Keep Your Eyes Closed, an avengers fanfic

Keep Your Eyes Closed

by Liliththestormgoddess

Summary: Clint, an ex-Chitauri member, joins Steve and his dream sharing team to extract on the last person he wants to see: Loki. Clint hasn't worked since Loki…and Natasha hasn't taken a job since Bucky. But Dreaming is an addiction and when Steve calls, they just can't say no. Inception AU.

Warnings: Rated T for language and some scenes of graphic violence.

Disclaimer: I do not own Inception or the Avengers. This was made for fun, and not for profit.

A/N: Finally, the story I have been working on for a very long time. Two of my favourite movies are the Avengers and Inception, and I could not resist the temptation to put them together. Like Inception, there will be a lot of switching between dreams - try and keep up, okay? It was a hoot to write so I hope you all enjoy.

Clint opened his eyes and immediately smiled. He was standing in a field that extended as far as he could see in either direction. The grass was long and a sharp green, moving lazily in the slightly tangy breeze. He breathed deeply, inhaling the luscious scent, before stooping to pick up a vibrant yellow flower, the petals soft to the touch. When he turned around he smiled at the woman before him. She was gorgeous against the backdrop of a vivid, clear blue sky, with her long red curls blowing in the breeze. She smiled a full smile at him and he immediately approached her.

He held out the flower to her. "For you, my dear," he said, a cheeky grin on his face.

She took it and kissed him on the cheek. "Why thank you, kind sir." She grasped his hand and took a long look around, breathing it all in deeply. "You dream wonderfully, Clint."

Clint ran his hands along her pale green dress. "Is this what you're really wearing?" He asked her.

"Of course."

He pulled her in for a kiss. "You are so beautiful," he whispered against her lips.

"And you are such a flirt," she teased, but she returned the kiss.

After a few moments, Clint pulled back with a grin. "Let's go," he said, and pulled her after him.

"Where?"

"Over that hill. I have a surprise."

So the couple took off through the fields, never leaving a path of trampled grass behind them. As they continued, the air became saltier and Natasha could just pick out the sound of waves gently lapping the shore and the sounds of seagulls crying. She put on an extra burst of speed, taking the lead from Clint as she tossed off her sandals and ran down the slope and straight into the ocean.

The water was the perfect temperature, as usual, and she had just reached waist-height water when a howl came from behind. She turned just in time to see Clint barrel straight into her, knocking her off her feet. When she surfaced sputtering, he only laughed harder. In retaliation, she splashed him and grinned at the expression on his face. A water fight ensued and continued on until the dream ended and the couple returned to reality.

"I think the coffee's done," Natasha said as she stood from the patio table. Clint merely nodded and continued to stare out over yard, so she left him on the porch and slipped into the house. As soon as the door shut behind her, the phone rang. She frowned and checked the number, but it was blocked. She couldn't imagine why someone was calling her so early in the morning.

She lifted the receiver and headed over to the coffee machine. "Hello," she greeted.

"Hey, Natasha, it's Steve."

Natasha nearly dropped her mug in surprise and she was hardly ever surprised. She gripped the phone harder, her mind conjuring up all the possible reasons and ramifications of this phone call. She transferred the phone to her other ear. "Steve," she replied, not bothering to contain her surprise, though she kept her tone neutral. She could not decide whether she was pleased to hear from him. "How did you get this number?" she asked bluntly.

He chuckled nervously. "It wasn't easy. Listen, Nat, I know it's been a long time…and…" He never finished the sentence, but he hardly had to. Natasha saw the events of the last time they'd seen each other unfold before her every time she went to sleep. "Alright, here's the thing. I have a job," he continued. "A good one. But I need a forger. And you're the best damn forger there is."

"It's been a long time," she replied honestly, leaning back against the counter. She wasn't sure what else to say. A part of her wanted to slam the phone down and tell him to stay out of her life, and the other half ached for the friends that she missed. She wasn't sure if this call was going to bring her good fortune or a bad omen.

It was true, though. She hadn't seen him in nearly a year, and it was even longer since she'd been under. Well, for professional reasons. She dreamed with Clint all the time – but always for Clint. If her former self could see her now, with her life revolving around one man, she would have laughed and shot herself in the head to spare her. But she found that she didn't mind the quiet life. Clint used to be in the same position as her; both running with the wrong people, riding high and feeling like they couldn't be beat. But they'd both fallen from the top of the food chain and now here they were. Dreaming together, for the sole purpose of dreaming.

She found though, that she did miss the excitement of extraction and the feeling of slipping on a new skin, of manipulating and playing with the mark's mind. She'd be lying if she said otherwise. That was, perhaps, the reason she didn't slam the phone down.

Steve sighed. "I know. I never thought we could do this again, but…" he trailed off. "I need you, Nat."

She hummed, taking the time to pour two cups of coffee. His flattery wasn't going to sway her decision – she knew that for him to call her, this job was big. It needed the best, and that was her. It was as simple as that. Back when all she would do was forge, everyone needed her. But she looked outside at her partner and felt torn. Clint also needed her. "The others?" she asked.

"Bruce is in. Tony…I don't know for sure. I'll give him a few days, but you know him. He can't resist a challenge."

She picked up an apple and rolled it between her hands as she tried to decide between the thrill of thieving and her partner. She took another look outside at her partner sitting on the porch, watching the sunrise with unseeing eyes, and made her decision. Clint used to run with the most dangerous dreamers and she knew he'd been dying just as much as she had been to get back into the business.

"Okay, I'm in," she told Steve. "On one condition."

"Yeah?"

"You need a point man, right?"

Steve didn't know what to do with his life anymore. He stood on the corner of the street, his bag in one hand and his other hand shoved into the pocket of his military pants. He watched his apartment from the other side of the street, but he could not make his feet move towards it.

He was home from Afghanistan. What was he going to do now? The military had been his life for so long. He'd devoted his every waking moment to it and now it was over.

His dedication had not gone unnoticed. Before long, he'd been recruited by a subset of the army to get involved with a new prototype for training recruits. Both Steve and his best friend and roommate Bucky had been chosen for the project. They'd undergone numerous hours of physically gruelling training and weeks of being kept in the dark before they were allowed to know just what they had signed up for: a sort of dream training.

At first Steve had balked at the idea. It was utter fiction, and he felt that his services would be put to better use out in the field. But Bucky's eyes had sparkled and he'd told him to just hang on, that Steve would soon see just what they could do with this technology.

Bucky had been right. The dreaming was amazing, and the prospects of such a thing made Steve's head spin.

But the project never lifted off the ground. Soldiers went crazy, unable to handle such a transition. Most committed suicide or were shipped back home for psychiatric care. Before long, the higher-ups cut the funding and told them to scrap the project. The rest of the soldiers in the project were given a discharge and told never to speak about the project again.

And so here stood Steve, wondering just what to do with the rest of his life, when he had planned to be in the army for the entirety of his career.

Steve frowned thoughtfully at his phone, flipping it around in his hand. He sighed loudly. "I don't know what I just got myself into," he told himself. He stared at the screen for several long moments, thinking of how much he had missed his team. Just talking to Natasha felt like they hadn't been apart at all. Bruce had been the same, too. Tony...Tony was Tony. Nothing was ever simple when it came to Tony. The first several calls he had made, Stark had slammed the phone right down after yelling a few choice words. Then Pepper Potts, his girlfriend, had answered and said that Mr. Stark would not be taking any more of his calls. Then the phone had not been answered altogether.

Steve hadn't given up, however. He needed Stark, and Stark needed this. Even if he protested otherwise, Steve knew that Tony's business wasn't doing as well. Stocks were dipping and the economy was bad enough that no one wanted to build such opulent structures anymore.

Steve also knew what quitting the dream-sharing business was like. You didn't sleep. You didn't dream. Everything on earth was dull and boring compared to the dream. Stark would not be able to stay away. So Steve sent him one simple text:

Corner of Maine and East.

Two days later, while Steve was trying to track down Natasha and Bruce was setting up his lab equipment, Stark walked in through the warehouse doors. He kept his sunglasses on his face, nodded once in Steve's direction, and headed straight for Bruce's table. He spoke a few quiet words with the chemist before he pulled out his laptop and sequestered himself in a corner, typing furiously.

Steve was sketching idly on his sketchpad when Bucky entered the apartment.

"What?" Steve asked cautiously, knowing the smirk on Bucky's face did not bode well for him.

"This," Bucky said, placing the briefcase he held in his hands on the coffee table in front of Steve, "is our ticket." He flipped the locks and the case snapped open, revealing a familiar set of wires and readouts.

Steve gaped at it. "No," he breathed. "Bucky, where the hell did you get one of these?"

Bucky waved a hand, dismissing the question. "I know someone. But that doesn't matter. What does, is that this is our ticket to our future." He snapped the case shut and met Steve's glare.

Running a hand through his hair, Steve let out a rush of air. "Bucky, the program was scrapped. What are we supposed to do with this?"

Bucky's eyes lit up with excitement. "It's called dream-thieving."

"No," Steve balked. "You can't be serious."

"This is the 21st century, Steve!" Bucky cried enthusiastically. "Everyone wants a leg-up over the other. Thousands of people are dying to know what the other person knows, and we can give that to them!

"Think about it: we use the PASIV to infiltrate someone's mind and uncover what they know. We can make a fortune! These people have given us this chance! The both of us!"

"It's not right!" Steve protested. "We can't invade people's minds!"

"And what were we doing back in the army?" Bucky shot back. "Strolling down memory lane, hand in hand? Steve, we killed each other, for god's sake. Dozens of times. This is different. This can be elegant. It can be neat. And we don't have to sit here and pretend that we don't miss dreaming." He looked Steve in the eyes. "Don't lie and tell me that you don't miss it."

Steve lurched to his feet. "I do miss it," he said. "But I'm not about to run off and steal people's thoughts! And we don't even know these people!"

Bucky scowled and snatched the PASIV back off the table. "Fine." Then he turned around and left.

"Holy shit. Steve, take a look at this."

"What, Tony?" Steve asked, slightly annoyed by the continued interruptions. Nonetheless, he walked over and took one look at the laptop before groaning. "Tony, you hacked the army database? Again?"

Tony scoffed. "Hardly. The security for their discharged is seriously looow. Anywho, look what I found."

Steve read the file and frowned. "Clint Barton. Wait, he was in the military?"

Tony nodded. "Uhuh. Ever heard of a guy named Hawkeye?"

It took a moment, but a bell rang in Steve's head. "Wait a minute, I heard of a fresh-faced kid in Afghanistan who could snuff out a candle from five miles out." He shot Tony an incredulous look. "That's him? The guy Nat's bringing?"

Tony nodded. "Yep. Did one tour, then went home. But here's the juicy part: when he came back, he joined the Chitauri. Though how he went from sniper to dreamer, I don't know."

Both Steve and Bruce drew a sharp breath.

"Chitauri?" Steve asked hesitantly.

"Yep. Spent quite the time with them, near as I can tell."

Steve certainly knew who they were. They were a ruthless bunch and one of Steve's main competitors. But while Steve viewed extraction as an art, the Chitauri seemed to view it as simply a business tool, and they were notorious for it.

Bruce spoke up, hesitant. "He's not with them anymore, is he?"

Tony frowned but shook his head. "From what I got from my buddy Happy, he was stealing from them and they tossed him out."

"Just tossed?" asked Bruce. "The Chitauri don't just let you go. They kill you."

"Well, Natasha says he's coming to work for us."

"Steve," Tony began, wagging a finger in his friend's direction. "this is where I inform you that your logic is flawed. This was a huge mistake taking in this guy we don't know, who ran with the Chitauri and crossed them. He could stab us in the backs for all we know."

"I didn't have much choice, Tony. It was the only way to get Nat to come. And if you recall, Natasha and Bucky both worked for the Red Room."

Tony jabbed his finger back at Steve. "It's going to come back and bite you in the ass."

Steve scowled. "Don't be so negative, Stark."

"Hey," Tony said indignantly. "Someone has to! You're like a damn boy scout, always giving people the benefit of the doubt."

Steve hardly saw Bucky anymore. His best friend wouldn't tell him about anything that he was doing or the people that had hired him, but Steve wasn't stupid. He soon discovered that Bucky had fallen in with the Red Room - a serious and devious player in the dream-thieving market. It unsettled Steve that his friend was getting involved with these characters, but Bucky would not listen to him. Not even when he came home late at night, disheveled and bloody, and puked his guts out in the bathroom.

Steve never knew what changed nearly a year later. But that night, Bucky came home pale and trembling, and clutching the PASIV in both hands. He'd looked at Steve, who had glanced up from his sketching, and said, "I'm out," before dropping the case on the floor and locking himself in his bedroom.

For a long time, Steve debated whether to go to his friend or let him be. But the PASIV was sitting on the floor, and Steve felt his fingers itching. It had been almost a year, and he could no longer dream for himself. Without a second thought, he hooked himself up and drifted away.

When he awoke, feeling that familiar rush of drowsiness and euphoria, Bucky was sitting beside him on the couch, a knowing look in his eyes.

"We can still do it," he said, his voice soft. "We have to face it, Steve: we just can't live without it."

Rogers bit his lip and turned away. He had missed dreaming, he couldn't deny that. But did he want to make a living out of stealing? But what kind of a life was he currently living? He sighed and eyed the PASIV. "We'd need a builder," he said, causing Bucky to grin madly. "You know I can't design dreamscapes, and neither can you."

"Hey," Bucky protested, a mock hurt expression on his face. "I'm not that bad." But he nodded and said, "I know just who we can get."

"Who was on the phone?" Clint asked as Natasha stepped back outside. She hesitated a moment, clearly caught off-guard, having forgotten about his extraordinary hearing.

"Well," she said, setting Clint's mug down in front of him and taking her seat, "as a matter-of-fact, it was an old friend."

Clint frowned. "Old friend?" He knew her entire history, so he knew just who she meant by that. "What does Rogers want?"

She took a long sip of her coffee. "He has a job."

"Seriously?"

"I said we'd take it." She was never one to beat around the bush.

Clint blinked several times and turned his head to look at her, though his eyes never met hers. "What?"

She spoke again in the same dry, sure tone. "I said we'd take the job. It's been a long time for both of us, Clint, and I know you've been dying to get back into the game."

"But Nat, that's not the point –"

"What is, then?"

He huffed in frustration and ran a hand through his hair. "I know you've wanted to do a job for a long time. You should do this. But I…"

"What?" She growled, her demeanor shifting to stormy in seconds. "What? Is it because you're blind?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, Clint flinched and she knew she'd hit her mark. "Clint, I have never been inside of a more vivid dream. You are among the greatest dreamers I've ever known. And I've worked for almost all of them. Not being able to see gives you that advantage in dreams – you know better than anyone else the smells and sounds of the world. And you are the greatest marksman, Hawkeye, and always will be."

Clint was silent for another long moment. "But only in my dreams," he muttered.

Natasha grabbed his hand. "Then we dream. But we do it like we used to. For the adrenaline. For the power. For the rush."

