Notes: Another late chapter. Sorry gang, the first couple of weeks of July were tied up with last-minute preparations for a 50th anniversary party for my parents, and then the party and family visiting afterward. But it was a blast, featuring good food, lots of family and friends, a tropical storm, torrential rain and wind, widespread power outages, downed trees all over town, and (amazingly) no siblings murdering one another in the planning stages. And then I had to drive home by an unfamiliar route because the road I normally take from my parents' place washed out into a sinkhole. It was about all the excitement I could stand!

Warnings: In which things do not precisely get better, but at least don't get worse. Another relatively short chapter, in case life interferes with my writing some more.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The cleanup having been accomplished, Loki found himself with no desire whatsoever to encounter George's mortal- or, even more urgently, Agent Romanov. He was aware this was not the same Romanov he had encountered on the helicarrier, and indications were she would hold no ill feelings toward the Loki of this reality. He still felt no desire to make her acquaintance.

For his own part, he counted his skirmish with Romanov as one of his few victories in that whole miserable campaign. The fact it had resulted from no especial plan of his own did not lessen the amusement as he recalled her misinterpretation of his reference to monsters- he had been speaking of himself, not Banner. But the recollection of her scurrying away, clutching a scrap of supposition she then used to harass Dr. Banner into nearly destroying the helicarrier and everyone on it, was perhaps the only joke not entirely on himself since he fell from the Bifrost, and he was disposed to enjoy it.

The fact her mistake had served his own interests- or rather the mission forced upon him- was of little importance to him now. He had indeed convinced the defenders to focus their attention on himself, although he had failed in the ultimate aim of completely distracting them, and someone- Selvig?- had obviously solved the riddle of how close the portal before the main attack force came through.

Although there would have been no reward, no throne, for Loki even had he been victorious- Stark was quite right about that, and even within the prison of his mind Loki had certainly known as much- and it was only the violence of the Hulk that had returned him to himself, Loki was not much inclined to be grateful, nor to wish to reflect upon his defeat.

He therefore, rather than encountering Romanov, preferred the peace of this comfortable bedchamber- he chose not to reflect upon the identity of the one providing this refuge- and the peculiarities of Men At Arms, the book lent him by George.

It was indeed a most peculiar book. As George had explained during the air journey, this was not a factual account of life upon any known realm. Apparently the inhabitants of Midgard had conceived a practice of not only writing down their myths and sagas, but of inventing new ones for their mutual amusement.

Loki was not sure he was exactly amused by what he was reading- in the privacy of his mind he could admit he understood very little of it- but it gave him a distraction from the thought of the newcomers.

The recurring references in the book to the possible return of a king, and the sense of this being an undesirable state of affairs, were disturbing to him.

Except inasmuch as they also felt strangely comforting. Loki chose not to think very hard about why he might, in his deepest heart, find this to be so.

He was alone with his thoughts. The little cats had left him, had scrabbled and squeaked at the door until he opened it and left them to explore the great house. The little black dog was Annie's shadow, and therefore must be following at her heels. Loki was accustomed to being alone, had been resigned to it these many years, but instead of the resentful loneliness of his youth or the misery of more recent days, he now felt almost peaceful. It helped to know that, if he chose, he could seek out Annie and not be turned away.

"Sir?" the voice in the walls spoke up suddenly. Loki did not jump- he was not so soft as to be startled by a phantom servant, not after everything he had endured- but he was accustomed to domestics waiting to be addressed.

"Yes?" he said sharply. The voice was perfectly composed as it offered,

"If you wish to listen to music as you read, I could play some for you."

Loki considered. He was, of course, used to silence. It did not trouble him. Or rather, it had not, in the days before the void. Now he thought, perhaps, a little music would be pleasant. He even remembered the name of the disc that had captured his attention in Annie's house, and spoke it.

"I do not have access to that particular work," said the voice. "But I do have another by the same artist, if you would wish me to play it."

"Very well," Loki said, aware he was being ungracious. Reluctantly, he added, "Thank you."

