And Into The Woods

This goes out to KL, who has flattered me beyond belief.

The title of the last chapter is a blatant reference to the last book of The Wicked Years, which the musical Wicked was based off of. For those of you that have read it, I saw paralllels in the unexpected reveal of one you love, and then the whole gettin' out of Dodge scenario.

If you have not read any of the Wicked Years, may I highly recommend them to you? They're a little graphic and dark at points, but the light humor, and general know-it-all, of-course-that's-how-it-goes tone is simply breathtaking.

As for this title, it's in relation to the musical. As stated in the general philosophy, we're all got to go "into the woods" sometimes, and not let our pasts hold us back from entering deeper, darker places.

Basically it's a giant metaphor that I won't care to explain unless you ask.

-XXX-

A month passes.

Then another.

It goes by slowly. My days are once again filled with tours, appeasing Charlene (and Win, for that matter), and evenings of silence. The weeks run together, a blur of activity, then quiet. Just as before. When it had all been enough. Before my life was subtly invaded. Consumed by a being I would never truly know.

Though I'll never say so aloud, I miss our conversations. I miss his superior little smirks (and wiping them off of his face with a few well-chosen words). I miss coming home to a house with noise. Not big noises, just…noise.

Charlene notices the change. Somehow, she comes to understand it isn't merely the death of a friend that has brought me so close to the edge of angst. She brings me coffee one morning, slipping into my office to sit in one of my standard client chairs. Her keen eyes watch me sipping the coffee slowly, purposefully, before asking bluntly what was "stuck up my ass." I nearly spew the hot black beverage across my desk. "Excuse me?"

"You've clearly got a problem in your pickle," says my boss. "Anyone can tell. You're…moody."

To put it lightly. Last week, I nearly bit a tourist head off when they snottily asked what made me qualified to compare Picasso's blue period to his later cubism work. I suggested, equally snotty, that they attend six years of university and get their own damn degree, then I'd consider debating them. Luckily, Ellen was in earshot, and ushered me away before taking over the group herself, several member of which were snickering quietly in the background. I was self-confined to my office for the rest of the day.

Which was fine. Great, actually. I mean, I had a lot of paperwork. Stuff to catch up on. I didn't even miss my three o'clock a bit.

"I'm fine," I insist. "Just been a little- - - -a little distracted lately. And I don't even know what a pickle is."

Twisting my ring, as I apt to do when lying or am generally irritated, I look back to my computer. There is an auction Charlene asked I research to see if there is anything worth considering. I'm about an hour behind. My distraction…practically a gloom cloud.

Charlene's cough stills my fingers against the keyboard. "You're wrong there, sweetie. So, tell me what's up?"

I turn back to her, eyebrows rising. She rolls her eyes heavily.

"One therapy session, and you can get back to work, okay?"

"As the boss, shouldn't you be making sure I focus on my work?" I point out.

She grins. "That's exactly what I'm doing, actually. So, spill."

"A guy I'd gone on two dates with died right after I told him we couldn't work out. And right before he went, I thought, well, maybe I was wrong."

This earns her sympathy, but I am urged to go on.

"Luke left," I tell her wearily, taking another drag from the Styrofoam cup. "I don't know why. It was sudden. And, as you can tell, it's been bothering me."

She clucks, sympathetic. "That is too bad. He was good for you, sweetie. But…that is the way things go. You can only hope he'll get out of his dumb slump, or find a better model." Grinning wickedly, she says, "Though, that one was particularly fine. Even with all of those clothes, you could tell he had a nice, uh, set of-"

I cut her off, slightly grossed out. "Right. Well, thank you. This has been most helpful. No more mood swings. Got it."

She leaves, cackling.

-XXX-

They pick me up on my way to the parking garage. There is no warning, no speeches, no preemptive motions to muffle my screams. I am grabbed and yanked into the SUV, a pair of handcuffs snap onto my wrists while I flail about miserably, howling. A gag is stuff into my open mouth and tied, but it's no use. I am not about to hold still. Grimly, one of the sunglassed-men (though it's about six, with the sun sinking into the horizon) opens a metal briefcase, withdrawing a vial and syringe. I struggle against my bindings. Had I been able to, I would've shrieked.

