Author's Note: It was not October. It was very much not October. Heh. *Awkwardly rubs back of neck* I have a file of excuses, but I'll spare you of them.

Warnings: Mentions of past torture, anxiety, PTSD

"All we do is think about the feelings that we hide,

All we do is sit in silence waiting for a sign,

Sick and full of pride,"

-Halsey, "Drive."

Chapter Thirteen:

Wanda leaves, after; and Loki is left to drown in himself.

His thoughts are heavy, a weight for him to struggle against, but inevitably fail. He feels like he's dying. Shaking, trembling, and nothing makes sense. It should have. But it doesn't. His memories are a box of commodities that someone shook then tossed across the recess of his head. He's tiptoeing around the mess in an effort to function, and barely managing that.

He hadn't said a word to his family, his thoughts spinning, and had warred for time to think.

But distraction is good.

Helpful.

And now there's just him. All of these magic fixes he ached for when in the hands of Thanos have done very little for him. He knows his name, he has a mass of himself that's supposed to be his identity, and it's not a fix. It's only a problem, more confusing than anything else. He'd spent hours fantasizing about what his life was when he was choking on blood. Who he was, where he came from, his past. He'd created something of a story about himself, and knowing the truth is worse.

He'd imagined a family that cared and missed him, searching restlessly for him.

They lied to him for centuries.

Imagined that he was someone good, the days where he'd shake from the blood on his hands.

And he tried to commit genocide.

I know what I am, he said to Wanda, and he'd meant it. He's a failure for a brother, a son, a prince. The only thing he's succeeded in is disappointment and murder.

Loki rests a hand on the closed door, tipping his forehead against the cold wood. The familiarity of the space—the scents, sights, everything—makes something in his chest twist with longing. A deep seated ache for days that he was innocent. When he didn't know. When he hadn't fallen. When things made sense.

He breathes out very slowly.

Then, in the privacy of the room that has served as a sanctuary since he was young, Loki weeps.

000o000

Family dinner, Loki has decided, he hates. There's nothing remotely enjoyable about it, and the forced bonding makes him want to tear out his hair. It wasn't something that they ever engaged in before, not unless it was a feast, and he feels like a puzzle piece that wont stuff itself inside right.

He knows his eyes must be red and swollen, but no one comments on it when he stiffly takes a chair beside his sibling. His parents are on the other side, Jane to Thor's left.

This would be easier if it wasn't just them. Wanda, Pietro, their Avengers—something.

But it's not. Just them. And the wall of an inability to communicate to serve as buffer.

Minutes pass, and his parents start a forced attempt at small talk with his brother, but it's strained. Jane seems content to watch her husband suffer so long as she's not pulled into the conversation.

Loki flicks food across the plate like a child, the panicked instinct to consume as much as possible before they take it fighting against his apathy and silent despair. He wants to go back to bed. It's what he'd been doing when Wanda arrived, laying there like he was settling inside of one of Terra's coffins, staring at the ceiling, thinking.

His head is heavy. His neck is going to break from the weight.

"...right, brother?" Thor asks, and Loki lifts up his eyes, realizing he has no idea what they're discussing. Last time he tuned in, they were talking about some sort of plan to reinforced the Bifrost for the coming battle.

Battle.

Thanos.

Here.

Loki digs his nails into his palm to ground himself. Pain is familiar. Almost like the embrace of a lover.

For a moment, Loki considers pretending that he was actually here and lying his way through the rest of the conversation until he can make sense of what Thor wants to know. But a "what?" is slipping out of him before he can stop it. Everyone swivels eyes around to look at him then, and Loki feels his face heat a fraction.

Guess he should have paid more attention to what they were talking about than the design of the plate.

Thor puts down his fork, and any pretenses, turning to face him. "Loki, are you okay?"

That's not the original question, at least, he's fairly certain.

And he doesn't know what possesses him to laugh, but once he's started, he can't stop. It feels like a lolling snake being yanked out of his throat. Loki stabs his own fork into the table, breaking holes into the white, knit tablecloth.

"You're jesting, yes?" he asks. And—just like that, he's weighted everything. Taken a knife and carved instability and discomfort into the air. Only him. Only him.

