a/n: hey folks! thanks so much for keeping with me on this story. it's hard to get updates out with school, and i'll try my hardest, but no guarantees. thank you all so much for your lovely reviews, they keep me going!

in the meantime, please read and review :)


"Really, Clint?"

"What—what's with that tone? I know that tone, that's your 'holier-than-thou' tone—"

"No, it's my 'you're-a-giant-idiot' tone."

They are backed up behind a barricade of twisted metal. A couple of Honda Civics, maybe, if he knows his cars—it's hard to tell when they're all mashed up like that, though; they could actually be two Maseratis for all he can see of the make and brand. Either way, the headlights are flashing and a strangled sort of sound, which he takes for the car alarm, is attempting to make an impact through the screaming, shouting, bullet-ripped air around them. He presses his shoulder against cold steel and peers out. "What do you mean I'm a giant idiot?"

"I mean the world is going to shit, and you're drunk."

"I am not drunk!" His world tips sideways around the edges, and he blinks, once. "Are we in Budapest?"

"Shoot first, questions later."

Clint, sighing, does as he's told, reaching behind him for the familiar feel of fletch against his fingers—and grapples at nothing but air. In a panic he slings his quiver around to his front and then, stomach dropping, practically shouts, "I'm all out!"

He whips his head sideways as several bullets ping against metal. "I'm all out Nat, what do I—"

But she's not there anymore, and he's not sure that she ever was. He feels his chest contracting and his mind freezes as, over the toppled bus he'd been using to cover his back, a man with black hair and green, green eyes appears, lithe and slim, standing amid the hellfire with a grin on his face that could raise the dead; Clint watches as he opens his mouth—


"Wake up, Borgnine."


He comes to slowly, world heavy and black behind his sticky eyelids, the dream still reverberating across his skull. He's lying on something cold, arm bent awkwardly beneath his head. His mouth tastes of bile and rotten cheese.

"I said, good morning, star shine, and who the fuck gave you permission to drink all of my goddamn alcohol?"

Clint finally pulls open his eyes and finds his nose several inches away from cold black granite or concrete or some other equally fancy material his mind can't find a name for at the moment. He tries to sit up but the world tips violently, so he falls back into darkness, tracking Stark's angry footsteps as they cross the penthouse to the bar. There is the clank and clatter of glass on glass.

"You didn't even leave the scotch. That was like, twenty year old scotch, man—"

"Master Stark! Good morning!"

"Jesus! Thor, put some pants on!" Pause. "And where's Jane? God, Bach, if you pushed her out the window—"

"I'm right here." Jane sounds very hung over. "I was just—Thor!" Her voice goes into a strangled sort of screech.

"Good morning, Jane Foster!"

"Yeah, um, hi—"

"Buddy, big hint: if it's before nine o'clock we don't want the—well. You get the picture."

Clint bites the proverbial bullet (poor choice of words) and sits up, world blurring as he blinks open his eyes: Stark is shaking out the last of every bottle that wasn't smashed or thrown outside into a chipped glass; Jane is, eyes covered, staggering to the Pop Tart stained couch; and Thor, scratching his beard, is in a pair of what he presumes are Stark's boxers, which are three sizes too small and leave little to the imagination. "Are those hearts?" He manages, slowly, looking incredulously.

"Actually little Einstein heads—joke gift from Pepper. Or maybe actual gift. I couldn't tell." Stark had managed to get an impressive half-glass of the remaining booze; he tips it back easily. "Anyway. Leave the kids for one night and they throw a party. You are all, by the way, grounded."

"Yes, Dad," Jane groans from the couch, curling up into a little ball. Clint would find this all immensely amusing if he didn't feel like vomiting into the nearest trashcan. Thor wanders idly over to the mini-fridge. "I do not know what you means, friends! We drank. We made our ancestors proud. We can ask no more than that."

"I would kill for an Asgardian metabolic system," Jane grumbles, pushing her hair away from her face. Clint agrees with a grunt, trying to use the legs of the nearest stool to push himself into a standing position. Thor, sliding sideways with two bagels and another Pop Tart in his mouth (how can he eat after last night?), easily picks him up with one meaty hand across his upper arm and rights him against the bar.

"Thanks," Clint tries, but it comes out more like, "Thalsknsss."

"My mission went great, if anyone cares. Talked to the Big Guy. He's on board."

"Who is this?"

"How 'bout I tell you after you puts some pants on, bud. Hey, and Bohr? I know it's like, super early and shit, but are you going to pick up your phone anytime soon?"

Clint blinks lazily. There is a faint ring he's noticing, or perhaps he has been noticing it and is only now really paying attention. Three sharp trills, then silence, then three sharp trills—he looks up at Stark. "That's—that's my phone?"

"You got it, Einstein. I'd pick it up if I were you."