He let out a shaky breath, but did not object further. Despite his reservations, he too, was desperate to be back out.

I'm insane, Steve thought as he looked up at the Stark Industries building. There's no other explanation.

When Bucky had first proposed that they recruit the Tony Stark as their architect, Steve had laughed. The man was a multi-millionaire who designed operas and theatres, and would want nothing to do with two soldiers who had been kicked out of a failed program. But Bucky had told Steve why he thought Stark would agree.

"To create from nothing, and to create again…" Bucky waved his hands in the air, trying to snatch the words he needed to describe it. Steve didn't need the words, but that was because he already knew the lure of dreaming. Stark would need more. It might be a little far-fetched, but he was who they needed and they had to try.

They signed in with Stark's secretary, having already made an appointment, identifying themselves as potential clients. It wasn't too long before they were ushered into a very large and clean office. The lack of personal things and decorations, save for the one painting adorning the wall behind the desk, told Steve immediately that Stark did not use this office very often.

They waited for nearly thirty minutes before Stark, dressed in a crisp black suit with a stunning red tie, waltzed into the office. He didn't even look at them as he walked over to his chair.

"So, what do two ex-militants kicked out of a hush-hush project in the army, such as yourselves, want with me?" Stark flopped back into his chair, stretched his arms behind his head, and regarded them with stern eyes.

Bucky's smile faltered.

"See, here's the thing, gentlemen." Stark leant forward in his chair. "You are not from Brooklyn United – in fact, there is no Brooklyn United, and I have to say I'm very disappointed you thought that I wouldn't be able to figure that out. I'm not just an architect." He lifted a single eyebrow, urging them to speak. "Whatever it is, you have two minutes and then I'm calling security."

"Mr. Stark," Steve asked, leaning forward in his seat, "have you ever heard of dream-sharing?"

Stark never called security that day. In fact, Steve and Bucky didn't leave the office until hours later. As Bucky had guessed, Stark had been unable to resist the thought of creating structures in his dreams. He also did not seem to care whether he used it to steal from people or not.

The sun was low in the sky when they decided to continue their discussion the next day.

Stark nodded at the case in Bucky's hands. "That requires a special neurological substance, right?"

"Yeah. We have a limited supply, though. We would need to find some more, probably on the black market."

"Or," Stark suggested, "I know someone who may be able to help."

A pair of round glasses and a head of curly dark hair peered around the doorframe. Dark eyes narrowed at Stark's smiling face, and regarded both Steve and Bucky with distrust.

"No," he said, and made to slam the door shut.

"Hey, Brucie!" Stark protested, slipping his shoe in the doorframe to prevent the door from closing. "I haven't even said hi!"

Dr. Banner growled, wrestling with the door before finally giving up. "Whatever it is: NO."

"C'mon, you can't still be upset!"

The glower Banner sent Tony's way said otherwise.

"Look," Tony said, his hands lifted in a gesture of submission. "I'm sorry. I've said that more times than I'm comfortable with. But I need your help."

Banner chuckled mirthlessly. "I told you no, Tony. I am trying to make a decent, honest living, but maybe you can't understand that. Now get off my porch."

"Please, Dr. Banner," Steve spoke up. "Just a minute of your time."

Bruce wrinkled his nose at Steve. "Military, am I correct?" He shot another accusing glare at Tony.

"C'mon, Bruce. Just let us in so we can talk to you. The neighbours are starting to stare."

Bruce let out a long suffering sigh, but finally pulled the door back so they could enter past him. "Fine."

Bruce was too much of a gracious host to deny them any sort of drink or food, no matter how much he hated Tony Stark. So they all sat around his dining room table – which he had hurriedly cleared of the numerous articles and journals – drinking a fresh pot of tea.

"So," Bruce began calmly. His eyes settled on Tony. "Is this illegal?"

Stark squirmed. "Weeelll…"

Bruce closed his eyes and massaged his temples. "Tony, for godsakes, what don't you understand? You ruined my career with that stint you pulled, and now when I'm trying to gain back some iota of respect in the scientific community, while you're lounging in your billion dollar estate, you come to me with a job that involves tangling with the law?"

For his part, Stark looked appropriately remorseful. "This is different, Bruce. This isn't anything you've ever seen before. This is something you've only ever dreamed about." He nodded at Bucky, who placed the PASIV on the table in front of the Doctor.

"This is a PASIV," Bucky said as Banner tentatively opened it and examined the interior. "It was used in the military for dream-sharing."

"Dream-sharing?" Banner whispered in awe.

Bucky smiled widely. "Would you like to try it out?"

Steve stopped mid-sentence as the warehouse door opened with a creak. He turned to see Natasha walk in, with the man he recognized as Clint Barton on her arm. Even when the doors closed behind them, taking all the remaining light with it, the man did not remove his sunglasses, something that set Steve on edge.

However, Steve let out a genuine smile as he approached them. "Natasha," he greeted.

He got a half smile in return, which was more than he expected. He held his hand out to the man beside her. "Steve Rogers," he said. A beat later, the man offered his hand with a gruff, "Clint Barton."

Steve gestured to his right where Tony and Bruce were sitting. "My chemist and architect, Bruce Banner and Tony Stark."

The pair called out greetings to Natasha, and Barton sent a swift nod in their direction. Steve bounced awkwardly on his feet for a few moments before clapping his hands together. "Let's get started, shall we?"

Natasha gave a sharp nod and walked with Clint over to the open loveseat, a firm grip still on his arm. The pair sat stiffly as Steve walked over to his own seat.

Tony and Bruce were still watching the new pair, even when Natasha sent a warning glare their way. Clint sat stiffly, staring straight ahead.

Tony gestured at Clint. "So, where did you pick up this stray? And what's the story between you two?" He said the last bit with that suggestive waggle of his eyebrows that Natasha hated.

Clint tensed but did not move. Natasha narrowed her eyes at Tony but said nothing.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Uh…Mr. Barton. I heard that you used to be in the army?" he asked cautiously. Clint's head turned in his direction but Bruce felt unnerved when the angle wasn't proper…like the man was looking through him.

Clint nodded. "Yeah. Sniper."

"And then you joined the Chitauri," Tony pointed out, with all the subtlety of a freight train.

Natasha nearly growled and Clint, already tensed like a coiled spring, tensed up further.

Steve stepped forward to mediate. "Okay, back off a bit, Stark. Let's discuss the job, okay?"

"No," Tony argued. "I think we have a right to know about our latest addition to this little club. I don't know about you, but I worry about this man's allegiances." Tony shot the protesting Natasha an apologetic smile. "No offense, but I don't think you can vouch honestly."

"No," Clint said, his voice strong. Again, Bruce watched his gaze swing through Tony. "No, I'm done with the Chitauri."

"Are we done?" Natasha asked through her teeth. Tony leaned back, palms held out innocently.

Steve sighed. "Right. So, our client is Thor Odinson. His father ran Asguard Corporation in Norway, then brought his business to America. His semi-successful hardware store back home became a multi-million dollar success here. He now owns chains of stores across the country." Steve had prepared several pages on background information, which he attempted to hand over to Clint. However, the man ignored him. Instead, Natasha reached over and accepted the file.

Steve blinked, but continued. "Uh…well, two years ago, Odin was murdered. Shot to the head. His killer was never found."

Clint ran a finger along his lips. "And…he wants us to find the killer?"

Steve shook his head. "No, he wants us to perform an extraction on his brother. He believes his brother may have had something to do with it."

Natasha flipped through the file and fell upon the name seconds before Steve said it. "Loki Odinson."

Natasha watched as Clint froze. "Loki…Laufeyson?" he asked slowly.

Steve frowned and flipped through his pages. "Uh…no, I think his name's Odinson."

"Tall, skinny, pale guy, really wild eyes?"

Tony raised an eyebrow and held out the page that Steve had given him that contained his photo. Clint did not even glance at it.

Natasha's breath hitched as she answered her partner. "Yes."

"Sonofabitch!" Clint yelled as he leapt from his seat. He took several strides forward, stumbling into Tony's seat.

"Hey! What the hell?"

Clint spun and turned the other way, nearly bowling over Steve before Natasha was at his side. "Clint," she said, gripping his arms. "Just relax."

"Relax!" He cried. "Relax? When they want me to go inside the mind of a monster? Hell no!"

"What the hell is going on?" Steve demanded. "You know that man?"

Clint growled and tore off his sunglasses, revealing pale eyes and lines of scarred tissue radiating from them. "He," he said, pointing to his face, "did this to me."

Steve ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "It won't work," he said.

"What?" Tony asked. "Of course it will. My designs are perfect."

"No." Bucky shook his head. "Damien is a traveller. He's been everywhere. He has no home. Houses mean nothing to him. They're just places for him to sleep."

Steve nodded. "Right. That's it. We need to focus less on the places and more on the people."

Bruce rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "We need a forger."

"Yes. A forger."

"They're not easy to come by," Tony pointed out.

It was silent for several moments before Bucky spoke hesitantly. "I know this forger…I worked with her once, when we worked for the Red Room."

"Red Room?" Bruce asked.

"Crazy guys who used a lot of psychological manipulations in extraction. All their dreamscapes were red. It worked, I'll give them that…but it was too intense for us. Anyway, she was the best damn forger I've ever seen. She could change people in the blink of an eye and the marks would spill it all for her."

Steve looked thoughtful. "Okay…do you think you can get her to work for us?"

Bucky shrugged. "Maybe. Provided she doesn't shoot us all in the head. She doesn't have the nickname the 'Black Widow' for nothing."

"Charming," Tony muttered.

But Steve only nodded, resigned. "Okay. We need her. And I'm sure we can come to an agreement on price."

For several moments, everyone was too shocked to say anything. But then, timidly, Bruce spoke up. "Loki…blinded you."

Clint confirmed with a nod what Bruce had been thinking since he'd met the man. "Damn bastard."

Tony put it all together rather quite fast. "That's why the Chitauri just let you go after you swindled them. Well, they didn't just let you go…"

"You're saying," Steve began, clearly distressed by this development, "that Loki works for the Chitauri?"

"He did. I don't know if he does anymore." Clint turned back around to pace a few mores steps, running his agitated hands through his hair.

"So you've worked with him?" Bruce asked as Steve flipped through his information, saying, "Why didn't I know this?"

"The last few jobs I did with them, he led. Don't know why, didn't ask. Then that snake caught me." Clint screwed up his face at the memory. "Sadistic bastard took the pleasure of doling out the punishment. Bit of acid to the eye. No more Hawkeye."

"Well," Steve began awkwardly, clearing his throat. "This changes a lot."

"What?" Natasha asked defensively. "What does it change?"

Steve began to answer, but Tony cut him off. "Steve's too nice to say that Barton's blind."

"And you're an asshole."

Steve held up a halting hand. "Okay. Okay. But yes, and no. Loki's involvement with the Chitauri complicates things. This means that he's an extractor – he'll likely see us coming. He'll have defenses," Steve muttered angrily. "And…" he waved at Clint.

Clint could tell Steve was talking about him. He turned in his general direction and crossed his arms over his chest, scowl firmly in place. "I can still dream."

"We had a deal, Rogers."

"Yeah, but you never mentioned this!"

"Steve…he's the best dreamer I've ever seen," Natasha insisted, her voice dropping to a softer tone. "And I don't say that about just anyone."

Licking his lips, Steve cast another look at the man in front of him before turning back to Natasha. She nodded once, decisively. Steve sighed and turned back to Clint. "Okay. Barton, you and I go for a test run and then I'll make my decision."

"Fine," Clint muttered.

Steve opened his eyes and found himself standing in the middle of a room. Looking around, he realized it was an older, slightly run down cottage. The house had peeling, faded paint on the walls, the boards creaked beneath his feet, and he even noticed a few rotted places in the corner.

Dust motes danced before his eyes where the sunshine fell in slants through the grimy windows. He moved over to the ancient fireplace, eyeing the assortment of knickknacks and porcelain figures coated in a thick layer of dust. The smell of mold and mildew was thick in the air as he leaned in to examine the lone picture frame on the mantel. It was black and white and grainy, but he could make out two young boys, each holding a fish proudly. And, in the background, what appeared to be the back of a tall man with long, slicked hair, as he walked away from the scene, his hands clasped behind his back.

A creak from above brought Steve back to the present. He quickly located a set of stairs in the back of the cottage, and gingerly climbing the steep steps, he found an outline of a trap door above his head. With a push the trap door landed open and Steve blinked into the mid-afternoon sunlight.

A soft breeze, carrying the sharp tangy scent of the sea, ruffled Steve's hair as he pulled himself to fully stand on the roof. Standing just to his left, was Clint Barton.

The man was resting against the balcony railing, wearing a faded pair of jeans and a simple, pristine white shirt. Slung across his back was a quiver full of arrows and resting in his hands was a bow, of all things. Steve was still staring at it when Clint turned around.

The first thing Steve noticed was that the scars were gone from around the man's eyes, and that he was looking Steve directly in the eye. Steve also noticed that the man's natural eye colour was a confusing mix of blue and grey, no longer pale and milky.

"Cap," Barton greeted. The sound of waves along the shore met Steve's ears.

Steve nodded, looking over the edge of the building to see that they were perched near the edge of a bluff, completely isolated. "This is good," he said. He shot a pointed look at the bow in Barton's hand. Clint laughed.

"Always been my favourite weapon. But the army just doesn't take much stock in archaic weapons. So I don't often get to use it."

"Yeah, I heard about you, back in the army," Steve smiled. It had been a while since he'd been able to talk to someone about serving. "Lots of people talked about the Amazing Hawkeye."

Clint shook his head. "And I heard about you. Your group, 'The Howling Commandos', made quite the splash. When you came through our base the one time, I thought my CO was going to swoon." He chuckled. "Captain America."

"Uh, well," Steve muttered, obviously abashed. "Don't believe everything you hear."

Clint just shrugged and turned back to the view, smoothly pulling an arrow out of his quiver and notching it. A second later, a pair of ducks flew by, skimming the tops of the trees that lined the rim of the bluff. He pulled the arrow back to his cheek, sighted, and loosed the arrow. Steve's jaw nearly dropped as the arrow took down both birds.

Clint turned back to Steve with a smirk on his face. "But you should believe everything you hear," he joked.

Steve smiled, taking another long glance at the dream surrounding him. He had to admit, the man could dream. And it was stable, with no projections coming out to kill him. However, he was still going to keep an eye on the man. "I'll tell you straight out, I'm only doing this for Natasha," he said.

"So am I," Clint agreed, pulling another arrow from his quiver and twirling it through his fingers. "Though she thinks she's doing this for me."

"Do you still want to do the job, even though we're extracting from Loki?"

Clint sighed, his shoulders slumping as he cast a look down at the waves lapping against the rocks. "I'd rather put an arrow through Loki's eye socket, of course." He turned back to Steve. "But if that fucker killed his father, I'd love to take him down. And," he hesitated a moment. "I want to get back in the game," he admitted quietly.