"No. I want to know." Thor says and the sincerity in his tone makes something in Loki's stomach hurt.

He wanted this in those dark cells, days on days longing and gasping. Oh, how he wanted this. Now...now he doesn't know. Innocence has been stripped from him, and they are no longer strangers with shared memories. There's too much here. He can't sort through it, but he can't ignore it, either.

"I was manipulated and tortured for nearly seven years by a being you hid from, and you're asking me how I am?" Loki's voice is toneless, he feels just as empty.

"...Yes." Thor says it in a way that makes it sound like a question.

Loki wraps his hands around the porcelain cup. He doesn't know what the liquid inside is, but it's probably wine. Alcohol. The thought of being inebriated, to lose any small fraction of control he's managed to wrestle for himself, feels him with such terror he's momentarily paralyzed.

His hands release the cup.

He wants to throw it.

"Well," he swallows thickly, trying to ground himself. You're here. Asgard. Dinner. Conversation. Focus. "I'm fine. That's very thoughtful of you to ask."

Do you have to turn this into a fight? a part of him desperately complains. He spent years waiting to be back here, but now that he's gotten it, he wants to be anywhere else.

Frigga sets down her own glass, lips purchased with unhappiness. Her voice is gentle. "You're not fine, Loki. You're shaking."

He is? Loki casts a quick glance down to himself, and realizes that his hands are trembling minutely. He clenches them and pulls them out of sight, taut across his lap. Hiding away, like he's a child. Norns, get a grip. He's reacting to this meal like he's standing in front of Thanos.

They're not going to hurt him.

He's almost positive about this.

Almost.

Odin sighs softly, to himself, but says nothing. Loki pins his gaze on the man, wary, challenging him with his gaze to speak. But he doesn't, and the tension only spikes inside of Loki's body. He can't do this. He doesn't know if he ever could. Play this. He's so tired. He wants to sleep. Let me rest, he pleads with whatever gods are listening, please, please let me rest.

"What?" Loki demands of his father.

Odin lifts his eye up. His expression, as ever, is impassive. "Nothing, child."

Funny how it's always two words with him. Two are enough to break him, time and time again, like whip laying strike after strike in succession. Laufey's son. No, Loki. Nothing, child. His body is braced for it.

"No," Loki leans forward, ignoring the body-wound tension because being prepared for a hit is as natural as breathing to him now, "what?"

"Loki," Thor murmurs, Jane staring at him with wide eyes.

Odin is quiet a moment, as if trying to choose which words to say, his tone is slow and careful. "We don't want to fight you. Stop turning this into a battleground. You have no need to defend yourself, you're safe here."

Loki rears back, choking on a sound. The words dig deep into somewhere he didn't even realize could still be comforted. Everything has felt sharp since Thanos—before that—and he didn't think that there was anything that could dull the points.

But that.

He—

You're safe here.

Loki sags. Disbelief lodges in his throat, uncertainty wavering threatening to tip him over an edge again, but he's quiet. He wasn't seeking comfort when he started talking, just relief. And this provides it, just...not in the way he was expecting. This family isn't the one he let go of Gungnir for. Seven years is a small fraction of time, but an endless stretch of it all at once.

Loki frowns, pressing his lips together.

You're safe here.

And he can't help but wonder—because he's heard the discussions of Thanos, he knows that he's coming, a looming, ever present shadow—is he? Swirling through his head on a loop, the platitude nothing but nausea inducing.

Am I? Am I? Am I?

He doesn't say anything else for the rest of the meal. He gets the impression that it wasn't his father's intent to mute him, but it's there all the same.

000o000

"You need to understand, I'm not hopeful." Eir's voice isn't soft, but there's a slight gentleness to it that belies her hard exterior. "There's so much damage. Your brain suffered immense trauma, both physically and psychologically. You said that Thanos held you for at least six years?"

He feels hesitant. His tongue unwilling to draw up a response. He forces one from his throat. "Yes."

Eir sighs. Her hands run across his skull again. He shrinks beneath her touch. It makes his skin itch and tighten all at once. He wishes she would get her hands out of his hair. "I'll do what I can."

