner of his mouth.

Tony flaps a hand at him but doesn’t answer.

It takes a minute or two for Loki to finish steeling himself, but when he’s ready he turns to face his audience and places the tech to his skin as instructed. Rhodey can just make out the liquid movement of nano tech as it expands outwards from the disc and sends a probing arm into Loki’s hairline.

All four of them glance about the room, but nothing seems to be happening. Rhodey realises he’s been holding his breath.

Tony peers at a handheld display glowing softly in his hands and frowns at what he sees.

“What is it?” Rhodey asks, although he’s almost afraid to.

“Nothing,” Tony assures him. “Just some interference. Lemme just… there.” He stabs a finger at a couple of readouts and the air around them crackles soundlessly. It doesn’t flicker so much as fizz, staticky and pixelated like bad dial up. The kind that asks to have a fist banged against it a couple of times. As though thinking the exact same thing, Tony slaps the flat of his hand against the tablet twice.

That seems to do the trick. Translucent lines coalesce and begin to slide into place, gradually building and connecting around them. Vision’s eyes track the slowly resolving shapes with the crease of a small frown between his brows, and Tony scowls down at the readouts. Rhodey fixes his eyes on Loki at the centre of it all and feels a cold finger of suspicion trail down his back.

The guy looks nervous. He stands as though prepared to fight, or run, or maybe both. Although he holds still his eyes flick around the room, cataloguing every change and movement.

The walls smooth out flat and then crowd closer, the size of the space narrowing to one much smaller than the real space behind. A table appears, then a chair, then a number of screens, trays and consoles. The shining metallic surfaces reflect harsh overhead lighting. The sound of approaching footsteps echoes from beyond an unseen door.

The walls and floor are white. Loki’s breathing is loud.

“Oh shit,” Tony murmurs a fraction of a second before Rhodey can.

“Tony,” Rhodey warns instead.

“I know, I know, turning it off—” Tony’s fingers fly across the readouts, but before he can power the thing down Loki takes matters into his own hands. Literally.

He rips the device from his skin like it’s a poisonous animal and winds his arm back to throw it.

“No no no, wait!” Tony pleads, but he’s too late. As the pictures snap out of existence, the tech is already shattering into tiny fragments against the far wall.

“Aw man,” Tony mutters regretfully.

Loki’s shoulders are heaving, and when he whirls back around from the destruction he’s just wrought the look he turns on Tony is murderous.

“Okay,” Tony hedges, his hands held up. “I should’ve seen that coming. I miscalculated. You’re right to be pissed. But let’s just keep things constructive here.”

Loki stalks towards them both with dark purpose and Tony backs up, pushing Rhodey with him. Rhodey’s groping blindly behind him for something, anything, to defend himself with when the backs of his legs bump into a stack of chairs, bringing him and Tony up short.

“Get out of my way,” Loki growls as he passes them, and the force with which he pushes through the doors they’ve just cleared leaves one of them swinging precariously on damaged hinges.

“Wow,” Tony breathes after a moment of stunned silence. “I think a little bit of pee came out.”

Rhodey takes a deep breath and just shakes his head. How Tony can make jokes about this sort of shit, he’ll never understand.

Vision approaches them, calm as you like, and gestures towards the route Loki has just taken. “Perhaps I should…”

“Let him go,” Rhodey says. “Maybe just… keep an eye on him.”


When Loki finds them again, he is stiffly formal.

“I apologise for my behaviour,” he tells them, and the room goes so still Rhodey thinks he could hear a pin drop. “I should not have destroyed your equipment, and I am sorry to have alarmed you.”

It’s an awkward second or two before anyone speaks, and it takes an elbow to the ribs for Rhodey to persuade Tony it should be him who does.

“Er,” Tony stutters, “sure. Don’t sweat it.”

“I wish to try again,” Loki continues, then pauses. He lowers his eyes. “If you are amenable.”

Rhodey exchanges a look with Tony, and to his credit the self-professed philanthropist seems to pull himself together.

“I can rig some replacement tech easy enough,” Tony says. “Shouldn’t take long. I think we just need to make some adjustments.”

The breath Rhodey releases eases a knot of tension he’s been carrying since this whole thing blew up. He closes his eyes for just a moment and fortifies himself for the objection he knows he has to make.

“Hold up,” he eventually says. “I’ve gotta ask. Are we sure this is a good idea? I mean, what’s to stop the same thing happening again? We’re not going to learn anything we don’t already know and I’m pretty sure none of us want to revisit that little scene again.”

Loki winces and turns to brood at the windows.

“It won’t happen again,” Tony insists, becoming animated as he thinks. When he sees the dubious look Rhodey’s giving him he railroads it with a slew of chatter. “I’m serious. I don’t usually say this, so enjoy hearing it while you can, but I was going about it all wrong. I ran diagnostics on what data FRIDAY managed to assimilate before the headpiece went to pieces — which, fine, my bad — and of course that was the memory it hijacked. It zeroed in on the meaty stuff just like it was programmed to do. I just need to recalibrate so we’re looking at older neural pathways, not just the recent heavy traffic.”

Rhodey steps closer to Tony and lowers his voice, mindful of the vibes Loki’s giving off from the corner of the room.

“And if the rest of the shit he’s got tucked away in there is no better?” he asks pointedly.

Tony puts his back to Loki and matches Rhodey’s soft tone. “Come on,” he wheedles. “This could really work. And anyway, we’ve still got FRIDAY. We were never in any real danger back there.”

Rhodey snorts. “Yeah. You were the picture of cool.” Tony pretends like he hasn’t heard, and Rhodey sobers. “I can’t believe I’m the one telling you this, but you’re playing with fire. Not to mention the guy’s head.”

That’s when Tony cracks a crooked smile. “Then I guess we’re breaking even.”

Rhodey’s pretty sure he doesn’t mean it.


When they come to try again, it’s with a solemn promise from Loki that he will conduct himself with decorum. His words, of course. Tony labours the point and declares he’ll not build more tech if this one goes the same way as the first, and Loki accedes to this with a slight bow of his head as he takes the proffered device.

He doesn’t hesitate at all this time as he presses the metal to his skin, a look of cool determination on his face.

The shapes that begin to form are entirely different this time. Gone are the geometric lines and clearly defined colours. There are no bright whites, edges or sharp outlines.

Instead there is a strobing, pulsing nebula swirling overhead, a meeting of thunder clouds and galaxies in pale hues of light. Snatches of images materialise within the maelstrom, fleeting pictures that hint at more beneath these vague outlines.

Most of it is incomprehensible, but there are impressions Rhodey thinks he recognises, or at least can extrapolate from.

A woman’s face, her smile soft and gentle. Sweeping vistas the likes of which could not occur on Earth. Vast chambers, libraries and armouries that have no equivalent in Rhodey’s own experience. Glimpses of battles, disagreements and tender moments that leave him feeling like an eavesdropper, his ears heating as he looks on. And peppered throughout, impressions of what can only be Thor, his beaming face shining with the light of a thousand suns, or else darkened with disapproval, scorn or disappointment.

None of these images last for more than a fraction of a second, and the speed with which they flicker past is enough to make Rhodey feel nauseous.

Rhodey reminds himself that Tony’s tech, as powerful as it is, has a job on its hands it wasn’t designed for. Alien physiology aside, what they’re looking at here is a snapshot of hundreds, if not thousands of years of memory, all of it clamouring for attention. That’s a lot of information to assimilate and parse, some of it well beyond the realms of human experience. It is beautiful for all that, and even if it’s not exactly what they were looking to recreate, it’s at least a testament to the wealth of memory that lays beneath whatever barrier separates it from Loki’s conscious mind.

“Oh cool,” Tony breathes as he takes it all in, and Rhodey agrees. Vision is similarly entranced, reaching out a hand to pass through the projection above him. “Loki, are you getting this?”

Loki does not reply. Rhodey glances to him and sees why — his eyes are shut, a grimace of pain on his face that he seems to be trying hard to contain. He raises a hand slowly to the side of his head and simply stands there, caught up in something he seems unable to stop.

“Tony—”

“On it.”

Tony pulls the plug much faster this time, and almost instantly the room is back in its original state. If anything Loki only grits his teeth harder, bending slightly at the waist as though being assaulted by something unseen.

Vision approaches him cautiously, a hand outstretched behind him to warn his onlookers back. All three of them zero in on the faint aura of weirdness floating just at the edge of their senses, like a creeping shadow that disappears when it’s looked at directly. It’s a heat haze, a shimmering layer of colour that the eye cannot discern. It defies definition, whatever it is, but it’s clear that Loki feels it, and it’s not pleasant.

Rhodey looks on as Vision murmurs something reassuring to Loki where he stands trembling as though enduring something he’d rather not.

Very gently, carefully, Vision moves Loki’s hand over the device at his temple, coaxing him to unpeel the thing from his skin. He does so slowly, eyes still closed, and when the metal comes away he releases a sharp sound of pain.

Vision waits patiently until Loki opens his eyes and lets out a shaky breath, then with trembling fingers drops the device with deliberate care into Vision’s waiting palm.

“Um, all okay over there?” Tony asks a little warily, but doesn’t move to approach.

Rhodey can see what’s about to happen before it does. Loki gulps in two breaths of air, turns abruptly and staggers forward. His outstretched hand hits the wall just in time to catch himself as he retches.

“Oh boy,” Tony says next to Rhodey with a wince.

“Still think this was a good idea?” Rhodey can’t resist saying.

It’s a while before Loki speaks, but when he does it’s with more conviction than his stumbling words would suggest. “There is something… something is wrong.”

“Well yeah, I think we all guessed as much.” Tony’s sarcasm covers a nervousness Rhodey knows he feels. “I’m sorry it didn’t work.”

Loki is emphatic despite his obvious distress. “No, you don’t understand. It’s there. I can feel it all there, but I can’t— Something is stopping me.”

Rhodey and Tony exchange a brief glance that conveys a myriad of sentiment, none of it necessarily positive.

They’re out of their depth. That much is painfully obvious. But if the gleam in Loki’s eyes is anything to go by, this fact alone is not going to be enough to warrant throwing in the towel.

“I have an idea,” Vision interjects before either Rhodey or Tony can form the right words. He looks Tony square in the face for a long moment, his eyes full of apology, and when Tony returns his gaze his face softens. “You’re not going to like it,” Vision admits, and Rhodey can only pinch the bridge of his nose against the oncoming headache.

Chapter 11

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Stark is angry with him.

Stark believes he hides this well, or perhaps that Vision will be content to take his word for it when he says he’s ‘cool’.

Stark is mistaken. Vision can feel the man’s disapproval radiating from him and he must admit, it pains him.

In hindsight he should have expected this. His full reasoning is in truth far more complicated, but a part of Vision knows this very reaction is why, until now, he has not wanted to risk disclosure. Perhaps that makes him a coward. He’d rather put his faith in Colonel Rhodes’s assessment that he’d just had everyone’s best interests at heart by keeping his indiscretions to himself. That he wished to spare others pain.

Colonel Rhodes is generous in that way. If Vision is honest with himself, he knows what he does is for entirely selfish reasons.

He has abused Stark’s trust in him. That is something the man will have trouble forgiving, even if the misdemeanour itself could be otherwise overlooked.

Stark never did ask him where he would go.

There is some turbulence as they draw near their destination, although with some small adjustments Stark is quick to find a smoother flight path. The jet soon coasts quietly once more, the interior darkening as they enter a bank of slate grey cloud. The weather outside certainly reflects the atmosphere within, even if it no longer buffets them to and fro.

In deliberate contrast to their previous voyage, Loki has chosen to remain standing for this trip. Vision had expected him to want to take in the view as they travelled, but it seems he has been quick to pick up on the unspoken friction between his two escorts. He has said nothing aloud to either Vision or Stark, but his appraising gaze has slid between the two of them throughout their journey. Vision isn’t certain if the wide berth he seems to be giving Stark is intentional or coincidental, but Loki hasn’t otherwise shied from making his interest in the situation known.

He stands now, quiet, one hand bracing against the movement of the craft using one of the handholds above him, his eyes studying Vision where he stands opposite. Vision offers him a wan smile, though his heart’s not really in it.

Loki takes this as an invitation to speak. “You go to much trouble for me,” he says, his words for Vision alone. His voice is pitched low enough that Stark will be unlikely to overhear, but it is no more than that; he is not deliberately seeking to evade Stark’s notice.

They have not outlined the situation to Loki fully, partly out of respect for Stark’s aversion to the topic, and of course he has no real need to know of the specifics. But if they thought Loki would remain ignorant of the tension they are clearly mistaken.

“I intend to do everything in my power to help you,” Vision tells him honestly, and Loki tilts his head to one side.

“Even though it sows discord?”

“Yes. Even then.”

“You are a most curious jailor,” Loki says after a beat, not unkindly.

It still disappoints Vision to hear Loki speak of him like this, though he has patience yet. He suspects Loki does it more to garner a reaction than for any real belief in the team’s dark intentions. Vision leaves the label unchallenged and asks a question of his own.

“You do not expect that anyone would offer you help freely. Why is that?”

Loki averts his eyes, his tone changing. “I have been given little cause to trust in the inherent goodness of those around me. And if what I have gleaned is to be believed, I have small reason to expect largesse.”

“You do not believe you are deserving of help?”

Loki looks at him sidelong but is otherwise silent.

There is a fine line they have all had to tread here, one Vision regrets he may not be balancing as well as he would like. He wishes it were as simple as assuring Loki to the contrary. Not when every move they make must be tempered with pragmatism and poorly disguised caution.

Loki knows they do not trust him, not fully.

Vision recalls an instance from last night’s conversation which, on reflection, has done little to disabuse Loki of this notion.

Having spent several days preparing, they had finally discussed who would travel today, and who would stay behind. Were it up to Vision, he alone would have accompanied Loki to the rendezvous. He hadn’t deluded himself that such a thing would be allowed.

“Oh, I’m going with you. We’ll take the jet. We can travel in style, and bring FRIDAY along for the ride, obviously.”

Loki’s smile had been sharp. “Still don’t trust me, Stark?”

“See, that’s how I know you’re not faking it. You wouldn’t need to ask such a dumb question otherwise.”

What Stark did not say was that these precautions are just as much for Loki’s protection as their own. That with the jet, they have a better chance of avoiding prying eyes. Of effecting a quick getaway if needed. Of having tech on hand if anything were to go wrong with what they have planned.

Loki is perceptive enough to infer this, but that does not mean their mistrust vexes him any less. Vision has also come to realise that Loki has a tendency to take to heart words that others do not necessarily intend as weapons, yet is skilled at concealing the effect.

Stark’s comments about expecting ‘best behaviour’ probably hadn’t helped in that regard, either.

Vision allows his gaze to wander for a moment as he considers his next words.

In the end, Colonel Rhodes had elected to remain behind. Enough baggage on the plane already, he’d said. Vision knows the man would not begrudge the use of his example, even if it’s not something Vision would be impolite enough to discuss in his presence.

“You have never asked how Colonel Rhodes came by his injuries.”

Loki’s full attention is swift to return. “Injuries?” A note of wry humour enters his voice. “Ah. You mean to his legs. I had begun to assume it commonplace to enhance one’s performance by mechanical means.”

Vision isn’t sure that he believes this statement, but he does not say so. “The braces enable him to walk. But he has not always needed them.”

An edge of suspicion creeps into Loki’s words, his body turning slightly in an unconscious tell of discomfort. “Hmm. Now I am almost afraid to know. Nothing of my doing, I would hope.”

The joke may be weak, but Vision is glad of it anyway. The sad smile he summons stretches the pause into significance. “I too have much to atone for,” Vision confides solemnly, and Loki seems to need no more explanation than that.

Loki looks away, seemingly turning this new information over in his mind, and when he meets Vision’s eyes again it is with new understanding and a welcome change of topic.

“You really think this friend of yours can do something?”

“She is a most remarkable young woman. If anyone can help us, I believe she can.”

“And if she can’t?”

Vision smiles. “Then we are no worse off than we were before.”

Loki glances towards Stark’s back, silhouetted as it is against the tumultuous sky. “Are you quite sure about that?” he says.

“We’re here,” Stark calls from the front of the jet, and Vision shares a resigned look with Loki before they begin to touch down.


Gusts of wind are driving the rain hard when the ramp lowers, though FRIDAY has taken care to angle the jet so that they are sheltered from the worst of it. Far from making a dash for cover when they venture out, Vision finds himself required to hang back in the deluge.

Loki stands out in it, quickly becoming soaked to the skin, his face turned up to the pelting cold. When he lowers his head and opens his eyes again to look at Vision, there is something like relief in his expression.

“I’m drowning here,” Stark interrupts gruffly, but not before Loki’s had this small, reclaimed moment. “C’mon.”

Stark jogs ahead to cross the small clearing in which they’ve landed, head down against the weather and arms wrapped around his body. Loki and then Vision follow him more slowly, the former in no particular hurry to escape the open space and the relative freedom it affords. The trees around them sway and creak in the wind, their boughs thick and heavy, the lake they surround visible through a break in otherwise dense forest.

The porch to the cabin shelters a bench and table, a stack of well-seasoned firewood and a threadbare hammock that has seen better days. Stark stamps his feet on the mat at the threshold and scrubs water from his hair before opening the door and going inside. He doesn’t bother to knock.

With an upturned hand, Vision gestures Loki ahead of him and follows.

The interior glows warmly from the light of a fire already crackling in the hearth. The scent of wood smoke and pine lends the place a nostalgic quality that is complemented well by homely furnishings, rugs and wall hangings.

And rising to stand from the small couch opposite is Wanda, her hands intertwined before her, apprehension in her bearing that she tries hard to hide.

“Wanda,” Stark acknowledges her simply with a nod of his head. He moves no further into the room, and Vision pulls the door closed behind them all.

“Stark,” Wanda returns evenly with a slight lift of her chin. Her eyes skip to Vision’s and she offers him a tentative smile.

Vision wants nothing more than to move to her side and offer her the support she will not ask for, but he knows this would be a mistake. Instead he inclines his head to her, and with that small connection she seems to steady her resolve.

“Wanda, this is Loki,” Vision says by way of introduction, and she turns a small but open smile on the man at Vision’s side.

She steps forward, mindful of Stark in her periphery but determined to be friendly, and extends a polite hand towards the Asgardian. “Hi,” she says, projecting more confidence than Vision knows she really feels into her voice.

Loki accepts her hand in his and lifts it, bowing his head slightly to press his lips to her knuckles. “A pleasure,” he says as he releases her, and Wanda’s eyes widen just slightly.

“Oh,” she says, surprised, and flashes Vision a look of pleased embarrassment.

“Figures,” Stark mutters under his breath at their shoulders, then, more loudly: “Anything to drink in this joint?”

Momentarily flustered by this, Wanda stutters. “Um, coffee? I think? In the, uh…”

“Kitchen. Got it.” Stark moves past them all to the cabin’s adjoining room, the sounds of cupboards being searched and crockery being rattled shortly following his departure. Seemingly unaffected by this exchange, Loki moves further into the sitting room to peer at the books lining one wall, and Wanda takes the opportunity to slide her eyes shut.

Vision rests a hand on her shoulder, and when she looks back up at him he gives it an encouraging squeeze. “Hello,” he says to her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hi,” she whispers back with a shy smile.

The cabin is one they have come to before, but likely not one they will visit again after today. It is one of the many meeting places they have used these past months. It is remote and private enough to serve their needs today, and has borne witness to many moments Vision holds dear. They are sacrificing much by choosing to meet here now, but the time they have shared within these walls offers some small, familiar comfort.

“Your journey was a pleasant one, I hope?”

“I arrived last night,” Wanda says with a nod, turning to open a closet set into the wall by the door. She pulls two towels from the shelving there, handing one to Loki who accepts it with a nod of thanks. The second she leaves draped across the arm of the couch, should it be wanted. She doesn’t expand on the subject further than that, both of them mindful of revealing too much of the situation beyond today’s arrangement. “I wasn’t sure how long we would need, so I brought food.”

As though in confirmation, Stark emerges from the kitchen with a bag of chips in hand, the smell of brewing coffee trailing in behind him. He offers the opened end to everyone in the room in turn but doesn’t appear the slightest bit perturbed when each mutely shakes their head in response.

“So,” he says, popping another chip in his mouth, making a show of looking out of the window as he does so. “How much has Vis explained?”

There is to be little by way of small talk, it would seem. This comes as no surprise. Loki stills by the wall, head tipped to one side as he dries his hair, and that same appraising look he carried in the jet returns.

Visibly steeling herself, Wanda turns to Stark. “He’s told me some. Enough to know that you should have called me in before now. And not just me, either.”

The short pause that follows is frosty, but Wanda does not back down. Vision feels a surge of pride that he’s sure must show on his face.

“Perhaps you’d better start by telling me the rest,” she continues. “All of the rest.”


The coffee has been refreshed twice before the story has been told to Wanda’s satisfaction. Vision leaves the talking to Stark, having already given Wanda his own account of recent days, and when she has questions she directs these to Loki who answers her with straightforward courtesy. Wanda appears thoroughly charmed by him, which does little to improve Stark’s mood. Vision suspects that beyond being genuinely respectful, Loki is well aware of this fact.

“Might I ask you a question,” Loki enquires as they approach the end of the tale, and Wanda replies with an easy, “Of course.”

Loki takes a moment to consider his words, perhaps anxious not to offend. “Your… abilities. How do you command them?” Picking up on her momentary hesitation, and after a subtle glance to take in the reactions of the others in the room, he adds, “That is, if it’s not an indelicate question.”

Wanda looks briefly to Vision, and although Stark shifts conspicuously where he perches at the window, whatever she sees in his face prompts her to reply.

“I am not sure I could explain it beyond… intuition? These powers… I was given them. I wasn’t born this way. And I am still learning to control them. They are a part of me, and they come from me, but they are also… other. Foreign, I suppose you might say. It takes concentration and discipline to contain or direct them, but without that they are raw. Pure, somehow. But also terrible.” She sighs self-consciously. “I’m not sure I’m making much sense.”

“Not filling me with confidence here,” Stark contributes.

Loki does not turn to look at him, but the words he speaks over his shoulder are forceful. “Let her speak, Stark.”

The look Wanda returns is grateful but also apprehensive. “I don’t want you to think I would put you in danger,” she hurries to add.

“I do not think that you would,” Loki replies.

“You should also know,” Wanda continues, “there’s a chance I may see more than I mean to. Are you comfortable with that? I don’t want to invade your privacy.”

Vision sees a ghost of indecision that is quickly banished pass across Loki’s face. It is what they are here for, after all.

Wanda extends one of her hands between them, threads of scarlet light dancing between her curling fingers. Loki, attention rapt, gazes at it with something akin to longing.

“This,” Wanda murmurs, watching the play of energy as it bends and arcs. “It can be beautiful. But also frightening.”

Loki breathes in through his nose, his hands moving to close Wanda’s fingers over the power she has summoned. It snuffs out, and she raises her eyes to meet his.

“What aid you could give me would be welcome,” Loki tells her. “And whatever you might see… it would be like you viewing the thoughts of a stranger. I’m quite accustomed to sharing those, I can assure you.”

The sad look Wanda returns at this isn’t quite enough to make Loki look away, but Vision thinks he sees pain there nonetheless.


Wanda insists that they all be comfortable for what she is about to attempt, and to that end furniture is rearranged to suit her needs. She remains seated on the room’s only couch, Loki installed opposite in a high back chair that has been brought over from the cabin’s only bedroom. The coffee table has been pushed to one side so that their knees almost touch, and both Vision and Stark remain a respectful distance from them both.

Loki leans forward with his forearms on his thighs, and Wanda reaches slowly towards him. With a nod of assent, Wanda accepts his permission and begins.

The tendrils that extend from her fingertips are translucent and subtle, coaxed to play about Loki’s temples with only the smallest of movements. Loki’s attention remains fixed on Wanda’s face as she works, although her eyes remain closed. If he feels any discomfort, any sensation at all, he does not reveal this in any way.

After a time, a small frown forms between Wanda’s eyebrows, and with a minute shake of her head she smooths it and pushes on. She gives no other sign beyond that, slipping back into the calm control Vision has witnessed her practise many times before.

Slow minutes tick by. Vision captures Stark’s gaze from where he watches at the window, but the man does not comment on the spectacle before him. The rain continues to beat an uneven, rattling cadence against the panes of glass at his back, the only sound in the room beyond the snap of the fire and the breaths of its four occupants.

For all that Stark watches intently, Vision is almost certain the man is unable to read the delicate changes to her face as Wanda concentrates. But to Vision, each deepening crinkle at the corner of her eye, each fleeting frown and each lift of her brow tells a story.

During their many quiet moments together they have shared much, not least of which has been an exploration of Wanda’s special gifts — and the source of them, which Vision now carries. They have been careful, their curiosity innocent, tentative and mindful of all they do not yet understand. What drives them to discovery is something unspoken, something shared and nurtured without words to give it form. It is a desire to know their place in the world, to know more of the burdens they carry and, with a most gratifying intimacy, to know more of their innate connection to one another.

That time has lent Vision some insight into the cues that play across Wanda’s expressive face. The tightening of her mouth. The lift of one delicate eyebrow. The flare of her nostrils as she chases some ephemeral thread that evades her reach.

When her left hand begins to tremble finely, Vision isn’t the only one to notice.

Stark straightens meaningfully where he leans by the window, unfolding and then re-crossing his arms in a nervous gesture. He flicks his eyes at Vision to indicate the imminent need for an intervention, but it is Loki who stops proceedings.

A tear slips down Wanda’s face and Loki takes her hands gently in his, drawing them away from him. The red tendrils dissipate as he does so and he searches her face, waiting for her to open her eyes. She does so with a shuddering breath but will not meet his eyes, nor the concern and apology she sees there.

“I’m sorry,” she says shakily. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean to look.”

“Perhaps we should stop,” Loki offers, and she shakes her head.

“No. I’m okay. I think I can see something. We should keep going.”

Loki purses his lips doubtfully at this, but the determination he sees in Wanda’s eyes must persuade him to acquiesce. “A short break, then.”

Vision thinks she wants to refuse this too, but after a pause Wanda agrees. “Sure.”

She accepts the glass of water Vision brings her and sips it thoughtfully as Loki leans back in his chair. He watches her carefully but does not speak, instead waiting for Wanda to offer insight of her own.

Stark feels no such reluctance and breaks the silence in his usual direct manner.

“So, what’s the lowdown?” he asks. “Any idea what’s causing the problem?”

Wanda considers her answer for a long moment, and when she begins to speak she directs her words not to Stark, but to Loki himself.

“I do not think you have lost anything,” she says slowly, verbalising an emerging train of thought. This at least confirms what they have already discovered, but if Loki feels any measure of relief to hear this he does not make it obvious. “There is a lot I don’t understand and that makes it hard for me to be sure, but there is no emptiness. There’s almost more than I could hope to follow.”

“You feel any of that?” Stark interjects again, this time addressing Loki. “Anything get knocked loose while she was, you know, noodling around in there?”

Wanda’s face pinches into a slight frown to be described like this.

“I saw nothing,” Loki says without censure. “Only… I could feel you there. Your… your presence. But it was faint.”

“And what of the cause of Loki’s difficulties accessing his memory,” Vision asks at last, his own interest getting the better of him. “Were you able to discover anything that might hint at the problem?”

Again Wanda looks to Loki, her words measured carefully as she puzzles out their meaning. “There was something resisting me,” she says. “Something separating what I could sense from the rest of your mind. But…”

“What?” Loki asks, wary.

“I’m not sure it’s something that’s been put there. It feels like… it feels like you.”

Loki frowns at this.

“Is it possible,” Wanda presses, “that this is your mind’s way of protecting itself from something, something you would rather not remember?”

“Are you suggesting that I have done this to myself?” Loki asks, somewhat archly.

“It would not be unheard of,” Vision hurries to add, anxious to deflect the affront he can sense rising. “I understand there to be recorded instances of such conditions, usually in response to severe trauma. No one is doubting that what you are experiencing is real, or questioning your word.”

Thankfully, the clever remark Vision is half expecting does not materialise from Stark. “And let’s face it,” the man says instead in support, “I don’t think any of us are talking about your garden variety repression here. Whatever happened back at base the other day, it was decidedly kooky. The kind of kooky I’ve only seen a couple of times and from a couple of people.”

The fact that those very people are here in the room goes unspoken.

Loki is beginning to look a little disturbed by this possibility, though whether because of the implications or because the topic they have all been skirting around these last few weeks is finally being addressed, Vision is not sure.

Wanda leans forward, her expression gentle. “You already suspected this, didn’t you? You feel it the same as I do. Your power, I mean.”

Loki looks stricken. He shakes his head minutely. “If I am like you, I do not remember how.”

“Then we should keep looking,” Wanda says, sharing her confidence where Loki seems to have misplaced his, for the moment at least. “There was a thread I was following and I could feel something beginning to give. I should be able to find it again. Maybe if I just give it a firmer tug it will start to unravel.”

Wanda is reaching for him again when Loki’s hand shoots out to grasp her wrist, his previous patience seemingly forgotten. She lets out a squeak of surprise, but he has already released her and risen to stand.

“Hey,” Stark says with alarm, rising from where he’s perched on the windowsill. “Go easy—”

Loki cuts him off with an urgent slash of his hand and points a finger to the ceiling, his eyes widening meaningfully. Stark stiffens, and Vision cocks his head to listen. Rain is still pelting hard, the groan of the wind a constant presence behind it. And then closer than this, the softest of scrapes precedes the creak of a board on the porch outside.

The rest happens quickly.

Loki throws himself across the coffee table and tackles Wanda to the ground as the first canister sails in from the kitchen in a shower of fracturing glass. Vision follows his lead, yanking Stark forcefully away from the window before that too explodes inward. Thick and cloying smoke spews from the two canisters now spinning madly on the floor, swiftly filling the room and obscuring everything from view.

The two humans and the Asgardian begin coughing almost at once, and although Vision knows this is a ploy to force them all into the open, he is left with little choice but to herd the three of them towards an escape. He guides Stark ahead of him and locates the others by touch, pulling them close and urging them to stay in contact with one another. He propels them forward as a group to the corner of the room furthest from the door, and with less precision than he would otherwise prefer, breaches the wall beside the hearth with blunt force.

The log cladding shatters under the force he uses, creating a space large enough to pass through, although he is required to brace the remaining timbers with one arm to prevent the structure from coming down around their ears.

He reaches blindly into the fog and snatches at the first collar he can wrap his hand into, tugging whoever it belongs to forward with an urgent “Go!”

When he is confident three people have spilled out past him he follows them, allowing the wall to collapse on itself at his back. He finds Stark, Wanda and Loki on their knees in the sodden grass, each holding an arm across their mouths and choking for air. The seconds he has bought them by avoiding the obvious exits will count for little if he cannot press the advantage, so he leaves them to recover as best they can and rises soundlessly to assess the situation from above.

It is immediately apparent that their situation is dire. Armed personnel swarm the perimeter, surrounding the quinjet some way distant, and more cover the cabin exits and the treeline at the property’s boundary. When they see him they begin to form up, and a team moves to converge on the three incapacitated people at the cabin’s other side. He wastes no time by turning to warn them, and instead descends to deal with the closest threat.

It soon becomes obvious that their attackers have no intention of engaging Vision directly. Each group he approaches makes way for him or takes evasive action, forcing him to pursue individual targets rather than take on groups that come to him. The men part around him as he does this, heading towards what they know he is trying to protect.

The first man he tackles he hauls backward with ease, flinging him effortlessly through the air back the way he came. The second gives him pause when his hand passes straight through the armoured shoulder he would grasp.

For a moment, Vision assumes he has phased through the man in his haste to capture him, but this cannot be the case. When he looks more closely, he sees that the driving rain passes through the man too, not a drop turned from its path to the ground.

He allows the apparition to pass and scans the field once more, a terrible understanding taking root in his mind. He is unable to judge from this distance which of the figures he sees are real and which are duplicates, but he supposes this matters little. The confusion they inspire will be enough to overwhelm Vision’s attempts at defence if he allows them to distract him, so he moves instead to close the distance between where he stands and his friends.

He sees that Loki has risen, having already fought off the worst effects of the gas. A ring of surrounding men take aim with their ranged weapons, but before any of them can fire they are propelled backward by a surge of Wanda’s power. Two of them wink out of existence, the rest skidding to a stop in the dirt several yards from where they once stood.

She struggles upright to stand, her eyes still streaming, and wreaths herself in dancing colour. “Run!” she commands as she wields it, sending uncoordinated blasts of energy in a defensive pattern around them.

Loki hauls Stark roughly to his feet and yanks the man forward, heading with him for the trees without pausing to look back. Still half-blind himself, Stark brings the gauntlets he has summoned to bear on any movement in their periphery, the repulsor blasts missing their targets by a wide margin but enough to discourage close pursuit.

Vision is moving to cover their retreat when Wanda screams, and he whips around to confront the danger. The ranged weapons the men carry have revealed their purpose, apparently firing small adhesive devices that latch onto the skin. Wanda writhes on the ground, clutching her head, one such device clinging to the fabric of her jacket. She is incapacitated and completely unable to defend herself, assaulted by some unseen agony as a group of men approach, and Vision’s response is almost beyond his control.

The beam he releases slams the nearest attacker back, no doubt killing the man as it does so. He barrels into the rest with all his strength, caring not for the damage he inflicts, knocking back those he can and passing through those he can’t. It is but a minute’s work to dispatch them all, and when he drops the last he feels an unworthy thrum of grim satisfaction.

He drops to his knees at Wanda’s side and lifts her, but if she senses his presence she is unable to respond. She cries out and twists in his arms, and though he fears to harm her more he doesn’t hesitate to pull the cruel, spider-like mechanism from her flesh. An electric bite of pain travels up his arm as he does so and he flings the thing away. Blood begins to pool from the wound it has left behind.

“Vis?” Wanda asks hoarsely, her body now limp and her breaths gasping in the aftermath of the assault.

“I’ve got you,” he assures her, stroking back her hair, rising to his feet with her cradled in his arms.

It is only then that he looks around them both, the field around them now empty of anything but bodies lying prone. It is with foreboding that he understands the consequences of his choice, and the trap he has willingly walked into.

The attack on Wanda was a diversion. And he has allowed it to work.

Notes:

You didn't really think it was going to be that easy, did you? ;)

I've had to slow my update rate, so apologies for the lengthy wait between chapters. Thank you for sticking with me and continuing to read, and know that your comments nurture my soul.

Chapter 12

Notes:

So, erm, it's been a while? I'm so sorry. Getting back into the swing of writing has been hard, but I fully intend to finish this story. Please stick with me :)

Chapter Text

Wet branches hang low and heavy, their waterlogged needles weighing them down and obscuring the view only a few steps ahead. They slap against his face and shoulders as he runs, their wet caress overfamiliar and unwanted, and though he raises his arms to push through the worst of it they slow his progress down.

So too does the man at his back. Stark huffs and stumbles in Loki’s wake, breathless curses adding to the racket he makes as he follows, the urgency of panic seemingly the only force able to propel him at a speed to match Loki’s own.

Were it not for the weapons the man carries on his arms, Loki would have broken from him many minutes back. As it is, the blasts Stark has managed have so far been enough to keep their pursuers at bay.

This is the first thing Loki knows: he is in desperate need of a weapon.

The second is that he has invited this. He has let his guard down. He has trusted. He has hoped. And in payment for that lapse he will be hunted.

He should have tried for escape while he had the chance. He will find a way to end it before they can take him again.

The chill rain continues to sluice down, soaking him to his skin and making every incline treacherous underfoot. Through the pounding in his ears he can hear the distant sounds of pursuit as well as movement up ahead. The lake at their flank is forcing them to head east unless they want to break cover, which does not seem prudent. It is limiting their options and boxing them in. Their pursuers are moving to cut them off.

He will need to force his way through their ranks.

Loki drops to a crouch behind the upended root bole of a windblown tree and scans his immediate surroundings. Stark seems to think this pause is for his benefit, dropping gratefully down beside him in obvious respiratory distress. Loki does not waste time correcting this assumption.

“So,” Stark wheezes after a failed attempt to appear recovered. “That was fun.”

Loki ignores this, focusing his attention on the surrounding trees. A number of large birds explode from the canopy some distance ahead with a clatter of wings, disturbed by an approaching search party. The snap of branches speak of another group tailing from behind.

“Where’s your armour?” Loki asks pointedly.

Stark waves a hand in the air in front of him while he takes three more gulps of air. “Oh, you know,” he says with infuriating, if breathless, flippancy. “On the jet. Where it’s safe. Where I... didn’t think... I’d need it.”

The man raises his left hand palm up to display the gauntlet hugging his forearm, then lets it fall tiredly to the floor. “Got these though,” he supplies. As though that will help them. As though that is all they need against a small army of well-prepared men intent on gunning them down.

Stark leans to cast an anxious look into the trees at their back and ducks back again. “Stupid,” he bites out, pounding a fist into the dirt at his side. He begins to mutter, seemingly admonishing himself for some oversight. Something about incompatibility and unfinished marks. “Shoulda stuck with the tried and tested,” he finishes with.

Loki doesn’t even attempt to interpret this. It’s clear that they must work with what they have, or not at all.

“FRIDAY,” Stark calls out, apropos of nothing. “Sit rep.”

The disembodied voice Stark converses with back at the compound must be speaking to him by some artifice Loki cannot detect. It is clear from the man’s face that whatever she reports is unwelcome, though that is hardly a surprise.

“They’ve surrounded the jet,” Stark relays after a moment. “FRIDAY’s locked them out, but whatever they’re doing it’s not going to take them long to change that. She doesn’t have full control of her systems.”

So they are alone. Outmanned, outgunned and without backup. Poor odds indeed.

Stark kicks his heel forcefully into the dirt in front of him and releases a sharp profanity.

“You cannot outrun them,” Loki says. The look on Stark’s face suggests he doesn’t appreciate the blunt delivery of this statement, but Loki sees no reason to shy from the facts. The man’s response does however reveal that Stark takes his meaning perfectly.

“And you won’t get far on your own. Not with this many of them. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Loki doesn’t bother to argue with this ludicrous statement. When it becomes necessary to split up, the decision will be Loki’s alone. Stark’s confidence in his own abilities is clearly misplaced if he thinks he can prevent Loki from leaving him behind. He has no intention of letting this man slow him down, and he will do what he must. If that means leaving the man to his fate… Well. It is not Stark these soldiers are after, is it?

A line of four armed men emerge from over the rise ahead, their path making directly for the meagre hiding place sheltering Loki and his exhausted companion. They will soon be surrounded, and Loki is loath to surrender the upper hand.

“You know what would be really handy right about now?” Stark murmurs as he bobs up next to Loki, tracking their pursuers’ approach with keen eyes. “Some of that inexplicable, defying-the-laws-of-physics stuff you used to be so keen on.”

The men sweep back and forth cautiously as they approach, clearly aware that they are closing in on their quarry’s position.

“So how about it?” Stark continues with an elbow to Loki’s ribs. “Any fantastical powers rattling around in there?”

Loki clenches his jaw and edges away from Stark’s over-familiar proximity. “It may have escaped your notice these past few weeks,” he grits out, “but I don’t remember how.” He is trapped here with an imbecile. An imbecile with a death wish.

“Worth a shot,” Stark grumbles with a shrug.

A number of rocks exposed by the ripped up roots of the fallen tree protrude from the ground at Loki’s feet. Loki excavates one and hefts its weight, his thumb running over one tapering edge.

This is more than likely a mistake. Their chances would be much improved if they could effect their escape in silence, but the odds of that seem small. And in the end, Loki would rather take a risk than wait to be ambushed; he sees Stark realise this by the fall of his face.

Before Loki can move far, Stark seizes his arm. “What are you doing?” the man demands, and Loki tugs his arm free.

“What does it look like?” They don’t have time for this.

“You can’t just go barging in there,” Stark says. “We need a plan.”

“I have a plan,” Loki tells him, moving again to rise.

“See, that’s just the sort of thing I say when I don’t.”

Shaking the man off, Loki emerges from the cover of the tree they’ve taken refuge behind and hears his name hissed after him with an accompanying obscenity. He will not remain cowering as his enemies move to surround him. He will repay their hounding with blood.

A flick of his wrist and the rock takes down the first man. The three remaining turn and instantly raise their weapons. They fire.

It is a simple enough thing to dodge the projectiles that are launched at him. Unlike bullets, these are large and ponderous, clumsy to aim and lacking the streamlining and explosive force of lethal ammunition. He advances on the group with a burst of speed that leaves them little time to reload, and when he reaches the nearest target he rips the man’s weapon from his hands. It is weighted enough to serve admirably as a blunt instrument, and he swings it in an upward arc into the jaw of a second target while the first clutches at the hand still wrapped around his throat. The third soldier is forced to step to one side to bring his weapon to bear, but the body in Loki’s grip proves shield enough. Loki wrenches his captive around and propels him into his comrade, knocking them both flat. The blows Loki delivers to their heads neutralise them as threats.

The efficiency with which he has dispatched these men seems to have taken Stark by surprise. The man stands gaping for a moment.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Stark says on a single exhale. “Yeah… I guess that’ll work.”

This small victory will not give them the advantage for long. The disturbance will undoubtedly have been heard, and they need to press on quickly.

“Don’t just stand there,” Loki hisses. He doesn’t check back to see if Stark follows. Either he keeps up, or Loki will leave him behind.