The syringe goes into my arm, which is exposed by one of the two men holding me down. He has rolled up the sleeve of my jacket, nearly tearing the seams with his force. Cool metal pierces my skin. In seconds, I feel impossibly faint. And the world around me is claimed by a creeping mass of black.

-XXX-

My dreamings are of Jay. We're fishing. As kids, we used to fish a lot, at the lake on our 114 acre lot. The summer geese are on the water, and Jay is just reaching out, his flop of brown hair falling in his face, excitement of a puppy. "I can touch it, Tati!"

I tell him he cannot, and then recast my line. After less than a second on the glassy surface of the lake, the thin cord is tugged. I turn to Jay, smiling, eager to share with him my coming catch. But Jay is gone, leaving only ripples and a fair field with me. I call his name, and the scene melts.

All that I see now is white, white, white, expansive white. I stand in the midst of nothing for a while, then noise crashes upon me-oceans sounds. Waves hitting a gritty shore. Gulls. Children laughing. There is still while, but I taste salt and feel sun on my shoulders. I close my eyes. When I open them, there is a beach at twilight. Dusk, and no children, though I still can hear them. It is eerie.

I step out of the white and into sand. For what feels like an age, I absorb the scene. The sun sinks lazily, its reflection rippling on the waves like broken shards of stained glass, cut by black and purple lead.

When this fades from my view, twisting, there is a new place. I scarcely note the polished stone floors, flickering torches, and pillars with dark, shadowy cubby holes between them. The only thing discernible to my scrambled mind is the tall, cloaked man at the end of the corridor. He stands, silver staff in hand, armored noblely, face entirely impassive to me. His jade eyes are stone chips-blank and hidden to me.

With no consideration, I walk forward, stumbling from my haze. Though he doesn't move, the hall seems to extend, making every step push him further away from me.

"Luke."

He merely looks upon me, disinterested.

I try again. "Loki."

Finally I reach him. I reach up to brush his face. He flinches away from me. Stone again, though, in no time. A hand rises to catch my wrist. The staff is lifted as well, and Loki bears his teeth savagely. I pull away, knowing this is stupid, I am stupid, I've done so much wrong, and that I need to go.

I tug. "Let me go," I beg, my hand on his arm, desperate to yank my limb from his grab. And then it all comes out. Everything I've wanted to say to him. "Let me…stop! You great bastard. I can't even escape your stupid face here! You can't just come out as a god to someone and ditch them! Especially when…when…." Angry tears are suddenly trailing down my hot face, and my mouth feels like it's been coated in dust as I choke. "…people care about you, damnit."

His expression is unchanged. The staff comes down on me, surrounded by a bright blue light, and soon I am bathed in electric blue.

-XXX-

Later, I find myself in an interrogation chamber. It's as barren as the ones you might see in the movies. Only, there is a military-grade cot in the corner, on which I awake, water on the table, and it's not so terrible uncomfortable. The light is harsh, and I'm cold, but I've seen worse. On TV, that is. But it counts.

There is no apparent two-way glass, no windows at all, for that matter. I see no visible cameras-but that doesn't mean they aren't there. I know better. No way someone would go to all the trouble of snagging me in such a manner if they weren't also going to have me watched.

For a while I sit groggily on the cot, blinking slowly. Water finds its way into a cup in my hand, and I drink heavily, trying to wash the taste of sleep from my mouth. I have no idea how long I have been here, or how long they intend on keeping me. I don't even know who "they" are. However, I sense this has something to do with the god I housed for roughly a month.

Forty-five minutes pass before anyone comes for me. A small group enters all at once. I rise automatically, stance solid as I can make it.

I recognize all of them from the news. After the attack on New York, our saviors became pretty big deals in their own right. Icons, even. Figures of the American way. So, as they walk in I can name each and every one without issue.

