Chapter 7

Despite her seemingly indifferent and even humorous exterior, Mia was far from untroubled. Her intuition was buzzing with warning, and an overwhelming sense of dread was clouding her judgment. How stupid was it of her to make a laughing stock of a spurned demi-god? Really, freaking stupid. She had no idea what she'd been thinking—how was that helping SHIELD unveil his plans?

She had to admit it was satisfying, though. But something about the way he'd seemed so genuine, then so shattered when she'd had him there on his knees made her second guess her opinion of the guy. Loki was either seriously emotionally unstable—which was likely—or he was actually trying to get through to her. OR, both.

These thoughts troubled her on her way to storage compartment 10-C—however, not as much as the sight of said compartment's door sitting ever so slightly ajar.

Stealthily, her shoes not making so much as a faint tapping on the steel deck, Mia crept to the door and peeked in.

She didn't see anyone inside. The room was semi-dark, though, so it was hard to tell. Tentatively, Mia slipped inside the compartment before anyone saw her and leaned against the cold metal wall inside.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust from the bright lights of the corridor. Eventually she saw that the room was cramped with rows upon rows of storage shelves, each shelf filled with strong, reinforced SHIELD issue transport containers. She couldn't see the room's end at all, in any direction except for the wall directly behind her, and a series of rooms in the wall to her left.

"Holy geez," she whispered, almost dropping her tablets in surprise.

"Mia?"

She jumped a good two feet in the air, nearly dropping them a second time. "Christ, Steve!" she whispered furiously up at the star spangled man on the causeway above her.

"Sorry," he apologized seriously. "But you may want to come and see this."

A few minutes later, Mia was standing over a stack of opened crates, two sets of strange SHIELD issue weapons before her. All around them were similarly opened crates filled with identical arsenals.

"Please tell me these aren't what I think they are," Mia pleaded, knowing the answer already.

"I wish I could." Steve sounded completely done with everything.

Mia stared at the crate's contents, an unsettled feeling in her stomach. "This isn't it," she said finally. Steve looked at her as if she were crazy.

"What do you mean this isn't it?!" he cried, gesturing wildly at the weapons around them. "If this isn't Phase 2, then I don't know what is!"

Mia sighed long-sufferingly. "I didn't mean about Phase 2," she amended, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This is definitely Phase 2, mark my words—and great job finding it."

"How did you find it?" Steve asked, now suspicious. "I didn't have a chance to contact you yet."

"My informant passed me the location of this unit as a possible site for the project."

"Right."

"What I meant," Mia continued, ignoring his last remark, "was that this isn't the whole picture. Remember what I told you? Phase 2 is a step towards a goal: what that goal is, I haven't yet discovered. But it's not good." She looked around at the endless cases. "Not good at all."

"A step towards a goal," Steve repeated grimly. "Something worse than this. I should have known. Nothing good comes of that blasted Cube!" Angrily, he kicked a closed crate, sending it skittering forcefully several feet across the ground. Mia flinched at the noise, accidentally dropping her SHIELD issued tablet. The screen shattered as it hit the deck with a sickening crunch.

"I'm...I'm so sorry," Steve said, bending down to help Mia pick it up at the exact moment Mia knelt down to examine the broken remains.

"Its fine," she said dismissively, her voice cracking only slightly. "It was only my SHIELD tablet after all. Only really serves as a means of Fury summoning me. And monitoring me, you know the deal. Bit like a leash, actually. I won't miss it."

"No, not that," Steve said, then amended quickly, "I mean yes I'm sorry about the device, but I meant…" he looked at the crate ruefully. "That."

"No problem." Mia sighed as she flipped over the ruined device and sat down on the cold metal floor, back against the crates with her legs stretched out before her. "I don't usually scare that easily. Suppose I'm just a bit on edge after the whole Loki thing."

"Right." Steve sank to the ground beside her, propping his arm on one knee. "I'd forgotten about that, what with…" he trailed off, gritting his teeth before asking, "How did that go?"

"Honestly, I have no idea," Mia confessed, fidgeting with the broken pieces of glass from the screen. She gave a clipped laugh. "I thought it went well at first, but now I'm not so sure."

