Loki knew it had happened. Logically it must have happened. He knew there had been a wound across his stomach, but once it healed, it was easy to pretend it didn't happen. Until the acrid smell of the bleach touched his nose, flinging him back into the bright, blinding light and the shadowy forms of white-gowned and masked people.

. . .

This was different, and different was bad. He was strapped down at the hips and chest now, to keep him still.

One took a scalpel and cut across his abdomen. The cut bit deep, and then again, deeper, slicing through flesh that should have been much tougher and was now merely mortal and fragile.

He bit down on the gag, the rest of him tense against the bonds.

The cut was opened up with tools, and a dispassionate voice made dry observations about everything he saw - skin, muscle, organs, blood...

Loki remained conscious and too aware, until one of them plunged gloved hands inside.

He screamed until he ran out of air and his heart beat thundered in his ears, and even then he felt every single touch inflaming his nerves.

Until finally, brain and body had taken all they could bear, and darkness closed in and there was the relief of nothingness.

. . .

"Lukas, Lukas!"

Loki grabbed the sound of someone calling his Midgardian name like a man seizing a rope while drowning, and used it to pull himself out of the dark. At first he couldn't catch his breath, as if something were crushing his ribs, and when he opened his eyes, everything seemed strange and wrong, and he didn't know where he was or what had happened.

"Lukas," he heard again, and looked in that direction.

Natasha knelt before him, watching him anxiously,, at which point he figured out he was on the floor, with his back to the wall. Her strong little hands found his, and wrapped them despite how much his were trembling.

The reflexive impulse to pull free, straighten up, and pretend he was fine rushed through his mind, but in the end, he did nothing. She already knew, so pride was a bit tardy.

A stranger asked, somewhere above him, "Is everything okay?"

"We're fine, thank you," Natasha answered, not taking her eyes from him. When the nurse or whoever it was, had gone, Natasha asked, "What was it that triggered you?"

"The smell." His voice was ragged, and he had to clear his throat. He leaned his head back against the wall, taking deliberate breaths. "They cut me open," he whispered.

Since she already knew that, she understood what he meant. "You were conscious?" she asked. The question was calm, fact-finding, not incredulous.

He nodded and shut his eyes, suddenly and strangely exhausted, as though he'd actually been through it again, not merely remembered it.

Her thumbs rubbed the backs of his hands, distracting and soothing. "Catch your breath. Remember, you're not there. You're right here."

His smile made a vague stab at genuine amusement before falling away again. "I know. Even if I didn't a moment ago." He regarded her a moment before asking, "You seem unsurprised. Does this happen to mortals?"

"Traumatic flashbacks? Yes. It can."

"It didn't happen before, to me," he said, then reconsidered with a frown. "Well, brief moments of loss. But nothing like this. It makes no sense. By any standard, Sokovia was far less terrible, so I do not see why I should react with such force."

She reminded him softly, "This isn't out of the blue. You're tired, and healing Director Carter made you remember it, so it's fresh again."

That was true enough. He'd tried to hold Margaret away from his memories, but the work had been too much of a strain to keep her back. Her eager mind had seized everything it could without the training to know her memories and thoughts from his. So they'd experienced some of it together, and Natasha was right: that had probably primed him for reacting to any reminder at all.

"Lukas –" she hesitated and then deliberately, called him by his true name, "Loki. We have doctors, trained in managing psychological trauma. You should have one help you."

He snorted and withdrew his hands. "And a mortal would understand my mind? I am not human, Natalya."

She stayed where she was, somber-faced, eyes intently gazing at his. "I know. But you're reacting like one, so perhaps if you get help like one, you might find some healing."

That hit its target. How did she know the right word? Because 'healing' was something he could accept. He needed something, because he seemed to be getting worse, not better. But still, it was difficult to agree to such a thing, touching pride and stubborn resistance that muttered at him that mortal doctors knew nothing, could not help, and he should be above all this...

Yet, he was not. Obviously. Because he had zero memory of how he had ended up on the floor, as if he'd found a crack in his mind and fallen into it.

Taking a deep careful breath, he looked at his hands, noting the fine tremors in his fingertips that he couldn't stop, even clasping them across his stomach. "Do you think it could help? Truly?" he asked softly.

Her lips quirked upward, a bit crooked. "It helped me." Going unspoken but he knew: 'you're not the only one with cracks in their mind.' Her hand laid on his knee. "You didn't reject a bandage when you were shot in the arm; there's no reason to reject help you recover from this either, either."

The words caught him, snagged on him when he would have otherwise tried to shrug them away, and forced him to consider them. "You are too wise for your years, Natalya," he said and her smile widened, recognized the admission in his words.

"I'll ask around for someone you can trust."

He tried to rise, keeping a hand against the wall when his sense of balance lurched sideways, and Natasha's gripped his shoulder to steady him. "C'mon, let's find you a place to sit down."

