Title: Scars – Chapter Nine

Author: Lucky Gun

Beta: SpenChester

Summary: A trip to Asgard to keep Barton out of the Council's reach after the Battle of New York places the agent in more danger than anyone could have ever imagined. Face to face with demigods capable of reading his very soul, Hawkeye is forced to protect his teammates and himself from Loki's growing influence while on the prince's home world. Sequel to Bruises. AU. Contains whump, language, and torture.

A/N: Delays, delays. I know, I know. Have a few excuses, but none of them worth writing about. On with the show!


Before then, he'd never really known what a drop of blood looked like suspended in midair. Even with all his lifelong proximity to spraying, dripping, gushing blood, he'd never had a single moment to stop and really look at it. Hell, if he was honest with himself, he wouldn't have wanted to anyway. But, if he'd been asked, he thought he would have had an answer. He would've guessed, when he was young, that it was teardrop shaped, but he knew enough about physics now to know it ought to be perfectly circular. And it was, for the most part. But there was that thin, barely discernible peak at the top, and that strange, tiny flatness at the bottom that he hadn't expected to see. It wasn't like a normal water drop, and blood is thicker than water.

He supposed that made up for the difference.

But again, he was never the sort of person to revel in blood lust. He didn't make it a habit to sit and stare at the havoc he was wreaking on the human body. So why was he on his way to doubling over, a familiar and well-worn knife in his hand dragging crimson from his throat, his black and white vision focused on a single drop of blood?

And why couldn't he move?

He knew what he'd been doing: suicide. With his vision and his chess match way of thinking, it was the only out he could see. Grand champion chess masters wouldn't concede defeat; they play to the draw. So he didn't view the slitting of his own neck as the tipping of his king. No, this was a draw. A life for a life, as it might be said. Loki's true nature laid bare for the world to see, his crimes revealed, his sentence handed down – wasn't his life worth that?

It was, of course, which is why he was so concerned about that little drop of blood in front of him. The way it was so beautifully suspended in midair. The way he could see every facet of it. The way he couldn't move. He could breathe – his pain receptors were still firing, his hand was almost trembling with the ache to finish the job it had started.

But he couldn't move. And from what he could see in his limited line of sight, no one else could, either. But while his own chest was rising and falling with panic and fear, he could see no other movement in the room. He expected to see darting eyes and suspicion, expectation and fight. Indeed, from Thor he would've bet to see familiarity. After all, there wasn't much that happened in the Realm Eternal that Thor wasn't privy to. Even without that type of reassurance, Barton was strangely unconcerned with the odd occurrence he found himself within. The fact that he wasn't shocked by the team's current situation was something that was, in all honesty, a bit of a relief. After all, it just meant that he didn't have to really worry about their current predicament.

The predicament that had the team frozen, unable to move, blood drops hanging in midair, his half of the world still turning while their half stayed still.

This didn't freak him out nearly as much as it ought to.

Instead, he thought he might finally be going crazy. Yes, he thought he might finally be losing his mind; hell, he'd gone there and come back with the t-shirt. But even that overwhelming tsunami of pain and power in his head had paused in the same way as that part of the world. He could think and feel for a moment, humanity and something other than driven instinct owning him. Now that everything was still and quiet save for the harsh, barely-controlled breathing that echoed from him, Barton took a few precious seconds to evaluate how the hell he'd gotten where he was.

He was a half second away from ending his own life in front of people he considered practically family.

All said and done, they were all he had, save for Coulson, Deluca, and Fury back home. Through New York and everything before it, they'd become something more than individuals. He'd accepted that fact with barely any better grace than his usual mentality allowed. A stern talking to by the CMO of the helicarrier arguably had something to do with that. They were people he'd protected, people he'd literally died for, people he'd killed for, people he'd fought hell and the devil himself for.

How did he get here?

And Loki's name blazed blue in his sight, washing out the blood for a heartbeat, and he waited for the long suffered flash of agony that always accompanied it.

The lack of pain was almost as startling as the usual and sudden presence of it.

So the whisper of movement through the room drew his attention just a split second too late, and he didn't wonder why he took so long to focus on it. The blood slipping from his skin to hang below him, dancing minutely in the airwaves, might have had something to do with his inattention. But he did manage to give a small twitch of surprise when his eyes finally landed on a target other than blue and red.

Dark metal and leather stalked carefully towards him, parting through the team with barely any concern for the rooted people. Halfheartedly, he was thankful for that. If he couldn't even move enough to kill himself, he seriously doubted his ability to protect any of the people he had locked in his soul as something more than the rest of humanity. Then his gaze managed to grab onto the man walking purposefully towards him.