Her fingers gather in his hair, parting it, to look at the raw skin underneath. He holds himself steady, breathing out shallowly and pretending that he's fine with this. I don't want to be here, he thinks with force, but he doesn't get a choice.

Then Eir's hands change. No longer parting with gentleness, but yanking and pulling taut. A noise escapes his throat, pain, panic, some form of the two, and then Nebula's voice leans in towards his ear, the blade she has perched inside his back twisting until he feels blood pool, "you are pathetic."

And her hand pulls tighter, yanking further, harder.

He can't breathe.

"Nebula, stop," Gamora's voice is harsh. "Father said he wanted him alive."

Nebula laughs.

Eir sighs. "I'm just not hopeful…"

It's not the noise, but the vibration against his chest that wakes him. His heart runs inside his ribcage, painful in its effort to escape the bony prison. He doesn't jerk, doesn't flail, just holds himself very still and tries not to breathe. If he breathes, he'll make a noise, and then he'll slip and start screaming.

And being quiet is…important for...What is that?

Loki blearily lifts his head from the couch, hand groping across his shirt for the pockets, trying to find the source of the vibration. He manages to locate the device and yanks it from his pocket, watching it buzz inside his hand.

What…?

Oh.

Oh.

Dread twists his insides in, like he just got punched, and Loki lifts up the communicator Nebula gave him, frantically pushing along the buttons until a connection is made. He has to bite sharply on his inner lip to keep himself calm. All remaining dregs of sleep are gone. "Gamora, what the—?"

"He took her." He goes rigid at the voice, even if the connection is poor, swallowing panic. No, no, no— "Nova, he took her...and we don't have...how to stop him—"

"Midnight?" Loki tries to keep the disbelief from his voice. He fails, and a part of him doesn't care. How did Midnight get a hold of this frequency? Where is Gamora? Or Nebula, for that matter? "Midnight, what—?"

"Thanos!" Midnight snaps, "Thanos...Gamora, Nov...!"

It takes him a second to interpret what she's saying. Thanos has Gamora. Kriff. "Where?" Stupid question. "When?"

A why, sits on the edge of his tongue, but it's not that hard to make a guess. Gamora has been the center of this operation of mutiny since the beginning. And Thanos has been searching for his precious Little One since she abandoned him. The reason for Midnight's explosive panic, however, escapes him entirely.

"I don't know!" Midnight snaps, "Her idiot...know that Thanos...she left to keep her...safe. He's going...she knows... Soul Stone is."

He wavers, confused, shoving himself up, tossing the book he was trying to pick his way through the night before, though he doesn't know why he bothered. He couldn't focus. The smell was a comfort, even if nothing else is.

The gaps in Midnight's statement are bountiful, and he comes up with several interpretations before he finally settles on the one that makes the most sense. "What!?" Loki's fingers feel numb. "Gamora knows where the Soul Stone is? She—And she just neglected to mention this the last time we spoke?" Loki can feel his tone rising. "What sort of idiotic, crass thing possessed her!? We need it!"

"I know!" Midnight snaps, voice fizzing.

"Ah..." a new voice breathes, sounding a little tinny, and there's a rustling sound. Nova feels his eyes widen. Nebula? "Nova...still...Tesseract?"

Nebula. And Midnight. Together.

It takes him a second to speak. "Yes." He's not going to misplace one of the most powerful objects in the universe. He may be an incompetent, a poor excuse for a son and brother, but he can at least manage that.

"Where...you?" Midnight asks, "...Thanos...Soul, you're next. He'll be coming for you...on Reality...where are you?"

He stumbles over himself.

You're safe here.

He's coming. Safety is an illusion. It always has been. There's no alternative until he's dead.

"I'm," Loki stutters for a second. The need to answer her question pulses through him. Instinct. Years of training, like some sort of lap dog. He looks at the floor. He wrestles with his tongue. If he tells her, there's every possibility the information will get passed because of unsecure lines, or one of them slipping it because of a mental search, or torture, and Asgard's tactile advantage will be lost. The small, sliver of safety his family is within will be gone. If they were here, in person, he wouldn't worry as much.

Still.