"You are most welcome, sir," the voice said imperturbably, and the music began. Loki returned to his book, although he now found it rather difficult to concentrate on the page. Midgardian music was far more intrusive than its Asgardian counterpart, and the voice of the singer pressed upon his consciousness:

"Poor man wanna be rich

Rich man wanna be king

And a king ain't satisfied 'til he rules everything- "

Loki abruptly stood up and hurled the book against the opposite wall.

~oOo~

There were people who unpacked as soon as they arrived somewhere, and there were people who lived out of their luggage for the duration. During the past winter holidays, Clint had arrived at the conclusion Loki's friend George, and possibly Loki as well- or maybe Annie- were the first kind of people. Clint, on the other hand- and Tash as well, which was fortunate when they were staying somewhere together- left everything in his duffle to be fished out as needed.

The habit naturally made a lot of sense for people in a profession in which they might have to clear out of a place in a hell of a hurry.

It was also helpful when you had to search the room you were staying in and wanted to keep your own belongings separate from those of the actual occupant.

It was absolutely frigging vital when the room you were staying in and needed to search belonged to the kind of slob who apparently worked on the principle of "if I leave it on the floor I'll always know where it is." Looking at the completely obscured wooden floors around him, Clint could only wonder how that was working out for Mitchell.

Then he carried his duffle down the hall to a large, tidy room with a pretty flowered cover on the bed and a framed colour drawing of the four housemates hung up over the fireplace. You didn't need to look at the empty closets to know the room belonged to Annie. He set the duffle in front of the cold fireplace and went back down the hall to face his task.

Okay. His own gear out, you could safely assume everything in this room either belonged to Mitchell, or had been put there by him. It was impossible to imagine the other, neater housemates hanging out in here. It was just bad luck the vampire was the slob in the household.

He definitely should have told Daisy to meet him in three hours instead of two. Seriously, this room looked like a case for archeologists, or at least Indiana Jones.

Fifty-six painstaking minutes later, the floor was much tidier- Mitchell would probably never be able to find anything he owned ever again, and serve him right- and Clint was able to move the big wooden wardrobe a fraction to see if there was anything behind or under it.

As a matter of fact, there was: Clint was just able to see the edge of a small notebook peeking out from underneath. The wardrobe stood on four low feet so there was a gap of maybe half an inch between its bottom and the floor. Given Mitchell's habits it was quite possible the notebook had been accidentally kicked under there at some time in the three or four years he'd occupied the room. Or, since the wardrobe looked quite old, it was also possible the book had started out in a drawer and slipped through a gap.

Or perhaps it had been hidden. Mitchell was a vampire, and therefore a lot stronger than he looked. He might have simply moved the wardrobe when he needed the notebook.

Whatever the explanation, Clint needed to see the notebook. If it contained long-forgotten grocery lists, well, so be it.

Clint wasn't a vampire, but he too was stronger than he looked. Taking care not to pull it over on top of himself, he was able to rock and walk one corner of the wardrobe a couple of inches from the wall, and then wedge himself behind it and get his fingertips on the book. Holding his breath and cursing internally, he edged the notebook out to where he could grab it.

After all that trouble he was pleased to see his prize was actually an address book. Its brown fake-leather cover was cracked and worn, and the pages were yellowed with age. Clint sat down on the edge of the bed and flipped carefully through. The entries, in ink and pencil, were so faded he had to move closer to the bedside lamp to read them.

None of the entries was new, which made sense considering Mitchell had a cell phone that probably contained his current address book. Not that it mattered: Mitchell had been, as he called it, "on the wagon" at least since he and George decided to set up housekeeping together. Which didn't mean all the addresses in Mitchell's phone were innocent, but it did mean the entries in this book dated from a time when Mitchell and the Avengers would not have been inviting each other over for beers.

Under "H," for instance, was an entry for Herrick, a name Clint was pretty sure he'd heard Mitchell and his friends refer to, with six telephone numbers written one under the other, all but the last with a neat line scored through it.

