Remembrance of Things Past

Part Thirty-Six: Shake It Out, Part Three

The tavern is small, but the ale is excellent, and Thor feels contentment settle upon him for the first time since Loki fell. He closes his eyes and relaxes against the chair, focusing on the cool stein in his hand and the warm fire at his back, on the murmur of conversation from the other patrons and the moan of the wind beyond the window. His father would have appreciated such a place; Thor wonders if this is why Loki brought him here.

He opens his eyes now to find Sif and Loki engaged in a fierce, yet silent, exchange. Loki raises a brow, to which Sif shakes her head, prompting Loki to roll his eyes. This elicits another scowl from Sif and a corresponding smirk from Loki. They stare at each other a moment, and then Loki begins tapping one finger against his glass. Sif straightens in her chair, resolute. At that, Loki narrows his eyes, Sif arches a brow, and Thor begins to laugh, catching the other two by surprise.

"It is comforting to know," he says, "that some things never change." He laughs again as they scowl at him. Even this is familiar, the friction between Loki and Sif. When they first met, they needled each other as friends. As time elapsed, a darker shade tinged their interactions until the squabbling became fighting, tempestuous storms of words that only Thor could abate. Neither revealed the cause for the dissolution of their friendship, though Thor attributes most of that now to the overall turn in Loki, to his growing discontent toward Thor and the realm in total. Perhaps now he and Sif could reconcile, especially since both intended to remain on Midgard rather than return home.

The thought tempers the joy within Thor. He knows that Frigga suggested opening the borders of Asgard more, but he cannot harness the power of the Bifrost to satisfy every desire to see them or Jane or the team. As king, his focus must be on Asgard, not on himself. At the thought, Thor sighs and raises his glass to take another drink of ale. "I will miss this," he says upon finishing.

Loki and Sif glance at each other again. Another silent battle occurs, ceasing when Loki slumps back in his chair and waves a hand at Thor. At that, Sif turns to Thor and says, "This is what I desired to speak to you about, why I have chosen to leave the realm."

"Sif, you owe me no explanation."

From the corners of his eyes, Thor sees Loki shake his head. "You disagree," he says, turning to his brother.

"When doesn't he?" Sif asks.

Ignoring Sif, or attempting to, a scowl still darkening his face, Loki says to Thor, "She may not owe an explanation, but you cannot pretend that you lack any curiosity as to why she intends to leave Asgard."

"Loki," he says, placing his stein on the table, "I already know of the Captain, and I—"

"I do not leave the realm for Steve."

Thor turns to Sif, surprised at the revelation. She glances at Loki and then says to him, "At least not in total."

"Then why?" he asks.

Sif hesitates. She looks again at Loki, but rather than scowling at his presence for such a private conversation, she contemplates him, her gaze pensive. Thor turns to his brother, expecting Loki to chafe under the perusal, but, again, his brother defies expectations, holding her gaze, no mischief or malice marring his face. After a moment, Sif draws in a breath and then, as of a decision being made, says to Thor, "Do you recall when you asked that I explain Loki's time on Midgard to the Warriors?"

Thor nods.

"No matter my explanations," she says, "they would not believe me."

Loki leans forward in his chair now, a faint smirk on his face. "I imagine that had more to do with me than with you."

Thor looks at Sif. "I agree."

"That is my point," Sif says, her hand tensing around her stein. "They did not believe me. Even when you and Steve confirmed my claims, even when they saw the determination within Natasha to convince Odin to grant her request, they still doubted. Yet here they believe."

At that, Loki shakes his head. "You stretch their faith."

Sif turns to Loki and raises a brow. "Do I? Did we not recently journey to Asgard, defy Odin, and fight the Destroyer all on their belief that you had changed, despite your theft of the spear and your request for the Casket?"

"That was Natasha," Loki clarifies, "not the team."

"It was Steve as much as Natasha," Sif counters. "And did not Tony Stark offer you residence in the belief that you changed? Or that you had the ability to do so?"

"There was no other option," Loki says, on edge now from her interrogation. "Hardly evidence for your claims."

Sif leans forward, insistent, determined. "Did they not extend to you a place on their team?" she asks. Loki looks away at the question, his jaw clenched, but Sif refuses to relent. "Did you or did you not have a seat at the table during their deliberation concerning the mystic Doom?"