Clint fumbles in his pocket, fingers feeling like they belong to somebody else as he pulls forth his ringing cell and smashes the accept button. He holds it slowly and several inches away from his ear. "Hello?" It feels like it takes him too long to say.

"Agent Barton. Where have you been? I've been trying for the last hour."

"Agent Sitwell. Oh—" he begins and finishes: "Ohut. Out. I've been out. Following a—led. Lead. Lead on things."

Stark snorts loudly, patting him on the back as he walks out from behind the bar with a bottle of red Gatorade, so hard he nearly tips over. "Good work, Bartok. They won't suspect a thing," Stark finishes at a whisper, before continuing, louder and to Jane: "Hey, babe, hangover miracle cure right here—"

"Go away," Jane hisses.

"We need you at 1100 hours to rendezvous at the Helicarrier."

"Right."

"And Barton?"

"Yes?"

"We couldn't find record of any checkpoint scheduled for one Jane Foster. Is she still in your care?"

Shit. Shit, fuck, shit, fuck—"Uh, yeah, you know in all the—the confusion I must've—she's here, with me. I'll bring her."

"She could be useful with her…ties to the invader."

He blinks at this, and manages a fairly coherent: "She's one of the world's top scientists, Jasper, not an overgrown piece of meat to attract alien invasions. Invaders." Shit, he almost had it.

"I was only saying—"

"Barton, over and out."

He slams his phone into the bar so hard it breaks into two pieces, sending plastic into his palm and gouging the granite surface. He rubs his hand down his face, trying to make his eyes feel less like they belonged to a robot and more like they belonged to a human. He says, then, loudly enough for the room to hear, "They want us at the Helicarrier."

"Got my orders before you, Bartok," Stark says, straightening with a click of his tongue.

He wants to die.

"Thor, bud, you know the plan?"

"Aye, my friend, though I do not agree with it."

"What plan?" Clint asks, hobbling away from the bar.

"None of your beeswax, Barrymore. Now, if you barf on my private jet I will personally make sure you get placed on the 'Do Not Fly' list. I don't care if you're a government agent or the Queen of Fucking Sheba. Up and at 'em, Foster, time to catch your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," Jane growls, sliding to her feet, "and I'm going to break his nose."

"We're just one big happy family, aren't we?" Clint pulls out his sunglasses from his back pocket and slides them on, stumbling towards the elevator. "This is going to be great."


The black sky is painted through with blue stars and purple nebulas, bathing the barren, gray rock in a strange half-light that he wanders silently. He can feel his mind stretched over a distance so great he could not calculate it if he had a million lifetimes to do so. His spear, anchoring him to this realm, grows heavy in his hand as a voice like gravel speaks.

"The Chitauri grow restless."

He cracks his neck sideways, pulling the full of his armor out of the nether as he turns to face the Other, teeth bloody and gleaming in the half-light. Blue eats at the edges of his thoughts, fights his own liquid white-green, but he feels better with the modicum of safety his helm and breastplate and bracers afford him. "Let them gird themselves. I will lead them into glorious battle."

The Other laughs, a thousand knives scraping against the inside of his skull, and he almost cracks. "Battle? Against the meager might of Earth?"

Loki readjusts his grip on the spear, settles it in the dusty earth of the rock and leans. "Glorious, not lengthy." As he stares at the gray dirt he finds he is reminded of sand, the yellow sand of a place called New Mexico. Clarity bursts through the blue-haze clouding his thoughts and he snaps, "If your force is as formidable as you claim."

The Other hisses, "You question us? You question him? He, who put the scepter in your hand, who gave you ancient knowledge and new purpose when you were cast out?"

The blessed clarity is still there, and he frowns openly. "Do not think you can fool the Prince of Lies." He voice is tight. "I was not cast out. I fell."

"You were but a stray, taken in by a father who cared nothing for you and overshadowed, always, by your brother."

Loki feels, then, the fog returning, like manacles around his mind. The Other continues:

"We look beyond the Earth, to greater worlds the Tesseract will unveil."

Before he is gone, lost completely, he leans forward, brushing the tip of his spear against the Other's face. "But you don't have the Tesseract yet." The creature tightens, lips baring in a snarl over twisted teeth. "I do not threaten. But until I have Earth firmly in my grasp, until you have sworn oaths to leave it to my command, until then—you are but words. And I do not lose in wars of words."

The Other slips out of reach, slow, measured steps echoing across the dead, barren planet. Loki straightens, watching out of the corner of his eye, and the haze settles again, thick, a mire in his thoughts, forcing each to fight its way to the surface. He remembers, vaguely, falling. He remembers, vaguely, pain and torture. He remembers, but only just.

"You will have the Earth, Asgardian, as you will command our force. But know that if you fail—if the Tesseract is kept from us—there will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice where he cannot find you." He feels the Other at his back, long, snake-like fingers inching towards the side of his head, the barest, lightest of touches against his temple. "You think you know pain? He will make you long for something sweet as pain."

