Disclaimer: Nothing from this Marvelous universe is mine.

Summary: Three months after Operation Avengers all is well. Or is it? When Steve and Tony hack into SHIELD to find missing weapons shipments they find more than they bargained for in the form of a prisoner who should, by rights, have been sent to Asgard long ago.

Warnings: Moderately graphic torture, hints of non-con.


A/N: *grovels* Update speeds will make snails look fast because my assignments are due very very soon :((( BUT THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR STICKING WITH THIS ANYWAY! (And sorry for the monster!chapter. I think.)


Chapter 27: Lost and Found

The inside of the van is lit by a dull blue glow.

It comes from a cylinder of blue liquid that is attached to a squarish machine which rests in one corner one of the benches. It is the one his captors sit on, and he suspects it is the nebuliser because not-Steve has a steadying hand on it as if to shield it against the motions of the car. It looks right. And already he can smell the venom.

Can almost taste the sickening odour, heavy with memory, which beckons to all the darkest shadows in his mind.

He's sitting on his phone and it's digging in and he would shift it only he is reluctant to draw attention to himself. He will endure what they do, of course. He has to now, else there was no reason to go with them or get in the car at all. But there is a difference between enduring and provoking them and for the moment at least his captors keep their distance on the other side of the car, silent and tense.

Watching them, he wonders if they are frightened of him and his lips quirk upwards a bit. Ironic, if it were true.

"We should search him," Sunglasses says abruptly.

His smile vanishes and he tenses a little.

"Why? If he has weapons it's not like he's using them," not-Steve objects.

Sunglasses sneers at him.

"Because the boss'll get angry. And he's been with Stark. He could have anything on him," he says, and then he's half walking, half sliding over to Loki and saying coolly, "Hold still or we'll push the button."

"But-," not-Steve starts, then breaks off with a shrug.

And then the mortal is getting closer.

He forces his body not to stiffen more because they are looking at him now and he can deal with being touched. He can so deal with being touched. Only they aren't Steve and they aren't Tony and he has to tell himself over and over that they will use the venom if he strangles them as soon as they get within reach of his arms.

"What is your name?" he asks instead, to distract himself.

Sunglasses doesn't respond and he's getting closer and there's nowhere to retreat to. Nowhere he can run. And then the hands are reaching out and running over his arms. His chest. His neck. And he tries to tell himself it's not the same as in the cell but he flinches when his hair is pulled up and Sunglasses checks beneath it. He feels wrong and exposed and he hates it.

"Stand," Sunglasses orders.

He doesn't want to. Doesn't want to feel the hands where he knows they'll have to search.

And he can feel his fingers curving into claws and—

"C'mon Roddy, just leave him," not-Steve says abruptly, "We've got detectors at the House. I got paid to lure away him or Banner and he's come quietly enough. If you make him flip and we're nerve-gassed the next time Amy kisses you it'll be me with a dagger in your heart. I'm not getting caught by that shit if I don't have to, and I won't have to if you don't trigger the bastard."

Banner? They are after Banner?

But of course they are. If they're bothering with the pre-serum at all then of course they are. Only he hadn't expected them to know yet.

The two exchange a long look and he hates the way the hand on his neck seems to burn him where it lingers.

"Fine," 'Roddy' says, and he's going and going and gone.

And he can breathe.

OoOoOoOoO

The first thing Tony is aware of is the thunk on his door.

It jolts him awake and he gropes for his phone and flips it on.

He squints at it for a moment, and then a bit more just to make sure he's not seeing things but, nope. It's nearly four in the morning. Three fifty two, to be exact. His eyes feel like someone's thrown a handful of grit into them and he's pretty certain he's a zero on the one to ten scale of heroic preparedness.

Mentally, he tallies the odds of this being somehow normal.

Depressingly, there's just a three percent chance that it was a figment of his imagination. Which means the odds are higher than he'd like that someone's actually there, responsible for the sound. And that means that there's an eighty percent chance he'll have to get up to deal with it and he really, really doesn't like those odds.

The door bangs again with what might be someone weak trying to bash it in and what might be someone strong knocking loudly.

"Jarvis," he whines, "Why is it always the night?"

His AI doesn't reply to that.

Tony groans and sets himself the task of getting up and pulling on his trousers. His socks. His shirt.