And he desperately wished he wasn't so fucking frozen.

But the mask on Suvid's face wasn't the same condescending frown that he'd worn since Barton had known him. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he'd swear that the demigod was almost concerned with the situation. If he could've, Clint would have snorted with derision. He had few charitable thoughts about the bastard in front of him, the man quickly working his way up the black list in the archer's book, right under Loki. But still, there was something about the look he wore that made Clint check his temper, if barely.

"So this is what it's come to, Hawkeye?" the Asgardian murmured quietly as he came close, the heavy length of cloak brushing the floor near worn combat boots.

It was so close that, if movement had been allowed, Clint would've bled on it.

The thought was enough to put a bit of a smirk in the human's mind, even if it didn't quite make it to his face. How awful he could be when the situation called for it. Yet the truth is that the demigod had practically read his mind. He'd never let him know it, though.

The flare of defiance at the thought sustained him when Suvid knelt down in front of him and leaned forward, his elbow on his knee, his face turned slightly to allow a clear and unobstructed view into the archer's too-defenseless eyes. He wished desperately to turn away, to bleed, to die, but the world continued its half-second per minute pace. The superhuman gaze focusing on him was so clear and cutting that Barton wondered why in any kind of hell he hadn't put an arrow through the man's jugular when he had the chance.

"What a terrible thing your life has led to, Agent Barton," he said gently, the expression he wore so painfully reluctant that it actually made the man still his thoughts of staining his clothing.

And, thinking of what had been breathed into the air between them, Barton decided he had to agree. After all, pride goes before the fall, and he was pretty sure he was scraping rock bottom at the moment. Then he had a single, perfect moment of clarity, something he'd been missing since that fucking scepter had touched his chest in the depths of the shadow base.

Even when he'd won, when he'd beaten Loki back to nothing but a memory, the influence had returned, again and again, and Clint was tired. He didn't want a repeat performance. He was ready for the final act. That was how he got to his present state: not kneeling physically, but bowing mentally, giving everything he had left to give to a fight he saw only one way to end. He didn't think there was any other way out. He wasn't an idiot, but how could a mortal man even think of fighting and winning against something like otherworldly magic?

The muscles in his hand shifted slightly, bringing another line of burning heat across his neck, and he raised exhausted, drained eyes to Suvid's compassionate face. What he couldn't say in words was visible in the depths of the soul shining from him.

Help me.

Suvid said nothing and didn't move for a moment, evaluating him, seeing everything that Barton willingly showed. Pain, frustration, weariness, weakness – all were laid bare. He paused but then nodded, his faze hardening.

"You are not wrong, Hawk. You could not have won. Loki's magic is such that even we on Asgard have fear of it. You were granted stays, surely, but true defeat of this influence in its current form is impossible. Even I, the keeper of fate, would be unable to drive him from you."

Clint's eyes widened, strange fear welling in his gaze like tears, and the deity gave him a soft smile. The Asgardian's true power sailed through the motion without restraints, and Barton swallowed hard, barely feeling the tight pain that rolled through his body. Suvid turned and glanced at the people behind him, taking in the Avengers with a quiet respect.

"They love you. They have nothing but respect for you and fear for your future. They need you as much as you need them. This is a truth you've sworn to never accept. But I wonder if you'd continue to sacrifice yourself for them as much as you have if they never knew why?" Suvid mused softly as he turned back towards his captive audience, more challenge than actual doubt tinting his words.

Barton opened his mouth, intent on speaking, and he was slightly shocked when some measure of speech flowed from his mouth.

"Anything," he whispered, conviction and truth shining in that word. "Please...anything."

The low cadence burned with belief, and the Asgardian in front of him nodded after a moment. He stepped back and flexed his hands as the world kept still.

"Very well, Agent Barton. Remember that you chose this."

That was all the preparation and warning the man would get.

A split second later, his world faded into a blue so familiar that it washed out everything else. He couldn't move, couldn't do much but panic and mentally flail for some footing somewhere. As his vision sunk into sapphire, he cast desperate eyes to his team, to their frozen faces. They were unmoving, still locked in their initial horror at the truth of his last act. Shock and fear were prevalent, disbelief running very close behind, and Clint burned their reactions into his mind. No matter what would come, that is what he would ensure he remembered.

That he was better than this. That they – they! – believed he was better than this.