"Did he cooperate?"

"I…think it might be better if you saw if for yourself," Mia replied, passing him her Starkpad. The video of her encounter was queued up.

Hesitantly, Steve took the tablet from her. She wasn't sure if her was still wary of the technology, or simply was unsure if he wanted to see the interview. Mia suspected it was a bit of both.

Hearing the interview a second time didn't do anything to reestablish Mia's confidence. She sounded stupid, childish—though admittedly, her acting had been rather convincing. Still, she was far from satisfied with her results, and if she hadn't practically sworn to Loki never to see him again (another stupid move,) she would have wanted to have another chance to speak with him.

Surprisingly, though, Steve's first comment was, "So he just flirted with you, the entire time? What's with that?"

"I have no idea," Mia said, finding herself oddly embarrassed by the subject. "I don't see why the heck he bothers. I'm probably his worst bet when playing those cards."

"What do you mean?" Steve asked. "You don't believe in love?"

"This is no time for love," Mia said staunchly, crossing her arms. "As far as believing in love when it comes to Loki? No way in hell." She thought carefully about all she had learned about love, over the course of her life. "Frankly, when it comes to love in any circumstances. I haven't exactly seen love in a form that isn't self serving."

Steve grew serious at this, an unreadable expression on his face. He returned to watching the recording.

"You were a cop?" he asked, upon hearing mention of it from Loki.

"Yeah, before I went to college," the journalist replied distantly.

"Makes sense."

She frowned. "How do you mean?"

The currently uniformed man gave a shrug. "Well, a few things," he said. "Your vocabulary, for one. You use phrases like 'motive',' interrogation' and 'probable cause' where others would say 'intent', 'interview', and 'possible reason'." He paused. "Also, when frightened you reach for your right hip—about where you'd carry a firearm."

Mia nodded. "NYPD for three years. I was on the fast track to becoming a detective, three weeks from permanent assignment, when…" she trailed off, looking at the floor beside her.

"When?" For some reason, when Steve asked Mia questions she didn't blow up at him like she might have if it were, say, Tony pressing for details. He had a way of being minimally invasive, and it didn't chafe Mia's temper the way Tony's sarcastic and rather blunt questioning usually did. In fact, it made her feel safe, safe enough to tell him the whole story.

"There was… an accident," Mia said, reluctantly. "I was on what was considered to be a low risk stakeout with my partner. It was routine, we had done it a dozen times already. We had been waiting for several hours in an alley, when our perps finally showed up. Rachel—my partner—stepped into the light first, thinking they were unarmed. It was then that a third man appeared out of nowhere and shot her through the head. I didn't even have time to react…she was dead instantly." She swallowed hard.

"Apparently I took down the armed man, and apprehended both of the targets before backup arrived, but I couldn't remember any of it. It was all a blank space in my memory, from the moment Rachel took that bullet to when I woke up in a hospital bed with a concussion, forty two stitches, three broken ribs and a punctured lung."

Leaning her head back against the crate behind her, Mia took a deep breath and screwed her eyes shut, trying to block the memory from playing over in her mind. "My supervising officer told me I wasn't to blame, that the intel hadn't warned us of a third man. It turned out the 'third man' who shot Rachel was a CIA plant, who claimed to have been uninformed that the NYPD was involved in his investigation." Mia scoffed bitterly. "Rachel's death was officially labeled as collateral damage. My best friend, 'collateral damage'. The heartless bastard never even apologized."

"And he got away with that?" Steve asked, outraged.

"Of course he did. The CIA does what they want." Mia tucked her legs up, burying her face in her knees. "I couldn't stop thinking: what if I'd been the one to step out first? What if I'd held her back and waited just a few moments more, just long enough for that agent to show up?" She gripped her legs tightly with both hands. "I just kept seeing her there, lying in a pool of her own blood with that stunned expression on her face—"

Mia's voice caught, her throat too tight to allow words. She was shaking slightly, and she clenched her teeth in an effort to steady her breathing. "I knew as long as I wore the badge it would stay with me. Rachel wasn't just my partner; she was the first real friend I ever had. That kind of loss doesn't fade over time. So, I left the force and started over. Tried to forget."