Eighty percent. He's never been a fan of trying to defy logic.

"Jarvis, who's out there?" he says, dragging on a pair of shoes.

If the AI replies, it's lost in a sudden, deafening crack of lightning.

"What was that?"

"I said it seems to be Captain Rogers, sir."

Tony frowns as he gropes about and clips two plain metal bands onto his wrists because shouldn't Steve be doing better things than banging on his door? Like sleeping?

Still.

"Alright, open up. And turn on a light."

The room is flooded, suddenly, by brightness and he has to squint against it for a moment because his eyes are starting to water. For a moment or two, as the supersoldier comes in, he's just a blurry silhouette. Then his eyes adjust and Steve looks wet. And can he even get sick from wearing damp clothes?

"Problem Cap?" he yawns, "Aside from your shirt being as transparent as a window without the curtain?"

Steve ignores that.

Tony can feel himself getting more alert because if this is bad enough for Steve to not flush or tug at anything self-consciously, then it's probably bad. And now he looks, Steve doesn't just look determined and wet but also oddly pale and tight.

"Loki's missing."

Tony blinks and frowns.

"Something wrong with the air here? Because I thought I heard you say 'Loki's missing' and—,"

"-Missing Tony," Steve says more forcefully, "We went out to get coffee because he couldn't sleep and he looked like he needed to get out. Said the thunder made him feel stifled and it's my fault because he only went out at all because he trusted me. I was gone for five minutes and when I got back he wasn't there."

He catches himself wondering what was wrong with his coffee, and that really isn't what he needs to be focusing on right now.

"Shit. Wait, you took him outside? Without telling us?"

"Yes. I didn't even- I mean, I assumed it'd be safe and it was just a coffee shop. We were barely ten minutes away from here. But I should have known. He trusted me and I left him and I should have known."

Tony frowns, finally registering that last point.

You left him?

"Okay, so there's a case for it being your fault. But it's not like any of us actually thought of being watched already," he says eventually, because he'd offered to take Loki out himself. Admittedly disguised and he doesn't think he'd have left him, but it could have been him where Steve is now.

He's selfishly glad it's not.

The captain is silent.

"Was there any sign of a struggle?" Tony prompts.

"No. I checked. I think—one of the waitresses said 'back already?' like I'd left and when I asked where Loki was, she said he hadn't come back since I left with him three minutes ago out the back. And I hadn't left the bathroom."

"You think-," Tony says.

He doesn't finish but he can see in Steve's face that he doesn't need to.

Shapeshifter.

"Workshop. I need the workshop," Tony mumbles.

And then he's in the elevator going down and he needs to go faster and faster and he's thankful right now that people need codes to get into Stark Tower because he really can't afford to be wondering right now if anyone is really anyone.

Steve still looks terrible.

"Hey. You know it's not really all your fault, right?"

Which is pretty pathetic for a shot at a pep talk and certainly wouldn't have made him feel better, but this is Captain America, strong, confident and brave and he's not supposed to need to feel guilty about things.

He's supposed to sound a bit like a jerk and say "Is this the first time you've lost a soldier?"

"Yeah?" Steve says, "You didn't see him out there. It was like he's never seen the rain before. Like watching a kid in one of those countries where there's been a drought for years or like the people we rescued from the camps. And now he's been taken or left to who knows where with someone wearing my face and I didn't even think."

"True," Tony allows, abandoning that line of argument, "But it's not like beating yourself up is actually going to help anyone."

Steve is silent for a bit.

"I just... I know you saw the cell but I was there. With the red and the filth and the— what if they do it again? What if there's another three months of that and we can't fix him or help him because last time we didn't know but this time we— I —let it happen?"

Tony frowns because he didn't want to think about that option.

"Well," he says at last, "This time we'll find him much sooner."

"How?" Steve says.

And he says it like... like he has faith in him. Like he believes him.

Or like he needs to believe.

The realisation prompts him to reach out and clap the supersoldier on the shoulder.

"It won't be three months. We'll be there way before three months."

He pauses, thinking for a second or so.

And then he has it.

"Did he take his phone?"

OoOoOoOoO

Loki estimates that it is another ten minutes before the van stops.

