He had to remind himself daily that this was preferable to imprisonment on Asgard or, more likely, death. He had to remind himself more than daily. He had to remind himself when he awoke, chained to a cot in a cell that pretended to be a bedroom. A bedroom without a window. He had to remind himself as he was escorted through the halls, jeers and glares and threats from SHIELD employees following in his wake. He had to remind himself as he ate dry cafeteria food. He had to remind himself as he recited every menial detail of his arrangement with Thanos, every torturous detail, every traumatic detail, knowing all the while that Thor was watching on the other side of that flimsy excuse for a mirror.

Carolyn Booth was not the entertainment she had promised to be. She was a shadow. Trailing too far behind him to study, or too far ahead. Her gentle examination of his thoughts became an irritant, rather than a pleasure. There was no longer any give and take between them, just her silent listening, watching. He was a bug to her. It was humiliating. It was humbling.

He had not even been allowed the pleasure of riling the Avengers to violence against him. And when he gave up hope of being of any real use, of having any real purpose, and attempted to impart useful information he was immediately redirected back to the finite details. While it was true that Earth had time, an early offering of his, he was agitated by the cold automatic questions. He led them no closer to a solution to the Mad King's coming onslaught.

He found himself impatient. He tried to be, he was generally the patient one, not only in comparison to Thor. Asgardians were surely more patient than Midgardians, so much less pressed for time in their lifespans, and yet Director Fury seemed in no great rush now to see to the safety of the planet. When Loki had a handful of Germans bent to the ground in a power display? Sure. But with the threat of every living creature on the planet? No rush.

He couldn't say, all in all, it was a less warm welcome than he expected. He always expected the worst. But it was dull.

It caught him off guard to be escorted back to the meeting room. And it was a strange kind of delight he felt to see the Avengers assembled. And Carolyn Booth, dressed in what ought to have been the anonymous black of a SHIELD agent, but which failed with the details of the fabric. She had kept her family fortune, Loki noted, and seemed unashamed of using it. Thor stepped forward and Loki cringed, prepared for the worst - an embrace, a show of support? But Thor only gravely lifted Loki's chains and proceeded to unlock them. Loki frowned and studied the hard expressions in the room.

"Congratulations Pinnocchio," Stark said, glaring at him. "A whole month without a single lie. I'm surprised you even have a nose left."

The soldier snorted at the far end of the room, and then cleared his throat with a small shrug. "I actually got that one," he murmured.

"Your probationary period is at an end," Fury announced flatly as Loki sank into a chair. "You will be transferred to Avengers Tower and we will begin our work together."

Loki's eyes narrowed. How petty. A month of tedious, useless, regurgitation of facts to decide wether or not to allow him to lead them to salvation against an insurmountable enemy? How could it possibly be worth it?

I thought so too.

He didn't stiffen, or jump at her intrusion. If anything, he relaxed. Then he told his first lie in a month, and he told it well.

"I am grateful for your trust."

It was a small lie. He was not grateful for their trust. He was grateful to be out of chains, yes. To be moved out of SHIELD headquarters, to be included in actual planning, in action. He was even, shockingly, grateful for Carolyn's reentrance into his thoughts. And he noted, by the lack of change in the Avenger's expressions that she did not give away this fib of his.

Fury began to recite the logistics and conditions of his release. More tedium. Obvious restrictions. Reminders that they did not trust him. That he would be checked, double-checked, and triple-checked for any hidden motives.

What did they offer you? He asked. What do they have for you here that made it worth your loyalty?

The choice, she answered.

For a brief moment, his worst thoughts resurfaced. She was better than any mind controlled minion he had borrowed in his half-hearted attempt at taking over the planet. She would not need to be manipulated, only allowed to consider her options. If she kept his lies hidden then he could do his worst work here, the simple twisting of facts to bring ruin. Then he could hand Earth to Thanos as a prize, and hope for mercy.

It was an option.

Carolyn was watching him but Fury and the others continued in their monotony, unaware.

No, he decided. Thanos would not kill him and it would be the worst kind of mercy. He would suffer exquisitely for eternity. If his assistance to the Avengers proved futile at least he had a better chance of dying simply, quickly. If Earth succeeded the idiots at this table would likely make a pet of him, enfold him into their ranks. And that left a world of possibilities.

"Will I have a window?" Loki asked, the picture of docility.