Eyes cutting back to her, Loki snaps, "Presence is not the same as acceptance."

A beat passes. They stare at one another, silent. Thor watches them, captivated by the glimpse into their world, the two always so private and so difficult to discern. After another moment, the fight fades from Sif, and she leans back in her chair. "I know," she says. "I know it is not."

Thor glances at Loki. He peers at Sif through narrowed eyes. "Is this an apology?" he asks.

Sif smirks at that. "Hardly. You know I had cause."

Loki raises a brow. "As did I."

Sif does not respond, she merely looks at Loki; then she shrugs and says, "Perhaps," reaching for her stein.

Silence descends then. Sif drinks from her ale as Loki eats another Brie point. Thor shifts in his chair, unaccustomed to being ignored by either of them, let alone both at the same time. He looks from one to the other and considers whether to renew the discourse concerning Sif's decision to forsake Asgard, yet Thor knows that he had only just avoided an argument between the two, and he does not want to spoil the otherwise fine evening with a quarrel. So he leans back in his chair, takes another drink from his stein, and then does what he knows neither of them, especially Loki, expect him to do.

He thinks.

Loki claimed that Sif would need him to explain her desire to leave the realm. Did he mean only as an example, as a way by which to explain her unique motivations, or did Loki intend to imply a similarity in motive between them? For both, Thor had assumed that they chose to leave for the one they loved, Natasha and the Captain, yet both claimed additional motives.

I did not accept for Natasha. Not solely for her.

Then why?

You are not foe, but I cannot return to Asgard. So there is here.

Thor understood why Loki hesitated to return to Asgard, his history with the realm tainted, as he said, with lies and manipulations on both sides. But the same does not apply for Sif. She lived as a warrior, respected by all for her skill and integrity, yet—

No matter my explanations, they would not believe me.

—she spoke of doubt. The Warriors doubted her explanation concerning Loki. Thor knows they struggled to believe; they questioned him separately and together during the feast in the palace. Thor assumed their doubt generated from the subject of the tale rather than the teller, but perhaps not. Thor knows she had experienced doubt prior to this. The realm resisted her becoming a warrior, the traditional path for women lying instead in domestic duties, but she had changed perception with her efforts. Asgard now accepted her as a warrior.

Presence is not the same as acceptance.

I know it is not.

Thor looks at Sif. Is this the reason? Do they include her only? Do they not accept her? He feels that they have, that they do accept her, but he knows flaws mar his perception. He never saw his own arrogance, he never saw the lies within Loki, not until Odin banished him to Midgard. Even after, he still failed to see the truth of Loki; he needed Natasha to help illuminate the reason why Loki stole the spear and demanded the Casket. Could the same apply to Sif? Has Thor failed to see?

Yet here they believe.

Here, they believe. In Asgard, they doubt. Here, they accept. In Asgard, they resist. Here, there is change, for Thor and for Loki. Only here did they grow, Thor discovering more than arrogance within him and Loki discovering more than hate. Sif lacks those deficiencies, but perhaps she still desires the opportunity to grow. Perhaps she desires opportunity, and what opportunity exists in a realm so isolated, so resistant to change?

In truth, I believe we should open the borders of Asgard more.

Perhaps if we had…

Perhaps if they had, Asgard could have progressed past dissension with the Frost Giants, and Loki would not hate himself or the realm. Perhaps if they had, Asgard would accept women as more than wives and mothers or bakers and tailors, and Sif would not feel discontented. Perhaps if they had…

Thor shakes his head. Perhaps means nothing. He cannot revise the past, but he can change the future. He can lead Asgard to change, change that may lure Sif and Loki back to the realm, that may allow for Jane and the Captain and Natasha to follow if they desire. But for such change to occur, he needs them.

He needs Sif and Loki.

Thor turns to his brother. Loki reclines in his chair, bored, casting various illusions on the table before him. Leaning forward, he catches Loki's eye and says, "How did you pass from realm to realm before?"

"What?"

"Before you fell, you were able to pass from Asgard to other realms without the Bifrost. How did you do this? Teleportation? Or by some other means?"

Loki stares at him, silent, the silence, Thor knows, indicative of his surprise. If the necessity for response, for willing honesty from Loki, were not so great, Thor would commend himself on the accomplishment, so rarely done in the past. Instead, he smoothes any emotion from his face and waits, hoping to engage Loki's curiosity.

