"The tower was on a full lockdown. I need to restart all the systems and do a full health check before we can proceed. It's going to take a few hours, we can get some sleep, Jarvis will wake us up when he comes back online."
Loki nodded in agreement. [Where can I sleep?] he asked and Tony really wished his eyes didn't dash to the door of the storage room they had locked him in after the battle, before SHIELD came to pick him up.
"Wherever you wish. Guestrooms are down that hall. The corner one has the nicest bathroom."
[Thank you, Stark,] Loki said and shuffled his way down the corridor. Tony pinched the bridge of his nose and went to pour himself a drink.
Loki woke up from a cloying nightmare, full of metal and hot pain and cold darkness, lying on the floor, tangled in bedsheets, covered in sweat, tears drying on his face. He sat down with his arms wrapped around his knees until he could breathe normally again and the sunrise over a city waking up to life before his eyes pushed the visions of Hydra's cell away from his mind.
The port on his shoulder itched, so he ran his hand over it. It came up bloody. He must have damaged the skin when he tossed and turned in his sleep and tugged the tube free.
He stared at the blood on his fingers.
Stark's scrambler worked.
He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. The bathroom was indeed nice, with full windows continuing from the bedroom and a huge bath sunken into the floor. He considered using it, but only for a moment, it would take too long to fill, and besides, the shower was nice too.
Refreshed and changed, he wandered out into the living area. Stark was probably still asleep, but he might be able to find something to occupy himself as he waited for the human to wake up.
The view from this side was even more spectacular. The sun was rising, painting the tops of the buildings with its light, gleaming in the windows, and turning the streets into shadowy valleys. It was nothing like the golden glory of Asgard with her majestic spires and towers, but it was quite a sight nonetheless, and Loki relished in the simple act of just standing there, soaking in the view, not at all looking forward to the long hours he was going to spend in the workshop. He had no idea how it looked, here in the tower, but if it was to be anything like the one in the forest house, it would have a low hanging ceiling and no windows.
Stark stepped out into the living area. He was wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, and his gait was a little unsteady. "You can't sleep either?"
Loki shook his head and turned back to the window.
"I restarted the main computer and set the calibration options. It's going to take a moment, but we should be good to go at midday. You want to check for yourself?"
Loki shook his head again.
Stark rummaged through the cupboard behind the bar for a while, glasses clinking, then walked over and stood beside Loki. He was holding a glass with an amber-colored liquid in his hand, some sort of alcoholic beverage by the smell of it. He raised it halfway to his mouth, shot Loki a sideways glare, then reconsidered and put the glass away. Then he just stayed there, silent and thoughtful, his eyes on some unspecified point in the streets below.
[Are you thinking about throwing me out of the window?] Loki asked.
Stark snorted. "Kinda? Can you blame me though?" His voice was a bit slurry.
Loki shook his head.
"You think you'd live?"
Loki stepped closer to the glass pane and looked down, assessing the distance. The ground was awfully far away. [I don't know. Probably not.]
There was another stretch of silence.
"You let me get the bracelets on, didn't you?" Stark said, matter-of-factly.
[Yes.]
Stark stood there for a moment longer, pondering. "Thanks, Reindeer Games," he said in the end and patted Loki on the shoulder lightly. He turned to leave. Without thinking, Loki grabbed his sleeve. The human frowned and Loki pulled his hand away, a bit quicker than it was necessary. "What is it?"
[What does it mean?]
"What? The nickname?"
[Yes. You called me that before.]
Stark chuckled. "Nothing. It's a movie."
[What about?]
"I don't know," Stark admitted with a grin and a careless roll of his shoulders. "You'd have to ask Jarvis. I've never seen it, it just felt like something funny to say in the heat of the moment and the title seemed fitting."
Loki's brows furrowed.
"You know? Reindeers? Big, scary animals? With antlers?"