Three of the six Avengers enter - - -the woman they call Black Widow, Dr. Bruce Banner, and Steve Rogers. My heart sinks. No Tony. Thor's absence doesn't bother me; I've had enough of Asgardians right now. And the last Avenger, Hawkeye, is an unknown. I'm glad for the small numbers.

Nick Fury enters last, looming over me. He's really not much taller than I, but his sense of power is greater. I blink.

"Ms Deror," he says by way of greeting. "I am sorry about the circumstances of your arrival. My men said you gave them quite a run for their money."

I don't know if that is supposed to be some kind of joke, but I am not laughing. I'm not saying anything.

Bruce Banner steps up then. He's got a gentler hand than their leader and a slight quirk to his lips. He's got humor, then. "Why don't you sit?" he offers kindly, pulling out a chair. "We all need to talk, best to do so in comfort."

Under other circumstances, I might have cracked a slight smile. He reminds me of another doctor, I think sadly. One who was equally kind. "Yes, thank you."

All sit. The Widow's eyes track me with a painful intensity. Captain America looks slightly…lost, but he has a similar kind look in his eyes as Banner. I automatically like him. Judging from his body position, the others look to him as a kind-of leader. More so than eye-patch man.

I knew that kinesics class was going to come in handy- - - even if it wasn't related to my major.

"This is the Agent Romanoff, Rogers, and Dr. Banner," Nick says. " Member of the Avenger Initiative. I am Nicholas Fury, director of SHIELD. And you, Ms Deror, have some very intriguing information for us."

I stare, face hopefully blank. "Do I, now?"

Sensing my tone, the director tightens his fist. He reminds me of Charlene. Easily infuriated when he sees he isn't getting his way. Sighing, he again apologizes for the whole snag-and-drag thing that brought me to them.

"We've been left with the impression that the Asgardian Prince Loki took up residence with you a little over three months ago. Any details you'd be willing to share with us would be helpful." Steve leans forward now, his bright blue eyes hopeful. "Do you remember anything?"

"Um..."

"It may seem blurry," Banner tells me softly. "But can you recall him at all? How you let him in, maybe?"

Did they think I was stunned into letting the guy into my house? Frowning, I shake my head. "It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" Natasha speaks. Her tone is short, clipped. Professional "get-on-with-it-you're-wasting-my-oh-so-precious-time."

Something unpleasant rises within me. "It was like I invited him into my home without know what he was," I say icily. "He was just a John Doe at the hospital. Completely alone. I felt bad."

Fury frowns, deep lines etching into his scarred face. "You had no notion of who you were opening your house to?"

"No. None."

"And you were not...charmed, perhaps, into giving him room and board."

"If I was, it's news to me."

This seems to stop them short.

Banner picks up the questions from there. "Ms Deror. Did he…." The doctor hesitates. "Hurt you, in any way? Using his powers, maybe?"

I think back to the headboard. The wood is still marked by his fists. "No. Never. He…never showed any sign of violence."

Fury snorts. Banner shoots him a look of caution before turning back to me.

"He stole those things from your gallery," he says gently. "The ring, and the pendant. Do you know why?"

"Not really." I hesitate. "But he left me with this."

I lift my hand, pointing to the ring. To my relief, they all seem to be able to see it. Maybe purposeful indication or intent allows for people to see the weird ring. What else had Loki done to it.

Fury automatically asks to examine it. I don't feel the least bit inclined, but it seems to be smartest course of action to agree. I make to slide the band off- - - -but it doesn't yield. Stuck to my flesh, the snake-dragon-thing grins up at me, almost a reassuring taunt.

"It won't come off," I say dumbly. Fury takes my hand, without permission, giving it his own try. Then Natasha, and Steve. It doesn't budge. My finger begins to hurt, with all the tugging.

"Magic," Natasha say softly, logically. All agree.

Panic swells within me. "What do you mean?"

"He's probably spelled it so it won't come off of you for SHIELD. Or just not come off in general," Banner explains. "Have you been able to take it off."