After a moment, Loki waves a hand, vanishing the illusion. He straightens in his chair, his gaze still on Thor. "Why?"

"Frigga believes we should open the borders of Asgard, especially to Midgard, and I agree."

At that, Loki narrows his eyes. "Why?" he asks again.

"Because I believe Asgard would benefit," Thor says, his patience cracking beneath the ceaseless resistance. Always, always Thor appeals to him, and always Loki resists. Pausing, he draws in a breath, striving for calm. Exhaling slowly, he looks at Loki and says, "Isolation has generated only stagnancy for the realm. We believe difference will diminish Asgard, so we resist change, yet each of us knows the boon that derives from such change, our time on Midgard as proof. I desire to bring the same to the realm, but I need your help to do so. Both of you," he says now, glancing at Sif.

Sif stares at him, the same intensity in her eyes as before when she questioned Loki about his ties to the team. Thor waits for her to respond to his declarations, but she does not. Her gaze shifts to Loki instead. Thor turns and finds his brother watching him, one brow arched in derisive pity.

"You desire to bring change?" he asks. "To Asgard, the realm eternal."

"Yes."

A second of silence occurs and then Loki begins to laugh.

Irritation flares within Thor at the laughter. "You doubt I can?" he asks, folding his arms across his chest.

Loki looks at him, his laughter subsiding into a sigh. "This is what you acquire from the past hour?" he asks. "A foolish desire to change what cannot be changed—"

"And this is what you acquire?" Thor asks, refusing to relent. "Projecting the same doubt that has been bestowed upon you back upon the realm? Upon me?"

Loki shakes his head, not in response, but in exasperation. He looks away, his jaw clenching, and Thor breathes in, once, twice, striving, still, for calm. Sif shifts in her chair, and Thor turns, finds her focused once more on Loki, who meets her gaze. Something passes between them, and again Loki shakes his head before returning his attention to Thor. He watches and Thor waits and then Loki says, his voice low, taut, "I do not doubt you. You are not Asgard."

The claim stills Thor, the sentiment, so long sought, overwhelming. In the past, Loki had readily declared his love for Thor, but most of those had been manipulations, designed to elicit loyalty or sympathy or agreement within Thor. This, though, awkward, relayed to him through glares and gritted teeth, speaks truth.

You are my brother, but what am I to you? Am I brother? Am I foe?

You are… Thor.

This Thor knows.

You are not foe, but I cannot return to Asgard. So there is here.

This he sees.

Resisting the urge to stand and embrace Loki, Thor leans forward instead and places a hand on his brother's arm. Loki watches him, wary. The wariness pauses Thor, as do the consequences that may result if he persists, the dissolution of the bond they have just begun to form. But Thor believes in Asgard as he believes in Loki, and he will not choose.

He will save them both.

"I am to be King," he says, his voice quiet, his eyes on Loki. "If I am not Asgard, who is?"

Silence, and then Loki tenses. He begins to pull away, but Thor holds fast, provoking another glare. "Loki… Brother—"

"Don't," Loki says, shaking his head.

Brother, please—

"Don't," he says again.

—please do not shut me out.

Thor doesn't continue, but he doesn't relent either. Loki stares at him, and Thor sees the same yearning and fear, the same desire and doubt, as he has within Loki since his brother fell. "We can succeed," he says now. "I believe we can. Together."

It's too late. It's too late to stop it.

No. We can. Together.

Always, always, Thor appeals, and always Loki denies. Always he resists. Always he runs.

Shaking his head, Loki turns away. His lips twist, the smirk sharp and bitter. Gaze fixed on the window, on the fall of the snow beyond, he says, "Before I found you, I was with Frigga. She questioned why I resisted conversing with you. I claimed the difference between us too great, yet she avowed similarities, held I need only try to discover them." His eyes cut now to Thor. "She spoke truth. You excel at manipulation, brother."

At that, Loki pulls his hand away and pushes up from his chair. Thor reaches for him, stilling at the scowl he receives. "Loki—"

"I will try to open a bridge for you, though the distance may be too far. But you are a fool if you believe that Asgard will ever change."

He waves a hand over the table, dropping a few coins beside his stein, before striding for the door. As the door slams shut behind him, Thor closes his eyes and leans his head in his hands. The charge of manipulation rings in his ears. He had not intended to manipulate, merely to ask, to persuade. He desires to help. How could Loki or Sif live in peace if they felt dissociated from their home? How could Asgard stay the course if the course fostered discrimination, dissension?