At the crest of the rise Loki keeps low, anxious not to present a silhouette against what little light penetrates the trees at his back. At the bottom of the slope below he can make out a cluster of men and vehicles, a track leading off from the centre of their temporary encampment to hug the lakeside. Stark joins him at his side and releases a low whistle.

“Heavy duty,” Stark breathes, presumably as a comment on the equipment in evidence. Loki does not reply, instead moving to skirt the ridge and put the danger to his back.

“So listen, I was thinking— shit.” Stark slips on loose soil as he scrambles to follow, sending a flow of dirt cascading down the slope. He cringes, no doubt aware of the risk of discovery his clumsiness could generate, but quickly regains his footing and does not pause for long. “We should probably start to circle back, see if we can regroup. The jet’s gonna be our best shot, even if it’s crawling with black hats, and I’m kinda thinking the others could use some back up. Probably.”

Does this man ever stop talking?

“And what assistance do you suppose we could possibly offer?” Loki says absently, his concentration focused on listening for threats. He does not avert his course or stop to hear Stark’s reasoning, determined to press on.

“Hey,” Stark challenges. “We’re a team. We don’t leave people behind.”

“A noble sentiment,” Loki replies. He still does not stop or turn.

This offhand remark clearly riles his companion. Stark lurches forward to snare his wrist. Loki snatches it away and turns on him to snarl a warning.

“What’s your problem?” Stark presses, not backing down. “Don’t you care?”

An absurd statement. As if sentiment bears any relation to their current circumstances.

“We are surrounded,” Loki explains, keeping his temper at bay by sheer force of will alone. “What exactly would you have us do?”

“I don’t know!” Stark responds, heedless of the volume of his voice. “But I’m open to suggestions! Where I come from we don’t abandon our friends. We don’t just cut and run!”

If Stark thinks it is that simple, he is mistaken. He is mistaken too if he thinks Loki has not considered every angle. The little witch had been kind to him. He is sorry more for the loss of Vision, for the formidable abilities he possesses. Such an ally would be invaluable. But more than this is the pressing need to be gone from this place, to put as much distance between himself and those that would cause him harm as he possibly can. He cannot allow himself to be captured again. He simply cannot.

“If you keep this up you will draw all of them down on us. I guarantee my odds of escape are more favourable than yours.”

Stark has the effrontery to look repulsed. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Whatever that is supposed to mean.

Loki turns on his heel and continues on, Stark’s disapproval a loud yet silent presence at his back. It would appear that this is where they will part ways. So be it.

It takes mere seconds for Loki to distance himself from Stark. He navigates the edge of the outcropping they have been inching around, dislodging not a pebble as he goes. Within a few strides he makes it into the dense shelter of a cluster of immature trees, his swift and silent footfalls quickly concealing him among their dark boughs. He absolutely will not slow his pace. It means little to him if Stark does not follow.

He does not get much farther.

A shout of alarm announces they have been spotted, and although Loki initially picks up the pace he soon slows to a halt. A line of men separate themselves from the trees ahead of him, and when he turns his head to check his tracks it’s to see his pursuers clearing the rise some distance behind. He is surrounded this time, and there are more of them, but he does not intend to surrender.

It takes him a moment to realise that it is not him they are heading towards.

Stark, realising he is being pursued, is negotiating a dangerous path towards a sheer cliff edge, looking for a way down that doesn’t exist. In doing so, he is allowing himself to be herded towards capture. Or a swift fall to his death.

Loki cannot help the sound of frustration that escapes him. He turns away, resolute. This is his opportunity, a chance to make his escape while the soldiers are otherwise occupied. He need only wait for the men ahead to pass him, then dart behind their line. He takes two steps. He stops. A fall of rocks dislodged by Stark’s feet clatter with a percussive force that echoes through the trees, drawn out by the sheer distance they have to bounce and fall.

The man is going to get himself killed.

Against his better judgement, Loki reverses his steps. He tells himself he will remain concealed. He is simply going to find a better position from which to assess Stark’s route. He will only intervene if absolutely necessary.

He sees Stark pause to look over his shoulder, then aim a clumsy repulsor blast at one of his pursuers that comes nowhere close to hitting its target. With the time this move has bought him, he scrambles further towards the steep drop behind him, ducking behind what cover he can as he goes. He starts up a stream of inane chatter that Loki cannot quite believe he is hearing.

Almost at once, it becomes painfully apparent what the man is doing. He is leading the soldiers away from Loki’s position. The ridiculous fool is even taunting them.

There is not much further Stark can go. They will catch him, and they will hurt him. Before he can allow himself to think any more on it, Loki moves.

He is almost a fraction too late.

He sees the danger in a parody of slow motion, his senses heightened and narrowed at the same time. The enemy’s arm raises to fire at Stark’s unprotected flank and Loki acts without thought. It is a split second’s action to throw himself forward, tackling Stark’s middle and throwing them both over the edge of the drop.

Stark’s monologue is interrupted mid-flow when he is barrelled into, the force of the hit knocking his breath from him with an abortive ‘oof’. The freefall lasts only a moment, but it is almost not enough. It takes all of Loki’s strength to wrench them both around as his stomach swoops, his back and shoulder taking the brunt of the impact as they land skidding against the uneven, sloping ground beneath. Jagged rocks tear at his skin as they slide, branches and thorns snatching at his clothing and hair. They hit an outcropping of rock, but rather than slowing their descent it sends them into a chaotic tangle of tumbling rock, blinding dirt and dizzying, painful rolls.

It seems to last an eternity.

He staggers to his feet as soon as they come to a stop, already scanning the ledge above for pursuit. Faces peer down at him, small now with the distance, but it seems the sense Stark lacks prevents them from attempting to follow.

The sound of hacking at his feet draws his attention, and he spares a quick glance to check on his charge.

Stark rolls over and levels an incredulous look at him. It loses some of its heat through the dirt and the cut that’s trickling blood over the man’s right eye. Stark coughs. “You’re crazy, you know that? You are abso-fucking-lutely certifiable.” The man rolls to his side to spit a mouthful of grit onto the ground. The groan he makes sounds more for dramatic effect than for genuine injury.

Whether serious or not, they can spare no time for Stark’s discomfort. With a firm grip that makes the man complain, Loki hauls Stark to his feet and urges him forward.

But the spectacle they have made of themselves has drawn attention. Of course it has. Shouts and running feet converge on them, a solid wall of rock at their back and scant cover to be had ahead. They now have no choice but to fight in the open, and the circumstances are not weighted in their favour.

With a ferocious shove Loki propels Stark away from him, and before Stark can voice the objection queuing on his lips Loki snarls a command at him.

“Go!”

Perhaps separated, they have some small chance of narrowing the odds for one another. One of them may yet get out of this alive.

Stark stumbles backwards, reluctant to leave, but when he sees the soldiers approaching he is quick to do as instructed. Loki spares the man no more thought. He has done as much as he can.

It goes poorly from there. He launches himself at the nearest target and brings the man down with the force of his landing. Rolling with it, he brings the body up and over as projectiles thud around him. Hurling the body forward then allows him to rise in a single fluid movement, snatching up a fallen weapon as he does so.

More enemies line up for him, and the feral thrill of it is enough to stretch his mouth into a joyless grin. He will take these men down. If he has to, he will kill them all.

He aims without conscious thought at the jugular of the next target, bringing his arm under in an uppercut that will inflict serious damage.

The strength he puts into his swing is what undoes him.

The bulk he anticipates encountering simply isn’t there, his makeshift bludgeon passing straight through the soldier’s mass as though he is a mere wraith. The momentum and lack of resistance throws off Loki's balance, and he has time to stumble forward by two horrifying steps before something cold and sharp slams into his shoulder blade.

The world flashes from existence in a supernova of blinding, white hot agony.

Thor.

Thor. Asgard. Painpainpain.

The thrill of seidr coursing through his veins. Centuries of learning, of childhood taunts, of painful lessons and valued secrets. Centuries of memory. Of history. Pain.

His father’s smile. His father’s frown. His father’s lies. Betrayal.

The face of his mother.

PAIN.

He screams.

It is worse than the control of the cuff at his wrist. It is worse even than the tortures of the white room. When it finally, finally, subsides, he is left shaking, panting and weak, his muscles unresponsive and his limbs locked awkwardly against his own body. What only seconds ago held the clarity of purest agony is already lost to him, his thoughts clouded and tangled and hopelessly undone.

He is sprawled on the ground where he has fallen, dirt and debris scattered and gouged where he has struggled. His own forearm seems to flicker and unfocus before his eyes, sometimes clad in what looks to be armour, sometimes swathed in different coloured cloths, at times fading from view entirely. Aftershocks of pain accompany each shift of form and texture and he shudders where he lies.

He can do little to resist them as they move to restrain him, and dazed as he is it takes a long moment for the implications to fully register.

“We have containment,” one of them says over him, a finger pressed to an ear.

No. No.

He struggles blindly and far too late, incoherent threats and murderous promises queuing behind the gag they’ve clamped between his teeth. They move to lift him but fall still at the sound of an electronic whine.

“Hands off,” Stark says somewhere behind them, though Loki cannot quite turn to see him.

“Stand down, Stark,” the man above Loki says. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. You take my stuff, you make it my business. That and Blair Witching me through the woods.” The click of priming weaponry issues from the small crowd of men surrounding them, but no one moves to fire. The man in charge raises a hand to his comrades to forestall action.

“Who are you guys, anyway?” Stark continues. “Don’t remember extending an invite.”

“An interested party,” the leader says with a smile in his voice. The humour is soon dropped, and Loki’s testing of his bonds is encouraged to cease with the heel of a boot pressing down on the back of his neck. “We’re not here for you. Turn around and we’ll leave you in peace.”

“Not going to work for me. Sorry.”

The pause bodes ill. “Then you make this harder than it needs to be.”

“I get that a lot.”

The man grinding his boot into Loki’s neck gestures to his nearest colleague. “Bring him too.”

Weapons raise again and Loki hears Stark take a step back. “Woah. I think you’re jumping the gun a little here.” A repulsor blast thuds into the ground a few feet away, and men move to encircle the threat. “Back off.”

“I have a different proposal for you. Hand over the gauntlets and things don’t have to get ugly.”

Stark chuffs an incredulous laugh. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

White hot agony spiders through every nerve and vein Loki possesses, and even without the gag in place the way his lungs seize would prevent any sound.

The clean, pure joy of battle. The scream of horses, the scent of sweat and men, the blood and the mud and glory.

The warm summer’s rain of Asgard. The forests. The meadows.

Pain.

Once again he is burned from the inside out, the world around him constricting to the pure focus of pain. Behind it all there’s something building in him, some unidentifiable force collecting at his core that threatens to spill over and consume him. He is approaching the edge of that cliff when the pain abruptly stops and he is left limp and heaving for breath.

“You loveless bastard,” Stark’s voice filters to him from very far away. Spots dance at the edge of his vision and he tastes iron.

They haul him upright and drag him between them, and though he tries to will his feet to obey him he has not the strength to lash out or resist them.

It seems they are bringing Stark too. He has given up his gauntlets.

The vehicle they confine him in is plated with armour and reinforced. They pin him face first against the floor of the rear compartment, and one of them presses him down with a hand to his head and a kneecap ground into the small of his back. Then they wreath him in chains.

Stark too is pressed down beside him. It is not long before they are moving.

The shuddering rumble of the vehicle jerking into movement travels through every limb. Stark grunts, jostled by the lurching of the truck, and rolls onto his side until they’re back to back.

Loki feels the man’s fingers trace his wrists and come to rest over the band of metal against his skin.

“Do not make me regret this,” Stark mutters under his breath. With three firm taps and a swipe of his fingertip, the cuff snaps open.

“You know,” Stark says more loudly as he shifts himself upright, the cuff concealed in his hand, “if you’re working for who I think you’re working for, you probably shoulda left me out of this. Just saying.”

The men’s leader gestures towards Loki’s gagged face. “Do you want one of those too, Stark? Because that can be arranged.”

The vehicle takes a corner at some speed, jostling its occupants. The men guarding them hold fast to their handholds to ride out the movement, but Stark makes a show of toppling to one side. He comes to a stop against the legs of the nearest guard, who yanks him upright to push him away.

“Buckle him in,” the guard growls to the other.

The man pushes Stark onto the low bench running the length of the van and secures two belts over his shoulders. As the man clips the last restraint in place, Stark twists and does something to the guard’s ankle. “Now, FRIDAY,” he says as he does.

“What the f—”

The guard drops immediately to the floor with a loud clack of teeth, the weapon in his hands crushed beneath him. His seizing fingers fire three sharp rounds at random as he does. Two of them pierce the bed of the vehicle, causing damage but otherwise harmless to the van's occupants. The third goes wide and hits something vital towards the front of the vehicle, though whether machinery, flesh or both it is impossible to know.

The vehicle swerves violently, throwing the remaining guard off his feet and Loki into the side panel. Screeching rubber fills the air and the van begins to spin. The movement is catastrophically arrested as something large ploughs into the tail end. There’s the crumple of metal and the shatter of glass, then the juddering of a forceful sideways skid. Then there is chaos.

Colours blur together as the world tilts and Loki is thrown forward into momentary weightlessness. The reflexive bracing his limbs want to provide is thwarted by the bindings and there is nothing he can do to shield himself from harm. Debris clatters around him and bodies fall against his. As the compartment tumbles he connects sharply with every protrusion and ridge, the walls, floor and roof becoming lost in a whirling confusion of pain and movement.

He collides with the roof of the van as it finally rolls to a stop, the groan of metal and the hiss of steam competing with the ringing in his ears. A horn blares mournfully. Light streams in from the jagged hole that has been wrenched open in the doors at the back. Up front someone moans.

Loki shifts into a sitting position and winces. A catalogue of injuries vie for his attention and he feels the hot slick of blood at the side of his face. His left shoulder is angled awkwardly where the joint has moved out of alignment, but there is now extra give in the bindings around his torso. With some shifting and no small amount of pain, he is able to slip them down his arms.

His hands are bound behind him and his ankles chained together, so it is with difficulty that he staggers to his feet. He leans cautiously against the vehicle’s side and takes a deep breath in through his nose. With a calculated motion and just enough force, he crunches his shoulder back into joint against the unyielding metal.

It is more painful than he would like to exert pressure on his bindings from there, and by the time he has weakened the metal at his wrists his face has broken into sweat. Once he has freed his hands it is easier to force apart the bindings at his feet, and the muzzle he tugs away with ease. The device embedded in his shoulder blade he rips loose.

He contemplates crushing the thing, but something stops him. An instinct, perhaps. An aversion turned to curiosity. He pockets it.

Still wobbly on his feet, he forces his way through the debris and twisted bodies to the exit wrenched into being. Stark’s arms hang limp from his straps, drops of bright red blood dripping from his fingertips where they swing.

Against his better judgement, Loki pauses. Ripping apart the straps, he lifts Stark’s unresponsive form from his inverted seat and drapes his body across his shoulders. Before he has time to regret his decision, he slips silently into the trees.

Chapter 13

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tony has woken up, at various points in his life, in varying degrees of pain. What’s different about this time is that it feels neither self-inflicted nor as a direct result of his own actions. This time, he feels it in his bones.

A soft sound of misery escapes him before he can think better of it, and although he barely shifts where he lies the keen lick of pain that races along each limb and muscle is enough to persuade him to remain still. It is at least mercifully dark. He gingerly cracks an eye open and squints into the middle distance, hoping to recognise something of his surroundings. He is disappointed.

Peeling paint flakes from the ceiling. Fading wallpaper, ripped and mouldy in places, evokes the late eighties. The surface he finds himself on might once have been called a mattress, although it now contains more springs than stuffing, smells strongly of damp, and rests directly on the ground.

Something small scurries between the shadows in one corner of the room, finding shelter in the pile of trash and crispy leaves collected against one wall. What little light there is pushes weakly through smeared and broken window panes framed with limp drapes.

And standing against that light is Loki, his angular form outlined enough to convey a dangerous mood. He has his back to the room and appears not to have noticed Tony’s return to consciousness. The way he is standing suggests he has been keeping an intense and uncomfortable vigil for some time.

Marvellous.

Screwing up his eyes against the discomfort, Tony braces his forearm against his midsection and makes slow and painful progress upright. He’s pretty sure he makes enough of a fuss about it to make it clear he wants to draw Loki’s attention, but it’s not forthcoming. He takes a moment instead to consider his situation and gather his scattered thoughts. And to slow his alarmingly shallow, panting breaths.

Much of what happened yesterday (or what he assumes could only have been a day ago) remains a blur. He has no idea how he got here, wherever here is.

He remembers running. He remembers the panic, the need to keep up, the worry for the others. He remembers taking a header more than once and being thrown around like a rag doll. He remembers pain.

The pitiful state of his body attests to that. He’s pretty sure his left arm is broken, or at least fractured badly enough that using it in the near future is out of the question. The state of his ribcage strongly suggests significant damage. And the rest of him feels like a giant bruise. With some tender probing to his hairline he locates the reason for the river of dried blood clotted down his face. He’s also damp, cold and covered in dirt.

More details come back to him once his thoughts finish rebooting. He remembers the manpower, the advanced weaponry, the way both Wanda and Loki were neutralised in the blink of an eye. He remembers some serious weirdness.

An operation like that could only mean one thing. Ross was behind this, and his lackeys knew what they were dealing with. They’d come prepared, and they’d had access to intel that could only have come from one place. It’s clear the interference Rhodey ran to stop news of Loki’s presence on Earth reaching the wrong ears wasn’t quite thorough enough.

The thought makes him shudder. He flicks his eyes to the figure still at the window. Loki’s bare, cuffless wrist is visible in the gleam of moonlight filtering through the window. He looks coiled tighter than a spring. And he’s yet to say a word.

Tony clears his throat and inadvertently triggers a painful bout of coughing. He winces, and when he finally speaks he’s not at all surprised at how scratchy his own voice sounds.

“Nice digs.” He flicks his working hand in a desultory manner to indicate their shell of a motel room. “Decor’s a little dated, but I guess I can live with it. Think we could get room service at this hour or should we call for take-out?”

Loki responds with the barest movement of his head, enough to cast a brief glance over his shoulder in Tony’s general direction. Then he returns his attention to the window without so much as a sniff.

Uh huh, Tony thinks. So this is how it’s going to be.

Tony begins to take an inventory. He pats down his pockets, cataloguing each contusion and scrape as he discovers it. He’s lost his phone and his shades (figures) so calling for backup is out. He remembers with regret handing his gauntlets over at some point too.

He does find a single stick of gum which, with much one-handed fumbling, he manages to extract from the wrapper. It helps to take the taste of blood away, but it also makes him aware of just how dry his mouth is.

A closer inspection of the room does little to improve Tony’s hopes of finding much of use. “Anything to drink around here?” he mutters half to himself, using the toe of his shoe to poke cautiously at a drift of detritus collected at the side of his makeshift bed.

He starts as something thuds onto the mattress next to him. A bottle of soda rolls to a stop against his thigh. When he looks up to check it’s to find Loki as he was, his back to the room and apparently unconcerned for its other occupant. Tony sketches a lazy salute to the guy’s back in thanks.

The stuff looks of dubious freshness, but at this point Tony isn’t about to complain. Wedging the bottle between his side and upper arm doesn’t quite give him the grip he needs, and he hisses when the force he tries to use to break the seal on the cap causes him to slip and jar himself.

He’s blinking away tears of pain when the bottle is taken from him, opened, and handed back to him again. Tony catches Loki’s eye as he reaches to take the proffered drink, and there’s something in that steady assessment that makes Tony drop his gaze.

Embarrassment is an emotion Tony has only ever had a passing acquaintance with, but he recognises the feeling of heat that prickles at his neck. His treacherous body’s response is also unusual enough that he suspects it’s not just this immediate display of weakness that has him reddening beneath Loki’s stare.

He nods gruffly and takes a swig of the stale liquid, managing to suppress too much of a wince. God knows where Loki found this. Some ancient vending machine in the parking lot, probably.

“Thanks, by the way.”

Loki is still standing over him, although what he’s waiting for it’s difficult for Tony to guess. “For what?”

“Getting me out of dodge. I appreciate it. Really.”

There’s a pause that could simply mean Loki is trying to translate that phrase. Or it could be that Tony has surprised him. Always tricky to say which with this guy. The we both know you didn’t have to goes unsaid between them.

“I killed some of them,” Loki says without preamble. As though to be rid of it. As though to get it out of the way. When Tony doesn’t immediately reply, he continues with, “I would do it again.”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to be surprised, and he meets Loki’s eyes again. Loki is waiting for his reaction. He is guarded. Unapologetic, but guarded nonetheless.

“I know,” Tony offers, thankfully without a trace of hesitation. “You did what you had to.” He hopes that will be enough, because he doesn’t think he has it in him to go further just now. Not with the pounding in his head and the ache in his arm, with the anxiety gnawing at him for the others and the need to make a plan pressing on him through it all.

Loki says nothing to this, which for the moment Tony is going to take as acceptance. Whatever is going on here is going to have to wait, as are the conflicting emotions he’s feeling just now. He doesn’t have the time or the energy for this. He needs to focus on getting his shit together.

“Any idea where we are?” he asks as he takes another gulp of soda. The look Loki returns is enough of an answer. “Right, stupid question.” At least Tony can take a ballpark guess, which is more than can be said of his Asgardian pal. “How far are we from the cabin?”

Loki stalks back to the window to resume his vigil. Tony suspects at least some of the reason is an excuse not to look at him. “I kept moving for several hours. I only stopped because you would have drawn attention.”

“Come again?”

Loki gestures vaguely to the side of his own face, then flicks his fingers in Tony’s direction. “You were making noise,” he adds.

Oh. “Gee, you’re all heart. But you could have just left me in the woods, so thanks I guess.” Tony takes one more mouthful from the bottle and fumbles the cap back in place, pulling a face as he does. “Good god that’s awful. Okay, so where does this leave us?”

The silence stretches, and Tony chooses to believe it’s because Loki genuinely doesn’t know what to do next, not because he’s considering doing something stupid.

“We need to find a way to contact the others.”

“They will be looking for us,” Loki replies, and it’s clear from his tone that he isn’t referring to Rhodey, Vision or Wanda.

Okay. So something stupid it is.

Tony needs to nip this in the bud now, and gently isn’t going to cut it. “I get that. But we can’t stay here. The sooner we can get FRIDAY on the phone, the sooner we get a ticket home.”

Your home,” Loki says with just a hint of heat.

Tony almost wants to say that nothing’s changed, that they can go back to what they were doing before this whole mess started. But that’s not exactly true, and while they’re skirting around the issue, they both know it. Loki has the power now to walk away if he wants to. Loki is in control here. The tenuous truce they have is completely in Loki’s hands right now, and Tony knows that if their roles were reversed, he’d be sorely tempted to run with that shift and see where it takes him.

The only advantage Tony still has is his knowledge. His sense of self. His place in the world. Loki has none of that — no back up, no safety net, no purpose. If he runs he has nowhere to go and no hope of finding his way back to himself. He’s alone. Tony and Rhodey and Vision... whether he wants to acknowledge it or not, they’re the only friends Loki has.

“Look,” Tony says, “I know you don’t like it. And I get that you’re scared.” Loki visibly bristles, and Tony forges ahead before he can interrupt. “I can’t promise that those goons aren’t on our tail and waiting to pick us up as soon as we poke our heads above the parapet, but we’ve got to try. And I’m going to level with you here — my pathetic mortal body is in need of some serious attention. You might be able to see this thing out for as long as you need to, but I am not going to be able to go the distance. And frankly, buddy, I’m the best chance you’ve got.”

“You’ll forgive me if my faith in your abilities is somewhat lacking.”

“Do you even have any idea who those guys are? Or what they want with you?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well you should. If they are who I think they are, they’ve got the full force of some very powerful people behind them, and they won’t stop until they have you tied up tight. Trust me when I say you don’t want to go it alone.”

The guy must have been ruminating on this for the last several hours, because it seems to touch a nerve. Loki turns sharply into the room and begins to pace, a restless energy barely contained in his stiff gait.

Tread lightly a voice cautions in the back of Tony’s mind. Tony bats it to one side.

“Listen. I can see that you’re not super impressed with me right now, and hell, it wasn’t exactly my finest hour out there. But I’m willing to bet your other options are pretty thin on the ground, otherwise you wouldn’t still be here.”

Loki snorts at this and casts Tony a dark look. Tony smiles.

“Yeah, I know. You’re badass and you don’t need my help. Well guess what. You’ve got it anyway.”

Loki stops and lets his eyes close, tilting his face to the ceiling. “I’m going to die,” he mutters on a sigh.

Tony’s smile stretches to a grin. Buoyed by his success, he decides to ride the wave and attempt to move while he’s still feeling optimistic about his chances. Scooting himself carefully towards the edge of the mattress, he slides his legs around and leans to shift his weight forward. That small movement makes something shift sickeningly inside him and sends shards of sharp agony through his chest cavity.

“Ahh, fuckfuckfuck.”

He acquiesces to his body’s demand to stop and freezes, unable to lie back again but too close to passing out to try moving any further. It is several excruciating seconds before the memory of the grind of bone fades enough that he can register the cold sweat left in its wake.

“Maybe you should stop trying to move,” a prim voice informs him.

Tony uses his remaining strength to raise the middle finger of his good hand and breathes carefully through the nausea.

He cries out again when he feels his upper half being braced, his whole body dragged and then his shoulders being propped into a semi-upright position. He grits his teeth and screws his eyes shut against the movement, every ounce of him screaming at Loki to stop helping yet unable to make a coherent sound. When it is over he feels weak, breathless and utterly wrung out.

“Thank you so much,” he gasps when he has enough breath back, and Loki responds with an almost cheerful, “My pleasure.”

It isn’t a pleasant thought, or one that Tony particularly wants to dwell on given his current circumstances, but it appears he’s pretty dependent on Loki too right now.

“I’m not doing so hot here,” he eventually admits.

“You don’t say.”

“What I mean is, we should probably make a move sooner rather than later.” That’s right Tony, push that advantage. Don’t give Loki a chance to change his mind.

The sarcastic tone Loki switches to is delivered like a purr. “Ready to go then, are you? Or do you need another demonstration?”

Tony chews his lip. “Fine. A short break. But then we make a move. Together.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes, Tony’.”

Loki doesn’t say take it as you like, but Tony infers it. Instead he returns to the window and falls as still and silent as before. Just watching him stand there puts Tony on edge. “Do you have to do that all night?” he complains.

A muscle jumps along Loki’s jaw as he clenches it but he doesn’t otherwise reply. Tony isn’t afraid to get on anyone’s last nerve, especially if it will get him what he wants, but something about Loki’s quiet resignation to all this has him holding back. If anything Loki looks wetter and more bedraggled than Tony feels. The moonlight hitting his face makes him appear gaunt, and despite the nervous energy he looks tired. He seems almost… defeated.

“Look, Loki.” With a grunt of effort that Tony is going to think of as manly rather than pained, Tony curls his legs to one side to make room on their shelter’s only seating. “Come take a load off for a sec. You’re no good to anyone if you run yourself ragged.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah? Well you don’t look fine.”

“Thank you.”

“You want some of this?” Tony waggles the soda invitingly. “I’ve maybe not sold it all that well, but you gotta keep hydrated. And hey, sugar.”

“No.”

“You sure? Because I really think—”

The speed with which Loki pivots towards him is enough to snap Tony’s mouth shut (and on reflection was probably the effect Loki was going for). With barely restrained force, Loki snatches the soda from Tony’s hand, wrenches off the lid and knocks back a mouthful. The curl of his lip is eloquent in its disgust. He glares at the offensive stuff for a moment before thrusting it back towards Tony with a look that asks if he is happy now.

Like that’s going to stop him. “You keep it,” Tony says magnanimously. He ignores Loki’s icy stare. “And seriously, when was the last time you took a break? You’re stressing me out.”

“Oh do end your ceaseless fussing, Stark. You’re beginning to sound just like my moth—”

Loki cuts off so abruptly it would have been comical, were it not for the look of absolute mortification on his face. He shoots an arm out to catch his balance against the wall as though his legs are in danger of giving out, then braces against it to sink slowly to the mattress at Tony’s side. All the while he gapes at Tony in complete silence, his skin paling noticeably.

“Um, Loki?” Tony ventures, an uneasiness squirming in his gut. He straightens himself slowly, caution and concern curdling together.

Loki’s eyes do that thousand yard stare thing that rings alarm bells in Tony’s mind, and as he leans closer he notices the guy’s breathing begin to accelerate.

Oh boy. This he recognises.

He shifts himself to sit more squarely at Loki’s side and places a hand oh so carefully at the back of Loki’s neck. When this doesn’t immediately result in said arm being ripped off, he exerts just enough pressure to push the guy’s head down between his knees.

Loki doesn’t seem to react to this in any way and continues to pant, eventually taking a couple of gulping breaths as though trying very hard not to be sick.

“You’re okay,” Tony tells him. “You’re fine. Just take it easy.”

What the hell? What the hell is this? Tony tamps his own rising panic down firmly and pushes the discomfort of the position he’s in to the back of his mind. He continues to murmur meaningless platitudes for the sake of something to say, because that’s just what you do, and tries very hard not to feel weird about it.

It is several minutes before Loki’s breathing begins to even out, and several more before he says something to break the awkward silence.

“Stark.”

“Yeah?”

“Please… take your hand… off me.”

Tony snatches his hand back like he’s been burnt and tucks it guiltily between his knees. He feels his stomach drop out from beneath him and the back of his neck flush cold. But he can’t seem to move away. He’s frozen to the spot.

Shit shit shit.

Is this it? Is this how it’s going to end? He’s alone, unarmed, completely defenceless, and Loki gets his memories back now? He’s uncomfortably aware of how close he is to Loki, of how dangerous the guy is, of how laughably unprepared he is for this moment. And he's not exactly fighting fit, either.

Loki raises his head by degrees, but he doesn’t turn. He looks dead ahead, and if anything his shoulders hunch a little closer to his ears.

It occurs to Tony in a wave of giddy relief that Loki is avoiding his eyes. This isn’t murderous revelation. This isn’t a calculated reveal or a sinister gotcha moment. This is embarrassment.

“My apologies,” Loki says stiffly.

“Are you okay?” Tony asks cautiously. Starting simple. Starting safe.

Loki nods just slightly but doesn’t otherwise offer anything by way of explanation.

He can’t help himself. God help him, he just has to poke that anthill.

“So, uh… you’re gonna make me say it?”

The look Loki gives him is blank.

“You know,” Tony continues — and for the love of all that’s holy why can’t he stop — “kinda wondering where I stand here. You’re not… having second thoughts about this whole deal, are ya?”

That at least gets a reaction. Although not an altogether helpful one. Loki frowns at him. Tony sighs.

“Okay. I’m just going to say it. Are you going to kill me now?”

Loki takes a second to reply, then does so slowly. Like he’s talking to the elderly. Or a particularly deficient mortal child. “Not at this moment in time, no.”

“Great. That’s good. You just let me know if that changes. Keep me abreast of the situation. I’d appreciate a heads up.” Yes, he can hear himself. “So, what was that?”

The scowl Loki aims at him tells him all he needs to know.

“Not keen to share. Right. But, is it all coming back, or…”

“No,” Loki growls.

Well. That’s good to know. Sort of. “Listen, I don’t want to be a jerk about this, but—”

“Do you know,” Loki interrupts silkily, “I think I am beginning to feel inclined towards violence.”

Tony holds up his hand. “You’re right. None of my business. You’ll let me know. Got it. I’m just gonna…” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, then does his best to lean back against the wall and out of Loki’s personal space with as little hissing and teeth gritting as possible.

Loki uses the opportunity to get slowly back to his feet, appearing lost in thought. Keeping his back turned and his expression hidden, he allows Tony a brief handful of words.

“If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

And isn’t that… comforting. “Yeah. See, you say that now…”

He should leave this alone.

That seems to be all the comment Loki will make on the matter. Without so much as another sound, he moves to the door, pulls it open and vanishes into the night.

“Hey, where are you going?” Tony calls into the void left behind, but he doesn’t receive an answer.

Notes:

Thank you so much for your comments and kudos. I can't tell you how thrilled I am to hear from you, even if it's just to tell me off for leaving this story unfinished for so long.

And if you like, come find me over on Tumblr as mudgemsfic

Chapter Text

The night air is cool against Loki’s skin, a gentle breeze stirring the tendrils of hair at his ears. Small night creatures chirp in the undergrowth around him. The distant sound of passing traffic tells of a main thoroughfare some way off into the trees. No travellers have found cause to pass down the road that skirts this derelict collection of buildings, and other than the occasional sweep of light from the beams of a far off turning vehicle filtering dimly through the thick needles there is not a sign of sentient life anywhere.

This is as Loki would prefer it, for the moment at least. In time he may welcome the distraction from this interminable waiting; for an opportunity to channel the pent up anxiety that has been building in him for the last several hours; for the axe to finally fall, so that he can be done with it. But for now his instincts seem determined to evade conflict, and his subconscious mind is maintaining a state of hyper-vigilance to that effect.

Loki suspects there is a fine line between what some would call survival and others cowardice, but for now he is content to let himself believe that this hesitation, this held breath of inaction, is for another’s benefit.

He has an almost 360 degree view of his immediate surroundings from his vantage point up here on the flat roof; only the crowding pines obscure the view beyond the expanse of hardtop that skirts the building and the road that snakes from it up the ridge. A faded, dilapidated sign that once served to advertise the function of the property offers at least some support for Loki to prop himself against, but he does not allow himself to relax.

He is alert to the merest suggestion of the presence of those hunting him, but he must concede that Stark is not wrong. He needs rest, and even a short reprieve from the relentless flight is to be welcomed.

If only he could take full advantage of the time he has been afforded.

The chill metal at his back is uncomfortable, but that is not what keeps him from rest. He has not been able to quiet his mind since the scene in the room beneath him, and try as he might his thoughts turn over what he has learned without pause.

He thinks he remembers his mother.

There are snatches of memory there now when he looks for them, memory that was entirely absent only a day ago. Or perhaps it has been longer than that. Strangely, they did not make themselves known when they returned. They did not slot themselves back into Loki’s sense of himself with a snap of blinding clarity. They did not announce their arrival. Instead there is simply more solid ground there to tread, a strengthened foundation that Loki only knew to recognise when he went to lean against it without conscious thought.

There is not much, but its discovery had almost overwhelmed him.

He has the vague memory of her presence in his life. An impression of a woman he held both dear and in contempt to varying degrees. He doesn’t quite understand that contradiction, not in any meaningful way, but it both reassures and troubles him in equal measure. He is not able to picture her face, nor hear her voice, nor imagine her touch. He has no stories he can recollect nor anecdotes he could describe. But it is there where there was nothing before. A sense of history. An influence that shaped his life. A connection to something outside of himself.

His inability to tease out more is maddening.

Nor can he recall the visions he knows he saw as he suffered. There is much more there, just under the surface, he’s sure of it. The witch had confirmed as much, that his sense of himself is not lost, only hidden, hidden by something that can be ripped aside given enough force. By something he has begun to suspect he has more control over than he had previously thought possible.

He allows his attention to draw away from scanning the tree line to once again study the object in his hands. He turns the thing over, again and again, exposing the ugly teeth on its underbelly, then flipping it back to examine its ridged surface. His shoulder still aches from its bite, though the flesh wound has long since healed. There is a hum of power in the metal creature still, and perhaps more answers besides.

A call of some startled animal breaks his train of thought and he whips his head up, but it is only the sound of wildlife going about its secret business. It does not herald a threat. It is only the natural activities of the night. His pulse thrums loudly beneath his skin nonetheless.

He cannot hide up here forever. He must face Stark at some point, and in truth he has already made up his mind to stop running. Now that he knows for certain that there is more to be uncovered from his clouded mind, he has no choice but to concede to Stark’s vociferously argued point: that the tenuous alliance they have forged is Loki’s only real hope for more than the half life of a damaged, terrorized fugitive. And he really is very tired of fulfilling the part of the victim.

Time to take control of the situation. And to take pity on the man stewing in his own anxiety in that filthy, lonely little room in the building below.


“This is a bad idea.”

Stark huffs a pained little laugh at Loki’s side in response to that but doggedly forges ahead, determined to make it to the summit of the rise at least somewhat under his own power. It had been so much easier to carry the man when he had not been conscious enough to complain of it. Allowing him to walk, albeit with Loki’s support on the side of his good arm, is slowing them down. Why Stark insists on prolonging his pain Loki cannot fathom.

“Believe me, if there was another way I’d suggest it.” Stark grimaces past another wave of pain but doesn’t stop walking. “Even if the payphone wasn’t disconnected, rusted and rat-eaten to hell, no one carries change anymore. Come to think of it, I don’t think I can even remember a phone number we can trust that hasn’t been out of service for at least ten years.”

Loki doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like that they’re so exposed as they make slow progress up the road towards the highway Stark insists will be their salvation. He doesn’t like that they will be willingly revealing themselves to passers-by, any one of whom could be a part of the search party tracking them. He doesn’t like that he must trust his escape to strangers.

But what choice does he have? As Stark so smugly enjoys reminding him, he’s hardly in a position to offer an alternative solution.

They finally scale the ridge at a junction with a much wider thoroughfare that hugs the side of the mountain. Its well-kept surface and neatly painted lines suggests it is much more heavily used than the track below, and guard rails separate it from the drop to one side. An area set aside for vehicles to pull into, perhaps to admire the view beyond, widens the road just before a bend that obscures the rest of the route from sight. With a breathless nod Stark motions them towards it. They make laughably slow progress, but when they get to it there is at least a seat.

It is some time before there is any sign of movement up ahead. Still dubious, Loki casts a questioning look at Stark, who obliges with an encouraging smile and a shooing motion. “Go ahead, give it a shot.”

The dawn light is still low enough that the vehicle approaching has its headlights on, so Loki is confident the driver will see him. The part of him still screaming at him to hide himself jars uncomfortably with this thought even as he strives to make himself visible.

Stepping to the side of the road, he extends his arm and waits.

The vehicle passes him without so much as slowing down. He tries very hard not to feel relieved.

It is another twenty minutes before his opportunity comes again. Stark had explained that it might take some time, that it was unlikely they’d find someone happy to stop right away. And it is still early enough in the day that traffic is light. The second car passes them by also.

By the time the fourth, fifth and sixth vehicle has refused to stop, Loki’s apprehension has morphed into impatience. He looks back at Stark, sweating and hunched where he sits, and manages to communicate once again his contempt for this method through his expression alone.

Stark reads his face with an uneasy look of his own. “Stick to the plan,” Stark warns him preemptively, and Loki doesn’t bother to respond.

When the next car makes its way towards them, Loki steps out in front of it.

The driver slams on the brakes and the vehicle screeches to a stop a short distance from where Loki now stands. When the acrid smoke of burning rubber finally drifts away, the woman behind the wheel gapes at him in shock. Behind him, Stark demands to know what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

When she’s recovered from the scare, the woman’s expression quickly becomes one of incredulous anger. Loki assumes she is gearing herself up to yell at him for putting them both in danger. Before she can begin, he approaches the driver’s side door, and apparently the calm manner in which he does so is enough to inspire her to silence. He sees her hand move surreptitiously to check the locking mechanism.

Loki tries what he hopes is an apologetic expression and carefully raps a single knuckle on the window. The woman hesitantly rolls her window down just a crack. “Can I help you?”

“Ma’am,” Stark interjects before Loki has even taken a breath to begin, hobbling unsteadily to Loki’s side. “We’re so sorry to bother you, but—”

“Oh my God,” the woman breathes when she catches sight of him. “You’re Tony Stark.”

Stark produces a practised and ingratiating smile which instantly charms his audience. “You got me.”

The woman takes in Stark’s bedraggled appearance, his ripped clothes, the wounds they’ve barely been able to disguise beyond cleaning as much dried blood away as they could, and her eyes widen in horror. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes flick back to Loki with blatant suspicion, but if she recognises him it’s doubtful she can entirely place him. Probably just as well, if Loki’s surmised anything correctly from his time here.

“To be honest with you,” Starks replies smoothly, “we could really use a ride. And please tell me you have 4G.”


Loki’s not sure he would call it relief exactly, but when they are delivered to the meeting point Stark has arranged for them by their reluctant saviour (who had insisted on a trip to what she called an ‘emergency room’ and had seemed rather put out to be contradicted by the object of her concern), the feeling that washes over him at the sight of Colonel Rhodes goes some way to unknotting the tight ball of tension he’s been carrying in his core.

The man stands waiting for them as the car pulls into the rest stop, his arms crossed but his bearing vigilant. He’s chosen the quietest spot farthest from the concentration of other travellers and their families, some of whom congregate around picnic tables to distribute wrapped packages of food.

Stark directs their driver — Cheryl, they have learned — to pull up alongside the colonel’s car and thanks her profusely for her help. She tries once again to persuade Stark to accept further help and he firmly but politely refuses. Loki has remained silent throughout the journey here and he feels no need to break that streak. He exits the car without acknowledging the woman in any way and ignores the mistrustful glance he receives.

Stark begrudgingly accepts Loki’s offered aid in order to switch vehicles, and it’s only once he’s safely inside and behind the tinted windows that he lets his mask slip. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as he tries and fails to get comfortable, a grimace of pain etched deeply around his eyes. Loki leaves him to it and claims the front passenger seat.

Colonel Rhodes slides into the driver’s side with a final, cheerful farewell to Cheryl, then with the door closed promptly swivels to examine his friend now prostrate in the back.

“Jesus, Tony,” he says with feeling, part compassion and part reproach. “What the hell happened?” He spares a glance for Loki too, and again Loki experiences that unusual feeling of not-quite-relief to read concern in it rather than accusation.