They have, he notes as he climbs out, parked inside. And he doubts this anything but a convenient place to question quests. The place reeks of abandonment, from the leaking roof to the bare, chipped walls and litter-crusted floors, all concrete and metal and peeling paint. It isn't a nice place and he shivers as he is caught in a sudden gust of wind from an invisible crack.

He doesn't know who the men are who point their guns at him while he is scanned by Roddy. But they take his phone and crush it, and he hates them suddenly because his phoenix had been on that and now all he has is a memory. Hates them because, little as it was, it had been his.

After they've scanned him, they take him upstairs, and bind him to a metal chair with chains.

There is a light shining directly at him and it burns into his face and blinds him, if he looks at it directly.

He can't see the rest of the room.

"Where am I?" he calls out.

No one answers, and he doesn't really expect them to. Almost, he wishes he knew New York as well as Sherlock Holmes had known London, just because. But he doesn't. All he knows is that he had been in the van for about ten minutes, which suggests that wherever this is, it is close. Close to Tony and Steve and Stark Tower and he might not have to walk too far to get back when he escapes. Assuming, of course, that he is in a position to stand.

And then they have gone and he is left with the empty silence.

If it supposed to intimidate him, it fails. He has had far worse than this before.

He occupies himself trying to reconcile all he knows of magic with all he knows of science. Tries to see which theories can be swapped across and which are better the Aesir way. It's an engrossing subject and he's just wondering if it's possible to torture people more efficiently by altering the charge balance between neurons rather than by the traditional methods of fire and electricity when he becomes aware that a door is opening somewhere.

And, moments later, that there are footsteps echoing through the room and breathing in the glaring brightness which is not his own. He stiffens, and someone laughs.

It is not a nice sound.

"Who are you?" he demands sharply.

"George," a man says- lies- pleasantly.

"George," Loki echoes, not bothering to hide his scepticism.

'George' laughs again, light and pleasant.

"You have upset a great many people, Loki," he says, and there's nothing real in his voice.

Nothing which can be used.

"An unfortunate side effect of starting a war. And of losing it," he makes himself say blandly.

"Indeed," the other says, "And of escaping your just confinement."

Loki narrows his eyes.

"You would call that justice? How... interesting. I have read your 'Geneva Conventions'. I wonder if your public would agree with you."

A fist slams down on a table, and the sound echoes through the room.

"Those conventions refer to men, not aliens and beasts. They would no sooner apply than if you had been a lion. Or a snake. Monsters deserve no consideration, and the fact that you can mask yourself as one of us does not change what you are."

The words hurt.

But words like these will always hurt, the more so as a part of him knows they are true. He pushes that aside.

"So you approve of the torture of beasts. How... curious."

"No, you little viper, I just don't happen to think the conventions apply to them," George hisses.

Loki takes a private satisfaction in 'George' no longer being calm. Controlled.

"But there are laws which do, are there not?" he says, aloud.

There's the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching, and a looming shadow to his left.

And then pain explodes in his face as a metal gauntlet connects with his cheek. His head snaps to the side and he wonders, for a moment, if something has broken. But mostly he just feels sore and bruised. A trickle of blood runs down from somewhere down his face, wet and warm.

"Your place—all your kind's place—is in the dirt, kneeling beneath us."

If by 'his kind' George means Jotun he is not, perhaps, so very wrong.

But Loki finds himself doubting it.

He makes his eyes widen and pastes on a look which says 'weak' and 'scared' and 'in pain'.

"And now you fear us," George says, "You. You who would have ruled us. Who claims to be a god. But gods do not bleed."

The man circles about behind him.

He wishes, for a moment, that he was more than a silhouette.

When the next blow comes, he is prepared for it. And the next. And even as his head snaps to the other side and more blood oozes down he tells himself it's good. He is getting information and it is good.

And then George is drawing a syringe of blue liquid.

"So tell me, Loki, what did you tell them?"

His voice is calmer now. More controlled.

"Tell who?" Loki asks, eying the syringe warily.

He has had venom before, of course. But always in scratches or drops. Never the fifty millilitre monster that George is holding.

"Do not play games with me. Until they rescued you everyone behaved exactly the way we wanted them to. And now? Now, instead of acting, they sit there requesting leave and doing research and doing nothing. The only difference was you. What did you tell them?"

"I told them nothing," he lies.

It isn't convincing and it isn't meant to be. No one tells the truth the first time they are asked a question.