Sighing, Thor lifts his head. Sif remains at the table, her eyes on him. He cannot read her expression, how she views his desire to advance Asgard, his need for her aid. Thor turns to her, but before he can speak, she rises and says, "We should follow. If we linger, he may leave us."

Thor hesitates, but then he nods. He pushed Loki; he cannot push Sif. She knows his intent; if she agrees, she will inform him.

If not, Thor will try alone.

Whichever entity controls the universe, be it God, fate, or Bill Gates and his billions of dollars, they either love Darcy right now or they hate her. They must love her to place such a view as this before her, Clint alone in the training room, his bow in his hands, his shirt tight and soaked so much with sweat that she can see in great and glorious detail the physical benefits of being a badass spy. But they must hate her, too, placing such a view as this before her because only a few hours have passed since his talk with Loki, and, really, how much progress could Clint have made with working through his issues in so short a span of time? Darcy had declared just the day before that she would not see Clint until he worked through his issues, so if she can't go into the training room right now and start to see him, then all she can do is stand at the door and see him, and given the shirt and the bow and the muscles and the intense, and so very hot, concentration on his face, seeing him without being able to see him amounts to nothing less than torture and thus proof that the entity in control of the universe hates her.

Clint reaches back and plucks another arrow from his quiver, loading his bow and firing in one movement so smooth and sleek that Darcy bites her lip to keep from moaning. She hears Tony laugh beside her. She knows that he laughs at her, at the expression that must be on her face. Turning to him, she starts to glare, but she stops when she catches the wicked gleam in his eyes.

"Since Natasha seems to have left," he says, "and the explosions seem to have stopped, I feel it's time we moved on to Plan B."

"Plan—"

"—B," he says, slamming a hand against the controls to open the door. As it does, Tony steps behind her and Clint starts to turn, but before Darcy can step aside or duck or do anything with poise and grace, Tony shoves her into the room. Yelping, she stumbles inside, twisting back around in time to see Tony hit the controls again. The door slides shut between them. Through the window, Tony gives her a jaunty thumbs up, which causes Darcy to glare, which causes Tony to grin before he shoves his hands in his pockets and saunters away. She thinks he whistles.

In the training room, a moment of silence passes. Darcy knows Clint watches her, probably one brow cocked in amusement, perhaps his amusement tinged with confusion at the pushing from Tony and the jaunty thumbs up. Or, despite Tony's assurance to the contrary, Clint readies his bow for fierce revenge against her, driven into insanity by excessive Loki angst. Darcy tilts her head and tries to find him in the reflection of the window, and this is when Clint starts to laugh.

Turning, Darcy finds him watching her, thankfully with no trace of vengeance in his eyes. Just amusement that brightens his face and sends her nerves fluttering. Even now, just a few hours after Loki, he seems lighter, grounded more in the present instead of lost in the past. The tension inside of her eases at the sight.

Clint points now to the door and says, "Please tell me there's an explanation for why Stark just shoved you into the room."

"There is," she says, easing away from the door. She strives for a casual stroll, but utterly fails, too distracted by Clint, by the temptation before her. She should wait, she knows, Clint probably still in love with Natasha, but he had tried, he had found Loki and spoke with him, and, yeah, he had shot at him, too, but still he tried. At her encouragement. And possibly for her, too.

This is why I stay by the door. I'm not going to be your distraction.

That's not why I'm here.

Clint slides the quiver off his back, places it on the floor by his feet. "Are you going to tell me?" he asks, tracking her progress across the room.

"It depends," she says. Darcy stops before the punching bag, about ten feet from Clint. She watches as he collapses his bow and stores it in his quiver, the muscles in his back tensing as he leans over. She blinks and turns away, plucking at a loose strand on the bag as she breathes in. She should wait, she knows, for her and fir him, but since when had Darcy ever waited? She mastered the art of sliding open the gift-wrapping on her birthday and Christmas presents without leaving any evidence of her snooping when she was five years old. She never waits.

Clint straightens. He looks at her, his eyes bright. "It depends?"

She nods.

"On what?"