“Wanda and V?” Stark demands instead of answering.

“Safe,” Rhodes assures them immediately. “Wanda’s a little worse for wear, but Vision got her out of there fast. It’s been eating him up that he couldn’t find you. I should call him.” Loki assumes Rhodes has turned to do just that, but instead of withdrawing a phone from the bag he rummages in, he emerges with food and water that he presses into Loki’s hands. “Here,” he says as he does, matter-of-factly. Loki doesn’t quite find the fortitude to say thank you.

Rhodes doesn’t seem to notice, instead passing water back to Stark. “Anything a little stronger in there?” Stark asks as he accepts it.

Rhodes sombrely passes him medication of some kind. Tylenol, apparently. Whatever that is. Stark swallows them with a wince. “I’ll say again for the record that I really think a trip to a hospital wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“Yeah yeah,” Stark says dismissively. “We’ve been hearing that for the last hour. It’s just a concussion and a couple of busted ribs. Nothing we can’t handle ourselves. The faster we’re out of here the better.”

“Uh huh,” Rhodes reluctantly agrees in a tone that suggests the opposite. “You’re the boss.” He starts the car, pulling them out onto the road at last, much to Loki’s relief. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Tony groans as though at the very end of his reserves. “So you know how I said it was a long story better told in person than by text?” he says, a hand pressed over his eyes. “Yeah. That.”

Rhodes looks to Loki then, awaiting explanation.

“We were captured,” Loki supplies simply. He allows the following silence to communicate his feelings on that, and Rhodes wisely doesn’t push for elaboration.

“Shit,” Rhodes curses quietly, his mind already running through the implications. “Ross.”

“My best guess, yeah,” Tony agrees. “And you wanna know the fun part?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“He’s got a hold of whatever they learned from our talented alien friend here.” He lifts his hand from his eyes only long enough to gesture vaguely in Loki’s direction. “And they’ve already weaponised it. Prototype tech, but effective. We’re talking grade-A doppelgangers that slip straight through your fingers. Even Vision couldn’t tell the difference.”

Rhodes taps his fingers on the steering wheel in quick succession and bites on his bottom lip. He does not like what he’s hearing. Whoever this Ross person is, it is obvious he is a force to be reckoned with. Loki would dearly like to get his hands on him.

“Sounds like we’ve got a problem, then,” Rhodes says eventually.

“That’s not even the half of it,” Stark adds. “We’ve slipped one net, but he’s gonna know exactly where to look for Loki now, and he’s so far removed from this thing he’s got plausible deniability. We’ve got some protection, because he can’t just barge in without it looking really fucking bad, but he knows we can’t call him on it either without tipping our hand. All he needs to do is drop in for a surprise visit and it’s all ‘well well well, fancy meeting you here’. Then before you know it he’s brought in the big guns and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“So we hide him.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Excuse me,” Loki interjects, not liking where this is going, “but he is sitting right here.”

The two of them continue as though they haven’t even heard him.

“So where are we headed?” Rhodes asks. He slides just slightly out of their lane to avoid a pothole, mindful of his friend’s injuries even as he trades rapid-fire threat assessments with him.

“Remember that little bolthole I told you about? The one I wish I’d had after the Mandarin? Kept it strictly off the books and off the radar. And it is sweet.”

Rhodes smiles at Stark in the rear view mirror as though the pair of them are complicit in some secret language known only to the two of them. Perhaps they are; Loki wouldn’t put it past them. They’re certainly incomprehensible to Loki most of the time.

“So south on the interstate?”

“You got it,” Stark confirms.

Loki isn’t sure what to make of any of this. It seems his input is not needed and that the decision is being made for him. And as much as he’d like to feel affronted by that he finds he’s actually… reassured.

“Aren’t you gonna eat that?” Rhodes says to him with a pointed glance to the food in his lap.

Feeling somewhat peculiar about it and not quite able to meet the colonel’s eye, Loki nods jerkily and finally manages to express the gratitude he couldn’t quite articulate earlier. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Rhodes says.


Stark sleeps for much of the journey, looking wan and exhausted even as he does. The directions he gives are apparently enough instruction to allow Colonel Rhodes to navigate their route, and with only one stop for a ‘comfort break’ they make good progress for much of the day.

Loki is eventually persuaded to divulge to Rhodes more detail concerning their ambush, capture and escape. If the man is at all perturbed that Loki is no longer restrained in any fashion he does not comment on it, but he does show genuine concern when Loki describes to him the method by which their assailants incapacitated him.

Rhodes has a strong set of principles, Loki has learned. He does not approve of unwarranted force, possibly even to a greater degree than Stark. Perhaps there is a similarly humane means of restraint available to them that they mean to employ when they reach their new destination. Loki has already decided he will comply with whatever measures they feel they need in order to feel comfortable. He is relatively confident the bargain will be a fair one.

At several points during their journey Colonel Rhodes encourages Loki to sleep. Loki is still too tense to fully relax and assures the man that riding as a passenger is rest enough. Rhodes fails to hide an unhappy look after the third such conversation but finally leaves the matter alone.

They arrive at a small, unassuming domicile sometime after nightfall, and Rhodes is required to wake Stark to confirm they are in the right place. The man rises groggily from where he has been resting to peer out into the darkness, a hiss of discomfort the only tell of his condition. When his eyes adjust he gives them a thumbs up and Rhodes parks the car beneath a port with a gate that rises and then lowers again to conceal their means of transport.

Loki once again offers to lift Stark from the back of the car to take him into the house, but again his efforts are rebuffed. Instead Stark allows Rhodes to escort him inside, leaving Loki feeling somewhat at a loss as he trails them.

It is clear immediately that what appears as a small and humble home from the outside is simply a façade; once inside the space is vast, numbering several rooms, hallways and storage areas that disappear beneath the ground and out to cover a footprint untold. The style of furnishings and technology in evidence mirrors that of the compound in which Loki was first kept, and when FRIDAY’s voice welcomes them it completes the sense of deja vu.

Rhodes installs Stark in a room already prepared with a sleeping area and medical equipment on hand. Just what circumstances have led Stark to devise such a set up Loki cannot imagine, but he supposes it is fortunate the man has taken the time to do so. With the help of FRIDAY Rhodes ministers to his friend in much the same way as he did when Loki was in his care, and rather than feel like the spare part he is, Loki takes the opportunity to explore the rooms around him while he still has the freedom to do so. He wonders idly as he does if Vision will shortly be called back in as his caretaker, and if his other keepers would allow his wandering were they not otherwise distracted.

He locates a kitchen, already stocked with food. There are living spaces much as there were at the compound, complete with view screens on which to access information and comfortable seating for those at leisure. There is also a room for exercise, bathing facilities and even an indoor swimming area. As far as he can tell, however, there is no cell.

Loki is investigating the false windows displaying the above-ground garden when Rhodes finds him some time later.

“Tony’s all settled in,” he says, as though that was to be Loki’s first question, but the pinched look to his face persuades Loki not to comment on it. “Guess we better go find the guest quarters.”

Loki inclines his head to this and follows the man back out into the hallway, peering over his shoulder as he tries door after door. After some searching Rhodes eventually stops at an ordinary-looking bedroom and steps aside at the doorway. “Ah ha. Here we go.”

Loki moves carefully past him to stand at the entrance to the room and casts a dubious eye over the interior. It is much bigger than the space he occupied at the compound, and there are far more decorative touches and loose articles than he would otherwise expect. He elects not to mention this and holds out his wrist, turning to look at the colonel when this action elicits no immediate response.

Rhodes frowns at the proffered limb, then raises a questioning eyebrow.

Loki swallows an ill-advised growl. He is certainly not going to ask to be cuffed. He lowers his arm and glares, waiting for the man to spell out his requirements.

Incredibly, Rhodes simply smiles at him. “Think we’re a ways past that, don’t you?” he says casually, as though Loki is naturally in the man’s confidence. With a clap to Loki’s shoulder and a jaunty wink, Rhodes turns and pulls the door closed behind him as he leaves. A heartfelt ‘goodnight’ is issued from without.

Loki stares at the door in disbelief for some time after.


Sometimes when he sleeps he is cowed by a brutal longing. The man who inspires it is wisdom and benevolence and supreme, wrathful justice. He is ineffable. He is flawed. His approval is everything Loki craves.

He is protector and tyrant both, a brilliant light that Loki yearns for and leans into even as it burns him.

Loki slams down his walls even as the child within him wails its loneliness. He will not be lured by the promise this time. He will sleep untroubled, and he will sleep deep.

This man does not feel like protection.

Chapter 15

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The conversation with Vision is a rare example of one of the more positive debriefs Rhodey’s had the pleasure of delivering over the course of his career. It makes for a nice change to be able to alleviate some of the guilt Vision has been wearing on his sleeve the last few days, and to be able to reassure him that he’s fine to stay where he is. Small comfort perhaps, after what they’ve all been through, but Rhodey will take his victories where he can find them.

“You are quite certain you do not require my assistance?” Vision asks for the second time, sincere in his offer but clearly grateful that he won’t be asked to make a choice.

“We’re good. Really. Take all the time you need. And don’t worry about manning the fort. FRIDAY’s got it covered.”

Vision’s image flickers slightly, the energies he emits interfering with the signal. But Rhodey doesn’t need to see him clearly to hear the quiet relief in his voice. “Thank you, colonel,” he says after a moment. “A few days would be welcome. If there is anything I can do in the meantime, you need only ask.”

“Just take good care of her,” Rhodey tells him. He signs off with a mock salute, and Vision inclines his head solemnly before the image goes dark.


Tony’s already sitting up in bed by the time Rhodey drops by to check on him later that morning. He looks better for being rested, and the pain medication is strong enough that he’s all easy smiles and cheerful greetings when Rhodey brings him his coffee and eggs.

FRIDAY’s imaging software displays the fracture in Tony’s left radius and the damage to his ribs with an array of bright, peppy colours that belie their undoubtedly painful nature. Tony dismisses the image with his good hand and settles his braced arm more comfortably against his abdomen.

“How are you feeling?” Rhodey asks him, trying his best not to peer too obviously at the dark circles under his eyes and the bruising that’s nowhere near ready to fade.

“Like the truck that ran me over came back for a second go. Which compared to this time yesterday amounts to feeling pretty spectacular, actually.” Tony’s grin takes some of the sting out of his words. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll be fine.”

“Right, sure. Is that what we’re doing now? Breaking out all the old chestnuts?”

“Chestnuts,” Tony snickers. “Don’t be such an old man.”

Rhodey busies himself clearing away the detritus Tony has already begun to accumulate across the bed spread. “Neither of us are exactly getting any younger, Tony.”

“Speak for yourself. Plenty of miles left in this tank yet.”

The critical eye Rhodey passes across Tony’s many welts is answer enough to that. “Uh huh.”

Tony makes a ‘pfft’ sound. “Anyway. Speaking of what takes a licking and keeps on ticking, Loki give you the full low down yet?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“He seem okay to you?”

That makes Rhodey pause. “I guess. Shouldn’t he be? He’s bounced back from worse.”

Tony waves that off. “I’m not just talking about the super duper speed healing. Which I’m not at all jealous about, by the way. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was a crappy deal all round what with the running for our lives and the side order of torture. But I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess he didn’t tell you about the trip down traumatic memory lane.”

“The what now?”

Tony presses his lips into a line as though holding back something he thinks is not his to tell. It’s obvious when he speaks again that he’s intentionally leaving out the detail. He smiles grimly. “Yeah. Fun times. The upshot is, bits are coming back on their own. For a second there I really thought it might be curtains.”

It’s difficult to tell if Tony is being completely serious when he says this. He has such a habit of glossing over anything weighty with a witty rejoinder that Rhodey often finds he has to dig deep to get past the several layers of defensive sarcasm Tony has in place. “Should we be worried?”

“Probably. Not sure what we can do about it though, other than be ready to deal with it when it happens.”

Or to help pick up the pieces, Rhodey silently supplies.

Tony shakes his head then, seemingly not happy with his own words. He revises them, and his mood is a shade more serious this time. “I don’t know, honestly. Sure, I panicked a bit, but I don’t think I was in any real danger. Things have changed.”

“You mean you’ve changed your mind about him.”

Rather than argue the point as strongly as Rhodey expects, Tony smirks. “I wouldn’t quite go that far. But I guess there’s something about having your ass pulled out of the fire that makes a guy grow on you.”

“Coming from you that’s a glowing recommendation.”

The irreverent tone creeps back into Tony’s voice as he brushes that off. “Don’t get used to it. How’s our reluctant house guest settling in, anyway?”

Without needing to be asked, FRIDAY confirms Loki’s status for them, although Rhodey notes that there are no privacy-infringing visuals this time.

“Still sleeping, boss. Coming up on 14 hours now.”

“Guess he needs it.”

Rhodey thinks that’s something of an understatement, personally. And he’s not going to let Tony off that lightly. “Isn’t that the whole point of all this, anyway?” he presses. “To help Loki get his memories back? What were you expecting would happen?”

The shrug Tony produces is slight, mainly because of his injuries, but also, Rhodey suspects, because he doesn’t want to admit that he hasn’t thought that far ahead.

“You’ve been ignoring that part, haven’t you?” Rhodey guesses. Consequences had a tendency to feature towards the bottom of Tony’s list of priorities at times.

“You mean the part where the semi-feral house cat we’ve taken in reverts to full-on feral and goes ballistic?”

The part where the prickly, vulnerable, almost-friend that’s slipped in past your defences is replaced by a dangerous unknown you shouldn’t have forgotten was still in there, Rhodey reads.

Rhodey’s not entirely sure himself why he feels the need to take Loki’s part in all this. Perhaps it’s something to do with the moment of sheer terror he’d experienced to hear Vision report Tony as missing in action, contrasted with the watery relief of having him returned again. “Maybe it won’t be that way. He’ll still be the same person underneath all that.”

Tony produces a look that suggests he thinks Rhodey is being a bit naive but doesn’t outright refute this. But then he sobers, his thoughts apparently returning full circle.

“He came back, Rhodey. He came back on his own.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey agrees, surprising himself somewhat with the note of wonder in his voice that matches Tony’s own. “Yeah, I know.”


Rhodey’s in the kitchen, prodding idly at the instant ramen he’s heated up for himself (out of a vague sense of it being an appropriate thing to do rather than because he’s actually hungry), when Loki finally emerges.

He is subdued and cautious, as though still uncertain of his welcome, and hovers at the far entrance to the room while he waits for Rhodey to notice him. He has found the assortment of spare clothing FRIDAY had directed Rhodey to leave out (yet another contingency Tony had planned ahead for) and has changed into fresh casual wear. His hair is clean and bound loosely behind his head in a rough knot.

“Find everything you need?” Rhodey asks him, beckoning him over.

He approaches slowly, scanning the room in what Rhodey has come to recognise as an habitual defensive reflex. “FRIDAY has been most accommodating,” he says as he does. On Rhodey’s insistence he eventually takes a seat at the counter opposite. After a few moments of silence he stifles a poorly-disguised yawn.

Rhodey pours two cups of coffee and slides one to Loki, dumping two heaped spoons of sugar into it without needing to ask. He receives a head inclined in thanks for his efforts.

“You want this?” Rhodey asks, pushing his untouched ramen forward.

Loki leans over to peer down into the steaming bowl. “What is it?”

“You’ll love it. Trust me. Everybody does.” Rhodey turns to the drawers behind him and roots around for utensils. When he turns back, fork in hand, it is to see Loki already digging in with Rhodey’s discarded chopsticks, apparently without any difficulty.

Loki pauses when he notices Rhodey watching him, a second portion of noodles halfway to his mouth. “What?”

Rhodey suppresses a wider smile. “Nothing.”

Leaving him to it, Rhodey begins to stack the dishwasher, using the task as a cover to prepare his thoughts. When Loki has finished eating Rhodey clears that bowl away too.

“Good, right?”

Loki bestows upon him the slightest of wan smiles in response. It’s all the encouragement Rhodey needs.

“Can I ask you something?”

This catches Loki off guard. He searches Rhodey’s face for a second, perhaps debating with himself the motivation behind Rhodey’s question. Then he drops his eyes and says, “By all means.”

Here goes nothing. “What made you decide to stay?”

Loki doesn’t answer right away, and Rhodey begins to wonder if he will at all. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything. The guy looks down at his hands, folding them over themselves as the moments stretch on. “I suppose I am just very tired,” he says eventually.

Of running? Of going it alone? Of this whole sorry affair? Rhodey wants to ask him to elaborate, but he’s getting the distinct impression that this is as much as he can expect. He’s also pretty sure that statement doesn’t even come close to the full truth. “Well, whatever the reason, I just wanted to say thank you. For getting Tony out of there. He’s a pain in my ass, but I’m kinda attached to him, you know? Not sure what I’d do without him.”

Loki grimaces slightly as though even such a weak expression of sentimental attachment embarasses him.

“You need not trouble yourself. Stark has already said as much.”

“Well I think it bears repeating.” Rhodey waits until Loki glances up at him, then holds his eye. “So really. Thank you. For everything.”

He almost misses it. It’s tentative, and there’s something about the expression that provokes a twinge of sadness in him, but there can be no mistaking it. For the first time since they’ve met, Loki smiles at him properly.


It’s barely another day before Tony insists on being up and about, although he complains loudly and often whenever there’s someone in earshot to commiserate. Rhodey’s patience for it wears thin pretty quickly, and he catches Loki rolling his eyes more than once. But the man won’t be told, blustering through every indulgence and half-assed attempt to wheedle him into taking it easy. Rhodey wonders, not for the first time, why he bothers with it at all in that case.

Tony spends much of his time obsessing over the security measures already long in place, fine tuning alarm systems and testing contingencies. He checks in with FRIDAY regularly to monitor goings on at the compound, but so far things have remained quiet on that front. Both he and Tony know that doesn’t really mean much.

Conscious of giving too much away about his current whereabouts and the status of the team as a whole, Rhodey is limited when it comes to investigating the situation with Ross or, more importantly, tracking down the source of the illicit tech the secretary has commissioned. They’re all in agreement that if the opportunity presents, they should move to shut the operation down. How feasible that will be remains to be seen.

His last-minute leave of absence will only take him so far before questions start being asked, but Rhodey is reluctant to leave while Tony (and let’s face it, Loki) are still finding their feet. He has maybe a couple more days before he’s going to be expected to show his face again, and when he does he’s going to have a job on his hands covering for Tony’s sudden disappearance. They’ve decided on the eccentric billionaire turned temporary recluse angle for now, and are praying Iron Man’s services will not be needed any time soon.

Tony ambles into the room when he’s finished his call with Vision. He makes a deliberate detour around the edge of the furniture to take him past where Loki has folded himself into an armchair, his attention fully absorbed in whatever he’s pulled up on the tablet in his hands. Tony has fixed him up with a number of ways to entertain himself in the house, including a full library of ebooks and a wi-fi connection, and Loki’s occupied himself almost solidly since drinking in all the information he can find.

Tony leans in to glance at whatever it is Loki is reading. “Vision says hi.”

Loki responds to this with a distracted grunt but doesn’t otherwise leave off.

Grinning to himself, Tony carries on by, apparently satisfied that his plans have come off perfectly.

Rhodey tries not to make it obvious he’s watching this exchange, just as he has every time he’s witnessed the two of them interact while they’ve been here. Tony really is trying. And God knows Loki could use someone who will. It’s been slow going, but Loki finally seems to be responding in a positive way to their efforts.

It’s as though he had accepted a return to captivity and is still surprised by the smallest kindnesses. If it wasn’t so hard to watch every time it happened it would have begun to grate on Rhodey’s nerves. He’s not sure he appreciates the light it casts him and Tony in.

It’s like the guy has never had friends before. Rhodey knows he can’t remember, but his almost complete lack of normal social skills is kinda… sad, actually.

Tony slides stiffly into a seat at the table. He makes a face at the newspaper Rhodey is flicking through as though it’s the most unnecessarily antiquated way to keep up to date on current affairs that he can think of.

“So how’s she doing?” Rhodey heads him off with before he can get started.

“Vision doesn’t think she’s up to it. Can’t say I really blame him.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Sure looked it.” Tony flicks his eyes towards Loki, but he doesn’t seem to be listening. “He thinks she’s more worried than she’s admitting. Interfering with her mojo, or something. Definitely not ready for another round with Loki, that’s for sure.”

None of this comes particularly as a surprise, but Rhodey is interested to note a hint of disappointment in Tony’s voice. It seems the single-minded focus he devotes to his projects is being extended to fixing Loki, too. “Give it time. We don’t need to rush this.” He doesn’t add that things could well sort themselves out without help.

“Until we’ve got Ross breathing down our necks. Or hammering on the door.”

“Let’s just take this a day at a time. We’ve got no reason to think he’s onto us. Not here, at least.”

Tony makes a dubious ‘hmm’ sound. Rhodey shares his concern, if he’s honest.

Loki manifests silently behind them and inserts himself neatly into the conversation, making Tony jump. “Have you been taking lessons from Vis or something?” Tony grumbles.

“I have a theory you may be interested to hear.” So he had been listening after all. Rhodey wonders absently if he hears more than he lets on at other times, too.

Something clatters onto the table in front of them, coming to rest with two rows of concentric metal teeth and spider-like appendages exposed. The rust-red of dried blood is still embedded in its fissures. Tony eyes it without moving to pick it up, and Rhodey leans forward to prod at the thing without really thinking it through.

“What’s this?” he asks, already suspecting he knows the answer.

“What they used on Wanda,” Tony supplies. “And Loki. You kept this?”

Loki leans himself back against the counter behind them, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have been giving it some thought. About the nature of this device. About what it does, and how we might use it.”

Tony shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and Rhodey feels a frown pulling at his mouth.

Loki continues. “I believe this technology is designed to cut off its target’s access to whatever innate power they may happen to possess. That is why it was so effective on Vision’s friend, and why it was not employed against you, Stark. Attempting to continue drawing on that power while it is activated then causes great pain and immobilises the target. Wanda is still suffering the after-effects.”

“Wait a minute,” Rhodey says. “That doesn’t make any sense. You said they used it on you. But you’re not using any magic.”

“Perhaps that’s just it, colonel. Perhaps this… unfortunate incident has exposed the problem.”

Tony chimes in this time, apparently coming to the same conclusion. “Wanda said whatever was blocking your memory felt like it came from you instead of an outside source. It’s your own powers that are causing this.”

“That is my theory as well.” Loki doesn’t exactly look happy to have to admit that.

Okay so that… that would explain a lot, actually. The more Rhodey thinks about it, the more it makes sense. If something has gone wrong with Loki’s magic, being unable to remember how to correct it would make it a self-perpetuating issue. It would also explain the unpleasant side-effects they’ve seen when they’ve started poking around the edges of it. Whatever Loki’s power has done, it’s strong, and it’s defending itself.

“You think maybe that’s why some of it’s coming back on its own?” Tony hedges. “Figured maybe it was something Wanda had pulled loose, but maybe that thing has let something slip through the cracks.”

The way Loki straightens at this and flicks his gaze towards Rhodey suggests he’s not thrilled to know Tony has confided this piece of information. Something happened while they were on the run, and Rhodey’s building a pretty unpleasant picture of just what that might have been.

Tony doesn’t seem to notice the body language, or Loki’s lack of answer. Rhodey decides to bring things back on course with a question of his own. “So just what are you suggesting?” he asks, and Loki directs his next words to Tony.

“You seem adept at inventing the most effective ways to harm me.”

Tony actually looks a bit embarrassed by this. “Yeah, well. Nothing personal.” He doesn’t add that the idea for the cuff wasn’t much of a leap; Rhodey knows he’d seen enough from the footage they’d got hold of to know what would work.

“Hmm. Nevertheless, perhaps you’d care to try this next.” Loki walks to the table and picks the device up, holding it out on the palm of his hand like some twisted offering. “We’ll need something powerful enough to break the impasse once and for all.”

Tony frowns his disapproval. “Think I’ll pass, thanks. Reckon we’ve already established we’re not going down that sort of route again, anyway.”

Loki produces one of his arctic little smiles. “Oh, but this is not for containment.”

Tony levels a serious look on him. “I know that, genius. Still not sure I’m all that keen on taking a punt on something like this. It’s not like what you’re suggesting would just be for shits and giggles.”

“Such a colourful turn of phrase.” The way Loki says it makes Rhodey think the actual word he was looking for was ‘vulgar’. “Call this an experiment. You like those.”

The tone Tony uses says this is making less and less sense to him the longer they talk. “You’re crazy.”

“Perhaps.”

But if the faraway look on his face is anything to go by, Tony’s already thinking through the possibilities. And if there’s anything Rhodey knows about his friend, it’s that he never backs down from a challenge.

Notes:

Please, folks, remember to positively reinforce your anti-heroes.

Chapter 16

Notes:

A quick heads up that I've updated the tags. Essentially, Loki can't be trusted to look after himself.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The pain is losing some of its teeth now. Tony finds that if he pushes through the worst of it first thing each morning it’s not long before it takes a back seat to the punishing regime he sets himself. The painkillers sure help. And having something else to focus his mind on.

What he’s not getting used to is his useless left hand.

No matter how many times he does it, no matter how many times he jars himself or breaks his own concentration, he just can’t seem to keep it in his head not to reach out for that tool. Or move to steady something. Or scratch his nose. The sling thwarts him every time, and the injury flares up as though he needs the additional reminder of his condition. His frustration with himself is steadily building, and combined with a significantly reduced work rate, the constant ache and the lingering fatigue, his mood is souring by the hour. He’s entirely aware of it. That doesn’t make it any easier to control.

The third time he fumbles the pick he’s using he throws it to the ground with a heartfelt “God dammit!”

He presses his fingertips to his eyes for a moment and just breathes. He senses rather than hears Loki move to approach the work station Tony’s perched at, his near silent footfalls padding to a stop at his back. Without opening his eyes to face any (admittedly well-deserved) judgement for his outburst, Tony holds out his hand with a forceful sigh.

Loki drops the tool into Tony’s waiting palm without a word, his calm silence all the rebuke needed.

“Don’t even say it,” Tony grumbles, which is unfair and he knows it; Loki has been the very picture of patience with him these last few days.

“I wouldn’t dream of doing anything of the sort.” There’s the ghost of amusement in his voice despite this statement. He moves away again, respecting Tony’s space, and returns to the workbench he’s commandeered for himself and from which he observes Tony at work.

Tony’s trying not to dwell on just how invested Loki seems to be in doing this thing, to the point where he’ll put up with being Tony’s dogsbody around the lab and apparently now his babysitter too. He’s also taking a genuine interest in Tony’s process, although how much of that is to reassure himself nothing untoward is being prepared for him Tony wouldn’t like to guess. Tony’s doing his best to be transparent about what he’s doing just in case, and even if he’s not used to having an audience he’s found it occasionally helpful to have someone to bounce ideas off of. It’s sure going a good way towards alleviating some of the guilt he’s already building up about this, and that’s before they’ve even started trialling it.

Reverse engineering is not really his gig. Sure, he’s taken plenty of things apart in his time. Put a good deal of them back together again, too. There’s something quietly reassuring about reconstructing the tried and tested, slotting everything back in its place just where it should be. When the design is flawless and the artistry apparent, every engine, every piston, every carefully thought out circuit can be a thing of beauty.

But riding someone else’s coat tails has always felt a bit like cheating, and if he’s honest it’s never held the same appeal for him as the pure satisfaction of creation. Of putting something together from scratch. Of shaping something with an innate, organic instinct for the correct direction. Of giving the inanimate life. He’s also never been very good at following someone else’s lead.

Tony is first and foremost an inventor, after all.

And anyway, this is different.

Leaving aside the ugliness of the tech, its poor construction and its even uglier purpose, his mind is always several steps ahead. He doesn’t want to think this way, but he can feel himself automatically scoping out new ways to improve on it. He’s thinking through all the circuits he would change, identifying all the inefficiencies and basic streamlining its architect had missed, criticising its flaws and devising the solutions.

He despises being required to put himself in the same mindset as whoever came up with this twisted piece of shit.

He’d picked it apart pretty easily. The inner workings weren’t that hard to decipher. But the cruelty of the thing, the way it’s designed to dig into someone’s flesh and cling there like a parasite, the insidious tendrils of energy it emits, the agony and paralysis it causes… He hates it. It turns his stomach. Decoupling those design traits from the one he actually needs is proving a more difficult task than he’d hoped.

He’s starting to suspect there may be no way to make this thing painless.

He’d offered to work on something to help with that. Loki had refused him point blank. He’d insisted he needed his wits about him if he was to gain anything from this, but Tony thinks he knows better. The prospect of being drugged again had clearly terrified him.

Apparently prolonged and unmitigated agony is by far the preferred option.

Tony doesn’t want to think about this. It’s not helping. Maybe some time away from the lab would be a good idea.

“I want ice cream,” he announces when he’s got himself under control. “You want ice cream?”

Loki looks up at him, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised, and Tony casts him a mischievous smile.

“Enable me already,” Tony commands and hops off his perch.


“Whatcha reading?”

Loki spins the tablet round on the counter top so that Tony can see it. An open access journal lists a number of papers discussing known enhanced individuals, speculation on their origins, and the ethical use and governance of those with supernatural abilities. Tony makes a neutral ‘huh’ sound and pushes it back, going in for another spoonful of dairy-free chocolate fudge.

Loki had complained to him previously about the lack of information available online concerning the… more mystical end of the scientific spectrum. He’d been disappointed to be informed that other than he and Wanda, documented examples of abilities like his were not exactly commonplace. Looks like he’s delving instead into Accords territory, and Tony finds he’s actually interested to know what Loki makes of it.

“Find anything interesting?”

“Only more questions. I’m beginning to wonder just what one stands to gain by openly declaring one’s… talents.”

Is that a reference to Tony outing himself all those years ago? Or just an observation related to the breakup of the Avengers? Either way, the guy’s done his research, and Tony’s getting the distinct impression he’s being mined for information. Touché, Tony thinks.

“Guess it’s more a question of what you stand to lose if you don’t,” Tony counters with. Or what it’s possible to become without anything to keep you in check, he doesn’t add.

Tony’s caught Loki on YouTube plenty of times, scouring for footage of New York. Analysing every image, report and article he can find. He’s not sure it can be doing the guy’s mindset much good, but even aside from making it obvious he’s sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong, there’s not exactly much Tony can do to stop him. He admits the curiosity would be killing him, too.

He wonders what Loki sees when he looks at those.

Loki regards him thoughtfully. “You do not regret choosing the life you lead?”

“You mean going public? Not really. Sometimes, maybe. Using my position for the greater good? Not even a little bit. Because I’ve been on the other side of that fence. Hell, I lived that life for longer than I’ve been Iron Man. And let me tell you — this whole deal may suck sometimes, but I would never go back to that.”

The sad smile Loki gives him is hard to look at. “So you’ve not always been the celebrated hero I’ve read so much about.”

“Not even close. Not sure I even know what that word means, anyway.”

This doesn’t seem to deter Loki any. “But you were never really the ‘bad guy’. You’ve never murdered people.”

Tony hides his reaction to that behind another spoonful of ice cream. This conversation is rapidly taking a direction Tony is not prepared for, and he’s almost sorry to have left the relatively straightforward consent-and-dubiousness-thereof minefield waiting for them in the basement. “That probably depends on who you ask. It’s all a matter of perspective.”

Loki frowns at this and looks away, apparently unhappy with this answer. Whether that’s because he doesn’t believe Tony could have such a shady past or because he’s unwilling to allow Tony to draw parallels between their situations it’s difficult to know.

He sure as hell isn’t qualified for this, and therapy has never been something Tony’s put a whole lot of faith in (for himself at least), but something in him is insisting on seeing this through. “Look, no one can change the past. All you can do is learn from your mistakes and try to be better when you can. You know—” he tries a self-deprecating smile, “—to make a difference and all that.”

Loki sighs heavily, pushing his half-eaten bowl of dessert away. “You make it all sound so simple.”

“Really? Because it isn’t. Take it from me. And I’m probably the last person who should be talking about any of this stuff. Just ask Rhodey. He’d tell you all kinds of unflattering stories from the good ole days, no questions asked.”

“I think you do your friend a disservice.”

Tony laughs softly. “Yeah, you’re probably right. You didn’t hear this from me, but he was always the best part of Tony Stark, back in the day. Kept me from straying too far from the straight and narrow. Still does.”

“You credit Colonel Rhodes with shaping your own nature for the better?”

Kinda a weird way to put it, but... “Well sure. Isn’t that what friends are for?”

The silence that follows sounds suspiciously like I wouldn't know to Tony’s ears. Uncomfortable in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, he decides to bring them both back to the issue at hand. “So listen. You still sure about all this? You really want to do this?”

“I grow tired of hiding in the shadows of my own mind. And if we are truly to fear the threat you and the colonel seem to believe hangs over us, I would sooner have any means at our disposal ready to act in our defence than to be caught unprepared. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Tony doesn’t comment on the use of the word ‘our’, and he hopes the smile pulling at his mouth hasn’t given him away.

“It’s gonna hurt though. You get that, right?”

Loki’s own smile is grim. “What is a bit more pain when it will be mine to control?”


“Last chance. We can go back to the drawing board, figure out something else. Maybe wait this thing out a little longer and give Wanda another try. There’s absolutely no pressure from this end, I just want that to be clear.”

Loki simply looks at him and holds out his hand.

Tony clutches the tech to his chest like he’s being asked to hand over the keys to his favourite ride. “I want it on the record that I object to this and everything it stands for. I really, really think it’s a bad idea.” They’ve been over this, but Tony’ll be damned if he doesn’t give just one more token protest.

“I assure you, Stark,” Loki says with that special brand of condescension he’s made his own, “I will not hold you responsible for what may transpire. This has been as much my idea as it has been yours. I am perfectly able to withstand some discomfort.”

And isn’t that just the problem.

Reluctant and determined to let it be known, Tony hands the tech over with a last unhappy frown. He watches Loki examine it with an almost serene interest.

They’ve gone for a hand-held design, something Loki can activate and release on command. They’d both agreed that something as far from the original as possible was the preferred way to go, and something Loki could have full control over had been a deal-breaker Tony hadn’t even thought to challenge. This new design should also act as something of a dead man’s switch if it should come to that — not something Tony had invited Loki’s input on given it would have been non-negotiable, but something that’s helping him sleep a little better at night. He just hopes it’s a contingency they won’t need.

This could still go all kinds of wrong.

“Okay,” Tony says, turning to gather the monitoring equipment he needs, “this is just a test run. We’re gonna take things real slow and dialled right down. Lemme just—”

Loki, crazy masochist that he is, doesn’t wait for Tony to finish speaking. He plunges a thumb down on the activator and goes rigid as the current is triggered.

Tony can’t prevent a fuck from escaping as he scrambles for his screen, and by the time he’s punched in the right codes to bring the readouts up Loki has already disengaged the device. He counters Tony’s look of horror with a humourless grin.

“What is wrong with you?” Tony barks at him, not at all impressed.

“You are holding back,” Loki observes calmly. “Increase the power.”

“Do you not listen to a word— I just said we’re testing it first.”

“I have just tested it. It is not strong enough.”

“Because we’re taking it slow. I don’t want to have to peel you off the floor by rushing this thing. If I had my way we’d be waiting for Vision but someone insisted we start early.”

“I am not made of glass, Stark,” Loki says, a hint of impatience creeping into his tone. “I am not fragile, or feeble. And if you think I want to prolong this any further than necessary simply because you cannot stomach doing what must be done—”

“Alright alright. Jeez. Keep your panties on.”

This is not cool. This is beyond not cool. He’s got a bad feeling about this and he’s pretty sure Rhodey is going to chew him out when he finds out about the stupid risks they’re taking here, but there’s something about the way Loki is looking at him that is making it hard to argue.

This is a choice — Loki’s choice — and he wants to respect that. He wants to let the guy have some agency for once. He just wishes it didn’t have to be at the expense of Loki’s physical wellbeing (and Tony’s thrumming nerves).

“Taking it up twenty percent,” Tony accedes, and when Loki stares back at him balefully he repeats himself with emphasis on the ‘twenty’.

Loki doesn’t even finish rolling his eyes before he’s plunging the switch again, and this time his expression tightens just a little. Tony nods at the feedback on his monitor and tries to focus on the peaks and troughs of the data being received. Okay, this he can work with.

Again Loki disengages the tech, a little breathless but otherwise unharmed.

“That’s good,” Tony hurries to assure him. “We’re running some decent numbers. Here, take a look.”

Perhaps he should have anticipated what happens next.

One moment Loki is leaning to scan the readouts with a feigned, casual interest, and the next he’s plucking the display from Tony’s hand with deft fingers.

Tony only manages an indignant “Hey!” before Loki is manipulating the controls, hiding what he’s doing from Tony’s view with his broad shoulders turned. Loki easily evades Tony’s snatch when he tries to reclaim it, and still injured as he is, Tony isn’t fast enough to try a second time.

When Loki activates the device again he curls in on himself with a gasp of pain. He falls to his knees, his whole body trembling and his eyes screwed shut, and clutches both the tablet and the switch in hands made claw-like with the effort.

“Loki, goddammit, stop!”

Even if Tony had both hands at his disposal, trying to prise Loki’s grip open would have been an exercise in futility. He still gives it a try, and when that doesn’t work he shakes Loki’s shoulder with an entirely unfounded threat to kick his ass if he doesn’t stop what he’s doing right now.

He lets five more seconds of this shitshow pass before he plays his last card. “FRIDAY, override!”

Loki sags with a gasping breath and Tony has to lean into him to keep him upright.

“Why... did you… stop…”

Tony has to bite back some choice insults that he figures wouldn’t be all that helpful just now. “Take a guess, asshole! What’s the matter with you? You’re gonna blow a fuse.” Maybe not quite the right analogy, given that tripping a mystical circuit breaker is exactly what they’re going for here, but Tony’s not exactly thinking clearly right now.

“It was working. I could almost feel it…”

“Yeah? Well too bad. You’re done.”

“No…”

“Yep! I’m calling the shots from now on, so get used to it.”

He’s moving to take the tech from Loki’s now slack fingers when a flickering at the corner of his eye brings him up short. The fabric at the right side of Loki’s torso seems almost to be shifting, layer upon layer of half-formed images materialising and being overlaid in quick succession. When Loki notices he gazes down at himself in fascination, and when he meets Tony’s eyes it’s with a watery smile that looks too broken to be completely genuine.

“You see,” he insists in a harsh whisper, the grin turning just a shade towards the manic now.

Tony doesn’t like that look one bit. He’s taking a breath to say just that when the expression falls away from Loki’s face altogether. The stern lecture Tony’s been building up to deserts him, replaced by something disturbingly like alarm.

“Okay?” he asks, trying and failing to persuade Loki’s eyes to focus on him.

Loki does not reply. Without warning he becomes a dead weight against the prop of Tony’s arm.

Twisting to catch them both and not quite succeeding, Tony guides Loki to the floor as carefully as he can manage, cursing colourfully as he does. His healing ribs give a twinge of protest as they’re required to support weight at an unnatural angle, and even sitting back on his heels prompts a flare of discomfort that suggests doing much more than this will invite some serious complaints.

With a sinking sense of realisation and not a small measure of dread, Tony wonders just how he’s going to explain this to Rhodey and Vision.

Notes:

Really hope y’all are here for the whump because I just can’t seem to help myself.

Chapter Text

When the call comes, it is not entirely unexpected. What Vision is not quite prepared for is the note of urgency apparent in Stark’s voice despite the man’s best efforts to conceal it.

Stark offers no detail beyond an almost sheepish request for Vision’s immediate help, and Vision does not hesitate to grant it. He simply gives an estimate of his arrival time, disconnects the call, and shares a knowing look with Wanda. Without need of even a word by way of explanation, she gives her blessing and sends him on his way. The kiss they steal before they part is followed by a tender smile that doesn’t quite hide the fatigue still marring Wanda’s beautiful features.

It is perhaps an hour before Vision touches down a short distance from the hideaway. The coordinates Stark has given him allow him to enter the premises at a more discreet location than the false frontage would otherwise offer, away from any potentially prying eyes. He phases through the ground, passing from an unremarkable patch of unused scrubland into the brightly lit interior of the facility beneath. FRIDAY greets him as he enters with directions to Stark’s precise whereabouts.

When he enters the lab it is to find Stark half seated on a metal stool, his teeth absently worrying the fingernail of his thumb. His attention is fixed entirely on the figure on the floor in front of him. Loki is laid out on his side, unmoving, what looks like an item of balled up clothing wedged awkwardly beneath his head.

Vision coughs delicately and Stark almost leaps from his seat, a look of mixed relief and guilt on his face.

“Oh thank God,” Stark says, recovering quickly. “Took you long enough.”

Vision knows Stark doesn’t mean this, that this is merely a figure of speech. He reassures the man anyway. “I came as quickly as I could.” He turns his attention to the man on the floor. “Perhaps you should fill me in on the situation.”

Stark follows his gaze and scrubs distractedly at the back of his neck. “I don’t know, honestly. I think he’s okay, just… kinda passed out, I guess.” He gestures to himself unnecessarily. “Need a hand, obviously.”

What Stark really means by this is that, quite apart from his current condition, he is unable to do much more for Loki than he already has. He needs Vision’s strength if he is to move Loki from his current position, or indeed to do more to assess his condition. Vision wonders how long it would have taken Stark to call him in were that not the case.

“What has caused this?” Vision asks as he moves to crouch over Loki’s unresponsive form.