The Other presses, and his world explodes into fire, atom-ripping, molecule-bursting, blood-boiling, skin-flaming fire that does not ease until his eyes fly open.

He is in a tunnel. Water drips down the sides of brown, decaying bricks, and fly-like humans garbed in rudimentary armor with rudimentary weapons bustle about. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, for the thin trill of his white-green magic to stop singing in his head, attempting to knit bones that are not broken.

He stands.

The presence is less, here, but still crouching around the edges of his thoughts, watching, testing his mettle. He wants to cage it with his magic, but that would garner nothing but trouble. Instead he blinks calmly, watching the humans scurry like ants. Amid the apparent chaos, Selvig is fiddling with pieces for his portal.

He says, to distract himself, "And how goes the work, Dr. Selvig?"

"It's there, it's—you know," the doctor looks at him with awe in his eyes, a smile playing around his lips, "the Tesseract is showing me so much. It's more than just knowledge, it's—it's truth."

(—do not think it is not truth it is truth he will find you if you think it is not truth if he senses rebellion he will crush the Earth between his boot heel and leave it bleeding in space and leave her dead do not think do not—)

"I know," Loki smiles grimly. He asks, without turning, "And what did it show you, Agent Romanoff?"

Natasha walks gracefully out from behind him, and he watchers her cat-like grace out of the corner of his eye as she settles next to the doctor. She smiles prettily at him. "My next target."

"What do you need?"

Natasha crosses her arms. "A distraction." Her grin turns wolfish, deadly. "And an eyeball."


"Is there a reason you're wearing sunglasses indoors, Agent?"

"No, sir."

Fury grunts. Jane would look sympathetically at Clint if she could manage, but as it is, her throbbing head is getting in the way of her thinking clearly. Only Tony looks completely at ease—he's next to her, lounging in one of the padded chairs around the briefing table, feet up and on the glass. He's examining his nails as Fury turns to them both.

"I didn't appreciate your little disappearing act, Ms. Foster."

"Contrary to popular belief, Fury, you don't own me."

"She's right on that front," Tony adds, not looking up.

"I, uh, don't think this is a great environment for me to be in. Airborne pressurized metal container?"

Jane whips around at the sound of the new voice, which is a mistake. She grimaces, pushing at the crick in her neck and getting shakily to her feet. In front of her is a man who could, in all theory, be living in a shack several miles away from any sort of civilization—unkempt, loose pants, oversized shirt, bags under his eyes that are only magnified by his glasses—but she would know him anywhere.

She holds out her hand, smiling. "Dr. Banner, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"And you, Ms. Foster. Your theory on intergalactic travel was brilliant."

She laughs, finds that once she starts she can't stop, and is tugged back into her seat by Tony as he, himself, stands. "Hulkster, great of you to show." He smiles, and there is something genuine about it, even as Jane twitches at the nickname and all the members of S.H.I.E.L.D currently scattered about the deck pause. Maria Hill gives a snort, rolling her eyes.

"Well, I had nothing better to do." Dr. Banner returns the smile uncomfortably. Fury breaks the silence that follows, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.

"Doctor, thank you for coming."

"Thanks for—yeah. So, uh, how long am I staying?"

Jane watches Banner twist his fingers uncomfortably before turning her gaze to Clint, who is hunkered down in front of a computer, looking at the monitor as the database scans security footage for one Natasha Romanoff.

"Once we get our hands on the Tesseract, you're in the clear."

"Where are you with that, by the way?" Tony breaks in, settling back in his seat and kicking his boots on the table.

Hill answers, raising her lip in disgust at Tony's behavior in a way that makes Jane laugh even more, until Clint—finished with the computer—settles himself in the empty seat next to her and delivers a slap to her arm. "We're sweeping every wirelessly accessible camera on the planet. Cell phones, laptops. If it's connected to a satellite, it's eyes and ears for us."

"Still not going to find them in time," Tony sing-songs.

"You have to narrow the field. How many spectrometers do you have access to?" Bruce asks, rolling up his sleeves.

"How many are there?" Fury claps his hands behind him.

"Call every lab you know, tell them to put the spectrometers on the roof and calibrate them for gamma rays. I'll rough out a tracking algorithm based on cluster recognition. At least we could rule out a few places. Do you have somewhere for me to work?"

Jane giggles again. "That was amazing."

"Uh, thanks, I—" Banner is cut off by Hill.

"Come on, Doctor. I'll show you to the lab."

Next to her Clint rubs his eyes beneath his sunglasses and snickers under his breath, " 'That was amazing!' You are such a science nerd."

She sticks her tongue out, watching Banner's back as it disappears into the bowels of the Helicarrier.