"Did you? Did you."

And then his head is being pulled back by the hair and the needle is piercing his throat and something is running straight into his blood. And it's not the whole dose, but it's more than he's ever had before and suddenly everything is burning and burning and he can't think. Can't speak. He tries, but all that escapes is a ragged scream which goes on and on and on and he can't seem to stop, even when his lungs are empty.

Eternities later, when everything starts to clear, his throat is raw and George is still there.

Still there waiting and there's so much of the blue left.

"What did you tell them? What did Banner tell them?"

"Banner was... being chased. He came to T—to Stark for help when he killed them," Loki rasps out, and it's not quite a lie. Not really.

George steps closer and this time he takes hold of one bound wrist and starts bending a finger back as far as it will go and then more.

"What did you tell them?"

Loki closes his eyes for a moment, gathering himself.

"I said they were most likely rogue traitors," he says.

And then he yelps as one finger snaps like a brittle twig. Then another.

"You are a liar. A filthy liar."

This, Loki suspects, could get very repetitive very quickly. But if he wants his lies to be believed, than 'George' and whoever else watches this needs to believe that they have broken him, distasteful as the idea is.

He whimpers, and he hates how easy it is to make the sound.

"Answer me."

"Why would they listen to me?" he says- pleads-, "I declared war on their realm. Their home. Why would they care for my words?"

The next blow strikes his unprotected stomach and he tries to curl in on himself but he can't.

"Because you're too smart for your own good. We were warned that might be the case. If someone said anything, it was you. What did you tell them?"

"Why me then," he spits out, suddenly furious, and the needle's pressing against him more and it hurts, "Why not choose a different prisoner to torture? There cannot have been a shor—," he breaks off and he's melting again and it's more and too much and he wants to scream but his throat won't move.

"You? You think we wanted you? We needed someone who wouldn't need a doctor and could be kept like that for months. You were all and I could strangle you for getting out a second sooner than your lifetime for what you did."

There's more, he thinks. More about knowing his place and deserving things and he can't focus. Can't think with the stuff pumping through his blood.

When the haze fades, George is still there.

He wonders, distantly, if George knows he has confirmed the fact that it wasn't Fury with his little confession. He suspects not because the questions are still coming but it's somehow hard to focus because his heart is jolting and jolting and hurting and there's a warm black haze which beckons to him and he has to make himself not sink into the warmth because he needs this.

"We don't need you," George is saying, "And you're best chance of walking out alive is to tell us what you told them. Tell me!"

The needle presses against him again.

"Please, no more," he makes himself whisper, hesitating.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Broken.

It's perfect, really. Whatever he says in this state will be taken as truth. His eyes are streaming now from the light.

"You want this to stop? Yes? Then answer me," George prods sharply.

The foggy, half aware part of his brain which is reminding him that this was his idea is saying 'Victory'.

The rest of him just wants it to stop.

But it isn't like it had been in the cell or the void, waiting without hope for an end that never came. Knowing that there was no point to anything because no one would ever come. He has a purpose now and he clings to it because he can do this. He can do this for everyone.

He laughs, suddenly, and he can feel the needle jerk a little. A single drop escapes and burns its way down his throat.

"You will not win," he says, and makes his voice waver with madness and with pain, "I will never tell you what I told them. And even if I am not there to prod them, even if you do know what I will do, we will topple Fury and there is nothing you can do to stop us. He will be toppled and you will fall and I will laugh when you are hauled away in chains."

The needle presses inward, sharp and he can feel warm blood dribbling down his neck where it presses in.

"When?" George says, but he doesn't inject.

And Loki can hear the veiled satisfaction in his voice.

He believes him.

And they are not torturing him more yet. And he knows then that George at least does not yet know that his words about needing a doctor have exonerated Fury.

Fool.

"I will not-," he says, and more venom is starting to come and he doesn't want it to.

He casts his mind back, to SHIELD's files, to dates and numbers and he thinks there's a conference coming up only he doesn't know what it is or when.

"At the conference," he manages to get out and the venom is burning but not too much yet, "At the conference this week. We will expose him publicly," he says, "There is nothing you can do."

There is no lie in his voice.

Romanoff, he thinks, would be proud.

"Which one?" George hisses, and he doesn't know.

He doesn't know and he doesn't know what he should say.

