A/N: So, I figure I'll update once a week. Every Saturday or Sunday depending on which day is less busy. I'll do this until I run out of pre-written stuff. Once that is reached, you'll just have to wait until I actually write the next chapter, review it, edit it, and review it again. Plus, I edit this stuff you're reading now before I post it anyways. I don't like mistakes. Bleh. (There's probably mistakes anyways!)

If I owned the Avengers, I'd write full time because they'd be paying off my student loans.

Here's a longer one for you. But don't take my word for it...

Natasha left the New York Shield headquarters which fronted as a miscellaneous business company. It was a few miles from Stark (slowly becoming Avenger) tower, but Natasha parked a mile out—caution was something you couldn't have enough of when you were a spy, assassin, and Shield agent.

As she was walking back to the street where she had parked, she knew she was being watched. She had expected it, was used to it. He always watched—that was what he did because that was what kept him alive, made him useful, got the job done, saved lives. His sight was his best asset, and that which made him valuable to Shield and enemy to countless others.

The small park/courtyard on her right looked harmless enough and it was across from the high-rise he was currently perched on, so choosing a bench underneath the shade of an abutting apartment building, she sat and waited for him. The early September air was still warm with the lingering summer, but the dry breeze held the promise of fall. The few trees there waved softly in the wind, their green leaves glowing with the noon sunlight, reminding her that not everything was dark and metal, bullets and blood. Warmth existed when everything seemed cold. It was real. It was real.

While her posture was relaxed—she looked like a normal civilian in jeans, t-shirt, and light cotton jacket—she kept all her senses keen, checking everyone who walked by for weapons, even the father and six year old son who just passed. They were clean. Soon, though, a familiar form in similarly nondescript clothes and sunglasses walked up.

"Hey, long time no see," he called out casually, inclining his head in greeting.

"Yeah. Great weather. Nice day for a walk." Natasha's response was well practiced and rehearsed. For a second, she wondered at her life where a casual conversation was a lie, an act to hide whatever it was they needed to hide. She thought belatedly that perhaps there wasn't much to hide this time. She wished they could just talk about the weather and plans for the weekend or whatever it was that regular people talked about.

Sitting down next to her on the bench, he sighed, "It really is." I wish we could enjoy it, Tasha.

But that's not why they were there. There was always a reason for being anywhere for them, and it wasn't to sit in the sun and breathe fresh air. Though, there were a few precious times that Natasha could remember where when the mission was over and all she did was stare up at the sky, so clear and clean and blue—so blue, just blue—and simply drift. Those moments lasted forever and were over in seconds at the same time.

Clint sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his back hunched as he clasped his hands. The archer looked tired, but not as tired as he used to. Sleep had finally returned to him, and that made her relax. He needed his sleep if he were to stay alive at vital moments. Her training pushed away the feeling behind her chest when she looked at his vacant, haunted eyes that she knew held the guilt of everything he had been forced to do.

"Looks like I'm going to be in town for a while," she stated nonchalantly. Fury's not sure I'm ready to go back out in the field.

Clint looked back over his shoulder for a second, then back in front of him, watching the little boy try to fly a poorly made kite. "Oh? For how long?"

The redhead shrugged, "Not sure. Till I'm ready to leave, I guess."

"A vacation, huh?" his voice was quiet as he lowered his gaze to the ground. My fault is what he meant—is what she heard.

Clenching her jaw at his stubborn desire to punish himself, she crossed her legs, "Of sorts. It'll be fun. I can spend some time with my friends, see my guy. He's a real sweetheart. I think you'd like him." If there were any people watching their conversation, listening in, they wouldn't hear anything out of the ordinary. These two were simply acquaintances, friends maybe.

Clint let out a soft laugh, "I don't know. I don't think he's good for your career."

She looked pointedly at the back of his head. "Maybe. But sometimes my job drives me crazy, and he keeps me sane. My sanity is more important than my career."

Turning his head, he looked back at her, a small smile curving his lips, "Well, I guess I can't change your mind."

"You can try," she replied, her own lips pulling up at the corners, "but jealously isn't a good color on you."

Looking back out onto the park, he watched as the boy had left the unsuccessful kite with his dad and had moved onto chasing a group of pigeons.