“We started early,” is all Stark will say after an eloquent pause. Vision does not need to ask for elaboration. He knows of the fervour with which Stark has recently been at work, and he knows of its ultimate goal. What he had not been aware of was his friends’ joint intention to begin without him, perhaps in an effort to spare Vision an early separation, or at least the compulsion to volunteer one. Or perhaps their curiosity had simply got the better of them. They were certainly a determined pair.

If Vision were human, he may have been inclined to sigh.

Stark’s anxious mood is gradually becoming something darker, so Vision does not comment further. Instead he places a hand at Loki’s shoulder and exerts just enough force to begin to tip him onto his back. This slight movement elicits a low noise of protest, and Loki screws up his face.

“Oh, sure,” Stark complains in a manner that is fooling absolutely no one. “Now you wake up. Couldn’t have done that before I called in the cavalry.”

“May I recommend we relocate somewhere more comfortable,” Vision suggests for Loki’s benefit, although it’s not clear whether the words register. He alters his position to encourage Loki to sit up. Loki does so, though more as a result of Vision’s efforts than by his own design, and when he’s upright presses an uncoordinated hand across his eyes with a groan.

From there Vision is able to hoist the man to stand, taking almost all of his weight with one arm slung over his shoulders. Stark hovers nervously at their backs while contriving to appear otherwise unconcerned and follows them as Vision steers his stumbling charge towards the back of the workspace.

A long couch already cleared of the usual clutter that tends to collect on Stark’s furniture offers what Vision deems the most sensible destination for the moment. He deposits Loki upon it as carefully as he can and allows the man to recline and stretch out.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Stark demands over Vision’s shoulder, apparently unwilling to relent for the moment, though it is clear to Vision he will receive no answer. As expected, Loki does not respond beyond releasing a hiss of general discomfort at the unwanted demands on his attention.

Vision considers advising Stark to reduce the volume of his voice, but his intervention is unnecessary. Loki simply turns over, burrows into the upholstery and promptly goes slack, his body falling limp in sleep.

Stark sighs and sucks his teeth, but Vision feels the lessening of tension in the man’s frame anyway.


It is some hours before Loki revives. When he does he is quiet and clearly still troubled by lingering pain, but he initially receives little sympathy from Stark.

“Hungover, are we?” Stark asks him glibly when he shuffles into the sitting area to join them.

Loki ignores this, making directly for the kitchen behind them. After some difficulty locating and operating the equipment he seeks while squinting quite so fiercely, he resorts to using a cupped hand to drink water directly from the faucet. When he sees this Stark is apparently moved to something approaching pity and joins the man, taking a glass from the cabinet and filling it before handing it over. Loki accepts it and drinks deeply without a word of thanks.

“Okay?” Stark asks pointedly, almost as though he has asked the very same question in the not too distant past.

Instead of answering verbally Loki allows a slow closing and opening of his eyes to answer in the affirmative.

Tony purses his lips at this but doesn’t otherwise comment. “Come sit,” he instructs instead, a loose hand at Loki’s back enough to guide the man over to where he and Vision have been waiting, at times in strained silence, for Loki to wake.

“So,” Stark says casually when they are all once again seated, “that could have gone better.” Vision notes that his voice is pitched somewhat lower this time around.

When it becomes clear that Loki is not yet able to formulate a response without inviting further discomfort, Vision takes it upon himself to move the matter forward onto more constructive ground.

“If I understand correctly, the technology worked as intended, or at least appears to have done. Perhaps once Loki has had opportunity to properly recover he can confirm for us the results.”

They are relatively confident no permanent damage has been done. Once they had been able to reassure themselves Loki was in no immediate danger, they had instructed FRIDAY to scan for injury and monitor vital signs using what few base parameters they had at their disposal concerning Loki’s unique physiology. After some fretting from Stark they had concluded Loki was simply sleeping, and Vision had eventually been able to persuade Stark to retire upstairs and give a full account of the incident. Unfortunately for Loki, this also seemed to involve a transition in Stark from concern for Loki’s welfare to a front of righteous, simmering anger. Humans respond to guilt in a number of surprising and at times irrational ways, Vision has found.

“It did something alright,” Stark agrees, no doubt referring to the flickering magic he reported seeing shortly before Loki had collapsed. “Whether it was worth what it took to get to that point I’m not so sure. Anything feeling different, aside from the well-deserved and entirely self-inflicted migraine?”

Miserable as he must be, Loki will not be provoked to argument. His quietly voiced “no” nonetheless holds a measure of disappointment.

Stark claps both palms against his thighs. “Well that at least makes things easy. Back to the drawing board it is.” He seems almost smug as he says this.

“I do not think we should be so quick to discount this method,” Loki hurries to contradict. “This was only the first try. Next time I will be better prepared.”

“Next time?” Stark says with false incredulity. “What makes you think there will be a ‘next time’?”

“Do not be obtuse. I have not the patience to play games with you, Stark.”

“Excuse me?”

Loki purposely brushes over the affront he has inspired. “The technology works. It works in the same way as the original. The... effects... were identical. Perhaps we need only fine tune it to see the results we need.”

“You mean to make it even worse,” Stark says with obvious disapproval. “I told you before that I’m not into that. And you clearly can’t be trusted to make rational decisions about this. You had your shot and you blew it. Sorry.”

This seems finally to rouse Loki from his state of pained forbearance. He turns to Stark with a growl of annoyance and becomes animated in his dissension.

“You do not speak for me,” he hisses. “Nor do you have any right to make decisions on my behalf. I am no longer your prisoner.”

Predictably, Stark rises to this with annoyance of his own. “Yeah? Well whatever you ‘decide’ you want to do, it’ll mean diddly squat without my help. And guess what — I ain’t doing it, so count me out.”

Loki sputters at this. “You would withdraw your offer to help me?” Vision thinks perhaps he detects a note of hurt in Loki’s voice.

“Damn skippy.”

Stark doesn’t seem to notice Loki’s slight recoil, or the deliberate shift in his bearing as he directs his argument towards an angle he thinks might better appeal to the more practical side of Stark’s nature.

“Even when we are so close to success?”

“If by success you mean watching you rip yourself apart in front of me, then no, I don’t want any part of that.”

“That was exactly the outcome we hoped for. Or have you forgotten that? The device is supposed to incapacitate the user. That is what it was designed to do.”

“What we were supposed to be doing was working together on this, but you’re obviously not a team player. You went completely off script, ignored everything we talked about and wouldn’t stop when I asked you to. I can’t work like that. I won’t.”

“But—”

Stark whips a single finger into the air to forestall further argument. “Aht! No buts! I don’t want to hear it. What you’re asking me to do isn’t fair and you know it. So quit it already. You’re giving me a headache.”

Loki makes a wordless sound of exasperation, not at all content to accept that as the end of the discussion. “You are willfully ignorant.”

“And you’re an arrogant, bull-headed pain in my ass, but here we are.”

“Gentlemen,” Vision interrupts at last, no longer content to bear witness to such deliberate misunderstanding from both parties concerned. “Might I suggest we refrain from making any further decisions on this matter until you are both better rested.” And until tempers have had a chance to cool, he adds silently.

Loki rises unsteadily to stand, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I will not sit here and be lectured on the appropriate use of my own body.”

“Oh, save it,” Stark replies flippantly. He looks away, dismissing Loki’s rising animosity by reaching for his drink with an air of unconcern.

Loki gapes at Stark for a moment before closing off his expression and turning sharply on his heel. As he storms from the room, Vision levels an appraising look on Stark. Instead of meeting his eye or offering anything in his own defence, the man pinches the bridge of his nose with a forceful sigh.


The house may be spacious, but it does not rival the compound for size. There are relatively few places a person might retreat to in order to seek out solitude, and for that one reason alone Vision regrets that they have been forced to take up residence here. Under any other circumstances the house would have afforded a welcome change of scenery. As it is, it instead confines occupants already at odds with one another into closer quarters than are comfortable.

He locates the man he seeks in the pool room, his back wedged into the shadowy corner farthest from the entrance. What small light there is reflects gently undulating patterns onto the ceiling above the water, still but for the slightest of circulating currents that ruffle its surface. It is calm in here, and quiet, but it is still confining. Loki’s position mirrors the one he would often adopt in the room he had first been brought to, and Vision supposes this is not merely by chance.

Loki keeps his eyes fixed ahead of him as Vision moves to approach but does not otherwise express displeasure at being disturbed. Vision takes this as permission and lowers himself to sit against the wall not far from where Loki too is seated.

“I would counsel patience with our mutual friend,” Vision offers in time. “He means only to protect you from harm.”

“He is a fool,” is all Loki will say to this, though surprisingly he does not refute the term.

“Is there anything you need?” Vision is quite aware that their earlier conversation overlooked some of the more immediate concerns in favour of the argument that inevitably ensued, but he has no intention of allowing this to continue. If Stark will not put aside his pride to enquire after the wellbeing of their very recently incapacitated friend, Vision will do it for him.

“Yes. As a matter of fact there is.”

Not the answer he had hoped to inspire, but Vision thinks he already knows where this is going. “You would have me intercede on your behalf,” he guesses with some amusement. He decides that if Loki were truly in need of assistance of a tangible nature that merely asking him to confirm it would be unlikely to garner much by way of a truthful response.

Loki turns to look at him then, his earnest gaze entreating Vision to hear him. “I do not ask this because I wish to suffer. I mean only to end it all the sooner. We cannot afford to wait and there may be no other way even if we could. It is in his interests as well as my own that I remember myself. Why can he not see that?”

“I’m sure Stark would argue that the ends do not always justify the means. You may be content to go to any lengths to secure whatever you deem necessary, but as I have increasingly begun to learn, that is a philosophy shared by very few of the humans I have so far encountered.” He smiles fondly. “The decent ones, at least.”

“It is still not his choice to make. I want this to be over with.”

“Even at the expense of your friend’s peace of mind?”

This gives Loki pause. He considers the question with the seriousness due one of the greatest import, and when he comes to his conclusion he is despondent. “Perhaps Stark is right.” Vision waits for more, and in the hesitation that follows Loki looks away. “I am selfish.”

“That is not how I would describe you. Single-minded at times, perhaps. Ruthless, particularly with yourself, when you must be. But not callous. And not as cold-hearted as I think you would like to appear. You do not act without thought for others.”

The question that follows is delivered with a sideways glance and a note of cunning that suggests the diversion is entirely deliberate. “What would you call an attempt upon the sovereignty and freedom of this world if not cruel?”

“Ah. I see now we are speaking of another. Were I to have this same conversation with that man, I would first ask him for his reasoning before returning a verdict, but as he is not here to give it, I shall reserve judgement for the time being.”

“An evasive answer.”

Vision smiles. “Yet the only one I have to give at present.”

Loki tsks at him, genuinely irritated by this leniency. “You are entirely too understanding.”

“One of my many faults, I am sure.”

Loki eyes him. “Stark at least has the true measure of me. He knows when his trust is misplaced.”

“Forgive me, but I think you misinterpret Stark’s words. He is perhaps not very good at communicating what he truly means, but I do not think he fears you would act only in your own self-interest. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Loki shakes his head to himself as though he doesn’t understand. “I ask too much of him, he has made that plain. Of all of you. And I have done little to earn your good will. I do not need reminding.”

Vision takes a moment to think. The mental gymnastics (as no doubt Stark would name them) that Loki is able to perform in his efforts to avoid unpleasant emotion never cease to both impress and sadden him. How to put this delicately? “Again you misunderstand. I believe it is yourself you ask too much of, and that is what Stark fears. He worries you will put yourself at risk because you feel obligated to do so, and he does not wish to facilitate a dangerous course of action you may not consent to otherwise.”

“Then I am in an impossible situation. I do not know how else I can assure him to the contrary. I am sincere when I say that I only wish to expedite matters so that I can regain what advantage we may have before our window of opportunity closes.”

“I do not doubt it. Nor, I think, does Stark.”

“Then he should not deny me this! He would throw away a valuable tool if he does.” Vision frowns at this, and Loki adds, “I do not want to be defenceless when they come for me.”

Vision thinks that word is somewhat meaningless when it comes to describing his troubled friend, but he also knows the statement does not come close to giving the full picture. He doesn’t imagine for a moment that self-defence is Loki’s only motivation. That is not to say that Vision blames Loki for his frustration or for desiring the return of everything he has lost, powers and identity both. He finds it odd however that for all his insistence of selfish intentions, Loki himself shies from voicing a natural longing for what others would take for granted — for a sense of self and a confidence in his own abilities. What could possibly be wrong with wanting something so important that Loki feels he must hide it?

“Give him time,” Vision advises again. “He may yet come around to the idea. Without evidence of any immediate results it may just take him longer.”

“Time,” Loki scoffs without any real heat. “Time we may not have.”

Vision does not argue this point, and Loki seems to appreciate this small concession to his fears.


Once tensions have calmed and enough hours have passed, Loki and Stark drift back into one another’s company determined to behave as though nothing has happened. Vision decides this is the best he could hope for, and while an outright apology is not forthcoming from either side there is no further name-calling, either.

The evening meal is a somewhat subdued affair but one Stark seems determined they take together. He refrains from cajoling Loki into conversation as he usually would, still understandably cautious about breaking the tenuous truce they have established, and instead watches unhappily as Loki pushes food around his plate, mind somewhere else entirely. He is rather more brusque when he finally rises to remove the untouched meal, replaces it with a plate of cut fruit, and issues Loki a single word of command. “Eat.”

It perhaps says more about Vision than it does about Loki, but the resentful glare he expects does not materialise. He makes a mental note to revise some of the more unkind expectations he has of his temperamental friend. Loki instead reaches absently for a portion of fruit and begins slowly to eat, still lost in thought. Stark raises an eyebrow to this before moving away to clear up, apparently just as surprised as Vision to be obeyed in this manner.

Vision watches Loki closely. His actions take on an almost mechanical quality, each slice selected, raised and chewed without taking his eyes from some nebulous point in the middle distance. Vision goes so far as to check over his shoulder to confirm that there is nothing there to warrant holding Loki’s attention.

After some minutes of this Loki’s movements slow until he stops altogether, a last piece of apple suspended on its way from the plate.

“Loki?” Vision says.

Stark must hear the trepidation in his voice. He leaves what he’s doing and returns to the table, his gaze switching between Vision and the man sat stock still opposite. With a slight frown, Stark waves his hand in front of Loki’s face and stops when this causes no reaction.

“Loki,” Stark repeats, more insistent this time.

That seems to work. Loki focuses on them at last and blinks, his brows drawing together. “I do not like apples,” he announces out of nowhere, the words coming slowly.

Confused, Stark nevertheless gives a snuff of disbelief. “What are you talking about? You love ‘em. Seen you eat plenty.”

“No,” Loki says, drawing out the word as though discovering the meaning of it. When he continues he is thoughtful yet quietly insistent. “No, I mean I have never liked them.” He frowns down at the piece of fruit in his hands. “Not... before now.”

Vision exchanges a look with Stark, and when they turn back to Loki he appears just as confused by this statement as they are.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Stark mutters to himself, though not discreetly enough that they do not all hear the implications behind his words.

“I take it then that the experiment has been successful?” Vision asks in his most guileless tone of voice, and the look Stark shoots him inspires a smile of triumph he feels no need to restrain.


From there it is less difficult than anticipated to draw Stark out on furthering the trials they have started. While he is resistant at first, he concedes that the first ill-fated attempt at least had the desired effect. Loki hides his sense of accomplishment to have this recognised remarkably well and turns all of his considerable charm towards appeasing Stark’s bruised ego. It is a rather transparent display at times but it seems to work, even if it is somewhat underhand. With enough calm assurances, reasoned arguments and sincere, humble apologies, Stark is persuaded to try again.

The conditions Stark applies to his cooperation are however severalfold. He insists that they begin by identifying the minimum threshold at which they can achieve the required results, both in terms of the intensity required and the length of time Loki is required to be at the mercy of the device’s effects. To do this they will start small and work their way up. “As we always planned,” Stark adds archly.

Vision will be on hand to assist for every session, and Loki is absolutely forbidden to attempt to continue alone. FRIDAY is instructed to lock the technology down if Loki ‘so much as looks at it’ without Stark and Vision’s presence.

Stark also sets a rigid timetable, with long breaks of several days between sessions and strict instructions concerning medical checks, eating and sleeping in between. He even goes so far as to plan in stretches of time immediately following a session when Loki will be in the company of one of them at all times. For his own safety, Stark supplies cryptically.

Loki chafes at some of these restrictions and the clear violations of his autonomy but has the sense not to defy Stark openly. The victorious grin Stark produces when his edicts are accepted suggests to Vision that there may be slightly more to some of his demands than simply securing Loki’s wellbeing.

Vision finds he forgives Stark this small revenge.

When they come to try the second time it is slow going. Vision thinks he understands more now the tenacity with which Loki had previously urged them to meaningful action. Watching him struggle through a series of ineffective yet undoubtedly painful sessions with no appreciable result becomes almost unbearable, to the point where even Stark appears uncomfortable about following the rules he himself has laid down.

Loki however doggedly complies and insists they follow the timetable Stark has set out for them, partly, Vision suspects, to prove an unpalatable point. It is almost a week and a half of this before they reach the point at which the device triggers the interference Stark had described.

Vision is of course present this time to help steady Loki as he disengages the device in his hand. The series of strange images as Loki’s magic flickers and resets in the aftermath of the onslaught is as fascinating as it is concerning, and the shuddering breath of relief Loki releases marks the end of fruitless rounds of pain.

They manage to avoid a scene such as that which greeted Vision when he first arrived at the house. Loki is exhausted but not entirely drained of reserves, and together they make it upstairs to the room he has made his own before he succumbs to sleep atop the bedspread. A more promising start, perhaps, but Stark still does not appear entirely happy with what he observes.

The following morning Loki is faster to recover once rested, and while they all attempt to go about their day as though it is a day like any other, there is a discernible atmosphere of apprehension that is difficult to ignore. The tension comes to something of a head when Loki snaps at Stark to stop hovering, and with palms raised in surrender the man gives ground without a fight.

It is almost evening when it finally happens, and again Vision is the first to notice. As begins a pattern that they will come to recognise in the coming weeks, Loki is mid-activity when his movements begin to slow, his attention wandering as he puzzles out some new revelation. This time he lowers the ebook he is reading, his face contorting in a series of befuddled expressions that Stark will later affectionately describe as ‘adorable, actually’.

When he finally meets the two expectant gazes turned his way he tilts his head in query.

“Stark,” he says, framing his question as though he is almost afraid to ask. “What is... What is ‘Point Break’?”

Chapter 18

Notes:

It fought me a little bit, but this one has angst like whoa.

Chapter Text

So he’s just going to say it. Even if only in his own head, and even if it means he shatters the flimsy veneer of justification he’s constructed for himself.

He has knowingly, willingly, built an instrument of torture.

Because what else could any sane person call this fucked up thing they’re doing? This thing they’re all complicit in, this thing he inexplicably feels like an asshole for refusing to do in the first place?

He’s broken every promise he made to himself all those years ago. When he swore off building weapons for those who could abuse them. When he vowed Tony Stark would do no more harm. When he’d channelled his penchant for ammunition and explosives into the generation of pure, clean energy. For science. For the betterment of humankind. For the world.

He’s revised his stance on that over the years, obviously. Iron Man has always been equipped for lethal force. But it’s defensive, not offensive. It’s necessary. At least that’s what he tells himself when he needs to. When the sleepless nights kick in and the faceless body count adds up. When he has no choice but to defend himself and the innocent. For the greater good.

Whatever. What he’s saying is that he knows he’s not exactly using his powers for evil here, but he sure as hell wishes he didn’t feel like the biggest heel this side of the galaxy every time he has to hear that very particular sound that forces its way between Loki’s teeth.

It fucking sucks.

And okay, yes, he’d agreed to this. He’d bent to the disappointed looks Vision had sent his way with the full force of all his earnest, well-intentioned naivety. And he’d felt a swell of shame to witness the undisguised relief on Loki’s face when he’d let the guy manipulate him into continuing with this ethically questionable torment. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He likes it even less when his suspicions about Loki’s frame of mind start to become certainties.

He doesn’t believe for a second that Loki is really sorry about what he’d done the first time they’d tried this. Loki talks a great talk, of course. He can be pretty convincing when he wants to be. But Tony’s not stupid.

When it comes right down to it, Loki will do whatever it takes to achieve his goals. Memories or no memories, it’s in the guy’s DNA. But the naked fear Loki had let slip when he’d thought Tony really might mean it when he’d threatened to withdraw his help… Yeah. That had been absolutely real.

So Tony breathes. He takes a deep, fortifying breath that goes nowhere towards centering him and concentrates on the few variables he can control. He reassures himself that this is no different from the last few times, that everything will be fine. He keeps his eyes averted from the suffering on display, even if he can’t close his ears. Across from him, Loki trembles and sweats, every muscle locked in a battle he cannot win. Vision stands resolute, his expression giving nothing away while he waits, patient to a fault. As always.

They’ve got it down to thirty seven seconds. Thirty seven seconds that feel like thirty seven years. Thirty seven seconds that Tony has to find a way through without smashing his own tech to pieces. Or running, which he thinks might be worse. He forces himself to stay present, to contribute. To catalogue every spike and fluctuation in the data, avoiding Vision’s eye and clamping his own teeth down so hard that it hurts.

It’s a tradeoff. These extra seconds may be longer for Loki to endure, but they’re at a lower intensity than before. This combination trips the mystical reset without tipping over into dangerous territory, and without laying Loki flat. A softer torture, sure, just more of it. It still doesn’t feel fair.

It ends at last and Vision is there to take Loki’s weight as he wilts. Tony waits for it this time, hoping he’s wrong. Knowing he isn’t. Loki meets his eye just briefly before his gaze skitters away, and the tight ball of self-disgust and impotent rage Tony’s been trying hard to keep a lid on almost chokes him.

He’d called it, alright. There can be no doubting it now.

Loki thinks he deserves this.

This whole thing has had a distinct flavour of self-harm from the start. Of penance. Of some warped gesture of repentance and punishment. And part of Tony is horrified to acknowledge that he’s at least partly to blame for that.

FRIDAY confirms stabilising vitals and that they’re clear to proceed, and after letting Loki catch his breath Vision guides his charge towards rest with the same equanimity that he applies to every unsavoury task he’s given. Rather him than Tony. Tony doesn’t think he’d have the emotional strength to keep going, let alone the physical. The more of this he watches the more he wants to punch something, hard.

He hides it like he always does. Loki doesn’t need to see it. Not right now.

Fuck knows how he’s going to deal with this.

Tony scrubs at his face and wonders tiredly what it’ll be this time. Can’t help hoping it will be something with a little more heft than the usual bullshit.

Because before now, it’s been piecemeal. Loki regains mostly tiny, meaningless details that, if he’s generous, Tony supposes over time will build up to a bigger picture. But at the rate they’re going and with the sheer volume of stuff he imagines there is yet to find, they could be here for centuries. Loki may have that sort of time to comb through it all, but Tony sure as hell doesn’t. And the payoff so far just doesn’t seem worth it.

Even so, Tony’s still not ready to entertain shorter, sharper bursts and risking permanent damage while their sessions are achieving something, however insignificant the returning details may be. The fragments will eventually meld together into something that makes sense. They have to.

In the meantime they’ll keep going. Because what else can they do?


Tony has asked FRIDAY to start keeping a log. He hasn’t told the others. He’s not really sure why.

As he waits for Loki to return to the land of the living, Tony runs through what they’ve learned over the course of the past few sessions. It adds up to a whole lot of nothing all told, but then Tony’s only getting second-hand information here. There could be more under the surface that he’s not privy to. Loki’s not always an open book.

Sometimes they come out of nowhere, random little titbits that seem to surface without connection to anything in particular.

Other times there are definite triggers.

Vision is actually pretty good at noticing it when it happens. Some kind of freaky, synthetic sixth-sense, probably. Or maybe he’s just better at reading people. (Tony is aware of the irony.)

One time they were preparing dinner, a banal chore they’ve gone through the motions of performing many times before (and one they’ve had to get to grips with pretty fast, now that regular take-outs are off the table). Tony’d had his back to the room, his attention focussed on some mundane task at the stove when he’d happened to glance back.

Loki, chopping onions, had gone still, a knife in his hand that had commanded all of his intense focus to the point that it had become obvious, loaded and weird. It had made something in Tony flood cold, something he’s a little ashamed to recall now. Vision had approached, slowly and carefully, and without a word prised the knife from Loki’s still fingers.

Tony hadn’t quite heard the soft words exchanged, most of them Vision’s. The result had been Vision assuming the task without further comment, and Loki quietly leaving the room. The food hadn’t quite tasted right after that.

Vision had refused to say much. All that Tony had added to the log that time was a question mark and the words 'pointy objects'. The joke falls a bit flat now that he looks at them again.

Other times there’s infectious enthusiasm that sours to frustration when Tony and Vision lack the references needed to add meaning to a new discovery. Like when Loki haltingly describes to them a location they can add no context to; people they’ve never met; an instance of joy or meaning or foreboding that they cannot relate to. Whenever that happens it exposes just how woefully unqualified they are to help someone like Loki, albeit through no fault of their own. At times Loki becomes understandably irritable when he can get no clarification on the memories he can only half understand himself, and sometimes Tony finds himself on the receiving end of a sharp or scathing remark he doesn’t have the heart to rise to.

The notes he makes relating to those occasions are similarly vague.

Looking over everything now, it strikes Tony that the order in which the memories are coming back seems almost cruel. Who remembers all the inconsequential shit they’ve done in their lives, but not the moments that matter? Who can recall some ridiculous nickname heard once in passing but not the face of their own brother, or that they even have one, aside from second-hand accounts and a far-fetched backstory?

And how could anyone take comfort in one isolated memory when there’s a very good chance that another layer of context will come down on it like a ton of unwanted reality bricks? When an innocent reminiscence of happier times can be crushed and ruined with a dousing of cold water once another, less innocuous memory slots into place?

Tony just hopes it won’t make Loki reluctant to share the more this happens. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Tony’s pretty sure Loki regained something from New York at one point. The way he’d eyed Tony with a mixture of both wariness and confusion suggested Tony and gang featured front and centre of this particular revelation, although what conclusion Loki came to he wouldn’t reveal.

Tony’s starting to wish he’d added another stipulation to his agreement about this (and maybe even a blood oath or something of that sort): that Loki share anything new he learns with the group. Because there’s respecting the guy’s privacy and there’s being smart about this — very much two sides of the same coin as far as Tony’s concerned.

At the end of the day there’s little he can do to force disclosure, and he reminds himself that were their roles reversed, there’d be plenty about his own past he’d rather keep private.

He’s quick to dismiss the log when FRIDAY alerts him that Loki is incoming, and before Loki has even made it to the room Tony has the lights dimmed and a glass of water ready to go, complete with a couple of tabs fizzing steadily away at the bottom. He’s not sure they do much good given Loki’s accelerated metabolism, but Loki seems to be humouring him anyway. Or maybe he just lacks the energy to put up a fight about it.

Loki shuffles in, drops into his usual place on the couch and drinks gratefully. Tony waits.

Loki’s been sleeping longer after each session (another variable Tony has obsessively been recording). Today he looks pale and unwell, kinda like he’s had the crap kicked out of him, which Tony supposes isn’t far from the truth. When he notices Tony’s attention on him Loki offers an attempt at a smile that Tony supposes is meant to put him at ease. It doesn’t work.

“You may rest easy,” Loki says before Tony can begin. Perhaps he’d sensed Tony’s thoughts and hoped to derail them. Or perhaps that’s just Tony’s paranoia talking. “There is no need for me to keep you from your work today.” Loki leans forwards in his seat, his attention on where his hands are clasped between his knees.

Tony’s not sure he understands. “How’s that now?”

Loki gestures vaguely at himself. “I believe… it has already happened.”

Oh. Oh. Well, this is new.

“Care to share?” Tony asks cautiously.

There’s a hesitation that speaks volumes. “I can picture her face.”

“Whose?”

“My mother’s.”

The silence that follows invites Tony to speak, but for a moment he can’t quite find the words. When the significance of this news finally penetrates, Tony doesn’t even try to contain the beaming smile that breaks out on his face. “You remember your mom?”

Loki’s throat works soundlessly for a second, and when the corner of his mouth pulls up in a tremulous imitation of Tony’s own smile a tear slips down his cheek.

Dude,” Tony enthuses before he can stop himself, barely restraining a fist pump that doesn’t quite feel appropriate.

Instead Tony slugs Loki playfully on the shoulder with an even wider grin, then clasps it firmly in celebration. Loki allows this with a duck of his head. It’s the first time he’s shared anything even remotely positive from his past, to the point where Tony had started to worry that the most neutral of recollections might be the best they could hope for.

“You look happy,” Tony tells him, the realisation one that Tony didn’t even know they’d been missing all this time. Maybe this whole thing has been worth it after all.

That startles a laugh from Loki, an honest-to-God laugh, and though the tears are still there standing in the guy’s eyes, Tony really means it.

“You wanna watch a movie or something?” Tony offers. Forget his work. His new suit will wait.

Loki swipes at his face and nods.


After that they return to a series of unremarkable sessions that reveal nothing of any real significance. It’s disappointing after the progress Tony thought they were making, and he can tell Loki had hoped for more too.

Once again it becomes kinda… boring.

The day that changes, Tony adds salt, pepper and a shitload of what were you thinking, idiot before he very quickly eats his own words.


Tony’s lucky that he isn’t closer than he is. He’s lucky that today is one of Vision’s days on duty, and that Vision is durable enough to shrug something like this off. He’s lucky that it happens when the suit Tony’s working on is already safely stowed, and when there isn’t the usual assortment of sharp, hot or otherwise pointy objects scattered about the lab. He’s just fucking lucky, is all.

There’s the smash of crockery as a mug falls from Loki’s hand, the sudden interruption enough to jerk Tony’s head up but not something they’re entirely unused to by this point. Loki goes still like he always does, and it doesn't even occur to Tony to be worried.

Vision goes to place a hand at Loki’s shoulder like he’s done a thousand times before; a gesture of friendship; a reassurance; an attempt to steer him gently to a seat while he works through his latest revelation. It doesn’t quite make contact.

There’s an almost familiar pressure at Tony’s ears that has him alert and tense a split second before it breaks. Without so much as a sound of warning or a wisp of colour, and with just the slightest bunching of Loki’s fists, Vision is repelled.

Anything within an immediate radius of where Loki stands that isn’t secured to the floor is thrown back in a sharp pulse of power. Glass and screens shatter. Loose articles scatter from the work surfaces with explosive force, stools tip over and crash against their respective benches, and Vision himself is sent careening into the wall behind him at speed. He has just enough time to phase before his weight and the impetus behind him can smash a hole in the wall of Tony’s lab.

On the other side of the room as he is, the invisible shove has a chance to dissipate slightly before it makes contact with Tony’s very human, very unprotected body. The push still sends him off his feet, and his back collides painfully with the support struts of the equipment behind him. He cradles his head with his good arm as tools and spare parts clatter and fall around him. The impact knocks the breath from him, his still healing ribs shrieking their distress. When the debris settles it takes him a couple of tries to find something stable enough to help him haul himself back to his feet.

He peeks cautiously over the worktop to find Loki pressed back against a corner, arms raised to fend off attack and a series of desperate sounds issuing from him between gasping breaths. He becomes steadily louder and more laboured as he tries blindly to wedge himself more firmly into what little protection the wall offers.

With a feeling like ice in his gut, Tony realises he’s seeing something he’d never imagined was possible. Loki is cowering.

He doesn’t even think about it. In hindsight perhaps he should have. It’s instinct that drives him, and he hopes to hell he hasn’t got this wrong. Tony crosses the distance between them and reaches out, his muscles already preparing to tense in the event of more violence. Loki flinches back from him, his eyes intent on something only he can see.

Wherever Loki is, it’s not here in this room.

Loki becomes almost frantic with it, and Tony knows he has exactly five seconds before this thing goes critical.

“Okay okay,” he says, breathless, his own anxiety rising to match the look of abject terror on Loki’s face. “Come with me. Come on. This way.”

He has to throw careful and gently and take it slow out the window right alongside this is dangerous and put himself right into Loki’s space, steering him bodily and urging him to put one foot in front of the other. They make it to the elevator and Loki balks at the small space. Whether he hears and understands Tony’s insistence to trust him or whether whatever is going on in his head is overwhelming his ability to resist Tony is not sure, but when Loki lurches inside Tony sends a silent thank you to FRIDAY for the speed with which she sets them in motion.

In the blink of an eye that feels like an eternity they’re on the top floor of the house and Tony propels Loki forward towards the door at the back of the room. When he sees what Tony intends Loki pulls ahead of him, crashing his way through the exit before FRIDAY has even finished drawing back the blinds.

Loki drops heavily to his knees in the yard outside before he’s made even two steps. His hands fist into the grass beneath him as he gulps in air, his body taut against the onslaught of whatever memories hold him in their grip.

Tony hangs back, not entirely sure what to do now that they’re here without risking making things worse. Time seems to stretch, a weight settling heavily on Tony’s shoulders as he watches. He hopes this is helping. He firmly tells the voice informing him that being outside is asking for trouble to fuck off.

Vision phases silently through the wall at their backs, concern radiating from him, and Tony waves him away. Vision doesn’t need to be told twice, but he lingers just long enough to communicate without words that he is there, that he would offer support. That he understands.

It seems to take hours. Loki’s gasping breaths start to slow and his posture slumps a little, his fingers flexing and clawing at the ground like it’s the only anchor keeping him tethered. Tony steps cautiously to his side and lowers himself to sit, telegraphing his intentions as he does.

“I’m guessing that one was a doozy,” he says, keeping his voice low, and Loki curls in on himself a bit and shudders.

Bird song filters in as though from a distance, muted and delicate and subtle. A cool breeze stirs the fine hairs at Tony’s temples. Leaves eddy around them, stirred by a late autumn breeze that sways the trees lining the back of the house. It is quiet, and still, and cool. It is peaceful. Time stretches by unmarked.

Tony finds himself talking. About nothing in particular. About the weather they’re having, about the real crime special he half listened to yesterday, about inconsequential things. About whatever comes to mind. He’s not sure how long they sit there like that, but by the time his hips start aching from the position he’s folded his legs into there’s a muted chill in the air and fading light that comes with the waning afternoon.

Loki remains as he has been, still shaking slightly but his breathing more controlled, and Tony wonders if maybe he’s outstayed his welcome. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t want an audience either if he were to come apart quite so spectacularly, and if there’s anything he’s learned about Loki in the time he’s known the guy it’s that he can be pretty sensitive about knocks to his pride.

Not wanting to risk setting Loki off again but conscious of the need to move, Tony clears his throat. “I’m going to give you a minute,” he explains. “Stay out here as long as you need, but maybe don’t go too far from the house.”

Loki doesn’t respond to this in any way. Tony’s not even sure if Loki's listening.

He moves to get his feet under him and Loki shoots out his arm, his hand wrapping tightly in the fabric at Tony’s collar. He exerts just enough pressure to keep Tony where he is, and although Loki doesn’t say a word or even open his eyes to look, Tony gets it.

“Okay,” Tony says softly, settling carefully back down. “Okay.”

Chapter 19

Notes:

Probably about damn time this fic earned some of the c in its h/c tag.

Chapter Text

It is almost fully dark before they finally move, and Loki loses time. One moment he is rising unsteadily to weary feet, his breath starting to steam in the damp, chill air, and the next he is ensconced on the couch inside, a blanket cinched tightly around his shoulders.

He is vaguely aware of hushed conversation taking place nearby, of gentle enquiries being put to him that he has no choice but to tune out. A not insignificant part of him wants to explain himself, to put Stark and Vision at ease. But doing so would be to acknowledge what has happened, and that he absolutely cannot do.

And so he doesn’t. It is worryingly easy to drift.

Loki’s surroundings take on a distinct sense of unreality for much of the following few days. He finds himself caught between the burgeoning threat of poorly understood yet vivid horrors he cannot stand to look at directly and the almost domestic calm of a life that feels like someone else’s. The two conflict and refuse to mesh, leaving him exhausted and hollow as he’s suspended in between. He is perpetually on the cusp of either all-consuming madness or complete surrender to oblivion, either one of which would at least allow an escape. The effort required not to tip too far into one or the other crowds out every other consideration.

He goes through the motions of existing almost by rote, aware of the others around him but unable to interact beyond performing the most basic of functions. He registers their concern and their attempts to help. A part of him is almost thankful for it. It is just that he cannot devote more than token attention to anything other than shielding himself from the unspeakable visions of terror, blood and agony that lurk just beyond that tight control.

When it starts to slip, he is quickly reminded of why he should cling harder. The mere thought of falling freezes the blood in his veins; the thought of actually landing whites out his mind altogether.

It looms large, this horror he has found. This monster waiting just out of sight. He has no defences in place, no buffer, nothing to counter or dilute the only significant part of his past he now knows. It is raw, like an exposed nerve. It drowns out almost everything else. Rationally, he knows this cannot be the sum of his experience, yet what else is there to suggest otherwise? What possible light can there be when the dark is so thick and impenetrable?

Has he always been some suffering, miserable creature, doomed to know nothing of kindness or love? Are all of his memories to be drenched in blood, grief and brutalisation, whether blood of his own or that of others? Has he been a fool to expect anything else?

He cannot bear the thought. So instead he retreats. He seeks to arrest thought entirely. He simply… stops.

Yet he is not permitted to remain here alone. Nor is he allowed to drift too far. Always he is reached for, and that is enough to catch him.

He is often aware of Stark’s presence by his side. Of his voice, low and grounding. There are touches too, physical reminders of the man’s proximity and of the engagement he would prefer to coax Loki towards.

There’s the hand at Loki’s back, guiding him from room to room. There’s the press of a thigh against his own as he’s joined on the couch, its owner deliberately over familiar. There are fingers on his, urging him to grasp food, to eat and drink. Then there is the litany of numerous other casual touches as he is brushed in passing, nudged in greeting, reassured or welcomed or acknowledged. He is distantly aware that this is all intentional and that he should not like it, yet apart from feeling entirely too numb and weary to flinch away he finds he lacks the will to object.

Days must pass like this. He doesn’t care to count them.

He’s not sure exactly what changes, only that it does.

He comes back to himself slowly on one unremarkable evening, his consciousness testing its self-imposed boundaries and deeming the threat of his past far enough removed to permit surfacing.

He is once again on the couch, this time curled on his side, his head cushioned on the arm rest and an oversized sweater wrapped around his frame. His legs are drawn up, his feet resting in the lap of the man sitting next to him. Stark’s hands are draped absently across Loki’s ankles. They are warm.

The position is strangely intimate and not something Loki would ordinarily have tolerated, but he finds he cannot quite summon the wherewithal to feel embarrassed about it. There is no one here to see.

The room is comfortingly dark; anonymous and safe without too closely resembling… it. Colourful images flash by on the large screen the two of them are facing, though the volume of the accompanying soundtrack is low. Stark appears absorbed by the narrative, and Loki turns his struggling attention towards the dialogue playing out.

“This movie is for children,” he observes dully, his words sluggish after days without use.

The fingers laid above his feet spasm slightly at this. Stark is otherwise careful to conceal his reaction and manages a perfectly casual riposte.

“Shows what you know,” he says without taking his eyes from the pictures. “Half the jokes in it are thinly-veiled dick jokes. And anyway, nothing wrong with kid humour.”

Loki manages a neutral sound that is neither agreement nor dismissal, and this prompts Stark to turn and look at him.

“Hey,” Stark says, the word a soft greeting rather than a demand for attention.

Loki drags his eyes back to Stark and responds in kind. “Hey.”

The smile Stark gives him tries not to radiate relief but does so anyway. “How’s it going?”

A peculiar turn of phrase. One that Loki has heard repeated on many occasions during his time here. What this question is even supposed to mean he has yet to fully establish, although he understands well enough the sentiment. He refuses to respond to it every time it is aimed in his direction, and this time is no different. “What time is it?” he asks instead.

Stark uses the excuse to check his watch as an opportunity to discreetly remove his hands from where they still rest against Loki’s skin. “Just after five. Still early. I wasn’t thinking of eating until later, but I can scrape something together now if you’re hungry? Vision was going to bring stuff back with him if you’d rather wait. We’re running a little low on supplies. He’s been staying with Wanda the last couple of days. Probably be back later this evening. I can call him though. If you want.”

Loki blinks tiredly. The man has a tendency to ramble to overcompensate for feelings of anxiety and insecurity. The habit is not as irritating as Loki once used to find it, now that he understands its purpose.

Stark seems to realise what he’s doing, if somewhat belatedly. “Or we can just finish watching this,” he adds self-consciously.

“Yes,” Loki agrees passively, directing his eyes more or less towards the still-running movie. Stark does the same, both of them apparently complicit in the pretence.

After some minutes of companionable quiet, one of Stark’s hands returns surreptitiously to its place where Loki’s sock has rucked down.

“We were worried,” he eventually admits quietly.

“I know,” Loki whispers. “I’m sorry.”

The hand at his ankle squeezes slightly. “Don’t be. It’s okay.” And Loki thinks maybe it is.


Vision does indeed return later that evening and tells Loki he is pleased to see him, even though Loki is certain it has not been that long since Vision was last in the house. He treats Loki with the same careful consideration as Stark, mindful of his movements, words and activities to the point where it quickly becomes irritating.