"No." The lie comes easily. Maybe he's wearing off on me."I haven't really ever tried."

"Ms Deror," Fury rumbles. "Do you know where Loki Laufeyson is at this current time?"

So his surname really is Laufeyson. One truth, then.

"No," I repeat again, honestly this time. "I have no idea. He left…without telling me anything."

All SHIELD members exchange a glance. I hope my hurt isn't that apparent.

Fury asks, "If he contacts you, will you report back to us? Apprehending him will save lives."

He says this without a doubt.

"I want nothing more to do with him," I tell them.

The brow over Fury's eye patch rises. "But you will tell us?"

"How do I reach you?"

-XXX-

For three months, the god has been on his own.

It is easy, he observed, to live a secluded life in New York. A classy apartment is easy enough to find, food delivery simple, and walks can be very private things. New Yorkers aren't rude by any means, they're simply busy people trying to move about their day. Therefore, they're apt to leave you alone when you're wandering about the city.

He likes the city quite a bit. It's a bustling place, a good home for a prince.

Damaged building rise around him, hope rebuilding. This city will always rebuild-through flood, through fire, through attack. He admires the strength. Another reason to appreciate New York.

As the town buzzes around him, Loki takes his time exploring the nooks and crannies, observing daily life diligently, taking the time to comprehend the human process. His time with Tati had taught him a lot. But there are still things that were a mystery to the god. If he was to ever outshine is brother, Loki would have to rule his own people. And to do that, he would need to know them.

Loki spends most of his time exercising his newly-found powers. He thoroughly enjoys the task of learning again. He's bursting with ability.

The ring that connects him to Tati tells him when she wakes and when she sleeps. He can sense her motions throughout the day, from when she cries in the shower, to the moments she snaps at a patron of the gallery, or laughs with her friends. The latter is rarest.

For two months, he is comfortable. His brownstone suits him well. Though he has worked magic, the Avengers have yet to find him, and he lives happily enough. Schemes and vengeance-planning aside, the god is content.

-XXX-

Three months, it turns out, is just enough time for Thor to sniff him out.

He is in the park, sitting at a bench, observing the world around him, when he feels the familiar weight of a hand on his shoulder. The grip is unmistakable. "Thor."

The elder god turns him on the bench, blue eyes stern. "You've left me worried, Brother."

"Thor," he hisses. "I was beginning to think you'd never find me." Loki raises a hand, creating a barrier between the Asgardian princes and the mortals milling about. Across the pathway, mingled with the crowd, he sees the time-sleeper Steve Rogers, leaning against one lamp post.

"I thought you dead," says Thor, enraged. Loki can see real hurt in his brother's features. "Our parents mourn."

"Your parents," the god snaps. "Not mine. Never mine."

Thor doesn't accept this. "You are coming home. I cannot protect you here."

So, that was the story the Avengers had fed him.

"I don't need protection," the younger prince sneers.

With that, he flicks a finger to send the approaching Steve Rogers flying backward into the nearest bush. The hefty man lands with an audible "snap" as limbs break beneath his weigh. Then Loki rises, facing his elder brother. Thor has taken a defensive stance, hammer ready. The younger god could laugh. His brother is nervous. It is enough.

The god breaks his barrier, flinging his hand. He no longer has his staff, but a sword appears in his left hand, heavy against his arm. The suit he had previously been wearing disappears, replaced by his war attire, breastplate blazing in the sun. He feels back. God of Mischief once more.

Rogers has now risen, and is ready to fight. He is bleeding from his lip, but wipes at the cut with one massive hand, walking steadily toward the god. Thor surges upon his brother.

It has begun.

-XXX-

I actually went to see Avengers last night/this morning. Even though I had to wake up for my volunteer job at 5 a.m., it was so worth it. Better the second time.

So...we've now see most of the Avengers...thoughts?

The reviews have been amazing! I'm so glad to have an ever-consistant group that is willing to give feedback. As always, questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I take 'em all.