And as he fell into the sea, he distantly hoped that maybe one day he would believe it too.


The blue faded in an explosion of power that was far more silent than it should have been. The energy crawled over the floor swiftly and lurched upwards to the ceiling. It swirled there for a few seconds, maintaining a bit of a whirling turn as it danced over the stone heights. There was every hue of the ocean in the air above him, the dance changing the shade of the light every second. Truthfully, he gave the spectacle far more interest than was necessarily needed in this situation.

Especially considering he'd seen it before.

When his eyes dropped to the metal dais at the far end of the chamber, memory playing out too clearly to be anything but reality, he couldn't stop himself from taking half a step backwards. Panic and denial reigned in his mind as fear made his heartbeat roar in his ears.

No no no! This isn't real. This isn't real. This is fucking not real! he screamed at himself, hands trembling.

Real or not, the world exploded into motion and flying lights, shouts and gunfire. Before New York, before Loki, before glow sticks of destiny and superhuman deities, Barton would've fallen into instinct and training, would've soaked up the security and comfort the handle of his pistol would've lent him. Now, though, it was all he could do to shove Fury from the podium at the first attack and keep from screaming.

It was too much, too much! He couldn't go through this again. Reliving it in his nightmares was enough, but this rebuilt hell was too real to be anything other than the true definition of agony. Still, he fought through the choking fear in his heart and rolled to his knees, pulling his gun in such a smooth motion that he would swear he'd done it before.

He knew he had.

His shots were ineffective, just like he knew they would be, and he was ready – barely – when Loki turned and fired a blast at him and his backup. The next several seconds passed slowly, his head spinning and cloudy, his vision wavering in the dim chamber. His right shoulder ached dully, the quick tumble he'd taken moments before sloppily executed though life saving. He heard steps coming closer, the light, sure footfalls pulsing in his head with the rise of nausea in his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut even as he pushed himself to his knees, asking himself why he was even trying. The nightmare never changed, history couldn't be altered, the world could not turn backwards, no matter what Christopher Reeve believed. A flare of insolent curses burned through his head, and he braced a bit, physically readying for the flood of pain and sapphire that came whenever he fought the magic within him.

He was slightly surprised when nothing happened.

Such was his distraction that he didn't realize he'd stood and faced the monster stalking him like the prey he was. His arm came up automatically, his fingers holding his gun in a death grip, and he jerked when thin, smooth hands effortlessly batted away his advance on one side and crushed his other wrist in a tight grip. His arms pinned, all motion stopped, Barton dared his fear.

Raising his eyes to the beast before him, Clint felt every shattered part of his soul quail at the first sight of blue. His breath froze in his chest as he stared at the herald of his death, the otherworldly magician appraising him with a small smirk. The archer could almost hear the cultured tones flooding his brain, the demands, the taunts, the promises and threats. He could feel the touch of the scepter again and again, the sharp tip slicing through skin and hitting bone. He could taste blood and dust, the scent of teak oil and summer nights tickling his senses. He could see shattered marble, fire, a grand arena, and his own K-BAR in the lower periphery of his sight. His throat was killing him.

"You have heart."

It was a statement of fact, a bold proclamation of truth, and a precursor to a life that Clint had already seen spiral into doom and chaos. He knew what his heart meant to Loki. He would present a unending challenge to the demon, create obstacles that the Asgardian would eventually become skilled at overcoming, deploy defenses that would give the crazed alien the answer to every offense needed to beat humanity. His heart, his soul, would be the downfall of New York, the deaths of thousands, the breaking of SHIELD's trust in itself, and the shattered beliefs of the world Loki called home.

His heart would be the beginning of the end.

And damn it all to fucking hell, that pissed him off.

Moving with strength and speed he didn't know he possessed, Clint made a quick choice and dropped his gun, the sound of metal hitting stone ringing in his ears. At the same time, he tore his other arm from Loki's grasp and grabbed the metal staff the demigod held with muscles of steel, both his hands wrapped in white knuckle grips around the thing. Gritting his teeth as he stared at the destroyer of his future, Barton's lips twisted into a snarl as he pushed against the mounting pressure, the Asgardian attempting to wrestle the source of his power from him. Loki's smile was washed away by an annoyed frown, his eyes narrowing as the one he wanted as his first slave fought against him with a force he didn't think to encounter on Earth.

"I will not kneel, dammit," Clint growled as he felt his stance shift in response to the struggle he was locked in with the demigod.