When, after a few days, it becomes clear that Loki is not so brittle that he is likely to shatter at any moment, Stark and Vision rein in their solicitousness and begin to behave with something approaching normalcy. Loki is relieved, frankly, and without the constant reminder of the incident finds it easier to put it to one side. There’s also a streak of contrary defiance that runs through him which comes to the fore, and with some determination and plenty of misdirection he is able to convince the pair that their constant smothering presence is unnecessary.

Regardless, Stark maintains his habit of initiating physical contact as a method of reassurance, and Loki begins to wonder if the practice is supposed to be for his benefit or for that of Stark himself. Loki comes to suspect that the man is in fact naturally tactile and is only now allowing himself to express it, perhaps because for the last week he has had no need to control the impulse. Loki finds he does not mind it as much as he feels he should, and at times is almost reminded of something, or perhaps someone, that just evades his understanding.

No one suggests that they should return to the lab, although the thought is never far from Loki’s mind. He refuses to allow himself to shrink away from his responsibilities for too long, and while it is true he has needed time to steel his resolve, he knows also that things cannot remain as they are.

He needs something else to replace the howling in his head, needs to believe there is something more than suffering and fear and betrayal.

So the next time Stark asks him if there’s anything he needs, he asks that they continue the sessions. Stark’s instinctive protest withers almost instantly in the face of Loki’s yearning desolation, and Loki’s quietly voiced ‘please’ is what seals the deal.


He realises one day that, quite by accident, he has begun to think of both Stark and Colonel Rhodes as humans, and more specifically as Midgardians. It’s a distinction that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense considering that he has very little grasp of his own identity as something other, but the labels seem to fit. He doesn’t go so far as to use these terms out loud.

Midgardians, he has learned, favour analogy to describe their experience of the world around them. One such saying that could be applied to recent days is one that expresses dismay or surprise at a sudden inundation of information; something along the lines of floodgates having opened. It seems an apt description for the current state of things.

There no longer seems to be any holding back the thoughts that tumble, often unbidden, from the hidden corners of Loki’s mind. Whether the incident in the garden has unlocked something important or whether he simply has more now upon which to build, his recovery seems determined to pick up pace with every passing day. At times it is almost overwhelming.

Not only do more coherent and detailed memories return after each reunion with Stark’s device (as opposed to the scant, disjointed snippets he had previously been granted), they now return with more frequency. It is not uncommon for him to gain two or three new insights after each session, often spread out through the days and nights that follow. He is careful not to reveal this, concerned Stark will insist upon further chaperoning that Loki does not wish to endure. Then, as more comes back, he finds he increasingly values his privacy. He does not enjoy being scrutinised and having his every recollection picked apart. He likes even less the air of patient disappointment he detects from Stark if he refuses to discuss memories of even the most personal nature. Better not to let on at all.

It is easy enough to avoid detection providing he seeks out solitude following an initial single disclosure. He is getting better at disguising his disorientation when something comes back to him, but there are times when his reaction is beyond his control. If he can ensure he is alone when this happens so much the better.

Such an instance occurs not long after the sessions resume.

It is tiring, this process. As the weeks progress, he finds he needs more rest in order to allow his mind to assimilate all it must now contain. He sleeps long and often, and the seclusion required offers the perfect cover for the discoveries he would rather keep to himself.

When this particular experience barrels into his psyche, however, he is almost tempted to revise his philosophy on the merits of solitude.

He is jolted from sleep with the keen burn of a phantom pain searing his insides, the slick slide of a blade meeting no resistance as it skewers him front to back. He clutches at the flesh along one side of his body and gasps, his fingers scrabbling along the shining scar he has examined many times in the mirror.

The creature in his mind’s eye leers at him where he lies trembling, its expression frozen in a reptilian mask of indifference, yet its eyes alive with hateful malice. The dawning realisation it displays before its demise stirs a morbid triumph in Loki that is not quite enough to stem the rising panic taking hold.

He rolls from his position on the bed and falls gracelessly to the floor, his breath stuttering from his lungs as he clutches ineffectually at a wound that is not there. After some minutes of this he is able to push himself to his feet and stumble to his quarters’ adjoining bathroom, the overhead lighting flickering on automatically as he crosses the threshold.

He scours his pale reflection in the full length mirror, his shaking fingers finding nothing but imperfect skin beneath the night shirt he has pulled up to expose the site of the injury his senses insist is still there. It takes many more minutes than he would like to convince his overwrought mind that what he sees is real: that he is safe, and whole, and unharmed.

Once he has calmed and the sweat on his brow cooled, he hunches over the sink and splashes frigid water across his face and neck. It chases the worst of the fear from his mind but leaves him shivering in the aftermath, and when he collapses back beneath the covers of his bed he assumes rest will evade his reach. He must be more fatigued than he imagines, because it is not long before he is once again at the mercy of his subconscious.

This time when he sleeps, Loki knows the man he meets.

Where have you been, Loki asks him. You left me here all this time.

But he is not truly angry. Not in this place.

This man is at once his childhood companion, loyal shield-brother and bitter rival. He is Loki’s greatest love, his closest friend, his strongest competition. He trusts blindly and he trusts not at all; Loki’s fiercest defender, his densest shade, his most merciless critic, the source of his every regret.

Thor shines so bright he is almost blinding, yet Loki cannot bring himself to look away.

I did not leave you, Thor tells him. You took yourself away. You can come back. Come home.

Loki despairs.

I can’t. I do not remember the way. I do not know who I am supposed to be.

Thor’s smile holds such power that there is no resisting it. When he speaks, his words are everything Loki has missed, though he did not know it.

You may not remember yourself, brother, but I do.

The breadth of memory that blooms in Loki’s mind spans centuries, opening doors to parts of himself long forgotten. His sense of self is so intimately woven with that of his brother’s it is like watching the story of his life play out through another’s eyes. It is everything he did not know he needed.

The unconditional acceptance Thor embodies has a dizzying, narcotic effect, one that Loki almost loses himself in, willing and mindless and desperate.

Yes, Loki thinks. This man feels like family.


It is only later the following morning that Loki’s lingering sense of wonder and relief begins to dim. The peaceful clarity of the dream retreats and doubt creeps back in, his waking mind questioning and examining every loosely held desire in the cold light of day.

The conclusion he comes to is a harsh one, but it feels right. He tells himself he should have known better; he cannot keep anything pure and good. It is always ruined, or false, or tainted. The shine always fades.

As more memory trickles in, he recognises all at once that Thor’s love is conditional, conditional upon those facets of himself deemed acceptable in polite company. It has always been this way, although something tells him he has only recently acknowledged this truth. He remembers he has no choice now but to hold himself apart, wanting nothing more than to sink into the warmth of his brother’s regard, yet determined to maintain his sense of self, to refuse the pull of Thor’s irresistible orbit.

Because there is an insidious thread that runs through everything, a resentment that spoils even the best times of his life when he looks back on them closely. It is the realisation that he will never escape Thor’s shadow. That he will never be his own man.

Because, a cruel voice insists, its talons buried deep, what is Loki without his brother to define him?


Loki is in something of a foul humour for much of the remaining week. It takes all of his carefully refined skill to project a mask of untroubled equanimity even as he spends his idle hours raking over this new insight he has found.

The longer this goes on the angrier he becomes, although where exactly he should direct this anger remains unclear. Most of it he reserves for his past self, even though that man is still something of a stranger. The rest inevitably turns inward, becoming an almost sentient creature that berates Loki for this yearning he seems to have nurtured, this longing for attachment in order to give meaning, for his almost complete lack of self-realisation. He is frustrated that he still seems to have nothing he can call his own, that all he seems to be is a mirror of those around him, that he longs to please, to conform, to belong.

Before he’s even consciously made the decision, he begins to harden himself, to give voice to that contrary, troublesome aspect of his personality which feels the only true expression of his inner self that he has yet managed.

He is fortunate he still enjoys the lenient sufferance Stark continues to extend him following the pitiful spectacle he recently made of himself; while his poor mood has clearly been noted it is not overtly commented upon. He is indulged, his every rude comment and curt gesture overlooked with well-meaning forbearance. He expects this from Vision; that Stark falls in with it just infuriates him all the more.

Impatient with himself, he eventually makes the mistake of revealing his possession of this newfound knowledge, if only to get it out of his own head. A self-sabotaging part of him almost wants to be taken to task for keeping it to himself for so long.

Rather than impart his indiscretion in a straightforward manner, Loki offhandedly remarks that Stark should apply himself more meticulously to crafting the derisive sobriquets he so enjoys bestowing upon others; that he’s sure with some effort Stark can do better than ‘Point Break’ if he’s to properly ridicule Thor’s most egregious qualities. It is almost worth it for the stunned silence this inspires, though the enthusiastic questioning that follows soon sours Loki’s amusement.

“When did this happen?” Stark asks instead when it becomes apparent that Loki will not entertain a celebratory exploration of his fondest, oldest or most compromising memories of his brother.

Loki prevaricates with a casual dismissal of Stark’s concern and an undeniably haughty pronouncement that not every thought that passes through his head should need to be pre-approved by committee.

Stark is obviously confused by Loki’s muted reception of his interest and apparent apathy in the face of the returning knowledge of his brother’s many mighty deeds. This tells Loki a number of interesting if unsavoury things: that while his close, if complicated, relationship with his brother is apparently common knowledge, the strain upon it is less well understood; that he is correct to view his own proudest achievements and dearest aspirations as nothing more than the baseline against which Thor may measure his greatness; and that Thor is held in some esteem among those Loki now finds himself acquainted with.

A thrill of jealousy he can’t quite dampen or even fully understand drives him to seek his own company for the remainder of the night. A vindictive part of him is pleased to leave Stark so visibly crestfallen as he departs.


Sleep evades him that night.

As worked up as he is, Loki is almost certain it is not this emerging, infantile yet crushingly insistent dalliance with his innate sense of sibling rivalry that keeps him from rest.

It is more than that. There is something nagging at him, a suspicion of something just beneath his skin that is struggling for realisation. It is a restlessness that has him pacing the room, a thrumming energy that demands release. It is almost painful, and it is maddening.

He forces himself to sit, to focus his fracturing thoughts on the prickling sensation travelling across his nerves. He closes his eyes and follows the currents, tracking them to their source at his core and mapping them outward again as they swarm and crawl unfulfilled down each limb. They demand direction, purpose, use. They are a banked ferocity battering at their confines, responding to his unease with the promise of relief in their release.

Without any real sense of what he’s doing, he flexes his fingers in front of him and opens each palm, urging the foreign sensation to collect and manifest in an effort to channel it away from the tightening in his chest. When he does so he feels an easing that allows him to take a full, unhindered breath, and the calm that descends is like a cool, refreshing draught.

He opens his eyes already half-suspecting what he will see, and the view draws a bubbling laugh from the very centre of his being. The skin of his hands warps and shimmers, a green-tinged light flickering into being. It is directionless and inert, entirely benign, but it sparks a hunger in Loki that has lain slumbering all this time.

He closes his fingers around this nascent power and the light snuffs out. His smile remains.

This he will keep for himself. This is his. He will not share it.

Chapter Text

“I think I screwed up,” Tony blurts as soon as the picture stabilises, Rhodey’s image immediately becoming crisp, bright and isolated from his surroundings.

Rhodey exaggerates bewilderment by jerking back his head, checking over each shoulder, then laying two fingers against his own chest.

“I’m sorry,” he drawls with a questioning look, “did you start without me? Could’ve sworn you’d only just joined this call.”

“I’m skipping the boring part. This is important.”

Rhodey very pointedly crosses his arms and directs a deadpan look at the camera. “Great to see you, Rhodey. How are you, Rhodey? We love you and appreciate you and miss you, Rhodey.”

“Yeah yeah, that all goes without saying. You’re the light of my life, the moon to my stars, the frost on my flakes. But seriously, don’t be an asshole. We really need to talk about me right now.”

The sarcasm is heavy. “No, it’s cool. I see how it is.”

“Rhodey, buddy, help me out here. I need you.”

The sigh Rhodey heaves sounds almost pained. “What happened this time?” The way he asks is like he doesn’t want to know the answer.

Tony’s still not entirely sure how to explain it. “So, big news. Huge news. On tonight’s episode of This Is Your Life, big bro takes the stage, front and centre. Turns out Loki just forgot to mention it for a while — and who knows what else, but that’s a problem for another day.”

When Tony leaves it there, Rhodey prompts him for more with a slight head shake. “Okay? And?”

“And nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

“Exactly what I said. Nothing. Zip. Nada. He’s maybe been slightly more pissy than usual, but he may as well have remembered that his favourite shade of wall paint is off-white.”

Tony doesn’t know what he’d been expecting really, but it wasn’t… whatever this was.

Things had just been starting to get back to normal after several days of walking on eggshells, the thing-of-which-they-do-not-speak becoming just another unpleasant blip on the road to recovery. Sure, Loki had been quiet. More so even than usual. And Tony had respected that. He may not be the poster child for emotional intelligence at times but he recognises trauma when he sees it. He hadn’t pushed, and Loki hadn’t volunteered anything other than a very clear desire not to broach the topic. Tony had simply added a note in FRIDAY’s log along the lines of ‘here be dragons’ and left it there. When Loki was ready, if he was ever ready, maybe they’d discuss it. In the meantime Tony’s been speculating like crazy but otherwise keeping his thoughts to himself.

Returning to the lab so soon after hadn’t been Tony’s idea, obviously, but it did seem to be helping. It had given Loki something else to focus on, and once Tony and Vision had squared away the broken equipment it was surprisingly easy to pretend that nothing had happened. The only difference now is that Vision insists on taking point after their sessions, just in case history repeats itself. So far it hasn’t.

Which is what makes yesterday’s encounter so strange. Vision is yet to miss a cue, but he apparently hadn’t picked up on Loki’s newest memory gain. Neither had Tony.

As soon as it had become obvious that Loki wasn’t about to flip his shit, and that in fact he hadn’t been flipping it for some scarily unknown length of time, Tony had felt relieved. More than that, he’d been glad. He’d been happy for Loki because this was a Big Deal and he’d wanted to share in that with him. He’d wanted to be the guy who takes an interest, who reminisces about the good times, who could draw out a reluctant smile and be a safe place to confide. And boy, had he judged that one wrong. It had backfired in his face.

There’s a brief silence as Rhodey digests Tony’s flippancy, a small frown forming on his face. Tony elaborates.

“He didn’t want to talk about, like, anything. Not word one. Pretty sure he’s ghosting me. He’s been hiding in his room most of the time since it happened.”

“So it’s a touchy subject. Alert the media.”

“It’s more than that though. I dunno. This is gonna sound weird but... I think I… hurt his feelings.”

Rhodey narrows his eyes at that like he knows there’s more to this story but he’s giving Tony the benefit of the doubt. “And you can’t just go apologise because…?”

“Because I think that’ll make it worse. In fact I know it will. I mean, I don’t even get what happened. And I don’t know what else to do. This is why I need you, man. You’re good at this stuff.”

The picture moves slightly as Rhodey repositions the tech at his end. He’s obviously decided this is going to be a long one because he sinks down into a chair. “What exactly did you say?”

“Nothing! Nothing bad. I don’t think. I asked him how much he remembered, obviously. What Thor was like as a kid and all that. I thought he’d want to share that with me. Thought maybe he’d open up a bit more now that we had something in common we could talk about. I mean, I know there are some landmines in there, but most of that stuff has got to be good, right? I thought he’d be stoked.”

Tony sees Rhodey let his head drop into his palm.

Tony genuinely doesn’t understand what happened.

He thinks back to the carefully camouflaged but still obvious anger Loki had radiated before he’d skulked off and the waspish remarks he’d left in his wake. Tony had felt too wrong-footed to rescue things at the time, or to even wonder why Loki had brought the subject up in the first place if he didn’t want to be asked about it.

The more Tony thinks about it now, the more it feels like he’s failed some kind of test.

“You know,” Rhodey says, apropos of nothing, “I shake hands with a lot of people. Meet a whole lot of folks who don’t know the first thing about me. Have to make a lot of small talk. It’s painful, but it comes with the territory. Their job is to pretend to be interested in the service personnel behind whatever target we’ve met or mission we’ve just completed. My job is to accept their cardboard cut-out praise and answer their questions as blandly as possible. It’s boring. And hard work. Because sometimes I want to wax lyrical about my guys, you know? I want to be able to tell these people exactly why I think we did a good job and for them to really want to know about it.” He pauses for a moment to let that sink in, and Tony thinks he already knows where this is going. “But it’s all bullshit and everyone involved knows it. They don’t care. You know what they do care about though?”

God this is awkward. “Um…”

“Do you have any idea how many times the only thing those people really want to ask me about is you?”

Tony cringes. “Uh, every time?”

Rhodey fires an imaginary finger gun at him. “Bingo.”

“Guess that starts to get kinda annoying after a while, huh.”

“I’m used to it. The point is, sometimes you get tired of being the mouthpiece for your more famous, fascinating and vastly overrated counterpart.”

“Ouch. Wait, you mean I’m not your favourite topic of conversation?”

The ha Rhodey releases actually does sound a bit bitter. “Not even close.”

Tony sobers. “Guess we just need to dial that up by about a thousand years or so of inferiority complex and we’re good to go then.” He wedges the tips of his fingers into his eyes and groans. “Fuck.”

“God help us,” Rhodey agrees on a mutter.

Tony scrubs both hands through his hair so roughly it’s almost painful and tries for a blithe tone of voice in an effort to head off the sinking feeling taking hold. “So yeah, there’s that. Plus I think we’re all going a little stir crazy in here which isn’t helping. And also, I can’t find my favourite mug — you know, the one with the little arc reactor on it that glows when the coffee heats it up — and it’s driving me nuts—”

“Tony.”

“Yes, okay, getting a little off topic here. What I’m trying to say is, can you hurry up and get your ass back here please because I really don’t think I can do this.”

Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. Sure, it’s been a rough few days, and he’s going to be honest, it hit a bit too close to home there for a while, but he shouldn’t need to load Rhodey’s shoulders with this. It’s not like there’s anything he can really do about it, anyway.

The look Rhodey gives him is apologetic and sincere and makes Tony need to avert his eyes. “I’m sorry, Tones. You know I’d get away if I could.”

He does know that. And he’s got this. He does. He’s had his moment of weakness and now he just needs to get on with it. He plasters on a smile.

“So how do I fix this? Loki’s so invested in acting like there’s nothing wrong that if I go in there and make him look at this thing I think I might break his brain.” He doesn’t want to admit he thinks the damage may already have been done. If Loki’s been waiting for proof that his only value is as a favour to Thor, Tony’s just handed it to him on a plate. A plate Loki could probably beat him to death with, figuratively speaking.

“You’ll figure it out. You were pretty good with him after what happened before.”

Tony’s not sure he’d call it that. It was a whole lot of making stuff up on the fly, fudging it and a boatload of trial and error, all fuelled by crippling worry and the absolute certainty that he’d been out of his depth. In the end he’d just done what came naturally, just been there and tried not to let Loki get too lost. He hadn’t made things worse, at least. Loki had been so completely vacant that Tony’s not sure much of the care and comfort he’d tried to provide had really landed, but he likes to think it counted for something.

This though… he wasn’t going to have anywhere to hide with this.

“You know I’m not good with the words,” Tony complains, much to Rhodey’s apparent amusement. “The ones that matter, anyway. And something tells me Loki isn’t going to want to hear them.” Besides, this is definitely shaping up to be an actions-speak-louder-than-words kind of situation.

“Well, that’s kind of up to him. All you can do is try. Just do you. But maybe not too you, you know? I don’t think Loki’s ready for that yet.” Tony takes a breath to argue that, and Rhodey derails him with a soft smile. “Just be his friend.”

Now if that isn’t the last thing Tony thought he’d ever be seriously considering, he’s not sure what is.


FRIDAY leaves him hanging outside Loki’s bedroom door like a chump for a full twenty seconds before she informs him that the reason Loki isn’t answering is because he’s not at home. He’s too relieved to know that he’s not being deliberately ignored to worry too much about his AI’s questionable loyalties.

Ever since the brief stint in the yard, Loki’s taken to haunting the top floor of the house as though its proximity to the outdoors is any sort of substitute for real freedom. They don’t want to risk the possibility that someone might see something by leaving the safety of the house, and even peeking through the blinds makes Tony twitchy, but the real windows seem to draw Loki like a moth to a flame. Tony hasn’t had the heart to tell him to stay downstairs.

When Tony finds him he’s standing in the dark, looking out across the yard through a discreet parting in the blinds. Tony can just make out the lightest flurries of early snow swirling against the glass, and there’s a clean chill to the room from its dearth of furniture and lack of use.

Loki hums to himself absently with a muted subtlety, the melody forlorn and wistful. It wavers with inattention but is no less beautiful for it, the slow, evocative notes combining into something fittingly otherworldly.

The halting sounds taper to a quiet stop, although Loki gives no other sign of noticing the presence now at his back. He clears his throat delicately, finally turning from the window to direct a despondent gaze in the vicinity of Tony’s feet.

Tony offers a smile he doesn’t really feel. “Asgardian folk song?”

There is a pause before Loki replies that speaks of caution and the weight of something more. He is spare with his answer, as though measuring out the smallest ration of insight he can allow.

“It’s Vanir.”

Tony has no idea what that is, but he’s reading the message loud and clear: it’s personal, and Tony is not yet trusted enough for more.

The words Tony had prepared before he came up here desert him all at once.

The silence must give Loki the wrong impression, because he closes off his expression and tenses his shoulders. “If you’re here to berate me for keeping secrets from you, you’re wasting your breath.”

“What? Loki, no, that’s not—”

“Nor do I wish to discuss my brother with you.”

Tony makes a time out sign with his hands that is entirely wasted on his audience. “Woah, slow down there. Just... forget about Thor for a minute.” He winces. “Okay, wrong choice of words, but you know what I mean.”

Loki wraps his arms around himself and waits, and Tony founders a little.

“I get that this isn’t easy for you,” he eventually manages, “I really do. It’d be weird if you didn’t want to keep some stuff to yourself. It’s totally your choice what you want to share and what you don’t. I just want you to know that you can talk to me if you need someone who’ll listen. And that I... I trust you, okay? To not hide anything really important.”

God, Tony really is bad at this stuff. None of it is coming out how he’d imagined, and now that he’s put it into words it sounds wrong. He hadn’t even known that he felt this way until the words came out of his mouth. Telling Loki he trusts him — is he out of his mind?

And now Loki is giving him a funny look, which suggests that actually yes, he probably is.

Loki shifts as though he’s uncomfortable with this conversation and Tony forces himself to continue. “I’m also sorry. I know I’m maybe not handling all this in the best way sometimes, and I’m gonna keep getting stuff wrong, so maybe you can just, you know, tell me when I’m being a jerk and I’ll try to stop doing it, otherwise I’m just going to keep making the same mistakes. And I know that’s not an excuse, because you shouldn’t have to tell me and that’s the whole point, but I’m trying my best here and I don’t want you to think you can’t say anything or that I’m going to get mad if you call me out, plus I just... I really do want to help even though I know you don’t believe me, and if you could just say something right about now that’d be really great.”

He’s rambling, and that strange look on Loki’s face is turning into something else, something a bit like the face he makes when he’s finally managed to translate one of Tony’s obscure pop culture references.

Loki looks away and studies the floor rather intently for a few moments, one hand worrying at the palm of the other. When he finally offers a response it’s clipped and delivered with a reserved tone that suggests he’s holding back more he doesn’t think it would be a good idea to give voice to. “I do appreciate your… candour. Please do not mistake my reticence for ingratitude.”

He then avoids Tony’s eyes which makes it difficult for Tony to get a bead on exactly what it is Loki’s not saying, and whether or not the apology has actually been accepted. Perhaps Loki’s just embarrassed he’s jumped to the wrong conclusion and doesn’t know how to admit it. He doesn’t offer an apology of his own, Tony notices.

“So listen,” Tony says, eager to break the tension now that he’s fairly sure he’s said everything he thinks Loki needs to hear. “I wanted to ask for your help with something. If you’re, you know, not busy or anything.” He smiles. “I promise you’ll be into it.”


“Vis, you’re spotting me. Or Loki, if he needs it. But let’s face it, it’s mainly going to be me.”

Loki still looks dubious about this, although he cautiously takes a position at the opposite end of the mat as instructed. Tony’s gym isn’t huge exactly, not like the facilities at the compound, but there’s enough room for some decent manoeuvres now that most of the equipment is stowed out of the way. This should be fun.

“I am still not quite sure this is wise,” Loki says, eyeing Tony’s clothing and casual stance with undisguised scepticism.

Tony throws out his arms. “What, don’t think I can take you on?”

“More that I imagine our practice will come to a swift and potentially painful end.” He doesn’t need to say who he thinks will be on the receiving end of that.

Tony grins. He shucks his sweatshirt and tosses it to Vision, revealing a lightly glowing, triangular panel on the layer underneath.

With just the sort of flair for showmanship Rhodey’s always ribbing him for, he gives the centre of his chest a brisk double tap and steps forward, his chin held high. The almost fluid way in which the nanotech unfolds across his body and sweeps to enclose each limb is satisfyingly elaborate. He knows; he’s tested this many times and watched the playback, and he still marvels at the intricate beauty of the way the technology comes together. When the transformation merges and completes, the heads-up display powers on just as smoothly as it should. So far no glitches have been detected, but he expects they’ll discover a few wrinkles to iron out if everything goes as planned. He’s nothing if not thorough in his testing.

When he’s faced with the sudden appearance of the suit Loki’s eyes flash. He shifts his centre of gravity, immediately on the defensive.

“You didn’t think I was going to go easy on you, did you?” Tony smiles again, even though Loki can’t see it. “And while I’m flattered, it’s not me I want you to help me test, it’s the suit.” He gestures to himself. “What do you think? You’re the first person I’ve shown it to, by the way. This is the maiden voyage.”

See, Tony thinks at him, silently urging him to bite. I’m sharing my toys. With you. Play with me.

Loki relaxes fractionally and catalogues every seam and panel on display. “Formidable,” he allows, “though I am not certain I can offer much by way of formal instruction. Would you not be better served training with Vision?”

“Nah. He’d hold back too much. And besides, I’ve seen you fight. You’ve got some mad skills.”

Loki thins his lips into a line. “So it is my aptitude for violence you wish to employ.”

“See, this is just the kind of thing we need to work on here. That isn’t what I said. Sure you’re strong, but I’m talking about your moves, your technique. That stuff doesn’t just come naturally. That’s learned. You could teach me a thing or two, and I bet if you really thought about it you could connect a few more dots about how you got to be so good. Figured we could both get something out of this. And anyway, don’t try to bullshit me — I know you can exercise control. You’re not some mindless attack dog.”

Loki hums at this but still looks unhappy.

“C’mon, we’ll call this a rematch. And don’t worry, I’ll set phasers to stun. Fair’s fair. No special effects from you this time though, please.”

“Unlikely,” Loki mutters sourly.

Tony decides to take that as assent. He drops into a ready stance before Loki can change his mind and approaches slowly, giving Loki every opportunity to back down if he wants to. He doesn’t.

Loki watches him come, waiting for him to make his move. Tony is just going to start with the basics, make sure the suit can handle the impact before he tries anything fancy, and he wants to get a feel for what he’s working with now that he’s got a chance to do it in a controlled environment. He wants to know exactly what it feels like to fight Loki properly.

So he doesn’t even bother to cover it. He simply hauls back and aims a slug at Loki’s sternum, fully expecting him to lean to one side and dodge the blow. Instead Loki catches the thrown fist in his own, the sudden arrest of motion enough that it would have broken every bone in Tony’s hand without the suit to counteract the damage.

Tony sends in his other fist for good measure and Loki captures that one too, and for a split second they remain locked in place. Then Loki tilts his head, quirks his mouth and heaves Tony backward at speed.

The suit compensates by opening the back plate thrusters, and with a combination of drag and upward lift brings him vertical, airborne and hovering in place. So far so good. All performing as expected. Now to see how everything holds up when he puts some real force behind his attacks.

Tony dives towards Loki’s position and this time Loki dodges neatly to one side. He spins to keep his assailant in his sights and tracks Tony’s movements, calculating the speed and angles he’s using and watching for an opening. Tony doesn’t give him too long to formulate a game plan and swerves towards him again, sweeping low at the last second.

This time Loki twists sideways and runs, covering the distance to the side of the room in four long strides and pushing himself off from the wall with a single powerful leap. It brings him down just as Tony’s trying to bank and the blow he lands is enough to spin Tony off course. Loki’s got an edge on Tony if he doesn’t respond quickly — unencumbered by a suit, Loki’s agility means he can turn on a dime — so Tony doesn’t wait to fully correct his posture before he’s barrelling back into the fray. This time he’s able to capture Loki around the ribs and slam him down to the mat, though Loki’s quick to roll with it, getting his feet beneath Tony’s body to kick him up and over his head.

Loki rises swiftly and stalks towards the suit before Tony’s quite got himself upright. He’s not going to allow Tony the upper hand this time and moves in close, preventing Tony from getting airborne again by locking an arm around his neck. He twists to wrestle Tony back to the ground and Tony engages the thrusters to force both of them back. After colliding with the wall it’s a struggle for Tony to turn in Loki’s grip. So he cheats. A tiny bit.

A repulsor flash is enough to stun Loki into loosening his hold, enough that Tony can pull himself free. He capitalises on the momentary distraction by gripping Loki’s front and throwing him across the room, sending him into a painful roll he doesn’t quite have time to rescue.

FRIDAY notes some room for improvement in the leverage conversions which Tony files away for later, but he doesn’t let himself get distracted.

“Is that all you got?” he says instead while he catches his breath.

When he comes to a stop Loki flips back his hair, his teeth bared in a snarl. When he picks himself up he makes a beeline for the gym equipment they’ve put to one side and plucks a sparring stave from the items they’ve discarded.

Tony grins behind his faceplate. “Now we’re talking.”

Tony can already feel sweat running from his hairline down his face, and while the atmospherics prevent his display from steaming up it stings his eyes. He makes another mental note to do something about that in future. He spares a brief glance for Vision who watches on with interest but has so far felt no need to intervene.

Loki circles slowly, testing the weight and balance of the stave as he moves, biding his time. He twirls the thing almost casually. Tony only realises he’s too busy watching the movements of Loki’s hands to notice his footwork when the stave swings in a downward arc and into the joint between Tony’s shoulder and neck. The force is enough to stagger Tony back, the accompanying thwack ringing in his ears. Loki pushes the advantage, crowding Tony backward with another jarring uppercut to his flank.

Tony moves to capture the stave on the next swing but Loki feints, instead planting the butt of it into the floor and using it to vault both feet squarely into Tony’s midsection. It knocks the breath from him and his instinct is to bring up his repulsors, a blast ready to force Loki into retreat.

Loki sees it coming and ducks out of range, coming back up at Tony’s side with a solid punch to his flank. Then when Tony attempts once again to take flight, Loki yanks him back down by his ankle, the stave now whipping round and used to drag Tony into a choke hold against Loki’s front. The suit holds up against the force Loki uses so that it isn’t enough to throttle him, but it’s pretty uncomfortable and Loki doesn’t seem too worried about holding back. Tony brings his gauntlets to bear on breaking the stave in two and lurches away when it snaps.

Rather than discard the broken stave, Loki dual wields the two pieces like blades and lands a flurry of blows against Tony’s staggering body. He can’t match Loki for speed although he holds his ground well enough, the sheer density of the suit enough to prevent him being completely knocked on his ass. It is bewildering though, and he’s getting the distinct impression Loki is showing off a bit now. Time to switch things up a notch.

Tony plants his feet and deploys the anchors, sparing a brief thought for the holes that will just have been punched into his otherwise smooth floor, and brings up his palms. The nanotech shifts and reforms as he does so, the piston’s impact knocking an ‘oof’ from Loki as it sends him skidding in the opposite direction.

For a second Tony’s almost worried he’s let himself get carried away, and when Loki doesn’t immediately straighten takes a hurried step towards him. He realises the mistake in dropping his guard when Loki strikes, sweeping Tony’s legs from under him with a low roundhouse kick that leaves him with no choice but to fly into retreat. Tony sees a glimpse of a smirk on Loki’s face before Loki is launching himself towards him, this time wrenching his body around mid-air to wrap his legs around Tony’s neck. The force of the movement and the sheer weight of him swings the suit around and slams Tony onto his back so hard he sees stars.

When his vision clears it is to see Loki standing over him, panting with exertion and skin flushed, but still looking every inch the warrior prince he is.

“Have I injured you?” Loki asks, reaching out a hand to pull Tony back to his feet.

It takes a moment or two before Tony can formulate an answer, but when he does he lets every ounce of his very genuine respect shine through. “Are you kidding? That was freaking awesome.”

The relief that passes across Loki’s face is fleeting but unmistakable. “Nevertheless, perhaps it would be best to call it a—”

Tony cuts off Loki’s words with a violent wrench of his captured arm, flinging all his weight backwards to pull Loki down with him. The momentum and surprise sends Loki rolling to one side of the mat, and as they both move to bring their hands beneath their chests to push themselves up, their eyes lock.

The slow grin Loki produces is savage. Tony feels his own expression match. They tense, both preparing for another clash.

Ha, Tony crows inwardly, getting ready to go again. Thor whomst?

Chapter 21

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It is not working.

Loki spreads his fingers in his lap and closes his eyes, attempting to place himself back into the serene, focused frame of mind he has previously found conducive to bending his power to his will. He is finding it harder to slip into today, and he knows from past experience that allowing himself to become frustrated will only chase the ephemeral threads further from his reach.

It’s illogical, really. When he is otherwise agitated it comes almost without thought. When he strives to find it and control it at other times, it fights him. The contradiction is rather exasperating, the balance between the two difficult to strike. Or perhaps he is overthinking this. Perhaps he is simply pushing too hard.

With a sigh of defeat, he allows himself to fall backward onto his bed and let his mind clear. His muscles ache pleasantly. After so much time spent languishing in inactivity and tedium, his training sessions with Stark offer a welcome distraction. Dare he say it, he might even confess to enjoying them. They have at least allowed for the expenditure of some of the pent up energy he has been struggling to contain at times.

That is not to say he does not see what Stark is doing. Stark’s transparent attempts to demonstrate bonds of friendship have been all the more earnest and persistent lately, and Loki has had to make an effort to remind himself not to be drawn in by them. He is not immune to Stark’s charms, nor can he deny that there is a significant part of him that craves what Stark appears to offer, but it would be short-sighted to take the man’s affability at face value. It cannot be genuine, not entirely. It serves a larger purpose. And Loki is not a child to be petted and groomed.

It has of course occurred to him that the sparring could well be a means for Stark to gain insight into the skills Loki possesses, in the event Stark needs to enforce containment (or, more likely, because Stark anticipates the need for self-defence). And even if it isn’t, the camaraderie Stark would seek to instil is likely intended to smooth Loki’s edges, to temper him, to render him ineffective once the trap inevitably closes.

Because there can be no doubt that it will close. They move nearer to the snap of its jaws with each passing day. When he is whole again, when he becomes the enemy he knows in his heart he truly is, all this will be ripped away. The friendly overtures will stop. His sanctuary will once more become his prison. It will all be shown for what it truly is: not real.

He wishes it could be otherwise.

So much for allowing his thoughts to empty.

Loki takes a deep breath and raises his arm, flexing and curling his fingers in the air above his face. He concentrates on the definition of each knuckle and tendon, recalls the feeling of channelling the very essence of his being towards them.

Today the currents are quiet. It has not always been so.

It has taken him some time to work up the nerve to experiment, partly for fear of failure, but also because he cannot be entirely confident that his movements are not being monitored. When he had not been immediately confronted about his initial rediscovery of his gifts, he had concluded that FRIDAY had either forgone reporting the display to her creator, or had simply not witnessed it. Loki is certain it’s not just a case of Stark feigning ignorance.

To test this he has gone to some lengths. Over the course of the last fortnight he has been collecting a number of items whose absence he was confident would inconvenience their owner. He has been careful to avoid immediate detection, using sleight of hand to spirit the items into a pocket or beneath a fold of clothing, mindful of course of FRIDAY’s sensors. The challenge in itself has been one Loki has relished, and the results most entertaining; there is something satisfyingly clandestine about even such harmless misconduct.

The fruits of this petty thievery he has allowed to remain openly on display about his quarters but denied all knowledge of when questioned. So far, whenever Stark bemoans the misplacement of his belongings and requests FRIDAY’s aid in locating them, the AI simply apologises for being unable to determine their whereabouts.

Perhaps when he is feeling generous Loki will return these trophies, but for the moment they serve an important purpose. (And besides, the game is rather amusing.)

Loki has no doubt FRIDAY is able to view him at all times if Stark wishes it. It seems however that, for the moment at least, Stark is prepared to extend Loki some modicum of privacy. When that changes, Loki would know it.

Admittedly there is a small part of Loki that is chary of abusing this trust, particularly after Stark’s strident reassurances and declarations of faith, but it is not significant enough to prevent him using the man’s magnanimity to his own advantage. As he keeps telling himself, he has no choice.

He cannot afford to reveal the more significant secret he is hiding.

Assured that he may practise without fear of discovery, Loki has been spending as much time as is reasonable sequestered behind closed doors, determined to test the extent of his returning control. The results have been… disappointing, to say the least.

At his best he has been able to recreate the effect he managed that first day, summoning a faltering, ethereal light that promises so much more. He cannot remember the technique necessary to convert it to better use, but he thinks he knows what is possible. After all, he has his memories now of Thor’s reception of his past self’s gifts, enough that he has been able to infer a particular penchant for trickery and illusion.

And he’s seen the footage of himself. Even if he still doesn’t remember it all that clearly, he’s pieced together a rather unedifying picture of himself and his capabilities. There is something slightly shameful about it, something that tells him he is wrong to take pride in these abilities.

Yet all he feels now is anticipation, a thirst for the knowledge he knows lies just out of reach. Knowledge he knows he possesses already, if only behind the artificial barrier his own power has put in place.

It’s so close now he can taste it. He is impatient to reclaim it.

If only he could persuade his own mind and body to cooperate.

He decides that a change of scenery may do him good. He should be safe to leave the confines of his room; Stark is no doubt absorbed in making alterations to his newest suit of armour, and Vision had this morning expressed his intent to leave the house to acquire the supplies that will see them through another fortnight. Perhaps Vision has already left. Neither should have reason to remain vigilant; Loki has already shared with them both an account of his most recently acquired memory — the tale of a sonorous tutor finally imparting some wisdom of interest to a student already proficient in much of the statecraft required of him — and so he need only consider FRIDAY’s keen eyes should anything more reveal itself. A short, circuitous lap of the house should be safe enough.

Loki has barely made it into the sitting room before he is encountered. Vision offers him a friendly greeting that Loki has no choice but to return with one that is somewhat lacklustre, even though he’d like nothing better than to retreat the way he has come.

“I am just preparing to leave,” Vision tells him cheerfully, oblivious to Loki’s displeasure. A collection of reusable grocery bags is slowly accumulating on the breakfast bar. Once Vision has completed his search of the cabinets and located enough receptacles to meet his requirements, he plucks a paper list from the refrigerator door and scans it critically. “Is there anything else you would like to request?”

Loki considers this. He has become quite partial to certain Midgardian delicacies. And Stark has a habit of monopolising some of the choicest offerings.

“More chocolate milk,” he decides. “And if Stark has insisted upon a repeat of that macaroni dish, I will not insult my senses with another meal reconstituted from a box. We will prepare it from fresh ingredients or not at all.”

He sees Vision tuck a smile into the collar of his sweater as he leans to make a small amendment to his list. That done, Vision considers his clothing and looks to Loki for his opinion. “You and I are perhaps not the best of judges when it comes to the appropriate attire, but do you suppose this will suffice?”

Vision’s outfit certainly seems human enough. Loki supposes it matches the garments he has seen people wear in the movies he has been subjected to, or at least those that are set during the winter season. He shrugs. “The red might be a bit of a giveaway, though,” he points out.

“Ah yes, of course,” Vision says. “Easily remedied.”

It is not something Loki has watched Vision do before now, though he has long known Vision possesses the ability. It is how Vision has managed to move freely among those outside their walls without detection, and the reason he has been allowed to leave the confines of the house on previous occasions. Without exhibiting any outward sign of the mechanism, Vision’s appearance changes from that of his natural state to one more closely resembling an ordinary man, complete with sandy hair, light blue eyes and smooth, unblemished skin.

The transformation is instant, lacking the ponderous sweep of colour Loki’s own form had demonstrated in the recordings shown in the white room. It is also nothing like the flickering images Loki has seen on his own person as he has gasped and shuddered in the aftermath of a session with Stark’s device. And yet seeing it happen to another, witnessing it in real time without the accompanying pain and fear he has come to associate with feats of this kind, prompts an unravelling in Loki’s mind that leads to knowledge much coveted.

It is all he can do to catch himself against the kitchen counter with a white-knuckled grip, a bland smile forced onto his face in an attempt to cover the thrill of revelation coursing through his body. Vision appears not to notice, already busying himself gathering the items he needs and imparting a farewell before leaving to complete his mission.

Loki lingers a moment longer, unsure whether or not he managed to issue a goodbye, and frantically plans his next move. Should he return to his quarters now so soon after leaving them, FRIDAY may well become suspicious. Yet he can barely concentrate on anything beyond the excitement thrumming behind his ribs. Projecting an air of insouciance to the best of his ability, he opts for a short performance and prepares coffee, forcing himself to wait while the machine runs its course. He then exercises every ounce of his restraint not to hurry back towards his room with all the speed he can manage.