And she intended to say it depended on whether or not he explained to her why he fought with a bow. Because she intended to wait. Waiting was a sign of maturity, as was joining S.H.I.E.L.D., and Darcy intended to be mature. But as she looks at him, she remembers the escape from Doom in Galisteo, how she looked at Clint in the rearview mirror, panic seizing hold of her as she drove them away, and how he held her gaze, his expression calm as he told her not to worry, and she knows that the mistakes they may make from not waiting will be honest ones, Clint a good man and Darcy, Darcy already half in love with him. So, rather than saying it depended on whether or not he explained to her why he fought with a bow, Darcy says instead, pushing away from the punching bag and closing the distance between them, "On whether or not you ask me out."

She stops before him, her face cool, but her heart pounding. Clint looks at her, the amusement in his eyes giving way to the same lust she saw in them the day before as he leaned against her door. "I had planned on taking a shower first," he says, lips quirking now into a grin. "But yes, I was going to ask you out. Even though we can't really go anywhere right now."

"I don't care," she says. "It just gives me an excuse."

"An—"

She doesn't let him finish, swooping in instead and kissing him. If Jane, super responsible and entirely too mature Jane, can make out with Thor after knowing him just a couple of days, then Darcy can totally make out with Clint. She leans into him, and he shifts to bear her weight, his hands falling onto her waist. The feel of his fingertips, rough and strong, through her shirt makes her dizzy. She wraps an arm around his neck, parts her lips, and deepens the kiss, and he groans into her mouth, pulls her flush against him. The same concentration that she saw as he shot the arrow she feels now in the kiss, and her nerves burn at the thought of this intensity naked in a bed with her.

The need for oxygen causes Darcy to break away. Clint leans his forehead against hers, his breathing as ragged as her own, and she rubs her thumb against the back of his neck, enamored by the feel of the muscles there. His hands tighten on her waist, and she considers for a moment, just a moment, dragging him back to her room and making that thought about his intensity in a bed with her a reality, but for that, at least, she will wait until his entanglement with Loki and Natasha loosens a bit more.

Until he feels about her the same as she feels about him.

Pulling back, she glances over her shoulder at the door and says, "Since there's a seventy-five percent chance that Tony is on his way back here right now to catch us doing exactly this so that he can torment us for the rest of our lives, why don't we get out of here?" Darcy turns back to Clint. "You can take a shower and I can grab some food, and we can get to know each other better."

Clint smirks at that and Darcy smacks him on the arm. "As in conversation, Barton. You at least need to buy me dinner first for the other."

"One dinner? Darcy, I'll buy you six if you keep kissing me like this."

"Six?" she says, trying, but failing, to keep the grin off her face. "Big spender."

Darcy expects a quip, a continuation of the banter at which, she feels, they both excel, yet Clint surprises her now as he did the day before, the lightness in his eyes descending, deepening into something heavier, not grief or guilt this time, but something, she hopes, that could become love. "I got a feeling you're worth it," he says, stepping back from her and grabbing his quiver. He holds her gaze a moment and then turns for the rear door. "I'll see you in thirty," he says, and Darcy has to remind herself to breathe as she watches him go.

I had a friend back then.

I was twelve the first time I saw him.

His name was James, but everybody called him Bucky.

He must have returned from a mission.

I would have given anything to be like him.

I didn't see him again until I was fourteen.

I even signed up to be a Stark science experiment in order to be more like him.

Then it was because I had chosen him.

And the funny thing is, the science experiment worked.

He loved me.

People respected me like they did him.

I knew how he felt about me.

But then he died.

I should never have chosen him.

They must have seen something in him.

I don't know what's happened to him.

I thought you were dead.

I left him there, Steve.

I didn't go back.

You're my family.

I'm a soldier.

You're my friend.

He was trying to help me, and he died. And I would give anything right now for him to be alive. He was the closest thing to a family that I had. I would give up all of this, the power, the suit, everything for Bucky to be alive again. I'd go back to being the small guy that no one sees in a heartbeat. Because the power, all of it, none of it matters if you're alone, if no one knows who you really are.

And no one knows you like family.

Steve will find Bucky and save him. Natasha will help because Steve will ask her for help. He knows that he shouldn't, this portion of her past painful, but he will anyway because Bucky died because of him and Winter stayed because of her, and this is why she will say yes. Bucky cared about Steve and Winter loves Natasha, and together, they will save him because Bucky is Winter and Winter is Bucky.

Don't worry.

As first times go, it could have been worse.