He—

No, Loki thinks. I'm not their pet. I'm not part of the Black Order anymore. Their chain of command means nothing to me.

I wish. I wish it didn't.

"I'm somewhere safe." He concludes. "So is the Tesseract."

"What?" Midnight's voice is getting worse. It cracks, pulling out of the connection for a moment. When it comes back, it's with a faint whine and overwhelming static. Loki winces, eyes squinting as he pulls the device away with discomfort.

"...stone...need…" Nebula tries to say. It doesn't make sense. Nothing's putting itself together.

He's coming.

Loki's insides are freezing over, making his movements stiff and jerked.

Faintly, between static and faint panting, Loki hears the background noise of someone murmuring something. Ebony. Which must mean that Obsidian is also there. His brow pinches with confusion.

"Okay," Nebula says. He has no idea what she's saying it for. He wishes, suddenly, for a better connection. He has a thousand questions, and little means by which to scope them out. Did they make their move for the Stones? Did they fail? Where is Thanos now?

"We're...close…" Midnight says, then as quickly as it came, the signal gives one last, sputtering whine and gives up the ghost. Loki swears, hands fumbling along the device as he tries to restore it. He pushes buttons, pulls at metal, and feels wordless frustration and hopelessness settle inside his bones when the device explodes into a flurry of a thousand tiny pieces into the rug at his feet.

Loki swears with more force, gripping his hair.

Kriff. Norns. Freakin—

Inexplicably, he's furious. What, he wonders with heat, makes this mess his responsibility? The only reason he's here is because they dragged him into this. If Gamora had just let him die out there, then he wouldn't be cleaning up their failures. The role of stopping Thanos wouldn't be resting on him because he wouldn't be here to have to.

The fate of worlds rests on them. Him.

And Loki doesn't want it.

He's so tired.

Every time he gets a small glimpse of rest, stability, calm—something comes and tears it from under his feet. He's going to remain in this limbo forever. Always fighting. Always exhausted.

He doesn't want to do this.

But he doesn't get a choice. He's not allowed to sit this one out. You're safe here, Loki scoffs quietly to himself, closing his eyes and wishing with every fiber of his being that it was true. You're not a child, he chides himself wordlessly, stop mewling and pull yourself together.

Loki exhales slowly, clenches his trembling hands inside of his hair and runs his fingers along the edge of the scar he can't remember getting. He has no memories of landing on the Chitauri home world, and only vague scrapes of images of Gamora taking him to Thanos. But he does remember the Void. And falling endlessly, being compressed and stretched at every side.

He doesn't get to decide if he wants to stop.

So he kicks the remains of the communicator with a little more force than he needs to, sweeps his hair back into something a little less wild, and lifts his fingers up. It takes a moment for him to grasp the wild, protesting, dangling ends of his magic sitting inside of him, but he wrestles for control before clearing his head.

The teleportation spell sends him staggering inside of his father's office. He nearly falls face-first into a boneless heap, but grabs the edge of the ornate desk to balance himself.

"Allfathers!" Someone exclaims in surprise.

"Loki?" hands reach out to steady him, and Loki looks up, biting on a curse. He hadn't expected his father to be alone, but he was silently hoping his sibling wouldn't be here. But whatever freedoms Thor had been exploiting in their youth have slipped away from him, as Odin seems to be gradually shifting responsibilities to him. "Loki, what's wrong?"

Loki hisses, trying to catch his breath. There was a time that this would have been as simple as breathing to him. But that was before Thanos attempted to shove an Infinity Stone down his gullet. "Thanos," Loki manages to get out between sips of air. His vision splits into threes, and he shakes his head to try and merge the images together. His father is staring at him, having risen to his feet on the other side of the desk.

"Thanos? What? What do you mean?" Thor asks, an edge of frantic panic slipping into the edge of his tone.

Loki releases the desk, swallowing heavily, looking up. Two is better than three, he guesses. "Thanos...took Gamora...she knows where the Soul Stone is." How she came across that information is beyond him. He was curious when he was younger, but he'd never deeply looked into the location of the Infinity Stones. They had seemed like something vague and unimportant at the time—Ha—but the only evidence he could find of the Soul Stone was a story about an elf from Alfiheim who found it to save their daughter after she was possessed by a soul eater.