Standing in front of his mirror, it requires the barest flick of Loki’s hand to change his appearance. Where before his reflection described the light shirt and jeans he truly wears, he now appears in a similar outfit of darker colours, its truth overwritten by his will alone.

He realises all at once that he has been trying to write in a language before he could read even its basest lettering, and that now that he knows this particular phrase its component parts are clear.

The joy he feels blurs his vision with tears even as he desires fiercely to protect what he has learned from discovery. He practises long into the night and feels happier than he has in a long time.


Loki has not told the others of what he has learned. He is almost certain however that the change in his demeanour has not gone unnoticed. Such a significant piece of himself has begun to return that he supposes it would be unreasonable to expect it to pass without comment.

“You’re different today,” Stark remarks, a half smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He snags a stick of raw carrot from the pile Loki is assembling, tosses it into the air, then ducks beneath it to catch it in his mouth. The expectant pause he leaves afterwards invites Loki’s admiration of this achievement.

Loki obliges with a snuff of underwhelmed amusement which causes the man to grin even wider. Never one to squander an opportunity, Loki then strives to pass his altered mien off as one of his rare light moods and takes his cue from Stark. He flashes Stark a smirk of his own, going so far as to flaunt the knifework he knows Stark finds so fascinating. The vegetables he’s preparing are almost forgotten in favour of twirling and flipping the blade, and when he completes his flourish with a wink Stark’s eyes twinkle at him with childlike glee.

“Show off.”

Perhaps it is not such a stretch after all. Perhaps Loki really is in a better mood.

“Hey,” Stark then says with sudden enthusiasm, “did Vis get those sun-dried tomatoes I asked for? Man those were good.” He makes a move towards the refrigerator, and Loki drops what he’s doing to intercept him. If Stark thinks he can devour their entire supply in the first sitting as he has done previously he’s got another thing coming.

It’s a simple case of extending an arm and splaying a hand against Stark’s face to halt his progress towards the objects of his desire. The man splutters and flails at this indignity, and Loki grins to himself as he uses the opportunity to raid the shelves himself before Stark can gain ground. Snacks thus safely retrieved, he lets Stark go with a smirk of triumph as he emerges from the refrigerator’s cool depths.

“Oh no you don’t, asshole,” Stark insists, reaching for Loki’s arm. “Those babies are mine.”

When he later comes to think about it, Loki isn’t sure whether it’s the temperature that does it, or simply the motion of Stark’s hand. All he knows is that when Stark wraps his fingers firmly around Loki’s wrist, it triggers a memory that leaves food scattering across the kitchen floor and a feeling like ice seizing Loki’s lungs.

His armour crumbles beneath the grip of the enemy ensnaring his limb. The excruciating pain he expects, the cold burn that should strip his flesh from his bones, does not materialise. Instead his skin takes on a deathly hue, an ice blue bruise that spreads and corrupts the skin of his hand even as he watches it shake.

And what can he do but stare, uncomprehending, as a dreadful, sickening truth unfolds? How can he explain this dawning understanding, this terrible suspicion that floods his veins even as he seeks to deny it?

He gasps, his every instinct rejecting this new truth. It is a trick, a mistake, a curse he can contest and explain away. It has to be; he cannot entertain any other possibility.

He cannot be like them. He cannot embody everything he has always half suspected everyone always saw. He must not let the others see.

The horror and the disgust rise up to choke him, even as he strives to remove the danger from the reach of those who know no better. He is wrong, tainted, unnatural — he sees it now all at once.

He snatches his arm from Stark’s reach and stumbles backwards, the limb cradled to his body even as he wishes to rip it from existence.

“Do not touch me!” he commands, his voice shrill with it.

Stark freezes in place and gapes at him openly.

Loki backs clumsily away, a feeling of being swallowed whole already blinding and deafening him, his breath catching in his throat, his lungs refusing to allow it entrance.

He is some kind of creature. A dangerous creature. All this time it has lain hidden beneath his skin, a monster in the shape of a man. And he could not even see it. But he felt it. Oh, he felt it. It all makes sense now. He is a lie and a fool and a joke. Nothing he has ever believed has been real.

It is all rushing in: the lies, the betrayal, the all-consuming horror. He feels sick.

Stark is staring at him, approaching slowly, his every step forward forcing Loki back. Can he see? Does he know? Do they all know?

But no. Of course that cannot be. Because if they did, he would not be here now to fear their abhorrence. They would never have suffered him to remain in their presence, nor would they have harboured a creature such as he. Not knowingly. Not willingly.

It is almost enough to make him laugh. All this time he’d feared their censure for his crimes, their reverting to cool and bare tolerance for the villain in their midst. They do not even know the true extent of his monstrosity.

But he cannot think on it now. All Loki knows is that he needs to get away, that he needs Stark to stop looking at him, and with that simple insistence his magic responds. There is a gasp of alarm from Stark as Loki’s form cloaks itself from view, and it takes Loki a moment to realise what he has done.

Stark’s eyes dart about the room, his gaze passing through the place where Loki still stands. Loki feels the blood drain from his face, the shock of this dire mistake apparently enough to register even as his world falls apart around him.

The fates mock him, their love of irony cruelly destructive. Even as he has sought to hide he has revealed himself, revealed himself for the liar and the treacherous wretch he truly is.

Too soon. It is too soon. He is not ready. And it is worse than he could have possibly imagined.

Stark will turn on him now, as surely as if Loki’s true nature had manifested in more than just memory. And he would be right to, for Loki is not just dangerous, not just untrustworthy and duplicitous and conniving: he is a monster, too. In every sense of the word.

Stark is searching for him, no doubt furious. Stark calls his name, but Loki does not answer.

Loki flees.


He does not get very far.

In his haste he has failed to account for FRIDAY’s protocols, and every exit he would take is closed to him. The elevator does not respond to his commands, and the heavy door to the stairwell remains steadfast. He is trapped beneath the ground in a snare of his own making.

The panic causes him to lose his grip on the cloak he has managed, removing even that tenuous hope of concealment. It may be of little consequence; what with his laboured breathing and poor choice of hiding places it would have taken Stark and Vision little time to locate him. FRIDAY is no doubt already relaying his position.

Sure enough, Vision is soon upon him, though he does not immediately move to take Loki into custody.

“My friend, what has happened?” Vision asks from the far end of the hallway, the note of concern in his voice almost convincing.

The dark and mirthless laughter that this prompts from Loki is unbidden and holds an edge of hysteria, but he can do nothing to stop it breaking free. When it passes the false humour falls from his face and he turns to stand his ground.

“Tell FRIDAY to let me pass,” Loki says, the command weak and tremulous and desperate to his own ears.

Vision tilts his head at this, his air of concern only strengthening. “FRIDAY?” he questions.

The AI sounds almost apologetic. “The boss has requested that everyone stay below ground for now. For your own safety.”

Vision frowns, and Loki feels the edges of his own nails bite into his palms.

“I think perhaps I am missing something,” Vision says carefully, moving gradually closer, “but is there anything I can do to help?”

So he does not know. He may yet be an ally. But that will soon change.

Before Loki can decide on the best course of action, Stark skids breathlessly into view from around the opposite corner, a winded look about him that he struggles blatantly to hide. He does not appear to be in possession of his armour, but then looks can be deceiving.

“There you are,” he says to Loki, hands on his knees as he regains his equilibrium. “Gonna need to get you a bell or something.” After several moments to catch his breath during which Loki furiously weighs his options, Stark straightens, beckons Loki to follow him, then walks calmly back the way he came.

“Get your butt back in here already,” Stark says over his shoulder before he disappears around the corner. “Not you, Vis.”

Loki stares after the man and blinks. He glances back towards Vision who simply offers him a look of puzzlement, then with something approaching resigned apprehension Loki follows Stark slowly back to the kitchen.

Stark is waiting for him when he gets there, leaning casually back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Loki takes a position opposite him on the other side of the room and does his best to conceal the conflict raging behind his mask of control.

“So,” Stark begins, his tone light but his expression strained, “that happened. Wanna talk about it?”

Loki can barely believe his ears. He grits his teeth, turning to stalk a recurrent path between his position at the back of the room and the kitchen counter. Stark asks this in the same tone of voice as if he would enquire after Loki’s wellbeing, and yet they both know there is more at work here that needs to be addressed. This prevarication is infuriating.

Loki does not stop pacing, his bearing tense and coiled and entirely without his usual composure. “There is nothing to talk about.” A nearby stool is sent toppling to the floor, merely because it is within reach.

The quiet from Stark is disconcerting. There is no sarcasm, no glib joke at Loki’s expense, no raised eyebrow, curled lip or any of the other things Loki half expects from the man. If anything that serves to make him angrier. “I really think there is,” Stark says instead.

That provokes a growl from Loki. He does not enjoy being toyed with, and if Stark thinks Loki’s remaining sense of decency will keep him from acting in his own defence, he is sorely mistaken. “Do not act the fool,” Loki snarls. “It does not become you.”

Stark drops his eyes for a moment, his lips thinning into a line. “Okay, fine. So we’re doing this, then.” He looks up, his gaze unwavering as he seeks Loki’s own. “How long?”

Loki blusters through the warmth heating his face. “I do not exist for your entertainment, Stark, and I am tired of your constant prying. It is none of your business.” A bowl of fruit on the countertop falls victim to Loki’s rising ire, and he sends it toppling to the floor in a display of juvenile pique.

The pause that follows is loaded with disapproval. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t keep wrecking my stuff,” Stark says with a pointed look.

“And what will you do?” Loki asks sweetly. “What will you do if I do not comply? Lock me up if I do not disclose my innermost thoughts to you? If I do not confess to desiring my freedom, if I contest the very reason you keep me here? What will you do if I continue to defy you? If I express every thought and feeling I have that does not conform to your rigorous standards?”

If anything, Stark appears unimpressed by this tirade. “You should have told us.”

The affronted rage Loki feels in that moment is almost incandescent. “Do you regret it?” Loki sneers, the disdain dripping like venom from his tongue. “Do you regret the misguided compassion, the weakness, that has led you to this? Opening your home to a serpent, to a monster?”

Stark huffs, annoyed. “Knock it off. That isn’t what I meant and you know it. And don’t use words like that. That’s bullshit.”

Loki is on him in a flash, the pads of his fingers grasping with bruising force at the delicate skin beneath Stark’s jaw and holding a fraction shy of lifting the man from his feet. Loki feels a thrill of satisfaction to witness Stark’s eyes widen just slightly.

Stark’s voice is low and controlled when he says, “Let me go.” Loki holds him for a moment longer, smiles, then releases him with a flourish. Stark falls back a step and rubs theatrically at his throat. He watches Loki turn away with a look of annoyance he probably imagines is stern.

“You’re getting better,” Stark says, his words incongruous and infuriating and completely contemptuous. “Wanna know how I know it’s working? Because you’re even more of an asshole than ever.”

Loki scoffs at this. “You’re not afraid of me. You never were.”

“You’re wrong there. Now though? Not so much. You know why?”

“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”

“Because you’re predictable.”

Loki growls.

“Yeah. You heard me. You try so hard with all the badassery and the snooty put downs. But when it comes to it, you show your true colours. I’ve got you sussed, pal.”

Loki doesn’t care for the casual tone Stark uses to impart this, nor for the pointed finger wagged in his direction. He has half a mind to break that finger in two, if only to prove just how wrong Stark is in his estimation.

They are not friends. They are not allies. They are little more than reluctant, temporary cohorts.

A genuine ire Loki only feigned previously makes itself known this time, and he feels his body draw itself to its full height in response. “Do not suppose you have tamed me. I may not have command of my power, but I know enough to know its full extent. You are a fool if you do not fear me.”

Stark remains unaffected. “Uh huh. Of the two of us, I don’t think I’m the one who’s afraid, buddy.”

Loki whirls on him. How dare he. He will make him afraid. He will silence him. He will—

But Stark is already backing away. Not with fear, but with the sort of resigned disappointment usually reserved for recalcitrant children. He is turning away. He is leaving.

“You know where to find me,” he says, pausing before he goes, “when you’re ready to talk.”

And it’s almost as though that challenge, that threat to leave Loki to stew in his own anxiety, is enough to break the dam. Before he can stop himself, the words are flowing from him, blurted in a hurried attempt to justify himself.

“Do you think I want this?” Loki demands, the words pitiful to his own ears but beyond his power to control. “Do you think I want to know of the lives I’ve destroyed? The things I’ve done? That I’ve known madness? Despair? Shame? Do you think I want to remember that the last words I said to my mother were to deny her?”

He is mortified to hear the break in his own voice, to recognise the rush of heat to his face that heralds tears. And Stark, damn him, Stark has the gall to look on him with pity.

Stark takes a single step back into the room. “Listen, Loki—”

“No. No.” He doesn’t need to listen. Not to this man, and not to any other. He is done.

Loki pivots, intending to stride away, intending to leave the room and seek a scene of private destruction that will allow him to exorcise some of his demons with the violence he cannot afford. In his haste he collides with the counter behind him, clipping his side with a jarring force that is not so much painful as unexpected. It is enough to halt him, and the shock of it is what breaches his defences.

He drops heavily onto the bar stool before he knows what he’s doing and turns forcibly away from Stark’s appraisal. He presses a hand across his eyes to contain himself and to hide at the same time, and he almost chokes on the explosive breath that tries to force its way out of his throat. In the time it takes for him to drag in his next, Stark has crossed the room, hooked an arm over the back of Loki’s neck and pulled him in close. Loki is powerless to resist.

The sounds he tries to contain are muffled by Stark’s shirt, every wet, shuddering and forceful exhale hot against Loki’s face. But Stark doesn’t pull away when Loki’s fingers clutch at the fabric at his torso, and he doesn’t say a word as Loki pours every sorrow and fear into the anonymous dark his arms provide.

It goes on for longer than Loki quite wants to admit, and without his consent he finds himself sobbing openly into the reassurance of Stark’s unremitting hold. He is a broken, pathetic thing, but he cannot bring himself to care. He has permission, and with Stark’s steadfast protection Loki empties every fear he ever held into the security of that forgiving embrace.

Notes:

I can't tell you how much your comments and kudos mean to me -- you're keeping me going in these uncertain times. If you're reading this, I see you and treasure you, lovely reader <3

Chapter Text

This has been a long time coming.

That is how Stark will later describe the evening’s events to Vision: that this is a defining moment in their journey together. That all this had been building for a while and was entirely expected.

It doesn’t make it any easier to witness.

Vision of course does not see it all first hand. At the beginning, he respects Stark’s wishes and does not intrude, even though the unmistakable sounds of crashing furniture and raised voices echo through the house. Troubled as he is, he cannot however endure the worry without at least asking for an explanation.

After some negotiation FRIDAY describes to him the situation in loose terms, enough that Vision believes he understands the current state of things. He pictures Loki’s distress in the face of some re-emerging memory; his subsequent reaction involving an unwitting demonstration of his returning abilities; the ensuing confrontation that Stark attempts patiently to steer; the resulting heightened emotions that Vision attributes to a breakdown of communication long gone unchecked.

It all concludes with one of their party inconsolable despite their collective best efforts to avoid this very outcome, and with Vision left sidelined when his every instinct commands him to intervene. It is becoming something of a pattern of late.

Vision hates that he must simply stand by while all this happens. Yet he is not insensitive to the need for discretion. Once it becomes quiet he waits for perhaps an hour, determined to respect the privacy his friends no doubt require, yet plagued by the need to offer aid and comfort. It is almost unendurable.

When he can follow Stark’s directions no longer, he enters the sitting room to find it seemingly empty. It is only as he advances further into the space that he happens upon a scene otherwise hidden by the furniture arranged at the centre of the room.

The pair of them are seated haphazardly on the floor, the kitchen counter at their backs the only thing propping them upright. Loki sits with his knees drawn up against his chest, his arms wrapped around them, and stares blankly ahead with a stunned sort of look. It’s a position and demeanour that’s alarmingly reminiscent of not so distant days, days Vision would rather not revisit. There are tear tracks down Loki’s face and a desperate exhaustion about him. He is thoroughly wrung out. He seems not to be aware of Stark pressed next to him, one hand rubbing slow circles at Loki’s shoulder.

The room around them both is in some disarray. There is overturned furniture, spilled food, smashed ceramics. Even Stark appears somewhat dishevelled.

At first, Vision is not quite sure what to make of all this.

When he catches Vision’s eye, Stark angles his chin significantly and mouths the word ‘water’. His expression is unreadable, but he otherwise projects a patient air of calm. He seems to have fallen naturally into the role of caretaker, much as he did when acting as Loki’s anchor in days past. Whether this is accidental or deliberate remains to be seen.

Vision takes his time collecting a glass from an overhead cabinet, filling it from the faucet and making his way back to his friends. He pauses only to right the toppled bar stool he passes and takes care to avoid the debris scattered across the floor. He then crouches in front of them both, and when it becomes apparent that his presence has not yet been acknowledged by the main object of his concern he passes the glass in his hand wordlessly to Stark.

Being careful not to move too quickly, Vision places his hand lightly on Loki’s wrist and offers him a kind smile. This causes Loki to carefully draw his arms from Vision’s reach and tuck them against his chest. Eventually he shifts his gaze to somewhere within the vicinity of Vision’s face, a still somewhat distant look about him.

“You cannot be very comfortable here on the floor,” Vision suggests gently.

Loki does not respond to this in any way. Vision realises his mistake and immediately revises his method of persuasion, focussing instead on the discomfort of others.

“I’m sure those of us with human joints would appreciate more forgiving support than the floor can provide.”

Stark raises an eyebrow at this. “Just come at me next time,” he grumbles with good-natured reproach.

The implication does seem to have some effect, at least. After a moment or two Loki moves to get his feet under him, and although he doesn’t seem altogether cognizant of the result he allows Vision to steer him towards the couch at the centre of the room.

Encouraged by this small success, Vision pushes the advantage and manages to press the glass of water on his charge without argument. Stark watches on with a tight-lipped expression that gives nothing away, but which suggests he is cataloguing every reaction for later dissection and analysis. He seats himself squarely next to Loki, his presence stalwart but otherwise unobtrusive.

Vision sinks again to his haunches and gives Loki a moment to collect himself. When it becomes clear that he will not offer words of his own volition, Vision prompts him as tactfully as he knows how.

“I understand there has been a significant development I have not been privy to. FRIDAY tells me it was quite the spectacle. I must say I am rather disappointed to have missed the demonstration.”

He smiles, trying in vain to elicit a response to the weak humour he would evoke. The effort goes unacknowledged, his audience too preoccupied to accept such a ready out.

It is Stark who bolsters the mood, perhaps because he has had time enough to consider a strategy.

“It was super cool,” Stark says, approaching the situation with the same brand of unorthodox humour as he applies to all difficult scenarios. “I am dying to know just how he does it.”

“Something we would all be intrigued to learn, I am sure,” Vision agrees, determined to play his part in this performance.

Loki simply shuts his eyes. He will not be lulled by efforts to play events off in this manner, and he anticipates more from his witnesses than simple acceptance. He expects censure, and he will not entertain mercy, even for a moment.

Perhaps sensing this, Stark drops the attempt at reassurance and tries a different approach. “So look. There’s obviously a lot to unpack here, but I’m thinking it’s about time we got a few things laid out in the open. I think I speak for us all when I say we probably want to avoid any more misunderstandings.”

“Agreed,” Vision readily confirms.

When it becomes obvious Loki will volunteer nothing further, Stark continues. “Alright. So how about we start with some of the low hanging fruit. First of all, I want you to know that no one is going to try to keep you here against your will. If you want to leave, you can go. No one’s gonna stop you. I just would really rather you didn’t, at least until you hear me out. Okay?”

Loki holds himself so still it becomes noticeable rather quickly, and Stark takes this as his answer.

“Great,” Stark says, forging ahead. “The second thing is that I’m not mad. Kinda confused, maybe, but definitely not about to throw down, yell or any of the other things I can tell you’re gearing yourself up for. So just relax. You’re wound so tight I think I’m getting a cramp over here.”

If anything Loki clutches even harder at the fabric of his pants, and Stark throws a somewhat helpless look in Vision’s direction.

“The third thing is, I’d really like to know exactly what’s going on in your head, because I don’t know whether you’ve clocked this already, but I really suck at being able to tell what the hell you’re thinking most of the time and I’d really like for that to stop right about now. For all our sakes.” Vision gives Stark an encouraging nod, and the man takes a deep breath before finishing. “So how about it? Ready to throw me a bone?”

With some obvious reluctance, Loki opens his eyes, although he studiously directs his gaze towards some nebulous point along the wall on the other side of the room. His expression settles into one of defeated acceptance, as though determined to endure whatever may come next.

“I will cooperate,” Loki says in a monotone, his face as devoid of emotion as his voice. “Ask what you will.”

The look Stark shares with Vision is not an altogether happy one, but he seems intent on maintaining what momentum they have established. The question he leads with is still rather vague, all things considered, but Vision supposes it serves a useful purpose.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Stark says. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind? And don’t give me some bullshit about how annoying and insufferable I am. Let’s pretend for argument’s sake that we’ve covered that already and we can skip straight to the serious stuff. Time’s a wastin’.”

Loki slides his eyes briefly in Stark’s direction but seems to reconsider an attempt at obfuscation.

“I am unsure,” he admits quietly, his gaze flicking now to take in Vision too. “I… am not certain where things stand.”

“Well that’s what we’re here for,” Stark says with straightforward transparency. “So stop trying to dodge the question. I’ll say it again: tell me what you feel.”

It is clear to Vision that Loki takes this as something of an imposition, but his scowl soon fades again into a look of hopeless resignation. His eyes once again fix with intense focus on the floor some distance away, and his words are barely audible when he finally says, “Fear. I feel fear.”

“You fear us?” Vision can’t help but ask, his every instinct rejecting the very notion.

“Not you,” Loki clarifies, his words including Vision and Stark both. “Only your… your…”

Vision thinks he understands. “Losing our good opinion?”

The silence that follows is all the confirmation that is needed. Vision suspects Loki finds this all rather excruciating.

Stark is uncharacteristically quiet for a moment as he takes this in. When it is clear there is to be no more forthcoming, he makes a dubious humming sound and produces a marginally brittle smile, somewhat less inclined towards tact than Vision would like. “Oh, you’re good at this game, I’ll give you that,” he tells Loki, much to Loki’s obvious annoyance. “Don’t think for a second that I’m not onto you, Speak No Evil. But fine. Let’s put a pin in that and come back to it later.”

Loki frowns fiercely at this, finally seeming to engage in the conversation, and Vision finds himself thinking that it’s not just Loki who is good at game playing.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Loki insists.

“Sure you don’t,” Stark says. “I know a half truth when I hear one. And I was there, remember? You get huffy about it when you remember you’re supposed to, but I’m pretty sure you’ve never looked at me like I’ve skinned your favourite puppy before just because I put my hand on you.”

Loki jerks his head to the side and stares resolutely at his feet, his jaw clenched.

Starks sighs. “Yeah. Like I said, pin in it.”

There is something here that Vision has missed, although what that is he cannot guess. Perhaps when there is time later he will ask Stark for further details, or perhaps even for footage of the incident from FRIDAY’s files. He would prefer not to encroach upon his friends’ privacy, and he certainly does not wish to pry, but there is something of significance here that evades his understanding.

The uncomfortable silence stretches on for longer than anyone would really prefer, and Vision redirects proceedings with a question of his own.

“When did your magic return?”

“It is… a recent development.”

“May I see?” If the fascination Vision feels comes across a little too strongly he doesn’t care to conceal it.

Loki spares Stark a brief sidelong glance.

“Show us what you’ve got,” Stark encourages.

After a moment of concentration there is a shimmer of light, and where before was Loki, there now sits a perfect imitation of Vision himself, complete with the sweater and pants he has chosen to wear today.

The image soon resets, and Loki flicks his eyes up to gauge the reaction of his audience.

“Fascinating,” Vision enthuses.

“Gotta say, feeling a bit outnumbered here,” Stark adds, but his interest is apparent. “You can do the voice too?”

“I can,” Loki confirms with Vision’s exact inflection, if somewhat reluctantly.

“So cool,” Stark says again with a smile. “I’d ask you to do me, but I think I know what the answer would be.”

“Don’t push it, Stark,” Loki grumbles tightly.

Stark only grins wider. “So why didn’t you tell us?” He nudges Loki’s side with his elbow, the effect playfully reproachful. “Is it because you know how many doodads I’ve got lined up ready to get a reading on all this? I know they look scary, and I know that just the prospect of it probably bores you to tears, but think of the data

“You know why,” Loki interrupts a little more forcefully, his anger beginning to resurface. “You do not need to play at ignorance.”

Stark dutifully snaps his mouth shut. The look that settles on his face contains exasperation he does well otherwise to hide. He holds up a placating palm. “Right. I’m gonna stop you there. And can we not go back to the whole name-calling thing, please? I get it. You think I’m an idiot. You don’t have to keep repeating yourself.”

Loki huffs but doesn’t otherwise continue. Instead Stark goes on.

“I’m not playing at anything. I don’t do mind games. Really not my style. If Rhodey were here he’d tell you that what you see is what you get with me, and I think Vision would agree. Right, Vis?”

“You are nothing if not frank,” Vision agrees with some amusement.

Stark nods. “Exactly. So believe me when I say I can’t think of a single reason why you would think you need to hide the fact that everything we’ve been working so hard for these last few months is finally bearing fruit. I mean, it’s not like it’s a big secret or anything. We all know what you can do.”

“Yes,” Loki says, his tone hard. “You all know exactly what I am.”

“Yeah,” Tony counters, just as uncompromising. “We do.”

The look Loki directs on Stark then borders on menacing. “Is that so? Then what is to be your next move? Just how long will you harbour a dangerous enemy?”

Stark’s face turns stony at this, his nostrils flaring. Vision is quick to intervene before the man can unleash whatever it is he’s building up to.

Are you our enemy?” he asks simply, the words soft enough that he hopes his meaning is clear.

Loki finally meets Vision’s eyes, an anguish there that is painful to look at. When he looks away again the threatening front has dissolved, and all that’s left behind is uncertainty and a naked vulnerability. “I don’t know,” he murmurs.

“Do you wish to harm us?” Vision pushes, confident he already knows the answer.

Seemingly annoyed with himself, Loki simply deflects. “I lied to you. Deceived you. I cannot promise I won’t do so again. It is in my nature. That and many other things you would not approve of.”

An inelegant snort from Stark pierces the sombre mood. “You know how many people approve of me?” the man asks, shameless. “Not a one. Would take it personally if they did. And let’s face it, I’m no paragon of virtue at the best of times. So you omitted a few truths. No real harm done.”

Loki clearly does not agree. “You don’t understand,” he insists.

“Well then I’m thinking it’s about time we all put a few things on the table. What do you think, is that fair?”

After a moment of consideration, Loki releases a breath and nods miserably.

Stark smiles and rubs his hands together. “Great. I’ll go first.” Loki frowns at this but doesn’t argue. “So you know that lasagne I made last week that you insisted you wouldn’t eat if I used the canned tomatoes instead of the fresh? And you know how you said you’d be able to tell the difference and I promised I wouldn’t subject you to my shortcuts again?” He spreads his hands at the narrow-eyed look Loki levels on him, entirely unrepentant. “Yeah. I lied. Knew you were full of crap. You didn’t even notice.” Loki leans back and crosses his arms defiantly, staring Stark down. Stark grins. “Okay. Now you.”

Loki remains stubbornly silent for a moment or two, chewing on this betrayal, or perhaps simply deciding if he wants to be a part of this exercise. When he deigns to offer Stark a confession of his own it is loaded with calculated innocence.

“Forget what I said before. That shirt does make you look fat.”

He tilts his head at Stark’s scandalised expression, the regret in his own insincere. No sound emerges when Stark opens his mouth to object. “I was being polite,” Loki adds sweetly into the silence.

Vision has to duck his head quickly to hide a smile. He notices Stark smoothing the front of his shirt down with a self-conscious motion he quickly averts.

“Alright, smartass,” Stark huffs once he’s recovered some aplomb. “That was uncalled for, but you win that one.”

“You did rather walk into it,” Vision supplies.

After a brief reproving glance in Vision’s direction, Stark sobers and seems to steel himself before he continues. “Okay then. Here’s another one for you. I should have told you before now, but I guess I thought maybe you wouldn’t like it and that it would be better to keep it under wraps. I’ve been keeping a record. Of everything. Everything you’ve told us, all the stuff we already knew, a few things I’ve guessed in between. Got a pretty comprehensive timeline going, although there are still some big gaps. Was hoping maybe I could fill them in eventually, that maybe if I knew what was missing I could help you find it. And I’ll be honest with you, I was also just really curious. Never could resist a puzzle. But I get that it’s kinda skeevy. And that I should have asked your permission. If you want I’ll have FRIDAY erase it. It’s your call.”

At Loki’s rather sad look, Stark adds a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

After some thought, Loki offers a slightly awkward shrug of his shoulder. “I would like to see that, actually.”

The relief is evident in Stark’s answering, “You got it.” When Loki does not volunteer anything further, Stark prompts him with a significant look. “This is the part where you reciprocate.”

Loki once again looks pained, apparently still unable to face unburdening himself. Stark gestures to where Vision is now seated, his tone playful.

“I’d suggest Vis gives it a go, but… well. You know.”

Vision frowns at this. There is no need for Stark to exclude him. “I may have overwatered the ficus,” he confesses, which prompts silent stares from his two friends. He looks between them both. “In my defence I have never cared for a house plant before.”

Stark opens and closes his mouth twice before turning to Loki and saying, “Anyway, you see what I mean.”

Reaching across the arm of the couch to the side table, Stark pours himself a generous measure of scotch from a decanter tastefully arranged on a tray. He turns to Loki and tips the glass back and forth in a questioning motion. Loki shakes his head. Stark then settles back against the couch cushions and swirls the amber liquid thoughtfully. Vision notes however that he does not drink from it.

When he speaks again Stark’s voice retains its previous carefree cadence, his hands still occupied with turning and manipulating the tumbler in his grip, yet the significance of his words sharpen Vision’s attention. “I paid a stupid amount of money to have an indoor pool put into a safehouse I never thought I’d have to use. A pool I can barely bring myself to look at, let alone get into. A pool I like to kid myself I’ll be able to use one day, when the thought of putting my head under more than the lowest shower setting doesn’t make me want to bolt.” He smiles wistfully. “I used to be a really good swimmer, too. Used to love it. Had all that ruined for me by some bad people, but you know what? It made me who I am. Helped me make a choice about who I wanted to be, one that I’m not sure I’d have made otherwise. So maybe it was good for something. Maybe I’m just not meant to get back into the water.”

He puts his drink back down and gazes into it, giving his words space to breathe.

Fresh tears have begun to track down Loki’s face, though he does not seem to be aware of them.

“I believe it is your turn,” Vision prompts gently.

Loki's breathing begins to accelerate, and after a couple of false starts he ekes out a handful of words. “I am... not what you think I am,” he says, eyes wide. “I am not what I—” He breaks off and looks away, a wordless shake of his head all he can manage.

“You believe the worst of yourself,” Vision concludes for him, “but that is not what we see. You are not the caricature you seem to think you must become.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” Loki laughs even as he cries, and Vision finds himself somewhat at a loss.

“More than you do, apparently,” Stark interjects in something of an undertone, then holds up his palms as two sets of accusing eyes turn in his direction. “Okay okay, low blow. What I’m saying is, I think we’ve got more of a handle on this than you give us credit for, and that you’re not exactly an objective source of intel when it comes to insight into everyone’s favourite bad guy. The fact that I’m the one saying this should hold some weight, is all I’m saying.”

Loki doesn’t look exactly reassured by this statement. If anything he looks even more miserable than before.

“You’re not him,” Stark reiterates simply.

“But I am him. I did those things. How can you be sure I will not turn on you? How can you know you will be safe when I have everything I’ve lost at my disposal once again, when I remember all the grievances I have against you and your world?”

“You’re missing the point here. You’re not that guy, because he’s not real. This supervillain you’ve built up in your head? The one you’ve pieced together from all the negative second-hand accounts and images with no context? I gotta be honest, I don’t think that guy ever really existed.”

“How can you say that? You’ve met him.”

“Yeah, I’m not so sure anymore.”

“I am not a good person,” Loki says, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. “I am angry and bitter and jealous. All the time. I cannot stop. Criminal or not, I have few redeeming qualities.”

Stark makes a pfft sound. “You wanna know who you are? You’re the guy that likes chocolate on his pancakes, who laughs at my jokes while pretending they’re not funny, who secretly adores my golden oldies playlist but won’t admit it. You’re the guy who falls asleep reading YA novels and says thank you to FRIDAY when she opens a door for you. You’re the guy who puts up with my terrible cooking because you know I like doing it.”

“Our friend,” Vision adds.

At this Loki’s breath hitches and his shoulders begin trembling slightly with the effort to withhold another bout of tears.

“Look,” Stark says, “it feels a bit like we’re going round in circles with this. But what it comes down to is that you can decide where you want to go from here, and I mean that in both a soul-searching, existential kind of way and in a very immediate sense. So what do you think? Gonna give us another chance or what?”

It takes him some time to bring his breathing back under control, but when he does there is conviction in his voice that was missing before. “I wish to stay,” Loki says, the words a quiet confession.

Stark lets a pause stretch. “What do you mean? Here on the couch, or…”

Loki shivers, then shifts to tuck his face from view against his knees. Vision shares a significant look with Stark.

“I wish to stay,” Loki repeats after a few moments of miserable silence, his voice muffled and barely audible, “if you’ll have me.”

Vision sees Stark’s fingers grip tightly at Loki’s shoulder, the man’s expression taking on a brittle, almost disapproving look. His tone is however much more mild when he says, “And here I was thinking you were the smart one. Gonna take more than that to shake us loose, Vanishing Act. In case you haven’t got it through that thick skull of yours yet, you’re stuck with us. Get used to it.”

The broken sound Loki releases at this makes something dangerous flare in Stark’s eyes for a moment.

“So you want to get out of here? Get some sleep maybe? It’s like two in the morning.”

Loki nods clumsily from behind his knees but doesn’t move to get up. Instead Stark rises and stretches, cracking his neck with a grimace. He reaches a hand down in invitation until Loki raises his head to look.

“C’mon, buddy. Let’s go.”

“Must you insist on calling me that?” Loki says wearily, accepting the offered support to pull himself to his feet nonetheless.

“Yes. Yes I must.”

Vision follows them both from the room, interested to hear the last of their conversation as they head towards Loki’s quarters. Stark becomes the subject of Loki’s intense focus the further they progress, to the point where navigation begins to suffer as a result.

“I do not think you’re an idiot,” Loki tells him. Stark pats him on the arm. “And I’m sorry I broke your things.”

“No big deal. Keep walking, watch your feet.”

“I shouldn’t have hurt you. That was unforgivable.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“I will make reparations.”

“Sure thing. Nearly there. Here we go.”

Upon entering the bedroom Loki drops heavily onto his bed, his attention now absorbed somewhere in the middle distance. Stark busies himself turning out lights and fetching another glass of water from the bathroom, while Vision helps Loki to remove his footwear. He is about to bid his friend goodnight when Stark releases a sudden bark of laughter from his position near the door.

Vision peers over his shoulder to see Stark scoop something up from a nearby surface, a delighted grin on his face as he examines the object he has claimed.

“Oh, this is war,” Stark promises darkly. He then proceeds to collect up a number of other items, including what look to be tools of some kind, the remote to one of Stark’s comparatively more vintage music systems (and one which FRIDAY isn’t otherwise programmed into), and the most recent copy of New Scientist which has been missing for at least the last several days.

Ignoring Stark for the moment, Vision focuses on persuading Loki to lie down, then waits with him while he calms. “Rest,” he says once Stark has completely dimmed the lights. “We will talk more in the morning.”

There is no response from Loki other than the closing of his eyes, and both Vision and Stark take their leave.


“Sneaky little shit,” Stark mutters around a smirk, taking an obnoxiously audible slurp of coffee from the novelty mug cradled in his grip. He then adds a cryptic addition to this statement, apparently whispered for the ears of his beverage alone. “Just didn’t taste the same without you.”

“I take it you’ve solved the mystery of the disappearing items?” Vision guesses with a smile. Despite the man’s comment on the hour, it would seem tonight is to be one of Stark’s ‘all-nighters’ as he likes to call them. The significance is not lost on Vision.

“Should have known better. Won’t be making that mistake again. FRIDAY, update Loki’s e-library for me, would ya? Let’s go exclusively for every translation of 50 Shades of Grey that’s ever been produced, in triplicate. Throw in the audiobooks, too.”

Vision is almost certain he’s not imagining the fond amusement in FRIDAY’s answering “Done.”

“Atta girl.”

Chapter Text

It may be three in the afternoon, but that doesn’t mean Tony can’t satisfy his sugar craving with cereal if he wants to. He’s a grown up. It’s his house. And there’s no one here to tell him he can’t. He figures he’s more than earned the right to indulge some of his more childish impulses every once in a while. And besides, he needs a distraction. There are far more irresponsible ways to scratch that itch, as he well knows.

He’s crunching his way through a second mouthful when Loki slides into the chair opposite him at the table. He leans his weight forward onto his forearms and peers at Tony with an unreadable look. He doesn’t say a word.

Tony gradually slows the rate at which he’s chewing, and when the silence begins to become uncomfortable runs his eyes over Loki warily. He swallows reluctantly.

“Can I help you with something?”

Loki is quick to cut him off with an abrupt, “Shh.”

There follows several more seconds of silence, during which Tony holds Loki’s gaze in what has to be the weirdest staring contest he’s ever found himself a part of. He notices the skin at the corner of Loki’s eye tighten minutely a split second before it happens.

Without any other warning, Tony’s cereal bowl melts into a knot of writhing, hissing creatures. He drops his spoon with a clatter and scrapes his chair back violently, the screech it makes covering the embarrassing sound that escapes him.

Loki releases a heavy breath of effort and laughs, delighted.

It takes a moment for Tony to collect himself and for the jolt of adrenaline to subside. “Yeah yeah,” he grumbles, not nearly as annoyed as he’s making out, “laugh it up, chuckles. I was enjoying that.”

Still grinning widely, Loki flicks his fingers at the slithering mass and Tony’s cereal reappears, apparently none the worse for wear.

It’s impossible not to respond to Loki’s obvious sense of accomplishment; Tony finds a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Very funny. Proud of yourself?”

Loki preens obligingly. “Immensely. It’s taken me ages to get that right. Not that I’d expect you to understand.”

As though that’s stopped the guy from pontificating on the topic before now. At length. And in great detail.

“It’s all theatre with you, isn’t it?” Tony can’t resist teasing. Except it really isn’t. Tony can see that now, clear as day. The Loki of his memory is all theatrical bows and wolfish grins; this one is decidedly more muted. Tony’s been wondering with increasing frequency just how much of that they can expect to see return in the coming weeks and how much was all part of the act.

It’s taken Tony a while to nail the contradiction. It can be hard to get Loki to open up at times, and God knows Tony’s tried. Loki’s sure got a lot to say on the meaningless stuff, but stray too close to anything that might have even a tenuous connection to something personal and the guy clams up pretty quick. The same could be said of any topic that Loki seems genuinely to care about. He’s guarded. Wary. Reluctant to put himself out there and risk the dismissal of his opinion or, God forbid, invite ridicule.

Tony doesn’t think it’s a lack of confidence so much as a conditioned response, the caution of someone who’s learned that being the smartest person in the room doesn’t exactly endear them to everyone else. Tony can relate. He’s begun to recognise himself in the way Loki will play up to that deliberately at times, going out of his way to present a self-assured, pretentious air simply for effect. Because even resentful, begrudging attention is better than nothing, right? Better to invite scorn when you’re prepared for it than to have it hit you where it hurts.

So yeah. The guy’s not exactly free and easy with the chit chat when it matters. When it’s real. That’s begun to change recently. Ever since Loki has begun to regain small elements of his magic, it’s like he’s become a different person. It feels finally as though Tony’s getting a peek behind the curtain, as though he’s getting glimpses of the real Loki underneath the layers of defensive acerbity, uncertainty and weird Asgardian hang ups that Tony hasn’t a hope of truly understanding.

When they hit on the subject of magic, Loki will not stop talking.

And what a revelation that has been. Who knew there was still an eight year old boy under all those layers just dying to tell anyone who will listen all about his favourite dinosaur. Or in this case, how to project the shape of one into the air with nothing more than a roll of the wrist.

He’d needed some coaxing at first. To begin with Tony had assumed the reluctance stemmed from a lingering mistrust, that maybe Loki still hadn’t quite bought into the reassurance that he wasn’t going to set off Tony’s danger alarm by displaying even the most harmless of his previous talents. Now Tony’s almost certain it’s because genuine enthusiasm was the last thing Loki expected.

Those first few tentative, almost shy demonstrations had been shared first with Vision, then more solemnly with Tony. Met with even the slightest extension of interest, Loki had responded like a plant leaning into the light, and now his excitement at the mastering of a returning skill is obvious, uninhibited and infectious. It’s kinda sad it’s taken as long as it has, honestly.

If Tony lets himself think about the implications of that for too long it starts to make him angry. Which is ridiculous. Loki is a grown ass man for God’s sake, and all this happened centuries before Tony was even born. Doesn’t stop him from wanting to try to make up for that now, even if only the tiniest bit.

“So when did this one come back?” Tony asks.

