Thought it was about time for a glimpse of internal Loki! Just a teaser really, there's much more of him to come later…at the moment this fic is very Tony centered, but it'll all even out as it goes along.

Talking of which, I've now drafted up to Chapter 9 and get the feeling this is going to be going for a while, especially if we're ever going to arrive at any fluff/smut! I also promise that my chapters have started getting longer, (I know, I know, this one is relatively short again, and I truly am sorry, but from here on in it's going to be DIALOGUE CENTRIC!) Chps 8 and 9 are hitting the 3000+ word marks each…. So BLESS YOU ALL if you have stayed this far, and you will be rewarded with more plot and more words and more Loki very soon!

Your reviews once again continue to make me sob with happiness… Please feel free to give me any feedback or ideas, everything is so appreciated!

Chapter 7. Recovery.

White hot knives were needling their way through his veins, burning his insides, it was agony, it was beyond agony, it was worse than death, he would welcome death. He was begging for it. Begging for an end. His body was locked and rigid, his eyes rolling back in his head, blinding darkness smothering his vision and suffocating his thoughts. He could barely breathe, found it impossible to move, to even make a noise – but in his mind he was screaming, a visceral, excruciating scream that seemed to reverberate around the entire world. Whichever one it was this time.

He couldn't take any more, he was surely broken beyond repair, shattered in a million shards of pain and madness. It wasn't the first time he'd been tortured like this, but surely it had to be the last. The Chitauri were merciless, and as for how long he'd been subjected to their evil torment, he no longer had any idea. It felt like forever, and the only thing that reminded him that it must have started somewhen was the unblunted memory of the moment when he let go of the staff, let go of his father, his brother, Asgard, and his home, the moment he fell from the Bifrost and was sucked into this world of persecution and pain.

That memory was the only thing that even came near to matching the levels of agony and abject horror of Chitauri's torment.

XXXXXXX

Loki's brain felt foggy, as if it were filled with wool, except for an area at the very back of his head that was sending thundering spasms down his neck and into his spine. He could feel his face was stinging and swollen; his limbs were heavy and felt as if each one had Mjolnir holding them down to the floor. With an effort of superhuman strength, he summoned whatever he could grasp of his magic and felt the slight prickling warmth cover his skin as his bones began knitting themselves back together and the pulsating waves of sound and light rocketing around his skill slowed and cleared.

His eyes were wet. He blinked, and noticed as a tear escaped, falling down into a cut and making it sting even more. As he noticed this he felt a brief moment of fear clutch at his heart, and he could still hear the anguished screaming inside his head and the overriding sense of dread and agony, before it fading, vanishing into nothingness and leaving him gasping in relief and confusion and shock. Taking in a huge gulp of air, Loki attempted to sit up, scanning his surroundings, new images entering his brain, images of Midguard, fighting, explosions, Stark Tower, Stark himself, Starks thing, curiosity, desperation, anger, a green monster, fear, pain, loathing, and then blackness.

But now he was awake.

Properly awake, and he couldn't understand it. Something was different. Everything was different. His rage, his venom, his purpose. It had all but gone. Dissipated. Replaced by a blurred and fuzzy sense of shame, disorientation, and anguish. Managing to sit up, Loki turned and lifted his head, aware that his cheeks were wet and suspecting that blood wasn't the only cause. His blinked and felt how watery his eyes were. Catching sight of Stark rooted to the spot a few metres away from him, staring at him with a gobsmacked look and confusion dancing in his eyes, Loki cleared his throat, looked Stark straight in the face and mumbled weakly –

''If it's all the same to you, I'll have that drink, now.''

Tony was once again behind his bar, it being the only thing in the penthouse to have escaped being smashed to smithereens. Even the hundred or so bottles adorning its surface were still all intact. Miraculous. Lucky. And typical, Tony thought with a wry smile. After he recovered from the immediate shock of Loki asking him for a drink – Loki fucking Laufeyson, guy that had invaded the Earth and caused the mother of all fuck ups left right and centre, asking him for a DRINK – he clung to the suggestion, grateful to have an excuse to move and something to do with his hands; something that forced his brain back into a semblance of normality, even if it was a case of the thinnest veil covering the largest pile of shit that had ever occurred. Drink. That was something knew what to do, that was something he could identify with. That was him. And thatwas reassuring, because he was beginning to suspect he'd gone through some sort of wormhole in time and had all his bits taken apart and put back together, but in different ways. Wrong ways.

Because this whole situation was wrong. Bizarre, insane, ridiculous. First he was readying to join a battle, then he was accosted by a fucking demi-god - the very guy he was meant to be fighting, in his own fucking penthouse, then he was playing some sort of verbal cat and mouse game with said demi-god, then the fucking HULK had appeared, trashed the entire place and practically atomized aforementioned demi-god. Who now appeared to be an entirely disparate person from who he was at the beginning.

And the most ridiculous thing? Tony felt like he was staring at his fucking twin.

Because the thing that got Tony the most, the thing that he was trying he bestest to keep in that pile of shit, under the veil, was that this apparent 'transformation' felt horribly and acutely familiar. The pace and severity at which he was starting to comprehend this fact was frightening, but Tony knew without a doubt that he was right. He'd seen in pre-Hulk'd Loki the hardness, the anger, the bitterness and the pain that had caused him to be so sharp tongued and hell bent on revenge, he'd seen the intelligence and acumen of Loki's brain reflected in his sharp, sardonic manner and sarcastic bartering. He'd seen the panic and desperation when Loki had lost control.

He'd been there. He'd done that. And he'd got the mother-fucking suit.

All the shit that had happened to him, all his daddy issues, Obadiah, betrayal, Yinsen, guilt, alcoholism, self loathing, revenge – it had taken him to rock bottom. He knew what it looked like down there, and what it felt like. He knew what it was like to look as far as you possibly can into the distance and only see darkness. He knew what it was like to run, and realise that you couldn't outrun yourself. He knew what it was like to want an end, to want everything to just stop, to hate yourself more than anyone else in the world.

And he also knew how to beat it. How to slowly, day by day, not regret waking up that morning. How to torture yourself a little bit less. How to start looking forward, instead of back. How to discard the person you hated, and start again from scratch. How to mend yourself. How to live again. How to stop running.

And he didn't know how he knew it, and he barely dared to believe himself, but somehow, inexplicably, he was absolutely certain that Loki had finally just given up on his race.

Tony poured a large measure of whiskey into a tumbler and silently passed it across the bar to the god. Running was thirsty work.