"Did it work?"

"No," Mia admitted. "And it didn't become bearable until I met Jane—Jane Foster."

"Thor's girl."

A short laugh. "I don't know if she's 'Thor's girl' per say, but yes. That Jane Foster." She tried to smile softly, but it was more of a grimace. Still, her body began to relax, the horrifying images being replaced by the smiling face of her astrophysicist friend. "Jane was the only one who could get through to me. I was so bitter, so angry that that agent that shot Rachel got off scot free— got to have a life, when she didn't. All she ever wanted to do was help people, and he took all that from her in less than a second."

The dim buzzing of the lights above them filled Mia's pause, Steve's rhythmic breathing beside her oddly calming. "Jane helped me find myself again. If it wasn't for her, I'd probably either be dead or in jail, for murder. I owe everything to Jane Foster."

Steve sat, taking it in. "Is that why you don't believe in love?" he asked quietly. "Because of Rachel?"

"That's…beside the point," Mia said, carefully sidestepping the topic.

"I don't think it is." Now it was Steve's turn to take a deep breath. "Before I became…this," he began. "Before I enlisted or had my procedure, I had someone, a friend like your Rachel. His name was Bucky."

Mia had heard the story of James Buchannan Barnes on more than one occasion, but nothing could be more accurate and truthful than the account straight from Captain America. As much as she besmirched those who lied and cheated, she deeply respected those who told the truth at any cost, and truthfulness was something she prided her work on. Only cold clear facts made it into her column, not slander. In all honesty, Mia felt slightly guilty at her excitement about hearing something so important from someone she hardly knew, yet was so iconic.

Given, she had just shared with him one of her deepest darkest secrets. But he didn't know that he was the first person she'd ever told about her stint with the police. Even Jane didn't know about Rachel.

"Bucky was my best friend," Steve said, his voice decidedly even yet quiet, too quiet for a man of his size. "He always looked out for me growing up, even after…after my mother died." He paused. Mia was still trying to collect herself after her almost-breakdown, and focused on her breathing. "He stood up for me, tried to keep me out of trouble—though that didn't always work out the way he planned. I couldn't turn down a fight, to my own detriment at times.

"Bucky enlisted before me, and shipped out before I was recruited into Doctor Erskine's program. I didn't see him until after I had become what I am now. He hardly recognized me," he added, a slight smile on his face. "Asked me if it was 'permanent'."

"Sounds like a good guy," Mia said, her voice still tremulous. Steve nodded.

"The best," he said fondly, then grew serious. "Bucky was captured with his squadron by HYDRA forces early on. Rescuing him and the rest of the 107th was my first mission—and I wasn't exactly following orders to do so. You probably know all this already."

"It's better coming from you than from a stale textbook," Mia promised. She flexed her sore fingers wearily.

Steve gave her an appreciative sideways look. "Thanks. A lot of people would have been calling me the stale textbook."

"Hardly," Mia said, obviously sincere. "And you're welcome." As much as Mia wanted to dislike Steve, as much as she wanted to keep him as only an ally, each word he spoke only made her respect him more—not as a national symbol, but as a person.

"I haven't talked to anyone about Bucky since…" he trailed off, as if unable to continue.

"Since you woke up?"

"Yeah." Steve ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. "You're not the only one afraid to trust."

Mia gave a careful half nod in reply, unsure of what to say.

"Anyway, fast forward to one of our last missions. We were hijacking a HYDRA train that was carrying their best scientist, Zola. Bucky was with me—we were the first two down on the cars, breaking in. We took down a few guards, made it forward a few cars—and then these soldiers showed up, heavily armed. I was fighting on one end of the car, when Bucky was on the other trying to fight off the second guy." He was tense beside her, his entire body rigid. Mia fought the urge to reach out and comfort him, dismissing it as unprofessional.