Steve pushes up from the couch, discomfort rising in him at the memory. He had already asked Natasha for help that morning, and she had obliged. She had told him of her history with Bucky. She had stood here, in his quarters, right before him, and cried. She had looked at Steve, and she had cried.

How can he ask her again for help?

He can't. He won't.

He'll find Bucky on his own.

What matters is that you're doing it alone, and you don't have to. We—

We? What we, Rogers? You mean the we that's been scattered across the world and half the damn galaxy?

But he can't. Steve can't leave the team. Not now. Not when the team has finally started putting itself back together again. Steve can't break everyone apart now, he can't ask some to pursue Bucky and some to pursue Doom, not when Doom incapacitated Clint and injured Tony, not when he threatened Asgard and vowed vengeance against Natasha.

Not when he killed Fury.

Steve can't ask, so he won't. He'll wait until after to find Bucky.

But—

You're my family.

I'm a soldier.

You're my friend.

Steve closes his eyes. But he can't wait. He vowed to wait before, but that was before he knew, before Natasha indicated the kind of life that Bucky endured and still endures in the Red Room.

I remember him looking at me. I had blood on my clothes, my arms. I still had my knife in my hands.

He didn't look proud as so many of the others did.

He looked sad.

Steve opens his eyes and wanders the room, restless, aimless, torn. He stops by the drawing of he and Bucky and the Commandos, pauses before the tablet with the files about Doom, looks at his shield, looks away, and then continues on. As he pivots for another revolution, the door behind him opens, and Steve turns to find Sif striding into the room. He feels a smile form at the sight of her, the memory of their kiss the day before surfacing and brightening the shadows within him, but then he sees the scowl on her face and the smile fades. "What's wrong?" he asks, moving toward her.

Sif closes the door and shakes her head. Her hands clench into fists as she says, "Thor is wrong. He is wrong, and he is not wrong, and this is why he is wrong."

Steve blinks at that. He watches as Sif wanders the room, stopping by his shield, pausing before the couch, as restless and aimless as he, and this unsettles him even more, Sif normally as sure and certain as the sun. After a moment, he steps in front of her, blocking her path around the room. "Why is he wrong?" he asks. "Or not wrong?"

"Because he desires to bring change to Asgard."

Steve raises a brow. "And this makes him wrong? Or not wrong?"

"Yes."

Sif looks at him as though this clarifies. Steve looks at her and tries to understand. He wants to understand. He knows that he should, Sif his girlfriend, if one could call an ageless warrior from an eternal alien planet something as trite as a girlfriend, but he doesn't understand, and this perplexes Steve even more because he expects obfuscation from Tony, the man twisting the English language into a contortion of scientific syllables and pop culture references designed specifically to confuse Steve, but Sif speaks as she lives, direct, forthright, sincere.

Except now.

"Why is Thor wrong?" he asks again. "Or not wrong? Or both?"

"Because he desires to bring change to Asgard," Sif says again, and Steve almost sighs, but she continues this time, thankfully clarifying. "And he should because aspects of the realm demand change. But he desires to bring change now when it is most convenient for him, but now is not most convenient for me, yet he has asked for my aid, and I feel duty bound to assist him as he will be king and I have desired more than anyone else change for the realm."

Steve nods, comprehension settling in, but then he squirms as comprehension settles in because Sif helping Thor change Asgard means that Sif would have to return to Asgard and if Steve can't leave the team for Bucky, then he can't leave the team for Sif. "So," he says, glancing down at his hands, "you're going to help Thor?"

"No."

Steve looks at her. "So you're not going to help him?"

"No."

"Um—"

"I will help Asgard," she says.

Steve nods again, certain that the distinction is a distinction though he cannot see it because he is a man or a mortal or just Steve. "So when do you return?" he asks, trying to keep his face calm at the thought of her departure because duty and responsibility he understands, though he dislikes both at the moment.

Sif narrows her eyes at him. "Return? Where?"

"To Asgard. You said you were going to help. I thought—"

"I will help. But not by returning."

Steve pauses a moment and breathes in. He wonders if destiny demands that he have confusing, Who's on First type conversations with all Asgardians, first with Loki, then the Warriors, and now with Sif. Looking at Sif, he exhales slowly and prepares for her response because he can't not ask. He has to ask.

He has to know.

"How will you help?" he asks.

"I will kill Doom," she says.