Steve's next comment was interrupted when the archer suddenly spun back towards the railing, drawing and notching an arrow so fast, if Steve had blinked, he'd have missed it. Steve looked down, following Clint's gaze. Down near the cliffs the bushes were moving as if someone were running through them. Steve thought he spied a swatch of dark clothing, but before he could look further, Clint released the arrow straight into the thicket. The rustling ceased.

He turned back to Steve, his bright eyes searching Steve's face. "Yours?" he asked.

Steve's heart fluttered in his chest, but he forced himself to meet Clint's eyes. "No," he said, with confidence he did not feel. "I'll see you topside."

Bucky shut his phone and looked over at the intense faces watching him. "She'll meet me and Steve tomorrow at eleven."

Tony frowned. "Didn't you call that guy Larry?"

"Yeah," Bucky responded. "But he's going to get the message to Natasha."

Now Tony's eyebrows were disappearing into his hairline. "Really," he deadpanned. "How can you be sure that he's actually going to tell her?"

"Listen, Stark. You don't know Romanoff. You don't know who she is, or who she was. She's not easy to contact, nor does she like being contacted. This is how it's going to have to be." Tony was disgruntled but didn't argue the fact any further.

Bruce tentatively asked, "Uh...'who she was'? What does that mean?"

Bucky licked his lips. "She…has a questionable reputation. She used to be in a more…violent type of work."

"An assassin," Bruce guessed. Bucky nodded.

Tony threw his hands in the air and scowled at Steve. "Rogers, let me tell you now that you have poor judgment. This will blow up in your face. I guarantee it."

Steve shot Tony a disapproving look. "Look, I trust Bucky. If he says that she's good, she's good. I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt."

Stark just muttered blackly beneath his breath as he stalked from the room.

Back in reality, Natasha was struggling to keep herself from slugging Tony.

"So," he'd began, immediately following Clint's and Steve's descent. "What's the story between you and Bird Boy?"

She raised an eyebrow. "'Bird Boy'?"

Tony waved a hand. "Yeah, Hawkeye or whatever." He leaned closer, a grin on his face. "So?"

Bruce sighed. "Tony," he said warningly.

Tony shot a pout at the doctor. "Aw, c'mon, Bruce. I love gossip." He rubbed his hands together and turned back to Natasha. "So, you sleeping together or what?"

Bruce protested Tony's tact while Natasha just stared calmly at him.

"Were you an item before he was blind? Or do you dig handicapped guys?"

This time Bruce rose from his seat. "Alright Tony, I really think that's enough."

Natasha was nonchalantly examining her nails, but Tony could see her jaw muscles clench. "Do I need to remind you that before dream sharing, I was an assassin?" she said calmly.

Tony's grin only widened. "And there she is, ladies and gentlemen!" he announced to the space around himself. "There's my Natasha. For a second there, I wasn't sure I'd see her again, now that it appears she has a real life and everything."

She tossed her hair over one shoulder. "And what have you been up to, Stark? From what I heard, you're business isn't doing too well."

Tony shrugged, settling back in his seat. "Eh…the economy's not doing too well. But it's just a phase."

"So you only agreed to work for Rogers for old time's sake?" she asked coyly.

Tony's smile remained on his face, but he fell silent. Natasha could count on one hand the amount of times she'd been able to silence Anthony Stark.

Bruce shot her a friendly smile from his chair. "How have you been, Natasha?" he asked politely.

Natasha returned it with a genuine smile. Banner was a good man and Natasha could admit to missing their time together. "Bored," she responded. "It's been awhile."

Banner nodded. "I don't think any of us have been under…since…" he waved a hand, not bothering to continue his sentence.

Just then, Clint and Steve began to stir. While Barton woke slowly, sitting up and blinking at his surroundings, Steve bolted straight up and fished around in his pockets. He pulled out his totem and held the sergeant's bars in his hands, running his fingers over the ridges and the dent in it where Bucky had been winged on a rescue mission. He sighed in relief, but with his eyes closed, he could almost see Bucky's face, see his form dashing through the woods towards the edge of the bluff before the arrow came and – he opened his eyes and shook himself, focusing on the conversation taking place around him.

Tony was addressing Clint. "No totem? Confident you won't go crazy?"

Clint shrugged, leaning back casually in his seat. "Can't see in reality. Damn good totem, huh?"

When Steve and Bucky left the warehouse at ten to eleven, Tony didn't even look up from his furious scribbles. He half hoped this woman shot the both of them through their foolish heads. It would serve them right, he thought. Bruce wisely noticed his black mood and stayed in his own corner of the room, testing sample after sample.

Steve and Bucky walked slowly around the park before lingering at a bench surrounded by several trees. Steve found himself shivering in the autumn breeze, and pulled his jacket closer to him.

Only a few minutes went by before Bucky stiffened, his gaze over Steve's shoulder. "Here she comes," he murmured. Steve turned around but when he caught sight of her, he had to remind himself to breathe. Because, Steve admitted, the woman was stunning.

Natasha Romanoff was the very definition of femme fatale. With an hourglass curve and long, shapely legs, she looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine. Long and vibrant red hair fell past her shoulders in lively curls and her pale face set off her bright red lipstick. When she stopped in front of them, Steve had trouble looking away from her large green eyes.

Romanoff openly eyed Steve before turning to Bucky. "Barnes," she said, tilting her head and sending him the smallest of smiles. It only made Bucky smile wider.

"Natasha, good to see you. This is Steve Rogers, our commander. Steve, Natasha Romanoff."

She turned back to Steve, her gaze like a snake waiting to strike. Steve felt himself beginning to sweat, but he ignored it, instead holding his hand out for her to shake. She did so with a firm grip.

"Barnes says you want my services," she began immediately, her tone all business.

Steve straightened his shoulders. "Yes. We need a forger. Bucky says you're the best."

Romanoff's face remained impassive to the compliment. "How much?"

"One million. Each."

She nodded after a moment. "And the mark?"

"Christiano Damien."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "I see." She flicked her eyes between the two men, then nodded once more.

Bucky grinned. "Great. Come by the office tonight?" She just nodded then turned on her heel and walked away.

Steve let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "She's…" he scrambled to find words.

"Scary," Bucky supplied.

"Yeah."

Tony gestured to Clint. "So, what's the deal with him?"

Steve composed himself and stood from his chair, shoving the sergeant's bars back inside his pocket. "He stays," was his reply, earning a skeptical look from Tony. Steve strode towards the drawing board, outlying all of the information he'd managed to gather on Loki. He took a few breaths to steady himself before getting down to business. "Clint, you've been inside Loki's head before. Is there anything you can tell us that would help?"

Clint pondered that for a moment. "It's very…neat. Everything has its place. And it's dark." He frowned. "Like, dim lighting and no sunshine. Very creepy. I hated doing work inside his head."

Steve was writing it down on the board when a thought occurred to him. "Loki knows you. That means there's a chance he would recognize you in the dream," he said to Clint.

Clint shook his head. "I know how to blend in. Besides, Nat's taught me a thing or two about forging."

Steve hesitated, hating to put so much faith in a man he did not know. But then he nodded sharply. "Fine. But we are still going to keep you up and out of the way. I don't want this op going south."

Banner shook his head. "I don't think we can take this job anymore, Steve. Think about it. Loki is a trained extractor. He lives in dreams. He'll see us coming. This is going to turn so bad, so fast. Thor didn't tell you that. What else is he keeping from us?"

Steve's face was set in a deep frown. He paced in front of them, deep in thought. "We are one of the best team of extractors. Loki was working for the Chitauri – a brute group with little finesse. We play our cards right, be prepared, and I think we can do this. We'll have to probe Loki's past a little further, do some recon and then start building the levels. I want some progress done by the end of the week. Our client, Mr. Thor Odinson, will be dropping by to add his two cents, and I assume, to get a feel for our work." Steve looked around at them all, took in their expressions of varying interest, and begun his work.

Steve, with help from Tony and the World Wide Web, had been able to gather a sizeable amount of information on Loki Odinson. However, most of what they unearthed was common knowledge and most of it did nothing to indicate how the man himself worked. This job required more digging and spying. Clint put up a fight about doing reconnaissance; he wanted to do his complete job as point man, where Steve argued about his effectiveness at gathering intel. He had put it more gently than that and skirted neatly around Barton being blind, but Clint was still grinding his teeth angrily. Finally, after Clint pointed out that he had the best hearing and 'who the fuck suspects a blind man?' Steve let him go. He only let Clint spy on Loki's new associates and friends, people he had not met before and would not be remembered.

So Steve directed Clint to the bar that he found that some of Loki's friends often frequented, and Clint nursed a beer as he waited on his targets. He wasn't disappointed.

They sat at a table across the room from him, but that did not stop Clint's extraordinary hearing from picking up on their conversation. He listened intently as they discussed their boss in harsh whispers.

"This is bull," one grumbled. "He's got us running around like dogs. This is below my pay-grade."

"I thought we were hired to gather information; not the mail."

Clint listened in interest to the dissent amongst Loki's new followers. He couldn't help but wish that they lynched the bastard. He stayed there for another ten minutes as they finished their drinks and made their way back to Loki's office. Throwing enough for his drink on the bar, Clint followed them out and down the street. He found it somewhat difficult to follow the men in the evening foot traffic, but his charges weren't quiet as they walked, which made it easier for Barton to follow them. He was more than a little disgruntled as they discussed only last night's football game; he was hoping for much more.

Several people bumped into Clint as he walked down the sidewalk, and his frown continued to grow into a menacing scowl. This was a fool's mission, he chided himself. He berated himself constantly for wanting to be something he used to be; to be something he could never be again. He was stupid to think that he could ever get back into the business of dreaming.

He was on the verge of ditching surveillance – and everything else – when the lackeys' voices stopped moving forwards. Clint, too, stopped.

Clint furiously mapped out the street and distance in his head, and concluded they had stopped in front of the record shop, about a block from the bar. He heard the men, their voices slightly muffled, and so he inched forward some more, feeling along the window of the neighbouring shop until he could hear the conversation clearly once more. He heard it coming slightly to his right and he realized they were in the alley way between the record shop and the bookstore. Clint then heard a series of beeps and his stormy expression immediately lifted to a smile. He pulled his phone from his pocket, speed-dialling Steve.

"Rogers," he said when the man answered. "You're really going to like this."

"This isn't Loki's office," were Stark's first words.

After Clint's call, the entire group had made their way to Clint's location and now sat at the coffee shop across the street, sipping drinks on the portico out front, surreptitiously watching the record shop where Loki's men had disappeared to.

"No," Rogers murmured, his gaze never leaving the building as he took a long swig of his coffee. "That's very interesting."

"A second office," Banner offered. "For his shady business."

"Third," Stark amended. "We were aware of his office down on Fifth. This guy's slimier than I thought."

"When they leave for the night, we need to check it out," Natasha said.

"The side door has a keypad lock." Everyone turned to Clint. "But the code is 528491."

There was stunned silence around the table.

"How…"Banner began.

Clint pointed to his ears. "Each number gives off a specific frequency." He shrugged.

Tony was first to break the silence. His grin turned into a chuckle until he began laughing so hard, he had to wipe tears from his eyes. He took a steadying breath and pointed to Steve. "I'll be damned. I take it back. It's coming back to bite me in the ass."

Steve shook his head, a small smile on his lips.

When night fell and the men left the office above the record shop by the same entrance, the group moved across the street. Tony hesitated a few moments in front of the grimy keypad, shooting a last glance at Clint who maintained his stormy stance. Letting out a breath, Tony punched in the numbers Clint had spoken and grinned when the door clicked open.

Steve chuckled and clapped Clint on the shoulder. "Nice work."

The group moved up the narrow staircase and into the loft above the shop. Natasha and Steve headed for the desk, switching on the desk lamp and sifting through all of the papers there. Bruce browsed the perimeter of the room, while Tony gravitated towards the large picture behind the desk.

"The guy doesn't strike me as a Patricia Romance type of guy," he mused, before carefully lifting away the frame. "Ah," he grinned at the safe before him. "This is what I was looking for." Tony stepped forward to scrutinize the safe. "This will be a piece of cake. The guy's not as paranoid as we thought after all."

Bruce wandered over beside Tony, as he pursed his lips and fiddled with the dial on the safe before clapping his hands in appreciation when the lock popped open. Steve and Natasha discontinued their search at the desk and began to examine the documents that Tony was pulling from the safe.

Steve pulled the first document from the stack. "The Last Will and Testament of Odin?"

Bruce held up another document. "This says that it's the Last Will and Testament of Odin." He passed it over to Steve who compared the two.

"This one was the first one," he gestured to the one Bruce had given him. "Listen to this. It says here that Odin left his empire to both his sons, equally. But here," he gestured to the other will, "it says that Odin left everything to Thor."

Tony snorted. "No wonder the kid is angry. Daddy cut him out of the will."

"But why?" Asked Bruce.

Steve shrugged. "Attitude? Drugs?"

"Chitauri?" Clint offered.

"Maybe," Steve conceded. He tapped the files in his hand. "But this is definitely something we have to discuss with Thor. Who, conveniently, is coming by tomorrow morning." He turned to Tony, who was muttering to himself and shuffling more of the documents in his hands. "Tony, can you have some layouts prepared by then?"

"Uh," Tony's head snapped up, his unfocused eyes looking in Steve's general direction. "Yeah, sure." Then he went back to frowning at his hands.

The mood in the warehouse was decidedly sombre and cold the next morning, for a different reason for each person.

Clint stewed silently in a corner, his eyebrows set in a stern glare, hidden once more behind his sunglasses. His arms were crossed defiantly against his chest, and he would not even speak to Natasha. He was understandably not looking forward to meeting his archenemy's brother.

Natasha acted as if she did not feel the cold shoulder her partner was giving her, and planted herself on the seat next to him, her tablet on her lap, conducting research on their mark. In particular, she was studying the movements and mannerisms of those she knew were closest to Loki: Thor, and his mother and Father; Odin and Frigga. Steve had already informed her that she would go into the dreamscape as one of Loki's family in order to gain his trust. She made no careful notes in ink; she never needed to. She did not ever forget how to 'be' someone. Not anymore.

Bruce was not so much apprehensive of the job as he was tired. He'd stayed up all night working on the formula the team would be using. He'd had the basics completed before Steve had contacted him, but a lot of the preparation needed to be done last minute. He knew that at least two layers of dreamscape would be needed to complete the job and layers called for more careful work. He could not afford to be careless.

Steve diligently pored over the layout he had sketched. He had a few basic ideas on levels which he had shared with Tony, but they were waiting until Thor dropped by to finalize things. Steve chewed on the end of his pencil and gazed through the sketches. His mind turned from cityscapes and opera houses to snowy landscapes and cluttered caves with a horrible jolt. Wrenching the pencil from his mouth, he immediately sat up and tore himself away from that line of thinking. Dwelling on his past mistakes would only get them into trouble.