"What?" His father says as his brother asks "who is Gamora?"

"My sister." Loki says without thinking, then closes his eyes with brief regret. He has not, as of yet, slipped up with that. The titles that he's given the Order have remained a closely guarded secret. He licks his lips and continues on, "The daughter of Thanos. His generals contacted me—Thanos took her. He's going to have the Soul Stone within a few hours if time permits it now. Then he'll be here for Space and Reality."

When he dares to look up, the two are looking at him.

Loki straightens. He cannot deal with their judgement.

"We need to prepare for him," Loki explains, trying to spur them into doing something, "I don't think we'll have much time."

"Just—slow down," Thor releases his shoulder at last, and Loki grabs at the desk again, unable to be subtle in his need. His brother's hand returns and Loki tightens beneath the contact as he does with everyone now. "You know the Black Order?"

The know them, then.

He flicks his gaze towards the desk, spotting a hovering hologram of Asgard's outer defenses sitting between his father and sibling. He doesn't know what they were discussing, but he can guess. Loki's jaw tightens. "Yes."

"How?"

"I was part of it."

Thor's hand pulls away again, and Loki shifts his gaze from the map back to his sibling. His brother's face has gone pallid, his eyes filled with faint horror and looking ancient. His father is no better, hand wrapped around the edge of the desk.

Frustration whispers through him.

"What, exactly, do you think I was doing while I was under his thumb? Only getting sliced open?" Loki asks. There was plenty of that, he doesn't say, because the thought of trying to discuss that pain with anyone is incomprehensible to him. Even Wanda, for all their shared experiences, will never understand fully.

"But...but you're not…" Thor fumbles for words. "You're not a murderer."

Odin looks stricken. Old. When his weary gaze settles on Loki, he wants to cower underneath it. "How could you?"

How could he? Really? Really?

"And whose morals was I supposed to be upholding, Father? Mine? His?" Loki leans in, voice a low hiss, "Yours?"

Thor makes a throaty noise. "Loki..."

He's doing that thing again. Where he's smiling, but he's really baring his teeth. He's angry. An injured wolf snapping out at anything trying to help it. You're safe here. His voice is wet, "I didn't even know yours. How could I? It's not like any of you were there while I was getting ripped apart. I was alone, and you have no idea what it was like. Thanos pulled me apart, piece by piece, and when he stuck me back together, I called it mercy."

"You worked for him. You were his." Odin's tone isn't something he can decipher.

He should argue. Protest. Explain. Try and make them understand, show them, maybe, but the words get caught in his throat, and the only thing he can think to say is a simple whisper: "Yes. I was. See me as I am."

Am I worthy of your love now?

You leave me alone for two minutes and I start stopping hearts.

I am irredeemable.

He wants to sleep. The problems won't go away, but at least he won't be awake to deal with them.

Thor rests a hand on his shoulder, and Loki glances towards him. His brother squeezes his arm, support silent, forgiveness loud enough to choke him. He doesn't have to approve of what Loki did, but he seems to understand. His fists clench and he has to pull his gaze down in order to breathe. This wouldn't have happened. Not before. Before his sins would have been too great. But this...

This.

A hand on his cheek causes him to flinch back. His eyes snap up and he sees his father's uncertain gaze staring back at him. When Loki makes no move to bite him, his father settles his aged hand on Loki's face. His skin is warm. Loki's is not. "Child," his voice is soft, "you have endured much. Forgive me."

And.

Ha.

No, Loki.

Loki leans away from him. "My transgressions are acceptable to you now? Has guilt truly changed you so?"

His father's expression flickers. Regret. "I guess it has," he murmurs.

Seven years too late. Loki closes his eyes, shaking his head lightly. He doesn't want to think about this now. He can contemplate it later, when Thanos isn't looming over them. He doesn't try to be discrete as he changes the subject. "We need to prepare for him. Now. Do you have a plan of attack?"

His brother's voice is steady. "No. But we will."

Author's Note:

Next chapter: November 20th. You laugh with doubt, but I finished this story today, so I promise it's an actual date, not a vague hope.