At first, the words don't register, the declaration too forthright in a conversation so clouded by ambiguity. When they do register, Steve straightens, his gaze fixed on Sif, remembering how Doom tortured Natasha and injured Clint and hurt Tony and killed Fury and vowed to destroy an entire world simply out of spite for Loki. "Why?"

"Because if he destroys Asgard as he vows," she says, lifting her chin in the air, detecting, he knows, his apprehension toward her intention, "there will be no realm to change. And you said he vowed to return here after he destroyed the realm in order to kill Natasha. If this occurs, Loki will not build a bridge between Asgard and Midgard as Thor requested for him to do, and this he must do because I am not choosing, Steve. I will bring equality to Asgard and I will also pursue the path that I have chosen here, and Thor and anyone else who dares demand from me a choice can damn themselves to an eternity mating with Bilgesnipes for daring to do so."

Silence, and then Steve feels a corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. "Bilgesnipes?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, the beginnings of a smile on her face. "Bilgesnipes."

"That sounds… unpleasant."

Sif nods. "It is. Immensely. Simply for the size alone. But they also have scales. And antlers."

"I guess it's a good thing that I don't want you to choose," he says, grinning now.

Steve waits, but Sif does not return his smile. Not yet, at least. Instead, she gazes at him, and the nascent mirth in her eyes becomes pensive reflection. He remembers New York and their trip to Battery Park, the intensity of her stare as they conversed and his desire to understand what she thought and how she felt, especially about him. The same desire seizes him now. He watches as she looks away, as she glances down, as she smiles, and the sight captivates him, the smile, the emotion conveyed, delicate but not uncertain. "I know you do not," she says as she looks at him again. "If you did, I would not desire to stay as I do."

Sif holds his gaze. Steve blinks and then swallows and then peers at the room, at the door leading to the bedroom. "Stay?" he asks. "Here? Tonight?" His brain short-circuits at the thought of her in a bed with him.

More silence, and then Sif says, the mirth returning to her eyes, "Stay on Midgard. Though the other appeals. However, not here." She inspects the room, a faint line appearing between her brows as she says, "The beds in this vessel are far too small. And the air smells too much of metal. Perhaps when we return to the Tower."

At that, she sits on the couch and pulls the tablet concerning Doom towards her. Steve remains standing, breathless at her final claim, at the thought, still, of her in a bed with him, and then he sinks down next to her, trying his best to focus. "You, uh, so you," he says, "you want to kill Doom. Great. Good. Let's do that."

"I thought you would approve." A faint smirk appears on her face as she slides her finger across the screen of the tablet, pulling up the most recent file about Doom, his confrontation with Tony, his assault on Fury, how he vanished after Fury blew him through the penthouse window. "But to kill Doom," she says, "we must find him, and this will prove difficult if he teleports as Loki."

"True," Steve says. He leans back on the couch and tries not to sigh. "Most of the time, he's found us. I mean, the only time we found him was when he took Natasha, and then I think he wanted us to find him."

"What about after?" Sif asks. "Natasha traveled with Loki to Russia. Did she discover anything that could aid in finding Doom?"

He loved me.

He still does, if Loki's right.

"No," Steve says, but then he stops.

I thought he would have left Russia after I did.

But he never left.

He straightens on the couch.

Doom mentioned the Red Room to me in Venice.

He said he knew people from there.

"Bucky."

"What?"

Steve turns to Sif, finds her gaze fixed on him. "Bucky," he says again. "He came after Natasha because of the woman that Natasha killed, the same woman that Doom wants to avenge. They know each other. If this woman, Anna, knew what Doom was doing, it stands to reason that Bucky does, too. If we can find Bucky, he'll help us find Doom. He'll help us stop him."

Sif lays the tablet on the table and looks at Steve, concern in her eyes. "Why would he aid us?" she asks. "He fired upon Natasha. He intended to slay Loki. He ran from you."

"That's because he's confused," Steve says, pushing up from the couch. He begins to pace once more, his eyes darting from Sif to his shield to the drawing of Bucky and the Commandoes. "He doesn't remember, but if he did, he would help. We just… we just have to help him remember. I just…"

I left him there, Steve.

He was trying to help me, and he died.

"I just… I have to help him," he says, his throat constricting. He turns away, swallowing again, trying to breathe in, trying to still the memories, trying to focus, to remember duty and the team and his responsibility, but he fails.