Loki chortled and rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, well, you know what they say, never ask a genius about their process, or you'll end up disappointed," Stark said and reached for his glass. "Are there any other burning questions you'd like answered immediately, or can I go back to hunkering over my equipment?"
Loki hesitated. Stark's tone was flippant, but there was still an open invitation in his words and there was no saying when he would get another opportunity like that. There were so many doubts swarming in his brain, he didn't even know where to start…
Stark tapped his fingers on his glass impatiently.
[No,] Loki said. [Thank you, Stark.]
The man eyed him oddly, one eyebrow raised. "No problem," he said. "You can call me Tony by the way. It's always one letter less to spell."
With that, Stark flashed a smile, turned on his heel and left. Loki stood there, looking at the human walking away, feeling even more confused than before.
"Put your hands in the air and turn away from the window," sounded from behind. "Slowly."
Loki didn't even notice anyone coming in, lost in thought.
Clint Barton was standing in the hallway by the elevators, his gun already out, raised and pointed at Loki. Loki brought his hands up in a gesture of placation.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Barton's brows furrowed as he took the sight in, his eyes sliding down from Loki's face and landing firmly on the fetters. "What the fuck is this?"
[And how does it look like?]
A hint of surprise crossed mortal's face, but he was quick to control it. "Don't get all smart on me."
[It is not my intent.]
"On your knees," Barton said and released the safety lever, the gun still trained at Loki's head. He took a step forward and urged Loki on with a wave of the pistol. "Don't make me tell you twice."
[I am not your enemy.]
Barton fired. The bullet flew a thumb from Loki's head, ruffling his hair, then hit the window, cracking the glass. "Don't make me tell you thrice."
Loki fell to his knees.
"Put your hands above your head."
Loki did.
"Where's she?"
Loki glowered.
Barton rolled his eyes in exasperation. "You can move your hands to answer. But keep them where I can see them."
[Depends on who you mean.]
"Wrong answer." Barton fired again and the bullet flew right past Loki's ear. "Try harder."
He was now only a few steps away.
[Why not ask her yourself?]
Clint growled and put his other hand on the grip of the pistol, still moving forward. "You're really asking for this, don't you?" He stopped in front of Loki, aimed the gun at his throat, then pushed his chin up, forcing his head back. The barrel panned up, over the muzzle and across Loki's cheek, then rested against his forehead. Barton's eyes were burning with hatred.
The man did not want explanations; he didn't want answers. He was angry. He wanted Loki to suffer the way he did. He wanted the control back.
Loki sucked in a careful breath and met his eyes, flexing his fingers, his arms still up in the air.
Barton's finger twitched on the trigger and he pushed on the gun. "Beg for your life," he hissed.
Loki straightened up and pushed back, pressing his forehead to the barrel. It was scoldingly hot.
Do it.
Barton's hands were shaking, his fingers curled around the hilt of the weapon tightly. His breaths became quick and shallow.
"I hope you're going to pay for that window. I just had it fixed," Stark's voice boomed from the speaker, then the door leading to the workshop opened and the man himself stepped out, his armor assembling around his body as he moved. "Put down your gun, Clint. I mean it."
Barton retreated a few steps back, switching stances from offensive to defensive, and Loki stumbled forward, before he caught his balance. He stayed, frozen in place. Barton's weapon was still up, still trained firmly at Loki's head, still ready to fire.
Stark circled the room. "Can we all relax for a second?" he said. "Dial it back a notch and talk this through?"
Clint's eyes dashed between Loki and Stark, his lips pursed. "You're in on this?!"
"Depends on what you think 'this' is," Stark replied and stepped between Loki and Clint, his pose wide and undeniably aggressive. "Put down your gun. Unless you want to find out whose trigger finger is happier." His tone was still casual but now carried a sharper edge. The propulsor on his palm glowed menacingly. "Or do you think it's only fun when your opponent is completely defenseless?"
"You're going to shoot me over him?"
"You're the one who came to my home and aimed a gun at my guest."