No one had seen Tony after they had gotten back from Loki's third office. The architect had disappeared straight into the office, where he'd promptly slammed the door shut. Once in a while the team was able to hear low muttering, some vicious curses, or the sounds of papers shuffling and ripping. The others only attributed it to Tony's eccentric nature and let him be. He only reappeared the next morning, close to five minutes before Thor arrived, stumbling towards the others with his hair tousled and dark bags under his eyes. He tossed his stack of papers on his chair, ignored Steve's voiced concerns, and headed straight for the coffee pot.

It was only a little more than five minutes later when there was a loud knock on the warehouse door. Steve jumped to his feet, but paused a moment to collect himself before he went to the door. He looked around at the rest of his teammates, who sat in either apprehensive or brooding silence, and went to answer the door.

The large blonde, hulking figure on the other side was unmistakably Thor Odinson. Even if Steve had not seen dozens of photos and videos of the man running Asgard Corporation, there would be no mistaking the man who stood before him. Thor, clad in an ostentatious suit, practically oozed wealth and success. He was a large man who stood tall and powerful, and immediately flashed a dazzling, salesman-worthy grin at Steve.

"Stephen Rogers," he boomed, in a voice that was aptly matched to his size. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

Steve nodded. "Likewise, Mr. Odinson."

"Thor, if it please you."

"Right. Please, come in." Steve led the business man further into the warehouse where the rest of his team was waiting. "Thor, this is my team here," he pointed to each in turn, "Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton." Everyone gave a polite nod, save for Stark, who merely shot Thor a blank, bleary-eyed look and Clint, who continued to glare behind his sunglasses. Thor, however, did not seem perturbed by the tension.

"I trust that you have made some progress on my assignment, Stephen?" Thor inquired, clasping his hands in front of him.

Steve moved back towards the whiteboard where all of their information was scribbled or pinned down. "Yes, as a matter of fact, we have." Steve pulled out the two copies of the will that they had found and passed them to Thor. "We found these in one of Loki's offices."

Thor frowned at Steve. "These – how –"

"You must understand that our job requires us to have every piece of information about our subjects. And I mean every piece of information," Steve stressed. "No matter how small, no matter how dirty, no matter how embarrassing. Otherwise, it can mean failure, or worse. I'm afraid you are no exception to the rule, Thor."

Thor visibly struggled with his words for several moments, shooting glances between the documents in his hands and Steve's stern, unyielding face. Then his shoulders visibly fell and he sighed. "Very well," he said. "You make a fair point. Ask what you will."

Steve nodded to the will in Thor's hands. "Why did your father change the will?"

"Father never meant to change the will," Thor began, a frown tugging at his face. "He had always meant for the two of us to own the company together, when we were old and wise enough. Loki was always wise…crafty and cunning, but he knew what he was doing. Father saw this, but Father also knew…" here Thor paused, obviously finding his next words harder to say. "He also knew that I was unfit to run the company. I partied and gambled and picked fights with whomever I could find.

"So Father sent me away to school so that I could learn responsibility and how to properly run a business. I did, but when I returned…Loki was different."

"Different how?" Bruce asked.

"He was cold. Distant. He constantly argued with our father, and he would disappear for days at a time. I am ashamed to say now that I paid little attention to my brother's feelings. Perhaps, if I had said something…" he trailed off, his tone full of regret. "But I did not. It was only after Father died that I realized that he had changed his will."

"Something had happened then, while you were gone. Loki had done something," Steve mused.

Thor nodded. "Yes, and this is why I have brought my case to you. I fear that Loki involved himself with unsavory characters. I do not like to think it, but I fear that he may have been involved in my father's death."

"Have you asked him?"

"Loki is decidedly…unreachable. He does not take any of my calls, and is never home when I come to see him. I know not what I have done to him."

"Do you think your brother killed your father?" Steve asked.

Thor's expression turned stormy in a matter of seconds. "My brother is not a murderer!" he rumbled.

"But he's not your brother, is he?"

Everyone turned to look at Tony, who had spoken his first words since stumbling from his office. With his hair a mess and his eyes rimmed in red, Steve suddenly knew just what the man had been doing the whole night.

"Excuse me?" Thor demanded.

"He's not your brother," Tony repeated. "At least, not by blood. He's adopted."

Steve swivelled back to pin the businessman with a level glare. "You failed to mention that, sir."

Thor did not wrest his eyes from Tony's. "Blood or not, he is and always will be, my brother."

"But," Tony injected, a finger held aloft. "Did your father see it that way?"

"Wait a second," Steve interrupted, a bewildered look on his face. "Can we rewind? Tell us about his adoption."

Thor nodded. "When he was but a babe. I was not aware of this until recently. I imagine he discovered this when I was away at school."

"Ah," Bruce said. "His change."

"Quite," Thor agreed. "Loki was always a sensitive child and I imagine it was quite the shock…he may have run into the arms of some characters my father did not approve of."

Clint snorted loudly from his corner.

Steve ignored him, turning back to Thor. "Fine. But to make this work, we're going to need more intimate information from you about Loki, in order to create these dreamscapes."

"Of course," Thor conceded. Then he paused. "There is…one more thing I wish to ask of you. I would like, in addition, for you to perform an inception on my brother."

Silence reigned in the warehouse for several heartbeats. Then Tony started laughing. He was laughing so hard, he had to get up from his chair and stand in the corner, away from their guest.

Natasha shook her head, Clint swore "He's not fucking serious," and Bruce just stared back at their guest.

Steve's mouth fell open, forming an 'O'. "Inception," he repeated, in a deadpan voice.

"Yes," replied Thor, clearly affronted. "The planting of an idea in one's head? I have heard of it being done before."

"Yeah, by the best in the business!" Steve ran a hand over his face. "Look, Thor. Inception is nearly impossible. I only know of one team who managed to pull it off, and they nearly lost everything. Inception is only possible with a highly skilled, highly knowledgeable team, with a mark who is easily manipulated – "

"Are you saying you are not skilled enough? Have what I heard about your successes been untrue, Stephen?"

"No, what I mean is – I have never performed an inception. My team has never performed an inception. And we have certainly never attempted it on a man such as your brother."

"What are you insinuating?" Thor drew himself back to his full height, managing to tower over Steve.

"That you don't really know your brother." Clint spoke up, his words like angry barbs thrown in Thor's direction. He was standing now, glowering over at Thor. "He's an extractor," Barton elaborated. "A devious, vile extractor who knows his way around a man's mind just as much as we do. He's worked for the dirtiest, lowliest scum in the business and he's not afraid to get his hands dirty. The second we enter his mind, he is going to know something is wrong. He will know that he's dreaming. The extraction is already a large risk; inception would be impossible." Then Clint turned away and strode towards the far end of the room.

Steve nodded to Thor, who stared after Clint's retreating back. "He's right. The extraction is going to be difficult enough. We simply can't pull off an inception."

"Loki is…an extractor?" Thor questioned.

"Yes," Bruce answered. "Ever heard of the Chitauri?" Thor shook his head 'no'. "They're another group of extractors. Their methods are decidedly…different. What Barton is saying is that Loki is a profession of the craft."

Steve was studying his boards and all of the information he had amassed. He was quiet for a few minutes, hardly listening to the drone of voices of his team talking with Thor. Then he spun around, interrupting Thor and Bruce and said, "What did you want to plant?"

Thor appeared startled. "I...uh…Loki is under the impression that Father did not care for him, and that I do not either. With this startling truth about his heritage, he seems to have forgotten all of our happy childhood memories. I merely want to remind him of that, and to remind him that we are still brothers."

"I will need to discuss this with my team, you understand."

"Of course." Thor nodded solemnly. "I shall come back tomorrow." Then he turned around and left.

As soon as the doors shut behind him, Stark turned on Steve. "You're not serious about this." When Steve said nothing, Tony continued, "Please tell me you're not serious."

"There might be –" Rogers began, but Clint cut him off.

"You have to be joking," he said. "There's no way we can take this job now. It was risky enough when he just wanted an extraction. But there's no way in hell we can pull off an inception." Clint strode forwards, but Natasha's hand on his arm prevented him from tripping over the table. He stuck a finger in front of him – Steve knew it was meant for him – and spoke harshly, "I've been inside his head. You have no idea what it's like in there. No idea what he can do. You – " but he was shaking so furiously that his next words refused to form.

"Please." Steve held his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. "Just listen for a moment. I think it might be possible. We're planning on doing several levels anyhow, right? We know Loki is an extractor. He'll know that he's dreaming. So we make the dreams simple and mundane. Think small scale; small places, single rooms. Familiar places. Places he would feel at home. We make them so he's sure that he's dreaming them himself."

Tony's protests died on his lips, and he leaned forward in his seat, his brows furrowed in thought.

"Three layers. We bring him through three layers. We ply him with warm memories. Natasha will pose as Odin and Thor – and as we look for evidence of his guilt, we give him that feeling of being wanted; of being a part of the family. Maybe even some feelings of guilt, you know, 'the errors of his ways' and all that."

Tony sat back in his seat, his finger tapping his lip contemplatively.

"Here's what I'm thinking," Steve began, the words tumbling off his tongue just as fast as they formed in his head. "We start off relatively easy. Something Loki might find relaxing. It's always easier to remember where you were before the dream, the closer you are to the surface. So this needs to be plausible."

"The ballet," Clint said. Then he elaborated, "Loki likes the ballet. It was sort of a…guilty pleasure of his. He doesn't exactly broadcast it, anyways."

Steve smiled. "Perfect. The first level will be the ballet. Its dark, plenty of places to hide…he'll likely have his projections as security. Clint, I think you can take care of that. We'll have Natasha pose as Thor, strike up a conversation. We want him to feel secure, but also on edge. His brother is questioning him about Odin's death, but he's also concerned for his wellbeing. Natasha?" he asked the forger, hoping she caught his drift.

Natasha nodded. "Love and guilt. Got it."

"Then we go deeper. His childhood home, maybe. Again, Natasha as Thor, or maybe Odin – reassure him of his place in the family."

"We can have Thor stick up for Loki," Bruce suggested, seeing Steve's line of thought. "Stand up for him in front of Odin. Defend him."

"Yes." Steve pointed a finger at Bruce. "Good." He paced around the floor before turning back to the group. "Then we go in for the kill."

"Recreate Odin's murder," Natasha said.

"Exactly," Steve nodded. "By this time, Loki should be filled with adequate guilt. He'll likely confess, or provide enough proof for us – Tony, remember to create a safe or something for Loki to fill – so that we can be sure of his guilt. And in the process, we may be able to convince him of his family's love for him."

"Well damn," Tony muttered, leaning back in his seat. "This foolish job might actually work."

"Of course it will. Tony, start working on the first layer. When Thor comes back tomorrow, I want you and Clint to work with Thor to create the other layers. You'll need his memories and better yet, an actual tour of his home to get all of the details right. Every detail is critical. We can't get anything wrong," Steve stressed.

Steve kept up his confidant façade until all of his teammates had left the room or sequestered themselves in a corner. Then he allowed himself to deflate as he turned back to his drawing board, studying the material there even more rigorously than before. He wasn't nearly as confident about this task as he wanted to be. But there wasn't much of a choice. They had to do it, and they were going to succeed.

"Dammit, that was too close," Tony snapped as he shut the door and locked it behind him.

"Shut it, Stark," Natasha snarled back, peeking through the blinds at the landscape below. "That was your own fault. You were supposed to make this a maze."

Tony threw his hands in the air. "It is a maze! I don't make anything but the best mazes. How the hell did he figure it out so fast?"

Natasha was about to retort further when Steve stepped between them. "That's enough. It was close, but we made it out. Now let's just finish what we came here to do." He gestured to the mark lying at their feet. With another glare directed at Stark, Natasha walked over to Bruce and lay down, offering up her arm.

"Let's finish this ridiculous job," she ground out from clenched teeth.

Steve lay next to her. He looked back at the man still standing at the door, fiddling nervously with his sidearm. "Bucky? You ready?"

Bucky turned to him and a cocky grin replaced his sombre expression. "Hell yeah, let's do this." And without any further hesitation, he hooked himself to the PASIV.

Once everyone was prepped, Bruce pushed the button and they fell asleep.

"I have sent the house staff home for the day," Thor said as he tossed his keys down on the counter in the hallway. He glanced awkwardly at his blind companion. "Shall I direct you?"

Clint ignored him, continuing his slow walk around the perimeter of the front hall. He trailed a hand along the wall and walked with slow, shuffled steps.

Thor looked to Tony for an explanation, but the man just shrugged and pulled out his camera. He then began to wander off, snapping pictures as he went. Thor even spied him lying on the floor, taking photos of the underside of the couch.

Left on his own with Clint, Thor rocked uneasily back on his heels. He was about to speak again when Clint spoke up.

"Every place has its own…feel," he said, and when he turned to face Thor, Thor nearly shivered at the intense, vacant look in his eyes. "I never appreciated it until I lost my sight, but it's not just about the looks. It's the atmosphere." Clint continued to talk as he started down the hallway. Thor followed.

"There's a reason everyone has a safe haven. A place they feel comfortable. That's because it gives them the feeling of safety, of comfort. I need to find that and recreate it in the dream world. My job is to make sure every detail is correct."

Thor nodded. "I see." He visibly struggled with his next words, trying to find a way to voice his question. "Did you…know my brother?" Clint froze, his back to Thor. "You appear to be very furious with me, though I know not what I have done to slight you. You have also spoke angrily against my brother, as if you knew him personally."

After a few long moments, Clint turned back to Thor. "I would like to see the room where he grew up," he said flatly.

Thor dropped his gaze, staring ashamedly at his feet. "Of course."

Nearly two hours later, Clint stopped and called to Thor. "I will need the suitcase now."

Thor handed him the case he had been tasked to carry throughout the house. Clint set it on the floor and unlocked it to reveal a curious array of buttons and vials and gauges. "It's a PASIV," Clint commented as he unraveled wires. "And as much as I hate the idea, I need you to go under with me." He pulled out a wire and held it over, with Thor swooping in to grab it. "I need to see where we are; touching the walls will only get me so far. And, I need you to set me up."

Thor pulled over two chairs for them to sit in. "I must say, the idea of dream sharing intrigues me."

Clint paused while inserting the needle. "Well, all you're going to do now is just start me off with dreaming up Loki's room, okay?" Then when Thor was settled, he pressed the button and both fell asleep.

Thor woke up standing in the same room he had fallen asleep in. He wiggled his feet in the plush carpet, a surprised expression coming over his face as he realized it felt the same as it always did. He looked over at his companion and nearly did a double-take, for the man next to him was both the same and completely different.

Clint Barton wandered the room with a smoother and more confident step, his hands behind his back instead of out to the sides, and his eyes roved over every detail in the room instead of listlessly moving in a random fashion. "Is this how it really looks?" he asked, pinning Thor with his haunting grey eyes.

Thor nodded. "Yes, exactly."

Clint nodded and walked the perimeter several times, drinking in the designs and the colours, committing them to memory. He paused on his second lap, noting the way Thor was shifting impatiently. "This will take a while, big guy. Might want to get comfortable."