"At one point, I lost my shield. Bucky ended up picking it up to protect himself—he'd lost his gun by this point—and…" Steve let out his breath in a short huff. "The HYDRA weapons didn't use bullets. They were like these." He kicked a crate in barely controlled anger. "They used the Cube's energy as ammunition. The shot intended for Bucky bounced off my shield, and blew a hole in the car. I took the guy down, and tried to get to Bucky—he was hanging from a pipe, over the edge of the track." Steve's breathing was picking up as much as Mia's had, his eyes scanning frantically as if replaying the scene in his mind's eye. "I couldn't reach him, Mia. He fell to his death because I couldn't reach him in time."

"Steve…" Mia's voice caught, her raw emotion spilling over into sympathy. "Steve, it wasn't your fault."

For a moment, Steve said nothing. Mia was slightly afraid he would explode at her, in his current state. To her surprise, however, he reached over and grasped her hand warmly, firmly in his large gloved one.

Mia looked up at him, shocked at the intimate gesture. She found Steve with blue eyes drowning in grief and tears. "Mia, you know that I can't believe that," he whispered. She could see the desperate sadness in his face, lines that she hadn't noticed before and circles under his eyes—and the knowing, the knowing that she too still blamed herself for her friend's death, even years later. That it never really leaves you, no matter how you try to forget.

"I know," Mia sighed, leaning into his dark blue clad shoulder. "I know."

The last thing Mia had expected to share with Captain America was her misery. She had thought him to be nothing more than the muscle, the leader. The soldier. Funny, she thought, how quickly her opinions had changed.

At the moment, Mia cared more about Steve Rogers than anyone else aboard the helicarrier—because he had just become more than an ally—he had become a friend.

After a few minutes of her mind whirling, emotions raging and a certain indignant feeling stemming from the fact that America had cost its living legend his closest friend—another unforgivable strike in her book.

"SHIELD's not going to get away with this, Steve," Mia said, clenching her jaw. She pulled away from his arm, still holding his hand tightly. Steve looked at her silently, questioningly as she glared at the toes of her boots. "I'm not going to let them. This is what I do, and this is where it ends. "

The captain dropped her hand, making Mia tense in alarm. Had she said something wrong? Did it matter? He didn't have to like what she was doing; it was going to stop her from—

"No." Steve was looking down at her, a hand extended. In his other hand was one of the Phase 2 weapons, and his weariness had been replaced by a steely resolve, anger. "We are not going to let them."

Tossing aside every instinct her anarchical mind was throwing at her, Mia reached up and took his hand.

Screw the government, screw SHIELD: she had Captain America on her side.

. . .

Loki paced in his cell, a vaguely perturbed expression on his pale face, dark brows furrowed.

He had not expected his Intended to be so unmoved by his words.

As oddly affected as he'd been by her presence—standing in the same room as her had given him jitters that were far below someone of his status—the god of mischief found himself facing a bitter realization.

His Intended didn't need him. His Intended didn't want him.

Therefore, what did the fate of his Intended matter?

He should have been relieved by this revelation. Instead it made him uneasy, rekindling his sense of rejection and justification in his current course of action. And more surprisingly, his interest in his Intended wasn't lessened—if anything, he was more curious about her.

She was beautiful, no doubt. Loki had taken his time with her to commit her features to memory. She had a heart-shaped face, a pair of softly arched brows, faintly rosy cheeks and cupid bow lips that were most often pursed in a line thoughtfully. She was slender, but not thin; long, but not lanky. She had a grace and poise that betrayed her upbringing, an agility that gave away her training as a peacekeeper, and a surety of stature that told of her inherent confidence.

Perhaps her most attractive feature though, was her green eyes—Loki found them especially mesmerizing. Dark hair tumbled down around her face and framed those eyes, making their brightness and vigilance even more apparent.

Those were just her physical attributes. This wasn't even taking into her account her keen intelligence, and the quick wit that challenged his own. A voice that she wasn't afraid to use—not to mention the fact she remained nearly unaffected by his attempts to weaken her. Her act of defeat had nearly fooled him—she was an exceptionally believable liar.

The thing that bothered him most about her, though, was her entrenched sense of morality. Her sarcastic streak alone told of a deep mistrust of others. How could someone who had suffered almost as much injustice as he had, still have such a strong obligation to seek truth in all things? It was illogical, and strange to Loki. By all rights she ought to be as bitter and vengeful as he felt.