Sighing, she stood up, "Come on. Let's go get some coffee." Let's try being normal for an afternoon.

Clint stood almost immediately after her. "Right. And by coffee, you mean a mocha-latte with three shots of espresso and whip cream?"

Natasha started walking towards a small shop she trusted, "The only kind worth drinking. And you can get your hot chocolate. We'll both be happy."

"As can be," and they both walked off side by side in New York City, a regular man and woman amidst a sea of other regular people.

Clint was in a place he liked. It was a big, grassy hill which overlooked a picturesque valley, located in up-state New York. He could see for miles, but knew at the same time that he didn't have to. This wasn't a mission. If he wanted, he could've just stared at a dandelion for hours. The breeze was warm but dry, and the sun was high but not hot. Cotton-white clouds that clumped and bulged marked the drinkable blue sky like polka-dots.

A kite flew high and steady above him, but no string held it there, it simply floated on the unseen wind. It was red. Not the dull red of blood, but the red nose of a circus clown or the cheerful, warm red of someone's hair. Clint hadn't flown a kite in years, not since he was a kid, but the happiest memory he claimed in his ever-darkening collection was on this hill too long ago when he had flown a kite with his brother.

Sighing, he laid back in the grass, loving the feel of the sun behind his eyelids and the breeze on his body. Strangely, he still wore his battle uniform, but he didn't really care. Right now, he was blissfully unaware of reality, and blissfully unaware that he was unaware. There was no attack on the city he needed to worry about. No dead friends. No annoying god whose death refused to give him the closure he starved for. Everything around him glowed fuzzily with a calm he hadn't felt in years and with the yet unnoticed nature inherent in all good dreams.

"While you have seemingly stopped trying to kill me, and the view is much improved, I cannot say much for my lack of mobility." Loki's smooth voice grated on Clint's nerves as he sat up and looked behind him, the delightful haze clearing slightly. He fought to quell his ire because it seemed to get him nowhere, and blood would really ruin such a scenic moment.

But to the archer's surprise, the sight behind him made him cackle. Loki was sitting on his bench in the Hulk-proof containment unit, arms folded over his chest and legs crossed. For all intents and purposes, the mighty God of Mischief and Lies looked like a put-out, petulant child set in time-out.

Clint sobered as he became aware that he wasn't actually relaxing on the idyllic hill, but dreaming of it as he slept in the middle of a half-destroyed city. The scene remained the same, but the lovely, dulling glow that seemed to blur out the edges (that feeling he got when was between tipsy and drunk) disappeared. But, hey it was better than nightmares. Way better. Now if only he could get rid of a certain mind-controlling god…

"This isn't humorous, mortal" Loki's near-pout voice brought Clint back to the dream at hand. "I told you once to come up with someplace sunnier, but I expected to be able to enjoy its rays, not simply watch you gloat in front of me."

Clint turned his back on the god, and faced the deep green valley, "I'm just supposed to let you have free reign in my head? No. I don't think so. I'm glad my subconscious apparently doesn't think so either."

Loki growled and began to pace in his portable cell. "You know, I was rendered unconscious for the entire day due to your little outburst. I do hope you are pleased with yourself."

Well, that actually did make Clint feel better for some reason. There wasn't actual blood on his hands this time. Simply inconveniencing the Trickster somehow tasted sweeter than shoving a blade into his gut. "Is the sun shining, Sand Man?" he said in reply, the equivalent of asking 'does a bear shit in the woods?'

"Excuse me?" the god asked indignantly.

Clint rolled his eyes, "Never mind."

If I had my magic," Loki snarled, "you'd find yourself turned into one of your small Midgardian rodents. Then I would put you in a glass jar and laugh as you were forced to watch as I frolicked around at my own joyous whims in front of you."

Clint reveled in making the god impotently angry, and laughed loudly to rub it in his face. "You were right," Clint said as he lay back down in the grass, his hands behind his head, "the sun has lightened my mood. Why don't you take your own advice? Oh, wait." Clint grinned widely and evilly.

He sighed delightedly as an enraged howl came from behind him, a very small amount of due vengeance being met for the archer.