"Your guest?" Clint echoed numbly.
"Yep. Now drop it before…"
"Before what?!"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Stark exclaimed, losing his temper. His visor closed, the boosters fired and – in a blink of an eye – he was in Clint's face, grabbing the gun out of his outstretched hands and bodily ramming into him. Stark's fist connected to Barton's solar plexus, knocking him down, until he landed in a sliding halt a dozen steps away. Stark pulled the gun apart, then tossed the empty arm into one corner of the room and the clip to the other. "Now, we can talk." He turned to Loki. "Are you okay?"
Loki let out the breath he was holding and slowly lowered his arms. [Yes.] He accepted Stark's hand and got up. Clint pushed himself off the ground with his elbows and was watching the scene playing out through slanted eyes.
"Can I take the armor off?" Stark prompted, "or are we going for another round?"
Barton regarded Loki with a lasting, hateful glare then dragged himself up, limped through the room and collapsed onto the couch with a pained grunt. "Whatever," he muttered. He reached for his ankle, pulled out a second gun from the concealed holster, tossed it on the coffee table then waved his hand, "here, I'm unarmed now."
The armor unfolded and Stark stepped out. He went to the bar and poured himself another glass. "Bourbon?" he asked, raising the bottle at Barton.
"Fuck yeah," Clint grumbled.
Stark handed a drink to Barton, then sat in the armchair across from the man. Barton drained the glass in one long swig and put it down on the table with a lot more force than the action required.
Loki remained where he was, unsure what to do. He did not want to cause another outburst and force Stark to have to deal with it. What was the proper Midgardian protocol for situations like those?
Stark noticed the hesitation and beckoned Loki to sit in the second armchair, just next to where he was sitting.
Loki moved to follow the order, suddenly mindful of the chain, its loud jangling reverberating sharply in the uncomfortable silence filling the room, on every step of the excruciatingly long walk from where he was standing to where Stark wanted him to sit. Clint's eyes followed him closely. Loki gritted his teeth and straightened his shoulders, swallowing the indignation that seethed in his gut. It was too easy to forget his lowly status around Natasha. Or Stark. Even Banner, most of the time. But there was no escaping the awareness now, under Barton's vehement scrutiny.
"Didn't your parents teach you it's rude to stare?" Stark said.
"I never knew my parents," Clint responded airily and slouched back, his gaze still firmly set on Loki, until Loki reached the chair and sat down. Barton scoffed. "Do you treat all your guests to high-end BDSM gear or just the chosen ones? Should I feel left out?"
Stark crossed his legs and sloshed the liquid in his glass lazily without looking up.
"What, no snappy Stark-brand one-liner for me?"
"No, go ahead, use up all your stupid jokes," Stark tossed back. "Just let me know when you're done, and you have anything actually valuable to contribute."
"Why is he here?"
Stark ignored the question and turned to Loki, leaning on the armrest, and propping his chin up with his hand. "Don't you hate it when people talk about you like you're not even in the room?"
Loki let out an exasperated sigh. While he appreciated the show of amicable familiarity Stark was putting on to shield him from Barton's retaliation without further escalating the circumstances, it wasn't going to work. Loki's crimes against Barton were too severe, the resentment had too much time to cultivate. Regardless of what Stark says, it will only drive another wedge into the seam of his alliance with Clint, a connection Loki's mere presence was already straining dangerously. And Barton was not only Stark's ally, but also Natasha's friend, a man she respected. Loved. He couldn't force her to choose. She sacrificed enough already.
He had to fix this, no matter what it cost.
And there was only one way to do it: giving Barton what he wanted. What he needed. And Loki knew exactly what it was.
It didn't make it easier, not at all.