Loki made a sharp sound of surprise as he tried alternatively to pull himself from Clint's grip and press his advantage. Neither method worked, though a bead of sweat dripped down the human's face. Gaze locked on the defiant human in front of him, the alien pulled upon the self-confidence he'd gained from his bargain with the Other.

Lips parting in a breathy laugh, Loki responded lowly, "Oh? You are so familiar with my plans you think to beat them before they've even bloomed? Before they've even rooted? What arrogance."

Teeth grinding, Clint answered roughly, his voice low, words carrying to none but his tormentor, "No, it's done more than root. The Chitauri are waiting in space, waiting for you to open a portal for them to come here. I won't let that happen. Not again."

Jerking harshly, Loki seethed and snapped, "You insect! How do you know these things? Speak before I cut your tongue out!"

Staggering back a step and changing his footing to accommodate, Barton gave a pained smile even as he felt his left wrist bend wrong, the low pulse of discomfort giving his voice more volume.

"Careful, Loki. You'll lose that overwhelming air of authority you're trying to project to all the ants in here. Best not be seen losing to a human."

There was a shift of movement a few yards away and Clint heard an accented voice ask, "Loki? Brother of Thor?"

Hearing the brother's name gave the demigod a bit more anger to pull from, and he wrenched his staff from the archer's grasp with effort. Jumping backwards, he panted heavily, more than pissed, and he glared at the man. Clint held his stance, eyes catching his gun from the corner of his eye, and his fingers twitched for it. Still, he didn't make a movement other than to heave hard breaths; it was as difficult to fight the man in person as it was to fight him mentally. Loki eyed him critically from a few feet away, taking in the agent with a perturbed look on his face.

"You know my brother. He must have guessed at my plans and contacted you somehow. But still..." the demigod trailed off, thinking hard, and Barton flexed his wrist, hiding a wince; sprained, for sure, but nothing he couldn't work with.

Any relief he felt with the minuteness of his injury was quickly washed away by the abrupt rage that spilled from Loki in venomous words.

"No...I recognize the magic in you now. Suvid, that meddling fatemaster! How dare he!"

Clint showed no shock, though his fists tightened a little more as he shifted to a better fighting stance.

"How did you come into the good graces of my father's adviser? How does he even know your existence? His power extends to our realm alone, Midgard but a trifle world of no consequence for his sight. Yet you bear the mark of his power," Loki mused out loud, his anger making his words shake in the air.

Flinching slightly in remembrance of all the times that anger had been directed towards him, Barton bared his teeth in response.

"Guess I must've made an impression," he answered, voice lower than normal.

Loki snorted in an undignified manner, his head cocking slightly as he fixed Clint with a look that was so fucking familiar it made his guts roil.

"Indeed. Because the fatemaster of Asgard is not in the habit of tracking insignificant humans of Earth and allowing them access to the deepest magic in all the nine realms," he said smoothly, wind blowing back into his sails.

Frowning, the agent made no move to speak, suitably concerned when the alien in front of him looked far too pleased with himself all of a sudden. It was a mood shift that he'd seen a hundred times, one that usually occurred before and after the Other had contacted them. It was Loki sacrificing a bishop to take a rook. It was calculated madness.

It was terrifying.

The readiness he'd pushed into his limbs was the only edge he had when the demigod abruptly shoved a hand forward, glowing yellow. Clint jerked to the side a fraction too late, the full miss turning into a brush of heat. Pain exploded in his gut as his skin boiled at Loki's touch, but he kept his tongue between his teeth. In the same motion as his feint, he pulled a knife and jammed it towards the other man's face. Loki dodged backwards, ripping his palm from Barton's side, and the influx of agony swelled with the motion. Eyes watering and vision spinning, the agent reminded himself harshly that he'd had worse. God, had he felt worse. Most of it recently.

But his mind was overwhelmed with the world he was suddenly in, his soul vibrating with the difference, and his body ached everywhere that Loki hadn't hit. His knees slammed into the unforgiving floor hard, his left hand barely supporting himself as his right clutched at his side. He glared up through darkening sight, flashes of green and a cacophony of sound assaulting his head. Feeling the pressure of his body hitting the ground more so than the actual pain accompanying it, Clint couldn't stop himself from crying out softly as he curled into a ball, his hands pressed over his lower ribs.

It hurt.

Just like that rebar from the subway. Just like the knife from the bridge of the helicarrier. Just like the scepter in his chest. Just like the claws of the Valkyrie in the arena.

Just like the broken halls of his mind and the terrors he'd suffered through at the hands of the demigod before him.