Clint didn't recognize any of the other names or addresses listed, which wasn't of much concern to him right now- although he was certainly interested in hanging onto this book and maybe investigating some of the entries at a later date. He wondered if he should at least bring the idea up with Mitchell.

At the moment he wasn't sure what he was looking for, or if he'd recognize it when he found it. Something anomalous. Something that didn't fit.

He nearly missed it as his eyes scanned over the pages. There were no defined boxes separating the entries, it was just an unlined notebook with lettered tabs, the entries written in cramped, messy handwriting, all the information running together.

If Clint hadn't been reading with such attention, he might have missed the three addresses that didn't have names attached to them.

They were on the page for S, scattered among other entries. This page was even more cluttered than the rest of the book, which might have been deliberate. It was very unlikely he would have spotted them if he hadn't been reading so closely. Clint marked the page and looked carefully through the rest of the book, where he found nothing else that looked at all unusual.

S could stand for safe house, after all.

Well, he wasn't jumping to any conclusions, or calling off his search. But it struck him there was a fair chance this was looking for.

He dug out his cell phone and called SHIELD HQ in London.

~oOo~

Loki was still struggling, and Coulson and Mitchell were still hanging on tight, when they all stumbled through the portal. Just in case Loki was irrational enough to bolt back through the portal in the other direction, Coulson made a point of dragging them all halfway across the room before he let go. Mitchell still had his arms around Loki- who, Coulson thought, was a fraction less panicky with only one person hanging onto him.

Behind them, Coulson could hear a kind of sizzling noise as the ring of fire closed.

And a muffled oath.

Oh, for the love of God.

He didn't much want to turn around, frankly- although that was partly because the look on Mitchell's face was so entertaining- but he did it anyway. Although he might possibly have had his eyes closed as he did.

"What the fuck?" asked a very familiar voice. Resigned, Coulson opened his eyes, to see- of course- the other reality's Avengers- plus Fury and, for good measure, Dunlap- standing where the portal had been and looking bewildered.

Coulson might have felt kind of sorry for them if Thor's next reaction hadn't been to start toward Loki- who was of course still completely out of it and probably didn't have enough magic to pull a bunny out of a hat- his face dark with anger.

"Brother, what is the meaning of this? What have you done?" he demanded, his voice loud and threatening.

Coulson had a moment to wonder exactly how long this Thor had been in the habit of blaming Loki whenever anything went wrong- and, in fairness, whether the habit was justified- before he started forward, hands up and sincerely hoping this Thor shared the real one's unwillingness to pulverize unarmed humans. And then a hissing snarl behind him indicated the game had changed again, and (of course!) not for the better.

He glanced over his shoulder. Mitchell had stepped in front of Loki- good- and was preparing to face down Thor- bad- his eyes solid black orbs and his canine teeth erupting into fangs- worse. So, so much worse.

"Mitchell, stand down," Coulson commanded. It was nearly a hundred years since the First World War ended so there was no reason for the former soldier to obey an order, but he could at least try to get Mitchell's attention.

In the meantime Stark was still babbling, although really you could hardly blame him:

"Holy fuck, he's a vampire, I said he was a vampire, didn't I say- "

"Stark, shut up," Coulson and Fury both ordered at the same time. Stark did and, above their heads, a familiar calm voice announced,

"Gentlemen and lady, I have informed Mr. Stark of your arrival. He should be here any- "

"Great, you've got him, is he all right- Jesus, Mitchell, put those away- what the hell- ?" Tony Stark, the real, genuine Tony Stark, emerged from a hallway and came to an abrupt halt, looking around in surprise.

Fortunately, unlike his babbling doppelganger, this Tony had quite a lot of experience with magical hijinks. Instead of being floored by the appearance of a second Tony Stark, he focused on the immediate problem, glancing at Mitchell and saying,

"Really, Mitchell, could you just calm the hell down? Maybe take Loki to one of the bedrooms for a little lie-down. JARVIS can direct you. Coulson, I wasn't expecting guests but maybe we could all have a drink and just sort this out."

"I hadn't intended to bring anyone else back," Coulson admitted. "And incidentally, where are we?" The big room with its high ceilings and walls of windows was in much the style of Tony's apartment in the New York tower, and Coulson was pretty sure he'd never been here before.