Steve watched as Hawkeye, the most reclusive member of the team (that's even including Dr. Banner), laughed openly at the film that was currently on the TV. It was a film called Step Brothers and the two main characters were presently fighting out on the lawn of their shared house.

Somehow, Steve had been put into a place of leadership on this haphazardly created team, and he actually didn't really mind it. There was something in him that wanted to lead, that felt like he had to lead. That if he didn't and something went wrong, it would be more his fault than if he were in charge. If he were the leader, then things were controlled and ordered, and people would remain safe. It seemed that on his team, though he was 'time-challenged', he was the only one with the experience of being in a team, fighting in battles, taking charge, and having a good moral compass. Right and wrong was a script written on his bones. This was a team though, and every person was a vital cog in the machine. If one was broken or missing, the thing would stop working.

Apparently movie time was kind of like oil to the cogs: it helped them to keep moving smoothly. But this film was quite blush-inducing for Steve. Actually, there were several moments when he had to make up an excuse saying he had to get water or go to the bathroom. Films these days were seemingly very racy and inappropriate. His cheeks had been on fire practically since the movie began. There was so much vulgarity and cursing, but the others seemed to enjoy it. Even Thor, a non-Earthling. And this was a form of team building, wasn't it?

He'd even seen Natasha crack a smile every now and then, though her eyes were on the laughing archer when she did. She was certainly the most taciturn of the group, and it was a testament to how much she cared for Barton for her to show any emotion at all in front of others, though she'd never admit it to any of them. Clint, Natasha, Thor and himself were watching the film while Tony and Bruce were still enraptured with 'science' down in the lab.

As the film continued, Thor began to look thoughtful. "I find this story to be rather familiar," he stated a bit sadly. "Seeing, though, as how these 'step brothers' are getting along better now, perhaps Loki and I should build one of these tree houses."

"Speaking of Loki," Barton began, "Was he always such a big douche?" Steve wished that Clint would be a bit more considerate with Thor.

"Barton…" Rogers didn't want to start an argument. That was the opposite of teamwork. The group hadn't been living together for too long, and friendships were still building. With some things, it was like walking on eggshells made of glass.

Thor looked down as he contemplated the answer. "No. When we were younger, Loki and I often played together, getting into all sorts of adventures. He was not as dark as you knew him. He had always been one to enjoy his privacy, though, often seeking out the books of the library. As I grew older, I suppose I grew arrogant and often ignored him, abusing his trust, insulting his skill. He was mischievous but not cruel. He has always been the trickster, and his affinity for magic and his unorthodox appearance often ostracized him from other Asgardians. He would play tricks on them, play games. He loved to frustrate people, both those he hated and those he loved." Thor smiled at this, but quickly sobered. "He…did not have many friends, and I am afraid that I did not help in that matter. Loki has always been smart and clever, quick and masterful with words." Thor paused as he gazed down into his big hands, "He has fallen far, and his mind has been twisted by hate and betrayal. He is not the brother I once knew."

It was obvious the big guy still loved his brother, even after everything; the way he illustrated Loki as simply being misunderstood said as much. "That's tough, Thor," Steve replied, knowing that the situation with his brother was really weighing on the blonde. Rogers didn't like Loki or anything, but he could understand losing someone close to you.

"Yes, it is. I can only hope that father understands what his revelation has done to my brother. I know he was simply trying to protect Loki from the knowledge of his heritage, but I fear keeping secrets may have done more harm than good." Thor stared unseeingly at the TV, where the movie was now paused, his anxious hands lightly pulling on the hem of his flannel shirt.

"So when you said he was adopted," Natasha began flatly, "he had only just found out?"

"Yes." The blonde paused, his eyes flitting to the window, "Well, it had been a couple of months since he fell from the Bifrost, but that is not a long time. I believe that is what fueled his rage… at least partially."

"That's no justification for what he did," the Widow replied automatically. A slight narrowing of her eyes was the only sign that betrayed the fury so tightly contained inside.

"You are right." The god clasped his hands together, one thumb stroking the nail of the other. "I simply wish we could be like we were."