Once he was on his feet, he looked down the corridor, and the medical equipment suddenly loomed in his vision and turned his stomach.

"No," he shook himself free. "I want to go to the hotel. I – can't be here right now. Tell them- I don't know. Whatever you want."

He hurried out of there, keeping from running by sheer willpower, alert for anything else that might turn him back into a slobbering wreck on the floor.

The fresh air outside the building was a slap to the face that helped him calm down and draw deeper breaths. It didn't make him feel less of a fool, so thoroughly betrayed by his own mind.

As anxiety diminished, it left only weariness. Light-headed, he gripped the beam supporting the portico above the entrance, ending up with his forehead against it.

He wanted to go to the hotel, but he didn't know where it was. Natasha had mentioned the name so he could probably find it on his phone, but driving in this state he was likely a danger to others. He doubted his concentration was strong enough to use other paths. How else? What would a mortal do?

Taxicab. But this was a quiet suburban street, with no cabs to flag down. What did one do?

Why did his mind feel like oozing sludge, so that he had to fight for each thought?

The automatic doors hissed open behind him, but he recognized her presence before she spoke.

"I see you got far," Natasha teased behind him.

"You didn't have to come after me," he muttered. "I was on this planet for a century by myself, I crossed oceans and deserts, lived on mountains, found my way in crowded cities. I can manage."

She moved closer, standing beside him, and murmured, "Of course you can. But the best part of friends is you don't have to manage alone." Her hand, delicate and warm, touched the back of his.

"I want to go back to the farm." The wistful words came out, before he thought about it, then he shook his head at himself and huffed a breath. "No, not there. Just… somewhere." Somewhere being that mythical place known as 'home', but since he didn't have one, he had nowhere to go. He put his back to the pillar and leaned against it. "Norns, I am pathetic."

"You're exhausted," she pointed out. "Come on, I'll take you to the hotel and you can rest."

"But Steven-"

"-is a big boy. He can take care of himself," Natasha said and headed for the car. "Come on."

He followed and once they were driving there, he let out a sigh. "I hope they pay you well for nursemaiding me."

She glanced at him, smiling. "Before you, my assignment was cozying up to Tony Stark. You're much less annoying."

"You say that now..."

She patted his knee. "I'm sure you can be very annoying."

Having expected a more generic reassurance to his jest, he was amused but the smile slipped away. "I should stay and meet Lucy."

It was said without any actual intent to do that, only regret, so she kept on for the hotel. "You will. Just not today. She's going to want to spend time with her mother, not you, so it's probably for the best." Natasha glanced at him. "You did a good thing, you know. Whatever sins you think you committed against them, you paid for them, okay? Let it go. I don't think you can heal if you're still trying to punish yourself."

He glanced at her, lips flat, and returned, "Aren't you? Punishing yourself for sins of the past?"

She hesitated to mull that one and shook her head. "No. I want to make up for the evils in my past, but to do good, not to punish myself. I think there's a difference."

"You want redemption," he said.

Her lips turned in a small wry smile. "Not in this life. Not for me. But if I don't do what I can now, then there's no hope at all, is there?"

"Maybe there is no hope for people like us," he murmured. "Maybe we're damaged beyond repair."

"Maybe we are. But as long as I keep hope alive for Cooper and Lila, that's enough for me."

He wondered if that was enough for him and whether helping Margaret had cleared his debt to her and James. Or was there a debt at all? They'd told him there wasn't, and he'd seen her thoughts to know she believed it, so should he take Natasha's advice and clear it? Or was it more true to acknowledge that he couldn't change what he did; he'd made a selfish mistake, but at least he'd tried to make up for it. And perhaps the mistake was not as terrible as he wanted to believe it was.

He sighed and leaned back. He should rest since his mind was simply curling in on itself, questions with no answers.

Tomorrow would be soon enough for that.

Natasha showed Lukas to his room at the hotel and smiled when he sat on the bed and didn't move, eyes at half-mast, as if his batteries had run out. "Lukas. Lie down," she suggested.

He listed to one side as if part of him heard her, but not enough to fulfill the suggestion. She reached out to push his shoulder and tip him over, but he caught her wrist and pulled her down on top of him, as he fell backward.

She froze, waiting to see what he was doing. She could free herself, but it obviously wasn't an attack. He felt exactly as she'd thought he would, when she'd seen him shirtless on that rocky beach in Arendelle, muscular but lithe, and his other hand when he pushed his fingers through her hair next to her face made her skin shiver with the delicacy of his touch.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured. His fingers caressed lightly from her temple to her cheek, and despite his words, he wasn't looking at her, only caressing her face lightly with his fingertips.

"Lukas, what are you doing?" she whispered, pitching it as curiosity, not rejection. Because she didn't want him to stop, but she was worried that he was doing this without full awareness.