Instead, it seemed, her hatred was limited to very specific individuals—her parents, for instance, and the man who had senselessly slaughtered her one-time companion. Those who openly sought to lie to innocent people, for the sake of power. It appeared that he was the perfect image of all she hated in the world.

And she was his Intended.

Not that that mattered to her. Just because he was bound to her didn't mean she was bound to him. As the mortal in the situation, she could fall in love with someone else and forget him entirely. Only Loki would feel the pain of separation, if she chose not to return his affections. It was extremely possible that she would find another, someone who embodied the truth and light she sought so eagerly—perhaps the Captain, who was as perfect an example of goodness as any could hope for. Why else would he be such a hero to his country, such an idol?

Loki slammed a fist against the glass wall of his cage in anger. Despite Fury's warnings, it didn't drop him out of the carrier and into the sky, tumbling towards his demise. He knew the man's threats had been a general attempt to dissuade him from any kind of escape attempt. It mattered not: Loki's escape would come to him.

But did he want to escape, if it meant leaving without her?

The angry, bitter, prideful part of Loki told him to forget the insignificant mortal female, and to seek a better long term companion. Better yet, why need a long term companion at all? Temporary associations were sufficient for someone of his importance.

Yet another, less resolute part of him fought against the indifference of its stronger, more dangerous counterpart. She was significant—she had an amazing gift, if only she would use it. Loki had to admit, all of his plans had been made with the however improbable scenario of his Intended's existence in a corner of his mind.

And he now that he had found his Intended, and laid eyes on her, how could he ever forget? How could he leave her to her own affairs, and walk away forging his own solitary path to glory? If he did so— and even if he achieved all of his goals, with the Earth under his uncontestable rule— the question of what could have been would drive him mad.

He returned to pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. No, he couldn't leave her—of only for the sake of the puzzle she posed him. But she didn't want him—even thinking it brought a slight cringe to the demi-god's shoulders—and wouldn't come with him willingly. Her friends were out of his reach, as by some fateful and ill-fortuned twist her nearest and dearest consisted of Thor's Intended and her servant, and were thus under strict protection.

How then, to convince her to join him?

Loki halted mid-stride, an eerie smile playing on his lips. Maybe it wasn't about convincing her to join him, as much as it was about convincing her not to stay where she was now.

It was at that moment he felt a prickle on the back of his neck—and he grinned more widely.

"There's not many who can sneak up on me," he intoned, thinking all the while, so this is how I shall win her. How simple, really. He turned to face the woman who stood waiting for his attention.

"But you figured I'd come," Romanoff stated dryly.

"After."

So it begins.

. . .

"Hill."

On the bridge, Fury turned suspiciously to his head agent.

"Yes sir?" Hill stood at attention, her face set in her usual serious and attentive expression.

"Loki seems oddly distressed after his interaction with Paxton," the director said, stepping aside to show her a live feed of Loki, pacing in his cell. "Any ideas why?"

Hill thought carefully. If she said the wrong thing, no doubt Fury would send someone to find Paxton and bring her to him for questioning. Given as she had just passed the access key to SHIELD's top secret special ops program to the journalist and told her where to find it, it would be a fatal mistake to allow that to happen.

"No, sir," Hill replied evenly. "But Mia assured me that the entirety of her findings will be ready for you to view at the prearranged meeting time. And I'm certain that Widow will extract any information crucial to Loki's plan."

"Sure you are," Fury said ambiguously, glaring at her with his good eye. Hill didn't flinch under his powerful gaze. "Just remember where your alliances lie, agent."

Hill could have sworn her heartbeat spiked at this—but didn't have time to assess her situation as the room around them was abruptly filled with the sound of blaring computers.

"What in the name of God Almighty is this?" Fury demanded, glowering at the chaos around him. Hill was already on the move, grateful for the diversion. In a matter of seconds she was at the nearest computer, reading the alert.

"Sir, we've been hacked," she informed him.

Fury gained a seriously annoyed expression—but he didn't seemed surprised. Disappointed, was more like it.

"Stark," was all he said, before storming out of the bridge towards the lab.