He turned to Clint and looked him in the eye. [I know you resent me for my actions,] he said with slow and deliberate signs, giving himself time to gather the remnants of his mettle as he went. [You have a valid reason to do so.] He pulled on his sleeves and slowly took off his sweater. Barton's brows furrowed but he did not comment. The scarf around Loki's neck was next to go, revealing marks on his skin, only just starting to heal. Clint blinked, as he took in the sight. Loki meticulously unbuttoned his shirt, then took it off, not trying to hide the pained wince when the cloth brushed the still sore places. He stood up.
"Loki? What are you doing?" asked Stark, alarm clear in his voice, even if his words were only a snitch louder than a winded whisper. Loki ignored him. It might not be the wisest thing to do when his wellbeing depended on Stark's protection, but he couldn't back off now. He crossed the three steps that divided him from where Clint was sitting, then collapsed to his knees, his eyes now level with Clint's increasingly confounded glare. [I'll accept whatever punishment you see fit for my transgressions against you.] He paused, fighting to get his breathing steady. [I just want you to know that I'm not your enemy nor a threat to you or your world anymore and there's very little that you can do that hasn't been done to me already. But, as it stands, I still have my life, and it is free for you to take, should you choose so.]
He hung his head down and let his hands fall to his sides.
There was a shocked exclamation from Stark as the translation played out in full in his ear. Then nothing. No one spoke, no one moved. The silence in the room was deafening. Loki's head was spinning, and his heart rammed against the confines of his ribcage. He didn't know what Barton would do. Perhaps he'd just strike him, perhaps he'd demand Loki to be locked up again or tortured some more. Or he would decide to take him on the offer.
He wished Stark weren't there to witness this, but there was nothing the man didn't see already. The testament of Loki's failures, written directly on his flesh.
He was glad Natasha was not. She would try to stop him and it needed to be done, no matter the outcome.
Loki fought the urge to look up. At the emotion ruling Barton's face, to judge which option he was considering. At the weapon, still on the table, still within Barton's reach. At Stark, to see the disappointment in his eyes.
The Æsir scoffed at the way mortals divided time into tiny fractions, marked their years with seasons, months with weeks and days with hours, and minutes, and seconds. It's to add import to their insignificant, short lives, they'd say. Loki would agree, once upon a time. But now he could feel it, the excruciating length of every heartbeat, every draw of breath, the burden of every passing moment that could be his last weighing him down, compressing his chest, pulsing in his head.
A creak of leather pierced the silence as Clint shifted in his seat. "Okay, I get the point," he rasped, then cleared his throat. "Put your clothes back on, will you?"
Loki lifted his head and looked up warily. Barton averted his gaze and urged him on with a flick of his wrist.
He slowly took his bearing and stood up, holding onto the edge of the table. His breath hitched, and he swayed. Stark sprung up and rushed to help, grabbing his arm, holding him up, and leading him back to his seat. There was a muted gasp, when he turned and Clint got a look at the old scar and all the fresher injuries on his back.
"Okay. What is this? Who the fuck did that?" he inquired. "Stark?"
The human did not respond immediately but looked up to Loki and eyed him questioningly. Loki stared back for a moment with growing disorientation before he finally understood. Stark was waiting for his permission, unwilling to share the details of his shame without his assent. He nodded. Only then Stark started talking.
"The lovely artwork on Loki's back is a souvenir from the guy who sent him to Earth in the first place," he explained. "Under duress, if that's not clear from the context. The muzzle is a thoughtful gift from his piece of shit of a father. The rest is a happy little collab between SHIELD and Hydra."
Loki put his shirt back on, sat down and pushed his hands between his legs to stop them from shaking. The expression on Barton's face was a mix of disgust, confusion, and incredulity.
"Am I getting this right? Someone tortured you to get you to attack us?" Clint asked finally, after another stretch of stunned silence. He wasn't looking at Loki, not truly, only at some unspecified point over Loki's shoulder.
[Yes.]
"Why?"
[My master wanted me to retrieve the cube and bring it to him. He used the scepter's influence to ensure my obedience, among… other things.]
"So, all the rest was just a smokescreen?"