And so the time in the dream world passed, with Clint wandering Loki's childhood home, Thor trailing after him like a silent, awkward shadow. After nearly an hour, Clint could feel the dream starting to end around him by the subtle ripples in the air and the shimmering form of Thor in front of him. Suddenly, Thor disappeared, and Clint readied himself for the inevitable pull that signaled his time was over, but it never came. Instead, the ripples seized and the dream shifted.

Clint spun around, finding himself now standing in an empty theatre hall, with soft lights illuminating the exits and casting ominous shadows on the empty seats. But his extraordinary eyes caught one seat that was not empty.

The person sitting in the seat spoke. "I put more time on. Though I made sure that Odinson was out first." Stark stood up and made his way to Clint.

"What the hell, Stark?" Clint growled.

Tony grinned, spreading his hands out innocently. "Rogers also said that we had to work on the first level together."

"Actually, he said we were to work on the other layers together," Clint pointed out. "And since when do you listen to Rogers?"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "I see Romanoff talks about me a little too much."

Clint snorted, turning from Stark to face the darkened stage. He made his way down the aisle, examining the high ceilings. "Can you put in beams up there?" he asked Stark. "Rogers wants me to keep watch, and I see better from a distance." Within seconds, wooden beams sprouted from each arch in the ceiling and created a lattice of beams, giving the theatre an older touch. Clint nodded. "Nice."

"So…you and the Russian firecracker, huh?"

Clint rolled his eyes at the architect. "Seriously?"

"What? You think I can say that to her?"

"I bet you tried."

Tony barked a laugh. "Yeah, and you know how warm she is. So…you and Romanoff."

"What's the deal with Rogers?" Clint asked, completely ignoring Stark's question.

Tony frowned in annoyance. "You might need to be more specific. Let's see," he said as he ticked each item off his fingers. "The stick up his ass, his need for military protocol even though we are not in the military, his desire to stay in the past – "

"I meant his demons."

Tony paused, his gaze darkening. His hands fell to his sides. "You met Bucky when you went under, didn't you." He did not phrase it as a question.

"If that's who I shot, then yes."

Clint thought he saw a ghost of a smile pass over Tony's lips, but then Tony ducked his head with a shake and hid his face. "Bucky…was an old friend." When Tony raised his head, Clint saw in the architect's face that Tony did not mean that Bucky was just Steve's friend. "He was in the army with Steve. They came back and got into the dream sharing business together. Bucky was the point-man."

"Natasha told me about the job," Clint explained.

Tony shrugged, but it was clear that the topic still brought him pain. "Yeah, everything went to shit. What doesn't? But this job…this one was doomed from the beginning."

"Then why are you here?" Clint asked.

Tony tipped his head to the side, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Why are you?"

"Alright." Steve stood before his board with his entire team, plus Thor, sitting before him. "This is how it's going to go down. Layer One," he gestured to a 3D model sitting in front of him, "is the ballet, courtesy of Bruce. Tony?" He offered up the reigns to his architect.

Tony hopped up from his seat and began to explain his model theatre. "I've set it up so that myself, Steve, Bruce and Thor can each have our own boxes, with clear views of both the stage and Natasha and Loki, who will be sitting here," he pointed out the seats, which sat in the first few rows of the theatre. "I've also set up rafters for Robin Hood to hang out. He can get a good view of the place. And here," he pointed back behind the stage, "is where the dancer's dressing rooms will be. We lure Loki here, and go deeper."

"Loki's projections will likely manifest as security," Steve added. "The problem is that he's a trained extractor. That's why it will be very important for Natasha to convince him that this is real, and this is comfortable."

Natasha nodded confidently. "From what I've gathered," she said, "Loki's anger lies mostly with Odin, so posing as Thor will bring back that childhood bond, or at least keep him from sending security after me."

Thor's rumbling voice spoke for the first time that day. "Or I can speak with Loki."

Steve's brows furrowed. "We don't take tourists on these jobs," he said seriously.

Thor leaned forward, his face devoid of any amusement. "I am Loki's brother. We played together and we fought together. I know him better than you, and no amount of research can change that," he added at Natasha, who sat back in her chair, a frown on her face. He turned back to Steve. "Let me come with you."

Tony snorted and said "Ah, no," at the same time that Steve said, "Okay."

Stark blinked and said, "What?"

But Steve was still sizing up Thor, his hand on his chin contemplatively. "No, he has a point. Thor is the best person to play Thor. He knows Loki better than us. The first layer is too close to the surface to afford a mistake; if Loki doesn't feel comfortable enough, or he figures out he's dreaming, he'll know immediately."

Natasha raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Fine," she said tersely. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

Steve grinned. "We are trying to get Loki into the dressing rooms, right?"

Natasha's eyebrow dropped, and she fixed the Captain with a lethal stare. "Rogers," she growled warningly.

Clint brightened up from his spot next to the forger. "Hey, Nat, you used to do ballet!" He exclaimed, a huge grin on his face. "This is perfect!"

Natasha bemoaned the fact that her glare was useless on her partner. "Don't you encourage him."

But Clint wasn't to be stopped. "I'd love to be able to see you dance," he said, this time softer and with a clearly wistful tone.

That stopped Natasha dead in her tracks and she felt the last piece of resolve wither away inside her. She was a cold-hearted assassin; what had happened to her? How did this archer make her so soft? Still, she put up a front for the others, raising her nose in the air and shooting a glare at Steve. "We'll talk about this later," she said. Only she knew that it didn't matter. She was going to be dancing.

"Okay," Steve recovered, turning back to scrutinize his boards. "This changes the entire game. Right, so Natasha is dancing," he ignored her glare, "and Thor will sit with Loki. We get them back to the dressing room and then we enter Layer Two." He pulled the theatre model from the table and set down the next one. "The Odinson household."

"I've played with the layout somewhat," Tony explained, "so that it's to our advantage. This is Thor's room," he pointed to a room that jutted out from the rest of the house. "Kitchens are back here. With the doors closed, the hallway is straightforward and Loki can easily find his way. But, if need be, I can open up a few doors and – voila – a maze."

"Now that Thor will be Thor," Steve added, "Natasha, you stay with us. As soon as Thor and Loki have their conversation and lunch, we get to the next and last level." He again pulled the current model from the table and replaced it with another. "Odin's office."

"The scene of his murder," Tony added. "Which Natasha will re-enact. We lure Loki there, pull him through the ringer and get his confession. Shakespeare can do whatever he wants after that," he muttered, gesturing to a confused Thor.

"One thing," Bruce interjected. "When and how do we get to Loki and get him asleep?" He looked specifically to Thor.

Thor frowned. "I have not spoken to my brother in weeks, and he will not answer my calls."

"He takes an afternoon tea at the Marvelous Tea Shop every afternoon." Everyone turned to look at Clint, who merely stared down at his lap. He shrugged. "Always orders a black chamomile."

"Here you go, sir," the barista announced with a smile, placing the steaming mug in front of his customer. "One medium chamomile. Black. Have a nice day."

The taller man nodded, his sharp green eyes moving over him and away with the same speed, obviously unsuspicious of his server. He grabbed his cup and headed back outside, taking a long sip of the aromatic tea. A smile came over his face as the warmth spread through his body, and he walked from the shop with an extra bounce in his step. He made his way down his usual shortcut through the back alley. He made it ten steps before he passed out, the cup falling from his hand to splash spectacularly on the ground.

Immediately, a van pulled up in front of him and the Employee's Only door opened. Steve dashed out, ripping off his apron as he went.

Thor and Tony jumped out of the van, and the three of them carefully grabbed Loki and put him in the van while Natasha cleaned up the fallen cup. Then they made their way back to the warehouse.

They situated Loki in a recliner and clustered their chairs around him. Everyone's face was grim as they settled in, rolling up their sleeves and offering their arms.

Steve handed out connections, locking eyes with each of his teammates. He wanted to tell them that they were the best team he had worked with and that this would all work out, but he couldn't force the words from his throat. Instead, he said, "We get in, we finish the job, we get out. Got it?" Everyone nodded. "Alright. See you down there." Then he pressed the button and they all fell asleep.

Natasha opened her eyes, and she immediately felt on edge. The setting of the dream was correct, as they'd planned; an outdoor marketplace in the Middle East full of outdoor vendors and people milling around. But the feeling was wrong. Completely wrong. The projections were already frowning and looking for the dreamer.

She turned to her left and caught Bucky's eye. His back was stiff and straight, and she could tell he'd noticed too. He gestured for her to follow him to a darkened store front. "You need to keep moving," she told him urgently. "They're already looking for you."

He tugged on his hat to cover more of his face. "I'm not about to make it easy on them."

Steve woke to the soft sounds of violins. Blinking rapidly to bring the dim room into focus, he stood from his ornate chair and walked to the edge of his viewing box. Looking down on all the finely dressed people, he took a few moments to fully take in the scene of the dream.

The theatre was packed almost to capacity. Steve could only pick out a few seats below that did not hold a person. Across the room from him he saw Bruce sitting in his own box, leaning against the railing, watching the people below. A few feet to Bruce's left there was another private viewing box where Tony Stark stood, a flute of champagne in his hand, watching the dancers on stage.

Steve's gaze traveled along the beams between the boxes, stretching from each end of the theatre and meeting just above the grand chandelier in the middle. In one of the corners, hidden in shadow, he could just make out the dark outline of a hunched person.

Nodding to himself, he moved his attention to the stage, seeking Natasha. It wasn't long before he found her, as she was the prima ballerina. She leapt across the stage with the grace of an elk and she twirled so fast, men became mesmerized. Her red hair, sprinkled with glitter, caught the light as she moved, and Steve heard some of the women in the audience gasp with awe. Even Steve had to admit the sight was beautiful.

Situated in the shadowy beams, Clint's grey eyes were locked on Natasha's twirling form. He had known she would be a beautiful dancer, but he couldn't have imagined this. This was beauty in one of its most raw forms.

Movement from below caught his eyes and he reluctantly tore them from his ballerina. Two men in suits moved methodically up and down the aisles, but their stiff gait and sharp eyes told Clint that they were not ushers. He tapped his comm. line on and spoke quietly, "We've got security. Rows B and C."

Steve nodded from his private box. Now he could see the men making their way around the theatre. "Okay. Keep an eye on them. They're Loki's, but if he doesn't feel threatened, then they're just a precaution." He wasn't too worried. The setting was calm and controlled, just as he knew it would be when Bruce was dreaming. He watched as one of the security men walked back down the aisle, past a man who was just getting up from his seat.

Steve watched the man in the audience as ice formed in his gut. The light caught the man's dark hair, and the way he held himself, the set to his shoulders, it was –

The man's face turned towards Steve as he freed himself from the seats and walked up the aisle. Steve's heart skipped a few beats as he realized the man was faceless and nameless – it wasn't Bucky. He tried to regain control of his breathing and unclench his hands from the railing. He hadn't realized how far over he was leaning to get a closer look. He took a long, shaking breath, then looked up to catch Tony's watchful eye. The man hadn't missed his lapse.

Below them, the show continued, and two men in the audience watched.

Loki leaned back in his seat, a smile curving his lips in delight. He hadn't felt this relaxed in so long. It had been a while since he had found the time to make it to a performance. Someone shifted next to him and Loki cast a glance to his right and, slightly startled to see Thor next to him. Then he relaxed once more, for he usually forgot everything and anyone when he was at the ballet.

Thor leaned towards Loki and spoke softly, "I'm glad we could do this, brother. It's been too long."

He wasn't nearly as quiet as he thought he was, Loki mused. But all he said was "Hmm." He did not take his eyes from the red-headed vixen who had captured his attention from the beginning.

"I'm glad you accepted my invite to the ballet," Thor continued.

Loki frowned. "I don't rightly know why," he drawled. "You never liked the ballet."

"But I knew that you enjoyed the ballet."

Loki frowned and pulled on the collar of his coat. "I don't remember telling you that," he muttered.

Thor grinned. "No, you didn't. I know much more than you give me credit for," he said.

That sentence stirred something in Loki's mind. He tried desperately to grasp it, but it floated just out of reach. "Yes, and how did you know where to find me?" He frowned harder, the edges of his eyebrows meeting above his nose as he tried to think. "I don't remember telling you where to find me. Frankly, I only remember getting tea…"

Thor pulled at his collar, suddenly feeling the heat of the stares he was receiving. Loki's subconscious was getting suspicious of him, and he remembered Rogers saying that was entirely bad. He forced a smile on his face. "And what a coincidence, I said. I was in town on business. I had heard a great many things about that shop, and that is where I found you. It was also lucky a friend of mine had given me these tickets as a show of thanks. How lucky it was."

Loki nodded after a moment, and the people finally turned away. "Yes, I suppose so," he said. Then, with a barely discernable sneer, he said, "Lucky, lucky Thor."

"We haven't spoken much since father's death," Thor continued after several minutes, when he felt safe enough to bring the topic back.

Now Loki turned to meet his brother's eyes. Thor looked worried and happy at the same time. It made Loki feel strange to see his brother worried. It was not often an emotion expressed by the unstoppable and boisterous man he had grown up with.

"And you thought this conversation best had at a ballet?" he asked mockingly, an eyebrow raised.

Thor shrugged. "I wanted to see you. I wanted to know how you were doing."

Loki snorted contemptuously. "Really," he said drily. "Please don't pretend to care."

Applause erupted around them, but Thor and Loki ignored them. "You cannot say that and believe it," Thor said, his voice low and obviously hurt.

Loki's eyes flashed dangerously. "Who was it that grew up in your shadow? Always pushed aside, always pushed away. Because I was not the great and almighty Thor who was destined for greatness, following in his father's footsteps!" His whisper had grown louder and harsher as the anger seeped from him. "All I wanted was to be your equal!"

"Were you not?" Thor countered. "We were both heirs to father's empire. Both of our names were to be placed beneath his. How much you forget, brother."

"I am not your brother," Loki sneered.

Thor's eyes narrowed. "You are and you always will be, by blood or not." His tone now matched his brother's. "Tell me, who did you play with? Who did you fight with? Did that mean nothing to you?"

"And that man we so dearly called 'father'? Did the truth mean so little to him that he could not bear to tell me?"

Thor's face fell, sadness chasing away the anger. "Loki," he whispered. "He was only protecting you. He…he did not want you to know."

Loki now appeared confused, just as Thor had hoped. "What are you talking about? Protect me from what?"

So Thor threw in the proverbial fishing line. "Your birth parents."

Loki drew back, shocked, but he could not ask anything over the roar of the crowd as it surged to its feet, clapping frantically. Loki, not one to be rude stood too, but he clapped absentmindedly. He watched as the dancers filed out, taking a bow for the audience and waving to the crowd. One in particular, the star of the show, turned in his direction, quirked a smile, and blew him a kiss.

Thor nudged him. "I think she likes you."

Loki couldn't help but smile coyly back at the woman. He was pulled from his thoughts when Thor pulled on his coat. "Let's go," his brother said.