"London," Tony explained. "Strange showed up a while ago and said he thought this was the safest place for you to return to. Really, guys, sit down," he appealed to the Avengers. Any chance of him offering drinks evaporated as he took a closer look at Loki. "Okay- what happened to you?"

Tony took a step toward Loki, stopped when the sorcerer recoiled, and then turned toward the newcomers with a look on his face that Coulson himself couldn't have topped. "Someone tell me those markings will come off. Who the hell did that? JARVIS, could you please ask Dr. Banner to stay wherever he is for a few minutes? And ask Captain Rogers to come out here?"

"Certainly, sir," JARVIS said smoothly.

"They're ink," Rogers spoke up. "We didn't need the effect to be permanent, and Thor- "

"Thor suggested this?" Tony said. "Did he also tell you that if you had gone with a permanent option you'd have killed Loki?"

"That is not true," Thor protested, angry and defensive but still not clobbering humans. His version of the Avengers looked at each other with expressions that suggested they were getting tired of learning things Thor either hadn't told them or didn't know about his brother.

"Different reality," Coulson spoke up, because the last thing they needed was to get sidetracked again- or into an argument that might cause Banner to Hulk out. "I don't think they knew what the effects were going to be on this Loki."

"If they're ink," Mitchell, who fortunately had calmed himself down when everyone quit making overt threats, cut in, "then all we need is some rubbing alcohol or hand sanitizer. Actually, Coulson- "

"Right," Coulson agreed, reaching into his inside pocket for the little bottle Annie had given him.

"Hold it right there, Coulson," Fury began.

"Wrong reality, Colonel," Coulson said, and passed the bottle to Mitchell. "Thor, do you have the key to those shackles? He's not your responsibility here."

"Seriously, everyone, sit down," Tony said, indicating the sofas arranged on the far side of the big room. This time it sounded a lot like an order. Surprisingly, the other Avengers obeyed. "Hi, Steve," he added, glancing in the direction from which he himself had come. "Things are a little confusing at the moment but I promise I'll explain everything as soon as I understand it myself. Do you know where Thor is? Not this Thor, obviously, I know where he is, our Thor."

"JARVIS?" Steve said, glancing up.

"I will ascertain his whereabouts," the AI replied.

"Oh, good. And find out where he is, too. In the meantime, Other Thor, can we have the key to the handcuffs, please?"

Coulson thought it was more confusion than anything that made Thor hand over what looked like an ornate Allen key. One of Tony's lesser-known superpowers- one his alter-ego didn't seem to have, or had lost track of- was the ability to talk so fast people sometimes surrendered out of sheer bewilderment.

Speaking of which, Loki had apparently figured out that Mitchell wasn't trying to hurt him, because he was being pretty cooperative about the hand sanitizer, and he let Coulson approach him with the Allen key.

Reading between the lines, it was obvious something ugly had happened when Loki's magic was bound. Coulson sincerely hoped it didn't get nasty when it was released. He inserted the key and twisted. The shackles opened and hit the floor with a crash, just as Mitchell also let go of Loki.

The dazed sorcerer wobbled on his feet for a moment, looking around at everyone out of glazed eyes. For a second it seemed he was going to take the easy way out and just faint, which would frankly be a relief. Mitchell hastily moved into position to break his fall.

Then, abruptly, Loki's eyes widened, pupils blowing up like he'd sustained a serious head injury. He took a step backward and glanced around again, this time obviously seeing everyone in the room and apparently forming an opinion on the level of threat present.

"Loki, it's okay- " Mitchell began.

Before he could complete the reassuring sentence, there was a familiar green flash. The baggy grey sweatpants hit the floor, empty, as something tiny went darting toward the ceiling. Mitchell cursed, Coulson resisted the urge, and from somewhere up in the exposed beams of the ceiling came a shrill whistling cry: "Dee dee dee dee."

Looking up, Coulson could see the tiny grey-and-black face of a bird looking down at him.

Perfect.