Gritting his teeth, the archer forced his eyes open, unaware that he'd ever actually closed them, and forced himself to move, his right hand inching down his thigh to his boot, the small handles of his closest throwing knives poking into his calf. His shoulder tweaked as he moved, phantom pain lingering in his thoughts. Pushing through it, Clint allowed himself to think of nothing else but the smooth grips on his blades. He felt something warm tickle his fingers, his side flaring in heat as he moved, and he winced even as he finally gripped the knives he was reaching for.

A small right-side-down smile crossed his face as he raised his eyes to the world around him, blobs of color and motion barely making sense in his vision. Then he focused, his eyes aching as he forced them to work the way the Agency had made them, and life came into sharp clarity. He watched in distant horror as one of the men he'd worked with for weeks abruptly raised a gun to shoot his superior. Moving with a speed he didn't think he still had, Clint shouted his anger and threw one of the blades, his aim true as always, his mark hitting perfectly. The man's arm shifted in response as the knife lodged itself in his forearm, the security agent shooting Fury's bulletproof vest instead of his head.

Loki whirled on the downed man, growling like a beast, and Barton allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction as his last blade flew through the air with a low whistle, spinning evenly.

It landed with a wet squelch in the demigod's left eye.

Hollering and jerking backwards, Loki stumbled into the arms of Selvig, the astrophysicist catching his new master with shocked but ready hands. The doctor hurried the cursing Asgaridan from the hall, the security guard grabbing the case holding the Tesseract from beside Fury's unmoving body. Clint watched them go, unable to goad his tired body into moving one more inch, but his eyes never left his tormenter's face.

The last sight he had of the monster who'd made his life hell was a long, promising glare from his one eye that was untouched, the blue in it burning bright in the darkness.

Then Barton's head fell, his fingers lost their grip on the wound that was gushing blood from his side, and he barely had any time to think before the pressure took him away.

He's going to lose this time. I swear it.


His rise to consciousness was nicer than it had been in a fairly long time. He climbed slowly from the darkness, unhurried, the world around him quiet and calm. He felt the pull of drugs on his mind and he allowed himself to enjoy the bliss for a moment.

Then recent memory crashed through his lowered mental shields and his eyes flew open. His arms were already moving before the steady beeping above him sped from a slow cadence to a frantic gallop, his fingers gripping at the railings he knew to be at the side of the bed. His vision was blurry, and he couldn't force himself to focus on anything, no matter how hard he tried. The breaths in his lungs started coming more frantically and he used his aching arms to shove himself upright. An abrupt and heavy burn in his midsection melted the edges of his world to black for a moment, gray taking over the center, and he swallowed against a throat as dry as a desert.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Clint forced his breaths to deepen and his heart rate slowed behind them. He ducked his head and shifted, one hand pressing against his side mindlessly as he braced it against the deep movements of his chest. A minute later and he could see again, his vision clearing rapidly. It only took him a moment to recognize the room he was in. For more than one reason, SHIELD's helicarrier infirmary was a sight he welcomed. The face mask fogged against the bottom of his vision, and he winced as he pulled it off, keeping his movements as economical as possible. Glancing down, he was slightly surprised to find himself still halfway clad in his uniform. His pants and boots were still on, his shirt and jacket not only discarded but certainly destroyed from the demigod's attack. His stomach was swathed in thick bandages, the tightness beneath them telling. Unsure as to whether the wound was a burn or a cut, he set his sights on the medical chart hanging off the foot of the bed.

It took more than a minute to get his feet under him and the two IVs out of the backs of both his hands. One was fluids piggybacked with some heavy antibiotics and the other was connected to a dextrose and insulin pump. He ignored them and focused on keeping his knees locked. His feet itched and his lips tingled, side effects from what must have been a shot of liquid fentanyl. He could still feel the fading bite in his forearm where the needle had sunk into his muscle. He had felt the effects of that particular drug before, prior experience telling him that the drug couldn't have been administered more than ten minutes ago. It took effect within a minute and lasted maybe a half hour. Given the fact that he was still partially clothed and that he was alone, he figured he was in triage before he even saw the words written on the top of his chart.

He glanced over the words with forced focus, his mind jumbled but the important parts coming through. It was a burn, but it had hemorrhaged in several areas, hence the bleeding. It was a simple second degree over most of it, but in a few places, the skin had literally boiled open from Loki's touch. Flipping the few pages of his chart, Clint flinched when he came across a picture of his wound. The vast majority of the area was red, inflamed, and obviously burned, but the five points where the Asgardian's fingertips had come closest were bloody and raw.