"What?"

Thor only pulled him harder. "C'mon," he said again, a grin lighting up his face.

Loki couldn't help his own smile as they walked swiftly through the seats and down the aisle towards the stage. Loki knew Thor was up to his usual stunts, and pulling his brother in with him. It was a common occurrence growing up. The two had caused plenty of mischief together.

They were stopped by security at the entrance to the dressing rooms, but with a quick word from Thor, the man let them through. Thor continued to drag Loki down the hallway, passing girls in various costumes and states of dress, towards one door at the end. The name read: Natalia Romanova. Thor knocked twice then stepped back. He grabbed a vase of flowers off a nearby table and thrust them into Loki's arms.

"Don't forget the flowers," he said, the smile not disappearing from his face.

Loki sputtered into the bouquet. "Thor," he hissed, hardly believing what his brother was getting him into now. The only problem, he knew, was that his brother no longer held power over him – at least, that's what he told himself. If he was getting himself into this nonsense, it was likely because he wanted to – or he wanted to believe in the notion that they were still the same mischievous brothers. He squashed that idea down promptly.

The door opened and the red-headed beauty stood there, with her hair down and a deep blue robe wrapped around her. Loki, for all his silver-tongued abilities, found himself missing the ability to think. "Ah," he said, handing her the flowers, "You were extraordinary. Such a delightful show."

She smiled at him and took the bouquet. "Thank you," she said with a deeply accented voice. She leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, letting Loki catch the intoxicating aroma of the perfume she had applied. It did strange things to his head. "Please, come in," she said, and disappeared inside the dressing room. Loki was unaware of his feet moving.

He took several steps into the room and promptly fell to the floor.

Immediately, Thor stepped inside and shut the door behind him, then helped Natasha to move Loki off to the side. When that was done, Thor watched in wonder as Natasha carefully removed her poisoned lipstick.

"I get the feeling that is not the first time you have used that," he said. She just smiled at him.

Seconds later, a short and long rap was heard at the door and then Clint poked his head in. He whistled. "Jesus Christ, Natasha. I forgot you were that good." He grinned down at Loki. "Poor sucker never stood a chance."

Another knock at the door announced Steve's arrival. He quickly surveyed the room, then nodded at Thor. "Nicely done, Thor. That was good."

Thor bowed his head. "I only regret not having this conversation in the real world. If only I had the courage."

Steve clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically. "If this goes correctly, this will more than make up for that."

A few minutes later, Bruce and Tony entered the room together with Tony carrying the PASIV. He set it down on the small coffee table and handed out lines.

"You good, Bruce?" Steve asked as he inserted his needle.

Bruce smiled. "Set the charges, keep the projections away, and don't get angry."

Steve frowned. "Er, right."

Steve pulled his jacket tighter around him, sensing the immediate tension in the air. He watched as all the projections moved past him, walking briskly, eyes wide and open, obviously searching out one person. Bucky.

Steve set quickly off, tossing a glance to his right and seeing Natasha set pace with him. They wove through the crowds, searching for their mark. With the way the dream was going down the tubes, fast, it was important for them to finish the job as quickly as possible.

Suddenly, Steve spied a familiar form at a vendor up ahead. It was Damien, examining an assortment of porcelain mugs and chatting with the elderly woman who was selling them. Steve looked back over to Natasha and nodded his head in the mark's direction. Natasha nodded back; only it wasn't Natasha anymore.

The man who nodded back at Steve was tall and skinny, with a stooping posture and grey hair, and thick glasses perched on his nose. He was Russell Proger, a good friend and colleague of Damien. It was Natasha's job to get Damien to give up the location of his safe so that Steve, with the combination in hand, could open it.

Natasha – Russell – marched up to Damien and lightly bumped into him from behind. Steve watched as the man spun around, a scowl on his face and obscenities on his lips, only to freeze as he caught sight of his friend. He broke out into a smile and the two quickly embraced before launching into an inquiry of what the other was currently up to.

Steve mulled around at the spice vendor nearby, and he could see out of the corner of his eye Tony purchasing a large and ornate urn. Whatever for, Steve did not know.

Suddenly, a shot rang out and as one, every projection turned in the direction of the noise. It was a scene that continued to haunt Steve's dreams, but not nearly as much as what happened next.

Two large, muscular men holding a struggling and protesting Bucky between them marched toward Damien. Damien regarded the scene with wide eyes before turning to face Russell, who now bore several red streaks in his hair.

Quickly, Steve had his gun in his hand and he saw Tony hefting the large urn.

Natasha's composure had returned and she was the spitting image of Russell Proger once more, but the damage had been done. Damien grinned menacingly and pulled a gun from his jacket pocket. He turned back to Bucky and leveled the gun at his head.

Tony, Steve and Natasha leapt forward at the same time. Two more large men came out of nowhere and grabbed hold of Natasha. She began to fight them immediately, and Steve knew that she would be able to break their hold, but it would not be in time. He and Tony continued forward, all the while knowing that they would not make it in time.

"Tell Kreuger," Damien said, pulling back the safety on the gun, "that he can go to hell." And he pulled the trigger.

Natasha found herself standing in a bustling kitchen with sumptuous smells filling the air around her. She mixed the contents of the pot in front of her, all the while carefully looking around the kitchen for the rest of her teammates. She saw Clint chopping up celery on the other side of the kitchen, Steve exiting the walk in freezer, a package in his hand, and Tony was right beside her, adding things to her pot.

A man Natasha assumed as the head chef came up behind her and scowled at the pot. "Dinner must be on the table in five minutes!" he barked. "Let's move it people!"

Natasha glowered at the pot, then turned her stare on Tony who was snickering. "This is your fault, you know," she said.

He shook his head. "I'm just the dreamer. You guys are filling this."

She frowned. "You're right. Then it's gotta be Clint."

"What's gotta be me?" Clint appeared next to her, dumping the celery into her pot.

The head chef came back through the dining room doors into the kitchen. "Let's go! Move it out!"

Natasha quickly gave the stew another stir, then hauled it along with the other cooks out into the opulent dining room and placed it on the table. She watched her teammates go back into the kitchen while she waited for the dining room to clear. When the cooks had gone back into the kitchen, she used nothing more than the reflection on the pot of stew she had made to change her appearance. Within seconds – as she was the best in the business – she had transformed herself into the regal lady Frigga.

She walked gracefully to open the dining room door that led out to the hallway, waiting for Loki. It wasn't long before he found his way to her, having had nowhere else to go in the house as Tony had designed the rooms like blockades, in order to direct Loki where they wanted him to go.

"Loki, dear," she called to him, smiling gently.

He frowned, but he slowly walked into the dining room. "Yes, mother?" he asked.

She laid a gentle hand on his cheek, watching how he stiffened ever so slightly. "How was your day?" She asked. Behind Loki, she could see Stark making his way down the hallways, opening and closing doors as he went.

"Uh…it was fine, thank you."

She raised a delicate eyebrow. "Yes? Uneventful?"

Loki appeared confused. "Uh…yes."

She stared into his eyes for several moments and watched as he could not hold her gaze. Finally, she said, "Alright. You do not have to tell me." Then she stepped back from him and walked towards the kitchen.

He followed her. "Tell you what?"

"Why it is that Thor now has detention for the week," she said, not turning to look at him. She disappeared into the kitchen and Loki followed.

She barged into the kitchen, her dress swirling around her ankles. "You," she pointed to Clint, who had changed his nose and eye colour, "would you prepare two meals in a container for me, please?"

"Of course," he said, and put in a generous helping of the dinner into two Styrofoam containers, then handed them to Frigga.

"Thank you." She turned and gave them to the still stunned Loki. "Please take this to your brother. He's being punished, but you do know how long he can last without food." She tilted her head to the side. "And the second one is for you. You may eat it with him. And don't worry about your father. I will handle it."

Loki frowned at the containers in his hand, but said nothing more as he exited the room.

Natasha watched him go, then turned to see all the cooks in the room staring at her. Beside her, Clint stiffened. "They're searching for Tony," he muttered under his breath.

Natasha, still as Frigga, pasted a smile on her face and addressed the kitchen. "Now, back to work ladies and gentlemen." She clapped her hands together jovially, but the cooks continued to stare.

Suddenly, one of the cooks raised his knife threateningly, a vicious glint in his eye. Natasha, in turn, snatched a knife from her station and dropped into a fighting stance. Before she could do anything, however, a lid from a pot flew across the room, like a Frisbee, and hit the cook in the head. He went down like a rock. She turned to see Steve standing defensively, another lid in his hands at the ready.

The projections wasted no time after that. Several more pulled knives from the table and some wielded pots and pans.

Throwing her knife with deadly accuracy, Natasha smoothly shifted back to her natural self. She snarled as a projection landed a blow but then she took him down, not even breaking a sweat. With one eye on her own fight, she looked to see how her team was faring.

Steve was using the lid as a sort of shield as he delivered blows while Clint used a pan the way you would use a baseball bat. It was effective; the pile of projections at his feet testified to that.

As if in slow motion, Steve watched the bullet fire from the gun and bury itself in Bucky's head. He didn't hear himself cry out as he dashed forwards, gun held out in front of him. Before he could shoot Damien, however, a large urn collided with the side of the mark's head and shattered on impact, dropping the man to the ground.

Steve spun around to see Tony, white as a sheet, rushing towards him. "You can't kill him," he panted. "We need him alive." Steve saw the reasoning behind it, but he felt as if another bullet had been buried in his own chest. Instead, he spun around and fired at the oncoming projections.

With a vicious yell, Natasha wrenched herself from her attackers and delivered a fatal kick to the first one's windpipe before turning around and sending a nasty right hook to the other's head. They dropped to the ground just as the ground shook.

Bewildered, Natasha looked at the lifeless form of her teammate. "The dream is collapsing," she said.

Tony fired at the projection that tried to grab Steve from behind as the Captain dashed towards his friend, a PASIV appearing in his hands.

"Steve," Natasha protested, rushing forwards, but stumbled sideways when another earthquake swept through.

"Help me," he said through gritted teeth, one hand wrapped around Bucky's arm, the other holding the PASIV as if it was a lifeline. Natasha hesitated for a second but the swarm of projections made up her mind. She grabbed Bucky's other arm and helped Steve drag the point-man into an abandoned stall, Tony following them while still firing at the projections.

"Steve," Natasha tried again as the man began unraveling the cords of the PASIV. "You can't do anything. He's gone."

Steve covered his head as another earthquake shook the ground and dust rained down from the ceiling. He shook his head. "No, he's just in limbo. I'm going to get him."

"You're freaking crazy!" Tony called from the doorway during a short reprieve. "This is Bucky's goddamn dream and without him, it's falling around us! There's no way its stable enough to support another level!"

Steve looked back up, his eyes wild. "I have to get him, Stark! I can't leave him!"

"Jesus Christ!" Tony cried, turning around to fire at several more projections while Natasha swore up in down in Russian.

"It can be done," Steve panted, inserting the needle into the crook of his elbow. "And I'll bring us both back, then we scrap this shit-show." Before they could protest further, he'd pressed the button, and fell into limbo.

Bruce fixed his tie before leaving the dressing room and locking it behind him. He made his way through the lingering performers and well-wishers and slipped back to the front of the stage. The sides and front were cast in shadow, as was designed, and he kept to these.

With a quick glance around, he pulled a charge from his pocket and fixed it to the side of the stage, then moved forward to set the next one.

Loki walked down the hallways, balancing the hot containers in his hands. He turned down several corridors before arriving at Thor's room. He knocked twice, then walked in.

Thor was sitting at his desk, examining a paper. When he heard Loki approach, he spun around, a tight smile on his face.

"Loki, what are you doing here?" He attempted to hide the folder underneath one of his school textbooks.

The younger Odinson placed the containers on the desk. "Mother requested I bring you food. Whatever did you do this time?" He stepped back from Thor but his eyes remained fixed on the corner of the file that was still visible beneath the textbook.

Thor opened the food container and grinned at the contents. He proceeded to dig in. "Fight," he muttered through a mouthful of food.

Loki's lips curled in disgust as he watched his brother eat. "It wasn't over another girl, was it?" He asked as he sat down and opened his own container, eating with a little more decorum.

Thor paused, his face comically half-stuffed.

Loki huffed. "I knew it."

"It was over you," came the quiet reply.

The fork stopped halfway to Loki's mouth. "What?" he managed to ask.

"Some boys at school were making fun of you. I put them in their place."

"But – what –" Loki frowned, searching for the correct words.

Thor kept talking. "A teacher caught it. I have detention for the week." He stared solemnly at his food. "Father has me grounded, but I saw his eye twitch. The way it does when he's about to smile." He caught Loki's eye. "I think it's more of an act of authority. Less about fighting and more that I got caught."

Loki could not remove his eyes from his food. He couldn't look at Thor. He tried and failed to process what was going on. Why did this feel so wrong? But why did it make him feel warm inside?

Before Steve even opened his eyes, he was shivering.

He opened them, then immediately closed them before opening them once more. Then he sat up and took a look around.

White. Everything was white.

He pulled his jacket tighter around him but it was horribly thin against the blowing snow and freezing temperatures. Already he could feel the snow settling on his shoulders and head, creating several small mountains.

Besides his breath, Steve could see nothing in this frozen wasteland. No matter which way he looked, he saw no signs of life. For several long seconds, all he could feel was an overwhelming sense of fear; that he would not be able to find Bucky and that they would both die here together, forever trapped in limbo. But it was those fears that got Steve up and moving.

He stumbled through the snow, unaware of the passing of time. He was looking for a sign – anything – that Bucky had been through. But he found nothing, not even a single footprint to guide him.

Natasha gave a great cry as she leapt from the counter and onto one of the projections sneaking up behind Clint. She wrapped an arm around his neck and held it there, holding on even as the man bucked and struggled. Finally, he sagged to the ground and Natasha jumped back. Clint turned from his own felled projection and nodded at her.

Steve clocked the last one across the head with a flick of a lid and they all stood there, panting, staring at the destroyed kitchen.

Just then, Stark came running in. He raised an eyebrow. "I leave for five minutes," he said. "And you managed to find trouble."

Natasha dusted off her hands. "C'mon, we need to get to Thor's room. Has he done it yet?"

Tony shook his head as he followed them out. "Don't think so."

Thor moved from his desk and lay on his bed, full from his meal. As he moved, Loki found his eyes drawn back to the hidden folder on Thor's desk. He was suddenly filled with the strong desire to know exactly what was in there.

He leapt from his seat and snatched it, much to Thor's protests.

"Loki, that's not yours!" Thor cried, leaping from the bed and attempting to snatch it from Loki's hands.

"Why?" Loki cried. "What is in here that you do not want me to find?"

Thor made another swipe but Loki had run to the other end of the room and had the file opened. The world around Loki slowed to a stop.

He quickly read the words but he hardly believed them.

Bruce set the last charge and took another look around. Some of the patrons were sending him inquisitive glances and the ushers were starting to notice him. Definitely time to go.