And then there is a crash in the distance and George is saying 'Fuck' and dropping the syringe and running and out. And he doesn't have the strength to do much but stare blindly at nothing, eyes streaming, as a door clangs shut somewhere behind him and the syringe clatters to the ground.

He wonders, suddenly, who is coming.

SHIELD, perhaps?

Fear surges through him, sharp and sudden, and he wants to rise only he's too weak just now to break the chains and his hands are shaking and his heart still feels as though it is being periodically squeezed.

The doors crash open a minute later.

"Loki!" someone shouts, and it's -

"Steve?" he says, uncertainly.

Because just because it sounds right doesn't mean it is the real him.

And then the light is being turned away and he has to blink for a little while before he can see. And Steve's letting out a stream of words and... apologising? For leaving him in the coffee shop?

His eyes are almost adjusted now, and Steve looks like Steve, only in his patriotic tights and mask. And his shield.

And then Tony lands, suit and all, and it is them.

"Took the computers and cameras out but they've got nothing. No clue about who was on the other—You look like shit, Robbie."

Loki forces his face to frown, a bit, and it hurts.

"You are here," he says, and it's stupid because of course they are.

Only he hadn't expected anyone to come for him.

And then Tony is saying something about phones and GPS's and tracking lost signals and "Here being the last place your phone showed up at" and Steve is tugging off the chains around his wrists and ankles and it occurs to him to be happy that it's just them here rather than everyone else as well.

He rubs his hands numbly and they won't stop trembling.

He blames the venom.

"You came for me?" he manages to produce, a full minute later.

Because they are here, with him, not chasing the hopefully long-gone 'George'.

"Of course we came," Steve says, "I thought—I was gone for five minutes and you were gone. And you're- It's my fault like Bucky and I shouldn't have left."

Loki frowns.

He doesn't like Steve being sorry.

"Do not be. It was the perfect opportunity. A simple hour or two of torture—less if they were remotely competent, which... which they were—a feigned breakdown. They swallowed all the lies I fed them."

Or that's what he means to say. In reality he ends up sort of rasping and choking his way through the words, but he thinks they understand.

"You knew it wasn't me and you still went?" Steve asks, voice tellingly flat.

"Well, not at the start," Loki says, and he has to pause while his heart freezes and melts before he can add, "And they planned to use the venom anyway, if I did not come. So it was more a... skilful manipulation of a bad situation. But yes. I probably could have... fought my way out. But that would have been so very—crude."

Almost as crude as this rescue, in fact.

"You're crazy Robbie," Tony says, and there's something in his voice he can't decipher, "But you've got balls, I'll give you that."

Loki feels that strange, odd warmth again inside.

He does his best to incline his head in Tony's general direction.

"If I say letting yourself get tortured just on the off chance that you might get information isn't something I like you doing, will I sound like an ungrateful control freak?" Steve says eventually, still oddly flat.

Like he's trying not to burst out and say something else.

Loki frowns a bit.

"Why not? For the greater good, yes? In Asgard—,"

"I may not," Steve says firmly, "be the most unbiased source ever, but can I make it clear that I don't think the way they treated you there was in any way something you should be using as a standard?"

He feels an odd combination of warm and sore and safe.

It is pleasant, having people who care. Who do not dismiss what he does as mere tricks.

Who take his side against Odin.

But he has done what he wants now, like he always has, and George will tell Polt and everything can be relied upon to fall into place.

He hopes.

Though he will need to ask Barton and Romanoff about the conference. And he will need to force Polt's hand to incriminate him somehow, but those are mere details.

There's silence, for a bit, which lasts until Loki manages to summon up the willpower to lurch to his feet.

"-I wish to go. Tony, I do not-," he tries to say, and Steve is at his elbow steadying him.

"Can you fly us both home?" Steve asks, and he feels a sudden rush of fondness for the supersoldier for having somehow managed to work out what he means.

"I did in the rescue," Tony says, and Loki wants to tell him 'good' only he's thinking now that it might have been a mistake to try standing. The blackness from before is a siren's call now and it's hard to think and the ground is rushing up to meet him and he doesn't know why he won't move.

Doesn't know why the world is starting to tilt.

And then the darkness is calling and he is falling and falling to nothing.

And he wonders why it is that he never hits the ground.