"News flash, Captain Brainiac—the best people are." Tony grins.

Jane nods her agreement emphatically, is leaning back in her chair smiling and finally (thank God) beginning to regain her appetite, wondering where the galley or mess is on this thing, when a shrill beep levels off somewhere on the deck below. Fury immediately whirls toward the noise; Clint, too, is on his feet, and she follows, shaky enough still that she reaches for his elbow. Only Tony remains seated, fiddling with his phone with a frown.

"What is it?" She asks, following Clint down to the computer monitor.

Fury ignores her.

"What is it?" Clint asks, and Fury answers question for question: "Facial recognition?"

Dick.

"Seventy-percent match for Loki," an agent says, hunkered over the screen, where a blurry figure stands outside of a white-marble building. "Seventy-five percent. Eighty."

Her stomach does a tight little flip, knots up, then stops moving altogether.

"That's it, sir. Eighty percent match."

"That's not good enough," Fury growls, already turning away, except Jane says, very, very clearly, "It's him."

The room quiets. Even now the image is depixelating, revealing a lithe form and black hair and maybe her imagination but a hint of green, green eyes—"It's him."

"I want a strike team, now—Barton, suit up. Stark, get your gear on, dammit, and get off your phone. I want a line on Rogers and—"

"I'm going."

"I'm afraid not, Ms. Foster." Fury turns to look at her coldly, one dark eye glinting. "It's dangerous."

"Since when did you care about my safety, Fury?"

"Since your inexperience in combat could jeopardize other lives on the field. You aren't trained for this. You stay here. Help Banner in the lab. We need to find the Tesseract."

Jane opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off.

"That's an order."

She takes one final look at the image on screen, the face clearly recognizable now, before storming up the stairs and away, wishing desperately that she could give Fury a good one, right in the face, and maybe knock him out of whatever world he was currently inhabiting.


Agent Phil Coulson tries to draw on the steady thrum of the Quinjet as some sort of calming influence—background noise, maybe, like the ocean, or the rain—but when he's standing in front of Steve Rogers aka Captain America aka Captain America

Well.

He stares, tells himself he should really, by his age and job title, be much more professional than this, and blinks quickly away to glance out the front cockpit as Rogers looks up from the holopad he's holding like a time bomb. On it, the Hulk is ripping through several armored tanks. Outside the sky is bright.

"So this Doctor Banner was trying to replicate the serum that was used on me?"

"A—" his voice squeaks, and he adjusts his tie, starting over. "A lot of people were. You were the world's first superhero. Banner thought gamma radiation might hold the key to unlocking Erskine's original formula."

As Coulson watches, Rogers turns back to the screen; there is something like guilt playing around the younger man's eyes. "Didn't really go his way, did it?"

"Not so much. When he's got that thing, though, guy's like a Stephen Hawking." Coulson raises his eyebrows, cocking half-a-smile, but Rogers just looks confused. He coughs, uncomfortable again with the fact that he didn't remember Steve had been on ice for what, seventy years, and great, Coulson, just great, you brought it up, you—"He's like a really smart person." To cover up his gaffe he continues quickly: "I gotta say, it's an honor to meet you, officially. I sort of met you, I mean, I was there while you were sleeping. I mean, I was present, while you were unconscious from the ice. I mean—you know, it's really, it's just a huge honor to have you on board."

Steve gives him a small smile. "Well, I hope I'm the man for the job."

"Oh, you are. Absolutely. Uh…we've made some slight modifications to the uniform." He adds, proudly, "I've had a little design input."

(And by little he means he designed the whole thing, but that might come off as a little strong.)

"The uniform? Aren't the stars and stripes a little…old-fashioned?"

"With everything that's happening, the things that are about to come to light—people might just need a little old-fashioned." Coulson adjusts his tie once more, mind wandering to the Captain America Trading Card Set he had in his locker, and if he could just get them signed

"Sir? Fury's on the line."

Coulson looks to the cockpit. "Well, patch him through."

"Coulson." Fury's voice, sounding tired and strained, spreads over the intercom. "Is Rogers with you?"

"Yes, sir." Coulson looks across at Steve, who is examining the air with the look of someone who has just seen a ghost. Or maybe heard the voice of God. Or both. He bends down in a whisper, "It's a wireless voice thing."

Steve nods, but it's more of a I'll-buy-whatever-you-say nod than a sure-I-get-it nod. Coulson straightens as Fury continues, "We have Loki's location. We're re-routing you now. Stuttgart, Germany. You better suit up."

"Yes, sir," he and Rogers reply in unison. There is a crackle of static and then silence.

"Well," he says, looking at Steve with what he hopes is an encouraging smile, "that was unexpected."

Steve sighs, tossing the holopad onto the seat next to him, where it hits with a sound like shattering glass. "Why did it have to be Germany."

It isn't a question.