He walked fast, while still trying to appear normal, back towards the dressing room. The first thing he noticed was that all the dancers were gone. In fact, the whole back stage was empty. Except for the two men who stepped out behind a backdrop and pointed matching guns at him.

Without a second thought, Bruce leapt to the side, dodging both bullets as they soared over him. He pulled his own gun from his pocket and let off two shots. Two more answered him. Bruce swore.

The file contained a few written notes, some photos, and a newspaper clipping of a birth announcement. He was the son of Leonard and Donna Laufey, two ordinary immigrant farmers who could barely pay the rent, let alone raise a child.

It was so disgustingly…plain.

His hands shook so much that he dropped the file. Then he collapsed to the floor, a dart sticking out of his neck.

Clint kicked open the vent where he had been hiding and dropped to the floor. Natasha, Steve and Tony opened the bedroom door and walked in. Thor frowned down at his brother and the papers spread across the ground.

Tony nodded. "Nice. Just what exactly did you write?"

Thor shook his head sadly. "Nothing. My brother saw whatever it is he feared most." He picked up one of the photos and handed it to Stark. "Coming from nothing; no legacy to follow."

"Right," Steve said absently, more concerned with what he was seeing on his watch. "We can't afford to fall behind. We need to continue." He looked up at Stark. "Tony?" he asked.

Stark nodded at his silent question. It wasn't often Steve called him by his first name, so Stark knew Rogers was serious and worried. To offset the tense atmosphere, Tony flashed his trademark smile and said, "Please. My maze is brilliant. Tell me about anyone else who's ever thought of using doors."

That managed to get a smile from Steve and Tony marked that as a win. He set them up with the PASIV and tried not to let his fears consume him as his teammates fell asleep. They would wake up, he told himself.

He truly hoped so.

Steve opened his eyes to see Clint standing inches from his face. He would have jumped in surprise had he not remembered that this was the third layer of the dream.

Attempting to blink the darkness from his eyes, Steve shifted slightly but there was no comfortable position in the small closet he and Clint were sequestered in. Instead, he stopped moving and sighed.

Clint moved and put his ear to the door, waiting for the signal to leave. Seconds later, they heard it.

A single gunshot.

Tony dusted his hands on his pants, frowning at the sleeping crew around him. He didn't have long, so from his pants he pulled the explosives he had designed and opened the bedroom door.

He immediately shut it when he noticed the prowling forms of projections just down the corridor. He leaned his back against the door and took a few deep breaths, trying to come up with a different plan.

His eyes fell on the window.

Loki wandered the halls, finding himself suddenly sleepless. He shoved his hands in his pocket and hummed a tune that he could not place as he walked down the dark halls, lit only by the beams of moonlight coming in through the windows. It was quite relaxing, until a loud crack shattered the night and he froze.

His heart in his throat, Loki began to run.

He ran down the hallways, fearing the worst. He gave a thought to nothing else, except for the quick glance he threw at a painting on the wall. But by then he was standing outside of his father's office and the faint smell of gunpowder tickled his nose and tightened his heart.

It took all of his willpower to shove the door open and step inside. When he did, he squinted into the dim room and saw Thor standing over the body of a man, a smoking gun still in his hand. The smell of gunpowder was much stronger, although it mingled with the familiar scent of cigar smoke that clung to everything in Odin's office.

"Thor?" Loki whispered in shock, unable to take his eyes off of the man. The man seemed familiar somehow…

"Loki," Thor answered, his loud voice trembling. He dropped the gun to the floor with a crash and swooped forward to grasp his brother's shoulders. Loki could still not remove his eyes from the body. "Loki, thank the gods, you are alright."

Loki drew in several shuddering breaths. "What ever happened?"

"An assassin, I am sure of it," Thor answered. "An assassin for Father."

Loki's legs shook. "For…Father?" he whispered.

Thor pulled a chair over and sat Loki in it before kneeling down in front of him. "Loki," he said urgently, "do you know anything about this?"

"N-no," he said, hands clenched on the arms of the chair. "No," he repeated, eyes still on the body.

"Loki," Thor urged. "This is imperative. We were lucky Father was away, but there could be more." This time he was a little rougher when he grabbed the front of Loki's shirt and demanded, "Do you know anything of this?"

Loki flew from his chair and shoved at Thor. "No!" he cried.

"Do not lie to me!" Thor rumbled, advancing on his brother.

Loki hastily stepped back, but he stumbled over the chair and fell back against the wall. Thor was on him in an instant. "Tell me!" he cried.

"No!" Loki shouted again, warding off Thor's hands, but his eyes fell again on the gun and the body, which now bore a striking resemblance to Odin, and his trembling increased. "No," he whispered hoarsely, clutching Thor's arm. "No, not like this, never like this," he moaned.

Thor's face filled his wavering line of vision. "Not like what?" he asked, his voice softer.

His brother shook his head. "I didn't mean for it to end like this," he cried. His words tore at Thor's heart. "You! He always noticed you! Every little thing was always about you!" He tore a hand across his face to get rid of the tears there. "He never cared about me. Nothing that I did was right."

"Loki – "

"No!" Loki tore away from his brother's hold. "Don't do that. You know that it is true. Father never noticed me. All those things that I did, I did for him. For him to notice me.

"I tried to be like you. He loved you; you were his favourite." He drew in a breath, hating the way that he was feeling. Why was he so heartbroken over this? Did he not tell himself he would never feel again? "But nothing I did worked. I even prepared everything for his new merger," Loki sneered, "and what did he say? 'Looks okay, Loki'. Looks okay?" He spat the words at Thor. "Did he not know the hours upon hours I spent creating that?"

"I am sure that he did," Thor said sadly. He had not known about this. "Perhaps, he meant that –"

"Save your consolations," Loki snapped. "I do not want them."

"But you wanted him dead."

Loki reeled back as if he had been physically burned. "Never," he said, his voice cracking. "I wanted to scare the old man, nothing more. I would intervene and he would finally see me for who I am..." he took a steadying breath. "But I discovered my true heritage and…" he could not continue.

Thor merely nodded in morose understanding

His watch no longer worked. This, Steve discovered after he attempted to estimate how much time had passed him in limbo. But the hands on his watch refused to move and so he resigned himself to continue on, regardless of the treacherous conditions.

It felt like years before a shape began to define itself in the distance. He squinted, then hurried forward as fast as he could in the deep snow. Finally, he could make out the dark outlines of what appeared to be a cave. Grateful for the sudden shelter – and the blossoming hope that his friend was inside – Steve gathered the rest of his strength and ducked inside.

The cave was dark and silent, completely blocking the sounds of the storm outside. However, it was a few degrees warmer and Steve rubbed his hands together furiously as he ventured inside, trying to get the blood flowing through them again. But the further he got inside, the more his stomach churned with fear and anxiety.

"Bucky?" he called and flinched when his voice bounced back to him. "Hey, Bucky!" He got no response.

Suddenly, the winding path opened up before him to a larger, circular room inside the cave. Steve cast an eye over the curious items that littered the room; old and rusted tools scattered on small, narrow benches next to scraps of metal and wood, and resting in the corner, what looked curiously like a complete suit of armour. He began to walk towards it, curiosity getting the better of him, when he stopped suddenly, struck by a thought that he was here for something else. What?

Steve frowned but turned away, and gasped when his eyes caught on the pair of shoes sticking out from behind one of the tables. He dashed towards them, his memory returning in full force. He truly had to be careful about his time spent in limbo. "Bucky! Bucky!"

He slid to a stop beside the prone figure of his friend and quickly knelt next to him. He reached for his shoulders, then drew back when he caught sight of his face.

Bucky, once youthful and full of life now lay before him, aged by several decades. His hair was chalk-white and his skin was papery-thin and wrinkled. His eyes were closed, but Steve pressed an unsteady finger to his neck and was relieved to find a pulse.

"Bucky," he called again, gently shaking his shoulders. "Bucky, it's Steve. C'mon, I'm taking you home."

Bucky groaned from beneath him and weakly waved the wrench he had clutched in his hands. "I din't invi' you," he mumbled, opening bleary eyes. Then he narrowed them, focusing on Steve's face. "Or did I…" he trailed off.

Steve was torn between jubilation at finding his friend and dread at the state in which he'd found him. He decided to go with jubilation. He grinned, helping Bucky to his feet. "No, Bucky. I'm here to take you back up."

"Up?" the Sergeant questioned, turning his head towards the top of the cave. "Ah," he said, nodding and gesturing upwards. "You noticed."

Steve's brows creased in confusion and concern. "What are you talking about?" When Bucky just gave him a lopsided grin, Steve continued on. "You're in limbo, Bucky. I'm taking the both of us back topside, to reality." When no recognition passed in front of his friend's eyes he said, "You remember that, right?"

Bucky nodded and grinned, before leaning closer to Steve and whispering in his ear, "Boom."

The manic look in his eyes and the single word he'd uttered sent chills down Steve's spine. With as much calm and authority he could muster, he said, "What do you mean, 'boom'?"

Bucky chuckled. "I ain't staying here. You thought you could keep me here!" He wagged his finger uncomfortably close to Steve's eyes. "No siree. I am blowing this popsicle stand, Bob."

Steve gently lowered Bucky's finger. "You aren't staying here," he said slowly. "That's why I came to get you."

His friend's face turned murderous in the blink of an eye and he yanked his finger back from Steve's hold. "Don't you try it!" He yelled, backing away and stumbling into a pile of tools. He caught his footing and righted himself, stepping back further when Steve advanced. "Don't!"

Steve held his hands out in a placating gesture. "Please, Bucky. Just calm down. Remember me? I'm –" he immediately broke off. What was his name?

When he looked back over, Bucky was pointing to the ceiling. "I'm going back! You can't make me stay!" He was waving a wrench in Steve's direction again from the other side of the room, right next to the suit of armour.

This time, Steve took the time to examine the ceiling. And finally, he spied the small device, blinking a red light at him as if it were mocking him. He turned back to Bucky, who was grinning again. He held out his palms and whispered once more, "Boom."

And the world went 'boom'.

Tony threw back the window and breathed in the cold night air. The moon was full, so his path was illuminated, but only just. He surveyed the ground far beneath him and the thin ledge beneath the window and sighed in resignation. With the charges held carefully between his teeth, he took the first step out onto the ledge, trying his hardest not to look down.

Clint and Steve stepped out of the closet as soon as they heard Loki run past. They approached the Patricia Romance painting hanging on the other side of the wall and quickly removed it from the wall. Behind it sat a safe.

Clint fiddled with the dial for a few minutes, listening carefully, before he threw Steve a triumphant grin and wrenched it open. "Stark's not the only one who can crack safes," he said.

Steve answered with a grin and dug inside the safe. He removed dozens of papers, with letters and numbers covering entire pages, and some that looked as if they had been dipped in red ink.

Clint took half and flipped through them while Steve did the same. Steve hissed as his eyes fell upon the mounds of information, picking out key sentences and names.

"This is it," Clint breathed. "This is everything." He stopped at one particular page and his hand shook. "Everything," he whispered.

"Well, isn't that good for you," a snide voice commented from behind them.

Tony let out a muffled curse as his one foot slipped, but his hand gripped the ledge in time to keep himself from falling. Carefully, with the other hand, he pulled the charges from between his teeth and fixed them to the base of Thor's room. Then he took a deep breath and shimmied along, setting the rest of the charges.

From his coat pocket, Bruce found a new clip of ammo and quickly jammed it into his gun. More bullets flew over his head and as he ducked, he spotted a man from the corner of his eye, creeping towards his position.

With a snarl he fired off a shot, hitting the man dead-on. Suddenly, like a lit match, the rage ignited inside him and he let it consume him.

Tony used to joke that normal people turned green with envy but Bruce turned green with angry. Bruce didn't like to admit it, but Stark was correct.

Letting out a roar, Bruce pounced to his feet and let his anger through. He fired off bullets as quick as a striking snake and dodged the oncoming fire as if he were made of much lighter material. He felled one man and attacked the next, taking him out with one quick punch. From there, there were only two more men standing between him and the dressing room doors.

They went down with two quick shots and Bruce stood on the threshold, panting heavily, the faintest hint of green colouring the skin around his eyes. He drew a deep, calming breath and entered the dressing room, waiting for his signal.

Steve jolted awake just in time to see Natasha and Tony lying beside him, bleeding out. He turned to look at Bucky, but the roof of the vendor's stand fell on him and his eyes closed once more. When he opened them again, it was just in time to see Bruce looking down at them, a detonator in his hands, before his eyes closed yet again.

Then, he awoke for real. He scrambled from his plastic chair, gasping, and looked around at his stirring teammates.

Tony was hunched over, holding his head in his hands and breathing hard. Natasha was sitting ram-rod straight in her chair, her expression stormy. Bruce was slowly standing, though his legs wobbled a little as he did so. Bucky, young again, was blinking rapidly and looking around. Damien was still lying in his chair, unconscious.

Steve took a deep breath and made for the door. "We need to get out of here, now." He grabbed his coat, watching as Natasha sprung from her seat and collected her bag. The others moved slower, but they knew the importance of leaving the scene. The mission had been botched.

Everyone except Bucky was moving.

"Bucky," Steve urged. "C'mon, we have to move."

But his friend just backed away from Steve and Steve's gut clenched at the manic gleam in his eyes. It was the same look he had encountered in limbo. "No," Bucky protested, his voice warbling in fear. "No, I told you, you couldn't keep me here."

"No, Bucky, we're not in limbo anymore. We're up; we're awake now."

Bucky shook his head violently, reaching into his waistband and pulling out a gun.

"Holy shit," Tony swore from beside Steve. "What the hell is happening?"

"His brain's fried," Natasha answered, her gaze fixed on her friend. "Steve, how long was he in limbo?"

"I don't know!" Steve cried, frustrated in his failure. "Not long enough. He's fine, just disoriented."

"Steve," Natasha protested, her hand inching towards her purse where Steve knew she kept her own gun.

"No!" Steve cried, flinging an arm in front of her and taking another step towards Bucky. "No, he's fine. Right Bucky? You're fine."

"I'm going back!" The sergeant cried, pointing his gun at the group. Immediately, Natasha had hers pointed back.

"Barnes," she warned, her voice dark.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" he cried, the gun shaking in his hands as he pointed it at each teammate. "Huh? They told me you'd do it. All of you!"

Steve took a cautious step forwards. "Bucky. Jesus, listen to me. It's Steve. Steve. And you are awake now. Please, just pull out your totem and see."

But Bucky's grip only tightened on the gun and he moved it towards his own head. He grinned that wide, frightening grin that haunted Steve day and night, and whispered, "Boom."

And Steve's world went 'boom'.

"Thor? Loki?" An older, wizened voice came from the doorway.

With a gasp, Loki spun around and saw Odin leaning in the doorway, silhouetted by the lights from the hall, rumpled and robed, clearly just having been roused from sleep. He found he was so relieved to see his father alive that he did not question that he was not supposed to be home.