[Yes.] It was an oversimplification, but still close enough to the truth.
"Jesus fucking Christ." The thrum of appalment in Barton's voice shouldn't sting nearly as much as the odium, but somehow it was even worse. The pitiful shadow of himself Loki has become wasn't even worth his disdain, now.
Clint bent over, his elbows on his knees, and hid his face in his hands. "I knew it. I fucking knew it," he murmured, then rubbed his face. He picked up the empty glass. "I'm going to need another few of these."
He marched towards the bar to fix himself another drink and Stark turned to Loki again, placing a hand on his shoulder. "How did you know it was going to work?" he asked quietly, once Clint was out of the earshot.
[I didn't.]
The mortal regarded him for a moment with an unreadable expression, then sighed and his hand traced a circle on Loki's shoulder.
"So, what's the deal with that?" Clint waved his hand at the shackles. He didn't bother with glasses, he brought the whole bottle and drank directly from it, draining half in one go. "Cause I'm guessing it's not a kinky roleplay after all."
"Another keepsake from Hydra," Stark provided. "Vibranium alloy with an enchantment from a kid wizard. We've been working on taking it off when you decided to pop in and change the theme of the party to pointing guns at people."
"Mhm," Burton hummed and took another swig from the bottle. "I really hoped I misheard you the first time you said 'Hydra'."
"Welcome to the club," Stark said. "Membership fee is due on Friday."
Clint slumped back and ran his hand through his hair. "Nat's been trying to tell me, you know. Right after she woke up in the hospital and later on, too. Then she warned me again, just before she fell off the grid." He sighed. "I didn't believe her. I didn't want to believe her..."
[It would make the horrors you suffered at my hand pointless.]
Clint watched him talk through narrowed eyes, then he chuckled and nodded. "You picked up Nat's flair in sign," he said. "It's so weird."
Loki didn't know what to answer to that. He had no frame of reference to know exactly what Barton meant.
"You were pretty easy to convince this time around, all things considered," Stark pointed out. "So, what changed?"
"Well, you were not the only one to do your homework. After Nat ditched SHIELD and went underground I knew it must have had something to do with you," he said, turning to Loki. "Well, it wasn't that hard, she basically told me she was going to break you out and I knew she was serious, though I refused to believe the reason she gave me. I started digging. Finding you would lead me to her, maybe even before she made her move, giving me the time to stop her. That should be easy, right? Well, it wasn't, not even close. It was like you just disappeared, without a trace. Then I found… stuff. Questionable stuff, even by SHIELD's standards. Entire missions being conducted without as much as a single report, squads assigned to targets that did not exist officially, just as if there was a second set of objectives, completely separate from SHIELD's purpose. A group operating within to further their own goals. And suddenly, Nat's warning made so much more sense. If she was telling the truth there, what else could she be right about?"
"But you still stuck with them," Stark said, "after learning all that."
"I learned precisely jack squat, just disjointed bits and pieces. It's still fucking SHIELD, Stark!" Burton bellowed, enraged. "They have years of experience protecting their own intelligence interests and – unlike you – I don't exactly have all the resources in the world. What else was I supposed to do? Ditch it all and disappear into the woodwork, like Nat did? She might have her reasons, but it was still stupid as hell. She just set everyone on her tail. Staying inside meant I might get a warning before shit went down."
"You could've come to me, we would have figured something out. You live in my goddamned tower, for fuck's sake, you could've warned me at least!"
"And how was I to know you're not in on that?! When it comes to shadow governments and secret societies working to hasten the new world order, you're like the perfect candidate."
"I do see your point," Stark laughed. "Well, I'm not, in case you didn't realize by now."
"Yeah," Clint said and tipped the bottle, draining the last bit of liquid in it. "I got that part."
"So, we're good, now? No more shooting?"
"Yeah," Clint said and turned his eyes to Loki again, "we're good now." He sighed and shook his head. "Uhm, and sorry for the window."