But his eyes opened to find hers, and they were awake. "I don't know," he answered, but his hand knew, sliding down and cupping her neck from behind. Never demanding, not pulling her to him, only slowly exploring as if her skin was a delicate art piece and he didn't want to damage it. "I wanted… to offer you…. I don't know how it's said these days- to touch you, to give you what you seemed to want that time at the farm," he murmured. "Your skin is so warm."

"You said you didn't want intimacy or attachment," she reminded him.

He shook his head. "I have little else to offer," he returned. His thumb traced her lower lip. "You have been so generous, I thought at least this I could give you in return."

The meaning of his words struck and she lifted her chin, drawing away from his touch and looking in his eyes. "In return?" she repeated. "You don't owe me anything."

"But I do," he disagreed. His other hand smoothed down the back of her jacket until it found her sidearm, shifting aside to her hip instead without comment. "And for a little while, we can both pretend the past doesn't exist. Only the present."

"I would," she murmured. "But I don't want you to do anything because you feel obligated. That's just a different form of coercion-"

He frowned and shook his head, hand falling away from her. "No, of course it isn't."

"Isn't it?" She laid a finger across his lips. "No. Staying with you, helping you, isn't a debt you need to repay."

"But you could be doing so much more," he objected.

That was flattering, and she felt a bit warm. So often men only saw the woman, not the agent, which was of course what she showed them, but from the first meeting, Lukas had seen beyond that. She smiled, a bit crooked, "Well, if it makes you feel better, I'm guarding a SHIELD asset. That's you. Also, I'm here to keep and earn your trust, after those traitors broke it. And I'm observing and interrogating an alien visitor. Which isn't a mission they give to just anyone," she added dryly, joking a little bit, but it was also true.

"Interrogating?" he repeated, sounding lightly amused. "Then I think I should reveal exactly how much I know." His hands clasped her waist and lower ribs and slid slowly down her hips.

It was with a little regret that she captured one of his hands with hers and pulled it away. "Lukas, this isn't the time. You're exhausted, and I don't think you're ready yet."

"Ready? Can you not tell how ready I am?" he teased, bending his knee to part her legs.

That movement gave her room to touch his inner thigh. It was a fleeting touch, not intimate, but he still gave a full body flinch beneath her and hand slammed into her ribs to shove her off him.

She rolled with it, ending kneeling beside him and looking down into his face, which was suddenly ashen. He turned his head away, breathing rapidly.

For a moment, silence lingered, his lips quivering with something he couldn't quite bring himself to say but shame looked to be the greater part of it. He knew his reaction had given away the truth, though she'd already guessed.

"I'm not hurt," she reassured him and gave him a sympathetic smile. "Lukas, they hurt you in Sokovia. They assaulted you. I understand that. Believe me, I understand. I know the appeal of trying to erase or replace the memory of what they did to you. Or of wanting to forget. But you don't feel safe, and if you push yourself to do this now, you won't feel safe with me. I don't want that." His jaw tightened, eyes sliding away, in hurt at her words, taking them for rejection, when she hadn't meant them that way. She touched his face, letting her fingers trace a similar path his had taken. His gaze flew back to meet hers, startled that she was touching him, and she smiled. "I want you whole and truly ready." Leaning down, she kissed his lips, making hers speak her promise and her willingness.

He returned it, eagerly, rising up to meet it and deepen it, not wanting to let her go.

She drew back, sorry to stop. "Later, I promise." She touched his lips to seal it. "Now rest. I'll see you in the morning."

On her way to the door, he called after her, "It would've been good for you."

She looked over her shoulder and gave him her best sultry 'come hither' look. "I'll hold you to that."

His soft chuckle followed her out and she shut the door behind her.

In her own room, she thought about how he'd reacted and the other events of the day, what he'd said and not said. He was feeling too dependent on her, so much so that he was trying to 'even the score' by offering to give her sex, even though he was in no way ready yet.

He needed to feel safe, and he needed to know more people he could trust so he wasn't so isolated. Social isolation and dependence were useful tools if she wanted information, but she wanted his wellness and willingness to help, not information. He was on the edge of going off on his own, to prove to himself he could, and he might never return if that happened.

So, she needed people she could trust who weren't HYDRA or otherwise scumbags. Running a mental list, she stopped – she was missing the obvious.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed a number from memory.

"Hill. Go ahead, Natasha. I hear Lukas did something miraculous to help Director Carter?"

Natasha lifted a brow, impressed that Maria already knew. "Yes, he did. She seems better, whatever he did. But it exhausted him and he had a panic attack. The trauma runs pretty deep. So I have a special request to get him help," Natasha asked.

"For me or for you?" Maria joked dryly, but added, "I'll ask Psych -"

"No. Not attached to SHIELD," Natasha interrupted. "He'll never go for that."

Maria sighed and her voice grew heavy as she said, "No, he won't, will he? Damn it. Can't blame him either. It's on us to help, so I'll look into it. Anything else?"

"I need some people brought in to visit him."

Luckily Maria was open to this plan as well, and when Natasha hung up, she had some confidence this would help him.

... tbc...