“Last night. Although now that I think about it I’m almost certain the foundation was already there. I have a vague recollection of using that particular example a number of times.” A sly smile slides onto his face. “Are you impressed? Did my little parlour trick leave you quaking with fear? I almost wish I’d kept it back for a more opportune moment.”

“Ha. Like you could resist the chance to show off.”

Loki’s smile widens. He always enjoys this game. “It would be wise not to underestimate me.”

“I’ll take my chances. Let me know when you’ve moved beyond jump scares and I’ll start worrying then.”

“I’ll have you know that was a sophisticated piece of magic it takes practitioners decades to master. So typical of a layman to fail to recognise the work involved. Or the possibilities.”

“Right. I’m sure the ability to turn breakfast foods into reptiles comes in real handy.”

“You’d be surprised, actually. And obviously that was illusion, not transmutation. They are two very different disciplines.”

“Whatever, nerd brigade.”

Loki tuts. “Ignorant mortal.”

“Asshole.”

The cereal box becomes the next target of Loki’s affectation of disdain. After scanning the list of ingredients with a faint air of distaste he discards it again without comment.

“Are you still yet to hear from Colonel Rhodes?” he asks instead. Smooth.

Tony stirs his spoon around the bowl a couple of times before he resumes his meal. “No answer so far. I’m sure he’s just busy.”

Loki levels an even look on Tony then, and for once it’s Tony feeling as though he’s being handled with kid gloves.

“My offer still stands,” Loki says.

They’re not having this argument again. Loki isn’t ready, and there’s no way Tony is going to put him in a position like that, no matter how good his intentions. There’s too much at risk. And besides, this is all going to turn out to be nothing more than the usual. War Machine has been called in for some classified mission at short notice and he’s out of the country. It wouldn’t be the first time. Tony just needs to chill. Rhodey’ll be in touch soon enough.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Tony says, forcing a smile.

Loki looks less than impressed. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Cosset me. I can hold a glamour well enough to make enquiries. It would be a simple thing to go unnoticed. I thought we’d moved past this mistrust—”

“It’s not a case of trust,” Tony hurries to contradict, although he sees too late that the perceived slight has already been taken to heart. “I don’t want you walking into a situation like that, not when we don’t even know if we need to be worried. It’s too risky, especially while you’re still getting a handle on all this.”

Loki’s face does that thing it does when his ability is being called into question, and Tony hurries to smooth ruffled feathers. “What if another memory comes back?” he hedges, reaching and well aware of the fact. “It’s too soon for covert ops.”

The way Loki grits his teeth suggests he doesn’t quite buy Tony’s attempt at appeasement but that he’s reining in every instinct he possesses not to call him out on it. He makes his dissatisfaction clear in the way he sets his jaw even as he dips his head in acquiescence.

“It is not only you who cares for the colonel’s welfare,” Loki adds quietly.

“I know,” Tony replies, just as softly.


Loki is doing his level best to press the side of Tony’s face right through the reinforced gym wall when FRIDAY’s voice chirps across the in-helmet comms.

“Call incoming,” she says, pausing briefly while Tony squirms ineffectually to escape Loki’s hold. He receives another painful slam into the plaster for his efforts. “Is now a bad time?”

Tony winces and tries to catch his breath, forcing words out even as he strains against the force Loki is using to pin him in place. “Couldn’t be better,” he manages to gasp. He lets himself go boneless, the combination of the bulk of the suit and his sudden dead weight enough to allow him to slip from Loki’s grasp. He rolls onto his back when he hits the ground and is just fast enough to raise his arms and capture Loki around the throat as Loki falls on Tony to do the same. “Patch it through,” Tony instructs a little breathlessly. Loki tightens his grip.

“Hey, Tones,” Rhodey’s voice says, the shade of amusement in it enough to suggest that FRIDAY has made him aware of Tony’s current situation.

“Rhodey bear,” Tony greets past a grunt. He moves his hands to Loki’s wrists, attempting to break the choke hold by exerting pressure in places a normal person would find difficult to withstand. Loki just leans his weight further forward and bares his teeth. “How’ve you been? Long time no speak. Was starting to think I’d upset you or something. I swear I’ll do better. I can change. Just give me another chance.”

Loki ignores the one-sided conversation, intent on finishing what he’s started. “Do you yield?” he grits out, his face mere inches from Tony’s own.

Tony isn’t going to dignify that with an answer. He’s not losing — again. (Stupid no weapons rule, what was he thinking.) And besides, unfair advantage. He’s never been very good at splitting his focus. He struggles a bit more.

There’s a snort of amusement from Rhodey’s end. “Listen, if I’m interrupting something I can just call back later. It’s not like I’ve had to move a meeting and duck a superior just to claw back five minutes of precious free time or anything.”

“No no,” Tony hurries to insist. “We’re almost done here. Lemme just...”

He bucks his body, using the attempt to dislodge Loki from his position as a cover to bring a gauntlet to bear on the guy’s solar plexus, rules be damned. In a move that defies the laws of physics, Loki throws himself forward and over Tony’s head, adjusts his grip at Tony’s throat, then wrenches sideways to flip Tony onto his front. A knee drives itself into Tony’s lower back even as his arm is dragged at an almost unnatural angle up behind him. The back of his hand is pressed with more force than necessary until it’s almost brushing his own shoulder blade. Only the suit prevents his arm from being completely ripped from its socket.

“Ah! Son of a—”

“Do you yield?” Loki demands again, the words harsh against Tony’s ear.

Tony has no choice but to tap out. At the signal Loki immediately relents and allows Tony to sit up. He twists gingerly around, raises his face plate and gives Loki the stink eye.

“You play some dirty pool.”

Far from being chastened, Loki produces a smug look even as he clasps Tony’s forearm to haul him upright. There’s a shimmer of light across his form and the sweat slicking strands of hair to Loki’s neck mysteriously vanishes. The bastard doesn’t bother to extend the same courtesy to Tony.

“Chalking up another win?” Rhodey asks, a smile in his voice.

The towel Tony uses to pass over his face helps muffle the twinge of injured pride that inspires. “You’re welcome to come over here and give it a try any time, you know.”

“Sure. Some of us have a healthy sense of self-preservation, thank you.”

A bony finger pokes Tony pointedly in his side. Waving an impatient hand in Loki’s direction, Tony nevertheless gives the command for FRIDAY to open up the channel. The nanotech hugging his body retracts back into its casing.

“You’re on loudspeaker,” Tony announces. “Say hi to barely-even-out-of-breath.”

“Hey, man, how’s it going?”

“Colonel Rhodes,” Loki acknowledges solemnly.

“Everything okay over in Rhodey-land?” Tony asks. ”I don’t want to be ‘that guy’ but I’ve been trying to check in for a while now. It’s not like you not to call back. That’s usually my move.”

“I know, I’m sorry. You know how it gets.” Rhodey does sound kinda put-upon. And tired. The fact that he’s not elaborating suggests he’s either exhausted by the mere thought of telling this story, or very much trying to avoid having to put a positive spin on it for his listener’s sake. That’s… not like him. Rhodey isn’t one to hold back a complaint, and he’s certainly never felt the need to shield Tony from his more cynical side. There’s also a note of something in his voice that Tony can’t quite place.

“So where’ve you been? Anywhere fun?”

As predicted, Rhodey is quick to gloss over that. “The opposite, really. I’d bore you with the details. Looking forward to some R&R to be honest. You guys up for a visit?”

Tony brightens immediately at the thought of having Rhodey at the house again. Even Loki seems to perk up at the prospect. “Bring some of those egg rolls with you and you’ve got yourself a deal. Ooh, and the lo mein I like. You know the one. Don’t skimp on the wontons.”

Rhodey huffs a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else I can fetch for you? Some dry-cleaning? Couple of skinny chai lattes, maybe?”

Tony opens his mouth to reply and is beaten to it. “Your presence alone would be most welcomed,” Loki adds graciously.

“Kiss ass,” Tony tells him.

“So I’m thinking tomorrow if that’s good,” Rhodey continues. “Got a couple of things to tie up here and then I’ve got a few days of downtime. Probably be with you around eight.”

Tony grins at Loki as he says, “Already looking forward to it.”

“Me too. I gotta go now, but I’ll see you soon. Tell JARVIS to keep the lights on for me.”

Tony ends the call with a cheerful, “You got it.”

The smile slips from Tony’s face as soon as the line is cut.

In the silence that follows Loki looks at him closely, a frown forming slowly between his brows. “What is wrong?” he asks cautiously, no doubt reading Tony’s grim expression. “Who is JARVIS?”

“A warning,” is Tony’s only answer.

Chapter 24

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Rhodey hopes to hell he hasn’t made a mistake.

They obviously didn’t manage to get a fix on the call. Because of course they couldn’t. This was Tony they were talking about, after all. They may finally have been able to work out how to eavesdrop, but FRIDAY knows how to throw a trace. Rhodey had counted on that.

It had still been a risk, one he’d finally decided he couldn’t wait any longer to take.

His fingertip brushes absently over the corner of the fold of paper in his pocket: a printout slipped under his door two nights ago. On it is an image of Vision in line at a grocery store, a still from poor quality security footage that nonetheless left little doubt of its significance. A date stamp and location code that meant the search was getting close. The tip off he’d needed to make his move.

Thank God Rhodey still has friends here.

He can’t be sure if things would have come to a head anyway, or if by breaking his silence he’s finally forced their hand. Either way, it’s showtime.

The approach he’s expecting comes not much later that day. What surprises him though is who it is. It’s not one of the two unassuming, low ranking airmen that have been dogging his heels on rotation these last few weeks. And it’s not any of the suspiciously fresh-faced new recruits who have been added to the non-military contingent of base personnel, all strategically placed where Rhodey will pass them on the regular.

No. The person who corners him is Secretary Ross himself.

“Colonel Rhodes,” the man calls from the other end of the corridor, dismissing an aide even as he does so.

The casual way in which Ross does this, as though as an afterthought or a chance encounter, immediately puts Rhodey on edge. Rhodey stops and turns dutifully on his heel, a professional mask already in place.

“Mr. Secretary,” he acknowledges.

The man walks to him, unhurried. Instead of extending a hand for Rhodey to shake, he places a palm on Rhodey’s shoulder, encouraging him to continue walking in the direction he was already heading.

“I was hoping to catch you,” Ross says, his manner confiding. He doesn’t remove his hand from Rhodey’s shoulder as they walk. “I’m sorry to do this, but we need to talk about Stark.”

“What about him, sir?”

“He won’t take my calls. Not unusual, I’ll grant you, but this has been going on a bit too long now. Thought it was about time I tried a different angle. You’re good friends — I’m sure you’re in touch.”

Like you haven’t been listening in, you slippery bastard.

“He’s a bit of a law unto himself,” Rhodey duly commiserates. “You know how he is. I can try to ask him to call you back but I can’t promise he’ll listen.”

The secretary hums and nods along as though it’s only natural he should agree with Rhodey’s assessment. “There’s also the case of Vision’s whereabouts. The Sokovia Accords require all assets to be accountable to oversight, and with Tony playing hard to get and Vision off the radar I’m afraid we’ve got a problem. Now, the last thing I want is to make an issue out of this but we need to get back on track here before the shit hits the fan. You see the position I’m in.” He waits for Rhodey to meet his eyes, then squeezes Rhodey’s shoulder to emphasize his point. “I need you to help me bring them back in. And I know, I know — you’re not his keeper. He’s not your responsibility. But you’re my direct line. I wouldn’t impose on you like this, but Tony really is leaving me little choice.”

Here it comes. This is exactly what Rhodey has feared. He comforts himself with the knowledge that he’s at least managed to get a warning to Tony in time.

“What is it you need me to do?”

Ross smiles winningly.

“I understand you’ve got some leave coming up but I’m going to need your input straight away. We’re treating this as a time sensitive operation of the utmost importance. I know I can count on you to give it your best.”

Operation? Rhodey falters and slows his steps. The weight of Ross’s hand increases. When they round the corner and enter the building’s main thoroughfare it is to find a small contingent of airmen standing ready at the elevator doors, all of them geared up and mission ready. Ross gestures to one of them.

“Jackson here will brief you on the way.” When Rhodey hesitates Ross continues with, “That’s an order, Colonel.”

Rhodey wants there to be no ambiguity here. He wants to know that both he and the secretary are on the same page, that they’re both playing the same game. He wants Ross to know it, too.

“I have a personal appointment to make, sir,” he says, offering it up like the challenge it is.

“Oh absolutely. And we wouldn’t want you to miss that. We’ll make sure you make it on time.”

The secretary smiles thinly. Rhodey forces his expression to match.


The journey takes several hours. They travel by road. Rhodey is however in no doubt that their convoy has air support.

He prays to God his message has been received and that the house will be empty when they get there. His original plan had been to lead his tails on a wild goose chase, to arrive at one of Tony’s lesser known (but still known) properties and feign surprise to find no one at home at the appointed time. That was when he’d only had to worry about keeping up appearances for anyone listening in on his calls. Now… now he has no choice but to direct his escorts to the real deal. They already have a ballpark location, after all.

He’d thought about sticking somewhat to the plan, maybe dicking around for a while without leading them straight to the house. He’d even thought about refusing to cooperate point blank. What stopped him was the dim hope that playing the game will lend him some credibility when it comes to the crunch (which it will), and that he can keep the lie of his cooperation going long enough in the meantime to at least buy the guys some time.

It’s not like there’s any other way out of this. They’re busted, and short of going up against a sizable part of the US military there’s no way to permanently fix the problem. The longer Rhodey can remain the inside man and stall for time the better. That’s the best they can hope for now.

Rhodey’s confident in this approach. As confident as he can be, at any rate.

Because Tony’s not going to be there when they arrive. He and Loki and Vision will be gone, and they’ll have a plan, and this is all going to work out.

That desperately nursed flame of optimism begins to sputter and die when FRIDAY inexplicably lets Rhodey into the house on their arrival, no sign of the resistance or security measures he knows Tony should have in place. Even with Ross at his side and a row of armed personnel flanking them, every door opens without argument.

After leaving guards stationed at the entrance they enter the lower floor living area to find Tony waiting for them, lying on his back in the middle of the dining table. He has one arm behind his head and the other raised above his face, tossing and catching a stress ball with one hand. When everyone finishes piling in Tony sits up to swing his legs over the table’s edge, one ankle hooked over the other. Rhodey feels his stomach sink at the sight.

“Hey, Rhodey bear,” Tony says, a strange little smile on his face.

Rhodey nods at him, somewhat nonplussed. “Tony.”

“How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know. About as well as can be expected.”

Tony turns his attention more coolly to Ross, then sweeps his gaze to assess the small army at their backs. “Didn’t know you were planning on bringing company.”

The secretary takes this as his cue to speak, his tone dripping with artificial civility. “You’re a difficult man to get hold of, Stark.”

Tony tilts his head. “Not difficult enough, apparently. You just don’t take a hint, do you? What’s a man got to do to get a bit of uninterrupted me time?” He hops down from the table and gestures to the gear in evidence. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve gatecrashed plenty of parties in my time. But even I’m not rude enough to turn up without an invite when the friends I’ve brought along are packing heat. Sends the wrong message.”

Ross lets his mouth quirk at this, then makes a show of looking around the room. “Speaking of friends, anyone else here?”

“Nope,” Tony says, popping the ‘p’. “Just me. Someone else you were expecting?”

A pair of men are instructed to search the rest of the property with a meaningful glance and the slightest movement of the secretary’s head. Another places two fingers to his ear before approaching Ross’s side.

“Sir, we’ve got a possible sighting on the east side of town. Two targets on foot, both matching the descriptions.”

“I’m sorry, ‘targets’?” Tony interrupts pointedly. “Just what the hell is going on here, anyway?”

“Let’s drop this charade now, shall we?” Ross says, impatience sharpening his tone. To his inferior he says, “Pursue and apprehend. You know your orders.”

The underling nods sharply and leaves the way he came, relaying instructions through his earpiece as he goes. He makes a hand gesture and the men in the group carrying the largest weapons peel off to follow. Rhodey thinks he knows just what those weapons are for, or rather whom. He didn’t see them the first time around, but they look exactly as horrific as he’d imagined.

“You’re making a mistake,” Tony says. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Ross now is overflowing with righteous authority. “You’re right. It doesn’t. You can make this easier for everyone, make sure there’s no collateral damage. Help me contain a dangerous fugitive with minimal fuss. None of us want to see this get unpleasant. With your input we can keep things humane.”

Something dark passes over Tony’s face at that. His sarcastic humour seems to drop away and the following silence turns stony.

“Tell me where Loki’s headed,” Ross continues. “Or better yet, help me talk him down. If he cooperates it’ll go easier for him.”

Still Tony refuses to respond, an edge to his glare that Rhodey doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.

Rhodey’s not sure where this is going exactly, but it’s nowhere good. For once he’s got no idea what the plan is — he’s not even one hundred percent confident there is a plan beyond keeping Ross busy — and if Tony’s going to leave him flapping in the wind here he’s at least going to have his say. Tony is welcome to clue him in at any time. Any time now.

Rhodey takes a step into Ross’s line of sight. “You don’t know him,” he says. It’s no good playing ignorant now. May as well get all their cards on the table. “All of this, everything you’re doing — it’s not right. He’s not dangerous. Tony, tell him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.”

Rhodey flashes Tony an exasperated look, because now is not the time. Rhodey’s not kidding himself — he knows they’ll be unlikely to talk their way out of this and that Ross is hardly going to be persuaded to pack up and go home — but Tony really isn’t helping. They at least need to do damage control here if they’re going to have any say at all about what happens next.

Ross scoffs. “Really, Colonel Rhodes? Are you really trying to tell me the genocidal war criminal — the hostile, enhanced alien — is actually soft and cuddly? Don’t tell me — he’s just misunderstood. Am I hearing this right?”

“Yeah, well,” Rhodey mutters. “Hard to stay scared of someone you’ve seen nap with their mouth open.”

He can feel Tony’s eyes on him but Tony doesn’t seem to have anything to add.

“Sounds to me like you’re compromised, Rhodes. Jury’s still out on Stark.”

“Sir, with all due respect—”

“No, don’t give me that. It’s clear to me that respect doesn’t come into this. You’re a traitor to your country and you’ve exhibited breath-takingly poor judgement. You’ve kept information that could threaten national security from your superiors. You’ve aided and abetted a known felon. The only thing you’ve still got in your favour is the fugitive’s history of coercion and documented examples of agents flipped by supernatural means. If I were you I’d think very carefully about the possible ways this could play out.”

“Is that a threat?” Tony interjects. “Or a bribe? What, we keep quiet about your little side hustle and you let us off with a diminished capacity charge?”

“I’m warning you, Stark—”

Tony rolls his eyes dramatically. “Oh come on. Stop with the bullshit already. We all know this isn’t about getting Loki off the streets. We’ve already made this decision once before and we sent him away. Not our problem. This is about the shady, off the books weaponry you’re developing and the lengths you’re willing to go to to do that.”

“You’re not making this any easier for yourself,” Ross warns.

“Yeah, well. Kinda thinking we’re past that now, anyway.”

Ross turns to Rhodey, cold fury in his eyes. “I’ll have you court martialed for this.”

“That’ll probably require a certain amount of transparency, sir.”

“You seem to be under the impression that I wouldn’t have support in this.”

In their periphery, Tony huffs a laugh. “And you don’t seem all that confident you would. Otherwise you’d have gone public by now. But hey, I get it. Helluva gamble to take if you don’t need to, right? I wouldn’t want to get on Thor’s bad side, either.”

Ross ignores this, his attention still fixed on Rhodey. “I don’t have to court martial you to make your life less than ideal. I’ll have you posted so deep in the farthest hell hole this planet can offer that you’ll never set foot on American soil again. And as for you—” he whirls on Tony, face purpling, “—your recent breach of the Accords alone is enough to warrant an investigation into your allegiances. When I add to that the illicit tech shortly to be discovered on your premises there are going to be some serious questions asked. We have plenty of space reserved on the Raft for rogue engineers who develop advanced weaponry for enemies of the state.”

When Tony does nothing more than cross his arms and scowl back, Ross growls out an order to his men. “Arrest this man,” he says, then to Rhodey, “Step aside, Colonel.”

Rhodey moves more squarely between Ross and Tony, plants his feet and holds Ross’s eye. They’re either going to have to go around him, or through him. He’s desperately hoping it’ll be the latter. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

The men hesitate briefly, awaiting a further order. Rhodey feels rather than sees Tony tense at his back.

“Are you going to come quietly, Stark,” Ross says into the standoff, “or does this have to get difficult?”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to scoff. “You come into my house, wave a couple of guns around and think that’s going to be enough to intimidate me? Please. I’m not exactly new at this.”

The small smile Ross produces at this contains glacial contempt. “Oh, I expect you’ve got your suit to hand. And I’m sure you can have everything locked down with a word. I’m not new at this, either.”

He makes the smallest motion with his chin and within seconds there are weapons raised in Rhodey’s direction. Rhodey doesn’t bother to hold up his hands.

“Time to go, Stark,” Ross says.

There’s only so many ways things can go from here. Rhodey’s not holding any of the trump cards, but if Tony’s got something up his sleeve he at least needs to know the name of the game they’re playing. Rhodey’s got one shot at this.

“Hey, Tones,” he says, aiming the words over his shoulder but keeping Ross in his sights. “This is probably the time to tell you not to be reckless. I know you like to be the hero and everything, but you gotta let some of the rest of us get in on that action sometimes. Be the one that doesn’t jump out of the plane for a change. You’re only setting a bad example otherwise. I mean, take me for example. Lately I don’t bother to look both ways before I cross the street, either.”

He risks a glance behind, but Tony doesn’t seem to have picked up the hint. Hasn’t reacted at all, in fact. He has eyes only for Ross, and they’re burning with a white hot intensity the likes of which Rhodey has never before witnessed.

Allowing this strange exchange to pass unacknowledged and apparently satisfied Tony will cooperate, Ross flicks a hand in his direction. “Bring him,” he says again to his men, “and where are Davis and Martinez? Get them back here.”

Two men move to approach Tony, one on either side of the room, both giving Rhodey and the guns still trained on him a wide berth. They come to an abrupt stop when their commanding officer raises a fist to belay the order.

“They’re not responding, sir,” the officer reports, unease bleeding into his otherwise professional tone. “I can’t hail our rear guard, either.”

Ross’s head whips round to level an incredulous look on Tony. With no less trepidation, Rhodey also turns around to face his friend.

Tony doesn’t say a word to this. He doesn’t need to. After a moment he simply lowers his chin and smirks, and oh, oh no, there’s something worryingly familiar about that look…

Just as it’s dawning on Rhodey why this whole thing has felt slightly off, Tony winks at him, then promptly disappears.

Then all hell breaks loose.

An invisible force begins bringing down the men closest to where Tony last stood, ripping weapons from hands and tossing them heedlessly across the room. Ross begins screaming for containment that none of the remaining soldiers are equipped to enforce. The whole unit begins to scramble into formation regardless, taking positions to defend the main exit. It’s the wrong thing to do.

The door at their back explodes outwards, a pulse of repulsor energy splintering everything in a blast of debris that forces the men nearby to shield their heads with their arms. Iron Man steps through and takes out the nearest threats before the rest have chance to turn their weapons.

Ross remains standing in the middle of it all, a murderous glare focused squarely on Rhodey.

After clearing a path, Tony — the real Tony — makes a move to wrap his arms around Rhodey’s waist. “We’re busting you out of here,” he says as he does. “I’ve got you.”

And Rhodey is too late to warn him. He’s too late to explain, too late to rescue this as it all falls apart.

Tony’s armoured limbs pass right through Rhodey’s body, not so much as a flicker interrupting his artificial form. Tony draws them back in astonishment, staring in horror at his hands.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” is all Rhodey has time to say before his security detail severs the connection on the projection tech, the truck he’s secured in coming back into crisp relief around him. The blow he receives to the head puts an end to any complaints he might have about that.

Notes:

At the risk of spoiling anyone who hasn't seen the movie, the hint Rhodey tries to give Tony references the scene in IM3 where Tony's mid-air rescue of people falling from a plane is revealed to have been done remotely — after a truck smashes the suit to pieces rather spectacularly.

Chapter 25

Notes:

Gosh, it's been a minute, hasn't it? But we're back for the big finale. (That's your cue, Loki. Go get 'em.)

Chapter Text

The urgency with which Stark calls out his friend’s name, a bleak despair inherent in each syllable, breaks through to Loki like ice water flung across a flame.

He has just enough time to whip around, a last opponent rendered senseless at his feet, to see the figure of Colonel Rhodes blink out of existence. Stark stands in his place, his face stricken, his arms entirely empty. Their plans lie in shredded ruins around them.

The other remaining occupant of the room sneers. What little satisfaction the battle has so far brought bleeds away, taking with it any restraint Loki had previously felt compelled to exercise. He lunges for Ross, all semblance of a plan forgotten.

But of course the trick, for trick it is, works a second time: Loki staggers forward into empty space. Spinning around, he watches his quarry dissolve from sight without so much as a word.    

“No!” Stark yells into the void left behind. “Son of a bitch!”

They have been played at their own game. The ruse Stark devised was a clever one, and it had been amusing while it lasted, but a joke is only funny when not at one’s own expense. And what is worse, their failure to anticipate a trap has exposed Colonel Rhodes to greater peril. This cannot be allowed to stand.

Stark’s fury to be so foiled matches Loki’s own. But where Stark continues to rage and rant, Loki feels a cold determination settle over him. This is not over. The time for caution and subtlety has passed. 

“Now we do things my way,” Loki says.

Stark turns in the direction of Loki’s voice, suspicion already settling over his face. “Wait,” he says, casting about, “what does that mean? We talked about this. Absolutely no lone wolfing. You promised.”

“I think you should know better by now than to take me at my word.”

Stark begins to shake his head. “Nope. Nuh-uh. That’s not what we agreed. You stay out of sight and if things go sideways you leave and you don’t look back. That’s the deal.”

“They already know I’m here,” Loki points out, moving for the door.

Hardly an unreasonable observation, but Stark won’t be so easily dissuaded. “We work as a team and we stick together. We need to regroup, come up with a new plan.”

“Here’s a plan for you. Find Colonel Rhodes. Ross is mine.”

“That’s not a— Loki, that’s not a plan!”

When Loki does not respond to this, Stark steps towards where he thinks Loki still stands, alarm heightening his voice. “Loki, don’t. Just… just wait. Be smart about this. You go out there and you’ll give them exactly what they want. Don’t play into their hands!”

Loki passes silently behind Stark and picks his way through what remains of the living room door. He removes and drops his earpiece as he does.

“Loki? Loki!”

Loki ignores both this and the rather uncreative swearing that follows. As he heads towards the very bowels of the house, he hears Stark relay orders to FRIDAY, instructing her to lock everything down. She is expressly forbidden from allowing anyone barring Stark himself to enter or exit the building. Loki doesn’t wait to hear the rest.

He enters the lab and scours the workbenches, shoving aside equipment and mechanical components as he goes. The most obvious cupboards and drawers yield nothing. He continues searching until he happens upon a pair of curved cabinet doors, inset within what otherwise appears as part of the room’s structural support. They would be inconspicuous were it not for the smooth keypad at their side.   

“FRIDAY,” Loki says as he locates and tests the tensile strength of a likely looking tool, “where is Stark now?”

“Heading outside,” FRIDAY dutifully confirms. “He intends to head off a number of incoming hostiles.”

“And Vision?”

“Still a way out and maintaining a diversion, although it appears many of the people trailing him have turned back. Would you like me to put you through?”

“No, thank you. I’m sure he’s busy.”

FRIDAY has done an admirable job feeding their opponents false information, but the soldiers are unlikely to fall for such a tactic a second time. Even Vision’s best efforts to attract attention will not be able to keep them all from returning to the house. So much the better.

Loki wedges the tip of his chosen tool into the seam between the two doors he has found and levers it back and forth. The metal screeches to be so abused, sparks issuing from the security circuitry gradually being exposed by his efforts. Loki grits his teeth and pushes harder, eventually wrenching a space wide enough to extract the object he seeks. 

He brings up the necessary display on the device’s accompanying tablet and adjusts the settings. Activating the trigger however elicits no response.

“You are not authorised to operate this technology unsupervised,” FRIDAY informs him.

It takes a moment of concentration for Loki to replace his cloak with a glamour. His recent practice makes the transition somewhat easier.

“FRIDAY,” he says in Tony Stark’s voice, “rescind the previous restriction on Loki’s use of the device. Full access granted.”

Artificial intelligence she may be, but the brief pause FRIDAY allows is almost sardonic. “I know that’s you, Loki.”

“Worth a try,” Loki mutters. He drops all pretence. “This is an emergency, FRIDAY. Stark is in danger. He needs my help. Are you not programmed to ensure his wellbeing?”

“I am, but I am also tasked with protecting you, from yourself if necessary. There is nothing I can do but follow my protocols.”

“Very well. Then I shall just have to find someone else to help me. I am to be confined to the house in the meantime, is that right?”

“For your own safety, yes. I will do everything in my power to keep you from harm.”

“I know you will,” Loki agrees, not unkindly. He picks up an item he has seen Stark use before, and with some experimentation activates the intense blue flame it produces. “But tell me, what would happen should those two directives conflict? If, say, remaining within the building were to put me at risk?”

“Then I would be authorised to facilitate your evacuation,” FRIDAY says.

Loki smiles. “Of course you would. You’ve been most helpful, FRIDAY, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Now, I have one more favour to ask. The footage from the white room. Show it to me.”   


When Loki was but a child he was thrown from a horse. The experience was frightening, and painful, and off-putting, and it earned him ridicule and scorn from his peers. (It is for this reason alone that he suspects the memory has presented itself as one of the earliest and clearest to return, burned as it is into his recollection by shame keenly felt.)

This was a skill much valued by the Aesir; a mark of maturity, a prerequisite for coming of age. It would not do to be found wanting, nor would the lack be looked upon kindly. So much depended upon a confidence on horseback beyond mere travel, after all: hunting, jousting and warfare, to name but a few such activities.

More galling still was that Thor mastered the art almost instantly, whereas for Loki it required persistence, tenacity and a degree of courage he was ashamed to require. 

Rather than be dispirited by the setback, the humiliation had only made him more determined to prevail. And that, he has learned, is what sets him apart from others: not that he can immediately solve any problem, but that he is prepared to overcome any obstacle to achieve eventual success. That he will weather any opprobrium provided he can be confident he will meet his own ends, whether to the approval and acceptance of his peers or otherwise. 

It is a trait he intends to draw upon now. 

(Thor’s friends had soon forgotten their laughter to be repeatedly outstripped at a flat gallop. That they uncharitably credited these wins solely to his slighter build had done nothing to dim Loki’s sense of hard-won triumph.)

As the flames lick at the night sky and the smoke swirls around him, the cape he has willed into being stirs pleasingly. The backlighting the fire has so conveniently supplied glints off of every intricate detail adorning his armour while casting other features into shadow. The ensemble is an exact replica of the attire his past self wore on his previous ill-fated appearance on this world. Careful study of the footage has ensured not a detail has been missed, from helm and surcoat to the styling of his hair. He’s quietly impressed with the result.

The vantage from up here on the roof allows him an unhindered view of the force surrounding the property. There are a number of armoured trucks and other such vehicles, all arranged at varying angles. A cordone restricts access from the streets leading to the house. The repeated, percussive beating of helicopter blades and the air currents they stir buffet him from above, the accompanying searchlights strafing back and forth. And all around a small army of men, all of them bristling with weapons, scurry to and fro between what cover they can find.

There is something about the sight that stirs in Loki a burgeoning pride. It could become quite addictive, this feeling. With chaos at his back and the held breath of anticipation before him, he is the absolute centre of attention. All eyes are on him; those below await his words. Best he not disappoint.

“Warriors of Midgard, look no further. Your general has arrived.”

He nudges the prone body at his feet with the toe of his boot. The last of the house’s unconscious intruders rolls down the sloping roof and thuds into the bushes beneath.  

A ripple of chatter runs through Loki’s audience at this address, soldiers relaying tactical advice to one another, reports to their superiors, orders to unseen support. The clack of weaponry being primed and aimed forms a ring of sound, and one brave soul goes so far as to instruct Loki to surrender at once. Clearly, they yet consider themselves in charge here.

The weapon he allows to manifest in his hand has their undivided attention the moment Loki calls it forth. While reminiscent of his past self’s infamous sceptre and no less ornate, this spear commands reverence where the other inspired fear. He has not needed to see its likeness in order to recreate it; this particular object he shapes from his otherwise faulty memory, from a picture he can see very clearly in his mind’s eye. It represents power and justice, an item of significance from his past. 

He slams its base onto the roof’s surface and magnifies the heavy sound it issues with the aid of his magic. The effect is immediate and as intended; all other sounds cease.   

Loki smiles. “That’s better.” He extends an imperious arm. “Bring forth your leader, if you’d be so kind. We have much to discuss.”

“I’m here,” comes the response some way from the back. To his credit, the speaker emerges from behind what protection his men offer and presents himself in person, not the slightest hesitation to suggest he is exposing himself to potential harm. “And I really am here, this time,” the man adds.

“As am I,” Loki concedes with a slight bow. “How wonderful to finally meet you, Secretary Ross.” 

“The pleasure’s all mine. Believe me.”

Oh, Loki doubts that. He doubts that very much indeed. The things he would do, were it not for the eyes upon him. Were it not for his obligations, and for the inroads he has striven to make with his new kith. He allows none of this to show, of course. That would be uncouth. When he strikes, there will be no anticipating it.

“You have gone to some lengths to secure an audience with me,” Loki allows. He inclines his head. “I’m all ears.”

“Good of you to give up your time,” Ross says. His tone is snide, as though he thinks Loki is not already intimately acquainted with the art of sarcasm. “You’ll have to forgive the reception, but we didn’t want to take any chances. I’m sure you understand.”

“Whatever do you mean? This is the least I would expect.”

That seems to be enough to give the secretary pause. “For what?”

“Why, for my welcome, of course.”

Ross lets the corner of his mouth quirk upwards. “Yeah. That… that really isn’t what this is.”

A streak of approaching light draws the attention of all parties concerned, and the conversation halts in favour of tracking the incoming object. The scream of some unfortunate henchman cuts off abruptly as the released body hits the ground, having plummeted from the grasp of the figure now hovering some distance away. 

Ah, there you are, Loki thinks.

“Loki,” Iron Man demands, his presence temporarily drawing the surrounding soldiers’ aim. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What I should have done from the very beginning.” He bestows upon Stark a wicked grin. “Finishing what I started.” 

There is a brief stunned silence, then an incredulous statement even the electronic enhancements to Stark’s voice cannot disguise. “Did you set fire to my house?!”

This seems to amuse Ross. He issues a chuckle intended to mock his betters while simultaneously demonstrating his superiority. “You’ve been played, Stark. What else did you expect? You put your trust in this maniac and expected everything to work out? This was only ever going to play out one way.” 

Loki spreads his hands. “What can I say, I suppose that’s gods for you. Notoriously fickle creatures, the lot of them. And I’m as capricious as they come.” He feigns a moment of thoughtful consideration. “Besides, no one has ever revered my line for their benevolence.”

Either of them, apparently. He lets shadow steal over his face.

“Now, I do believe we were coming to the part where you and your men pledge fealty to their new ruler.”

The look Ross turns on him is the very picture of derision. “You’re out of your mind.”

“It has been said.”

The secretary makes a show of looking to either side of himself, the direction of his gaze sweeping to take in the army at his disposal. “This is not going to be anything like Germany. You’re outnumbered and outgunned. No one here is going to kneel.”

Loki lowers the tip of his spear and points it at Ross. “I’m afraid I really must insist.”

Ross stands his ground, unimpressed. “You have no real power here. You’re bluffing.”

And oh, how sweet this will be. They come to it at last, whether victory or abject failure. Either way, it will be over. This whole sorry dance will be done

Loki lets a grin stretch his face, revelling in the persona that comes so naturally. He taps two fingers in a brisk pattern against the shaft of his spear, then trusts to the fates to guide his hand.

“A demonstration, perhaps.”

Loki makes sure to move fast. He whips the spear up once more, draws back his body and throws his arm forward, stabbing the weapon into the air. The pulse of light he lets loose hits Stark’s airborne form squarely in the chest. The force of the blast spins the suit neatly off balance, and a plume of smoke and sparks trails Iron Man’s tumbling silhouette as he plummets from sight.  

The soldiers’ response is immediate. Loki has barely lowered his arm before the sharp bite of one of their insidious spiders hits its mark.

The current drops him to one knee and locks every joint and muscle into rigidity. The pain now is a familiar friend, one he has come to know intimately and in all its forms. It is no longer enough to incapacitate him, though it takes considerable effort not to allow it to interrupt the tenuous hold he has over his illusory armour.  

When it stops he raises his head just enough that he can glower a challenge, his exploding breaths adding a hissing edge of menace to his voice. He swallows a grunt and chuckles darkly, teeth bared around a parody of a smile as he spits out his words. “Is that all that you can muster? Is that all the force you can bring to bear against me? Pathetic. You will need to do better than that if you are to do more than delay the inevitable. I will grind this miserable world into dust. I will eliminate every last one of you and call it a mercy. There will be no plea I will hear, no clemency I will offer, no crevice in which you can hide—”

A second metal spider embeds itself into his flesh, burrowing deep. He has just enough time to plunge his thumb on the trigger of Stark’s device before the fresh wave of agony begins, and this time the effect is breathtaking.

The combination of two of the soldiers’ weapons, painful enough as that would be, produces a surge of energy powerful enough to override the security locking down Stark’s device. It too is triggered, and together the effects overwhelm Loki’s ability to resist. He is laid bare, his every protection burned through and cast aside by sheer force.

The pain is exquisite.

There is a parting of veils, all defences stripped back to expose the very core of him. Without the self-imposed cocoon of a working long in place, he discerns what lies beneath, layer upon layer of memory, experience and knowledge. It is all there, everything he has missed, every murky regret and shining joy he had hidden from himself, deliberate or not. 

And he finally understands. He sees now the cause of his misfortune, the spell's every intricacy clear to him now in a way he’d have no hope of deciphering otherwise. How illiterate he has been. How blind. How simple it is now to dismiss the bindings on his mind — or would be, were his every struggling breath not taken up with the effort to endure the agony.

Because there is pain. Burning, white hot pain. It scours the spell away, requiring no conscious effort of his own, but also taking with it the last of his shield of ignorance. He is confronted now with a full accounting of his ignominious past, with the full knowledge of his origins, with his every shame, sorrow and failure. 

As his last clear memory reshapes around him — a retelling of his last desperate attempt to win favour, the foolish plan he had not the strength to fully realise, the fetters of his own forging that cast him down to meet captivity, torture and despair — he hears behind it all, faint but still present, a voice that tells him he can be more. That the cruelty of his past does not define him. That he need not labour under this self-imposed burden any longer. That he can — that he should — expect better. The voice sounds very much like that of Tony Stark.

A vision of his father gazes down on him as the clouding fog of the spell retreats fully at last, his disappointment gathered around him.    

And what are you, Odin asks him, his cryptic meaning clear. Are you Loki, God of Lies?

No, Loki decides. No. For no longer will I accept them.

And with that, he is free.

He must have fallen from the roof as he suffered, because when his senses finally return, Loki, second prince of Asgard, rightful heir of Jotunheim, false brother of Thor, Odinson (son-of-none), once-wielder of the Tesseract, sorcerer, scholar and God of Mischief, is lying in the dirt. His illusions have entirely dissipated. There is blood in his mouth and tears on his face, and his every muscle trembles with the aftershocks of pain and fatigue. He is breathless and gasping, utterly pitiful. Yet he is himself again. At long, long last. 

There is absolutely nothing for it. All he can do is laugh.

The figure that looms over him exhibits only disgust for the pathetic creature at his feet. “It really didn’t have to come to this, you know,” Ross says. He crouches down, brushing dead leaves and sweaty hair from out of Loki’s eyes. He then gathers two fistfuls of Loki’s shirt front and hauls him up to sit. Boneless, Loki complies, still giddy with laughter and too far gone to wince with the pain.

Ross brings his face to within inches of Loki’s own. “You’re mine now,” he says, his voice at once solicitous and low with threat. “And when I’m done with you, you’ll wish you’d never set foot on my planet. We’ll see who’s laughing then.”

The presumptuousness, the unbridled arrogance of this mortal, this infant— It really is beyond the pale. 

Loki feels his mirth drain away and his expression harden, ice and fury gathering behind his breast. He places a hand on the man’s shoulder to steady his wavering balance and meets his eyes with steel. Ross allows this, confident in his victory. 

The words Loki gives him then are hissed with barely restrained menace. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

Ross lifts his chin, defiant. “I know exactly who you are, criminal.”

Loki lets his expression melt into a smile. “Well then. I think it’s high time we changed that.”

The surge of magic passes through him like the clean cut of a knife. It is swift, sharp, focused. It bypasses his every nerve and sense. He does not feel it. There is only the intent, the absolute need to enforce his will. The human in his grasp is powerless against it and utterly defenceless. He cannot remember a time he felt quite so complete in his control.

It is nothing like the last time. This time he is unopposed. This time he is without constraint, at the peak of his power and with nothing to stand in his way. It is almost laughably easy. He pours every ounce of strength he still has into the vessel at his disposal and almost tumbles forward to meet no resistance. He reins himself in at the last moment so as not to go too far, the pure joy of it all almost enough to overwhelm his restraint.  

The force of his will empties Ross of every thought and memory he has, rewriting it to Loki’s precise wish. When he is done, the both of them are almost entirely hollow. 