You're my family.

I'm a soldier.

You're my friend.

Steve hears Sif stand. She moves toward him and lays a hand on his arm, drawing him around toward her. And Steve tries to breathe, but he can't. He can only remember. He closes his eyes. He feels Sif wrap her arms around him, and he leans into her, smells sunlight in her hair, feels warmth in her skin and strength in her bones. "I can't," he says, the words tangling in his throat. "I can't wait. I have to help him."

"Then we will help."

The hush in command unnerves Natasha. She follows Maria to the conference table, watching as her peers glance at her and then away. Maria had pulled her from her training session with Clint, claiming the need for a quick clarification concerning the events in Paris, standard procedure in S.H.I.E.L.D. But now dread begins to settle in her gut and sharpen her nerves, the quiet in the room the quiet of imminent disaster, and Natasha tries not to panic at the fact that she had not seen Loki since his confrontation with Clint.

Why wouldn't I choose you, Barton?

You are everything I cannot be.

Had Loki been more agitated than Natasha realized? She knew the conversation had rattled him, but not as much as she feared it would when Darcy informed her of the occurrence. Not as much as it had disturbed Clint. Besides, Thor and Steve were outside the door from which Loki left and Frigga still remained on the ship, so he could not have gone far or done much if she was wrong.

But, still, the dread lingers.

"What's going on?" she asks, stopping beside Maria. "Has something happened?"

Maria nods. "I didn't pull you from Clint for clarification. I need your advice."

At that, Natasha frowns. "Advice? About what?"

"Not what," Maria says, leaning over to press a button on the table. "Who."

On the tabletop, the screen closest to them activates. Natasha bends toward the image, finds the feed from the cage in the Carrier projected toward her. A man sits in the center of the cage, his back to the camera, but, though he sits with his back to her, Natasha still knows him. She would know him anywhere, the man a fixed presence in her life since she was twelve, the ghost in the Academy, the man with the metal arm, the man with the cool blue eyes.

Winter.

"How?" she asks, glancing at Maria.

Maria sits in a chair at the table and indicates for Natasha to do the same. Natasha ignores the request; she raises a brow instead. Shaking her head at the obstinacy, Maria says, "He turned himself in to one of our safe houses in Prague about five hours ago. Said he wanted to cooperate, to help us with Doom."

Do you know that he asked about you after you failed to return from Prague?

"Has he?" she asks, her eyes on the screen. "Cooperated?"

"No. He said he'd only talk to one person, which is why he's here."

He loved me.

Natasha looks at Maria.

He still does, if Loki's right.

"Who?"

Maria stares at Natasha, her gaze assessing, ready to gauge and classify a reaction; Natasha returns the stare, her face blank. She trusts Maria as much as she trusts anyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. not Clint or Steve, believing Maria wants to do the right thing, but if there's one thing Natasha knows, it's that the right thing differs for everybody, and without Fury and the backing of the Council, the right thing for Maria may be very different from the right thing for Natasha. So she keeps her face blank and she waits. Another moment passes, then Maria says, "He asked to speak to Sif."

Natasha blinks. Her eyes cut to the screen.

"And this is why I asked you here," Maria continues, looking now at the screen, having gleaned as much of a reaction from Natasha as Natasha will give. "You would expect him to say you or Steve. Now, Steve said that Winter and Sif talked in Paris, but nothing substantial enough or lengthy enough to explain this. So why would he ask for her unless he's not here to help? Unless he's here to divide us and distract us from Doom?"

Natasha looks at Winter.

He did not want to believe that you would betray the Academy.

He seemed… different somehow than the others.

He will come after you. I have made sure of it.

I asked him why he didn't kill you in St. Petersburg.

He never succumbed to sentiment.

He said the same thing that I did.

"Agent Romanov?"

Because he loves you.

Natasha looks at Winter. His metal arm gleams in the harsh light of the cage.

"Natasha?"

"My advice?" she says, stepping back from the table and turning for the door, turning from this day, from the present and her past. "Take him back to the safe house. It doesn't matter if he's here to help us or hurt us. No good can come of him here either way."

AN: This chapter frustrated me a lot, trying to wrap some things up and set up others. Hopefully, it wasn't too choppy to read. I'm excited about the upcoming chapters with Winter now in the mix, gearing up for the eventual end. :D