Barton's brow was furrowed. Steve supposed hearing about the guy who forced you to kill your friends was difficult. What if the Red Skull had a family? Had he been ignored as a kid or abused? These were questions Rogers didn't want to know the answers to.

Barton glanced up, "So…ol' Blue Eyes used to be a regular guy, huh?"

Thor looked at the archer confused, "Blue eyes? What do you mean, Barton? Loki's eyes have always been green."

But strangely Clint didn't look surprised as he said, "Oh. My bad. I guess I saw wrong."

"No, you're right," Natasha interrupted, sitting up in her seat. "When I talked with him on the Helicarrier, his eyes were blue."

Thor began to look anxious, "But they are green. Green is quite a rarity on Asgard, and people often…noticed it, among other things, about him." He began to look thoughtful as he rubbed his eyes in concentration. "Are you certain that you both saw this?"

Natasha nodded once and Barton replied, "I had plenty of face to face time with the guy. They were definitely blue."

"And what of you, Steve Rogers?" asked Thor keenly.

The captain shrugged, "To tell the truth, I didn't really ever get close enough to see his eyes. Or when I did, it wasn't really what I was concentrating on. I was kind of busy making sure he didn't kill anybody at the time."

Thor looked like he was trying to remember too, his eyes shut in concentration.

Steve shook his head and sat forward on the couch, "So eye-color change. What does that mean? Anything important?" He directed his question to Thor, but Barton spoke up.

"Well, my eyes were messed up because of his scepter. So…"

"What?" Natasha asked with a hint of surprise on her face, "you think Loki was being controlled like you?"

Thor bent his head into his hands agitatedly.

"I don't know Natasha, I'm just callin' it like I see it. Maybe Loki was trying to fu-" Clint's eyes shot over to Steve, "screw with us, you know? Playing with our heads. Maybe he liked the Tesseract so much he bought some blue contacts to match his new play toy. I don't know."

"Perhaps Jotuns…." The thunderer seemed to be talking to himself. "No. He has always been of that race, so now would be no different, would it?" Looking up from his hands, his rain-colored eyes shone slightly, "Perhaps the fall from the Bifrost changed more than his attitude," Thor proposed hopefully. Steve had no idea what the Bifrost was or how far a fall was from it, but it had to have been some drop if Thor thought it could change eye color. Steve fell from the sky and was frozen for 70 years, and his eyes were still the same color. "I do not like the thought that I fought my brother when I should have been saving him. Besides, Loki has a strong mind and is a powerful being. That he would be caught and put under somebody's sway is not likely." But Thor didn't look much comforted by his own words.

"That's a good point, Thor," Steve added helpfully. He hated to see the usually happy guy so down. "It could've been just the way the light was shining or something."

Standing, Thor left saying "Excuse me friends. I must go and think. It is a thing which I have not done enough of in my life."

A/N: Let's see. The beginning of this chapter I actually just threw in there. I figured Clint needed more of a lead in to his happy dream. I really liked how it turned out, actually. It was easier for me to get into Natasha's head than I thought. Does that make me a super spy?

Happy dream sequence I like and don't like. I like it because it's fluffy and nice and it has a frustrated Loki in it. I don't like it because it because maybe it seems out of character or out of tone with the rest of the story. I figure dreams are weird and you can't predict them. Whatever.

Steve POV portion: I had such a hard time with this. It's choppy and exposition-y. I find Steve's brain a little... bland? Don't hate me! I think I could get more in depth with him if this were a story about him, but as he is sort of a side-ish character, there's only so much I can do with him in certain situations. There is a much better scene with him later.

Do you guys like when I tell you my own take on my writing? If not, I'll stop, but it kind of helps me figure things out, and makes me feel better knowing that you know that maybe I had the same trouble writing certain parts as you are reading them.

I really hope you like reading this. I mean, the point of FF is to lose yourself to a story, to escape. That's what I hope to provide. I'm no James Joyce or F. Scott Fitzgerald, but I like to think that a good plot, character development, and half-way decent writing skills will help anyone to suspend their disbelief and escape reality.

More Loki psychology and whump and love in future chapters (in case you thought you weren't getting enough of the green-eyed hunk).

Fun Fact: Loki feels like he is just too close to love you. (Aww man)