He grins when he is finished, the expression shaky with exhaustion and his arms trembling with the effort of maintaining their grip on the man’s face.

“And that,” he says, dropping the man in his hold to fall back to the floor, “is what it was supposed to do.”

Now that it is done he can barely remain upright. The secretary’s face is blank. It takes on the creases of a nascent frown the more Loki is required to list to the side, supporting his own increasingly unsteady balance by leaning a shoulder into the porch steps at his back.

“What… Who are you?” Ross asks, blinking as though waking from a disorienting dream.

Loki laughs shakily, a feeling of light-headedness creeping over him.

“Loki, what the hell?” Stark demands, alighting, perfectly unharmed, at Loki’s side. He sounds at once angry and concerned, and not nearly as impressed as he rightly ought to be. If Loki were feeling even half as composed as he usually does he’d be inclined to do something about that. As it is, his vision is warping a little too much for him to summon anything close to the proper indignance.

“There, you see?” he says instead, his surroundings tilting somewhat alarmingly as he twists to face his friend. “As I said, that’s what was supposed to happen.”

He misses the next part. Or at least he can only surmise he does. He has the vague sense that Stark is speaking to him, his words and tone becoming progressively more urgent, yet the meaning escapes him. Then he finds himself being guided more securely to sit, a wall at his back propping him upright.

He feels nauseated, weak and disconnected from reality. His limbs are trembling with exhaustion and in the aftermath of the weapons his every nerve is raked raw. But he does not feel the pain. He registers it, somewhere in the back of his mind: a warning that he will suffer for this later, that the reckoning is yet to come. For the moment he only feels giddy. He is quite literally drunk on power.

He has not overstretched himself to this degree for a very long time. Knowing this to be true is in itself a precious gift.

He is vaguely aware of movement around him, of bodies gathering in a circle, of insistent demands being made. Stark now is standing before him, arms outstretched. He is speaking urgently, standing his ground. 

And beyond them, Ross is drawing himself to his feet, aided by a soldier who has rushed to his side. He brushes himself down somewhat absently, gazing about with fretful uncertainty.

The argument Loki can no longer follow reaches a crescendo of raised voices before Ross cuts through it with a simple order. 

“Stand down,” the secretary says.

“Sir—”

“I said stand down, dammit!”

There is a pause and some reluctance before the soldiers do just that, and as Ross turns to depart his men fall in to escort him from the scene. Loki doesn’t care to eavesdrop further. He is too preoccupied with enjoying the euphoria stealing over him, all his worries and cares safely ensconced behind a woolly sense of disconnection. Oh, how he will pay for this later.

It seems Stark has returned to his side. Yes, Loki remembers now — he has a reckoning coming to him there too, no doubt. Now that he thinks about it, he’s fairly certain the man has already asked him more than once what the hell that was all about.

“Do you have to look quite so pleased with yourself?” Stark admonishes even as he checks Loki over for injury. “Jesus Christ.”

Loki snuffles another laugh. Mortals are forever invoking deities they profess not to believe in. Quite the irony, present company considered. The alarmed look on Stark’s face only intensifies.

“And also, you know that’s not how tapping out works, right? You’re not supposed to do it on my behalf.” Stark runs hesitant fingers over the metal spiders still dug into Loki’s flesh but apparently reconsiders an attempt to remove them.

“It had the desired effect, did it not,” Loki says. Or at least he thinks he does. He must have messed it up somewhere along the line, because Stark just stares. 

“I have to go get Rhodey,” Stark tells him. ”I’m going to come back for you, but I need you to stay right here. Just… try to stay awake, okay? He might need my help and I can’t carry you both.”

Loki is quite capable of looking after himself, thank you. He flicks his fingers at Stark to wave him off and closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“Loki.” The back of a hand swats him on the shoulder, compelling him to open his eyes again. “What did I just say?”

“Nnn. You’re so… so…” Loki isn’t sure what Stark is exactly, but he’d like to be left alone now.

Stark bestows a last unhappy frown in Loki’s direction and rises to stand, speaking into his earpiece as he does. “Vis, gonna need an assist over here, buddy.”    

Loki does not hear what Vision replies. He recalls removing his earpiece at some point, and besides, he’d quite like to rest his eyes. Just for a moment.

Chapter 26

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“You’re not gonna hurl, are ya?”

Tony cinches Rhodey’s arm a little tighter where it’s slung over the back of his neck. Rhodey simply groans, pressing the wet rag they’d managed to scrounge up firmly to the base of his skull. He hasn’t exactly been chatty, but at least he’s alive. And somewhat conscious. Tony’s counting his blessings there.

They make slow and stumbling progress back towards the house. Or what remains of it, anyway. The hot glow of it throbs and billows against the night sky like a beacon, spewing ash and cinders across the eerily deserted street. The distant wail of sirens promises the incipient arrival of fire trucks, but in the meantime the US military are apparently content to allow the inferno to blaze unchecked. They have other, more pressing concerns it seems.

The intense heat requires them to make for shelter some way distant, the stoop of a neighbour’s porch offering just enough of a shield to make it bearable. It’s with relief that Tony finds Vision already waiting for them, a charge of his own in tow. 

“Oh God, what happened?” Rhodey manages, squinting fiercely into the intense light. 

“We’re okay,” Tony tells him. “We’re all okay. It’s nothing we can’t rebuild.”

He looks towards where Loki is curled tightly against the lea of the building, eyes screwed shut and trembling visibly. Vision catches Tony’s eye, concern written across his artificial features.

“He is unwell,” Vis frets, somewhat unnecessarily.

Tony lowers Rhodey to sit on the porch steps. He crouches next to Loki, retracting the gauntlet of his right arm to place a palm to his skin. He frowns.

“Shaking like a tweeker gone cold turkey. Sweating buckets, too.” 

Vision blinks at this and looks to Rhodey.

Rhodey sighs. “He means Loki’s not doing so great.”

“‘M fine,” comes Loki’s faint but undeniably aggrieved voice. Then, even quieter: “Not deaf.”

“Sure you are, champ. Never looked better.” Tony passes the flat of his hand across his throat in a slashing motion as he says this, all the while maintaining pointed eye contact with Rhodey and Vision. To state the obvious, they need to get out of here, like yesterday.

“We can’t stay here,” he says. “I know we’re all tired but in about five minutes this place is going to be crawling with uniforms, and you can bet your bottom dollar Uncle Sam isn’t going to be left holding the bag. And I don’t know about you but I’m pretty much done with being made to feel like the bad guy in all this. So what do you say? Time to split?”

“Right behind you,” Rhodey says wearily, all the while looking as though moving is the last thing he wants to do. “But what about…” He jerks his chin in Loki’s direction.

“Nothing he can’t walk off, right Lokes?" He goes to grab the guy's elbow. "C’mon, big guy. Up and at ‘em.”

At first Loki simply grumbles and swats at him, brushing off every attempt to rouse him with the sort of wearied resistance Tony can remember his father putting up after a long night of drinking. Then in a tone Tony doesn’t think he’s ever heard Loki use before — one that’s reserved exclusively for the chastisement and banishment of irritating siblings — Loki calls him Thor. 

That pulls Tony up short. He stops what he’s doing, casting an uneasy look at Vis and Rhodey. Rhodey winces in sympathy.

“Allow me,” Vision offers, stepping into the breach. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he hoists Loki into a fireman’s carry, his expression one of determination in the face of adversity. 

“Now what?” Rhodey asks.


The SUV they’ve borrowed (read: broken into and hot-wired — Vis insisted they leave a note) barely has enough room for them all. There’s a CD collection in the glove box like it’s 1998 and a strong smell of dog embedded in the upholstery. The rear wiper also doesn’t work. But beggars can’t be choosers. It at least has a full tank of gas. Tony promises himself he will buy the owners a brand new Lexus as soon as he gets a chance.  

Some debris in the road rattles the already questionable suspension. Vision immediately winces. “I really am sorry,” he says for about the seventeenth time.

“You’re doing great,” Tony assures him. “Soon as we hit the highway it’ll be easier going.”

“Or we’ll get mashed by a truck,” Rhodey mutters. He shifts in his place in the front passenger seat, the sleeve of a sweater still pressed across his eyes. 

“I’ll take the wheel again if I have to. But V’s got this. He’s a natural.”

Vision frowns doubtfully but doesn’t take his eyes from the road, his hands at precisely ten and two.

“For someone who learned not two hours ago, I can confirm his piloting skills are vastly superior to yours,” Loki says. He stirs from a semi-reclined position next to Tony in the back, his face appearing from beneath a nest of blankets of dubious origin that Vision found in the trunk. He takes a tentative sniff of the layer closest to his face and recoils with a moue of displeasure, all the while squinting at the faint light of morning filtering through the dirty windows. 

“Well good morning, sunshine. And here I thought you were asleep through it all.”

“I was certainly trying, no thanks to you. What time is it?” 

“Breakfast time. We’ll take a break at the next stop. If you’re feeling up to it though I have a quick question first.” Tony waits until Loki has settled himself into a position that can’t be any more comfortable than the one he was already wedged in, then leans forward into Loki’s space. “What the hell.”

“Shh,” Rhodey groans from the front. “Keep it down. I’ve already got a marching band doing riverdance up in here.”

“I’ll second that,” Loki says, even though Tony’s positive he has no idea what either of those two things are. He begins to burrow back beneath his pile of blankets. Tony pokes him hard in his side.

“Oh-ho, I don’t think so. Don’t think that gets you out of it. You’ve got some ‘splainin to do. What did you do to Ross?”

There’s a brief silence that Tony is reasonably confident means Loki is only now considering the consequences of his actions. “Nothing he didn’t deserve. Something that was meant for the Allfather — it will be more than enough to hold the likes of him.”

“You put the whammy on him.”

“Whatever that means.”

"I knew it. You messed with his head, didn't you?" Tony wishes the thought didn't make him flush cold.

"Fear not, he is unharmed. It is no more than my usual fare. What is illusion after all but a trick of the mind? A lie told to our senses? He will simply find he cannot recall what possessed him to come out last night, or who he might have been looking for. I daresay he'll find it rather inconvenient to explain away at times but that's a small price to pay in return for his life. And for ours." 

Tony's not sure he likes it, but he has to admit it's a neat solution. “So that’s it? It worked? It’s not going to come back to bite us in the ass down the line?”

“We don’t have to worry about him any more. I was… much more careful this time.”

It dawns on Tony exactly what Loki means by this. “You said something before. About that being how it was supposed to work. You used the same mojo.” He thinks about it for a sec, then thwacks Loki with the back of his hand. “Are you crazy?”

“Ouch.”

“Are you trying to undo every bit of progress we’ve made? You think I want to go through that bullshit all over again? Once wasn’t enough of a lesson for you? Jesus.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Loki grouses. He then says something Tony doesn’t quite catch, something about it all being a moot point now anyway. Tony dismisses it.

“And what was all that bullshit about taking over the world?”

“They wanted a villain. I gave them one.”

“But my house, Loki. My house.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake. Are you still harping on about that? Honestly.”

“Yes ‘still’. We’re talking yesterday. And it’s not like you accidently threw out my lunch. You torched a perfectly decent, state-of-the-art, multi-million-dollar facility. On purpose. You can expect weeks of mileage out of this, buster.”

“You have other houses. You’ve said so on more than one occasion.”

“Okay, so one: not the point. And two: what the hell.”

“I imagine a safehouse loses its value somewhat when it’s known to the wider authorities,” Vision offers. 

“Not helping,” Tony tells him. “And can I just say, I’m getting real tired of my places being blown to kingdom come.”

Loki thinks about this. “This is only the second one by my hand, I think. Hardly a pattern.”

“Well let’s not make a habit of it, please. And don’t kid yourself that this wipes the record clean on Mario Kart.” Tony taps his temple. “Got all my high scores stored safely up here. And besides, FRIDAY keeps copies of everything.”

Loki sniffs and turns over. “As I recall it is Colonel Rhodes who holds pole position on the leader board.”

“Damn straight,” Rhodey rouses enough to supply.

“We are approaching something called a ‘Wendy’s’,” Vision then announces, conveniently cutting off Tony's next round of righteous, reasonable and fully-justified complaints. “Would you like me to pull over?”


“You can’t go in looking like that. Just wait here and me and Vis’ll bring something out to you. What do you want, a baconator? Shake? Chili cheese fries?”

Loki looks at him like he’s speaking Chinese, then moves to push himself off where he’s leaning back against the car. “What I want is to leave this vehicle. If I have to spend one more minute squashed up next to you on that back seat I will not be held responsible for the consequences.”

Tony takes another scan of the parking lot, just to be sure. Vision has found them a spot far enough from the entrance and the nearest cars belonging to other customers that he doesn’t think they’ll attract attention, but he doesn’t want to take any chances.

“Have you seen yourself?” Tony says. “The dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards look we can probably get away with, but I think that—” he points at the two bloodstains still sticking Loki’s shirt to his back, “—might raise a couple of eyebrows.”

Loki cranes his head over his shoulder to see for himself and hisses as the movement pulls at the wounds. 

“Yeah,” Tony says. “We got them out, but it wasn’t pretty.”

“I really am sorry,” Vision says again.

“It’s okay, buddy, he doesn’t remember.” But Tony sure as hell does. He hadn’t had the strength to do it himself. His job had been to hold Loki down. He shudders, then dismisses the thought as quickly as it came. “If we had a jacket that would fit you it could work, but somehow I don’t think a blanket round the shoulders is really going to cut it. Not if we want to actually get served.” 

Loki sighs in defeat, slumping back against the car, and it occurs to Tony that he hasn’t thought to ask the obvious. 

“What about your magic? Can’t you use it for this? To heal yourself or something?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Loki says.

“Well, how does it work, then? You were all big with the fancy dress two minutes ago. Can’t you just—” he waves a hand vaguely over Loki’s form, “—you know.”

Loki turns a shade paler at the mere suggestion. He presses a fist to his mouth and swallows carefully. “Not… not right now, no.”

Oh boy. Tony wouldn't like to guess how many times he's seen that same hollow-eyed look staring right back at him in the mirror. “Swearing off the hard stuff for a while, huh. Gotcha. Well then I guess I’ll be your waiter. One breakfast combo coming up.”

He's fishing in his pocket for his wallet when something weird starts to happen. 

“Er, Lokes?”

Tony nods meaningfully at Loki’s feet. A ring of orange sparks has begun to chase itself in a tight arc around where Loki stands.

“This isn’t me,” Loki says, frowning.

Without thinking about it, Tony reaches out and grasps Loki’s arm. He’s about to suggest taking a step away when there’s a yelp and a sudden absence of Asgardian. It all happens so quickly that he doesn’t have chance to release his grip on Loki’s sleeve. With a shout of his own, Tony is pulled headlong through the circle of nothing after Loki.


Tony has been in freefall before. He’s not sure he’d ever describe the sensation as something he particularly enjoys, but usually he has at least some control over his descent. Or at least more than a split second’s notice before it starts. It’s also not often he’s clinging onto another person while it happens.

The panic and his body’s instinctual flailing overrides his ability to make sense of what’s happening at first. He twists and tumbles, gasping for breath between screams, his stomach swooping as he’s buffeted and tossed end over end. There is a confusion of light and colours around him, his senses unable to tell up from down, no features to give him something to fix on to gain his bearings. The time it’s taken so far strongly suggests he should have hit the ground by now, even if he can’t see it. 

And yet he continues to fall.    

His suit won’t respond to his commands. Though the wind snatches the words from his mouth, he tries voice activation more than once. The manual override doesn’t work either. There’s absolutely nothing he can do to help himself.

He turns his focus to the forearm anchored to his, and although it’s dizzying trying to get a fix on Loki’s face as they spin uncontrollably, he finally manages it. Tony calls Loki’s name, again and again. Loki’s eyes remain squeezed shut, his body rigid, his mouth moving in a silent litany of denial, his fingers claw-like where they grip Tony’s wrist with bruising force. 

Tony tries to use that grip to pull himself in, latching on with his other hand in an effort to stabilise their descent. He’s making something like progress when an imperceptible current hits them, snapping them clean apart.  

Tony cries out and reaches frantically, trying and failing to snatch hold of a sleeve, a pinky finger, anything that will stop him spiralling further and further away. The terror he experiences at the thought of facing this alone is reflected back to him on Loki’s face until he’s too far away to see.

“Loki!”

A hole opens up beneath Tony, a perfect circle of light and form that grows larger as he continues his descent. Instead of the jumble of twisting nonsense he’s been falling through, the image revealed on the other side resolves into almost jarring normality. As he clears the horizon he has only a split second or two further to fall before a very real, very solid hardwood floor rises up to meet him.

The impact hurts. Granted, he doesn’t seem to collide with the ground at anything like terminal velocity, but neither is the landing soft. It knocks all the breath from his body, and apart from being almost giddy with relief he’s also nauseated, sore and pissed

He scrambles upright, staggering as his brain tries to reconcile the sudden arrest of downward motion. Normal gravity now feels too heavy. He bends double and dry heaves.

“I know,” a voice says from off to his right. “It’s disconcerting, isn’t it?”

Tony whirls, his palm raised in defence before he has time to think about it. He manages to keep it fairly level as he sways. Lowering it again takes deliberate effort, even knowing the nanotech still refuses to respond.

A man he’s never seen before stands before him like some sort of extra from a movie. And not one of the good ones. He’s in the sort of getup Tony’s seen D&D cosplayers wear to the cons they put on over in geeksville. The kind that attract pale spotty freshmen too afraid to talk to girls. Or maybe middle-aged keyboard warriors who still live in their moms’ basements. Tony has no clue. He’s never been to one. 

Anyway. This dude is the living epitome of trying too hard. There’s a cape, complete with high collar, a quiff of hair flung at a roguish angle across a high forehead, and what Tony can only describe as an honest-to-God tunic. All topped off with an officious air and a smug little goateed smile.

If Tony used words like ‘supercilious’, that’s exactly how he’d describe this renaissance-fair-wannabe prick.

“You giving out tickets to something?”  

That smug smile quirks even further, although Tony recognises the hint of irritation behind the guy’s eyes. If there’s anything Tony knows how to do, it’s how to get a rise out of type-A personalities. He shares all their most endearing traits, of course.

“I can’t say as I ever thought I’d have reason to meet the infamous Tony Stark in person.”

“Huh. Guess that makes two of us.” Tony points his finger at the guy quizzically. “Who are you again?”

“My name is Doctor Stephen Strange. You may have come across some of my work with the International Centre for Neurological Sciences. My last paper was a couple of years ago now, but I made the cover of Time once.”

Tony sniffs. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” Not entirely true — now that Tony looks at him he’s pretty sure he recognises the guy from back in the day, maybe from that symposium on synthetic nerve repair he’d skipped out on early that time — but he’s not about to let on. Guy’s clearly got an ego big enough to fill the room as it is.

And it sure is a big room. Tony turns in a gradual (and careful) circle, eyes sweeping to take in the high ceiling, wall-to-wall wood panelling and staircase that would give Downton a run for its money. A strangely patterned circular window set over the landing above filters dim light through the balustrade. It's nowhere near strong enough to illuminate all the features of the room. He finds himself squinting as he peers apprehensively into the shadowed recesses and feels a fresh wave of annoyance when he realises that’s exactly the point. He catches himself too late and sees Strange notice. The smug look returns. Prick.

“So where the hell is this?” Tony demands. “Hogwarts? Isengard?”

“New York,” Strange says. “The Sanctum Sanctorum.” At Tony’s blank look he gives his head a quick shake. “You know what, never mind. When we’re finished it’s about a block and a half that way to the subway.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “The deli on the corner isn’t bad either. I’d recommend the egg salad.”

Is this guy for real? “Yeah, I don’t think so. You broke it, you bought it. When we’re done you can take me back the way you brought me, maybe with a bit less of the drama if you don’t mind. You’re lucky there isn’t a pavement pizza ruining your impeccably polished floor right about now. And I had sweetcorn at lunch. I’m assuming it was you, right?” 

The guy raises a hand and sketches two fingers in the air in front of him. In the blink of an eye Tony’s surroundings change, which Tony guesses is his answer. His position snaps to what was previously the far corner of the room, with Strange now seated before him, a table to one side. There’s a matching high-backed chair behind Tony’s knees, ready to catch him as he falls back.

“Tea?” Strange offers. A tea set materialises on the table at Tony’s elbow. 

“I don’t drink tea. And I mentioned the imminent pavement pizza, right?”

Strange brushes this off with a wave of his hand that also happens to transform the tea into Tony’s favourite brand of take-out coffee. He reaches out and pokes it with a finger, expecting to disrupt the illusion. Instead he almost topples a very real, very solid disposable cup and splashes the side of his hand with very real, very hot coffee when he scrambles to prevent disaster. 

Transmutation, he thinks to himself, his knuckle in his mouth. Huh.

“So you gonna make me play twenty questions with you or are you going to get to the point already? Or maybe you have a few more tricks you want to get out of your system first? I gotta tell you though, it’s gonna take more than that to scare me. You’ve seen one magic switcheroo you’ve seen ‘em all.”

Strange leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled before his mouth. “Yes, about that. Some interesting company you’ve been keeping.”

Tony waits for more. This feels like he’s receiving a lecture from his father about his behaviour in college, the kind where he’s expected to do all the talking while dear old Dad looks on disapprovingly. The got-anything-you-want-to-tell-me, don’t-make-me-drag-it-out-of-you, this-embarrasses-us-both, I’m-waiting kind of lecture he always hated. Well, he’s not in college anymore. And he’s had enough of this.

“You’re really gonna make me ask, aren’t ya?” He can feel himself losing control of his temper, his face heating. “Well all right, hotshot. Here it is.” He ticks off his fingers as he goes. “Why am I here, what do you want with me, and what have you done with Loki? And if I don’t get a straight answer to all three of those questions in the next five seconds I am seriously going to lose it.”

This joker seems to know who Tony is. If that’s the case he should know that’s not an idle threat.

Strange seems in no particular hurry to explain himself or to reassure Tony in any way, but he does at least start talking.

“I’m charged with the defence of Earth from extra-dimensional and mystical threats. I keep a watch list of individuals and beings from other realms that may qualify as such. Loki would be one of those beings.”

“Yeah? Guess he’s a pretty powerful guy. Still not hearing an answer.”

Rolling his eyes, Strange raises three fingers of his own, folding each as he speaks. “You were in physical contact with Loki when the window opened, I have some questions for you, and he’s where he was when you last saw him. That is to say, contained.”

“Contained? You mean—”

“Safe, and where he can't do any more damage. But maybe not having the best morning.”

Tony surges to his feet, fists trembling at his sides. “You let him go, you sadistic mother f—” Strange raises a hand in warning and it's enough to stop Tony cold. He closes his eyes and breathes, reining himself in as best he can. “You’d better pray he’s okay,” he grits out.

Infuriatingly, Strange seems genuinely amused by this. His high-handed tone softens somewhat. “I assure you no harm will come to him. Or to anyone else for that matter. I promise I’m not in the business of cruelty for cruelty’s sake and it’s nothing I’ve not been through myself.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing to him,” Tony says. “I’ve never seen him like that before.” And God knows he’s seen more of Loki’s demons than he’d ever want to imagine existed.  

There must be something in his expression, because Strange simply watches him, thoughtful. With a tilt of his head he persuades Tony to retake his seat. Only then does he lean forward, forearms resting on his knees. His cape seems to shift around him as he does so, as though animated by a power all its own.

“I will release him,” Strange says, “if you can answer my questions to my satisfaction. The quicker you do the sooner he’s out. Deal?”

As much as Tony wants to play the surly, defiant teenager (a part Strange cast him in himself), as much as he wants to rail against Strange, refuse to play his game, tell him to go fuck himself and the clown he rode in on, he can't bear the thought of prolonging whatever torment Loki is still being put through. He doesn’t even have the energy to grit his teeth or pout. Even crossing his arms seems a feat beyond his strength.

So he simply slumps back, sighs wearily and tells Strange to shoot. The guy at least has the decency not to look too pleased with himself.

“Why is Loki here on Earth?”

And just like that, Tony’s weariness triples. “I don’t know,” he says, a hand draped across his eyes. “I haven’t had a chance to ask him yet.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Probably since not long after we thought he left. Couldn’t really tell you. He hasn’t been with me the whole time.”

“But you’ve known about him for…?”

“A few months. Since the beginning of the year.”

“And you never thought to ask him what he’s doing here?”

The headache forming behind Tony’s eyes intensifies. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple. Tick tock, Tony.”

Tony growls. “That’s Stark to you. And it’s not that simple because he hasn’t been able to remember. When we found him he didn’t even know his own name. He’s… been through a lot. We’ve been trying to help him get better.”

“And I take it you’ve succeeded.”

Tony shrugs. “I guess. Or getting there at least. In the end he worked most of it out for himself.” 

Strange taps his thumbs absently against his mouth as he thinks. “Hmm. I suppose that could explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“The timing.”

“Timing? Timing of what?”

“I was wondering why my wards hadn’t triggered. Wong’s going to be out a hundred bucks — he bet me I’d read the incantation wrong. Like predynastic sanskrit is even that difficult. Should try cramming Svensson’s Advanced Principles of Biochemistry on three hour’s sleep, a hangover and a liquid diet of weapon’s-grade caffeine.” Strange huffs a laugh. "Who'd have thought it was the energy signature and not the individual it all hinged on? Might need to rethink that in future. Got a few other big hitters to keep tabs on. But hey, always good to test these things out. Better to know now than when it's too late. I owe him a thank you."

Tony shakes his head, bewildered. “Jesus Christ, is this what having a stroke feels like? Seriously, am I having a stroke? What are you talking about?”

“You say Loki has been here months. That you know of. I first got warning of him yesterday. Clearly there’s been some significant and very recent change. To his threat status, that is. He wasn’t even registering before. Fascinating.”

This thing is rapidly taking a worrying turn. Tony tries to swallow down his rising anxiety and redirect the conversation. “Listen, I don’t know how it works, and I gotta say I’m not sure I want to know anymore, but either your voodoo is way out or your intel is super old. ‘Cause Loki isn’t dangerous. Not now. And I should know. I’m an Avenger. It’s like a whole deal. If anything he’s actually done more to help make the world a safer place in the last twenty four hours than I’ve managed in the last year.” 

“But he has the potential to be a threat. A very major threat. And he certainly has been in the past.”

I have the ‘potential’ to do all kinds of terrible things — have done plenty that hurt a lot of people — but you don’t have my name on some twinkly woo-woo watch list.”

Maybe it’s the flippant way Tony refers to the guy’s sacred calling or whatever, but Strange’s expression darkens at this.

“He levelled half the city.”

“Okay, yes, but… it’s more complicated than that. There were extenuating circumstances.”

“Oh really.”

Tony can feel the argument slipping through his fingers like one of Loki’s illusions. He’s not going to win this. “It’s hard to explain.” 

He’s not entirely sure he can explain all of it to himself in a way that makes sense. There are still so many things he doesn’t understand. But he feels it. He knows it. There was more at work back then, more they didn’t have the context to see for what it was, more that they didn’t have cause to properly question. He just needs that chance to ask those questions now, to listen, to care. He doesn’t expect Strange to feel the same. But surely Tony’s earned some trust of his own by now?

“And anyway,” he continues, his anger getting the better of him, “if he’s such a threat, where were you before? Where were you when we needed help, when a goddamn army of aliens was trashing Manhattan? I didn’t see you mixing it up with the rest of us, so you don’t get to pass judgement now like some johnny-come-lately. We took care of it before and you’d better believe we’ve got it covered now. I will vouch for him personally. Loki’s one of us now.”

Strange is still looking at him, as though he expects Tony to falter. When Tony simply meets that stare with a resolute one of his own, Strange raises an incredulous eyebrow.

“You really are going with this, aren’t you? Huh. Well, whatever they are, I’m sure you have your reasons. And I have mine. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Alarmed, Tony rises from his chair, a protest at the ready. It dies on his lips as Strange stands, spreads his arms and actually levitates, his cloak billowing around him like the wings of an enormous airborne manta ray. With a whisper of magical cloth he sweeps to the centre of the room where he touches down, arms wheeling in some grand mystical gesture. Tony swears to himself in that moment that he will never call Loki a diva ever again.

A familiar ring of fiery sparks begins to outline a circle suspended some ten feet off the ground. There is a brief moment of silence, followed by the approaching sound of someone falling, then Loki plummets into the room, hitting the floor with a solid, wince-inducing thud.  

Tony thought he knew anger. Loki is a whole other level of furious altogether.

“I have been falling… for thirty minutes!”

Loki pushes himself to his feet, radiating murder. Tony can’t say he blames him, honestly.

Strange doesn’t appear to be even the tiniest bit intimidated. “Loki of Asgard,” he says, as though the title is somehow funny.

Loki narrows his eyes. “And who are you?”

He’s holding it together, but Tony can tell Loki is still feeling the effects of the night’s activities. He’s seen enough of Loki’s fronts to read the lines of exhaustion around his mouth and the shadows under his eyes, to see the effort required to affect effortless menace, the way fear has manifested as confident aggression, the delicate tremble to his hands, his laboured, shaky breaths. 

Loki must know he is outmatched, yet as much as Tony believes in him absolutely, he’s not sure he can be trusted not to do something stupid with his back to a proverbial wall.

As though they’ve heard him and come to life, Tony’s fears prove well founded.

Loki draws a dagger from God knows where — scratch that, two daggers, one in each hand — and squares up to Strange as though he has the strength to do more than stand there without falling over. The ugly expression on his face would have been enough to have Tony thinking twice about his prospects, back before several months of close quarters. Of secrets shared, trust granted, small comforts given and taken, all those tentative extensions of friendship Tony has come to value and take pride in. To an outsider it’s simply an expression of malice. To Strange it’s proof of a falsely held belief.

“Loki, don’t!” Tony calls, for want of anything better.

When Loki sees him his face loses its tight hostility, and although he doesn’t drop his ready stance Tony notices an easing in his arms and a slight straightening of his back. If Tony has learned anything from their sparring sessions, it’s that a strike is no longer quite so imminent.

“What…? Stark, who is this?” He casts a derisive look at Strange, eyeing him up and down. “You think you’re some kind of sorcerer? Don’t think for one minute that you impress me with your second-rate parlour tricks.” He points a dagger in Tony’s direction. “If you have harmed him I will skin you alive. Slowly.”

Strange turns a raised eyebrow on Tony and waits. Tony shrugs.

“He grows on you?”

Again Strange rolls his eyes. Incredibly, he then fully turns his back to where Loki still bristles in readiness, his next words cast over his shoulder as though completely unconcerned by their intended recipient.

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps this matter is beyond my authority here on Earth. I’m sure your father would prefer to rule on this himself, and it’s probably about time Asgard cleaned up its own messes. I’ll send you both, I think. You first, Stark. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Let’s hope Odin is in a forgiving mood.”

Several things then happen at once, although Tony barely has time to register any of them. Strange takes a step towards him, his hand already raised to cast a spell that will presumably transport him across all of known space and even farther again. He is too stunned to brace for whatever is to come, or even to try to move away. The last thing he sees is the look of purest panic on Loki’s face, his illusory daggers already dissipated from loosened fingers. Then Loki is simply gone. 

There’s a bright light right before Tony’s eyes, and for a moment he thinks this must be the door opening to another realm, one he will tumble out from, alone and unprepared on an alien world. But then his brain catches up with his senses. Where Strange’s magic glows orange and hot, this shimmers golden-green, a combination of heat haze and rays of diffuse light at its edges. He’s seen it countless times before, and where once it might have filled him with fear, it’s now the colour of wonder, of mischief and laughter. It’s the colour of safety. It’s the colour of a friend. 

The light flashes across what becomes a solid form, Loki’s form, before folding back to its source. He is so close that Tony cannot see around him to where he is facing down Strange’s approach, and startled Tony steps back a pace. Even with that small distance added he can still feel the crackle of Loki’s magic, can almost taste it as it darts around them both. He’s never been this close before. He’s never seen or felt this level of power from Loki and it fascinates and frightens him at the same time. He realises that until now, he’s never had a real sense of exactly what Loki is: a sorcerer of myth and legend, a thousand-year-old immortal, a god. He suddenly feels very small.

Loki raises crossed fists before his own downturned face. Tony feels that same absence of pressure and sound at his eardrums that promises the release of incredible force. There’s a held breath like a gathering of strength, then a single fluid movement it takes a heartbeat to complete. Loki throws his head back as he brings down his arms, the speed and the effort flinging his hair behind him and cording every tendon in his wrists and neck. 

The pulse of power, so uncoordinated and unpredictable every other time Tony has witnessed it used, barely stirs the hairs on his arms this time. The full force of it is directed forward at Strange with absolute precision. The human sorcerer has just enough time to prepare the beginnings of some kind of energy shield before the invisible blast hits it, scattering it into a cloud of firefly lights. Whether it managed to absorb some of the impact Tony is not sure: the part that makes it through picks Strange clean off his feet and propels him with inhuman speed across the vast space of the room. 

He is about to collide with the wall, in an impact Tony is certain no human could survive, when a portal opens and swallows him. A second fizzles into life on the other side of the room a few moments later, depositing Strange at a much slower speed to come to a rolling stop at the foot of the staircase. He groans, his cloak — which is apparently capable of independent movement — doing its best to help him turn to sit.

Loki steps towards the man, still taut and trembling with intent, his shoulders heaving. The sharp tang of his magic fills the air around him. It’s only as Tony tries to move to follow him that he realises there is something holding him back: an invisible imperative to remain out of harm’s way, an intangible shield Loki has shoved him behind by will alone.

Tony shoots out a hand and captures Loki’s forearm before he can take another step. Loki stills but doesn’t turn, his attention still firmly fixed on the man trying to pick himself up from the floor.

“Loki,” Tony says, keeping his tone low. “Wait. It’s okay. You can stop now.”

And like magic all his own, those words are enough. Loki diminishes before his eyes, the frantic strength coiled in the muscle beneath Tony’s hand subsiding, the shimmering of the air that Tony can’t even really see disappearing into stillness, the anger and the fear draining into bone-deep exhaustion. Finally able to push past Loki’s hold on him, Tony steps beside him and studies his face.

“All right?” he asks.

Loki nods tiredly.

“That was awesome, by the way.”

Loki manages a small smile.

The sound of isolated yet spirited applause brings their attention back to the matter at hand. Strange has regained his feet, and although there is a split in his lip and marks that tell of bruising yet to come high on one cheekbone, he seems relatively unharmed. He puts a hand at the small of his back and arches his spine with a grimace, then brushes himself down.

“Well. Wasn’t that fun.”

“There’s more where that came from if you try a stunt like that again,” Tony promises darkly (if a little optimistically, given Loki’s condition).

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ve made your point.”   

Tony’s not sure he follows. “How’s that now?”

Strange produces an unreadable smile. “You can handle him from here.”

“Handle me?” Loki demands, affronted. He strains ineffectually against the grip Tony tightens on his arm.

“You’re letting us go?” Tony says.

“If you can guarantee you’ll keep him out of trouble, sure, why not. All I need is a blood oath. Shouldn’t take too long to set up. Break it and your lives would be forfeit, of course. Quite horribly, as I understand it.” He smiles that same cryptic smile.  

“I would sooner die,” Loki growls.

Tony barely refrains from elbowing Loki in the side. Instead he gives his arm a sharp squeeze and focuses his attention on Strange. “You know about me. You know what I do. You’re a scientist too, right? A medical doctor?”

“I thought you hadn’t heard of me,” Strange comments wryly.

“If you are then you know no one can prove a negative. I can’t say for certain Loki won’t fuck up—”

“Hey,” Loki interjects sulkily.

“—but if he does — hell, if I do — you’ll be well within your rights to float down from on high and hand us our asses.”

“Or try to, at least,” Loki adds brightly.

“Will you please shush!” Tony hisses.   

Loki makes a zip-it motion over his mouth, eyes wide. Then he grins.

Tony continues. “In law we punish the crime after the fact, not before. And I can tell you from recent experience that the threat of immediate and painful reprisal is not the way to go here. Loki’s done his time — is still doing his time — and I’m not going anywhere. I’ll take that responsibility. God help me, I’ll pick up that bill. But he deserves a chance to reform, just like anyone else. Without the sword of Damocles hanging over both our heads.”

Tony feels Loki pull free of his grip and cross his arms, an expression of martyred boredom on his face. Tony ignores him. “So do we have a deal?” he asks Strange.

Strange makes a show of clapping invisible dust from his hands. “Okey dokey then. Glad that’s all sorted. To be honest you had me at ‘I’m an Avenger’.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah. Made up my mind about fifteen minutes ago. Just had to make sure. I mean, blood oath? Come on. Like that’s a thing.”

Tony can’t help it. He can’t close his mouth for dumbfounded incredulity. “You… you prick.”

“And just to clear one thing up, I wasn’t there before because I wasn’t here before. You’re not the only people who have changed. But you’re not wrong — you should have expected help from those who came before me. You have my word that when you need it again, you’ll have it.”

With that, Strange opens a final doorway of sparks, this time at floor level. On the other side is the training area of the Avengers compound, dark and empty and still with dust sheets covering most of the equipment, but still there. Still safe. And now, thanks to Loki, off Secretary Ross’s radar. Just one step and they’ll be through.

“What about Rhodey and Vision?”

“They’ll know where to find you. I left a calling card.”

Of course you did, you raging egotist. “Well, thanks. It’s been a real blast.”

“Quite,” Loki agrees. “Thank you so much for having us.”

“Any time,” Strange says, watching them step, only slightly cautiously, through the ring of sparks. “Oh, and Loki? Odin won’t be able to find you. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You think that because you could not that he can’t either? Now that is arrogance. I have hidden myself from the gaze of his Watcher for centuries but even I could not fathom a way to avoid the determined eye of the Allfather, should he deign to look.”

Strange waves that away. “Hey, give yourself some credit. It’s you who’s given me the idea. The runes of Kof-Kol? A spell of forgetting? Can be cast remotely. In theory could reach pretty much anywhere on this plane of existence. Gotta be worth a shot.”

“You meddle with forces beyond your comprehension. Dangerous forces.” Loki thinks for a moment, then smiles sweetly. “But who am I to stand in the way of learning and discovery? Go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?” 

Loki turns, ready to put his back to Strange once and for all, then hesitates. Sobering, he speaks over his shoulder. “Let me know if you succeed. Such a thing… could be of use to me. To us all.”

“Absolutely,” Strange says. “You’ll be the first person I call.” He winks, waves a hand across the portal, then disappears from sight as it spins shut.


When they’re finally, blessedly alone, Loki sags like his strings have been cut. Tony makes the mistake of trying to catch him by tucking himself close to his side, then staggers as rather more weight than he was expecting bears down on his shoulder.

“Christ you’re heavy,” he complains, managing nonetheless to hold his ground. 

Even near collapse, Loki’s offended sensibilities apparently offer enough fuel to keep him talking. “I knew he was bluffing. No mortal could command power to rival the Bifrost. Artless pretender.”

“Sure,” Tony grunts, guiding Loki towards the benches lining the back of the training room. “Didn’t have you going for even a second.”

“I can tell you however that blood oaths are very much ‘a thing’.”

“The fact that you know that is all kinds of disturbing. So thank you for that.”

“You’re so very welcome.”

As they approach the nearest likely seating, Loki seems to realise where they’re heading. “Where are we… What are you doing? Unhand me. I’m not an invalid. That was a pretty speech you gave but you’re not my keeper and I don’t need you fussing over me like some kind of woman—

“Oh my God would you just sit down before you fall down.” All it takes is a little push. Loki sinks heavily onto the bench and leans back against the wall. He closes his eyes and sighs.

Tony watches him for a moment. “So, the All-Daddy, huh? Not a big fan?”

“It is a long story.”

“I got time. When you’re ready. Tell you all about mine too if you like. But first, sleep. Lots of. I’ll go see if I can call the others, let them know we’re okay.”

Loki cracks an eye. “I’m not sleeping here.”

“Whatever you say, champ. I’ll fetch you a pillow.”

Loki tsks at him but doesn’t argue further. Tony turns to leave, a secret smile on his face, when Loki catches his wrist.

“Tony,” Loki says, and if the use of his first name isn’t enough to stop him in his tracks, the intensity in Loki’s expression sure is. “I… I remember it all. I have so much I need to tell you.” He lowers his eyes. “And I am sorry. Truly.”

When the silence stretches Loki flicks his eyes up again to check Tony’s reaction. There’s a whole dictionary’s worth of emotion in that one look. There’s hope and relief, regret and apology, some of it hesitant, all of it sincere. Tony’s never been more certain of anything in his life. 

Loki moves to take his hand away, already certain of rejection, and Tony grasps it, forcing Loki to meet his eye. Loki does so, the hint of fear still there, even after all this time. Tony doesn’t comment on it. Instead he lets the corner of his mouth quirk and shakes Loki’s hand in a parody of greeting.

“Well then I guess it’s nice to finally meet you. Welcome to the team.”

The shaky breath Loki releases precedes a genuine smile that’s hard to look at for too long. There’s no way Tony can leave it at that.

“So I take it you’re not still planning to murder me?”

Grateful for the out, Loki responds in kind. “I’ll keep you appraised.” 

END

Notes:

I have a short epilogue already half-written for this story (complete with special guest), but for now, that's a wrap!

Thank you so much for reading, for your kudos and comments that mean so much to me, and for sticking with this (at times uncooperative) monster. Whether you've stayed with it for the four long years it's taken me to finish or are finding it for the first time, I really do appreciate you sharing this journey with me. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.