Fucking handprint, Barton realized as he choked back bile. Little bastard. Seems like I'll never be completely rid of him, no matter where or when I run into him.

Still, it could have been worse, and Clint healed faster than most, so maybe...maybe he wouldn't scar from this. It was a long shot, but it was about the only thing keeping his sanity intact at the moment. Swallowing tightly, the agent dropped the chart on top of his bed and glanced around for some clothes and, more importantly, his weapons. Then he hesitated, thinking back to something so short a time and so long a time ago, wondering if everything that he'd ever heard about precognition was simply the side effects of Suvid's interference, fancy guesswork, and blind luck.

It couldn't hurt to check.

He bit back a curse as he knelt as far as he dared, his side screaming, and he reached one shaking hand under the bed he was just occupying. For a moment, his fingers brushed air only as his wrist twinged dully, and Clint could feel the low tinge of humiliation rolling up his cheeks. Then, the feeling of canvas reached him, and he wrapped his fingers around the handle of an eerily familiar duffel bag. He allowed himself a short beat of stillness to ignore the oddness that flooded his gut at the find. As he pulled the bag from under the bed, ducking down to grab the second one he knew would be there, Barton found himself both marveling at the situation and creeped out by it.

"I knew they'd be there. That's where Deluca pulled them from last time," he murmured lowly to himself, frowning as he fingered the zippers. "But that was after we'd attacked the helicarrier, after I came back. Why are they here already?"

"Because your friend believes the same now as she did then: that you would desire to be properly outfitted for what lies ahead."

Whirling fast and immediately regretting it, Barton wheezed hard breaths as his stomach flared its warning. Eyes clenching shut, Clint just barely kept himself from attacking whoever was on the other side of the hand that wrapped around his shoulder. It was only the small pulse of magic that crawled up his arm that stopped him from lashing out. So he breathed through the pain, straightening slowly, and finally raised weary eyes towards his companion.

Suvid stood quietly, observing the human with genuine concern, and his body was clad in a more simplified version of the outfit Barton had last seen him in. He silently helped the agent to the edge of the bed, holding him upright until he was certain Clint could lean against it on his own. The two stared at each other for several moments, the archer's harsh breaths the only thing breaking the silence, and it was only when that sound started to die a bit that Suvid spoke again.

"You made the transition well enough. You know what has happened?"

It was more of a statement, but Clint was inclined to confirm it, if for nothing other than his own mental health.

"You sent me back, somehow. To before Loki took me."

The fatemaster in front of him did nothing more than nod slightly, and the agent felt a bit of hysterical desperation filter into his forced calm.

"But...this can't be real. This is a dream, or I'm dead, and this is some form of hell. This can't be real."

Even as he said it, he begged it to be reality.

"Peace, Agent Barton. This is truth, no fabrication. There was no way to remove Loki's influence from you, not after it was placed using the enhanced power from the Tesseract. This was the only thing I could do to allow you some chance of embracing your fate," Suvid explained slowly, his eyes never leaving Clint's.

His lungs moved shallowly as all the implications of the demigod's words crossed his blessedly free mind, and the man blinked rapidly as hot tears crossed his vision.

"But then...I'm changing everything. I already have. Loki will...he's already got Selvig. He has the cube. He'll open the portal again," he stammered, overwhelmed.

Suvid shrugged slightly, reminding the agent of Thor, and asked, "Possibly."

Shaking his head and wincing at the ache that flared through his skull, Barton continued, "No...I can't let that happen. I have to stop him. Everyone that dies...God, Deluca's nephew. Sweet Jesus. Will doesn't have to die. The helicarrier. He could still go after it even without me. I can't...oh God..."

Raising his hand, Clint covered his eyes as he ducked his head, the sheer enormity of what had happened and what could now happen instead burning his soul. Everything that he could change, everything he could stop, all his choices and the actions that had led him to those choices, it all played out in his head in post-Loki technicolor glory.

"You can change things...until you cannot."

Jerking in place, Clint dropped his hand and stared at the demigod, an even larger bubble of confusion and fear trembling in his gut.

"What the hell does that mean?" he whispered harshly, unease tingling at the tips of his fingers.

Giving the man a very calm but troubled look, Suvid clarified softly, "I said this would allow you to embrace your fate."

Swallowing hard, Clint already found himself anticipating the Asgardian's next words.

"Embrace it, Agent Barton. I never said a thing about changing it."


End Chapter Nine