He did have a window. And a full bath. And a closet stuffed with quality, albeit Midgardian, clothing. He slept that night, briefly, and woke with legs sprawled and tangled in the sheets as he had at home. When he walked through the halls, it was alone, aside from the polite directions from the dry toned AI. He found breakfast in a small kitchen, obviously shared, but the bread and juice were fresh. He stood quietly, wondering how many eyes were on him remotely. Wondering what to do next. There were too many options, combinations of moments, to choose rashly.

There's a library.

He turned in the room, but the mentalist was absent. He checked the hall. How far a distance did her control stretch?

"Where is the library?" Loki asked

"One story up, at the north end of the building," Jarvis answered. "Do you require an instruction of the elevator system?"

"I manage them quite well," Loki said, tone chilly.

He did, but he skipped the process in favor of manifesting himself in his best approximation of the direction. He narrowly missed a low table piled with large decorative tomes.

Carolyn Booth shifted - he couldn't quite call it a jump but he thought he might have surprised her - in a oversized leather armchair. She had a large book spread over her lap, her fingers carefully poised at the point of his interruption.

He was struck with information. The emergency alert had gone off in the night and the Avengers had taken off in a hellicarier. There were SHIELD Agents stationed around the tower but they had been ordered to stay out of the way unless Carolyn alerted them. Things were wrapping up wherever it was that his brother and the 'teammates' had flown off to, but there was no eminent arrival yet.

It was something like freedom, Loki thought. Again, his mind opened up with options. The agents would be nothing, a trifling bit of fun to eliminate them. But he supposed that the AI, designed by Stark, might prove a challenge in getting out of the building. And of course, there was what to do with the mind reader. He brushed the ideas away without giving them much consideration.

Carolyn was watching him but as his thoughts settled her eyes turned back to the book in her lap, her hand lifting to cover her throat.

What is it like for you? he wondered. He imagined his mind to be something like a maze that constantly rearranged itself, the old labyrinths in the base of the Scholar's House in Asgard.

No, she answered. It's like…

His thoughts filled with an image of a room, or if not a room, an enormous inverted prism of doorways. At every edge the doorways connected. They opened and closed, revealing glimpses of Loki's own quicksilver thinking. He thought, looking down at the small doorway beneath his feet, that he had fallen through his own trapdoors in the past, like the day he goaded Thor into confronting the Frost Giants by reverse manipulation.

You are there, Carolyn explained. But I am here.

He was removed from the heart of the space and yet somehow still central, seeing all the doorways at once, able to track every new idea, every new option, as it presented itself and then was rejected.

Your mind is so…

He waited, expecting some sort of condemnation, some negative.

Open.

When she released his mind he was at least grateful that his face was still impassive. That he was not gawking at her like an awed child. He was awed. He had been awed before, and more so than this, but not by a mortal. And not in quite some time.

He found himself staring at her.

There was something…strikingly plain about the young woman. All her features were appealing - full lips, wide eyes, straight nose, good bone structure with soft cheeks - and yet beautiful was not the word that came to mind. Composed, maybe, despite the absence of make up. No, her face was…old fashioned. A Mona Lisa instead of a Madame X.

Beautiful.

The thought rang out defiantly, as if he had been arguing with himself and with it came a dozen others that he hardly paid any mind.

But she stiffened in her chair, back rigid and shoulders hunching defensively.

His gut clenched as he realized where his mind had turned. He tried to banish the poisonous image of her arched naked on a nondescript mattress, his hands against her pale skin. When the effort made the image starker, clearer, and more animated instead of vanquished he strode quickly out of the room and several stories lower in the Tower.

Stupid, he thought. Although he wasn't sure if he was chastising himself for imagining, however briefly, bringing Carolyn Booth carnal pleasure - abused animal that she was - or for feeling so guilty over the innocent mistake.

That night, after high tensions at a round table meeting with the Avengers that seemed to amount to very little in Loki's opinion, he dreamt of Carolyn Booth.

He dreamt of her flesh rotting under his tongue.

He dreamt of her nails gouging red, gushing pathways into his skin.

He dreamt of her watery blue eyes in the faces of creatures that tore him limb from limb.

He dreamt of her mouth against his, stealing his breath until his chest caved in with a horrible collapsing crunch of his ribcage.

He dreamt of her a hundred thousand awful, chilling, morbid, nightmarish ways.

It was an incredible defense mechanism, he decided the next morning when the simple sight of her drinking orange juice from a glass made his stomach twist so violently that it took all his composure not to heave up his dinner in the hallways and run home to Asgard.

AN: Leave a review if it strikes your fancy. I'm open to ideas on this one.