Odin's one good eye surveyed the room, quickly assessing the situation, before he strode towards his sons.

In a move that was both unfamiliar and welcome, he pulled his sons into his embrace.

Loki, who had not been able to control his racing heart, found that it was beginning to calm.

"You did good, my son," Odin said, and the vibrations that Loki felt through his chest continued to comfort him.

Clint and Steve whirled around to face the man who had spoken. Clint immediately reached for the bow that was slung over his back, while Steve's face paled.

"Bucky," he gasped, his hands itching to reach out and grasp his friend, but the murderous look on Bucky's face stopped him.

The look that he was pointing at Clint.

"You," he growled, producing a knife, prompting Clint to string an arrow and point it at him. Bucky stepped forward and Clint's bow string tightened. "You little blind bastard," he snarled. "What the hell are you doing, pretending to be someone you're not?"

Steve's heart was beating so fast and irregularly, he thought he might be sick. "Bucky," he said. "Don't. Don't do this." He inched his hand toward the gun stashed in the back of his pants but he knew he would never be able to pull the trigger.

"Don't what?" he taunted. Now Clint and Bucky were circling each other. Clint kept his face a careful mask and he showed no emotion, though his muscles were taught and he did not take his sharp eyes from Steve's old friend. "Don't fix your mistakes? You know that replacing me was a mistake. You're so desperate, you'll take any old person off the street."

"Bucky – "

"Well, lucky for you, I happened to be in the neighbourhood." Bucky turned and grinned at Steve then, a mischievous grin, and it was like Bucky had never died, had never become a monster of Steve's subconscious.

It was all the distraction that Clint needed. He leaped forward, forgetting his arrow and using the bow like a staff in close combat. He swung viciously at Bucky's head, who managed to drop in time to take a softer blow on the side of his head instead of a full-on brain shattering hit.

Bucky growled and flipped the knife to his other hand, taking a jab at Clint's exposed skin as he reeled. Clint jumped back and Bucky followed, stopping Clint's hits with his forearm and throwing in his own punches.

Steve had his gun pulled now, pointed at the two men, but his hands were shaking. He watched every swing and every swipe and yet he did not want to hurt either of his friends.

The two men grappled for a few more seconds and then it happened.

Clint spun for a roundhouse kick that Bucky dodged, and Clint lost his footing on the way down. Bucky delivered a hard punch to Clint's jaw and the archer's head snapped back. Then Bucky tossed the knife back to his other hand and slashed Clint's face.

"NO!" Steve cried, stopping in his tracks, keeping his gun trained on Bucky but his eyes on Clint.

Clint thrashed on the floor, his hands pressed to his face as blood pooled around him. Bucky stood over him, smiling like a particularly clever cat at his handiwork. Then Clint pulled his hands away from his face for a few seconds and Steve realized just what Bucky had done.

The knife had left a deep, straight cut across the upper half of Clint's face. Through his eyes.

Bucky had blinded him.

The projection spit down at the writhing point-man and turned back to a horrified Steve. "There you go, Steve," he said. "You don't have to have this little shit tagging along with you, pretending to be me; your best friend." His eyes were wild and glazed as he stepped over Clint and walked towards Steve. "I'm your best friend."

"No," Steve whispered, the gun in his hand no longer shaking as he raised it. The fact was, it had been a long time since Bucky had been alive and he realized that he could no longer hold on to his memory like this. Clint was now his friend too, and he had let his own fears hurt his friends. But he wasn't going to let that happen any longer. He pleaded for Bucky's forgiveness with his eyes. "You were my best friend."

The gun cracked as it spit the bullet straight through the centre of Bucky's forehead. A dazed expression remained on Bucky's face as he dropped to the ground, dead.

"I'm sorry," Steve whispered to his best friend. "I'm so, so sorry." Immediately, he fell next to Clint. "Clint? Please talk to me, Clint."

Clint only moaned and choked back on a sob, his fingers drenched in blood, pressed desperately to his face.

Steve's fingers danced and moved over Clint, but he was unsure as to what to do, or say. "Stay with me, please Clint. I'm so, so sorry."

The ground beneath him began to shake.

"NO!"

Steve dashed towards his best friend just as he pulled the trigger, splattering Steve with a nauseating mixture of blood and brain matter. Despite this, Steve still caught Bucky on his way to the ground, his body and mind numb and his heart beating loudly in his ears.

"Bucky?" he whispered, though he could not hear it. He would likely have stayed that way forever, but Bruce suddenly yelled, "Look out!"

It was only thanks to the army that Steve had such fast reaction times and was able to look up and roll away, just in the nick of time to dodge the bullet that Damien had aimed at him.

Several more shots fired and Steve glanced over to find Damien rolling away, clutching his arm and Natasha, a murderous look on her face and a smoking gun in her hands. Then Bruce was at his side, tugging on his arm and urging him to leave; he didn't want to leave Bucky, but he suddenly could not find the strength to resist and so he followed his team out on shaky, uncertain legs. Only when they had reached the van parked around the corner and Bruce had peeled out, did Steve come back to himself.

Shaking, he turned to survey his friends, ignoring the blood that was coated on his own hands and clothes. Bruce seemed to be a pillar of calm; the only indication that he was shaken by what had transpired was his erratic driving, causing several people to honk at them.

Tony was pale and sat slumped in his seat, his hair standing on end because he'd repeatedly run his hands through it – a nervous tick, Steve knew. Neither of them seemed to be injured in any way, so he turned to Natasha.

Natasha was again sitting up straight, like her spine was made of steel – often Steve suspected it was – and her expression was hard and cold. The gun was back inside her purse and Steve was about to turn back around again when he noticed that her sleeve was beginning to turn red.

"Natasha, you're hurt," he said.

She barely cast him a glance. "A nick." Her voice was dead and emotionless. "Bruce, drop me off here."

Bruce frowned but didn't question her. So he pulled over to the side of the road and Natasha jumped out and took off into the night, without another word.

Tony leaned forward. "Let me off at the bus station." Again, Bruce just nodded and Steve just sat back, trying not to lose himself as his entire team disintegrated in front of him.

Bruce looked at his watch one final time, and pulled the headphones from the table and placed them over Tony's ears, hitting play on the device.

Then he sat and counted the seconds, his thumb hovering over the detonator.

Tony was struggling to get back over the ledge outside the window when the faint strains of Frank Sinatra's Fly Me to the Moon caught his ears. He swore and doubled his efforts, muttering, "I'm too fucking old for this."

With a great heave he scrambled over the ledge and back into the room, casting a weary glance at the bedroom door. Outside he could hear the shouting and running feet of some very angry projections but so far they had not found this room.

He pulled out his headphones and put them on Clint, keeping an eye on his watch and one hand on the detonator.

Steve jumped as he heard the sound of someone running down the hallway. He immediately jumped up and had his gun ready, but it was only Natasha, sweating and hair mussed with her own gun pointed back at him.

She lowered hers when she saw him, but then her eyes fell on her partner and Steve watched as an expression that he had never seen on her face came over her.

She dropped to her knees and grabbed Clint's face. "Clint," she said and Steve wondered if her voice was shaking or if it was only the sound of blood pounding in his ears. She cast a look at the other body beside her, and her shoulders fell. But she turned from Bucky's crumpled frame and grasped the flailing hand of her best friend.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Clint wheezed a few painful breaths and managed to croak, "Bu…da…pest?"

Natasha smiled sadly. "Just like Budapest," she affirmed.

Steve averted his eyes, giving them some privacy. He could tell that Clint was fading fast, and Natasha knew it too.

The walls continued to shake around them.

Tony counted off the seconds and then pressed play on the music player, noticing as he did so the red tear that leaked out of Barton's eye.

Barton took his last breath but Natasha remained where she was, leaning over him, her hand gripping his lifeless one tightly.

"Natasha," Steve said gently. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He realized how much he had been saying those words. Too much.

She stood abruptly. "The job's done. We did it." Her voice was level and clear, but she still would not face him.

Steve didn't know what to say, but just then, the chorus of Fly Me to the Moon, as if played in slow-motion, floated down to him, mingling with the destruction of the dream.

Natasha's head snapped around at that. "I'm going under," she declared, producing a PASIV and hooking it up to herself.

"Natasha, you can't be serious." But the glare that she sent in his direction told him she was. He saw himself, when Bucky had been shot, and he had ignored them all to go under. He knew that she would not back down. So he tried something else. "Let me go with you."

She shook her head adamantly.

"Please," he repeated, crouching down beside her, losing his balance and falling to his knees as the ground shook. "This is my fault. I need to fix this."

"Steve," she said, "this isn't the time to argue about this. I know Clint's mind better than anyone. I will find him, and I will bring him home." She met his eyes with a determined stare.

Steve exhaled and nodded. "Be careful down there."

She nodded and laid down beside her partner. "Keep the projections away and when the time comes, you ride the kick," she ordered. "Don't wait for us."

He nodded once more and pressed the button, watching as her eyes fluttered closed and the floors began to crumble beneath him.

Steve hated riding the kicks. He despised waking up abruptly every few seconds, only to be in a different place.

He awoke first to Stark's wide eyes above him, but there was a thunderous explosion and his eyes closed once more, only to open again from the floor of Natasha's dressing room. He managed to spy Bruce, crumpled on the floor, before everything shook once more and he slipped back under.

Natasha awoke to the unpleasant sensation of being soaked and water flowing into her lungs. She gasped and thrashed around, trying in vain to find footing beneath her.

Finally her feet touched rocky bottom and she lurched upright, choking on the remnants of the seawater. She quickly tied back her wet hair and with slow, soggy strides, made her way to the shore of Clint's subconscious.

She walked for what felt like miles. The sun had come out and quickly dried her clothes and turned her hair into a giant frizzy mess. Vaguely she wondered just how far she had to go and just how much time was passing, but she pushed that all into a box in the back of her mind and locked it. It wouldn't matter because she wasn't leaving without Clint. She was going to find him.

She passed mountains and mountains of rubble and wondered if anyone had ever populated the area, but she was walking on a well-traveled patch of road, so she knew that Clint had gone this way. She trudged on, repeating to herself again and again who she was and where she was going.

Over time, it became harder and harder to do.

She also found herself tiring easily. At first, she had refused herself any breaks, knowing that it would only slow her down and lessen the chance of making it back with Clint. But after a while, she also found that she could not go on without sitting for a few moments. She knew, with a barely suppressed horror, that her body was ageing.

But after several hours – weeks? Years? – she saw the first signs of civilization and she knew, without a doubt, that she would find Clint here.

She paused at the edge of the abandoned circus. The tent flaps snapping in the wind and the creaking of the big wheel were the only sounds. The late afternoon sun glinted off the rusted bridals of the once-majestic horses attached to the merry-go-round, and had it been dark out, the vacant eyes would have frightened her. Nothing usually frightened her, but she was in uncharted territory and she was not sure what would happen in limbo.

With a deep breath she strode purposely forwards, past the abandoned stands and stuffed animals and food. As she walked, she noticed a lone figure sitting outside of the big top tent. Her steps faltered slightly when the old man turned his head towards her, and even though his white eyes looked right through her, she knew that it was Clint.

"I'm sorry," he said as she approached, "but I can't allow you to enter when the show is going." He shrugged. "Distracts the performers."

"Ah," she said, but she heard not a sound coming from the tent. She turned a critical eye toward her partner. This was how she had imagined he would look when he grew old. He had definitely aged well, keeping his body shape though not all of the muscle. His posture was still straight and he had most of his hair, although it had turned a vivid white. His face was still marred by the scars Loki had inflicted, but it was the face she had always loved. "How much longer until the next act?" she asked and found her voice was surprisingly strong.

He leaned around the flap of the tent before popping back out. "Ten minutes," he said.

"Okay." She smiled, though she knew he wouldn't notice. "Do you know who I am?" she blurted out, unable to dance around the issue any longer.

His smile turned into a frown. "No," he said, confused. "Should I?"

"Yes."

He tried to smile politely but only succeeded in twitching his lips.

"It's Natasha Romanoff, but you first knew me by a different name." Clint said nothing, but his eyes were on her and he was listening, so she continued. "When we first met, I went by the name Natalia Romanova, or the Black Widow, and we were enemies.

"We were both dream thieves, working for two different companies but neither of us were very loyal. You asked me to marry you. Remember that? I said no. You asked me three times. You asked and I said no, but you only said you would wait." She took a deep breath, quelling the emotions inside her. "We wanted out, but we had nothing. Our jobs were all that we had. You started to steal from the people you were working with, in order to support the both of us."

Clint was still listening, but the frown lines between his eyes deepened. Natasha hoped this meant that he was remembering, and not devising a way to get rid of her.

"Then I said yes…and you said no."

Finally Clint spoke, in a raspy whisper that truly belied his age. "I had gone blind."

Natasha's heart flipped. She crouched down and grasped one of Clint's wrinkled hands between her own. "It wasn't pity," she stressed. "I don't do pity. But I wasn't ready before. I didn't know what I wanted. So I said to you that I would wait. I think it's been long enough."

The archer turned to smile at her. "It's about time you got here," he quipped as he squeezed her hand.

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Natasha?" he asked, and she knew she would never get tired of hearing him say her name.

"Yes, Clint?"

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes."

Steve came around slowly, blinking his surroundings into existence. His neck felt stiff and sore as he lifted it to take in his stirring team. He reached for his totem stashed deep within his pocket, and felt reassured by the dented bars.

He looked over and met Bruce's eyes, nodding at the scientist. Bruce returned it with a smile.

Tony Stark was stretching his arms above him, grinning like the Cheshire cat. He got up from his seat and clapped Steve on the shoulder as he walked by.

Thor was now awake and examining his still-slumbering brother with a saddened expression as he put away the PASIV and handed it to Rogers. The team would be leaving the brothers in the warehouse to sort out their new lives. Steve genuinely hoped that the two of them worked it out and that Thor meant it when he said he was going to make Loki his partner.

Steve got up from his chair, feeling light and happy, when he froze as he gazed upon his last two teammates. He had forgotten about Natasha and Clint.

He gulped and slowly approached the pair who had yet to wake, fearing the worst. But just as he reached them they woke at the same moment, stirring into consciousness.

Natasha woke faster than Barton, her eyes wide as she took in everyone and everything around her. But then Barton reached out and grasped her hand in his, and she turned to smile at him.

Steve stepped back, not wanting to intrude, but when Natasha turned towards him, he couldn't help but grin like an idiot. She smiled back.

"We should go," Bruce suggested quietly and the others readily agreed. They pulled their coats around themselves and stepped out into the fading light.

Just as they reached the van, Steve hesitated. The others noticed and turned back to look at him.

"This isn't going to be like last time…is it?" he asked. He had just gotten his team back and he didn't want to lose them again.

Stark laughed and shook his head. "I think we all deserve a drink. Let's swing back to my place. I've got a 40 year old scotch that I've been saving. This is a good a time as any."

Steve felt his smile widen as they all climbed into the van. He also didn't fail to notice that Clint and Natasha never once broke contact with each other.